Meet Me in Montenegro

Oleksandr dismounts outside a modest shack with a large, colorful cart on the property and bangs on the door, calling out a name. "Barnat!" He booms, his voice cutting through the still evening air. A small commotion is heard inside the shack, and a moment later the door creaks open to reveal a middle aged man. He’s a Gypsy, with weathered skin etched with deep lines, a testament to a life spent on the road. His dark hair is streaked with gray and pulled back into a loose ponytail, while his sharp, pale eyes hold a spark of wisdom and resilience. He wears vibrant, patched clothing adorned with intricate embroidery, and is quite stout. The man, Barnat, squints out at Oleksandr, a suspicious look in his green eyes. He clearly wasn't expecting any guests, let alone a well-built man banging on his door. But then he recognizes Oleksandr, and a flicker of recognition flashes across his face, breaking into a grin as he realizes who's standing in front of him.

"Sasha, you young rascal," he says, stepping forward and clasping Oleksandr's arm in a firm grip. "It's been too damn long since I've seen you!" Oleksandr grins, patting his shoulder.

"It's been a while, my friend. As much as I'd like to catch up, I have urgent business." Barnat nods, recognizing the seriousness in Oleksandr's tone.

"Ah, I thought as much," he says, stepping aside to motion for him to enter. "You never come around just to visit, eh? Come in, and tell me what's on your mind."

"I need your help with a project, and I need it done fast. A week maximum." Barnat leads Oleksandr into the shack, gesturing for him to sit on one of the chairs around a small table.

"A week, eh?" He says, contemplating the request. "Well, you know I'm always happy to help you, Oleksi, but what sort of project is it this time?"

"I need lard. Lots of it. About three barrels full." Barnat's eyebrows shoot up in surprise at Oleksandr's request.

"Swine fat?" He says, a smile playing on his lips. "Why in the world do you need that much lard? You're not planning on starting a frying business, are you?" Oleksandr grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Indeed I am." Barnat laughs heartily, shaking his head.

"You're a piece of work, you know that?" He says, leaning back in his chair. "But I've never known you to ask for something without a good reason. Let me guess, this lard is for more than frying food, isn't it?"

“There are Turks on your country's borders, Barnat. Lots of them.” Barnat's expression turns serious, as he nods slowly.

"I've heard the rumors," he says, his tone somber. "The Turks are on the move, hm? I suppose it's only a matter of time before they try to push in this direction again."

"They will be soon. There's several encampments on the southern border, each over five-thousand men strong." Barnat whistles low, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Ho, five-thousand?" He says, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's a lot of damn Turks. More than we thought, then. But what does lard have to do with Turks?” Oleksandr leans in, a scheming look on his face.

"How many sons do you have again? Seven?"

"That’s seven daughters," he says, counting off on his fingers. "I've got eight sons, all of them old enough to hold a weapon, and stubborn as hell."

"I'll need their help. Bring them here tomorrow at noon, and I'll explain everything then. And work on fetching that lard for me, yeah? I'll pay you well, you know that." Barnat's eyes gleam with a mixture of determination and excitement.

"You can count on me, Sasha." He says, grinning. "I'll gather my boys and we'll be ready to help you tomorrow. And don't worry about the lard, I know someone who can get me a good deal on it. You just focus on whatever plan you've got up your sleeve, and we'll take care of the rest." Oleksandr nods and gets up, giving him a firm handshake.

"I'll see you soon," he says over his shoulder as he exits. He mounts his horse and rides off, leaving Barnat standing in the doorway of his shack. The Gypsy watches him go, a mixture of hope and worry on his face. He knows that whatever Oleksandr is planning, it won't be easy – but he also trusts in the flaxy-haired man's skills and determination. He turns and steps back into the shack, closing the door behind him.

Oleksandr arrives back at the town just as the sun is sinking below the horizon, casting the landscape in hues of orange and gold. He trots down the street to the corner where he'd spotted the milkman earlier and dismounts, walking toward him. The cart sits nearby, its wheels creaking slightly in the evening breeze. The milkman nods in greeting, and Oleksandr shakes his hand firmly, before mounting his horse and attaching the cart. With a final wave, he turns the horse and heads further into town, disappearing into the gathering darkness.

