Strategos: Born in the Borderlands by Gordon Doherty

who’s right and who’s wrong,’ she grumped, pushing back into the barley.
     
    ‘Agreed,’ Apion couldn’t contain a weary grin. Before he stepped into the barley field, he cast a glance over his shoulder. Nasir stood like a sentinel on the hilltop, watching them.
     

5. Night
     
    Apion stirred from thick sleep. The farmhouse was still and silent. A winter draft tickled his ankles and he pulled them up and into the welcome heat under his hemp blanket. He prised open an eye; it was pitch-black inside and out apart from the pristine crescent of moon hanging in the triangular gap between the shutters, just below the carved Christian Chi-Rho mounted above the window. It was well into the night, he mused, knowing the path the moon took at this time of year. A gruff choking snore from Father startled him; then the subsequent weary groan from Mother sent a smile easing across his face. ‘Could wake a bear in hibernation,’ she said of Father. He sighed, hugging the edge of the blanket and studying the features of the moon until his eyelids began to droop. Sweet, thick sleep was overcoming him again. Then a shadow darted past the shutters. He sat bolt upright.
     
    It was fleeting, maybe even never there, but he was awake now and his skin rippled with a sense of unease. He blinked hard, rubbing his fists into his eyes. He leaned forward to scan the crack in the shutters, his blanket dropping from his shoulders, the icy air shrouding him. Then, outside, an eagle screeched like a demon, its claws raking at the roof tiles. It had probably hurt a wing or lost its baby and it sounded pained. The bird finally left, its screaming fading. Once more all was still, all was silent. He felt for the creature but welcomed the return of the placid night, then smiled and sank back down onto the bed. He rested his head on the pillow and pulled the blanket back up to his neck. His thoughts began to wander into sleep.
     
    Then a trilling and utterly foreign scream rent the night air. ‘Loukas! Your time has come!’
     
    His feet slapped on the deathly cold flagstones as he leapt to standing in one movement, eyes bulging, prying at the darkness through the open door of his bedroom, heart crashing against his ribs. He crept forward and poked his head out into the hearth room: the shadowy outline of the table sat inconspicuous as always. Another imagining, Apion hoped? But he knew in his heart something was terribly wrong.
     
    ‘Apion, get back into your room!’ his father croaked, stumbling from his bedroom, pulling on his tunic by the hearth. Then the thick timber door leading out to the yard smashed inwards as though struck by a battering ram, his father stumbled back and at once, his home was invaded by the dancing flames of bobbing torches. Dark towering shapes and jagged voices flooded into the hearth room along with the acrid stench of burning pitch. At once, Apion felt his skin pulled tight, eyes fixed on the intrusion, terror awash in his limbs. He ducked back into his bedroom and watched them from the shadows. There were four of them, each wrapped in thick black robes, heads and faces covered by thin cotton scarves and each wore a sword belt that bore the dreaded Seljuk scimitar. Then a fifth walked in and barked at the other four in the Seljuk tongue, then broke into Greek, the other four obeying his orders. Apion stalked back into the shadows of his bedroom, cowering, Father would protect them, surely.
     
    ‘Can’t find your sword, Loukas?’ The leader spoke in a muffled voice through his veil. Then an awful rasping filled the room as three of the four intruders drew their scimitars from their scabbards, the curved blades glinting in the torchlight. ‘Lucky we remembered ours!’ A nightmarish orange illuminated the blades as three of the figures stepped forward to surround Father. The fourth remained fixed by the door, sword sheathed.
     
    ‘Loukas? What’s happening?’ Mother shrieked, her voice trailing off into a