Miguel Gomes
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Chapter 18: Unexpected Disasters
🕑 Added 2025-09-18 21:00:09 +0000 UTC“HOLD IT LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT!” Sergeant Leonidas’s boot slammed into a shield, the impact a dull thud that sent a shockwave down the line. “BECAUSE ONE DAY, IT WILL!”
“You’re as weak as newborn fawns! Man the fuck up!”
“My grandmother, dead ten years and half-eaten by worms, could hold this line better than you! PATHETIC!”
Leonidas and his veterans stalked the shield wall like hungry wolves circling a flock. They hammered on the new, sturdy heater shields with the flats of their swords, shoved with their shoulders, and kicked at the bracing legs, seeking any flicker of weakness. The recruits, their feet planted shoulder-width apart, knees bent, strained to hold their ground, the muscles in their backs and thighs burning with a fire that had become their constant companion.
It was an exercise meant to teach the men the proper way to brace in a shieldwall, and it had become the veterans’ new favourite pastime. Each day, they found novel, creative ways to berate and humiliate the men.
“Are you two stroking each other behind those shields?!” Potho hissed, his voice a savage rasp, a nasty grin plastered across his face. He grabbed the edges of two adjacent shields and attempted to rip them apart, seeking to create a fatal gap in the line. “Because you sure as hell aren’t holding them properly! We’re training you to be soldiers, not milkmaids! Spears will come later, you ratty bastards! Don’t try to get ahead of the program!” The men struggled fiercely, slamming their shields together with dogged determination.
Maybe they’re being too creative, Theodorus mused from his vantage point on the watchtower steps. He would never have guessed the near-mute Potho would take to his role as drill instructor with such theatrical glee.
A month and a half. Six weeks of this relentless, brutal forging. The raw iron of the garrison was finally beginning to take the shape of a weapon. They could hold the line now, absorbing the veterans’ punishment without buckling. They could advance, a slow, shuffling beast of wood and will. They could form the wall from a scattered run in under a minute, the shields locking together with a satisfying, unified crash.
The training had evolved. The veterans’ physical abuse was now supplemented by a constant barrage of rocks and dirt clods, hurled by the stonemasons and laborers who had trickled in from the coalition villages to help work on the wall reconstruction. It was a chaotic, stinging harassment meant to inoculate them against the panic of the real arrow volley they were sure to face from nomadic horsemen.
Other drills were exercises in pure, brutal attrition. Theodorus pitted the five-man pentarchos against each other, two shield walls slamming together with a splintering crash. It was a contest of raw grit, a shoving match of groaning wood and screaming muscles that ended only when one wall buckled.
Once they could hold, they learned to kill. Theodorus drilled them relentlessly on two life-saving thrusts: a straight, piston-like jab punched from the safety of the wall, and a vicious, overhand stab for gutting enemies at the ramparts below. The newly mended spears lent confidence to the man’s ability to hold their own in a fight.
Now, these attacks were woven into the chaos, the men learning to find a half-second of opportunity amidst the stinging hail of pebbles and the veterans’ abuse to deliver a disciplined thrust without compromising the wall. It was a clumsy, ugly art, and they were far from masters, but Theodorus didn’t need masters. He needed a thorny, unappetizing hedgehog, a creature that would make any predator think twice.
This frantic forging was a constant race against time. The growing patrol commitments and the slow, methodical work on the wall stole precious daylight. Theodorus retaliated with a ruthless optimization of every waking hour. Patrols were carried out at a brisk trot, the fort’s full horse roster being utilized to its fullest. Necessary rotational work like collecting firewood, covering the latrine, or tending to the newly established vegetable garden was conducted well after the sun had already set, illuminated by the light of torches.
Theodorus negotiated with the coalition villages for as much manpower as they could spare, using any means necessary to acquire more, even becoming an instrument of order for the coalition, assisting in matters the villages could not solve alone in exchange for more labour. For instance, when two brothers nearly came to blows over a disputed inheritance of sheep, Theodorus dispatched Leonidas and two men. Their sudden, armored presence and a stern message that the matter would be settled by the Captain’s justice if not resolved by sundown was enough to force a swift, bloodless compromise that the headman feared wasn’t possible.