Oleksandr dismounts in front of the alchemist's shop, looking around to make sure no one is watching. The candles are extinguished inside, the street is relatively empty, and the sun has almost dipped below the horizon, casting the town in shadows.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Oleksandr pulls out a slim set of lockpicks and sets to work on the door of the shop. A few moments later, the lock clicks open and he steps inside, closing the door behind him. The shop is silent and dark, the only light creeping in through the cracks in the windows. He lifts the two heavy barrels of gunpowder out of the shop and loads them into his cart. They're heavy, but he's strong enough to manage, and soon both of them are in the back. He goes back inside and grabs the jar of copper shavings and the sack of quicklime, placing them carefully on top of the gunpowder. Oleksandr gathers up the remaining ingredients he needs, a large sack of sulfur, as well as some saltpeter, pine resin and naphtha, carefully placing them in the cart with the other materials. The cart is starting to look less like a milk delivery vehicle and more like a mobile munitions factory. He covers the cart with a sheet, and rides out of town to the outskirts of town and sets up camp for the night. He sleeps fitfully, his mind already racing with plans for the day to come. He dreams of battle, bones, infernos, and whisps of black hair.

Early in the morning, before the sun has even risen, he rides to the Gypsy's house and unloads the cart and its materials into the workshop. He moves quickly and quietly, trying not to wake the man up. When he's done, he heads back into town, avoiding the alchemist's shop that he'd stolen materials from the night before. Oleksandr arrives at a small butcher's shop, the smell of blood and meat wafting through the air. He enters, the bell above the door chiming softly as he walks in. The owner, a stocky man with a stained apron, looks up as Oleksandr enters.

"Aye, can I help you?" He says, eyeing the newcomer.

"I'm looking for intestines. Any animal will do." The butcher's eyebrows rise in surprise, but he seems used to odd requests.

"Intestines, eh? That's not a common thing to ask for," he says, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "What do you need them for? Sausages?"

"Aye."

The butcher nods, seeming satisfied with the answer. "I've got plenty of intestines, fresh just this morning. How much do you need, lad?"

"How many do you have that are whole?"

The butcher thinks for a moment, then replies, "I've got about thirty fresh, whole intestines laid out back. Some from cows, some from pigs, a few from sheep. All nice and fresh. You want all of them?"

"I'll take fifteen." He nods, then turns and heads toward the back of the shop. A moment later he emerges, carrying a crate full of intestines, wrapped in a sack.

"Here you go," he says, setting the crate down on the counter. "Fifteen nice, fresh intestines, ready for your sausage-making. You’ll have to clean them a bit yourself." Oleksandr rubs his hands together, eyeing the meat in the back.

"Give me some steaks too. Ten of them." The butcher nods, adding the fresh steaks to the counter. "Those are good cuts," he says, pointing to the steaks. "Fresh from slaughter this morning. Will there be anything else for you today?"

Oleksandr shakes his head. "How much?"

The butcher does some quick mental math, then replies, "for the intestines and the steaks, that'll be six silver pieces. Good price, if you ask me." Oleksandr pays the butcher the six silver, grabbing up the crate of intestines in one hand and the wrapped steaks in the other. The butcher nods in appreciation, and hands him some extra string to tie the top of the sack of intestines with. "There you go," he says. "Don't forget to thank me when you make that sausage." Oleksandr nods in thanks, pushing the door open with his shoulder.

He loads the box onto his cart, and climbs onto his horse. Before setting off, he unwraps the raw steaks and pulls one out, taking a few big bites out of it. With a last glance back at the town, he turns his horse and rides off.

The countryside passes by in a blur as Oleksandr eats his steak and rides. The sky is clear and blue, the air warm and pleasantly scented with the smells of the springtime countryside. The further he rides from the town, the quieter it becomes, until the only sound is the soft clop of his horse's hooves on the path and the occasional rustling of leaves in the trees.

Oleksandr arrives back at Barnat's house as promised, the sun high in the sky and the air warm and still. He dismounts and knocks on the door, waiting for the Gypsy to answer it. A few minutes later the door creaks open, and Barnat appears, a smile on his face.

"Oleksi, welcome back," he says, stepping aside to let him in. "My sons are here, as you requested." Oleksandr steps into the house, and is greeted by the sight of eight men, all of them with the distinctive features of Barnat’s parentage. The ages of the men vary, from a young man of maybe sixteen, to an older man who's in his thirties. All of them look up as he enters, some nodding in greeting, others watching him with wary eyes.

"These are my sons," Barnat says, gesturing to the men. "All of them are strong and willing to help with your little plan." Oleksandr crosses his arms, looking them over with an appraising gaze.

"This will do."

