1st Week of February, 1460

  It was fucking cold outside.

  That was all Christos could think about when he woke, the thought weighing him down like another blanket and making him lie there a few minutes longer than he was supposed to. The air that crept in through the cracks in the shutters gnawed at his nose and fingertips. His girl propped him up with a hand on his shoulder.

  “Get out of bed, lazybones,” Agape said playfully. She was already dressed, gliding over the packed-earth floor as she moved about their cramped home, sweeping up last night’s ashes from the hearth they’d let burn low to keep the worst of the frost away. “You’ll be late at this rate. At least by your standards.”

  Christos always aimed to be at least a quarter of an hour early to assembly. A habit he’d picked up at the Probatoufrorio and refused to let slip. Not even for the blasted cold.

  He rose with a muttered curse, the shock of the air slapping his skin the moment he pushed off the mattress. He trembled beneath his thin night tunic and rushed to the uniform he kept hanging from a crooked peg near the door. Agapios had shown him how to fashion the peg from a ruined block of wood, guiding his hands with his own shallow but practical understanding of such things. It was an ugly, dented hook, but it was his ugly, dented hook, and he took a quiet pride in it. He hadn’t taken to the building skills the Captain had tried to develop in the troops, but he’d tried.

  Putting on the armour helped him not feel like he was slowly freezing to death again. The gambeson he’d been issued had been tight at first - something about there not being a proper one for a man his size - but over the months it had slowly molded around his broad shoulders and thick arms as the wear set in. The linen and wool proved a decent buffer against the cold. It still had the proper shape to it despite the use he’d put it through the last months. It was patched where scuffs and tears had formed during training drills and the off-day competitions.

  The thought made Christos smirk despite himself. He’d been barred from the off-day contests between companies, as he’d taken to winning nearly every single strength trial they held, no matter what sorry team they stacked him with, as every game was a team event. He had ended up claiming every prize when he competed. Usually the rewards were extra slices of meat at supper, or strange tatar treats made from what the captain called yoghurt, or some bit of new equipment. That was how Christos had earned his new satchel, the thick woolen socks that saved his toes on mornings like this, and his prized whetstone. All the prizes, he noticed, somehow fed back into training or helped him fight better. Christos had a sneaking suspicion the Captain had arranged it that way on purpose.

  “What are you laughing about?” Agape called over her shoulder. “Something actually filling that empty head of yours for once?”

  “Yes, there is, actually,” Christos said, fastening a buckle with a grunt. “That you look mighty fine today. ” He made a show of eyeing her chest with exaggerated seriousness. “How is it that you grow prettier with every passing day?”

  “I know well what you mean by 'prettier', you lecherous oaf,” Agape said, swatting his arm with playful force. She fashioned on her own cloak from the exotic wool she’d brought from the market fair. She had become utterly enamoured with it and, with the coin from her steady work at the castle, had gone on a modest spending spree at the fair with her first stipend when the new year came in.

  “Don’t lose any more coin, do you hear?” Christos grumbled, the sound heavy with meaning as he pulled his cloak tight, breath fogging.

  “I don’t have to do those types of things anymore,” Agape shot back, chin tilting up in stubborn pride. “Valeria doesn’t need to beg now that she works as a courier for the castle.” Agape stuck out her tongue at him, clearly enjoying herself.

  What the Captain had seen in the tiny brat, Christos had no clue. When Agape had mentioned the child to him, all ribs and sharp eyes and bare feet, he’d promised her he would find a place for it in the castle. And somehow he had. “Yet you still find ways to give it coin nonetheless,”

  “It?” Agape raised an eyebrow, the warmth in her expression cooling a little.

  “The brat doesn’t behave like a proper girl,” Christos said grumpily. “Always talking back to its betters.”

  “Pointing out when you say stupid things, more like,” Agape laughed, the chill in her eyes breaking with the sound.

  “Didn’t you have to get going?” Christos muttered, more to cover his embarrassment than anything else.

  “I do, and you do too.” Agape stepped closer, her cloak brushing against his gambeson as she leaned in. She stole a quick kiss, a brief shot of warmth in the damned cold. “Have a good day.” She winked at him before turning toward the door.

  Christos stood there a little longer, stewing in the cold air and leftover heat from her kiss. He couldn’t claim the brat was a he any longer, but he refused to acknowledge any gender. He would settle at least for that much.

