Strategos: Born in the Borderlands by Gordon Doherty Page A

spathion drawn and ready to strike.
     
    Apion hobbled over to Maria, wrapping his arms around her. Together, the pair frowned in confusion: Bracchus stood crouched, darting those keen icy eyes around the farm, crouching in wait, but of what?
     
    ‘Whoever that was, they’ve made the biggest mistake of their life, and their last!’ Bracchus snarled, eyes tracing the path the stone had taken from Vadim’s helmet and then up, up to the red tiled roof of the farmhouse. There, almost imperceptibly, was a tiny blur of movement behind the apex of the roof. ‘Vadim, go around the other side of the house!’
     
    The groaning Vadim hobbled round to the back of the farmhouse.
     
    ‘Is that you, Mansur? Well, you’ve done it this time. There’s no way out for you,’ Bracchus purred. ‘Two sharp swords are waiting for you down here. We might be kind and let you die on them, after you have watched your daughter die. Or you can be executed in the city for striking an imperial soldier; your filthy Seljuk head would decorate the city walls nicely.’
     
    Then a whirring penetrated the thickness of the air. It grew and grew into a hum and then a buzz like an angry hornet swarm. Suddenly, a figure shot up to standing on the roof, his form blurred by the heat haze, one arm a smear of spinning colour – a loaded sling.
     
    ‘You think? I’d like to see what your swords can do from down there. This, on the other hand,’ the figure gestured to the sling, ‘will dash out your brains before you take even a single step.’
     
    Apion’s eyes narrowed: the burnished skin, the pony tail. Nasir!
     
    Bracchus pulled a shark-like grin, his eyes red with rage. ‘There are two of us though and by the time you loose a shot and load another, one of us will be upon you. So you will still die and I promise you, it will be slowly.’ Vadim remained poised, ready to strike. Bracchus’ eyes never left Nasir. Then the ground rumbled, the distant thrashing of hooves growing. Each of the group shot glances at the three horsemen who approached along the highway at a gallop. Then one of the approaching riders bellowed.
     
    ‘Soldiers!’
     
    Apion eyed the man who had spoken: a mounted, green-cloaked soldier, wearing a klibanion, leggings, leather riding boots and thick, iron-plated gloves, plumed like Bracchus but with green feathers on his shoulders as well as his helmet. A narrow hooked nose curled out over a black forked beard flecked with grey, and his mouth was firm and straight. His eyes gave nothing away. Two soldiers flanked him, also on horseback, but the man in the centre seemed to dominate the trio.
     
    ‘Bracchus, what’s your business here?’ The man boomed.
     
    Bracchus slotted his sword back into his scabbard. ‘Attacked by these locals here, sir; militant Seljuks. The situation is under control.’ His tone was lacking the urgency the question had demanded and instead inflected disdain for the mounted officer.
     
    The mounted officer studied Bracchus, then eyed Maria and Apion. ‘Well they match you for numbers at least,’ he snorted.
     
    ‘But sir, on the roof,’ Vadim interrupted.
     
    The roof was bare. The buzzing of the sling had stopped.
     
    ‘Needs a bit of repair, yes. What of it? Has there been some kind of misunderstanding?’
     
    Bracchus barely suppressed a grimace. ‘There is no misunderstanding here, sir,’ he muttered.
     
    ‘Then be on your way. A patrol is a patrol; it means you’re expected to be on the move. Unless there is an incident, a real incident . . . somewhere.’
     
    ‘Sir!’ Bracchus replied, without salute. Vadim pulled his dented helmet back over his swollen eye. The pair mounted their horses, Bracchus’ glare staying on the mounted officer. Then they heeled their mounts into a gallop.
     
    The mounted officer watched their dust trail, shaking his head slowly, lips muttering silently.
     
    ‘Strategos!’ one of his guardsmen barked. ‘We must make haste to the