Fallen Eagle

1st Week of April, 1460

Theodorus pushed aside the heavy flaps and stepped into the stifling, lamplit air of the command tent. The canvas walls glowed a dull amber from the braziers, the shadows of its two occupants stretching long and thin across the groundcloth like phantoms laying plans.

The Doux stood over the campaign table, an implacable boulder of a of mail and plate, one calloused hand resting on the edge of a map crinkled and worn from hours spent poring over it. Beside him loomed Sir Silvanus, the other sub-commander of the host, his face half-lit, sharp angles and comely features fading in and out of the firelight.

“Well?” the Doux grunted at his approach, obsidian eyes flicking up to meet Theodorus’s.

“My lord.” Theodorus came to stand opposite them, hands clasped behind his back. “The scouts report that the villagers have done the work. We need only apply the finishing touches.” His gaze dipped briefly to the map. “And the survey of the surrounding passes is complete.”

He would know. He had questioned near every shepherd and village head in the north and western patches of Crown-controlled territory himself. “There are two goat trails on the periphery, and only rough woods between them.”

“And I’ve detained a few suspect men from the army itself,” Sir Silvanus added, voice low, eyes glinting in the firelight, dancing with the flames. “Guards who were seen handing silver to levy who then defected. It took a fair few threats and a fair few silver, but their tongues loosened when both were high enough. Their families are being held in Mangup as we speak, and we had them swear an oath. They're ours now.”

The Doux’s mouth curved into a thin, grim smile, his visage that of an executioner who had finally been handed the right neck.

“Good.” He nodded once. “I will admit, I was skeptical that your feints would bear fruit, Commander.” He turned his full gaze onto Theodorus, the weight of it as tangible as a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.

Theodorus inclined his head. Convincing the Doux to agree to the wandering marches had been a herculean effort, one that passed only after assuring him they would avoid enemy contact at all costs and use a slower marching speed to keep far away from the rebel main forces.

“But we have now identified the most likely individuals who may be spying for our enemies,” Theodorus said.

That had been one of the quiet aims behind the meandering route. In an army of five hundred, it was inevitable that spies and messengers for both rebel lords had slipped through the net. You could not simply crack down openly. Doing such a thing without care would instill panic in your army, was bound to catch innocents in the crossfire, and would tip your hand besides. So they had aimed at something subtler.

Each time the army changed direction abruptly, messengers were forced to ride out as quickly as possible to carry the new course to their masters. Theodorus and Silvanus had counted on it. Urgency made people careless. The need to act swiftly had made the spies sloppy about whom they chose to bribe to bear the news or when they chose to sneak out themselves, as they’d limited foraging ranges and kept the army mostly devoid of camp followers, traders, and the like to limit information dissemination as they had no great need of either given their comparatively secure supplies, small army size and were aiming for a short campaign length.

By dividing the host into small squads under vetted leaders, it was unlikely that those same faces could slip by twice, not with the high alertness instilled after high command’s quiet warnings to the sergeants on duty. Names were taken. Tents were noted. The men who ran, and those who paid them, were carefully traced.

“Now,” Theodorus finished, “we have both the carrot and the stick.”

A sizeable payment was ready for those willing to turn against their employers, as was the knowledge that their families were already hostages in Mangup, being that the defectors had turned out to be members of the Royal Guard. They had felt the noose tightening and held every incentive to switch sides.

“And now,” Sir Silvanus remarked, a wolfish grin cutting across his features, “the enemy won’t be able to sidestep our trap.”

“There are still a few hurdles to overcome,” Theodorus cautioned, pouring a measure of cold water over the rising satisfaction. War had a way of punishing men who grew too pleased with themselves. Sir Silvanus inclined his head, palm lifting in easy acknowledgment.

“I don’t envy the rebels, however.” Sir Silvanus tapped one supple finger on the edge of the map. “First their spies tell them we march south from Mangup. Then they hear we turn north. Then east. Now we march south again. They must think us mad.” A quiet laugh slipped from him, low and genuine. “I mean, no sane army would just wander in circles and call it strategy, would they?”

