own?”
Tovmas nodded. “Her mother died giving birth.”
“I’m sorry,” said Fredrick.
Tovmas shook his head. “I don’t need sympathy. It was a long time ago, now. She is twenty-one years old.”
Aiden finished his rice. The three men sat, gazing at the lake and the mountains.
“What will you do, once you rescue her?” Aiden asked finally.
“ I will make sure this can never happen again. To any Armenian. Somebody has to make us into a country once more. It’s the only way we can be strong enough.”
Night fell around them as they sat in the mountain meadow. All chatter had stopped, but nobody slept. The militia’s fires died to embers slowly as the sky deepened above them, and the silver of the stars grew brighter. Then, when the night was at its deepest, Tovmas stood and gathered his men.
They kicked dust over their fires and moved off down the mountain, silent as shadows.
7. Kakavaberd
Tovmas rested his elbows on the cool rock and lift ed the binoculars to his eyes.
He guessed that there was still an hour until dawn, but the diffused light was enough to make out the long wall and squat towers of the old fortress. The foremost tower, built onto a sharp outcrop of rock, had the dim light of a dwindling campfire at its top, and in the flickering glow Tovmas could make out the hump of a sleeping sentry. The only entrance, a crumbling gap in the stonework, lay at the foot of that tower. The rest of the tenth-century wall was frustratingly intact and required the crossing of a wooded ravine to reach.
He reassured himself: t his had to be the only sensible way to get into the fortress, since it was built atop a mountainous spur, approachable on only one side. Tovmas had considered climbing from the deep valley floor on the other side of the crag, having his men scale the rocky cliffs to come up behind the fortifications, but the danger of losing men to falling or to being caught out on the exposed rock faces did not appeal to him: the militia were hardly trained fighters, let alone mountaineers. Tovmas much preferred his current choice of perch which, on the rim of the hills overlooking the fortress crag, allowed him to see right into the raiders’ encampment.
Great gorges yawned on either side of the fortress, the northern one rimmed with jagged cliff faces that peered across the vast ravine and over the Kakavaberd crag. Tovmas shifted his binoculars to the right, and squinted at the boulders lining the top of the cliffs. There he could see his rocket team setting up their throwaway tubes amongst the rocks. Neither of them had fired one before, but Tovmas had explained their operation as clearly as he could.
He hoped they’d make the few rockets they had count. However, now that they were in position, he could move.
His legs protested as he stood up: the overnight hike down from the landing site had left him aching in places he’d forgotten he had. He sighed; he was getting too old for this.
He took the radio the pilots had given him from his pocket, and pressing the transmit button he whispered in English, “We’re moving to the fortress now.”
“OK, ” the pilot murmured in Tovmas’ earphone.
Tovmas checked his rifle’s magazine and cocked the weapon, leaving the safety on. He signalled to the rest of his men, the sixteen who were to attack with him, to follow as he clambered past the boulder and silently began moving down the hill. The group of militiamen stood up from their resting spots and spread out behind him, following as quietly as they could manage.
This, Tovmas knew, was the most dangerous part of the plan. They had to cross three hundred metres of open ground, exposed on the grassy ridge leading out to the crag, in order to reach the wall. If they were caught out here, the casualties would be terrible.
His pulse quickened and the familiar thrill of anticipation crept outwards from his stomach. The temptation to simply run to the wall was enormous; the
Tovmas nodded. “Her mother died giving birth.”
“I’m sorry,” said Fredrick.
Tovmas shook his head. “I don’t need sympathy. It was a long time ago, now. She is twenty-one years old.”
Aiden finished his rice. The three men sat, gazing at the lake and the mountains.
“What will you do, once you rescue her?” Aiden asked finally.
“ I will make sure this can never happen again. To any Armenian. Somebody has to make us into a country once more. It’s the only way we can be strong enough.”
Night fell around them as they sat in the mountain meadow. All chatter had stopped, but nobody slept. The militia’s fires died to embers slowly as the sky deepened above them, and the silver of the stars grew brighter. Then, when the night was at its deepest, Tovmas stood and gathered his men.
They kicked dust over their fires and moved off down the mountain, silent as shadows.
7. Kakavaberd
Tovmas rested his elbows on the cool rock and lift ed the binoculars to his eyes.
He guessed that there was still an hour until dawn, but the diffused light was enough to make out the long wall and squat towers of the old fortress. The foremost tower, built onto a sharp outcrop of rock, had the dim light of a dwindling campfire at its top, and in the flickering glow Tovmas could make out the hump of a sleeping sentry. The only entrance, a crumbling gap in the stonework, lay at the foot of that tower. The rest of the tenth-century wall was frustratingly intact and required the crossing of a wooded ravine to reach.
He reassured himself: t his had to be the only sensible way to get into the fortress, since it was built atop a mountainous spur, approachable on only one side. Tovmas had considered climbing from the deep valley floor on the other side of the crag, having his men scale the rocky cliffs to come up behind the fortifications, but the danger of losing men to falling or to being caught out on the exposed rock faces did not appeal to him: the militia were hardly trained fighters, let alone mountaineers. Tovmas much preferred his current choice of perch which, on the rim of the hills overlooking the fortress crag, allowed him to see right into the raiders’ encampment.
Great gorges yawned on either side of the fortress, the northern one rimmed with jagged cliff faces that peered across the vast ravine and over the Kakavaberd crag. Tovmas shifted his binoculars to the right, and squinted at the boulders lining the top of the cliffs. There he could see his rocket team setting up their throwaway tubes amongst the rocks. Neither of them had fired one before, but Tovmas had explained their operation as clearly as he could.
He hoped they’d make the few rockets they had count. However, now that they were in position, he could move.
His legs protested as he stood up: the overnight hike down from the landing site had left him aching in places he’d forgotten he had. He sighed; he was getting too old for this.
He took the radio the pilots had given him from his pocket, and pressing the transmit button he whispered in English, “We’re moving to the fortress now.”
“OK, ” the pilot murmured in Tovmas’ earphone.
Tovmas checked his rifle’s magazine and cocked the weapon, leaving the safety on. He signalled to the rest of his men, the sixteen who were to attack with him, to follow as he clambered past the boulder and silently began moving down the hill. The group of militiamen stood up from their resting spots and spread out behind him, following as quietly as they could manage.
This, Tovmas knew, was the most dangerous part of the plan. They had to cross three hundred metres of open ground, exposed on the grassy ridge leading out to the crag, in order to reach the wall. If they were caught out here, the casualties would be terrible.
His pulse quickened and the familiar thrill of anticipation crept outwards from his stomach. The temptation to simply run to the wall was enormous; the
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