  The courtyard was chock-full that day, packed tighter than the market square they’d had after the feast. Kratos’s senses immediately started tinglin’. There were easily double the number of fools that usually went about their business, and half of ’em Kratos couldn’t recognize. He knew because he had to deal with his own band of nasty bastards every day of the fuckin’ week, and he was sick and tired of the lot already. Everyone was buzzing like chicken chicks, makin’ a racket. And lo and behold if it wasn’t Agapios leading the charge for Kratos’s squad.

  “Do you think this is a joint exercise with Master Kyriakos’s company again?” he asked to the few dithering twats in Kratos’s squad that listened to ‘im. Was that who the others were? Kratos might have had some joint practices with them or whatever, but he hadn’t bothered to learn their names or faces. Truth be told, he’d only memorized his own company’s because he saw them every day and cursed every other breath for the fact.

  “But this feels different. There’s a certain edge about the sergeants. I wonder if I can get some answers,” the old geezer muttered. His eyes flicked toward Kratos as if to ask what he thought of the business, then caught the flat stare he got back and thought better of it. Good. At least that had improved. Boundaries, as they called ’em. Nice and set like stakes in the ground so people wouldn’t bother ’im none unless they had to.

  “You can wait to find out with the rest of us, Agapios,” the big tub of lard that was Christos rumbled as he arrived, fully kitted out in his shiny gear. Kratos wouldn’t know anything about how that felt, seein’ as he hadn’t won even one of the damn childish contests they had goin’ on in the off days. He’d been dragged into a few - forcefully, he might add - only to realize they were just dick-measurin’ competitions dressed up as 'company spirit', and more trouble than they were worth. Let the big idiots carry sacks and wrestle in the mud for scraps. Kratos just wanted to fill out his term and be done with this nonsense.

  March, drill, shout, sleep; that was all it needed to be. But the folks around ’im were actually enjoying themselves, grinning as they slaved away for some pretty little noble boy the same age as Kratos. It was pathetic. Kratos was his own man. He didn’t need orders barked at him to feel like he mattered.

  At least he was halfway through the job now. They had some fancy competition in March or April or whatever, and then he’d be home scot-free. Free to go back to his sheep and the shepherding drudgery. Days of staring at woolly asses and listening to the wind instead of sergeants. Back to bein’ compared to his perfect brother Marios, who knew every fold of the hills and every trick of the flock. Back to beatin’ sheep and getting scolded for it.

  Kratos’s scowl deepened at the thought, jaw clenching till it hurt. Yeah, he couldn’t wait to go back home…

  He was dragged out of his thoughts by a firm smack on the back of the head. He turned, furious and ready to unleash hell, when he saw who it came from.

  “Christos,” Kratos gulped, temper catching on his tongue. “What are you-”

  “The Captain is here.” The big oaf jerked his chin toward the raised stage at the far end of the courtyard, where their captain and another tall, gangly noble - one who had too many smiles on his face for Kratos’s liking - were gathering the attention of the men. The murmurs were already dying down, heads turning. “Listen, or you’ll miss it,” Christos said, eyes serious. Weighing him.

  Kratos had felt the big giant doing more of that recently. Christos used to be just a distant mountain that did other people’s work for ‘em, weird, but quiet. But lately he’d taken to talking more, nudging, pushing others on, sticking his nose in places Kratos would’ve preferred it not be. He used to be one of the few in Kratos’s ‘screw this’ camp. Not anymore.

  “I was. Why did ya hafta hit-” Kratos started, then swallowed the rest when he saw Christos’s glare.

  “Pay attention,” Kratos did, though he kept right on cursing the giant for getting on his case.

  “You have honed your skill these past few months, and you have become much more than what you were,” the captain began, voice carrying clean across the courtyard. He was layin’ it on thick, telling them how proud he was of this sorry bunch, how they’d grown, all that nonsense. Kratos narrowed his eyes. When a noble started praisin' you that hard, he wanted something.

  “Which is good,” the captain went on, “because what will happen starting tomorrow will not be an exercise. It will be war.”

  The words dropped into the cold air like stones into a well. Kratos felt the bottom of his gut fall out, like someone had kicked a stool from under him.

  Well, shit.

  He had not signed up for this.

  “You brought double what I expected,” Iohannes said, genuine appreciation softening his usually measured tone. From where he stood on the low rise overlooking the mustering ground, he could see ranks of men in neat blocks of colour. “I thought you said your company was fifty-five men in total.”