That earned a brief, amused grin from Theodorus. “Only the most shrewd of commanders would know of such a stratagem,” he said lightly.

“Jest when we have crushed them beneath our spearpoints,” the Doux said, cutting cleanly across the moment. The words were flat and sharp, his tone frigid and devoid of the easy happiness of his subordinates as his eyes had narrowed to hard slits.

"The job's not finished."

“They are heading south, milords.” The third breathless messenger in nearly as many days knelt on the rugs of the joint rebel command tent, head bowed low before the assembled lords.

Adanis could get used to this. He had always commanded loyalty and respect on his own lands, but that was the easy recognition a Lord earned, almost expected, among his servants and retinue.

Now it was different.

Nobles and soldiers from other minor houses averted their gazes and quieted when he spoke. Even headmen from villages that owed him nothing by law trembled if their eyes found him.

Being the leader of a rebellion and at the head of a fifteen–hundred–strong army, a number even the Principality would struggle to muster if it were whole and at peace, was an awe-inspiring statement for both peasant and soldier alike. It spoke of the rebels might. His might

He could already see it in the cradle of his dreams - marching on the capital to raise a true Nomikos bastion of their own. The thought sat in his chest like a living coal. It was his life’s sole purpose now - to make some meaning of the sacrifices and deaths of his brothers and kin.

Puzzled looks passed between the warlike men who dotted the vast, felt-covered pavilion as they took in the third puzzling set of news from the ever-surprising Crown army.

Behind the elevated armchairs Adanis and Philemon lounged in hung a few travel-worn tapestries bearing the Makris goblet and the Nomikos device. It was the bare minimum they could justify on campaign, and even that had required others to talk Adanis down from far grander displays. His instincts ran toward marble and gilt, not felt and canvas.

“So it was a feint all along,” Philemon said from his high-backed chair, voice smooth, eyes alight with satisfaction. “We were right not to remain at a standstill.” He glanced briefly at Adanis.

Adanis knew what the Makris lord meant to say - he had been right, and Adanis wrong. The implication sent a flicker of dissatisfaction through him, sharp and sour, but he would not give Philemon the satisfaction of seeing it. The man pounced on weakness wherever he scented it, and he missed precious few chances.

“It was the prudent course of action to remain in position,” Adanis replied, keeping his chin high and his tone even. “From here, we could answer their movements all the better. And we reap its rewards now.” He countered.

Another harried-looking man shouldered through the entrance at that moment, smearing fresh mud and grit across the rug that guarded the threshold of the pavilion. Adanis’s mouth tightened. God, news and their messengers, they never ended, did they? Leading an army was akin to managing a postal service or some sort of informal message station, always couriers forever coming and going. And his exquisite piece of weaving was the chief victim of that necessity.

That, and his patience.

This particular grime streaked unfortunate belonged to their forward scouts, the riders screening the army’s advance nearly two days’ march out from the vanguard.

“My lords.” The scout went to one knee, dirty leggings pressing into the once-fine carpet as if to grind the insult home. “We’ve sighted traces of the Crown army.”

The news perked up the commanders and captains seated in a half-moon about the central rugs, perched on stools and folding chairs that creaked under mail and leather.

They had been trying to keep hold of the Crown army’s trail ever since word first reached them that it was marching due north, but the Theodoran terrain was as much a curse as a boon. For every hill and crag that offered a vantage, there was a corresponding hollow, fold or gorge that broke the line of sight and swallowed riders whole. You could gain a fine view of one valley only to lose the next three beyond it.

The Crown’s soldiers had not helped matters. They had marched in a maddening fashion, wheeling and turning about as if determined to muddy their own tracks, a most puzzling manoeuvre to any who tried to follow them on a map, and had meant they had had to spread their scouts thin to cover any path they took.

Now, however, they had the scent. And Adanis was a practiced enough hunter to know that changed the game entirely.

