Fallen Eagle

2nd week of April 1460

The woods no longer looked like themselves. Masked in between the tangle of undergrowth and straight young trunks hid masses of sharpened stakes and packed raw earth that transformed the forest into a death trap. And Loukas stood at the centre of it all.

“A higher angle on the wood,” he called, lifting his hand to show them. The men from Kalamita grunted as they heaved the cut saplings into position. Each length of timber had been trimmed and carved down to a vicious point, ready to be driven into the base of a narrow, deep ditch they'd dug along the side of the road.

“Aye, sir,” the levy answered, respect lacing their voice.

The word sir sent a thrill through Loukas’s chest every time he heard it. He knew he was meant for more than fitting doors and mending roofs and moments like this felt like proof. A small slice of the greatness he was owed, dangled just close enough for him to taste it.

He stood straighter, shoulders squared like a commander inspecting his line. He was still a carpenter by trade, and these were only military levies, not drilled soldiers. But the taste of power made him feel like he was more than a foreman on an oversized work site, shouting himself hoarse at men hauling timber on the side of a muddy road.

“Cover it up with the plank afterwards,” Loukas ordered. “With the exact placement I showed you.” Time was of the essence, and it was tempting to half-ass the work, but Loukas couldn't call it his own if he felt it subpar, and the trap the commanders had ordered to line across random stretches of the road was a thing of careful management and finnicky processes to get right.

He turned and let his gaze travel down the long stretch of the woods they had been reshaping. This was work on a scale so far beyond his usual that it left him almost giddy. Four hundred men scattered along the valley’s dip, labouring to carve a trap of wood and ditch that wouldn’t be noticed from the main road, but fell right on its purview. Four hundred sets of arms had done a heap of work in the week they’d been here, and not only on the hidden fortifications and traps, but on the road itself, which they had shrunk in width with carefully packed earth, pine nettle and fake vegetation lining its sides to make it believable, another gargantuan task to be completed in no time at all.

It was a sight to behold.

“Ho there!”

A voice broke through his reverie. Loukas blinked and turned. An older man in stained military clothes picked his way over a tangle of roots. Thin, greying hair plastered to his brow with sweat, dark eyes full of life in his weathered face.

Loukas felt a genuine warmth uncurl in his chest. “Antonis,” he greeted, stepping forward to meet him. “How are the ditches looking?”

Antonis had been a road digger before some captain decided he could hold a spear as well as a shovel. Now he wore a sergeant’s sash and was one of the few men on this task Loukas actually liked speaking to who wasn’t directly under his command.

“Being dug,” Antonis replied in his raspy, smoke-rough voice. “Pace is slow, but steady.”

“I’m not sure we can afford slow,” Loukas said, half-joking, half-not. He had been driving his section of the works at a relentless pace since the first day, measuring progress against the impossible deadline the officers had laid on his shoulders. The thought of falling short made his gut twist. Loukas didn’t fail, he didn’t allow himself to.

“Didn’t you hear?” Antonis asked, eyebrows climbing. “The deadline was extended. We’ve been given another week or so to have this place ready.”

Loukas stopped dead. A breath slipped out of him, almost a laugh. “Truly? And how in God’s name did the army manage that?”

“No idea,” Antonis said with a shrug as they fell into step together, walking along the mouth of the construction where the palisade would cut across. Men swarmed over the dip like ants, some nailing planks on carts, others tossing spoil from the ditch in ridges behind them. “And I’m not of a mind to complain.”

“How did you learn this?” Loukas pressed, still wary of believing it. “The higher-ups haven't told us a word. Why?”

“Heard it from the guards at the workers’ outpost this morning,” Antonis said. “A messenger came through at dawn, harried-looking. They waved him straight on to the commander’s camp after.” The older man shot him a knowing look.

“So that’s why I did not hear of it,” Loukas muttered, his mouth twisting. “A craftsman should concern himself more with wood and common labour than with proper military matters.” He pitched his voice into the clipped, nasal tones of the officers, which were members of the Crown guard just like the fools he’d journeyed with to here - and of the exact same simple disposition.

