Fallen Eagle

The stink of the infidels was something Alexios found he could not accustom himself to. Everywhere he turned, from dawn until dusk, he saw only sin and vice layered one atop the other. Men openly cursed and took God’s name for every idle turn of phrase, as if the Almighty were some common acquaintance to be dragged into their filth. At every campfire, they clustered around scraps of bone and dice, tossing coins with greedy eyes the moment they had more than a few minutes to spare.

Wine and beer flowed like water. Alexios had even been told that some mercenary bands demanded part of their pay in drink. It was complete and utter blasphemy, he thought in the quiet of his mind, which, ironically enough, had been anything but quiet of late.

He watched the debauchery swirling around him and had to pull hard on the leash of his own temper, even in supposed moments of rest. Father Damianus had not journeyed with him as the metropolitan’s work shepherding the flock was too important, and the Church rightly kept itself apart from martial and secular affairs.

Damianus had promised prayers for his safety and for Orthodoxy’s triumph, but could not, in good conscience, declare openly for one side in the coming war.

Alexios knew in his heart, however, that the Father was rooting for him. He was the righteous cause, after all. The knowledge that the Metropolitan would stand beside him once he ascended the throne was enough.

It would have to be.

Just as his own discipline would have to be enough. He must master himself and, through that mastery, lead this rabble of unbelievers toward the promised victory.

He moved through the filthy camp like a messiah before his heralds, four of his servants trailing behind him in more of a display of his station than out of any real necessity. Head held high, he made his way toward the main command tent where Philemon held court. Philemon had assured him that the Principe need not burden himself with military details, but Alexios would have been a fool to leave every aspect of his army in Philemon’s hands while he reclined in comfort. He did not trust the man in the slightest.

“My Principe.” The guards at the tent’s entrance bowed with proper respect. “Military court is in session. Perhaps you could return later-”

“I will be a part of it. Do not concern yourselves,” Alexios said, already pushing past. “I will take part in the discussion on the army’s next moves.” He left the guards blinking after him.

Inside, the council was well underway. More than two dozen commanders crowded the pavilion, being served wine and watered beer as they bent over an exquisitely detailed map of the Principality. To Alexios’s eyes, it was a scene of pure vanity - men playing at power with full cups in their hands.

Philemon stood at the center, languidly swirling a golden goblet while a mud-splattered messenger knelt on the trampled floor before him. “Lord Adanis has stated he will remain in position due to these new developments,” the messenger recited, “and hopes you will consolidate forces where he now lies. That is, on the southeastern border between your domain and his, so that we may better answer the Crown’s army.”

The man’s robe was the deep burgundy of Adanis’s household, a small embroidered emblem at his breast marking him as a direct envoy and perhaps even a kin of his. God knew Adanis had too many kin to keep count of.

As Alexios entered, the conversation thinned and then died. Heads turned. Philemon’s face, already creased in a frown, darkened further for a heartbeat before he smoothed it into something like welcome.

“Ah. My Prince,” he said at last. “Welcome to our humble abode. To what do we owe the honour?”

Philemon had insisted on calling him Prince, as if he were already enthroned, and had made certain the rest of the camp used the title as well. It was to paint him as the figurehead of the rebellion, while he moved comfortably in the shadows, he knew.

“Please, continue,” Alexios said magnanimously, lifting a hand as if bestowing a blessing and easing himself onto a low stool one of his servants hurried to place behind him. “Pretend I have not intruded.”

Philemon inclined his head at that, a thin smile touching his lips as though he were pleased by Alexios’s presence when he knew he was anything but.

“The Lion has stayed still. He delays,” one of the captains grumbled, clearly dissatisfied.

“And he threatens our military plans with this… inconvenience,” another muttered, rolling a small cup between his fingers.

“Did the lord explain his rationale?” Philemon asked slowly, carefully. Alexios could hear the effort it cost him not to let his true temper slip too early.

The messenger, a copper-haired man with travel dust still clinging to his boots, considered his words. “You have likely already heard that the Crown’s army is marching north.”