The surplus horses he’d acquired were essential, allowing him and Demetrios to conduct a full survey of the frontier. Theodorus and Demetrios personally toured the land, looking for prominent landmarks and resources currently undiscovered by the local villages. Full land surveys were a rarity in this era, and a lack of specialized knowledge meant most men would not know where to look for precious resources. Theodorus, however, with his wealth of historical knowledge, knew how to deduce likely locations and find resources others did not immediately think to look for. On one such trip, he reined Boudicca to a halt in a stream bed where a recent rain had exposed a pale, sticky vein of earth. While Demetrios saw only washed-out mud, Theodorus dismounted and felt its greasy, chalk-like texture between his fingers. “This isn’t just mud,” he explained, holding up the substance. “It’s kaolin. It fires hotter and harder than local earthenware. This isn’t useless soil, Demetrios. It is the potential for stronger bricks for our wall and a valuable trade good.”
This coalition-wide census served several purposes. It allowed him to get the lay of the land: the probable routes for Tatar raiders, the hidden choke points, the reliable streams, and the narrow goat paths winding through dense forests. Demetrios sketched it all onto a crude but growing map, noting each special location. This was the true prize; he was mapping out the next Tatar raid in his mind, and choosing his battlefield with care.
If the tribute the fort exacted on the villages was negligible, their contributions coming mostly in the form of manpower, the landed estates provided the majority of the raw materials - timber, straw, foodstuffs - that allowed the garrison to survive on increased rations with minimal aid from the capital.
In his study in Mangup, Zeno Makris reviewed the latest requisition from Probatofrourio and allowed himself a small, appreciative smile. The requested supplies were, as always, impossibly modest. He could not fathom how Captain Sideris was rebuilding a fortress and feeding a garrison on a trickle of aid that would barely sustain a small household. Through their regular correspondence, they had perfected their ingenious arrangement: Zeno would publicly champion the fort’s cause while privately taking credit for “negotiating” Theodorus’s requests down to manageable, modest quantities, earning him a reputation for fiscal prudence. He was finally seeing a return on his investment, though in a way he had never expected.
Zeno was particularly enamored with the audacious rebuilding program and the regional co-dependence Theodorus was fostering. Theodorus, however, was careful to lie about the full extent of the Northern Coalition. The existence of such a powerful, independent organization stretched the boundaries of what was lawfully permitted and could be seen as a subtle attempt by House Sideris to solidify its own power—an insinuation he had to avoid at all costs, but which was technically true. His solution was to center the alliance around the fort, a state institution, rather than his family’s estate.
While Theodorus personally mediated with the border villages and conducted his land surveys exclusively in their frontier hinterlands, the more powerful heartland nobles dealt primarily with Iohannes, a deliberate arrangement that upheld his bargain with his brother and allowed Iohannes to exert soft power over the frontier landowners and cement his place as one of the coalition’s leaders.
All the juggling of manpower, training, and diplomacy had inevitably delayed the rebuilding of the wall, a fact that, to Demetrios’s surprise, did not overly worry Theodorus, who now had a rough estimation of when the Tatars would strike, courtesy of Zeno’s intelligence report. After a full month and a half of dedicated work and several small setbacks, like when a sudden, unseasonable torrent of rain washed out a full day’s work on a section of freshly laid mortar, the monumental day was finally upon them.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A warm breeze heralded the end of July and the start of August, the last dry month before the harvest. For the first time in forty-two days, an uncharacteristic silence had fallen over the courtyard, a space that had been a whirlwind of frantic, constant motion. The rhythmic scrape of trowels, the grunt of men heaving stone, the sharp barks of command—all were gone. Now, there was only the sound of a single man’s labored breathing.
The last forty-two days had been a forge, and the men of Probatofrourio had been the raw, pitted iron beaten upon its anvil. They moved now with an economy of motion and a quiet discipline that would have been unthinkable on the day their new commander had arrived. The air of sullen apathy was gone, burned away by the relentless heat of his demands and quenched by the surprising cool of his logic.