“The infidels rear their heads…” Even the Principe - ignorant zealot that he was - understood the importance of the news, and seemed to be practically salivating at the words. “We should march our holy army and mete out judgment upon them!”

He was a presence Adanis had to tolerate in the command tent, but never gladly. He could not imagine the fop leading a nation. He spoke only to demand immediate action, a frontal assault, a charge into the teeth of the foe with no thought or reason. It just so happened that in this instance, his bloodlust happened to point in the right direction.

“Where are they headed?” Philemon asked, hand coming to rest on his chin as he affected nonchalance. The sharp gleam in his eyes betrayed him, however. His posture held a certain tense rigidness if one knew where to look. And Adanis had been watching his ally closely the last few days.

They were allies of convenience until the war ended, but the outcome of this rebellion depended not so much on if they would win, but rather on how the aftermath would look like. And Adanis was already preparing for the endgame.

“Due south, through the western mountains,” the scout reported between breaths. “Two days’ march from us.”

“The western passes?” Sir Dysmas, his new deputy Hypo-Strategos, muttered, his aged white moustache stirring with the words. “They are not the most obvious route to head south.” His brows drew together in a puzzled frown.

“They fear Philemon’s forces in the east,” Adanis mused aloud, following Sir Dysmas’s line of thought to its conclusion. “They wheeled around that way when they came north as well. It may not be the most direct path, but it is the only one they can take with any hope of safety.”

“Hah! All their feints have left them sitting ducks now,” one of Philemon’s senior captains snorted, an unmistakable smile tugging at his lips. “Now that we’ve caught their trail, they can’t hope to outmarch us. Not in rough country.”

“Their peasant rabble can barely keep themselves together. Isn’t that right?” another captain joined in, turning to the first messenger, who had likely come straight from questioning some deserter of the Crown. Peasants were always glad enough to sell their Crown for a pouch of coin and an exemption from fighting. They held no true concept of honour or loyalty.

“Well, their army has been reported as struggling to manage even seven miles in a day,” the messenger said. “They often have to halt on account of straggling groups and plain lack of discipline.”

“How fast can we march?” Adanis asked of the assembled officers. He could almost smell blood in the air, an acrid taste of iron that sat on the tongue.

“Easily twice that,” Sir Dysmas replied. “Our baggage train might not keep pace with the advance column, nor our levy, but the veterans and mercenaries can outstrip the Crown’s army without difficulty.” His tone was quietly hopeful - this might at last be the break they needed.

“We can leave the useless fops in our own ranks to escort the baggage train,” one of the mercenary captains added with a rough laugh, likely referring to the peasant levies they’d raised from their own domains. “They’d be more than happy to sit out the fighting anyway. Less chance of dying for them, more chance of loot for us. It’s a win-win.”

“Our scouts, can they reach the Crown’s heels?” Philemon asked, leaning over the rough-sketched map of the Principality, fingers tracing the inked lines of passes and valleys.

“Aye. Those Tatar bastards we hired can gallop for miles in a day,” the captain in charge of scouting said. He was an Italian, Gioseppo by name, all narrow lines and sharp, sun-dark features. “They’ve more horses than men between them. Give each man a bag of jerky and they’ll live on that until they catch up. After that, they can live off the land while they shadow the march. They don’t need our rations for anything, truly.”

The air in the tent felt charged, as if a storm had rolled in and chosen to sit among them. The Crown had blundered, and badly.

“They likely thought we had stayed put,” Philemon went on, his already wide grin growing wider. “That we would dance to their threats and feints. Instead, we’ve ignored the lot. Now we are scarcely two or three days behind them.”

A feral growl rumbled from one side of the pavilion. Ilnar, who had been silent through most of the assembly - as he was through most of their councils - finally spoke. His pale grey eyes swept over the gathered lords like a knife.

“Will the mountain tribe of the Red Hands finally taste the loot and glory you promised us, lion-man?” he asked through his interpreter, the foreign words being harshly spat out before being rendered into their tongue. Even filtered, his gaze on Adanis was unsettlingly direct, as if weighing him and finding him wanting by some private measure.