“We have,” a mercenary captain said. “If he worries over his land, we can simply consolidate our forces and crush the Crown between us. They would stand no chance.”

“While that is correct, my lord fears to leave the border bare for raiding,” the messenger replied, meeting the captains’ eyes without flinching. “Your plan is sound. And it is what our lord desires in principle,” he added, hands spreading in a pacifying gesture. “He is merely asking that we regroup as one in a more northern position, so we may better respond to the Crown’s movements. Nothing else in the plan need change.”

“Did your Lord perhaps suggest a likely location to gather our combined forces?” Philemon asked. Alexios took a small, private pleasure in the frustration tightening the other man’s mouth. From what little he had gotten to know of the man, he did not enjoy it when things didn’t go exactly to plan. His plan.

“Yes, he did,” the messenger said, nodding. He leaned over the map and tapped a point with a calloused finger toward a hill along the Bebek river, the thin blue line that crisscrossed northern Theodorus from southeast to northwest.

“That is quite far,” one of the captains muttered, squinting at the distance marked.

“At least two days’ march,” another added. “Four days there and back.”

Philemon went very still. Alexios could see the man calculating something beneath his eyes, something unseen to them. He was no military mastermind, so it was probably not supply lines or terrain advantages. It was something else.

“We will not be delayed,” Philemon said finally. “I understand Lord Adanis’s concerns, but this is likely just a ploy by the Crown to make us panic.”

“To send their whole army with six months of supplies merely to make us hesitate?” one of the captains muttered under his breath. “That makes little sense.”

The messenger’s shoulders dipped, just slightly, at the refusal.

“You have your answer,” Philemon said, voice turning crisp. “Inform Lord Adanis that our plan is unchanged. We continue.”

“Wait,” Alexios said.

The single word cut across the tent. Philemon shot him a sharp glance, and conversation died at once.

“I believe Lord Adanis’s fears merit far more concern than we are granting them,” Alexios went on, letting his gaze sweep the gathered officers.

“Principe, that really isn’t-” Philemon began, but Alexios spoke over him, his voice rising with righteous heat.

“How would we be any better than the Crown if we allow our own people to suffer at their hands?” he demanded. “To be raped, slaughtered, their fields burnt while we march in the opposite direction? Are we to abandon our loyal vassals in the north so we might keep our timetable tidy?”

The words rang in the close air of the pavilion, and Alexios could feel the weight of eyes on him.

This decision served several purposes. It would win him goodwill among his eventual subjects in the north; if he ignored their plea now, that wild region would remain unruly under his rule. He knew, too, that Philemon was no master of war, and already some of the officers were bristling at his dismissiveness.

Most of all, this was his chance to step out from under Philemon’s shadow. He was not a puppet to be moved about the board at another man’s whim, no matter how smoothly that man smiled.

From the icy hardening of Philemon’s expression, Alexios could tell that realization was finally beginning to dawn on him as well.

Alexios was no fool. He did not expect to escape Philemon’s wrath. But Philemon needed him alive, and he could not be seen to undermine the Principe too openly without cracking the illusion of a unified front. A divided leadership would doom them faster than any royal charge.

So he was stuck.

“A thousand thank-yous, my lord,” the messenger said, bowing his head low.

“Think nothing of it,” Alexios replied, gaze never leaving Philemon’s face.

Philemon forced his features smooth, the tendons in his jaw working once before he mastered them. “As the Principe wills, so it shall be,” he said, the words tasting like vinegar even as he bowed his head. A murmur passed through the tent, then benches scraped and the council began to dissolve, captains drifting out in clusters.

Alexios remained seated, basking in the subtle shift of deference around him. Let the snake choke on this, he thought, pleased. Philemon would learn that he was no pliant puppet to be jerked on a string, but the hand that would one day hold the crown.

Following the discussion, the army turned its face north, standards snapping in the chill breeze as the order rippled down the line.

