Fallen Eagle-Chapter 15: A Whisper in the Night

The sunrises and sunsets of Mangup were a miser’s gift of extra light, a few precious minutes hoarded from the encroaching dark. A grace afforded by the elevated promontory on which the city sat. For Zeno Makris, whose days began before the sun and ended long after it, this light was a resource to be exploited. It meant another column of text read, another note penned, without the needless expense of a candle. He might now be the personal aide to the Megas Doux, a position that could afford him a mountain of wax, but the habits of a man who had to work twice as hard for half the recognition were etched deep into his bones. Great men did not rest, and Zeno aimed for nothing less than greatness.
Today, however, the extra light felt like a mockery, only serving to illuminate the cesspool of high court politics he was still wading through. Principe Alexios’s privateer proposal - a mercenary retaliation so thinly veiled the Genoese would see right through it - had thrown the court into chaos. The backing it garnered was impressive, and its timing was impeccable. The Prince, a devout simpleton whose piety was matched only by his political incompetence, could never muster up the insight necessary to even think it, much less execute it to such a degree. No, he was merely the gilded puppet.
Zeno knew the true author of the scheme was his own uncle, Philemon Makris, the head of the main household. It was his uncle’s vineyards bleeding profit from the Genoese tariffs, his uncle’s pride that was smarting from a generation of lost skirmishes. He had the most to gain from a state-backed retaliation against the Genoese, and he was the one most eager for revenge. Now he was using the staunch anti-Catholic Principe to do his bidding.
Now that the proposal had been forced through, the real work began; the main authors of this shitstorm were nowhere to be seen. It fell to the Megas Doux and his staff - which, in practice, meant Zeno and four highborn idiots - the task of spinning the raw foolishness of the proposal into something resembling workable gold. The irony that he was now laboring to enrich the very man who had cast his own family branch into obscurity was not lost on him; it left a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth that made the already irksome job utterly unbearable.
He was sifting through crumbling manifests and the few historical texts available, deciphering the boasts of long-dead sea captains to compare the efficacy of various pirate conglomerates in the region. One wrote of its captain being so strong he often used enemy armored knights as clubs in battle. Another claimed his crew had captured so much silver they had to ‘trade three cannons just to stay afloat’. The sheer idiocy of it all threatened to overwhelm him.
With a sigh of profound disgust, Zeno pushed aside the stack of parchments. This wasn't even a task assigned to him; he had volunteered for it. The Megas Doux, unlike the uneducated masses, understood Zeno’s value. In turn, Zeno understood that an immense workload and a willingness to handle the court’s most unpleasant tasks were the price of justifying his controversial appointment. The Doux was his shield, and in return, Zeno had to be his sword, his quill, or, on days like this, the shovel he used for the shittiest jobs.
Zeno decided he’d shoveled enough excrement for the day; the rest could wait until morning.
He didn’t rest, the thought didn’t even cross his mind. There was still daylight to be used after all. He turned instead to his personal correspondence, the necessary work of maintaining his private intelligence network a constant drain on his time. The letters were a dry litany of garrison s and informal updates from the minor officers and sergeants he had cultivated across the realm - sensible men posted to remote forts who fed him practical, low-level intelligence in exchange for the occasional favor. It was a web of his own making, built on the hard-won knowledge that in the capital, the right connections were a sharper weapon than any skill.
One letter, however, stood out from the pile. The seal was unfamiliar, the sharp, predatory heron of House Sideris, but it had arrived through one of Zeno's personal channels. It was from Theodorus, the unnervingly astute boy who had been posted to the Principality's most dangerous frontier, an exile in all but name, even if the rank it granted him was prestigious. Zeno had initially been disappointed by the boy's posting, assuming the Megas Doux had buried him as a final, petty punishment for his father's legacy. He hadn't given it much thought since.
But now this. The use of a private military channel was no accident; it was a deliberate signal, a message before the message. Zeno’s intrigue rekindled, sharp and immediate. He broke the wax, his eyes scanning the elegant script. It read:
To the esteemed Zeno Makris, Aide to the Megas Doux, Panagiotis Papadopoulos,
I pray this letter finds you in good health and that the pressures of the capital have not proven too burdensome since our fortunate encounter. I write to you from the Probatofrourio Border Fort, a posting I have held for a week and a half now. I feel it is my duty to inform you, as someone of unwavering loyalty to our state and a most admirable sense of duty, of the state of this vital outpost.