  “And they are. I just brought backup.” Theodorus gestured to Kyriakos by way of introduction as one of the masses of men parted as if the red sea for a regal figure in a burgundy mail brigandine. The aide stepped forward out of the mass of officers behind him, cloak flaring just a little more than was strictly necessary, and introduced himself as if a Lord in his own right.

  “Kyriakos Nomikos.” He fell into a deep, sweeping bow. “At your service, my lord.”

  “No need for any of that,” Iohannes was quick to correct, lifting a hand as if brushing the formality away, not knowing quite how to react to the display. “Members of the Nomikos household are always welcome.” There was a hard, nervous echo to his voice. The Nomikos name usually spelled trouble for northern minor lords like him. “I trust your lord is well.”

  “He is,” Kyriakos managed to say evenly despite his dislike for the lord in question. “The poor sods who crossed you, though? I don’t think they will be soon.” His smirk flashed sharp and brief. Iohannes felt a rather predatory smile curl at his own lips in answer.

  “What is the plan, Theodorus?” Iohannes turned to his brother, expression smoothing back to business, eagre to move past Kyriakos's jokes.

  “The plan is to be rid of our brother once and for all in two weeks’ time.”

  “Two weeks?” Iohannes echoed, eyebrows lifting.

  “I was only able to negotiate with our lord for around three weeks’ use of both companies, I’m afraid,” Theodorus explained. “So it’s best to aim for two weeks and hope not to need the third.”

  “Really?” Kyriakos said, brows climbing higher in surprise. “I didn’t know there was a time limit.”

  “That seems… ambitious,” Iohannes said evenly, the word carrying a hint of displeasure, already growing annoyed.

  “That seems fun!” Kyriakos countered, eyes alight.

  They exchanged looks, the difference between them hanging in the cold air for a heartbeat.

  “And I promised him casualties would be minimal,” Theodorus went on, as if that were an afterthought rather than one of the pillars of the agreement. “But I have secret weapons that will make the matter trivial, do not worry.”

  “Oh?” both men echoed, equally intrigued.

  “Tents,” Theodorus said.

  “Tents?” Iohannes repeated, doubtful.

  “And iron pans.” Theodorus couldn’t help smirking outright. They traded doubtful expressions, clearly unconvinced. “You’ll see,” was all Theodorus said. They would all see soon enough.

  “My lord,” the scout panted, dust and sweat streaking the grime on his face. His chest heaved, cloak askew, hair stuck to his brow. “Men spotted over the western ridge!”

  “So,” Georgius said, turning from the rough table where he’d been leaning over a scrap of a map. “They’re back.”

  A round of low laughter rippled through the assembled men, bouncing off the low rafters. These were the loyal ones, the hard cores who hadn’t run at the first jingle of extra coin offered by his bastard of a brother. And they were hungry for more loot and the chance to bloody themselves again. His brother had plenty of coin, but lacked the courage necessary to lead men in battle. In other words, he was the perfect prey.

  “How many?” one of his lieutenants asked, tone mocking, already expecting a handful of farmhands and hired blades barely worth sharpening steel on.

  “Th-that’s what’s worrisome, my lord,” the messenger gulped. “There’s well over one hundred of them. Maybe a hundred and fifty.”

  The mood in the hall quieted in an instant. Benches creaked as men straightened, the smirks sliding off their faces. Fingers tightened around cup handles and weapon hilts.

  “Show me,” Georgius said quietly. The laughter was gone from his voice.

  …

  “By God, it’s true,” one of his captains whispered. The men around him echoed his concern in a murmur as they looked down from the palisade at the sea of assembled men outside the walls.

  “This is no joke.” Lycomedes, his second in command, spoke quietly at his shoulder.

  Georgius stood with his lips slightly parted. Where on earth had Iohannes gotten that many men? Had the fool actually bankrupted himself to hire mercenaries to come deal with him? His penny-pinching cheapskate of a brother? Preposterous.

  Georgius forced a confident smirk onto his face, rolling his shoulders back until his cloak settled just right. The number one rule of command: you had to seem in control at all times. Men didn’t follow the cleverest plan, they followed the man who looked like he had one. As long as they believed you knew what you were doing, they’d stand on the wall with you, even when you had no fucking clue where to begin.

  “So they brought more men this time,” he began, voice rising and carrying clean over the palisade in the crisp morning air. “They’re just more bodies to throw themselves into the slaughter.” He spread his arms as if welcoming the sight. “They’re mercenaries. Hired steel who'll run at the first sight of blood. We have nothing to worry about. If they do come, we’ll just open up a few more holes for them to shit out of!”