“Hey, come on, they’re not all bad.” Antonis tried, once again, and in vain, to defend his fellow compatriots. “From the first day, you’ve been taunting and bad-mouthing them. They’re not stupid.”

“Really? You could have fooled me.” Loukas muttered it under his breath, but not quite quietly enough.

In his experience the crown guards who loitered around the works were there less to protect them or keep the road clear and more to make certain everyone remembered exactly who wore the better cloaks. They lounged at the edges of the camp with clean mail and polished boots, hands on sword-hilts, watching the labourers strain and sweat with an air of faint amusement. Every offhand remark and every raised eyebrow seemed designed to rub in their faces how much higher the guards stood above the rest of the 'common hands'.

“See?” Antonis complained, seizing on the mutter. “That is exactly the sort of attitude they hate. You need to get a hold of your temper, friend.”

Antonis slipped an arm around Loukas’s shoulders as they walked, the gesture half-companionable, half-restraining.

“I know you do good work,” his voice was calm, almost patient. “And they see it as well. But you treat them as if they were your subordinates.”

Loukas bristled at that, he was not an apprentice to be scolded like so. “I was placed in charge of the wooden constructions of the kill site,” he said, not backing down. He had been handed piles of raw timber and a line of wagons and told to turn them into something that would hold against a charge. Fashioning makeshift mobile barricades from common carts to the precise measurements and odd requirements the higher-ups had rattled off was no small task, not with the first impossible time frame they had given him and the sheer scale of the work they wanted done.

“And they were placed in charge of the security,” Antonis replied. “We all play our small part.”

Loukas’s first instinct was to argue that if ensuring their safety meant standing around staring at others work, then he could do that as well as them. But he supposed that would have been rude, so he bit it back, settling for a stiff nod that made it clear he did not believe what he said.

“I suppose so,” he lied. “At least this extension means I won’t have to compromise the quality of the barricades.”

Whoever that captain had been who first thought to turn wagons into a wall had been a cunning man. The whole arrangement worked best when it acted as a single solitary structure, an abatis covering its flanks and overlapping to leave no gaps wide enough for a horse to nose through. Using one cart as a singular platform was one thing, modifying scores of them to be light enough to be heaved and pulled quickly, but sturdy enough to withstand some modicum of fighting was another thing entirely. They really couldn’t bring themselves to give Loukas anything simple.

Though, if he were being honest, he was the one who kept volunteering himself into these messes, drawn to the challenge and the opportunity to make a name for himself.

“Well, actually…” Antonis began, trailing off. His expression turned sheepish.

“What?” Loukas snapped, dread already stirring within him.

“It’s better to let the higher-ups explain,” Antonis said, expertly sidestepping the role of unlucky messenger.

“Antonis…” Loukas warned, narrowing his eyes.

“Come, friend.” Antonis merely gently guided him, hand still on his shoulder. Loukas hated how effective the gesture was at pacifying him. “They should be announcing it back at camp any moment now.”

"At camp?" Loukas complained. "It will take ages to get there."

…

“You are to use the extra week to cut off any similar alternate paths towards Kalamita,” a commanding voice rang out over the clearing of the workers’ camp, where the chief craftsmen and leaders of the kill-site preparations had been gathered. “We have identified roughly four such crossings or roads that must be deterred.”

Great, Loukas thought. Absolutely fantastic.

So the extension was not for finishing the existing fortifications with proper care, but was really an excuse to heap yet more work on their shoulders. Did they think them biblical figures, gifted with the strength of Samson and the patience of Job?

“We do not have the manpower to completely block all of the approaches, and it would look suspicious besides.”

That, Loukas thought ruefully, was the first sensible thing he had heard all morning.

“So the aim,” the voice continued, “is to make these alternate ways less desirable - partial obstructions, untended paths, muddy roads.”

Dark, beady eyes swept over the gathered officers and master craftsmen as if weighing each man in turn. The steely gaze settled briefly on Loukas, and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

“Failure is not an option.”

The words landed like hammer blows. They were not a request, they were a statement of fact, flat and absolute, with no space left between them for excuses.