Upon my arrival, I found the fort a nest of disease, its command structure non-existent, its men a demoralized mob. The recent Tatar raids had not merely breached the wall; they had shattered the garrison’s spirit.
The relief convoy brought much-needed aid, but our needs remain dire. I therefore submit for your consideration a requisition of supplies. Our request for consumables is modest - enough grain and salted mutton to see us through the next month, with a small reserve of linen and wool for bandages and bedding. My true need, however, is for the tools of reconstruction. The bulk of my requisition is for as much limestone as possible, and every shovel, pickaxe, and hammer the quartermaster can spare. To patch a wall is a temporary fix; I intend to build a fortress.
Should your duties allow, and should you find it within your purview to shepherd this request through the necessary channels, you would place me in a debt I would be honored to one day repay.
On a more personal note, I trust life in the Prince’s Court has not been too exhaustive as of late. I hope the matter of the Prince’s tribute has been resolved adequately and has not placed any undue burdens on yourself.
Your humble servant in defense of the realm,
Theodorus Sideris, Captain of the Probatofrourio Garrison.
Zeno let the parchment rest on the desk, a slow, appreciative smile touching his lips. It was not a request; it was a masterclass in leverage. By framing his needs so, Theodorus had given Zeno everything he needed. The dire of the fort’s condition provided the political cover to expedite the request, making Zeno appear diligent and decisive. The modest demand for food made Theodorus seem frugal and responsible, while the large request for building materials painted him as a forward-thinking commander investing in the Principality’s long-term security.
Zeno’s eyes lingered on the final, crucial word:
debt
. It was the linchpin of the entire proposal, and the reason Zeno hadn’t immediately thrown the paper out. The boy had ingeniously inverted the power dynamic, transforming his own debt to Zeno from a hurdle to overcome to an asset he could leverage. He knew Zeno now had a vested interest in him and his success. And as the debt grew, Zeno had a greater stake in Theodorus’s rise. It was, Zeno mused, the perfect low-risk, high-return investment.
A cold suspicion, an instinct, one that had been lingering since their meeting by the oak tree, settled in Zeno’s mind. The boy’s assignment to that forsaken outpost felt less and less like an exile. It felt like a part of some grand calculation. And his instincts, Zeno knew, had rarely failed him.
Two weeks after Theodorus arrived, the fort was breathing again. The men who had shuffled through the gate like ghosts now snapped to attention, their movements sharp, their eyes clear. The apathy had been scoured out of them by relentless labor and punishing drills, and in its place, a fragile, hard-won professionalism was taking root. Theodorus, watching them form ranks in the pre-dawn chill, knew they were ready.
The garrison could now execute basic commands as a unit with passable coordination and regularity. Theodorus had gotten the reaction he needed out of them. Now they were ready to start the next phase of their training.
He let them stand in the silence of the pre-dawn courtyard for a long moment before he spoke, his voice carrying in the crisp air. “You have learned the shape of a soldier,” he said, pacing before the line. “Today, you will learn the substance of his trade: how to kill, and how not to be killed.” He gestured to a great pile of green wood Lazaros and a young hunter, Pavlos, had spent the last days gathering. “Before you are the tools to build your shields. They will become your greatest partner over the coming days, one you will learn to care for as if it were a part of yourself. Begin.”
There were no groans, no questions. The men, now accustomed to their commander’s unorthodox methods, simply broke ranks and set to work. Under Theodorus's stern guidance, they bent and wove the flexible willow and hazel branches into tight, circular frames. They lashed a thicker piece of wood across the back for a grip, their hands growing calloused, their brows furrowed in concentration. The results were crude things, basket-like constructions that would not stop a determined spear thrust, but they had the approximate weight and feel of a true shield. That was enough.
When the last shield was finished, Theodorus had them assemble in a tight block, shoulder to shoulder.
“Individually,” Theodorus began, his voice taking on the quality of a lecturer, “this shield is a clumsy piece of wood. It will turn a glancing blow, perhaps, but it will not save you from a determined charge. You are thirty men, standing in a field. An easy target.” He paused, letting the grim reality settle. “But together… together you are a wall. You are a fortress that moves. The purpose of your shield is not merely to protect yourself. It is a promise to the man standing to your left. Its edge covers his body, just as his covers yours. You are no longer thirty men. You are one beast, with a shell of wood and a heart of steel. Forget your own fear. Your only duty is to not let the man beside you die. Do that, and you will live. Now, form the wall!”
The first attempt was chaos. The men shuffled into a line, but as they tried to raise their shields, the interlocking edges clashed and scraped. Gaps appeared in the line, wide enough to drive a horse through. Some men held their shields too high, others too low, creating a jagged, wavering mess instead of a solid barrier.