  That crude promise triggered a roar of laughter from his audience. Men slapped each other on the back, some banged spear shafts against the timber. The biggest worries smoothed out of their faces, replaced by the familiar vicious gleam. Georgius knew the men he had and what sort of speech worked with them.

  “There’s a white flag,” one of the men called from a firing gap.

  At the head of the massive column rode a single figure holding up a white sheet mounted on a spear. As the rider drew closer, the face came into view: Sir Spiros. A smart choice, the old war-hound was the only man from the estate Georgius respected just enough not to shoot on sight.

  “We request a parley,” the old veteran stated clearly, voice carrying up to the battlements. “The lord wants to talk.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to that fop Iohannes,” Georgius replied from atop the wall, arms folded, looking down as if at a supplicant. “We are past words.”

  “Not Iohannes, my lord.” Spiros did not flinch. “It is Lord Theodorus who wishes to speak with you.”

  “Theodorus?” Georgius’s eyes widened despite himself, and he squinted toward the distant ranks in a new light. “This is his doing?”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The marshal did not reply. That was answer enough. Georgius’s fists tightened on the rough wood of the parapet until his knuckles ached.

  “What does he want?” Georgius demanded.

  “A parley, as I said, my lord. In a neutral camp between the two of you.”

  Georgius snorted at the attempt, a sharp, derisive sound. A ‘neutral’ camp set wherever suited them best, and surrounded by their men. There was plenty that could go wrong with that.

  “Well, that’s a laugh,” he called back. “Would you like me to deliver myself on a platter as well? It is laughable to even suggest such a thing to me.”

  “You must know you can’t win,” Spiros answered, and for the first time there was something like urgency in his voice. “The lord promises he only wishes to talk. We are not barbarians-”

  At a small hand signal from Georgius, one of his men loosed an arrow that hissed into the ground a few paces from Spiros’s horse. The animal shied, snorting.

  “Leave,” Georgius commanded, the word cracking like a whip.

  The marshal stared up at him for a long heartbeat, long enough to make it clear he was not afraid, only disappointed. Then he pulled his reins, turned his horse, and retreated back toward the waiting lines.

  “They must be stupid if they think I will ever accept any terms from them,” Georgius made sure to call out, pitching his voice for the men along the wall as much as for Spiros’s retreating back. “Right, men?”

  A rough cheer answered him, loud and immediate. Good. He wanted the idea set deep in them that even considering surrender - or talks that led to it - was unacceptable. The word 'parley' itself ought to taste like bile.

  …

  An hour later the enemy army had encamped at the base of the hill his manor sat upon. Tents blossomed like dull-coloured spots dotting the frosted ground. It granted them a fine view of the reinforced palisade Georgius had erected in the months since inheriting this land.

  The manor reinforcement had been the single highest priority project he’d undertaken. He'd started with ripping out the simple farm fence that had ringed his homestead and replacing it with something that could actually withstand a siege.

  Every tree and hedge within bowshot had been cleared away, netting him solid timber to build the wall and an open killing ground besides. The palisade itself was a solid wooden barrier of thick vertical timbers, three to four meters high, their tops sharpened to cruel points. The outer face was shaved smooth and sheer so there were no footholds, just bare slick wood. Along the crown, firing gaps and walkways had been cut so his archers could shoot down at any attacker with impunity.

  Beyond the wall, a ditch about two meters deep encircled the whole construction. He’d had it filled with a tangled mixture of thorny branches and the icy slush he’d flooded in during the last cold snap, turning it into a half-frozen mire. Any approach would be difficult and slippery, costing attackers time, strength, and blood before they even reached the wall. The water had come from the very stream where the enemy army was now stationed nearby - the only readily available water source in the vicinity. And that was not by happenstance.

  It allowed Georgius to anticipate where his enemy made camp, and to prepare a nasty surprise for any attacker.

  He turned to the same messenger from before. “Did you warn the other scout about his mission?”

  “Y-yes, my lord,” the man answered nervously, Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “Good.”

  Georgius let a slow, nasty grin spread across his face, the expression feeling almost too big for his skin. He couldn’t wait to see how they would react when they found out about his little trick, if they did at all. They’d come looking for easy prey, imagining a cornered lord they could squeeze.

  But they’d leave with only scars and iron. He’d make sure of that.

  “The water is foul.”

  Stathis shouldered his way into the command tent without waiting to be announced, the heavy flap slapping closed behind him and cutting off the muted roar of the camp. Theodorus, Iohannes, and Kyriakos were bent over a rough sketch of the manor and its surrounding hills, but straightened at the declaration.