Nothing about Poseidippus Papadopoulos ever seemed to bend. There was no give in his posture, no softness at the corners of his mouth. He was the spitting image of his older sibling, and Loukas felt as if under the gaze of the Megas Doux himself.

A chill crept along his spine despite the sweat at his collar.

“Now back to work.”

Back to divining some sort of miracle, he meant, but Loukas but did not flinch from the order.

His mind was already moving, sketching rough lines across the grain of the wood. By God, he would make this work. If there was one thing that set his blood pounding, it was a proper challenge. And they had just laid one squarely in his hands.

The village did not stop when they arrived, but it watched.

Emmanouil felt the change as the carts rattled in. Eyes followed the little train of merchants with their tired mules, patched coats and dusty cloaks.

To a stranger they were nothing special. Six men with carts that had seen better years. The hard set in their backs was hidden under their slouches, though some hid it better than others.

“More limp, less march,” he muttered to the man beside him.

The man grunted and exaggerated his uneven gait. There, now he looked like a proper caravan guard down on his luck.

They drew up at the well in the middle of the village. Harness leather creaked, and the mules blew out tired breaths. Emmanouil climbed down from the front cart and made himself stumble on the last step, catching his weight on the sideboard with a hiss. His knees were sound, but he bent them as if each joint ached.

“Water for the beasts?” he called, letting his voice rise thin and complaining, the way men sounded after too many days on the road.

A knot of villagers edged closer. Curiosity beat caution, as it always did in these small places where news was hard to come by, and people were always starved of proper entertainment.

“Sure stranger,” an old man with a ragged cap to keep off the rain approached, cane by his side, and suspicion in his eyes. "Long road?" He asked, probing.

“Long and cursed,” Emmanouil said at once. “We should have reached Kalamita two days ago. Instead…” He dragged his hand down over his face and let out a breath. “We got ambushed on the road. Had to turn back.”

Around him the others played their parts. Heads shook, shoulders hunched, muttered curses slipped between teeth.

“Bandits?” a woman repeated, voice tight. “On the Kalamita road?”

“Aye,” Emmanouil said, lowering his tone as if sharing something meant for them alone. “They fell on us near the marsh bend, where the trees stand thick. Ten, twelve men with their faces wrapped.” He paused, letting the picture settle. “Told us to give up our goods or they’d give each of us a bloody smile.”

Fear gathered in the little crowd. He felt it in the way they leaned in, the way someone’s hand found a friend’s sleeve.

“They put a bolt through my sleeve,” one of his men added, tapping the slit. “Would’ve pinned me to the barrel if I’d been sitting straight.”

Emmanouil spread his hands. “We lost a mule, a barrel of oil, and a wheel. My cousin’s boy took a cut on the head.” He nodded toward the last cart. A soldier sat there with a bandage over one eye, staring at his knees. The onion they had rubbed around the wound had reddened the skin enough to look convincing. “We turned back. Better alive than lying in a ditch.”

“Plan to let the guards up in Mangup know?” the old man asked. “See if they'll hunt these men?”

“The guards?” Emmanouil snorted, almost relishing in the role. “Those lazy bastards only care for counting coin in the capital, couldn’t care less for us honest folk.” He spat a solid ball of phlegm onto the muddy ground. The irony of his words nearly got him. He had to bite his tongue to keep from grinning. “If you’ve sense, grandfather, you’ll keep your folk off that stretch.” He shook his head sadly.

Emmanouil watched the words take hold. Murmurs passed from mouth to mouth and someone hissed a curse. By evening the tale would have grown teeth.

They stayed in the square for some time, spreading enough details that the villagers could embellish the story later on. The more it grew the better.

He gave them nothing too neat. Lies needed rough edges if they were to be believed.

They bought bread and dried fish, paid with small coins, and accepted the villagers’ pity with weary nods. When they set out again, Emmanouil did not let the carts hurry.

“By the Virgin, Emmanouil,” One of the soldiers said when they were out of ear-shot, rubbing at his onion-stung eye, “if the Prince ever throws us out of the guard, you can earn bread for us on the stage.”

“Feels less like a campaign and more like a travelling troupe,” another man grumbled, though there was humour in it.

