Miguel Gomes
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Chapter 20: When the Enemy Knows You Are Coming
🕑 Added 2025-09-22 21:00:10 +0000 UTCEvangelos thought shepherding was much like raising kids. You grew them up, took care of ‘em, kept the wolves away, and got them as fat as the meagre soil allowed, all in the hopes that they grew up to be worth somethin’ someday. Not every one could be perfect, but that’s why you played to the law of averages. At least one or two of ‘em ought to turn out right. His eldest, Marios, had turned out right. The boy had his mother’s patience, a gentle hand that could guide a flock through a blizzard without losing a single lamb. He was the one you could build a future on.
Others you could not.
“Shoo! Get on, you stupid shites! I told you to get right back out that’a way!”
The sharp thwack of a hazelwood cane on a wooly flank cut through the morning quiet, followed by a panicked bleat. Evangelos’s jaw tightened as he watched his youngest, Kratos, lay into the animals that were their lifeblood. The sheep scattered, stumbling over the rocky ground in every direction except the one they were meant to go.
“Kratos!” Evangelos roared, his voice echoing off the valley walls. “How many times do I have to tell you? A light hand on the cane!” He ought to take that stick and beat the lesson into the boy the way he laid into the flock. Maybe then it would stick. “Marios, get them turned before this idiot runs them off a cliff.”
Marios, moving with a calm, deliberate stride, gave a low whistle. The lead ewe stopped, turned, and the rest of the flock began to settle, drawn to the familiar, steady sound. “They’re wary of the high pasture, Father,” he called out, his voice even. “The grazing is poor. We were here not a month ago.”
Marios was right, and they wouldn’t normally push a flock onto the same patch of sparse highland grass so soon. But this wasn’t a normal graze.
“I know,” Evangelos grunted, his gaze sweeping the vast, empty horizon. “But we need the high ground. To keep an eye out for those Tatar scum.” He spat the name like a mouthful of poison. They’d taken his first wife near to a decade ago, the one who’d given him all his good children; some of whom they’d taken too, damn those bastards. His second wife had given him a new batch of children, but the quality wasn’t the same. They were a bitter crop, grown in soured soil. Still, he’d be damned if he let those thieves take ‘em, too.
When that hissy captain came prancin’ through speaking of coalitions this and signal pyres that, Evangelos had practically leaped at the chance. A chance to lay into those nomads? Yessir. And he didn’t have to do any of the fighting either! All he had to do was stand on this tall hill, light some tiny fire and get the hell out of here.
He found himself prayin’ to God to send the Tatars his way. He wanted any chance to play a part in the ass whooping they were about to receive. He didn’t normally hold out much hope for the lordlings who manned the fort, but one of his own - a boy from the bad batch - was serving there now. The last time he saw ‘im had been a shock, the boy looked as if some divine hand had straightened him out, and he’d spoken about this captain as if he was the second comin’ of Jesus Christ. Evangelos held out hope that he’d really teach these infidels a lesson.
He spat a thick, rheumy phlegm onto the dirt. God, please let ‘em come.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Maybe god did listen, for it was not an hour later that a thick plume of dirt rose up from the northern valley. “Is that?...” The horse made cloud kept moving closer, in his direction. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Evangelos was gobsmacked. They had come; suddenly, he didn’t feel so lucky after all.
“Fuck my life. Marios, round up the sheep! Take ‘em to the yawning stream! Cross it and change directions.” This was a plan they’d already hatched together, and his son was quick on uptake, whistling to get the guard hound and the flock away to safety. God bless good children.
“Kratos, get to the redoubt, warn the hamstead!” They would get the message as soon as the pyre was lit, but like his poppa always said. Better to be safe than screwed.
“What about you, Father?” Kratos asked, his voice strained with anxiety.
“I’m going to light the pyre. Someone’s gotta give these bastards their welcoming gift.” He said with a tight smile and confidence he didn’t feel.