The Principe stiffened in his seat at the sound of the Circassian’s voice, jaw tightening. No doubt he was cursing the heathen tribesman in his heart, even as he kept his tongue reluctantly still. He’d made quite a spectacle when he’d arrived, even mocking Adanis's own northerners in the process.

Adanis knew at that moment, the brat could not be reasoned with, so he hadn’t. He’d given him a public dressing down and let him know that the mercenaries would join the councils, and that was final. He had no time for petulant children, nor the inclination to pretend otherwise, unlike Philemon.

“Yes,” Adanis said, letting the word ring. He rose from his chair, drawing every eye in the pavilion. “We march on the Crown. We hunt them down in the open field. We seize the Megas Doux and his lackeys,” his voice gathered strength, settling into the carefully measured cadence he had honed over years of speeches and oaths, “and we end this war before it even truly begins.”

He finished on that hanging note. For a heartbeat the tent was still, then a low murmur of assent passed through the gathered men, like dry kindling catching at the first spark. They could feel it as keenly as he did.

The scent of victory was already on the wind.

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2nd Week of April, 1460

Edae had been given his name for the full moon that bloomed on the night of his birth, and he had worn it like a second skin ever since. It felt to him as if the Sky-Father himself had willed it. At the very least, his mother swore she had heard the god whisper on the eve of the delivery.

It was fitting. The full moon illuminated the darkest corners of the night, and not much escaped Edae’s notice.

He was always faintly pleased when someone called him by name, and equally aware that it usually meant they wanted something from him.

“Edae.” Izzet’s voice came from the mouth of the clearing. "Come look."

The scene laid out before them was one of quiet devastation. Grass lay trampled into the earth, the underbrush kicked apart. The trees nearest the path had been stripped of branches for firewood, bark scarred by careless blades. The usual chorus of the forest was muted; there was no birdsong, no chittering, only the faint creak of saddles and the wind slipping quietly through the leaves. Something large had passed through and disturbed the land’s sanctity.

“The army went west at this point.” Izzet liked stating the obvious. It seemed odd to Edae, but to each their own. “One pair per hill. We follow the trail until we find its culprits.” He also liked ordering people about, as if his word weighed more than anyone else’s.

“And who the fuck put you in charge?” Narket was not one to take orders lying down. Edae shared the sentiment, though he would not have been so quick to give it a voice. Nor in so violent in the manner as he had.

“Someone needs to steady the saddle of this bunch.” Izzet’s face darkened. As much as he enjoyed ordering men around, he did not enjoy being challenged. This quarrel was only the latest of many between the two. “If you have a better plan, I am all ears.”

“The trail is easy enough to follow. Why bother splitting up?” Narket gestured at the obvious path of destruction the Principality’s army had left in its wake.

“Because the high grass ends soon,” Edae said, before the argument could flare hotter. He spoke in the calm, even tone he favoured, tranquil as the full moon he was named for. “Once we reach the rocky hills, it will be bare stone. Evidence of an army’s passing will not be as clear.”

“Fine.” Narket conceded the point with a heavy glare in Edae’s direction. Edae did not mind it. Narket’s fury came and went like the seasons - loud while it lasted, soon enough forgotten.

They split as ordered and rode for the heights, leading their horses at a quick canter through the more treacherous stretches and letting them stretch into an easy gallop where the path widened. Hooves struck sparks on scattered stone as they crested the low, rolling ridges.

“Damn Narket, always making things difficult,” Izzet muttered once the other man was out of earshot. He had drawn the lot to ride with Edae. “I have always known his family to be trouble. They graze on hills already agreed upon, take liberties with the game. I should have seen this coming. They are nothing but lowlifes, my father warned me as much.”

Mocking another clan behind their backs was something Edae found quietly shameful, but he kept his tongue. There was no need to make a fuss over every pettiness. He simply listened to the rhythm of the hooves and watched the land ahead.