Laughter ran along the line of carts, and their sorry, ragtag formation broke apart.

For a moment they looked like Mangup’s royal guard once again instead of the beggared traders they were supposed to be.

Emmanouil allowed himself a brief, crooked smile. He looked back once at the village, now a small smudge behind them, then ahead to the next pale scatter of roofs along the road.

“Come on then, players,” he said. “Curtain’s up again in the next village.”

They pulled their caps down, bent their backs, and let the road carry them on to their next audience.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

3rd Week of April, 1460

“One hundred forty-seven, forty-eight…”

The sergeant prowled along the ragged line of recruits, voice cutting through the chill dawn like a whip. The men stood at a rough approximation of attention, shoulders hunched in their poor man’s gambesons, breathing uneven. They looked less like an army and more like a row of scarecrows someone had driven into the mud and forgotten.

“What a sorry sight they are,” Michail muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Apostolos at his side to hear. His gaze travelled over the assembled dirt-streaked and hollow-eyed faces.

Both of them had been placed in charge of the militia contingent of the rebel host. As the most junior officers in the army, the worst company fell to them by default. Apostolos knew he should have been used to it by now, to every piece of wretched busywork sliding neatly into his lap the moment his father needed something done and no one important to offend. Still, the slight stung every time.

“One hundred sixty-eight, sixty-nine…”

The counting droned on, the sergeant spitting out the numbers as viciously as he could, as if each one had personally offended him. Apostolos had tried to rein in his sergeants, but they were chronically understaffed – two officers and fifteen sergeants to manage nearly three hundred northern militia. With so few hands to keep order, cruelty had become a necessary currency, traded out in curses and cuffs to keep so many rowdy, miserable men in line.

“Let’s see how many are missing today,” Michail grumbled. He kept his voice low, but the edge in it was sharp enough to cut.

Apostolos did not blame him. They had been suffering daily desertions by this point in the campaign. Only a handful each morning, no more than three or four men slipping away under cover of dark, but the number was growing. And it was no wonder, either. The conditions they laboured under would have tested professional troops, let alone half-trained peasants dragged from their fields.

The army’s pace had been a brutal slog from the beginning, set to match the disciplined march of the mercenary companies as they raced to catch up with the Crown’s forces and force a decisive battle – a battle that stubbornly refused to materialise. Now, even with that goal vanishing along with the enemy, the leadership demanded the same punishing tempo, intent on striking fast to finish the war as quickly as possible.

On paper, it made a ruthless sort of sense.

In practice, the peasants were breaking under the strain.

Injuries plagued their ranks as blistered feet turned to raw, infected messes and joints grew swollen. Additionally, there was no proper system for tending the men. Philemon Makris had brought a physician, but the man seemed concerned only with Philemon’s august person and the comfort of the higher officers. The peasant levies might as well have been beasts of burden for all the attention he gave them, no matter how many times Apostolos warned him of the injuries festering in the ranks.

Many of the worst-stricken men were now being carried in the carts that had once borne their supplies. The men could not walk with their torn, swollen feet, and already too many who should have been lying on a wagon bed were forced to limp along behind, teeth clenched, just to keep up with the column.

“It is unsustainable,” Apostolos said at last, voice low and tired. “I will speak to Lord Adanis again on the matter.”

Michail’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening. “So he can brush you off once again?”

Sometimes Apostolos did not know whether his father ignored his reports out of simple indifference to men he deemed less valuable, or whether out of a desire to spite him. Perhaps it was both.

Apostolos didn’t answer immediately. The only sounds were the sergeant’s relentless count in the background and the occasional breathy cough from the line.

“I must try,” he said finally. “They are barely hanging on as it is. The camp is a cesspit.”

Every night they dragged themselves into whatever patch of ground passed for a campsite, utterly exhausted after marching from near dawn to dusk just to make it to the same stopping point as their professional troops. Tents were pitched haphazardly wherever a man happened to drop, firewood was gathered in a frantic sprint and cooking was done by whoever had the strength to hold a spoon and cut the vegetables. The latrines had long since stopped being dug at proper distances or depth – most men simply didn’t have the energy left after the day’s march, and no one had the heart to flog them into shovelling filth in the dark.