Now came the crowning of their labor.
A frail frame, wiry with new muscle, carried the final, heavy stone up the wooden scaffolding. Stefanos, the boy who had been a whisper away from death’s door, gritted his teeth, his arms trembling under the strain. Below him, the courtyard was a sea of upturned faces—the garrison and the volunteer masons from the villages, all held in a moment of shared, breathless anticipation. He reached the last gap in the newly raised curtain wall, a single missing tooth in a formidable granite jaw. With a final, guttural heave that was more will than strength, he slid the stone into place.
The scrape of stone on stone, followed by a solid, definitive thud, was the only sound. Then the courtyard exploded. A single, unified roar of triumph erupted from a hundred throats, a raw, cathartic cry that was not just for the wall, but for the forty-two days of sweat, blisters, and back-breaking labor that had built it. Hands reached for Stefanos, hauling him down from the scaffolding and lifting him onto their shoulders. The once sickly recruit had become a figure loved by all. His larger-than-life smile and his unwavering determination in drills and tasks, despite his inherent difficulties, resonated deeply with the men. He never complained; he always had a kind word to share. Now, he was a symbol of their own impossible resurrection, the unwitting mascot of a garrison that had pulled itself from the grave.
From the edge of the courtyard, Theodorus watched from the sidelines along with the coalition masons and workhands, some who hailed from Stefanos’s village and smiled in pride as they watched the frail boy they knew transform into someone larger than life under this new, eccentric commander.
Leonidas, standing near him, remembered the day before, when he had approached the captain on behalf of the men. “The wall will be finished tomorrow, Captain,” he had said. “The men request that you lay the final stone. It is your right.” It was a dramatic flourish to end the gargantuan task of the fort’s reconstruction. Over the grueling weeks they’d spent under their draconian commander, the men had come to understand his own flair for the dramatic, and their willingness to make such a frontal request spoke to the very culture of honesty and independent thinking he had nurtured among them. Under the old captain, a collective petition would have been seen as mutiny, earning the ringleaders a session with the whip for their impertinence. But they had come to understand this new commander, and to trust that he would value not only their obedience, but also their initiative.
Theodorus had looked from the nearly completed wall to the faces of the men working on it, their bodies lean and hard, their movements a study in newfound purpose. “This wall was not built by my hands, Sergeant,” he had replied, his voice quiet. “It was built by theirs. Let them choose a champion to mark their achievement.”
Leonidas looked now at Stefanos, held aloft and beaming, and understood. The men had been given not just a task, but ownership of their victory. It was the captain’s way. He was a figure of contradictions, a commander who would work them until their hands bled, yet he was the one who had personally seen to it that any man who’d collapsed from heat exhaustion was carried to the shade and given the first share of water.
He was a tyrant who punished the slightest infraction with grueling labor, yet he had been the one to quietly arrange for a double ration of mutton for the soldier whose wife had just given birth back in his village. He knew when to apply the relentless pressure of a smith’s hammer, and when to offer the cool, tempering quench. The men no longer saw his methods as cruelty. They saw them as the necessary, painful process of forging a weapon fit for war.
For the first time since the Captain’s arrival, the courtyard of Probatofrourio was filled with the crackle of a great bonfire and the rich, savory scent of roasting meat. Theodorus had postponed all duties for the evening. A feast was arranged, the communal pot brimming with mutton, venison, and olives, with loaves of fresh bread supplied by Stratos himself stacked high on a makeshift table.
When the men had eaten their fill, their bellies warm and their spirits high, Theodorus rose. He stood before them, a simple cup in his hand, and the boisterous conversations faded into a respectful silence.
“My memory of the day I arrived here feels like a lifetime ago,” he began, his voice carrying clearly in the cool night air. “I found a garrison on the verge of collapse, haunted by ghosts in a ruin.” He let the words hang, watching the memory cast a brief shadow over their faces. “I told you the work would be hard. I did not lie. And I will not lie to you now: the work continues. Tomorrow, the drills resume. The patrols push further. And I will always demand more from you than you believe you can give.”
