Meet Me in Montenegro

They travel for days and days, all the way down towards the southern border of Hungary, searching for the camps. Once they spot the first, they lay on a hill to keep out of view, to take in the sight.

"When night falls, you eight will pair up. The archer will focus on shooting, while the other helps him reload and ignite the arrows." Oleksandr explains. "Don't worry too much about aim. You just need to shoot, the arrows will combust and do all of the damage. Just try to cover as much as you can with flames. Hit the entrance points first, and once it's sealed, rain hellfire from above." The brothers all nod, taking in Oleksandr's instructions quietly. Dimitry cracks a sly grin, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"So, we just need to cause as much damage as possible, eh?" He says, a hint of excitement in his tone.

"Aye. I'll ride around on my horse, covering any points left unhit. I'll also hunt down those trying to flee." Mikail nods in understanding, the excitement in his eyes now a full-on glint.

"Sounds like a plan," he says, cracking his knuckles. "We'll make sure to roast these dogs nice and toasty." Oleksandr glances over at Yordan, the youngest son. He looks anxious, his eyes flickering over the camp with anxiety.

“Lad,” Oleksandr addresses him, his voice gentle but firm. “Do not fret, fear in a time like this is dangerous. I also saw battle when I was your age. You’re strong like your brothers, you’ll be alright. Pair up with Mikail, he’ll keep an eye on you.” Yordan looks at Oleksandr with a mixture of respect and trepidation, swallowing his fear, and nodding quickly.

“Y-yes, sir.” The men go back down the mountain to the cart and work diligently, stringing the sacks of the flammable and explosive substance to the arrows, dividing them into five groups as Oleksandr directed. It's a delicate process, requiring careful handling to prevent accidental ignition. As the sun starts to set, bathing the scene in an orange glow, the men finish preparing their arrows and gear, getting ready to move out. Oleksandr huddles them up, whispering.

"You have your flints, and your torches. In your pairs, go through the forest surrounding the camp, and position yourselves on four ends. Make sure you have an arrow ready right before you light the torch, because the light will draw attention, and you'll have to act fast." The sons all nod, checking their equipment and weapons to make sure everything is in order. They each have their flints, torches, and arrows ready, and are eager to get into position. Mikail gives Oleksandr a quick nod of understanding, a determined look in his eyes.

"We're ready," he whispers back, the other sons echoing his sentiment.

"Go. Go now."

The sons begin to make their way silently through the forest, splitting up into pairs and moving stealthily towards the predetermined positions. Each pair disappears into the darkness, ducking and remaining in the shadows. Oleksandr watches from the hill, laying flat. He waits a few minutes before mounting his horse, his torch and bow ready. He crests the hill, holding his torch high.

"Krisztusért! Radi moyego brata!" He cries out, signaling to begin. With that, four flaming arrows fly towards the encampment from the darkness, like shooting stars, leaving trails of fire in their wake, casting an eerie glow in the otherwise dark night. They hit their targets, each arrow sticking into the tents or piles of supplies, ignited on impact. As promised, the arrows explode in a burst of Greek Fire, setting tents ablaze and setting off another explosion as the other arrows and bags of the explosive substance detonate all over the encampment, sending fire and debris flying every which way. More arrows fly, one after another, some higher, some lower. With each arrow shot, the sacks explode into almost wet-looking flames, dripping and oozing hellfire, the flames spreading quickly. Shouting and hollering suddenly fill the air, as the soldiers in the encampment realize they are under attack.

Chaos erupts as they struggle to get their bearings, some running for water to put out the flames. The soldiers scramble to fight the flames by trying to put them out with blankets and water, shouting and running around. But the flames won't go out, fed by the burning supplies and tents, and the explosions are only making it worse. Oleksandr circles the encampment, shooting arrow after arrow, adding fuel to the inferno. For Thekkur. He hits his targets, the arrows sticking into more tents and supplies, the explosions growing fiercer as the fire rages on. The soldiers' attempts to put out the fire with water only make matters worse, as the Greek Fire has the ability to spread and burn on water. The fire grows more intense and spreads more rapidly, fueled by the very water that's supposed to extinguish it. Panic and chaos spread among the soldiers as they try in vain to put out the unquenchable flames.