Apostolos did not have enough reliable men to impose order on the chaos. He could not be everywhere at once, barking commands in every corner of the camp, and the sergeants he did have were already stretched thin keeping the worst quarrels and thefts from boiling over. Strict curfews, proper work parties, rotating watches – all the neat systems he knew were essential – required a framework, time and discipline they simply did not possess.

They were expected to match pace with professional mercenaries and operate under their regimen, but they had neither the structure nor the staff to make that happen. What they had instead was a stumbling, patchwork host held together by fraying rope and Apostolos’s stubborn will. A hodgepodge he tried to keep from coming entirely apart.

“Captain Apostolos. Captain Michail.”

The voice belonged to a man in the deep burgundy livery of House Nomikos, his fine laminated armour catching the pale morning light. He looked like a goliath striding through a sea of Davids - polished plates and coloured leather towering over the stained gambesons and rough wool around him.

“Your presence is requested at the main command tent,” he announced.

On top of managing nearly three hundred men between the two of them, Apostolos and Michail were also expected to attend every council that sprang up, to listen, to give their input, to nod in all the right places. It made their work that much harder.

“Did they say what the meeting was about?” Apostolos asked.

“To determine the route to take to Kalamita,” the soldier replied. His gaze slid over the assembled militia with open distaste, lip curling slightly at the sight of the muddied boots and slack faces.

“We will be there shortly,” Apostolos said.

“Do not take too long. The Lord is insistent on punctuality, as you well know.” There was a thin edge of satisfaction in the man’s tone as he relayed his master’s impatience.

Apostolos ground his teeth at his father’s command, a familiar tightness coiling in his chest.

“We have to at least be present until the end of the muster to give them their assignments,” Michail said, temper far less sheathed than his cousin’s.

“I am merely conveying what I was told,” the soldier shot back, turning defensive at once.

Apostolos could feel Michail about to bite, a sharp retort already forming on his tongue, and stepped in before it could spill out.

“We will be there shortly,” he repeated, more firmly. “You may inform the Lord that we are on our way.”

The man inclined his head, just deep enough to be proper, then turned on his heel and strode off.

“Asshole.” Michail muttered.

“Two hundred sixty-seven!” the sergeant bellowed, concluding the head count for the day.

It was not a good number.

“Another half a dozen,” Michail said, practically vibrating with contained anger. “It’s starting to get out of hand.”

The sergeant, unlike Michail, did not bother to restrain himself. He launched into a tirade, voice cutting across the ranks as he berated the men present, demanding names, demanding to know who had slipped away in the night. No one gave anything up. Faces remained blank, eyes fixed ahead.

That made two dozen desertions now.

…

The mood in the command tent was a far cry from the desolate numbness that hung over the levy portion of the camp. Here, mercenaries lounged and laughed, swapping stories, some already drinking despite the hour. A few, scattered but unmistakable, were fully inebriated, red-eyed and swaying.

Utterly lacking in discipline, Apostolos thought, the frown carving deep lines into his forehead.

He pushed through them with Michail at his side, his cousin’s expression thunderous. One of the mercenaries, noting their passage, puckered his lips and blew Apostolos an exaggerated kiss through a mouthful of yellowed teeth. Laughter rippled around him. Apostolos did not rise to the bait.

They were among the last to arrive.

“Finally,” his father said. Lord Adanis’s tone was mild, but the disapproval in it was clear enough. Apostolos felt his heart beat faster, as it always did when his father’s displeasure brushed against him. The old, reflexive urge to prove himself, to somehow reach his expectations of him, crawled up his spine no matter how much he had come to hate it.

“We can begin, then. Philemon,” Adanis said, with a small, possessive inclination of his head as if he were granting a favour, setting the meeting in motion and handing Philemon Makris a task.

Philemon rose smoothly, utterly ignoring the implied cue.

“Ah, you’ve arrived, Apostolos Nomikos, Michail Nomikos,” he said, as if Adanis had not spoken at all. “We are all gathered now. Gioseppo, please brief us on what you’ve learned.”