  “What?” Iohannes turned towards the man, face tightening, shocked by the possibility.

  “Why do you say that?” Kyriakos was slightly more insightful in his response.

  “We had our sergeants and the more experienced militia taste the water for foulness,” Stathis reported. He stepped up to the edge of the table. “Poured it into a barrel, let it sit a bit to see if the stink got worse. An old veteran trick for spotting mischief.” He allowed himself a small, grim smile, clearly satisfied that the discovery had happened so early and not after half the men had filled their bellies with poison.

  Kyriakos and Iohannes both turned to Theodorus at once, like compass needles seeking north.

  “You expected this?” Kyriakos asked, gaze sharpening. If so, it would be astounding foresight even for him.

  “No.” Theodorus frowned, the line between his brows deepening. “I always do my due diligence in matters that touch upon men's lives. I did not actually expect it to be fouled.” He eyed Iohannes. “I fear I may have underestimated our dear brother.”

  He then turned to Stathis. “I assume this is the only water source nearby, for him to have gone to these lengths?” he asked, voice clipped but steady.

  Stathis answered with a bitter grin. “Unless you want to move the campsite more than an hour away from the manor.” He shook his head. “The scouts confirmed it.”

  By scouts, Stathis meant the men they’d handpicked for their woodcraft: the more wood-knowledgeable soldiers in Kyriakos’s and Theodorus’s companies, each group paired with one militia man or trapper local to the area who knew every goat trail and half-frozen stream. They’d been sent out in fan-shaped sweeps to search for the few forageable patches in the vicinity in deep winter and, more importantly, to locate the main routes and water sources around the manor. It was how they’d chosen the current camp, close enough to encircle the hill on all sides once the lines were fully drawn.

  “This is dire.” Iohannes’s fingers curled into his sleeves, knuckles whitening. He was already calculating losses and delays in his head, water shortage was the kind of column that ended with men dead, not just in debt.

  “This is war,” Theodorus said calmly, pulling his brother’s gaze away from the map and back to his face. “Nothing is static. We will adapt.” His tone carried the same certainty he used on the drill field, a steadying weight. “Stathis,” he went on, turning to the middle-aged sergeant whose calm, clever head was worth plenty in a moment like this. “Send a group up the streambank. Follow it as far as needed. Find the source of the contamination and remove it.”

  “Sir.” Stathis saluted sharply, fist to chest, then turned on his heel and left the command tent at a brisk march, already calling for runners outside.

  “What will we do in the meantime?” Kyriakos asked. "We can't stay here." The question was stripped of his usual easy humour. It was a nice surprise to see him take on a serious demeanour when war was on the table. Iohannes’s presence might have helped in that respect. He had a way of forcing seriousness out of people, one of his ‘talents’, so to speak.

  “This changes nothing about our plan.” Theodorus’s eyes held a cunning gleam now. “If we cannot drink the water as it is, then we simply have to purify it.” The corner of his mouth curled into a thin, confident smile.

  Looking out over the gathered men, Christos no longer felt like the toughest bastard among them. Together with Kyriakos’s company, a full contingent of thirty-odd men from the Sideris estate had joined them for the siege. They were professional warriors, like the ones back at Suyren, and they held themselves like it. Christos found it darkly funny that some frontier landowner could afford to pay thirty men to play with swords year-round, but a vital fringe fort like Probatoufrorio had to rely almost entirely on half-trained peasant levies and farmboys. Something about that balance gnawed at him.

  The Captain took to the makeshift stage, a rough plank platform built over cart frames, with his brother and Kyriakos at his side. Christos was made to trudge up after them, carrying a strange barrel that scraped when he moved it. He set it down with a heavy thump beside the speakers. It was filled with coarse rocks at the bottom and a thick packed layer of sand and charcoal above. A small plugged hole had been bored into the bottom stave. Christos couldn’t fathom what the hell it was for. But the Captain had asked him to take the instructions for this display to heart, so he would.

  Ever since that second talk by the latrine, Christos had tried to set a better example for the men. That meant putting on a mean mug, standing tall at the front, and catching any drifters in the audience with a glare before they let their attention wander. Though there didn’t seem to be any this time. The barrel and the summoned officers were bizarre enough that even the laziest recruit was paying attention.

  “This here,” the Captain began, voice carrying clearly over the murmur of the assembled companies, “will be your salvation.”