By the time he’d kick-started the fire, his eldest had managed to lead the sheep away, the shepherd dog barking at them with urgency. He spared one last look at the galloping horde and swallowed. Fuckin’ bastards. He ran for the redoubt instead of fleein’ with the flock. They weren’t taking nothin’ of his anymore. Not while he still drew breath.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kratos ran until his lungs were on fire, the frantic barking of his father’s sheepdog fading behind him. He crested the last hill and saw the hamlet below, a mess of panicked motion. The strange Captain’s plan was in motion. The largest house in the hamlet, Tassos’s place, looked like a thorny undergrowth. The windows were boarded shut, and a deep, ugly ditch circled it, filled with a tangle of freshly cut trees, their sharpened branches pointing out like a thousand wooden spears.
As he got closer, he could hear the sloshing of buckets and the panicked shouts of his neighbors. They were dousing the house, soaking the thatch roof until it dripped. A wet roof won’t catch fire so easy, the Captain had said.
He saw Makaros arguing with his wife, Rhoudola, by the door to their own hovel. The woman was trying to drag their two small kids toward the redoubt, but Nikos was having none of it.
“The coin purse, woman! We can’t just leave it!” Nikos hissed, trying to pull away from her.
“There won’t be a life to spend it on if we don’t go now!” she shrieked, her face white with fear. “The Captain said to leave it!”
Damn fools. Arguin’ over a bit of silver when death itself was ridin’ down the valley. Kratos didn’t waste breath on them. He grabbed an empty bucket from the ground and sprinted to the well, joining the line of men hauling water. He worked in a grim silence, his movements fast and angry. When the house was soaked through, he helped the other men gather the weapons they’d laid out: a sorry collection of sharpened pitchforks and rusty wood axes. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothin’.
They stood by the door of the redoubt, a wide gap still open in the thorny ditch, waiting. The minutes stretched, each one a lifetime.
“We have to close it,” old Petros said, his voice trembling as he stared at the empty path. “He’s not coming. We have to close it now!”
“We wait for my father,” Kratos growled, planting his feet. He wouldn’t leave the old man behind. Not a chance in hell.
“He could be dead already!” Petros screeched, his panic starting to infect the others. “For all we know, the Tatars already have him! We’ll all die waiting for a ghost!”
“Shut your mouth, old man,” Kratos snarled, taking a step toward him. He saw a couple of the other men tense up, their hands tightening on their pitchforks. Good. Let ‘em try.
Just as the tension was about to snap, a figure appeared on the path, running with a steady, loping gait. A collective sigh of relief went through the small crowd. It was Evangelos.
He jogged up to the gap, barely winded, a grim smile on his face. “Sorry I’m late for the party,” he grunted.
“Father!” Kratos felt the tightness in his own chest finally release.
“No time for that now, boy,” Evangelos said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s close the damn door.”
Together, they heaved the last of the felled trees into the ditch, the heavy logs crashing into place and sealing the gap. They scrambled inside Manolis’s house, the last man slamming and barring the heavy door. The world outside vanished, replaced by the dim, crowded dark and the sound of their own ragged breathing. They were ready.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“They’ve already spotted us?”
The sun had barely cleared the eastern hills when a murmur ran through the column. A single finger pointed north, and every head turned. A thin, dark gray pillar of smoke climbed into the morning sky, a deliberate, insolent message. They had been seen.
“They must have had sentries,” Halil, a young bey whose ambition burned hotter than his sense, spurred his horse forward. “We ride hard. We’ll be on them before they can piss themselves in fear.”
“No.” Nur’s voice was a whip crack. He reined in, forcing the entire çapul to a halt. Halil’s face soured. “We ride slow.” He remembered his father’s words from the long war against the Great Orda, the lesson learned in a hundred dusty ambushes: “When your enemy knows you are coming, you do not grow bolder, but cautious. Mustafa, have our men scout ahead.”
Mustafa nodded and vanished into the trees with his riders. The main party advanced at a crawl, the earlier confidence replaced by a tense, watchful quiet. When they crested the next hill, they saw Mustafa’s men waiting in the open below, a clear sign that the immediate path was safe. The rest of the çapul rode down to meet them, their relief turning to baffled silence at the sight that greeted them.
“What in Allah’s name?” Halil breathed.
The village, or what was left of it, was a hedgehog. The largest hovel had been crudely fortified, its windows boarded. But surrounding it was a wide, deep ditch, choked with a nightmare of felled trees, their branches sharpened and angled outwards. The door was draped in a heavy animal hide, still glistening wetly in the sun.