If someone had bothered to give their band a proper command structure, quarrels like this would not have so much room to grow. But their employers seemed content to keep the nomads at arm’s length, pushing their camp to the fringes and leaving them to fend for themselves. They did not seem to grasp that ‘their people’ were in truth a knot of feuding clans on the outskirts of civilization, each with its own grudges and slights who'd only interacted with each other briefly over the years since exile.

It was easier, apparently, to lump them together, call them all ‘tatars’, and trust the nomads to sort themselves out.

Edae had heard that some uppity noble had ridden in with the great host from the east and taken offense at their presence - too many ‘heathens’ too close to his august presence. So the Tatars had been pushed to the army’s edges and relegated to scouting duty, out where the wind cut colder and the officers forgot their names.

Edae did not mind. He preferred the shifting shade of the forest to the high walls and cramped, stinking tents of the main encampment. Let the noble have his neat rows of canvas and latrines. So long as the payment came through at war’s end, he would do his part quietly and out of the way until his family pocketed the coin.

Then they would not have to drift from village to village, bartering for scraps with other exiled tribes. They would not have to fight angry farmers and desperate nomads for every scraggly piece of hill fit to graze a half-starved flock.

“Where on earth could they have gone?” Izzet muttered as they crested the hill. From up top, the ground broke into grey teeth of rock and scrub. There was no easy line of trampled grass to mark an army’s passing, only a bifurcation in the stony track that curled between the outcrops. Two narrow roads, no obvious sign which one had swallowed nearly five hundred men.

Edae’s skin prickled. It felt as though the enemy’s path had been chosen with care to hide their scent. They were not as stupid as everyone in camp made them out to be.

“Let’s get closer,” he said.

He did not wait for agreement. He swung down from the saddle and began the careful descent, picking a line where loose stones would not send him sliding. Izzet followed, grumbling under his breath. From the bottom of the slope, the two paths looked less like roads and more like scars cut into the hill, one veering west, the other south.

It did not take long for Edae to find what he was looking for.

“There,” he said, pointing.

Along the western fork, a line of small stones lay overturned, their pale bellies exposed against darker soil where something heavy had rolled through, and in a shallow crack between two rocks, a single grain of blackened oats had wedged itself, crushed half-flat.

By the way Izzet squinted, Edae suspected he might have wandered for an hour to find the same clues had Edae not been there.

Then again, perhaps that was normal. For him, finding tracks had always felt… obvious. Intuitive. The land spoke plainly enough, one simply had to know where to look.

“The right-hand path,” Edae said. “They’re heading west.”

Izzet crouched, tracing the same marks with a careful touch until he nodded. He brought two fingers to his lips and blew a sharp, carrying whistle. Answering calls rose from the neighbouring hills as the other scout pairs turned toward them, converging on the chosen road. Soon they were all moving again, a loose screen of riders spread across the ridgelines, following the faint thread of the Crown army’s passage.

They found the camp toward late afternoon, in a valley nestled like a cupped hand between two low ridges. From above, it looked almost peaceful: a scatter of blackened fire-circles, pale scars of ash on the trampled grass, long rectangular patches where men had slept shoulder to shoulder and pressed the earth flat.

“What happened here?” Narket asked as they rode down, voice dropping without quite knowing why.

“They camped here,” Izzet replied - again with the obvious.

Edae swung from the saddle and knelt beside the nearest firepit. The coals were cold but not ancient, and when he raked his fingers through the grey ash, it clumped slightly with leftover grease before crumbling apart.

“One day old,” he judged aloud. “Fires banked low, no fresh wood chopped. They left in a hurry at dawn, see there?” He pointed at the overlapping boot-prints and hoof-marks, all dragging in the same direction toward the western mouth of the valley. “They brought three, four hundred men through here at the very least, closer to five if I had to guess. Matches the description for the main army.”

“The signs are fresh,” Narket said, unable to hide the savage delight in his voice. “They’re close. I can feel my blood boiling at the thought that we’re nearly on them.”

“I can feel my caution deepening,” Izzet countered, scanning the enclosing slopes. “The closer we get, the more careful we must be. And we need to send word back to camp.”