He swept his gaze across the line of faces. “But tonight… tonight you have earned this. When I first came, I called you a flock of sheep waiting for the slaughter. It was a goad, but it was also the truth.” He saw them straighten, not in defiance, but in pride. “You were sheep. But you are not anymore.”
Theodorus raised his cup high, his flair for the dramatic taking hold. Demetrios, watching from the side, couldn't help but smile at the familiar antic. “You are the guardians of your own flock. You are the wall. You are the shepherds who guard these hills. A toast! To the Shepherds of Probatofrourio!”
A raw, deafening roar erupted from the men, a single, unified cry of triumph that seemed to shake the very stones of the wall they had just built. As the cheer subsided, a new sound cut through the night—the sharp crack of a mallet striking a cask bung. The men turned to see Leonidas standing over the barrels of ale from the original convoy, which had sat untouched ever since their arrival, a symbol of their commander’s iron discipline.
A second wave of disbelief, followed by an even more ecstatic cheer, swept through the garrison. The ale was consumed with a fervor reserved for a holy sacrament, and soon the night was filled with booming, off-key singing and boastful laughter.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Late into the night, at the center of the revelry, Georgios, roaring with drunken delight, clambered onto one of the tables and began to dance, pulling a protesting but grinning Christos up to join him in the wild, clumsy celebration.
From the window of his study, Theodorus watched the spectacle, a small smile playing on his lips as Leonidas, in a misguided attempt to restore order, tried to drag the two fools down from the table, only to be pulled into their revelry. The three giants were now locked arm-in-arm, launching into an impromptu and profoundly uncoordinated shanty, their booming voices a half-beat behind their clumsy tap-dancing.
“The work never ends, does it, my lord?” Demetrios murmured from his side of the desk. He was tending to his quartermaster duties, jotting down the day’s consumption in his ledger, a task he now relegated to the quiet hours of the night, the daylight completely filled with a whole multitude of other tasks. A chuckle escaped him as the shanty outside morphed into a heroic ballad about a young prince named Stefanos fleeing the grasp of his overbearing father, King Orestis. Even as he chuckled, his quill scratched across the page, dutifully noting the feast’s cost as he watched the goods being consumed in real time.
“There is no rest for the weary, my friend,” Theodorus replied softly. “And we are weary indeed. As a wise man once said, to fail to prepare is to prepare to fail.”
Demetrios quirked an eyebrow, not looking up from his work. “It is astonishing how much wisdom you’ve unearthed from the handful of poems your father gave you.”
“I’m mostly self-taught in truth,” Theodorus gave Demetrios a lopsided grin. “You should already know my genius knows no bounds, Demetrios.”
“That explains much, my Lord.” Demetrios mimed a surprised expression, his mouth forming a comical O. “That must be why you jumped out of your skin when we found that cockroach crawling in your bed. It must be a poisonous variant I was not aware of.”
Theodorus’s face darkened at the memory of his own shrill scream and the undignified leap onto his chair. “A single specimen is all it takes for an infestation to take root,” He said petulantly. “All such insects must be eradicated with single-minded focus in the future.” If being transported across time and space hadn’t been enough to take away his fear of those blasted vermin, nothing ever would.
Demetrios’s full-bellied laugh prompted a good-natured smile from Theodorus. He let the moment last, watching the tension ease out of Demetrios. He looked from his partner in crime to the men outside, his smile taking on a heavier touch.
“My lord?” Demetrios noticed the shift, his laughter petering out. “Is something wrong?”
“Do you know why I arranged the feast, Demetrios?” Demetrios knew better now than to interrupt his Lord during his monologues. “Because life is about cherishing these moments. These quiet victories mean everything to the men. They are the fuel for the defeats and disasters to come.”
“You are expecting a disaster?” Demetrios asked, his demeanour turning serious.
“It is best to prepare for disaster, Demetrios, especially when you do not expect one.” Theodorus spoke quietly, unable to reveal the full breadth of the crushing weight of anxiety that lived in his head. There was a crushing green tide on the horizon. A tide that threatened to destroy everything he’d built and everyone he’d known.