Leonidas and his veterans moved in, their expressions a mixture of disgust and grim determination. The sergeant moved down the line like a stonemason, his huge hands physically forcing the recruits into position. He would slam one shield down, shove another man’s shoulder until it was flush with his neighbor’s, his voice a low, constant growl of correction. “Lock it! Tighter! You are not holding a lady’s fan, you are holding the line! Again!” His men mirrored him, their movements economical and brutal, manhandling the recruits until the jagged line began to resemble something solid.
“Good,” Theodorus said into the tense quiet. “Now, advance.”
The result was shambolic. The wall lurched forward a few steps, then began to buckle as men stumbled, their feet tangling, their pace uneven. The line of shields wobbled and broke, men staggering into each other like drunkards. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Theodorus knew he was starting from less than scratch. He had hardened the recruits from soft cotton into malleable clay. Now he had to shape them into a weapon he could yield.
That afternoon, he reorganized the command structure. Leonidas and each of his four veterans were given command of a five-man squad, each man handpicked by Theodorus to balance skill, temperament and unit cohesion. He went as far as building a psychological profile for each man and veteran, pairing individuals based on their compatibility.
With this new structure in place, the fort began its first external operations. The squads began patrolling in rotation, their first assignment a constant, visible circuit of the main Sideris estate. As Theodorus watched the first squad depart, he finally allowed himself to acknowledge the risky gamble he had taken. To have neglected countryside patrols for so long after a major raid was technically a dereliction of duty. But the garrison he had inherited was so broken, so utterly useless, that sending them out would have been suicide and would have derailed their training.
He had bet on the Tatars waiting, yes. But it had been an informed gamble. His conversations with the village elders suggested raids were rarely conducted in quick succession, and he reasoned the Khan, having sanctioned this probe, would now wait to see if the Prince would bow to the pressure and increase the tribute. It was all speculation, but it had bought him the time he desperately needed. The longer he waited, the greater the risk, and he should, in theory, organize patrols to every estate under his protection now that his force had recuperated. But the patrols had become more than a security measure; they were a bargaining chip, the first offering he would make to the other landowners in his bid to forge a true coalition. He could not afford to be a shield for the entire frontier; his garrison was a thin line of steel. First, he had to build a network of advanced intelligence - a whisper on the wind that would reach him long before a Tatar arrow could, and one that could be everywhere all at once. It would take time to fully implement, but the final rewards would be immeasurable.
The next weeks were defined by a frantic diplomatic enterprise as Probatofrourio extended its reach into the surrounding lands. The negotiations were a two-front war. For the petty nobles, Theodorus leveraged Iohannes’s name to secure meetings, his brother’s influence a key that opened doors that would have remained barred to him. These lords were the hardest to convince, demanding proof of benefit before pledging their aid, but they were a vital source of raw materials.
The true battle, however, was for the hearts of the villages. Here, Theodorus weaponized his own men. He transformed them from mere soldiers into ambassadors, sending them back to the very communities that had raised them. His detailed accounting of the men’s background and the various talks he had held with village headmen allowed him to identify which of his men were respected individuals within their village’s societal structure. They were the perfect messengers; they had witnessed firsthand Theodorus’s methods and could vouch for them. Their own - now professional - conduct a statement louder than words. They were known voices and knew who the main figures to approach and convince were.
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Theodorus tailored his approach to each community, using the intimate knowledge he had gleaned from his men. The effect was staggering. Some villages, plagued by wolves, pledged their support after a dedicated hunting expedition. Others, swayed by the word of a prominent son now serving in the garrison, agreed to terms immediately. The tribute was never coin, but a reflection of each village’s strength. Some paid in bushels of grain, barrels of salted mutton, and cartloads of firewood. But most didn’t have much to spare in the first place, their resources stretched for survival. While the noble estates provided most of the raw materials like lumber, grain, and quarried stone. It was the villages that were better suited for the most valuable resource of all: skilled labour.
Blacksmiths to repair weapons, hunters to craft arrows, and woodcarvers to begin the slow work of replacing the army’s wicker shields with sturdy oak. The most critical prize came from two small villages nestled in the southern hills. In exchange for a complete waiving of their tribute, their headmen, a retired master stonemason named Manolis and a master woodcarver Cistos, agreed to oversee the reconstruction of the wall. They were men who had been apprentices to the builders of Mangup itself, the greatest Theodoran edifice ever built.