“Are you scared of some plump white folk?” Narket jeered. “Did one take your manhood?”

Izzet rounded on him at once, fury flaring in his dark eyes. “Shut your mouth before I take yours. You only ever come up with stupid plans. If you want to throw yourself into their waiting arms, be my guest.”

Their bickering scraped along Edae’s nerves like grit in a wound. So he did what he was wont to do when noise became too much. He stepped away from it.

“I will ride back to warn the commanders,” he said simply.

Both men stared at him, surprised. Edae was the one who loved the open sky most, who would rather sleep beneath branches than canvas. But enough useless chirping could sour even that.

The surprise faded quickly and the two fools slipped back into their quarrel. Edae took that as his cue to leave.

He mounted his trusted Yildirim while Yele, his mare, fell in beside them with an easy toss of her head, and he turned their noses due north.

The horses were not truly his. They belonged to his family, and there were few enough to spare where he came from, a great shame of their heritage. Yildirim had already been more his than theirs even before his parents had formally placed the reins in his hands for this perilous business of war, the stallion’s steady, unflappable nature a mirror to his own. Yele was a loan, and a steep one.

His kin were not rich, not even by the meagre standards of exiled clans, and he knew the risk they were taking. Staking two of their best beasts on Edae returning alive and with enough coin to change their fortunes. A horse was a nomad’s lifeblood. Only astride them could their families follow the seasonal winds to the far-flung pastures their herds needed. He was their hope for a better future.

Edae would not let them down.

…

He reached the human-made hill of wood and canvas with dust clinging to his braid and clothes from the hard day’s ride. He'd arrived in record pace, having switched from Yildirim to Yele and back again, stopping only to snatch at sleep and bring down what game he could.

The army’s vanguard halted him - stern men in metal that gleamed dully beneath the late light, encased from head to heel. The sheer bulk of their metal prison could not be kind to their horses’ backs, and Edae found the sight distasteful and faintly ridiculous.

If a man meant to weigh himself down like a stout bull, he thought, he ought at least have the dignity to walk on his own two feet, not pass the burden onto their steeds.

Lilting, unintelligible shouts ran up and down the line as the men made sense of his arrival. Eventually they fetched the interpreter, for Edae had never had the need to cram his head with Greek words.

He was led inward, toward the heart of the column, where the nobles usually rode. They cantered their well-fed horses side by side, speaking lazily, exchanging smiles and polished pleasantries as if this were some great procession and not a march to blood.

Edae did not know what they found so pleasant in war that it made them bare their teeth like that. Men were about to die. Perhaps they simply did not think those men would be themselves.

As he presented before them, Edae bowed his head as he had been taught, bending at the waist until his braid brushed his chest. The gesture still felt strange, folding himself so completely, but the European nobles were insistent on such things.

“Speak,” said the one who reminded Edae of the lions from old tales - broad-shouldered, mane of hair about his head, danger in the stillness of his gaze.

“We have sighted their last camp,” Edae reported, his words flowing through the interpreter’s mouth. “It looked to be half a day old, if that.”

“Hmm, we have only gained half a day,” the other noble said. This one had narrow eyes and a thin, controlled face that made Edae think of a snake coiled in shade.

Men, Edae mused, made fine reflections of the beasts of the forests and hills. In the end, they were all the same, hunting and snapping over the same scraps.

“They are going quicker than expected. We are still a day and a half behind them,” the snake went on.

“And they are drawing us toward the western passes. They are trapping themselves,” the lion answered, their strange-syllabed conversation sliding clean over Edae’s head. The words might as well have been birdsong - he caught only the rhythm, not the meaning.

“Then we will catch them quick enough. We just have to-”

Edae noticed a third noble watching the exchange from the back of a white mare, his eyes glacial and hard with dislike. If one were a snake and the other a lion, this one was a dog, a black mangy cur dressed up as white, hiding its dark coat beneath.