  There were mixed glances among the men.

  “The water in the stream has been tainted,” he announced. A low wave of murmurs went up at that, rippling through the ranks like a shiver.

  “Men who’ve served under me know that we boil all water we consume,” the Captain went on. “It eats up a good amount of firewood, it’s true, but it helps purify the water.” He spoke with a sort of calm certainty that made you trust everything would be alright. “That alone might not be enough in this case, so we will adapt. This barrel here helps weed out the foulness in the water and keeps it from rotting your guts and damaging your humours.”

  More whispers this time, sharper, edged with unease. To many of them, the Captain might as well have been doing witchcraft in front of their eyes.

  “Silence,” Christos said, cutting through the din. He’d come to realize he could afford small commands to the troops. He’d earned at least that much. Christos fixed them with his best Leonidas impersonation, brows drawn low, jaw set like stone. The men quieted after that.

  “There is nothing supernatural about it,” the Captain continued smoothly. “It is simply sand, crushed charcoal, and rocks. You are free to inspect the barrels yourselves.” A few high-strung shoulders relaxed a tad. “The idea is simple. We will still draw water from the stream, but until we clear the foulness, we will pass any water we intend to drink through these barrels.”

  He nodded, and Christos and another burly soldier heaved a tub of stream water up between them, sloshing it over the rim. They poured it into the open top of the barrel, which trickled out through the hole in the bottom about half a minute later.

  “Foul water goes in,” the Captain said. “And clean water comes out.”

  The men craned their necks to see. The Captain dipped a cup into the filtered water and raised it so all could witness.

  “This water is then boiled to a simmer for at least a full minute,” he explained, as if giving drill commands. “And after it cools, it is this water that will be drunk by our troops.”

  The troops looked astounded, some even offended at the number of steps they had to undergo just to drink water.

  “This is mandatory,” the Captain was quick to quell dissent, tone hardening. “Failure to do this will be considered a direct disobeying of orders.”

  That got their full attention.

  “The sergeants will ensure it is followed.”

  The older men looked positively ecstatic at the thought of prowling around water barrels and cookfires, ready to pounce on any idiot who tried to skip a step.

  “If you want to drink water in the meantime, you can melt down snow,” the Captain added. “Boiling stations have already been set up in the camp.”

  Christos could attest to that. He’d spent half the morning hauling fuel and watching the Captain pace the lines, fussing over every little detail. He’d never been part of a siege before, but he doubted many commanders were as meticulous about the placement of every tent, boiling station, latrine trench, and picket outpost as he was.

  “This is all. Return to your duties,” the Captain finished.

  The crowd broke apart into smaller streams, men peeling off toward their posts, fires, or shovels with a new nervous energy. Christos watched them go, feeling the prickle of anticipation under his skin.

  The back and forth between besieger and besieged. This was siege warfare.

  “They’re boiling the snow and… the water as well?” The lookout called down from his post on the walkway. He was a young servant with sharp eyes, one of the few Georgius had judged worth keeping close when he’d culled his household. With the resources he’d poured into making this place as defensible as possible, into arming his men and into holding on to what few villages he could keep from his treacherous brother, he couldn’t afford a large retinue. So Georgius had made sure that the force he did keep were lean and useful.

  “For them to be melting snow…” Lycomedes muttered, elbows on the parapet. “Have they figured out we poisoned the waterway? They haven’t even taken a proper drink since they arrived.”

  Georgius frowned, teeth gnashing against each other in frustration.

  He’d had a protocol in place from the moment the scouts reported the stream: a group of them was to drag a cattle carcass to a hidden bend upstream and wedge it under an overhang. The beast was large enough that it wouldn’t float down in the slow-moving, shallow waterway, and stones were heaped over it until the beast was pinned to the spot and wouldn't float away, and remained concealed if one wasn't looking through the bank for it. It wouldn’t leave enough of a mark to be readily smelled or seen in the water. The water might taste a bit odd, perhaps a touch rank, but if the besiegers weren’t careful, they wouldn’t even notice at first. He hadn’t held out much hope that they would remain indefinitely oblivious. But to be foiled right on the first day?

  His entire strategy was contingent on making life as miserable as possible for any besiegers. The water ploy was a crucial part of that - the only truly proactive move he could make once the enemy sat below his hill. If the army didn’t have any drinkable water within easy distance, they couldn’t siege him out effectively. They’d be forced either to move further away, breaking their encirclement, or to weaken themselves drinking filth. That they’d been found out on the very first day spoke of the enemy commander’s wits.