Shortly after they agreed to terms, a long train of wagons rumbled up the path from the south towards Probatofrourio. Zeno had come through. The sight of fresh limestone from the capital’s quarries and crates of new tools sent a wave of raw hope through the garrison. Theodorus’s promises were no longer abstract; they were being delivered.
Work began at once. Under Manolis’s exacting eye, the courtyard became a disciplined construction site. Men who were not on patrol hauled the massive facing stones salvaged from the rubble, laying the foundations for the new wall. Others, directed by Cistos, began erecting the complex wooden scaffolding that would allow them to work safely as the wall rose.
The process was dictated by the slow, patient hardening of the mortar, which would then be mixed with the mortar, filling it with smaller rubble to create a strong, binding aggregate. Manolis decreed they could raise the wall by no more than a meter before they had to wait two days for it to cure enough to bear the next layer’s weight, a process which usually lasted between two and three days. Simultaneously, Cistos oversaw the construction of a complex timber scaffolding that rose with the wall, a necessary support framework to ensure safety as the men progressed in their work. Theodorus seized on the delay, turning the downtime into a relentless training cycle. While the mortar set, the courtyard rang with the commands of Sergeant Leonidas and the rhythmic stamp of men drilling in shield wall formations, who were slowly being supplied with proper shields. The mob was becoming an army, and the fort was becoming a fortress. Not just stone by stone, but man by man, the slow curing of the wall a mirror to the hardening of the garrison’s resolve and equipment.
But for every stone laid, a crack appeared elsewhere in his grand design. While the smaller villages had been won over, some of the more powerful landlords proved resistant. Their estates were often managed by stewards who sent word to absentee lords in Mangup - men who cared little for a remote frontier and far more for the lingering disgrace of the Sideris name. His father’s ghost, it seemed, was a difficult one to lay to rest.
In contrast to the majority of villages that agreed readily, one in particular, Kerasia, had become a thorn in his side. Its headman met all overtures with a wall of stony silence. Ordinarily, Theodorus might have let the matter drop, but the village’s location was critical, sitting astride a likely path for any new Tatar raid. More importantly, its people were shepherds, their lives spent wandering the very hills he needed for his early warning network. Their inclusion was not just desirable; it was essential. Theodorus, weighing the cost of a weak link against the price of coercion, knew that official diplomatic overtures would fail. It was time for more drastic measures.
The goat path to Kerasia was a scar on the land, and every twist of it was a scar on Christos’s memory and all the memories of his past that haunted him through the dark…
Wow, what the fuck was that?
He wasn’t usually the poetic type, but the familiar goat path that led to his hometown brought back memories that turned him introspective. Memories he didn’t think he was ready to face yet. They coiled in his gut like old, familiar serpents, and he found himself thinking in ways he never had before, a strange, grim poetry creeping into his thoughts.
He was a soldier now. The thought felt like an alternate reality. The solid oak of his shield, the weight of his billhook - they felt like a costume here, a lie that this place would strip away. His mind thought back to the quiet intensity of the Captain’s study, to the scent of woodsmoke and wax.
Theodorus hadn’t looked up from the parchment he was writing on, but Christos knew he was being watched. He’d learned that about the Captain; his stillness was a form of hunting. After a silence that stretched Christos’s nerves taut, the quill stopped scratching.
“Stratiotes Christos.” The Captain’s dark eyes lifted, pinning him in place. “Kerasia resists our overtures. I know it is a place you do not wish to return to.” Christos flinched, a barely perceptible tremor. “But I must know. Can you make the headman listen? Can you make them understand what is at stake?”
Christos swallowed, the words thick in his throat. “He’s… a hard man, Captain. The village follows his lead.”
“That is not what I asked.” Theodorus’s voice was flat, unyielding.
Can you do it?
The question echoed in the quiet room. Christos’s mind was a maelstrom of old fears - the sting of splintered wood, the hot tang of blood in his mouth. But another memory pushed through, foggy and half-remembered: one of a full moon and the scent of sweat and lust, her outline barely visible in the gloom. A whisper that had echoed in his dreams since then.
“I need you.”
He had been running his whole life. It was time to make a stand.
“Yes, Captain,” he’d said, the words tasting of equal parts terror and iron. “I can.”
Now, with the familiar silhouette of Kerasia’s dwellings nestled in the hills, it felt like a doomed proclamation and a fool’s errand. His determination vanished like smoke at the sight of his home.