The sons all look up as Oleksandr addresses them. They're a rough-looking bunch, many of them heavily muscled and with scars and burns covering their arms and faces. They regard him with a mix of interest and apprehension, waiting to hear what he has to say. Barnat leans against the wall, his eyes on his sons with a proud smirk. "They're all good fighters, and strong as bulls," he says, a hint of pride in his voice. "Whatever you've got planned, they'll help you do it."

Oleksandr approaches the table, his face stern and his arms crossed. "Alright lads. Several Ottoman encampments are on the southern borders, each close to five-thousand men strong. Your country is under threat, as it has been for many years." The men listen intently, their faces hardening at the mention of Ottoman threat. They are gravely familiar with the danger that lurks to the south, and the hardships and violence that have come with it.

"We know all too well what those roaches have done," one of the older men spits, his eyes narrowing with anger. "We've suffered at their hands too long." Oleksandr grins.

"That's right. That’s why we must conduct what I like to call some… pest control." The brothers shift and exchange glances, intrigued by the hardened warrior’s words.

“What’re you suggesting?” Oleksandr eyes the man who spoke, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, contrasting with his sly grin.

"In your father's workshop, I have gathered the ingredients for... Greek Fire." The man's eyes widened at his words. Greek Fire. The mythical substance that burns even on water, scorches hotter than a blacksmith’s furnace, and is nearly impossible to extinguish. They know the legends well, and the tales of its devastating power.

"Greek Fire..." One of the younger men mutters, his voice filled with awe. "You have the recipe for that?"

"I'm the last man who draws breath that does." The men murmur amongst themselves, staring at Oleksandr in shock and awe. Greek Fire... It's the stuff of legends, the stuff of nightmares. They can barely believe that the blonde man standing before them really has the knowledge to make it.

"You... you really know how to make it?" Barnat asks, still looking at Oleksandr in disbelief.

"You think I'd be here telling you this if I didn't?" The men look at each other, still stunned. Oleksandr's confidence and certainty is persuasive, and it's clear that he believes what he's saying.

"If you really can make Greek Fire..." one of the younger men says slowly, his voice filled with wonder, "we could wipe out those Ottoman bastards for good."

"That's right. I worked closely with the Romans in Constantinople right before its fall. I was there, a young Varangian guard... the recipe was entrusted to me, and I plan to take it to the grave." The men's eyes narrow. They remember the news of the city's fall, the way it shook the entire Christian world to its core, and the knowledge that the Turks now rule the city. "Now: What I need you for. I need to craft some in that workshop. Barnat, you got the three barrels of lard?" Barnat nods in reply, his eyes still fixed on Oleksandr.

"Aye, they're in my workshop." The other sons watch intently, their faces betraying the mixture of excitement and anticipation at the prospect of crafting something so powerful.

“What are your names?” The men look around at each other for a moment, then the older one steps forward first.

"I'm Mikail," he says, his voice rough with age and experience. "The young one there is Yordan, the next one is Gavrielle, then there's Emil..." he points at each of his brothers, "...then we've got Petar, Leonidas, Dimitry, and finally... Ivan." The youngest of the men, Yordan, watches with wide eyes as the others speak. He's younger than the rest, maybe around sixteen years old, and he seems particularly in awe of Oleksandr, which Olek is privy to.

“Alright. Mikail, Barnat, and Yordan, you'll help me make the substance. The rest of you will make arrows. You know fletching, yes?” The men nod in agreement at Oleksandr's proposal. Mikail, Barnat, and Yordan look excited at the prospect of working on the fearsome substance, while the rest of the men look eager to help as well.

"We can fletch," Emil, the tallest of the men, replies gruffly. "Taught us since we were wee lads." Oleksandr nods, decently impressed. He steps out of the house for a moment, before quickly returning with the crate full of intestines, dropping it down on the table, “and you’ve made sausages before?” The men eye the box of intestines, their expressions a mix of curiosity and confusion. Mikail grunts in reply, his face betraying a hint of weariness.

"Aye, we've made sausages a time or two," he says. "What’s this have to do with Greek Fire?" Oleksandr flashes him a cunning grin, before he pulls out his dagger, and cuts off a bit of intestine, tying one end off. He walks across the small house to get a pitcher of water, setting it on the table and demonstrating his plan.

"First, we make the substance,” He dips the piece of intestine in the water, scooping it full of liquid, and tying it off. “Then, we fill these with it, like little… sausages, yes?" The men's expressions change from confusion to understanding as Oleksandr explains. One of the brothers, Ivan, strokes his mustache in curiosity as he pictures the result.