“Fireproof,” Nur grunted, his eyes taking in the details. The smoke signal had given them warning, yes, but to have this… this thing prepared? The abatis was the real problem. The wood was green and damp, it would take a while to burn. And the ditch was dug too far from the house; a fire wouldn’t smoke them out. This wasn’t the work of panicked farmers. This was planned.
“My brother’s glorious raid failed to mention any of this,” Nur said, a cold knot of annoyance tightening in his gut. Still, it was just one hovel. A dozen scared shepherds.
“My Kalga,” Mustafa said, his voice tight with strain. “That is not all.” He pointed. “There.”
Nur squinted. At first, he saw nothing but the distant, tree-covered hills. Then he saw them. One, two… four more columns of smoke, rising in a deliberate chain that followed the curve of the valley. Each one was a new nail in the coffin of their surprise. The Greeks didn’t just know the Tatars were coming. They knew exactly where they were, and exactly where they were going. The hard knot in his gut turned to a block of ice.
“We should turn back.”
The voice came from his elbow. Nur turned to identify who would speak such cowardice in his presence. “They are prepared for us,” He wasn’t surprised when he found it was Seit. “Things are different from when Meñli conducted his raid; they are better prepared now.” The prince of the Bozkurt clan sat perfectly still in his saddle, his handsome face an unreadable mask.
They were the first words the man had spoken directly to him since his humiliation in the war tent, and they were as poorly chosen as they could be.
“The Khan’s orders were clear.” It was Mustafa who spoke, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword, taking Seit’s words as a personal affront. He was a true warrior, unlike this fop. “We are here to punish the Theodorans, not to tuck our tails and run at the first sight of a ditch.”
“We were sent to punish what we thought were bankrupt, agrarian sheep farmers,” Seit retorted, twisting Nur's own words into a weapon he could throw back at him. His calm voice cut through Mustafa’s bluster, utterly ignoring the loyal soldier, his eyes fixed on Nur, the challenge unmistakable. “These sheep,” He gestured to the fortified hovel, “have grown fangs. And,” He nodded toward the distant smoke signals, “they have shepherds who see us coming.”
Mustafa looked ready to explode, but Nur stopped him with a raised hand. He dismounted and strode toward Seit, closing the distance until he stood directly in the man’s personal space. The other beys watched, silent and predatory.
“Are you afraid of a few shepherds, Seit of clan Bozkurt?” Nur asked, his voice low and carrying, a performance for the entire çapul. “We have not yet taken plunder, nor slaves, nor even wet our blades, and you would have us ride home with empty hands? Disgraceful.”
Seit didn’t speak this time, having learned his lesson last time, but neither did he flinch. A faint, infuriating smile touched his lips, a look of pure, intellectual contempt that made Nur’s hand itch for the hilt of his own blade. With a great effort of will, Nur stepped back.
“If you are so eager to flee, you and your men are free to go,” He spat. “We have no need for cowards.” He knew the trap was set. For Seit to leave now would be a stain of shame not only on his name, but on his men and clan. And in the Khanate, stains like those never truly washed away.
Seit didn’t turn to leave, but his infuriating smile widened. “When the enemy knows you are coming, you grow bolder, was it?” he asked, his voice light and laced with scorn. “Or was it foolhardy? I forget exactly.”
Nur Devlet moved like a thunderclap, his face a mask of hate as he slammed into Seit, their noses touching. “Twist my words one more time,” he half-spoke, half-roared, his voice a chilling promise that every man present heard clearly, “And it will not be your tongue I cut out and place on a spike. It will be your head.”
A profound, ugly silence settled over the group, broken only by the wind whistling through the grass. Nur held Seit’s gaze for a heartbeat longer, then turned his back on him, the dismissal as sharp as a slap. He swept his eyes over the other beys, his face a mask of cold command.
“They hide in their little fort,” he said, his voice flat. “Let them. Search every other hovel. Take what you can carry.”