As if on cue, a sharp crack echoed from the courtyard, followed by a deafening crash. Both men were on their feet in an instant, peering down at the chaos.
The main trestle table had collapsed. In a tangled heap of splintered wood, overturned cups, and spilled ale lay the three giants. Georgios looked utterly sheepish, Christos was a mask of pure, humiliated fury, and Leonidas, the proud sergeant, looked as if he wished the earth would swallow him whole. Above them all, a wave of roaring laughter erupted and Orestis, the ballad’s vanquished king, was bent over, tears streaming down his face as he laughed louder and harder than anyone.
Demetrios heaved a great sigh at the sight. “I guess I should start expecting unexpected disasters like you do, my Lord.” His mouth thinned into a flat line of displeasure at the broken table and wasted supplies. Theodorus was sure the three culprits would receive a furious dressing down in the morning.
“That’s my secret, Demetrios,” Theodorus clapped him on the shoulder, a light, free laugh escaping him as he watched the beautiful, chaotic mess below. “I always do.”
Perhaps he should worry less about the future and worry more about living in the present. He had a second shot at life, and the future wasn’t set in stone. If it was grim, he would just have to change it, and whatever came his way, he’d overcome it.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Yigit Alim, you stand accused of the murder of a Genoese merchant, a crime committed in broad daylight in the streets of Tana. How do you plead?”
The old Mufti’s voice was a monotone drone that did little to stir the stale air in Chufut-Kale’s antechamber. It was a suffocating space, thick with the scent of sweat and poorly masked by a cloying myrrh incense. It was a poor substitute for the clean wind of the steppe, Meñli thought, feeling a trickle of sweat trace a path down his spine. The Khan, he knew, delighted in this oppressive heat, insisting the great brazier remain lit whenever court was in session. Uncomfortable men are pliable men, he always said.
“Guilty, Your Eminence.” The man in question, Yigit Alim, was the steppe given form—all bluster and pride, crowned by a moustache of such magnificent proportions Meñli had to marvel at it. It bristled with indignation as he spoke. “And gladly. The Genoese spoke with a tongue of honeyed silk, but his tunic was scratchy wool that couldn’t survive a single tumble from my horse. He swindled me, and Alim of Clan Karabeg does not take such an affront lying down. Now others know this as well.” His moustache shook and swayed, a glorious pirouette of bushy proportions, as the man outlined the grievous crime of losing a negotiation like a fool.
“What others now know is that you have broken the sacred laws that govern our cities. That govern our people.” The Old Mufti intoned eminently. Stern and monotone, his speech was all-powerful in its ability to inspire boredom in all who heard it. His simple, unadorned, green robes were a perfect match for his bland personality, Meñli thought.
“I offered to pay the blood tax,” Alim countered, his moustache quivering and glinting in the room’s sunlight.
“A blood tax does not exist in the Qu’Ran,” Meñli knew something others didn’t. The Mufti’s large, bulbous nose inflated in proportion to the annoyance he felt. It was Meñli’s personal barometer for the court’s tedious proceedings and an invaluable skill all should have, he thought. For instance, right now, he could tell the Priest’s nostrils that he was significantly pissed. And that he didn’t have any buggers. “There is only the Shari’ah law, which you have broken.”
“I know no such law. Since my great-grandfather’s time, the way of the clans has been the blood tax.” Oooh, Moustache was hitting back against the Nose; a thrilling comeback in this epic duet.
“Your great-grandfather’s time is dust,” the Mufti intoned, his nose swelling another fraction. “We live now by the Prophet’s teachings, boy.” The old man could call just about anyone a boy. No one was sure about his age, but if he wasn’t at least one hundred, Meñli would eat his own shoes.
“A dozen of my finest sheep are worth more than that fat pig ever was.” The face beard swayed so erratically it was practically convulsing, the battle between these two titans was reaching a climatic-
Meñli heaved a grand sigh. Gods, he was bored. He glanced toward the high, arched windows where an eagle soared in the endless blue over the Crimean peaks. He wished something, anything, would happen. Otherwise, he might just try to follow that eagle out the window and let the wind decide the rest.