For two days, they trudged through rutted roads and damp fields, the clatter of hooves and wagons never ceasing. Smoke from a hundred campfires stained the low clouds each night, the men muttering about the change in plan while they gnawed their bread. Scouts rode ahead in pairs along hedgerows and streambeds, searching for any sign of the Crown’s host. Alexios watched it all from horseback, cloak billowing, imagining the land bowing beneath his future rule.

…

They arrived at last upon the hill that linked the northern and eastern domains of the Principality. It was a rough, jutting promontory that surveyed the surrounding lowlands well enough. At its crown squatted a makeshift outpost the soldiers grandly called a fort.

It was but a ring of timber, mud, and stubbornness, and Alexios did not think much of it. To his eye, it was little more than a glorified stockade.

As their column approached the rough wooden gates, the camp was already drawn up in a show of discipline. Forward scouts had long since carried word of their coming to Lord Adanis, and the Nomikos host had prepared accordingly. Trumpets blared from the rampart, stretching the moment out and dressing it in ceremony, while the men of Nomikos land snapped to attention, offering their rough salutes.

“My lords.” A well-kept young man with light brown hair tied back in a neat ponytail waited at the entrance to the camp. His cloak hung just so, boots clean despite the mud. “I am Apostolos Nomikos, son and military aide to Lord Adanis Nomikos. Please be welcome, your Highnesses.” He and his retinue bowed to Alexios and Philemon in turn.

Alexios made a point of stepping forward half a pace ahead of Philemon. “Thank you for your kindness. It is a most impressive encampment you have here,” he said, lying smoothly through his teeth. “If you would be so good as to lead us to your lord, so we might speak with him and be accommodated, we would be grateful.”

Out of the corner of his eye he caught the faint quirk at Philemon’s mouth. It was as if he were amused at Alexios’s attempt to assert himself. He had calmed down since their meeting, and Alexios somehow thought that was worse than when he was actively frustrated.

“Of course, my lord,” the Nomikos brat replied, bowing with acceptable respect at least. “Might I show you to your designated space for your tents beforehand?”

“No,” Alexios snapped, suddenly in a much worse mood. “Take us to him immediately. We can settle in later.”

The aide hesitated only for a moment before inclining his head. “This way, then,” he said, turning to lead them.

Alexios, Philemon, and the cluster of mercenary captains followed through the camp streets. Everywhere Alexios looked he saw the same uncleanliness and barbarous habits he had come to expect after nearly a week in the company of such men: half-pitched tents, smoke-stained kettles, soldiers spitting and laughing too loudly, the reek of sweat and old ale.

As he walked, his gaze snagged on a knot of figures huddled near a fire, speaking in low, harsh tones. The cadence was wrong, full of sharp syllables and guttural sounds, the foreign words pricking at his ear.

Alexios stopped dead in his tracks, forcing the whole entourage to check themselves to avoid crashing into his back.

“What are they doing here?” he spat, unable to contain himself.

“What, my lord?” The aide blinked, genuinely taken aback by Alexios’s tone as he followed the direction of his gaze.

“I mean to say,” Alexios bit out, voice sharpening, “why are there infidels in our holy army?”

The young Nomikos stiffened, thrown back on his heels by the sheer venom in Alexios’s words.

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If Alexios had been reluctant to tolerate the presence of Catholic companies in Philemon’s employ, he was outright appalled by the Muslims that apparently filled the northern ranks. And not just any muslims. These were the same barbarous horse-raiders who had plagued the Principality’s borders for years. To see them now under his banner made bile rise in his throat.

“Those are mercenaries, my lord,” the aide answered quietly, eyes flicking sideways as though seeking silent support from the other captains nearby.

“We are on a holy mission!” Alexios’s voice climbed, drawing heads around them. “To invite non-Christians into our crusade is to spit in the face of everything we claim to stand for in this war!” he thundered.

The outburst stirred a ripple of movement among the surrounding soldiers. The pair Alexios had been glaring at fell silent and turned to watch, frowns deepening.

“To think the northerners would welcome the very men who pillaged and raped their countryside for decades,” Alexios added, disgust sharpening each syllable.