Sand-brown hair curled around a pale, thin face, while deep blue eyes marked him well enough. This was the same man who had demanded the nomads be driven from the main camp. Edae liked living outside the walls, but he did not like being forced to do so. Choice mattered, and something in him bristled whenever it was taken away.

The man’s sneer deepened when he caught Edae’s gaze, and he snapped something harsh.

“Ask that infidel what he is looking at. He is not fit to glare at anyone. He should be begging for mercy for even standing in my presence.” The interpreter hesitated before following through with the request, voice tight with discomfort.

Edae’s face remained still. “His mare,” he said, nodding toward the white horse’s tossing head. “The bridle's pinching her mouth, the skin is raw at the corners. He is pulling too tight. She might get hurt.”

The Principe’s expression darkened to something ugly. “Tell that infidel to mind his own business and get out of my sight!” he shouted, and it sounded to Edae like a high-pitched, whining bark.

Edae met those cold blue eyes for a heartbeat longer while soldiers had to physically restrain the rabid dog as he went on a tangent.

So this was the Principe they were all fighting for - a man who could not even keep his own horse comfortable, nor keep his own temper in check.

The next day the world narrowed to rock and shadow.

Philemon rode beneath looming cliffs, the ravine walls rearing up on either side like the ribs of some stone beast. The column wound ahead and behind him in a long, dusty serpent, banners limp in the still air. Somewhere beyond these cramped defiles, the Crown’s army fled, and with it his archnemesis.

We are close now, he thought, fingers tapping idly against his reins. One good battle, that is all it would take for this rebellion to end on my terms.

The illusion of inevitability lasted until Gioseppo cantered over from the front of the column to speak with them, face grim.

“My Lord, I must speak with you.” He directed himself to Philemon.

Adanis reined up beside him, cloak snapping impatiently as the wind funneled down the ravine. “What happened?” the Nomikos lord snapped, ready to take offense to something as minor as Gioseppo coming to speak first with him.

This despite the fact that he did not lead this rebellion, nor pay the coin to have Gioseppo under his employ. Philemon struggled not to roll his eyes.

The Italian saluted hastily. “My lords,” he corrected, “the way forward is blocked.”

“Blocked?” Adanis repeated, incredulous. “By what? A handful of fallen stones?”

“No, lord.” The man swallowed. “The scouts tell me the passage is choked with thorn and brush. Someone dragged half a forest into it and piled a landslide on top. The way ahead is… impassable.”

Philemon’s brows knit. “What of side paths? Goat tracks, hunting trails?”

“That is the thing, the smaller gullies that might take men around are blocked as well.” The scout leader explained. “I had my men check, there are stakes and thorn-work everywhere.”

“What does this mean?” Philemon asked, though he already suspected the answer.

“If the whole host is to pass, we must either find a way out through the far western steppe.” his tone made clear what he thought of that option. It would be a sizeable detour and would limit the fresh water and foraging they could conduct on the march. “Or turn back east and circumvent Mangup using the old road.”

“What about cutting through?” Adanis demanded. “We have axes.”

“We could,” the man admitted. “But whoever did this knew their work. The trunks are interlocked, the thorn is piled thick, and the sheer amount of rocks… It would take three, perhaps four days to clear the main choke, one and a half for the lesser ones, but as much time lost on the detour if we’re trying to catch up. Truthfully, it will be just as quick to loop around the capital to reach the south.”

"It can't be." Adanis muttered under his breath, showcasing a frustration Philemon felt all too keenly, but wisely kept under wraps. That was something he'd noticed in Adanis. The man was impatient to a fault. And that was crucial information to have on your allies, because when the war ended, there was no guarantee they would remain as such. And Philemon, unlike his counterpart, was planning well into the future.

Gioseppo squinted up-valley. “They did not do this in a night,” the Italian said, voice thoughtful. “You cannot block passes so thoroughly in a single day’s labour. This was planned. Prepared.”

Philemon felt a cold realization settling into place. So. The Doux had not simply blundered from feint to feint.