“And more than that damned law of yours is too.”
A stunned silence fell over the antechamber. To question the Shari’ah in the Khan’s own court, before the Mufti himself, was playing with fire. Yigit Alim and his magnificent moustache might be about to get singed.
“How dare you?” The Mufti’s nose swelled to its full, outraged capacity. It was his second great talent, after inducing terminal boredom: taking offense at any minor religious transgression. And this wasn’t a minor one.
“Blasphemy! I will have you hanged for this!”
“I’d like to see you try, old man. If I-”
A single, meaty hand rose. The argument died instantly, the two men freezing like children caught by their father. The Khan was the only man in the room bare-chested, his torso a roadmap of old scars over bulging muscle, and the only one who seemed immune to the suffocating heat.
“Silence,” he said, and, like magic, it was so.
He peered down at Alim, his expression unreadable. “I have great respect for the traditions of our forefathers. I, too, remember the days when the spirits of the steppe were our only guides.”
Alim’s moustache tilted up at the corners in a hopeful smile. The Mufti’s nose seemed to visibly deflate. The fools, Meñli thought, they don’t see the performance. Always remain unexpected, Father would say, to your friends and your foes.
“However,” if the Mufti’s nose was large and Alim’s moustache was bushy, the Khan’s eyebrows were something else. They were two ferocious, grey-streaked thunderclouds that perpetually threatened to devour his eyes. And they were now lowered into a severe line. “That time is gone. By my decree, the Shari’ah is the law that guides this Khanate.”
“But—” Alim began.
“By insulting its law,” the Khan’s voice dropped, each word a chip of ice, “you insult my law. And by extension, you insult me.” It was a masterful reframing, positioning the nomad for a harsh sentence. Meñli wondered what the real reason was. Perhaps the Khan was simply jealous of a furry competitor. Meñli made a mental note to consider shaving his head.
“I… meant no insult, my Khan.” Alim’s bravado evaporated, and he bowed his head to the limestone floor.
“Yet it was still freely given. The punishment for unlawful murder is death,” the Khan declared.
A ripple of shock went through the assembled nobles. It was a severe sentence for the killing of a swindling foreigner. Yup, Meñli decided, he was definitely shaving his head. He didn’t like his hair so long anyway.
“My Khan, if I may.” The voice that cut through the murmurs was high-pitched and reedy. Mamak Shirim, a man as thin as a whip, stood. His pale skin and slight frame spoke of his mother, a Genoese consort, but his title spoke of his power. As the head of the Shirim, the largest clan in the Khanate and masters of the eastern pastures, he was the leader of the Divan and the second most powerful man in the room.
The Khan gave a curt nod, granting him leave to speak.
“The Karabeg have long been loyal subjects,” Mamak began, his tone a careful balm of diplomacy. “The Shirim have often officiated their local disputes, and this is an aberrant act, not reflective of the clan’s conduct. The young man was misguided. Let us not rush to the ultimate punishment for a single error in judgment.”
The Khan stared at Mamak Shirim, the silence in the room stretching taut. Alienating the leader of the Shirim was a dangerous game, even for him. Meñli watched his father’s eyes, saw the gears of calculation turning behind them. The performance wasn't for the nomad; it was for the Bey.
“A great crime has been committed,” the Khan said at last, his voice a low rumble. “The Genoese are valued partners. This act erodes their trust in us. The recompense must be equally great.” He looked meaningfully at Mamak, the unspoken threat hanging in the air.
“An appropriate donation to a house of God would be in order,” Mamak replied smoothly, bowing his head. “To atone for the sins committed.” He glanced at the Mufti, whose bulbous nose twitched. Suddenly, the Sharia seemed to have provisions for financial mercy, but the old Mufti certainly didn’t seem happy about it. If he had his way, half the population would have been hanged already in the name of Allah.
