Read Online Strategos: Born in the Borderlands by Gordon Doherty - Free Book Online
Authors: Gordon Doherty
Tags: Historical fiction
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orange; the flames had engulfed his home already. Death was coming for him. He searched for the opening line of the Prayer of the Heart and made to close his eyes, when he caught sight of his own reflection in the blade of the spathion, still lodged in the burning Seljuk’s guts. He grimaced at the image, the weakness he portrayed. Behind the blade, he saw two charred masses where Mother and Father had fallen, the flames having consumed their flesh already. Were they to have died for nothing? Did their killers deserve to walk free? A desperate cry rasped from his lungs and he lurched to prop himself onto his elbows and then pulled his torn body forward, the searing hot iron helmet tumbling from his head and rolling into the inferno. The heat pulled the air from his lungs as he tried to breathe and the room above him seemed to be solid with a jet-black smoke. With a grimace, he pulled himself on through the hearth room on a black slick of his own blood, a smoking timber beam crashing down by his side barely registering as he fixed his eyes on the doorway.
The roof groaned as he clasped a hand to either side of the doorframe. The intruders were gone and there were no imperial riders to be seen. The night lay in front of him and out there he would find the creatures responsible for this. All of this. Tears stung his cheeks as he hauled himself clear of the doorframe. He roared out into the night, then, behind him, the roof collapsed. The cloud of flames hurled him through the doorway, then a glowing beam crashed down on top of him, landing with an unearthly pain up the length of his butchered leg, gouging into his back with a rapacious sizzling of flesh. His lungs had nothing left in them to scream with and he felt darkness rush in.
An eagle’s piercing cry high above rent the night air and at once he was gone from the world.
He awoke to the sound of lungful after lungful of screaming. His own. He had the prayer rope clasped with both hands across his heart.
‘Apion!’ A voice echoed. A broad moustachioed face emerged from the misty confusion. Mansur shook him by the shoulders.
‘Father?’ Maria scrambled to Apion’s bedside.
‘Get out, Maria,’ he waved a hand at her. ‘Please, start the fire and prepare some salep. ’
‘Apion, be calm, please, you are safe, you are safe.’
He felt his chest heave more slowly and the screaming had died to a whimpering. His face was wet with tears. Glancing around the room it was all so peaceful, so quiet: the fire crackled through in the hearth room and the shadows of his bedroom danced lazily in the half-light from the flames.
‘Mansur, I’m sorry. I, I saw it all. As if I was there again . . . ’
‘Easy, lad, take a deep breath,’ Mansur frowned, brushing a thumb across Apion’s cheeks, wiping the tears clear.
‘It was all like it was happening again for real. I felt every blow, the fire . . . their bodies . . . ’
Mansur’s eyes looked lined and heavy and he shook his head. ‘You have a heavy burden on your shoulders, lad. It is time you shared it with me. Come, let us have a drink and talk.’
***
The hearth room was pleasantly warm, the fire freshly loaded with logs. A rather grumpy Maria had prepared them each a cup of salep, a hot milky drink spiced with cinnamon and orchid root, and then trudged back to her bed to leave them alone. Apion had told Mansur everything, eyes hanging on the gentle flames as he did so. The old man had remained quiet while the story was told, even during the long pauses as Apion composed himself. As the grim tale progressed he found his words flooding out like a river, the images flitting before his mind’s eye.
‘I was dead. I swear death took me.’ He shook his head, gazing into the speckled surface of his salep. He took a sip, the creamy sweetness of the drink coating his throat, comforting him. ‘When I woke, my wound was cleaned and
The roof groaned as he clasped a hand to either side of the doorframe. The intruders were gone and there were no imperial riders to be seen. The night lay in front of him and out there he would find the creatures responsible for this. All of this. Tears stung his cheeks as he hauled himself clear of the doorframe. He roared out into the night, then, behind him, the roof collapsed. The cloud of flames hurled him through the doorway, then a glowing beam crashed down on top of him, landing with an unearthly pain up the length of his butchered leg, gouging into his back with a rapacious sizzling of flesh. His lungs had nothing left in them to scream with and he felt darkness rush in.
An eagle’s piercing cry high above rent the night air and at once he was gone from the world.
He awoke to the sound of lungful after lungful of screaming. His own. He had the prayer rope clasped with both hands across his heart.
‘Apion!’ A voice echoed. A broad moustachioed face emerged from the misty confusion. Mansur shook him by the shoulders.
‘Father?’ Maria scrambled to Apion’s bedside.
‘Get out, Maria,’ he waved a hand at her. ‘Please, start the fire and prepare some salep. ’
‘Apion, be calm, please, you are safe, you are safe.’
He felt his chest heave more slowly and the screaming had died to a whimpering. His face was wet with tears. Glancing around the room it was all so peaceful, so quiet: the fire crackled through in the hearth room and the shadows of his bedroom danced lazily in the half-light from the flames.
‘Mansur, I’m sorry. I, I saw it all. As if I was there again . . . ’
‘Easy, lad, take a deep breath,’ Mansur frowned, brushing a thumb across Apion’s cheeks, wiping the tears clear.
‘It was all like it was happening again for real. I felt every blow, the fire . . . their bodies . . . ’
Mansur’s eyes looked lined and heavy and he shook his head. ‘You have a heavy burden on your shoulders, lad. It is time you shared it with me. Come, let us have a drink and talk.’
***
The hearth room was pleasantly warm, the fire freshly loaded with logs. A rather grumpy Maria had prepared them each a cup of salep, a hot milky drink spiced with cinnamon and orchid root, and then trudged back to her bed to leave them alone. Apion had told Mansur everything, eyes hanging on the gentle flames as he did so. The old man had remained quiet while the story was told, even during the long pauses as Apion composed himself. As the grim tale progressed he found his words flooding out like a river, the images flitting before his mind’s eye.
‘I was dead. I swear death took me.’ He shook his head, gazing into the speckled surface of his salep. He took a sip, the creamy sweetness of the drink coating his throat, comforting him. ‘When I woke, my wound was cleaned and
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