Before the aide could muster a reply, a small group of men approached. There were five of them, wrapped in woollen coats with their hair worn long. At their head walked a giant of a man, bare-chested despite the chill, his torso a patchwork of old wounds and puckered scars. Dark tinctures had been daubed across his skin in jagged lines, forming some barbaric sigil over his chest.

He grunted something low to the aide, and a smaller, sharp-eyed man at his side translated in accented Romani. “Is there a problem here? We heard a commotion.”

“No, it is nothing, Ilnar,” the aide said quickly, clearly eager to smother any spark before it flared into open conflict.

But Alexios would not let it pass.

“Not one band of barbarian infidels, but two,” he said, almost laughing in disbelief. “Is your army made up entirely of heathens?” he demanded of the aide, who seemed to fold inward.

“Truly, I had heard the North kept close company with barbarians,” Alexios went on, “but to have your whole force filled with them?” He gave a sharp, derisive huff. “Outrageous.”

Several nearby men bristled at that, hands tightening on spear-shafts and sword-belts. They did not care for being lumped in with barbarians. As for the barbarians themselves, they stared back at Alexios with flat, cold eyes, not quite bold enough to openly challenge the leader of the rebellion, but not far from it either.

Let them stew, Alexios thought. He cared nothing for the opinions of infidels.

“Please forgive our Principe,” Philemon said, snaking his way smoothly between them, like the viper he was. “He is weary from the journey and not in his right mind.”

“I am quite-”

“No. You are deathly tired,” Philemon cut across him, the words wrapped in silk but carried on a glance of pure, glacial threat.

The look gave Alexios pause. He met it, refusing to drop his gaze, but held his tongue and let Philemon smooth down the feathers his outburst had ruffled.

“Please, Apostolos Nomikos,” Philemon continued, turning back to the aide with practiced courtesy. “Guide us to Lord Adanis, and let us forget this minor incident.”

The young man blinked, then seized on the lifeline with visible relief. “Of course, Lord Philemon. Please—this way.”

As they set off again, Philemon leaned close enough that only Alexios could hear him. “Do not do that again,” he murmured. The words were razor sharp, but the promise of vengeance braided through them was anything but.

Alexios did not react. He kept his gaze ahead, jaw tight.

They were led to a burgundy tent so large it was nearly a pavilion, its rich cloth and reinforced poles shouting wealth to anyone with eyes. An excess of display for a simple field command, Alexios thought sourly.

Two grim-faced guards - thankfully, these looked Christian at least - stood watch at the entrance. At a gesture, they pulled the flaps aside and admitted them.

Inside, beneath the filtered light, stood Lord Adanis.

Alexios had seen him only a handful of times in his life, and each time he had been struck by how fitting the man’s epithet was. Clad in deep burgundy livery worked with subtle golden thread, Adanis looked every inch the lion they named him for. His shoulders were broad, his stance relaxed but coiled, as if he might spring at any moment. Light brown hair, shot through with reddish hues, fell to his shoulders in a thick mane, framing a strong, bearded face with keen, appraising eyes. When he turned toward them, it was with the slow, unhurried confidence of a predator who knew he stood at the top of his hill.

He bowed flawlessly, his eyes never leaving Philemon’s. “Your Highnesses.”

It galled Alexios that the Lion so clearly assumed Philemon was in charge, but this was not like snapping at grunts in a muddy camp street. Here, outrage would bring consequences with long memories and sharper teeth. He let the matter pass, but would not forget it.

He offered a deep nod of his own. “Lord Adanis.”

“I am gladdened you came all this way,” Adanis said, straightening. He gestured to a pair of folded camp chairs that looked as though they had been set out in expectation of their arrival. “There is much to discuss.”

“There is,” Philemon agreed, taking his seat with practiced ease. Alexios sat beside him, and the leaders of the mercenary companies settled in a loose semicircle around the low map table. The air in the tent seemed to tighten, full of leather, steel, and expectation.

“Have there been any movements on the Crown’s part?” Philemon asked almost at once.

“No,” Adanis replied. “They have not been sighted to the north yet.”