“First he danced north and east to pin us in place,” Philemon murmured, half to himself. “Then he leaves us a trail through the western heights, where we must move slowly. Now we find every exit nailed shut.” His mouth curved, humourless. “They have led us on a wild chase, but for what?”

“To stall us.” The Italian scout said with conviction, he’d been in enough wars to recognize the intention behind the moves.

“Stall us for what?” Adanis snapped, affronted at the notion that his time had been wasted, and that the easy battle they thought they would have would not come true. “They have achieved nothing. A few days gained will not change our plans.”

Philemon’s mind ran ahead of the words. Time. For whom? For what?

“The Italians,” he thought aloud. “ Do they want the spectre of invasion hanging over all of this? A knife over both our necks.”

Adanis almost laughed at the absurdity of his suggestion, as if he offered anything better. “If the Republic comes, we all lose. Crown and rebels both.” he said aloud, “The Crown has nothing to gain if the peninsula burns.”

“Perhaps they hope to bargain,” Philemon said slowly, mastering the dark frustration he felt inside at Adanis's casual tone. “If they can present themselves as loyal subjects holding the line against us when the banners of the Genoese appear…” He licked his lips. “The Republic would not tolerate an insurrection muddying its designs.”

“It is a desperate ploy,” Adanis said, though his voice had lost some of its earlier certainty.

“It is only conjecture,” Philemon agreed smoothly, hiding his feeling beneath it. “I am merely trying to make sense of their movements. They may simply be buying time to tighten their grip on Mangup and wait for reinforcements of some kind.”

“They might be consolidating with the southern forces.” Gioseppo’s gaze sharpened as he spoke. "Our agents in the capital have yet to report those troops on the move."

Philemon turned that over, eyes widening in realization. “They mean to use them to ambush us in these same western passes.” Yes. That seemed much more in line with what he knew of the Doux.

“Let them,” the Principe said sharply from behind them, his voice ringing with more authority than he actually possessed. “We will crush them there. Let their blood water the stones.”

Philemon did not bother to answer the boy; he had tested his patience dearly the last few days and Philemon was finding little to draw from between him and Adanis both. He kept his eyes on the ravine mouth ahead, imagining archers on the heights, rocks pried loose and waiting.

“We will not walk into our enemy’s chosen killing ground,” he said at last, more to the Principe than to anyone else. “We turn. We loop around and fall on Kalamita instead. Once the port falls, they will not be able to stop our advance, and whatever plans they have laid in these passes will be dust.”

“But their army will be behind us,” Adanis’s boy - Apostolos, if Philemon remembered correctly - said quietly, edging his horse closer.

“And we will get the pitched battle we wanted,” Adanis corrected his son, a sharp glint in his eye. To him, any decisive battle would end in their inevitable victory.

“It is settled, then,” Philemon declared. The decision sat well with him. All the Doux’s twists and turns, all his clever little manoeuvres, had led them to this bottleneck. For all his reputation, the man was as transparent as glass. Philemon would sidestep them all.

“Wait, my lords, if I may,” Gioseppo spoke softly, his foreign accent cutting gently through the murmur of the staff. “Might I suggest we send our light scouts around the obstruction? They can slip past where the main army cannot. With constant eyes on the enemy, any stratagem they attempt becomes worthless. We are close to catching them already. Once our riders find their trail, the Crown will struggle to shake them, and we shall have near-permanent information on their movements.”

“Won’t they be too far ahead if we head east? Too cut off from our line?” Philemon asked. You generally did not throw your forward scouts so far into the dark.

“The Tatars are self-sufficient,” Gioseppo replied smoothly. “And disposable, are they not?” He let a small, knowing smile settle on his lips as he glanced toward the Principe.

“Yes,” the young man said at once, seizing the thought. “They certainly are.”

“Do it, then,” Philemon ordered. The decision pleased him more than he let show on his face. Whatever pretty ploys the Megas Doux still had tucked up his sleeve, they would not escape notice now.

In his mind’s eye, Philemon could already see it: the enemy’s routes laid bare, their choices narrowed, their army hounded. The Principality, piece by piece, was as good as his.