  He’d heard rumours of his fop of a brother Theodorus rising through the military ranks after some unlikely victory against the nomads, but he’d always written it off as luck, exaggeration, or some tavern high-tale. Now, however, watching disciplined lines of men ferrying snow to boiling pots instead of dropping face-first into a tainted stream, he was coming to realize those tales might have a kernel of truth.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Georgius scoffed to his men, forcing the scorn into his voice until it bit. “They can melt all the snow they want. It still won’t last them more than a few days. After that, they’ll have to drink from the fouled water.” He swept an arm toward the camp, as if dismissing the entire host. “They’ll fall over sick, puking and shitting on themselves.”

  That drew a rough round of laughter from his men, the kind that carried more bravado than sense.

  “And then all of that sweet loot will be ours!” he added, teeth flashing.

  That triggered a proper cheer, loud and ugly, echoing off the timber of the palisade.

  It was into that backdrop of laughter that a small contingent of cavalry approached the fort. Hooves drummed on the frozen ground as they trotted up the cleared killing field, stopping well inside of bow range.

  At their head, a rider raised his voice to hail the fort, flanked by four bodyguards carrying tall heater shields strapped to their forearms, forming a wall around a slighter man on a grey gelding Georgius recognized as a steed from the Sideris estate. Georgius narrowed his eyes, his little brother Theodorus had come in person.

  He had expected a bookish clerk in armour too big for him, but what he saw was a serious, firm, confident set to his brother’s features with the straight-backed, easy posture of a man well used to the saddle and the weight of mail.

  Theodorus held command of the men around him without shouting, raising one gloved hand to signal a perfect, immediate halt. The line of horses checked as one, even their canter seemed measured.

  It was a show of military readiness meant to frighten them, he supposed. Georgius wanted to laugh at it. So he did.

  “Well, well, well, Look who it is,” Georgius called down, pitching his voice so it carried across the cleared ground. “What is it my little brother wants? Did you get lost on your way to some scribe’s desk?” He let mocking contempt drip from every word.

  Theodorus lifted his head, the wind tugging at the edge of his cloak. His face was set, composed, and when he spoke, his tone was firm, unhurried.

  “Since you would not parley,” he said, “I had to come in person.”

  “As if I would fall for your petty tricks,” Georgius snapped back. The men along the wall chuckled, encouraged by his derision. “You think waving a rag and saying pretty words will get me to open my gate?”

  “That you imagine I came here to trick you speaks more to your own conduct than to mine,” Theodorus replied, voice still level. “I did not raid a village unsanctioned and unprovoked.”

  “Unprovoked?” Georgius barked a harsh laugh. “Is this some sort of sick joke? They are my serfs. They refused to pay me.”

  “No,” Theodorus said. “They chose to pay someone who offered them a fairer deal. There is a difference.”

  Georgius felt heat rise in his chest, bright and choking at the insinuation. He had long learned he could not suppress it, so he had learned to harness it instead.

  “I should cut off your tongue for uttering such nonsense,” he snarled. “They are my villages by right. They betrayed me to join my brother. What I did was to uphold the law.”

  “No,” Theodorus answered, calm as if they were debating in a hall instead of under the shadow of a siege. “The law is what your lord decides for you. It is what God has ordained. It is what the Prince has commanded.”

  Georgius’s eyes narrowed to slits. He had an uneasy feeling about this.

  “And he,” Theodorus continued, “has deemed you an unlawful traitor.”

  A ripple of murmurs and questioning grunts moved along the wall. Georgius felt his jaw clench.

  “I am here on the orders of Lord Adanis Nomikos,” Theodorus went on, raising his voice a fraction, “to bring you to justice for your crimes against a Theodoran village.”

  “What?” Georgius spat. “What lies are you spewing now?” His hands tightened on the parapet. “Iohannes is the one who has broken the law, and now you come to me with this nonsense?”

  He signalled his men with an impatient wave. “Archers, prepare to fire.”

  Bows creaked as men along the wall shifted, fingers finding strings, feet shuffling into position. Down below, Theodorus’s riders did not flinch. The shield-bearers simply lifted their scuta higher, angling them toward the battlements. Theodorus himself sat tall in the saddle, unafraid, his gaze never leaving the wall.

  “Am I lying?” he called up, ignoring the half-drawn bows. “Where did the army behind me come from, then, brother?” He swept his arm back toward the sprawling camp. “Nearly one hundred and sixty men, and more to come if you do not bend the knee.”

