Meet Me in Montenegro

Over the course of weeks, Oleksandr's journey takes him through many villages and towns, some of which are free and prospering, while others are under Ottoman occupation. The landscapes he passes through vary from dense forests to wide-open fields and rolling hills. He passes through villages filled with joyous life, but also villages that are desolate and half-vacant, empty of male inhabitants after Ottoman conscripts raided them for soldiers, and some empty of women... As Oleksandr contemplates the plight of these villagers, a sense of sympathy and righteous fury washes over him. It is a tragedy indeed that so many men are being ripped from their homes and families, forcibly converted and made to fight as slaves against their own people, or taken as unwilling brides... He knows all too well how cruel and callous the Ottoman army can be, and how they will stop at nothing to expand their empire. Oleksandr contemplates the number of Janissaries and the possible scenario of a rebellion. If enough Janissaries were to rise up and turn against their Ottoman masters, it could be a decisive blow against the empire. The thought excites him, but he also knows that such a thing would take meticulous planning and coordination.

As he continues his trek, he notices something strange up ahead. In the distance, he sees an enormous assembly of Ottoman legions. He counts them quickly and estimates that there are nearly seventy-thousand soldiers in their ranks. The sight is both ominous and intriguing, and it raises questions in Oleksandr's mind about what the Ottomans are doing in such a large number. They seem to be heading south-west. Oleksandr stalks the Turkish forces from a safe distance, keeping himself hidden amongst the trees as he trails them. He watches as the legions march in unison, their numbers seemingly endless.

Oleksandr's mind races with questions as he watches the army. Where are they headed? What is their final destination? He follows them for days, and he watches as a group of about five men split off from the main camp while they are encamped for the night. Oleksandr guesses that they might be going to hunt or scout ahead, so he dismounts Deago and trails after them silently. With the stealth of a predator, Oleksandr follows the men, remaining hidden amongst the trees.

When the men are far enough away from the rest of the army, he suddenly strikes. In a quick and brutal display, Oleksandr springs into action, launching an ambush attack. With his sword in hand, he quickly disarms and kills each of the men in quick succession. As the men fall one after another, Oleksandr's movements are precise and fluid, like a hunter taking down prey. He tackles the last soldier to the ground, pinning him to the forest floor. He grips the man tightly, keeping him immobile as he looks down at him, his eyes hard and steely. Oleksandr raises his scimitar, the edge of the blade pressing against the soldier's throat. With one move, he could end the man's life. Oleksandr looks down at the captured soldier, his face blank and his eyes wide, piercing, and devoid of mercy. He speaks firmly and with authority, demanding an answer.

"Where is your army heading?" The captured soldier remains silent, his eyes fixed on Oleksandr's with a mix of defiance and fear. It's clear that he doesn't want to reveal any information to the enemy, and is willing to remain silent even under threat of death. Oleksandr growls in frustration as the captured soldier refuses to speak. He's losing patience, and he knows that time is of the essence. Without hesitation, Oleksandr begins to beat the man mercilessly, raining down a flurry of savage punches. His anger crescendos as the captured soldier continues to refuse to speak. With each blow, he bellows his demand.

"SPEAK!" He roars again, his voice booming through the empty forest. "Where are you heading, damn you!" The captured soldier manages to croak out an answer between blows. His words are garbled and nearly unintelligible, but they still carry spite and defiance.

"Fuck you... Rus... pig," the man manages to say, spitting out a shattered tooth.

"Fuck me? You know of whom you speak to?" Oleksandr snarls. "That's alright, hold your tongue if you wish. I'll repeat this to the rest of your comrades, and one of them is bound to squeal. You die for nothing." Oleksandr lets the man go, pushing off of him and standing up. He looks down at the battered and bleeding soldier, disdain in his eyes. "Your silence is futile," he says. "You will not defy me. And your precious empire will fall, even if I have to destroy it myself." The captured soldier struggles to breathe, his face bruised and bloodied. His words are labored, but the hatred in them is still clear.

"I know...you… You're that Varangian... brute," he gasps out. "The... Rus one. Slave. A slave evermore... I-I die for my own... kin… Unlike... you. You will die as… your Iconophile emperor's… loyal… heathen dog…” Oleksandr's mouth turns in a cunning grin, his eyes cold, kneeling his knee on the man's chest, moving his sword down to his leg.

"You'll bear no kin when I make you into a eunuch." The captured soldier's eyes widen with fear and horror. That sure does the trick.

"W-wait!" The man gasps out, his voice laced with fear. "You.. You wouldn't dare!"

"THEN SPEAK! And do not lie to me, I will know, I always know, and you will beg for death before I'm finished with you.” The captured soldier looks up at Oleksandr, fear and desperation in his eyes. He knows that Oleksandr is not bluffing, having heard rumors of the infamous warrior's brutality, and that he will deliver on his threat if pushed. The captured soldier swallows hard, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"Please... I-I'll speak!" The captured soldier lies there, his face pale with fear and anxiety as he stares up at Oleksandr. He glances down to the sword still poised by his leg and swallows deeply, looking back to Oleksandr.

"Albania... They march to Albania." Oleksandr raises an eyebrow, his expression guarded but interested.

"Albania, you say? Tell me more. Why there?" The captured soldier nods weakly, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.

"Yes. Albania," he replies, his voice shaking. "There is a rebel king there… He causes too much trouble... for the Sultan… He wishes to make an example of him..." Oleksandr's face remains blank, but he knows of whom the soldier speaks.

"What else do you know?" With fear still in his eyes, the captured soldier continues to speak.