"Engulf the gates!" The call rings out over the chaos, and the sons all hear Oleksandr's command. They exchange a quick look with their partners and immediately begin to shoot at the gates, aiming their arrows at the wooden structures that stand firmly against the barrage of fire. Some of the arrows find their mark, sticking deep into the gates and igniting the sacks of Greek Fire, exploding with a force that sends splinters and flames flying every which way. Oleksandr swings his sword with brutal power, cutting down any soldiers who managed to escape the fire. But as he fights, he suddenly feels a sharp, stinging, aching pain in his ribs and back. The pain makes his arm feel weak, and he feels a strange heat pooling down his tunic.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath as he changes his grip, switching his sword to his left arm and continuing to engage the soldiers that still remain. Oleksandr fights through the pain, every lean and movement he makes aggravating the ache and stabbing pain in his side worse and worse. Each strike and swing of his sword becomes more labored, the wound taking its toll on him.

"Oleksandr! You're shot!" One of the sons calls out from the trees nearby.

I know I've been shot, he thinks, gritting his clenched teeth, his grip on his sword tightening. But I'm still standing, and there's still more Ottomans to kill. The sons watch in awe as Oleksandr continues to fight through the pain of the wound. Despite his injury, Oleksandr's determination is evident in his every swing of the sword, even though each movement makes the ache and stabbing worse. The sons can see that Oleksandr is in growing weak, but they also know that he won't let it stop him from fighting. With the fire burning hotter and hotter, he can see that staying close to the encampment is getting dangerous. The heat and smoke and flames are too intense, and Deago is even becoming frightened.

"Fall back!" Oleksandr cries out to the brothers, gesturing for them to move away. "Fall back, get out of the woods!" The sons hear Oleksandr's call and immediately begin to pull back from the fire, moving away from the intense heat and flames. They follow Oleksandr's gestures and begin to make their way into the trees back towards the hill they came from, away from the blazing inferno that is growing hotter and hotter by the second.

“Quickly! Secure the cart and ride!" He says, leaping off of Deago to pull the cart up to him. Petar rushes to help him secure the cart while the other brothers load the crates of arrows in.

"To the next encampment!" Oleksandr barks, "there's more work to be done."

"But sir, you're shot!" One of the brothers argues, gesturing to Oleksandr's injury. "You need tending to!" Oleksandr grits his teeth as he rides, knowing that the brother is right. He's been shot, and the pain in his side is growing more and more intense. He can feel his injury actively bleeding, the blood staining his tunic and running down his leg, and he can feel the pain with every movement he makes.

"Damn it," he mutters under his breath. He knows he can't keep going like this, but he can't let the sons down either, he can’t end the crusade now. As they ride, Oleksandr ponders what to do next. He knows he can't shoot with the arrow in his ribs, and he knows he's losing blood. The pain is becoming harder to ignore, and he can feel himself becoming weaker. After a while of riding, Oleksandr slows his horse and halts, signaling the sons to stop.

"I have to rest," he says hoarsely.

"Sasha. We can do the rest. Go back to the town, we know what to do." Mikail says, his tone pleading and reassuring. Oleksandr takes a deep breath, considering his words.

"You're right," he says finally, reluctantly. "I'm useless like this. I'll go back to the town. You men continue the campaign." The brothers exchange looks of relief, glad that Oleksandr is finally listening to reason.

"We'll do our best," Mikail assures, a slight grin crossing his face. "You just take care of that arrow of yours." Oleksandr nods, craning his head over his shoulder to try to get a look at the arrow in his back. It hurts like hell every time he so much as breathes, let alone moves his body, and he can barely move his arm, from the muscles being impaled into his ribs. Leonidas and Emil work quickly to take the cart and load it on their horse.

"Aye," he mutters. "Yeah, alright. Godspeed, lads." The brothers all salute grimly, and watch as Oleksandr turns his horse away and begins heading back towards the town.