Philemon’s mouth thinned. That was not the answer he had been hoping for. “Have you spread your net wide enough? Could they have slipped through it?” he pressed.

“We know our land,” Lord Adanis said, allowing no room for doubt. “We are scouting every mountain pass and goat trail that an army of five hundred could march through. They cannot have entered our territory yet. It is impossible.” His certainty was ironclad.

“We must find them,” Philemon insisted, fingers drumming once on the edge of the table. “Otherwise we’ve backtracked for nothing, with no proof of their position.”

“I have already cast a wider net,” Adanis answered. “Our Principality is small. If they have encamped anywhere near our borders, our spies will hear of it soon enough.”

Philemon still did not look pleased, and Adanis’s eyes narrowed just a fraction as he noticed.

“We have at least consolidated our forces in the north,” Adanis went on. “That is progress. And once we do find the Crown’s host, we can choose our ground, force a pitched battle, and slaughter them.” There was no boast in his tone, only cold assurance.

“I suppose we can afford to wait another day or so,” Philemon said after a moment, “to see if we sight any sign of the royal army. But then we must move south.”

“I do not understand,” Adanis said, his own brow creasing now. “Why only allow for so little time?”

“If we cannot find the Crown after four full days of reconnaissance,” one of Philemon’s captains put in, “then they must already be far from here. The move north can only have been a feint. They must have doubled back while we chased shadows.”

“As our scouts push farther, we will learn their true position,” Adanis replied. “We need only be patient a few more days.”

The discussion began to fray at the edges, questions circling ground already trodden when the tent flap snapped back.

“My lord!” a guard called from the entrance. “Messenger from the Crown’s army!”

The words knifed through the low conversation. Every man in the pavilion went still, then leaned forward as one. Adanis straightened, the lazy lioness in him vanishing.

“Send him in,” he said.

A rider in travel-stained gear hurried inside and dropped to one knee on the worn carpets. His face was drawn, lips cracked from hard riding.

“Speak,” Adanis commanded.

“My lord,” the messenger began, head bowed. “Our watchers report the Crown’s host has changed course. They are no longer headed north. They march east.”

The words fell into the tent like a stone into deep water. For a heartbeat there was nothing but stunned silence.

“Do they mean to head for Funa?” Philemon breathed at last, half to himself.

“So that is why we never caught them,” Apostolos said, the realization dawning aloud. “We cast our net west, thinking they might circle that way. We never considered they would be bold enough to turn east instead.”

“How many days old is this information?” Philemon asked immediately. Alexios took a small, sour pleasure in the tightness around his eyes. At last, the man was picturing his own lands in danger.

“Only one day, my lord,” the messenger replied.

The men around the table grew thoughtful, each chasing the possible paths in his mind. Fingers traced routes along the parchment; lips moved in silent calculation.

“We do not know their aim,” Philemon said finally. “It is… perplexing. This is the opposite of how the Doux usually moves. It is anathema to his habits.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” someone asked, and Alexios silently admitted he was curious as well.

“I have served in campaigns with that man before, when we were younger,” Philemon said, almost distastefully. “I know how he thinks. This… this is a plan beyond the pale for him.”

“That is because the Doux is likely not the one behind it,” Lord Adanis said. There was a weight in his tone, something layered beneath the words that Alexios could not quite pierce.

“What do you mean?” Philemon asked, his attention sharpening.

“It is likely Captain Theodorus.”

“Theodorus…” Alexios repeated, fingers going to his chin. “The name is not unfamiliar to me.”

“He won a victory against the northern nomads,” the Nomikos aide began.

“And was rewarded by being attached to my staff,” Adanis finished.

“I saw how he operates up close,” the aide added, almost under his breath.

That drew a few more interested looks around the table. Men shifted, the map crackling faintly as elbows moved off its edges.

“He is bold and unpredictable,” the aide said warily. “His moves may look random at first glance, but they always point toward some hidden design. Make no mistake, gentlemen, this means something. And the captain rarely makes threats he does not intend to keep.”