  “Those mercenaries?” Georgius scoffed, seizing on derision like a shield. “I don’t know what Iohannes did to be able to afford them, it’s true. Perhaps he whored himself out and went into bankruptcy.”

  That drew a rough burst of laughter from his men.

  “They are sworn troops of Lord Adanis Nomikos,” Theodorus said, and this time there was iron in his tone. “Sent to raze your little manor to the ground if need be.”

  Georgius felt a sharp flash of anger flare to life. The high lords in their distant seats had never cared for the frontier, not when raiders had burned barns and taken cattle, not when border disputes had flared. Now suddenly they stirred themselves because a few dirt-scrabbling villages had swapped oaths?

  “I don’t care one whit for your little lord,” Georgius shot back. “He can come himself if he wants me out of here.”

  “You insult Lord Adanis directly,” Theodorus roared, making the statement clear for everyone, “and by extension his Prince’s justice!”

  There was a small shiver along the wall at that. Men glancing sideways at one another, laughter dying back a shade. Crossing the Prince was high treason. No one cherished the thought of that.

  “You are crossing a line you cannot uncross,” Theodorus said. “I will be plain. If you do not surrender yourself now to the Prince’s justice, you will be considered a traitor to the Crown.”

  Traitor. The word hung in the air like frost.

  Georgius felt something inside him flare white-hot. His lands were his by birthright. And they named him traitor for defending them from his brother?

  “The Prince can go screw himself!” he roared.

  The declaration crashed over the courtyard, echoed off the palisade. Men stared, some eyes wide, some shining with a vicious, reckless joy.

  “Very well,” Theodorus said at last, his voice suddenly cold. “You are now an enemy of the Principality.”

  He turned his head, not to Georgius but to the men along the wall.

  “Hear me, men of this manor!” he called. “Your master is now a traitor. But you do not have to be.”

  Georgius felt a spike of unease. “What are you-”

  “If you lay down your arms,” Theodorus continued over him, “and surrender your lord, you will all be pardoned.”

  A few of the men on the wall stiffened, hands tightening on spears and bowstaves.

  “And you will be rewarded,” Theodorus pressed on, voice ringing. “From this very domain you claim to defend, an estate’s worth of land will be carved out - good river meadows and tilled fields - divided among those who deliver him alive. You could become landowners in your own right.”

  There were stunned looks now, not even masked.

  “And, as per the Prince’s order,” Theodorus added, “a bounty of ten hyperpyra has been issued on Georgius’s head.”

  Even up on the wall, men knew that sum. Ten gold coins. Enough to buy a lifetime of comfort for a peasant, or armour and horse for a new-made knight.

  “But you must act soon, or the offer is void.”

  “Lies, lies, lies!” Georgius shouted back, voice cracking with rage. “You want to sow discord in my camp! Open fire!”

  The archers along the wall hesitated. Some glanced at one another, at the camp below, at Georgius himself.

  That hesitation was a brand on his pride.

  “I said open fire!” he bellowed.

  The bows sang at last. A ragged hiss of arrows arced down toward the riders below. Theodorus’s men closed ranks instantly, shields snapping up and overlapping. The first volley thudded into wood and iron, a few sparking off horse barding with sharp metallic clinks.

  Through the din, Theodorus carried on speaking, his voice riding the chaos.

  “It is your only offer for salvation,” he shouted up. “You have two weeks! Think on your fate, men. Of whether you want to perish under Georgius, or rise up and live in comfort for the rest of your days!”

  Georgius’s answering curse was lost in the second volley. Below, Theodorus gave a sharp hand signal. His little band began to pull back in good order, horses stepping backwards in measured paces before wheeling as one. Arrows peppered their retreat, but none punched through the layered shields or the horses’ armour. In moments, they were beyond easy range, the white flag bobbing as the column trotted back toward the safety of the camp.

  In their wake, Georgius steamed, chest heaving, fury burning his throat raw. An uneasy silence settled over the wall and the yard below.

  So that was his little brother’s plan. Not just to starve them, or storm the walls, but to gut his strength from within. Divide them with pretty words and prettier promises. Subtle trickery, smooth and poisonous. The very sort of thing Georgius despised.

  He forced his hands to unclench from the timber, flexing his fingers until blood flowed back into them. He would not give in. He would hold what was his by any means necessary. And when the time came, he would kill both of his brothers gladly.

  Beyond the hill, war-camp fires began to glow against the darkening sky.

  The siege had begun.

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