"I-I've heard... rumors," he gasps. "They say... the rebel king... has a fortress. Called... called Kruja... It's... nearly impenetrable." Oleksandr once again says nothing, studying the soldier's face. He knows this, he had been there, a couple years prior. The captured soldier continues to speak, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"They... they say it's... a giant fortress. High... up on a black mountain. Surrounded by-" Oleksandr doesn't let him finish, quickly slitting his throat and standing up, sheathing his sword. He walks away, back to his horse, his mind racing. He knows of Kruja, having been there himself years earlier. It is a formidable and well-defended fortress, built into the side of a mountain. Knowing that the Turks are on their way to try and besiege it again only adds to the urgency he feels. Oleksandr wastes no time in locating Deago and quickly swings up onto him. With a firm hold on the reins, he spurs the horse forward, pushing it into a gallop. He heads south, careful to avoid being spotted by the massive army of Ottoman soldiers.

As he rides, his mind is focused on one thing: reach Albania and warn them of the approaching army before it's too late. Oleksandr rides at a relentless pace, pushing both himself and Deago to their limits as he races south towards Albania. He keeps a steady and fast pace, riding through the day and the night, stopping only when it's absolutely necessary to rest and water Deago.

Weeks pass as he continues his journey, pushing himself to find the rebel king. Oleksandr knows he's reached the borders when the rugged terrain of northern Albania unfolds like a wild, ancient tapestry, where towering mountains loom over deep, shadowed valleys. Jagged limestone peaks, cloaked in a veil of mist, rise sharply against the sky, their slopes draped in dense forests of pine and berch. Rivers cut through the land like silver threads, their waters rushing over boulders worn smooth by time. Villages cling to the hillsides, defiant against the harshness of the land, where paths are often little more than rocky trails winding through craggy gorges and past hidden caves. The air is thick with the scent of pine and the echo of history, a land untamed and resolute, where nature's raw beauty is as captivating as it is unforgiving.

As he passes by the village nestled deep in the Albanian Alps, the hardy highlanders come into view, etched by the harshness of their homeland. They are tall, with sinewy frames shaped by the relentless demands of mountain life. Their faces are weathered and carved with lines that speak of endurance and pride, framed by thick, long mustaches. Eyes, sharp and alert, peer from beneath fur-lined caps, betraying a fierce resolve. The men wear woolen cloaks, dyed dark and clasped with ornate silver pins, while their boots are heavy and worn, made for traversing the unforgiving terrain. They carry large, curved swords slung over their shoulders, and knives hang from their belts, tools of both survival and defense. These highlanders are a people of few words, bound by ancient codes of honor and blood ties, living in harmony with the mountains that have shaped them for centuries.

"You! Foreigner!" One of the men calls out. "What business do you have in these parts, hm?" Oleksandr brings his horse to a halt, his eyes meeting the highlander's. He studies the man for a moment, taking in his rugged appearance and the sharp eyes that regard him warily. He notices the familiar sword the man grips over his shoulder and the knife at his belt. With a measured voice, Oleksandr speaks.

"I am on my way to Kruja," he says in perfect Albanian. "I have urgent news for the rebel king." The man studies Oleksandr with suspicion, some other nearby men casting guarded, suspicious glances.

"I know you. You bring bad tidings everywhere you go." Oleksandr meets the highlander's gaze, refusing to back down. He notices the other men nearby eyeing him, and he knows that this will not be an easy encounter.

"You know me?" He asks, his voice calm and measured. “Explain."

"Every land you cross, war follows. You're a bad omen, blonde." The man spits. Oleksandr frowns slightly, but he doesn't deny the truth of the highlander's words. Everywhere he goes, chaos and violence seem to follow. It's as if he were a magnet for war. But he refuses to be seen as a mere forebearer of destruction.

"I do not bring war to these lands," he retorts. "War is already here."

"You do not deny it," another hard-faced peasant comments. "A battle is upon us, hm?" Oleksandr can feel the suspicion and hostility in the air thicken as the other peasants chime in.

"I do not deny that war follows me like a shadow," Oleksandr replies, his voice measured but stern. "But I do not bring it. It is here, whether I come or not. And yes," he adds, his gaze sweeping over the men. "A battle is upon us, and soon." The man twists his long mustache and steps aside, wordlessly letting Oleksandr pass, his expression scrutinizing but not hostile. Oleksandr rides on, passing through the village, the men watching him with sharp, distrustful eyes. Despite the cold reception, they do not hinder his progress. Oleksandr notices the men's hard, hawk-like faces, their mouths set in permanent scowls, their hands always on their weapons. They are a tough, intolerant bunch, and it's clear that they do not trust outsiders. He passes by a small brood of old women, their head scarves wrapped tightly over their heads. He hears one of them murmur with grief to her companion. “How many more sons do I have to lose?”

As he rides away, he feels their gazes follow him, their eyes boring into his back. Oleksandr feels a tinge of respect for them as he leaves the village. He understands their caution and their skepticism, knowing that they live in a region surrounded by hostile forces and surrounded by treachery. It's a hard life, living in the mountains, and he knows that the highlanders have paid dearly for their brave resistance against their shared enemy.

As he continues on his journey, he remembers the man's words, 'You bring war everywhere you go, foreigner,' and he feels a flicker of guilt, his thoughts troubled by the knowledge that wherever he goes, chaos and death seem to follow. He wonders how long he can keep up this cycle of being a harbinger of destruction. As a warrior, he's always been used to fighting and killing, but he's never liked the idea of being a harbinger of death and discord, of new widows and lost sons.