That pricked Alexios’s interest. He remembered hearing the name in passing, a young officer making noise on the frontiers, but he had never bothered to think much on him. Now, both men who knew the captain best were saying the same thing.

The boy was danger.

“What shall we do?” Alexios asked, turning to Philemon. The other man wore the thoughtful expression of someone acknowledging a new player at the table, even if, on the surface, it was only a minor piece.

“Nothing,” Philemon said at last, a dangerous smile touching his lips.

A murmur of surprise went through the assembly, and even Alexios felt his brows rise.

“I am willing to sacrifice my lands if I must,” Philemon went on. “If this captain is truly as unorthodox and dangerous as you claim, there is only one course of action: we ignore his games.” He spread his hands in a gesture of feigned nonchalance. “In the end, he may advise the plan, but he is not the main player. The Doux is. And he is an opponent I know well. He is no foolhardy youth. He will make no truly reckless moves.” Philemon’s voice hardened. “We ignore whatever little plots they weave, and we march south.”

“But the Nomikos lands,” Adanis objected immediately. “We cannot pretend there is no danger.” He sounded deeply reluctant to leave his people exposed, which Alexios could understand.

“If I can shoulder the risk to my own estates, you can shoulder it for yours,” Philemon said flatly. “We cannot win the war by standing still.

At that, Adanis fell silent, jaw tightening.

“We are gathered in rebellion because we all want the same end,” Philemon continued. “We cannot grow timid now and keep changing our plans. Yes, we can remain flexible. But sitting in camp is not flexibility - it is stagnation. We are the aggressors. We must strike quickly. We cannot afford to waste time.”

The words carried, instilling a faint urgency in the tent. Men straightened, some muttering assent.

“Why are you so adamant about pressing forward with such haste?” Lord Adanis asked at last.

“The Italian heathens threaten to invade us,” it was Alexios who answered. He sketched out, in broad strokes, the failed diplomatic ploys of the Principality, and the Italian invasion on their doorstep. “We must usurp my father swiftly and present a united front, or they will fall on us the moment they smell weakness.”

“And the payment?” Adanis asked. “Two thousand hyperpera is no small sum and the Genoese will invade regardless if we don’t meet their demands.”

“I will shoulder it myself if I must,” Philemon said.

“You have that kind of wealth?” Adanis sounded genuinely surprised.

“You would be expected to contribute as well,” Philemon replied, almost gently.

Adanis’s expression soured, as though he had bitten into something unripe.

“It is for the good of both our realms,” Philemon said, his mouth twisting into a grim smile. “A price paid for the birth of our new Principality.”

The rebellion, Alexios realized, was proving far from simple. Every step forward seemed to uncover another cost, another risk to weigh and accept. But they were committed now. There was no road back, only the one ahead.

They had to succeed. He had to succeed.

The air in the camp smelled of fear.

Men spoke lower than they needed to, as if soft voices might hide them from unseen eyes, and every movement was slow, cautious, wary.

The Crown’s army had turned eastward only yesterday, and the order had set every nerve on edge. They might know little of the causes of the war or the enemy’s true numbers, but they knew enough to understand that danger lay to the north and east, and that their foes were strong. Those were the two directions their own army had been marching toward since the campaign began.

So they went about their business as quietly as possible, as if silence alone could keep the enemy scouts from their fires.

Theodorus could understand their unease. On the surface, what they were doing seemed perilous in the extreme, like walking blindfolded along a cliff edge. Soon enough, though, they would learn they had less cause for fear than they believed. They had kept their pace meek, to both spare the men in the army and because they did not actually want to make good time. Only appear to do so.

Theodorus moved through the camp at dawn, boots squelching in the churned mud as the men roused themselves. Most of them were peasants unused to campaign marching, dragged from field and plough at short notice and their gear showed it.

They shuffled out in stained gambesons, the quilted padding patched with whatever cloth could be spared, wool and linen in faded browns and dirty whites. A few wore mismatched pieces of mail inherited from grandfathers or bought second-hand, links missing here and there. Spears with crooked shafts and heads darkened by too many seasons of use leaned against tent poles. And less noticeable but present, bare feet and caked boots. The Crown couldn’t arm even a quarter of the army adequately, as they had no funds to purchase arms or armour in high quantities, nor any time to make them.