Thin ribbons of smoke rose into the July sky. The shearing would be done, the flocks moved to higher pastures. Life in Kerasia was a wheel that never stopped turning, a constant cycle of labor. There were no breaks, only work. Not much different than the army under the Captain now that he thought about it.
He squared his shoulders and walked into the village proper. The whispers started at once, sharp and carrying, following him like biting flies.
“-Saints preserve us, he’s back-”
“-What does he want now? Vassilis will break him in two-”
The judgment was a physical weight, a suffocating cloak he had forgotten how much he hated. He felt the old, familiar rage begin to smolder, but another voice, cold and disciplined, quenched it. He was not here as the boy who ran. He was here as Stratiotes Christos, an ambassador of the Probatofrourio garrison. And he had a job to do.
His gaze slid past the familiar turf-roofed hovels, the scent of baking bread a strange comfort in a place that offered him none, his gaze falling on the miller’s house for a long stretch. The path steepened, and with every upward step, the whispers of the village fell away, replaced by the pounding of his own heart. Each step was a penance. He was walking barefoot on thorns.
Finally, he stood before it. Perched on the highest hill, overlooking the entire village, was the only structure built to outlast a man’s life. It was his father’s house, and every warped plank and loose shingle was a chapter in the story of his own misery. He saw the ghost of his father’s boot in the splintered doorjamb, a permanent scar from the night Christos had dared to bar it against him. He saw his father’s laziness in the perpetually leaky roof, a botched repair by old Othon that still wept with every rainstorm.
His eyes settled on the rack of shepherding staves leaning against the wall. The wood was seasoned dark, the craftsmanship fine enough to fetch a handsome price. They stood in plain view of the village, a symbol as much as a message; that no one in Kerasia would ever dare steal from Vassilis.
Christos stood before the door, the old terror a cold knot in his stomach. He could feel the boy he used to be, small and shaking, begging him to turn and run. He knew his father was on the other side. His nights ended late and drunk, his mornings started late and hungover. He grit his teeth. He hadn’t come as the scared boy who’d ran away. He wasn't scared. He
wouldn't
be.
He balled his hand into a fist and hammered on the wood, the force of the blows a shock that traveled up his arm. The sound was a declaration of war against the ghost in his own head.
“Vassilis!” he roared, his voice cracking with a strange, new power. “Headman of Kerasia! Open this door!”
A groan rumbled from within, followed by the heavy, drunken shuffle of bare feet on wood. Christos hammered on the door again, the frantic beat a match for the one in his own chest.
“I heard you the first fucking time,” a muffled, gravelly voice slurred. “Stop your hammering, you little shite, or I’ll rip that door off its hinges and beat you with it.” A stream of garbled curses followed. If Vassilis’s temper was a volcano at the best of times, it erupted in the early morning. And Christos had just kicked it awake.
Then another sound drifted through the wood, a soft, distinctly female murmur. A cold, familiar rage seized Christos, hotter than any fear. The bastard. In the very house his mother had kept, in the very bed she… He slammed his fist against the door again, the wood groaning in protest.
“Vassilis! Open this door! Who is in there with you?!”
A pause. Then, the gravelly voice, closer now. “Saints’ piss… it’s the brat.”
The door wasn’t opened; it was annihilated, thrown inward with a violent crash. Filling the frame was the biggest mountain of lard and muscle Christos had ever had the displeasure of meeting. His father was less a human and more a bear - a great, hairy beast of muscle and fury, his face a mask of rage under a wild mane of black hair and a tangled beard.
“You’ve got some fucking balls, kiddo,” Vassilis growled, a foul plume of stale ale and bile washing over Christos. “Crawling back here like this.”
Christos stood his ground, forcing the soldier to the surface, letting the boy retreat. He recited the lines he had rehearsed, his voice a stiff, unfamiliar thing. “I am here on official business from the Probatofrourio garrison. I believe you have received our overtures to incorporate Kerasia into the Northern Coalition?”
Vassilis’s lips curled upwards into a sneer. “You
believe
? Since when did you learn to speak like a prissy little clerk?”
“I am here to formally invite you to a meeting with the commander of the fort, Captain Theodorus Sideris. The Tatar threat is real. They could be upon us at any moment, taking your flocks, your wives, your children.” He hid behind his script like it was armor. One he prayed would hold.
A deep, rumbling laugh exploded from Vassilis’s chest, a horrible sound like rocks grinding together. He laughed until tears streamed down his face, his great body shaking, his face beet red. “Gods, that’s fucking funny,” he gasped, wiping his eyes. The cunt was still drunk from last night. Christos clenched his fist unconsciously.