Ah, there it is, Meñli thought. The entire charade, from the feigned outrage to the threat of death, was a lever to pry gold and favour from the Shirim. The matter was settled. A visibly relieved Alim stammered his thanks and practically fled the antechamber and, with him, Meñli’s momentary entertainment. The threat of boredom descended once more.
The next man to step forward wore the green kaftan of the Crimean army. He was coated in the dust of a long journey, his boots caked in mud, his face etched with exhaustion.
“Report,” the Khan said, shifting on his futon.
“The Prince of Theodoro sends his respects, Great Khan,” the messenger began, his voice hoarse. The name stirring something in Meñli. “He cannot meet the tribute increase. His coffers are drained by payments to the Ottomans, and recent raids have devastated his northern lands, leaving his lords unable to collect their taxes. He says he is doing his utmost, but it is proving difficult to—”
“Enough.” The Khan raised his hand once again. “I do not care for the useless platitudes of goat herders. They need to be reminded that their main priorities should not be their petty politics but their overlord’s wishes.”
“Another raid, then, Father?” The voice came from a lower futon beside the Khan’s. Meñli’s eldest brother, Nur Devlet, the Kalga, leaned forward, his dark eyes attentive and alert, always so serious and proper.
The Khan offered a slow, cold smile and gave a single, deliberate nod.
A current of electricity shot through Meñli. A raid. The word was a taste of honey and blood on his tongue, a precious balm for his soul. The stifling heat of the court vanished, replaced by the memory of cold mud and hot steel.
He remembered the last raid south and his last assault on that pitiful frontier estate. Amidst the chaos, he had locked eyes with a Greek, a giant of an older man in dark, lamellar armor who fought like a cornered bear, his every swing of a heavy spatha a lesson in brutal economy. The man had roared defiance, rallying his wavering men, and for a glorious moment, Meñli had felt the thrill of an uncertain outcome to the battle. The Greek’s strength was astounding, his eyes burning like a roaring fire. His dance of sword and shield a dizzying spectacle, and in a brief interlude in the performance, Meñli had seen the killing blow. In that heartbeat, he drew his bow and the arrow struck true, a thud of gut and sinew. He would never forget the look on the old lord’s face as he fell— a cold, hard hatred, and a shocked, final understanding. That single moment of triumph over life and death contrasted with the monotony of this gilded cage. He hungered for it again.
Before he could stop himself, he stepped forward from the shadows. “Father.” His voice cut through the room’s quiet. “Let me lead a çapul and punish these infidels.”
The Khan’s head turned slowly. His gaze fell upon Meñli, and the entire court seemed to hold its breath. It was a heavy, appraising stare that stripped away all pretense, a silence that felt louder than any shout. The Khan’s youngest son had distinguished himself in his first military action, and his talent was clear for all to see. But so was his ambition.
After a long moment that stretched into an eternity, the Khan spoke a single, crushing word. “No.”
He turned his attention to Meñli’s brother. “Nur Devlet,” he said, his voice now formal and dangerous. The Kalga knelt. “These Greeks need to remember that their empire is dust. Gather one hundred riders. A çapul is in order.”
A black wave of hatred surged through Meñli. He would send him? Nur Devlet, the uninspired, the formal, the boring? Meñli had brought them glory, robbed caravans, and broken a fort’s gate without siege weaponry, only sheer audacity and a small band of warriors. And this was his reward? He forced the rage down, smoothing his face into a mask of indifference, feeling his father’s eyes on him, searching for the slightest crack in his composure.
Nur Devlet bowed his head, every movement a study in tedious propriety. “Yes, Father.” He rose, and as he turned, the atmosphere in the room shifted. He caught the eyes of two captains waiting by the door and gave a single, sharp nod. They immediately fell into step behind him, their armored boots echoing on the stone as they strode from the antechamber.
Meñli retreated back into the shadows, the fire inside him banked to a sullen, familiar boredom. The monotonous proceedings of the court resumed. He made no effort to listen to them now, the words washing over him unheard. His gaze returned to the high windows, to the endless blue sky, and the eagles soaring free without him.