Captain Leonidas met him halfway up the lane, already fully awake, cloak thrown over one shoulder.

“Any problems?” Theodorus asked.

“No, Commander,” Leonidas replied with a grin. They had always called him that back at Probatoufrorio; now the title was finally true.

Out of the corner of his eye, Theodorus noted that the levies from Probatoufrorio were already about their tasks, moving with the brisk efficiency of men used to early hours. So were his own militia. The sight tugged a small, satisfied smile from him.

Leonidas caught it and understood. “We made sure to follow your training protocols to the letter, Captain,” he said, his grin sharpening into something predatory. “You shouldn’t be surprised. We made certain to scare them properly the first few nights.”

“Good,” Theodorus answered as they walked on together. Men straightened as he passed, hands snapping to crude but earnest salutes. He returned each one in turn, acknowledging them with a nod or a brief word, the quiet fear in the camp meeting the solid weight of his calm.

Theodorus and Leonidas reached the austere command tent just as the pale light of morning was beginning to filter through the mist. Even here, at the heart of the camp, the bustle was muted. Orders passed in low voices, boots moved without unnecessary clatter. It was a restraint Theodorus appreciated. The rank and file might be little better than rabble, but the officer corps was disciplined and quiet, shaped by the man who stood at the head of the army.

Inside, the Doux sat bent over a sheaf of parchment, the previous day’s reports spread before him. Most lords left such drudgery to aides and captains. The Doux insisted every significant report be summarized and delivered to him personally, so he could keep a hand on the pulse of the army at every level.

Theodorus and Leonidas halted just inside the entrance and snapped to attention.

“My lord,” they said together, saluting.

Without looking up, the Doux asked, “Are your men ready for departure?”

“In fifteen minutes, my portion of the column will be, my lord,” Theodorus replied.

“Good.” The Doux set one report aside, eyes flicking briefly to Theodorus in acknowledgement before returning to the parchment.

One by one, the other captains filtered in until the small space was ringed with officers - mail, leather, and cloaks forming a rough circle around the central map table. When the last had taken his place, the Doux finally straightened.

“Report,” he said.

A grizzled captain from the vanguard stepped forward. “Information from yesterday’s relays, my lord. The rebel hosts have joined together at the southern edge of Nomikos lands. They’re perhaps two days’ march from our current position.”

A faint murmur ran around the tent. Theodorus felt his jaw tighten.

Dancing on a knife’s edge, one might think, but one of the Crown’s great advantages was the fact that the war theatre was essentially occurring in their backyard.

They had the goodwill of the countryside and the loyalty of its inhabitants. The army had used the week of preparation to identify and man outposts - abandoned barns, or well-known campsites - with a pair of scouts and two fast horses each. Messengers could ride from one to the next, passing word along the chain in hours where an army would take days.

Additionally, their army had, as part of their muster, local trappers and shepherds they pressed to serve as scouts who roamed far ahead and to the flanks, ghosting along hedgerows and ridgelines where they believed the rebels might move. It gave them precious advance warning in such a small battlefield.

“In keeping with the plan,” the Doux said, voice cutting through Theodorus’s thoughts, “we will now turn and march for the ambush site. We have drawn them north, pinned their attention there, and bought time for the engineers to finish the works.”

Theodorus inclined his head. From the very beginning, the northern thrust had not been meant to win ground so much as to twist the rebels’ thoughts. Make them second-guess, make them argue over whose lands were most at risk, set lord against lord by their own fears. They had held only a narrow hope that they might show signs of fracture and had no way to know if they did, but unpredictability was its own weapon. An enemy who could not read your pattern could not easily counter it.

And they had planned their routes carefully, tracing lines along back roads and friendly villages so the Crown’s host would not stumble into the rebels before they were ready.

“Then we move forward,” the Doux announced, and the air in the room sharpened.

The time for feints was over.