"Like little water balloons..." he mutters, "aye, I see what you're getting at."

"Then, these get hung on the arrows, and the tips of the arrows are ignited. Upon contact, the sacks will burst, and combust into flames." Oleksandr throws the water-filled intestine at the wall, causing the water to splat and the men to flinch. The men nod as Oleksandr explains the plan. Emil grins, his teeth white against his dark skin, as he imagines the chaos that such a weapon would cause.

"Like little water balloons... filled with hellfire," he says, chuckling with excitement. "Those roaches won't know what hit 'em."

The men in the house begin fletching as many arrows as possible, working quickly and efficiently to produce dozens, while Oleksandr gets to work with Mikail, Barnat, and Yordan in the workshop. Mikail pours various measurements into a large trough while Yordan stirs with a spade to combine the ingredients. Barnat melts the lard outside, his fingers moving efficiently as he heats it to the perfect temperature. Meanwhile, Oleksandr carefully measures out the pine resin and sulfur, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

The evening comes, and the men are exhausted from a long day's work. They wash up, and after finishing a simple dinner of steak and beans, they all settle inside the small house, resting their aching limbs and weary eyes. Mikail sits on a stool, resting his head against the wall.

"We did good work today," he says, his voice stern but satisfied. "We'll give those damn Turks a little surprise when it’s ready."

"Just a reminder, lads," Oleksandr says, leaning back on a cushion. "No fire near the workshop under any circumstances..." The men glance at Oleksandr as he reminds them of this rule. Barnat nods in agreement, his expression serious.

"Aye, no fire," he says firmly. "It's too dangerous. One spark and we could all go up in flames."

“More like the whole village, and it'll burn for months.”

The men nod in agreement, the gravity of this warning sinking in. They remember the tales of how hot Greek Fire burns, how difficult it is to quench the flames. The danger is clear.

"We've gotta be careful. Very careful." Emil mutters, his eyes distant.

The next morning, Oleksandr puts the finishing touches on the Greek Fire with the addition of the copper shavings. Mikail stirs the mixture carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration. The other men are busy fletching hundreds of arrows, their fingers moving quickly and efficiently as they work. The air is filled with the sound of wood being carved and arrows being fashioned.

Oleksandr emerges from the workshop and gathers up the intestines. "Alright, lads. Time to turn these arrows into hellfire." The men nod in agreement and file into the cramped workshop. Oleksandr works diligently, cutting a section of intestine approximately six inches long. He ties one end, leaving the ends hanging, and then carefully pours the Greek Fire into the innards. Once filled, he twists the end closed, leaving only a small bulb, tied tightly.

"Just like that, lads," he says, showing the first fully-filled intestine. "Pressure is key. We want the bags to burst on impact, but we also don't want them to pop prematurely." The men work meticulously, cutting and filling the intestines with the oil-like substance that produces Greek Fire. Oleksandr supervises, explaining the importance of each step. As the day progresses, dozens upon dozens of the intestine balloons are carefully placed into boxes. The workshop is soon filled with the distinctive sulphury smell of Greek Fire, mixed with the faint coppery scent of blood from the innards. The sun begins to dip below the horizon as the men finish their work, the last of the intestine balloons filled and packed into the boxes. The workshop is a mess, with bloody innards and Greek Fire everywhere. Oleksandr looks around at the men, satisfied with their work.

"Good work, lads," he says, a small smile on his face. "We've got enough to make the Turks wish they had never stepped foot on these lands."

"Who knew Greek Fire would be such messy work..." Gavrielle mutters.

Oleksandr smirks. "We don't exactly have the same resources as the Roman army in your gypsy village." Oleksandr steps outside to his horse, checking his pack of supplies. He pulls out a fist-sized sachet of gold from his pack and brings it back inside, tossing it. Barant catches the sachet, his eyes widening with surprise.

"What's this?" He asks, holding the pouch in his hands.

“For your help. I told you I pay well, didn't I?” Barant looks down, opening up the sachet of gold in his hands, a mixture of surprise and gratitude on his face. He meets Oleksandr's eyes.

"This is a fortune, Oleksandr," he murmurs, "you're a man of your word, we're glad to have helped you, especially if it means it'll bring us one step closer to getting rid of those damned Turks, but… this is too much, Sasha." Oleksandr shakes his head.

“No, it isn't. I’m also paying for the risk. I insist. Use it to help your many children.” He glances out the window, noting the fading light, and addresses the sons. "We'll head out tomorrow at first light. Get some rest, lads. It'll be a long day."