The tension broke. A few of the younger beys let out triumphant whoops as they spurred their horses forward, the promise of plunder washing away the chill of the earlier confrontation. The men poured into the silent village, kicking in the flimsy doors of the empty homes. Shouts of discovery soon followed. One man emerged holding a bolt of undyed wool, another with a small silver locket. Halil himself dragged a small cask of ale from a cellar, his face split in a wide grin. The mood lifted, the unease replaced by the familiar, simple joy of the raid.
When the last house had been picked clean, the men gathered in the square, their horses now laden with the meager treasures of the village. They looked to Nur, expecting the order to ride on.
He let the silence stretch, his gaze falling on the fortified house, the source of their delay, the reason for Seit’s insolence. His foul mood curdled into a cold, vicious resolve.
“Gather thatch,” he commanded. “One torch for every roof.”
A confused murmur went through the men. Plunder, yes. But this? To waste precious time burning empty huts?
Nur’s eyes narrowed, daring any of them to question him. “I said burn them.”
The confusion vanished, replaced by a grim, bloodthirsty excitement. The men set to work with savage glee, piling dry kindling against the mud-and-wattle walls. Nur watched, his face impassive, as the first torch was tossed. The dry thatch of a small hovel caught with a hungry whoosh, and a plume of black smoke billowed into the sky. One by one, the other houses caught fire, the flames crackling and spitting, devouring the pathetic little homes with astonishing speed.
Through the roar of the fire, a new sound emerged. It was not the cry of a beast or the splintering of wood. It was human. A single, high-pitched shriek of pure agony, followed by a collective, rising wail of despair.
Every Tatar head snapped toward the fortified house, the sounds were coming from within. The villagers who trapped themselves in their little fortress were now forced to watch as everything they owned turned to ash.
Nur turned his head slowly toward the sound of their weeping, and a slow, cold smile of satisfaction touched his lips. He had sent his message.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dough fought back, a stubborn, living thing under Stratos’s palms. He grunted, putting his shoulders into the work. Kneading the morning’s bread was a familiar ache, but these days, the weight felt heavier, settling not just in his back but deep in his gut. He was the headman now. A letter from the capital, with a fancy wax seal he couldn’t read, had made it official. He’d thought some fancy official might at least make the trip, see the village for himself, but he guessed they couldn’t be bothered.
The title was a crown made of lead. Yesterday, it was settling a dispute over a stray goat. The day before, it was listening to old Thekla complain that the spirits in her well had soured the water. Vassilis, may his soul find no peace, would have just beaten them both and called it a day. Stratos couldn’t. He cared for these people. And that meant the fear of the coming raid was his to carry for all of them.
The door creaked open, and Agape shuffled in. Her braid was coming undone, a piece of straw was tangled in the loose strands, and her cheeks held the high flush of a woman who hadn’t slept much at all.
Stratos felt a grin crack through his own weariness. He wasn’t the only one having sleepless nights, it seemed.
“Rough night, was it?” he asked, his voice thick with false innocence. “That husband of yours didn’t give you much rest, I take it?”
Christos had been stationed in the village for a week now, a permanent fixture sent by the Captain to drill them on the evacuation plans. It was a level of care Stratos had never seen from a noble. The boy had them rehearsing retreats until even the toddlers knew which ravine to run to.
“Wipe that stupid grin off your face,” Agape grumbled, not looking at him. Stratos knew that tone. It was a red flag to a bull.
“What? A father can’t ask if his daughter is being well cared for?” He leaned on the word ‘father’ and watched with satisfaction as the back of her neck turned the color of a ripe tomato. “I should certainly hope he’s taking good care of you.”
“Ahhg! Get off my case, you lousy old fossil!” she snapped, finally turning to face him. “Where’s Mother?”
He jerked his chin toward the sound of the gurgling stream. “It’s Friday, isn’t it?”
She stomped out without another word. Stratos chuckled, turning back to the dough. The work was heavy, and the fear was real, but in moments like that, a man could almost forget. Almost.
Stratos chuckled to himself, folding a stubborn corner of dough. The boy was a damned rascal, that’s for sure. Christos, his tour of duty done, had been back in the village less than a day when he’d marched right up to Agape and asked her to marry him. Blurted it out right in the middle of the square. Agape had punched him in the arm hard enough to make him yelp before she’d said yes. A fool, but a brave fool. Stratos had given his blessing. In times like these, you grabbed hold of any bit of happiness you could find.
