Echoes of the Enemy

David's pacing carried him around the inner courtyard in long shadows cast by the late afternoon sun. Still hanging in the air was what Bishop George had told him—the weight of such words: the Seljuks were reconstituting, and the clock was ticking, meaning war would again be coming to Georgia.

Every clink of armour and every tread of feet in the stone walls of the palace was a rush to get ready for battle. Amongst all that, the head of David could swim with a thousand thoughts: every decision he made seemed to chip away at the bases of his rule; the whispers of doubt—too young, too merciful—loud in his ears.

He watched as a circle of soldiers sparred, his eyes landing on the youngest in the circle. A boy, no larger than fourteen years, swung his sword haphazardly, mimicking the movements of the other warriors.

"Your grip is too tight," David called out, catching the boy off guard, who immediately stopped and turned toward him.

"My prince!" The boy dropped to one knee, his sword clanging against the cobblestones.

David strode up to him, waving away all formality. "What is your name?"

"Levan, sire," the boy stuttered, still staring at the dirt.

David kneeled down so that he was level with him, laying a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "Relax, Levan. Get up."

Levan hesitated but rose as David asked, his hands shaking slightly. David took the boy's sword and examined the weapon before placing it back in his hands.

Loosen your grip," David said. "It's not about holding the sword as tightly as you can. It's about control. Hold it firm, but let your wrist move freely. Your weapon is an extension of you."

Levan nodded, eyes wide as he listened intently. David stepped back, motioning for the boy to try again.

"Now, try a simple strike. Focus on precision, not force.

Levan lifted his sword this time and flowed into it more smoothly. It wasn't a great strike, but it was better. There was a will in the boy that caught a bit of a smile on David's face.

"Better," David said. "You will improve with time and practice, but always remember, it is not the strongest that wins all of the time. It is the wisest. It is those who know when to hit and when to pull their hand back.

The boy's face changed then, and for a moment, in his eyes, David saw something familiar—the same uncertainty fumbling for confidence he had seen in his own not such a long time ago.

"Thank you, my prince," Levan repeated, bowing again.

"Keep training. You will need it," he said this time more seriously. "War is coming."

He turned to go and found Bishop George waiting for him, his eyes glinting brightly in the dim light of the room as he watched the interchange from across the room.

"You inspire them," George said in a low voice, falling into step with David.

"They need more than inspiration," David growled. "They need to survive."

"They will follow you into battle. That is not a small thing," George reminded him.

David exhaled and turned to the bishop: "I know they will. But I have to give them more than orders. They need something else to believe in, something greater than just me: their future—the future of Georgia."

The second George inclined his head, his voice was low. "The nobles are restless yet, David. To them, you are a young lion with too much heart and not enough bite. They believe you will falter when the time comes for hard decisions."

David clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling just below the surface. "I know what they say about me. But they don't understand what's at stake.

They don't, George said, softening. But that's why you must show them that. The Seljuks aren't some ordinary enemy. They threaten everything we have achieved. If we don't come together, they will tear us apart.

David stopped and turned to look at the horizon for the Seljuk threat, yet the division in his ranks. How could he lead a country fractured from within against an enemy at the gate?

"How many men can we gather?" the businesslike question now asked David, turning the conversation back to the immediate problem.

About ten thousand, perhaps a few more if we call in every able-bodied man from the villages," George replied.

David frowned. "Not enough. The Seljuks outnumber us. We need allies, or at the very least, we need to weaken them before they reach our borders."

George stroked his beard thoughtfully. "We can send scouts, hit their supply lines, and disrupt their march. Really, guerrilla tactics have served us quite well in the past.

David nodded. "Do it. I want our best riders out by dawn. Let's make it as hard as possible for the Seljuks to get near us."

George bowed slightly and started walking away but then stopped, looking back to David. "And the nobles?

David's face darkened. "Leave them to me."

Later that night, he stood in the great hall of the palace, with his council, military commanders, and a few nobles of prominence standing around him. The tension in the room was palpable, fire torches dancing across long shadows on stone walls.

We must strike first," said one of the nobles, Lord Giorgi—a loud and authoritative voice. "Show the Seljuks that Georgia is not weak. We cannot sit idly by and wait for them to strike us down like cattle.

Murmurs of agreement came from several of the other nobles. Nothing was said by David, paying attention to the map of the kingdom spread before him. He had listened to their demands hour after hour, with each one more aggressive than the last.

At last, it was David's turn, and in a firm, clear voice, he had said, "If we rush into battle without a plan, we will lose. And if we lose, Georgia will fall. Is that what you want?"

Silence fell.

"We cannot afford to behave wildly," David went on. "The Seljuks are stronger, more numerous. But we know this land better than they do. If we use that to our advantage, we can outmanoeuvre them."

"And if we fail?" Lord Giorgi pressed, crossing his arms. "What then? Shall we retreat to the mountains and watch our cities burn?

David met Giorgi's stare, his voice granite. "We try and fail; we die. But we are not going to fail. Not if we stand united."

The other noble, Lord Iakob, leaned further forward, lacing his voice with doubt. "But what of those nobles who didn't declare allegiance for you, my prince? Will they stand with us when the time comes?"

David's gaze turned to steel. "They will. Or they fall.

Again, the room fell silent, this time due to the weight of David's words upon those men gathered. They saw it in his eyes: this was no boy speaking but a king—a king ready to lead his people into battle, no matter the cost.

One chance, he boomed, his voice thundering across the hall. "One chance to defend Georgia and to show the world that we are a force not to be trifled with. I will not witness the destruction of our people beneath the heel of foreign invaders. For this, I need all of you standing with me." Not with words alone, but with actions.

A murmur of assent ran through the nobles, some more grudging than others. But in that moment, David knew he had sown the seed of unity. Imperfect it might be, but it would suffice.

"Prepare the men," David ordered. "We ride for war."