This fucking low life
.
The laughter stopped as if a blade had severed it. Vassilis straightened, his eyes suddenly, terrifyingly sober and cold.
“Get the fuck out of my sight.”
Christos held his ground. “At least hear the commander out. Or are you too drunk from your whoring to understand simple words?” He regretted the insult the moment it left his lips - the old, reckless anger overriding the new discipline.
Vassilis took a thunderous step forward, his face contorting. “Have you lost your fucking mind, boy?” he bellowed. “You run from this village like a coward, claiming you want to become a soldier, and return like a little fucking errand boy, spouting pretty words for some noble boy who expects me to bend over my arse for him?” He snatched one of the heavy shepherding staves from the rack - the most gnarled and beaten one. A cold, familiar terror seized Christos, and he took an involuntary step back before forcing his feet to plant themselves on the dirt.
“The Captain just wants to-”
“The Captain this, the Captain that. The Captain can kiss my arse!” Vassilis roared, eyes wide and feral, spit flying out of his mouth in explosive bursts. “Has he stuck a stick up yours to puppet you like this? Did he take your manhood as well?”
Christos gulped and remembered his training. He wasn’t the same, and he wouldn’t take it lying down from the bastard. A surge of desperate, foolish courage surged through him.
“You’re making a mistake, old man. When I come back next time, you’ll regret doing this, trust me on that.”
“I do whatever the hell I damn please, and I won’t have no uppity noble that is not the Prince himself dip his fingers into my honey pot.”
The fat bastard thought of the village as his personal fiefdom. Christos had known he wouldn’t listen, but he still came anyway. Maybe it was to settle past debts, or out of a misguided sense of duty, he didn’t know. But as he looked at the man before him, a colder, more terrible realization settled in. The brute had decayed. With him or his mother there to serve as outlets for his frustration, the poison had nowhere to go. It had turned inward, rotting him from the core. And now he’d found another victim to torture.
“Who was that in there?” he snarled, his voice raw with a grief he thought he’d buried. “You find another woman to beat? Answer me!” His hand flew to his billhook, and Christos found it drawn without even realizing how it happened.
The cane struck with the speed of a serpent. A sharp crack, and something wet and hard flew from Christos’s mouth. He staggered back, spitting blood and the shard of a tooth onto the ground. Another to add to the collection.
“I told you to watch your fucking mouth, boy,” Vassilis growled, advancing. “You’ve forgotten your lessons while you’ve been away. It’s time I help you remember them.”
A guttural roar tore from Christos’s throat as he lunged, swinging the billhook in a wild, rising arc. Fuck talking, he was going to fucking kill this motherfucker!
Vassilis met the attack not with fear, but with a predator’s grin. He didn’t parry; he simply took the blow on the thick wood of his staff. The impact sent a bone-jarring shock up Christos’s arms and the sound of splintering hazel echoed in the tense air. The man was a wall. With a guttural roar, Vassilis shoved forward, sending Christos stumbling backward against the rough-hewn planks of the house.
Christos elbowed him in the nose, dodging an overhand punch and throwing his own, a flashback to the vicious liverblow the Sergeant had given him. Vassilis barely felt it. Another blow smashed into his ribs, stealing his breath in a wet gasp. He swung the billhook blindly, all training forgotten, replaced by the desperate flailing of a cornered animal. He somehow caught Vassili in the side, prompting a sharp intake of breath from the giant. His eyes turned dangerously ugly as he took stock of his wound.
Vassilis moved with a brutal, terrifying grace. He hooked the billhook’s curved blade with his staff, and with a vicious twist, ripped the weapon from Christos’s grasp, sending it clattering into the dirt. Defenseless, Christos looked up just as the heavy staff slammed into the side of his head. The world exploded into a universe of white-hot stars, and he crashed to the ground, his body a dead weight.
The staff clattered beside him. Vassilis loomed over him, his shadow a suffocating blanket. He dropped onto Christos’s chest, his immense weight crushing the air from his lungs. Then the fists began to fall. There was no grace now, only savage, punishing force. The world narrowed to the dull, wet thud of knuckles on meat and bone, the roaring in his ears, and the piston-like motion of his father’s arms, striking again and again.
Christos’s eyes dimmed as his father stood over him, his fists falling like great hammers, each blow a dull, distant thunderclap. The pain barely registered. Through the ringing in his ears, he thought he heard a woman’s scream before the world finally dissolved into blackness.
His last thoughts were of freshly baked dough and of a whisper in the night.