A scream tore the thought in two. It was a raw, panicked sound from the edge of the village. Stratos dropped the dough, his hands white with flour, and ran outside.
“The pyre! On the north hill! It’s lit!”
Another shout answered, full of a terror that was suddenly contagious. “The nomads! They’re here!”
Panic erupted, a wildfire in the small square. People began scrambling, their training forgotten in a wave of primal fear. “Hold!” Stratos bellowed, his voice a hammer blow against the chaos. “We’ve trained for this! To the wagons! You know the evacuation plan!”
Christos came running from his house up on the hill, his tunic hastily pulled on and his hair a mess, but the look on his face was dead serious. “They’re coming,” he said, his voice a low grunt.
“Yes,” Stratos replied, his own heart hammering against his ribs.
But the villagers weren’t following the protocol. They were trying to save everything, hoisting heavy looms and sacks of personal trinkets onto the few ox carts they had ready, wasting precious seconds. Just as Stratos was about to start screaming again, the women came running back from the stream, their faces stricken. But Agape and his wife, Despina, weren’t with them.
“Where are they?” Stratos demanded, grabbing old Thekla’s arm.
“Despina… she went to get something for tonight’s stew,” the woman stammered, tears in her eyes. “Agape went to find her when she took too long. Then we saw the smoke… we searched for them, but… they were nowhere. We had to run, Stratos, we had to!”
The world narrowed to a tunnel. “I’m going after them,” Stratos declared, turning toward the woods.
A hand like an iron clamp seized his shoulder. “No,” Christos said, his face grim. “You’re the headman. You’re needed here to lead the evacuation. I’ll go.”
“Like hell you will,” Stratos snarled, trying to shrug him off. “That’s my wife and daughter out there! I’m not running while they’re lost in the woods!”
“And I’m not letting my wife’s father and the village’s leader get himself killed!” Christos shot back, his grip tightening.
“You’re both wastin’ time yappin’ like hens!” A reedy voice cut through their argument. Old Zisis hobbled forward, shaking a bony finger at them. “Get both your asses out there and find those girlies! Old Zisis will handle the rest!”
Instead of looking relieved, Stratos and Christos exchanged a conflicted look. Zisis couldn’t be trusted to lead a goat to pasture, let alone a village evacuation. But then a firm, steady hand landed on the old man’s shoulder. His wife, Glykeria, looked from Stratos to Christos, her face calm and resolute.
“He’s right,” she said. “You’re wasting time. Go. We’ll handle it.”
He gave the much more sensible woman a desperate, grateful nod. Then he and Christos, without another word, turned and sprinted toward the woods.
Fear lent a man wings. Stratos’s old knees screamed, and his lungs felt like they were full of hot coals, but he kept pace with Christos, crashing through the undergrowth like a panicked boar. They burst into the clearing by the stream, the air smelling of moss and damp earth. There was no one there.
“Agape! Despina!” Christos’s bellow was a raw, desperate thing that the quiet woods seemed to swallow whole. Only the gurgle of the creek answered.
“Stratos, think,” Christos said, his voice tight with rising panic. “What was she looking for? Greens? Roots?”
“I’m trying,” Stratos gasped, his mind a frantic blank. The women came here for wild mint, sometimes for mushrooms after a rain…”
“Thyme or rosemary for seasoning? Wild onion? Anything she could put in a stew pot!” Christos was spiraling, his words tumbling over each other.
“Let me fucking think!” Stratos roared, the unexpected violence of his own voice shocking them both into silence. He squeezed his eyes shut. Anything to put in a pot… Of course. “The fish,” he breathed. “She helps maintain the village’s wicker traps. She must have gone to check them. Downstream.”
“That’s twenty minutes from here, at a run,” Christos said, his face grim.
“Then we’d best get moving,” Stratos grunted, already pushing himself into a painful jog along the muddy bank.
They found them not ten minutes later, hurrying back toward the village, their faces pale with fear. The reunion was a clumsy, desperate collision of bodies. Stratos crushed Despina to his chest, burying his face in her hair, while Christos wrapped his arms around Agape, holding her as if he might never let go.
“We saw the smoke,” Despina said, her voice trembling as Stratos held her at arm’s length. “Is it real?”
“Aye,” Stratos said, his heart a cold stone in his chest. “We have to go. Now.”
“Oh gods, we’re so fucked,” Agape muttered, her eyes wide.
“Language!” Stratos and Despina snapped in unison.
“Really? Now?” Agape shot back, gesturing wildly in the direction of the distant smoke.
“She has a point,” Stratos conceded grimly.
“We have to get moving,” Christos said, reluctantly releasing Agape. “We’ll never catch the wagons if we stay here.”
“Then we don’t,” Agape said, grabbing his arm. “We can run, deeper into the woods. Away from all this.”
“You can,” Christos said, his voice quiet but firm as he gently pulled his arm free. “You should. I have to go back.”
“And run straight into a Tatar horde? Are you mad?!” She shrieked.
“I made a promise,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “To the Captain, to the other men. I won’t let them fight alone.”
“Is this the time for promises, son?” Stratos asked, his own voice heavy with skepticism.
“It’s the only time for them,” Christos replied, a strange, hard certainty in his eyes. “The Captain, the others… they helped me find a strength I didn’t know I had.” He looked to Agape, who was now his wife. “The strength that led me to what I now have. I owe them my life.”
Agape stared at him, her face a mask of terror and disbelief. “But how will you even get there?” she whispered. “You’re one man.”
“By doing what I do best.” Christos gave her a confident grin. “Shouting the loudest.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The fourth fortified hamlet was identical to the first three. Another thorny ditch, another soaked-down hovel, another collection of pathetic trinkets left in the open like a bribe. They’d found not a single soul to capture. It was a strategy of slave preservation, Nur decided. The Greeks were abandoning their frontier, leaving scraps for the wolves in the hopes the flock would be spared. It was a coward’s tactic, but it suited Nur just fine. Plunder was plunder.
When they crested the ridge and saw Kerasia nestled in the valley below - the first real village on their path - the men let out a ragged cheer. This was a prize worthy of their ride. But as they drew closer, an unnatural silence fell. The village was a ghost town. The air was still, thick with the sour smell of dead fires. A child’s wooden horse lay abandoned in the dirt of the main square.
“They’ve run for it!” Halil bellowed, breaking the eerie quiet. “The cowards have fled to some bigger hole to hide in!”
The men poured into the village, their earlier caution replaced by a frantic hunger for loot. But this time, there were no bribes. The houses were not just empty; they had been picked clean. Every pot, every blanket, every last crumb of bread was gone. The raiders’ triumphant shouts turned to frustrated curses. Half a day’s ride into enemy territory, and all they had to show for it were a few silver baubles and a cask of sour ale. No slaves. No grain. Nothing.
Nur stood in the center of the square, the cold knot in his gut tightening into a fist of rage. He saw it now. His own lack of control had cost them. The burning hamlets had been a mistake, an act of petty anger that had given the villagers enough time to pack their belongings, their coin, their fucking pots!
“God damn it!” The roar tore from his throat, a sound of pure self-disgust. He spun and drove his bare fist into the wall of the nearest hovel. The old wood exploded inward with a splintering crack, leaving a ragged hole. The other beys fell silent, watching him. Across the square, Nur’s eyes met Seit’s. That the handsome prince wore a small, worried frown and not his shit eating grin was the only thing that saved him from summary execution. It was his goads that had blinded Nur with rage. That had made him waste precious moments burning frontier hamlets down.
“My Kalga.” Mustafa appeared at his elbow. “There is a trail.” A flash of hope surged in Nur’s chest.
Nur followed him to the far side of the village. There, leading away from the last hovel and into the woods, the earth was churned into a muddy ruin. The tracks were the desperate flight of a panicked herd - wide, chaotic and, most importantly, fresh. They hadn’t been subtle. They hadn’t been clever. They had simply run.
A slow, terrible grin spread across Nur Devlet’s face. The sheep had not escaped the pen, after all. They had just fled into the woods. And the wolves were coming.
Comments
Miguel Gomes
Fixed!
Dulat1214
"get the hell out of dodge". This is a 19th century American phrase, and wouldn't be used.