He took back the initiative as neatly as a man snatching a cup from another’s hand. Apostolos had seen such exchanges become more and more frequent as the army trudged onward and the natural problems of a host on the march began to rear their heads. Each council had become an opportunity for one of the High Lords to claim authority and undercut the other as the true leader of the rebellion.

“Of course, my Lord,” Gioseppo replied.

Apostolos found it grimly ironic that the man in charge of their scouting efforts was an Italian of all people.

“I have received reports from my scouts on the road ahead. In a day’s march, we must make a decision.” Gioseppo’s voice carried clearly across the tent.

“A day’s march?” Philemon arched a brow. “Why so little time?”

“The loss of our nomad scouts has severely hindered our scouting capabilities,” the Italian replied.

A shadow passed over the gathered captains and lords. The mention of the nomads drew a series of dark looks. The loss had been small in number, but the army was blinder now, and that could make all the difference.

“Good riddance.”

The haughty voice came from one corner of the pavilion, sharp enough to prick every ear. Apostolos turned, mildly startled.

The Principe rarely intervened in the council meetings these days. While once he had tried to preside over the discussions, seizing every decision and demanding obeisance, now his role had been stripped away until even the pretense of command had thinned. He was no longer the leader of the rebellion, save in the most distant, ceremonial sense. A banner. A pretext.

And he was bitter at that fact.

“Hiring out infidels will be the death of us all,” the Principe went on, gaze smouldering. “Now you pay the cost.”

He fixed that fiery, almost holy anger on the leaders of the rebellion. Lord Adanis and Philemon Makris met his stare with careful, impassive faces, neither cowering nor engaging. It was as if he were shouting at a wall.

Gioseppo cleared his throat slightly and pressed on, eager to drag the conversation back on course.

“Now my scouts must range more conservatively. We are wary of ambushes and anti-scouting measures,” he said. “That caution comes at the cost of fewer and shorter forays.”

He leaned over the broad canvas map spread across the table - the southern stretch of the Principality sketched in ink and faded pigment.

“That being said, they are far enough ahead to have surveyed the beginning of the main passageways towards Kalamita,” he continued, “and they have found that the primary access from Makris lands into the Papadopoulos domains is via this bridge here.”

His finger traced a pale blue vein that stretched across the map, and the crossing that traversed through it.

“Which has been demolished by the enemy.”

A low buzz of muttering rippled through the mercenary captains. Apostolos saw one man roll his eyes, another swear softly under his breath.

“Delays, delays, delays,” Adanis complained, irritation slipping free. Patience had never been his strong suit.

“That removes the main thoroughfare from our consideration,” Gioseppo said briskly. “We are left with three alternative paths.”

He pointed to a faint line to the north.

“This track to the north is reported as bandit-infested, according to the villages my men questioned. The road itself is unkept and relatively narrow.”

“That sounds a poor bet,” Philemon observed aloud, fingers drumming once on the edge of the table.

Gioseppo’s hand shifted to the centre route.

“The middle road is broad enough and in serviceable condition, but the ground is muddy and will be slow to traverse. The hills on either side are extremely wooded.”

“Slow. Too slow,” one of the mercenary captains muttered, earning a few nods.

“And here,” the Italian went on, his finger moving to the southernmost line, “is the main thoroughfare from Kalamita to the capital.”

He indicated the thick, bold stroke on the map: the key artery connecting the two cities.

“It is in excellent condition, relatively level, and would provide the fastest course towards Kalamita. The path is wide and comfortable.”

“That seems like the obvious choice, then,” Philemon said, though his brow furrowed. Apostolos felt his own frown mirror it. If the answer were that simple, there would have been no need for this council.

“Except,” Gioseppo said, “that this route passes through deep valleys and past watchposts and minor fortifications held by the Crown.” His tone cooled as he tapped a series of tiny squares and crosses marking outposts and towers. “And, crucially, the Crown has recently closed traffic along this road. Not at this very moment, but travelling merchants report that the lane was closed for over a week due to ‘bandit activity’.”

“On the main passageway between Mangup and Kalamita?” Adanis scoffed. “That is the most heavily patrolled road in the Principality. The Crown watches it like a hawk.”

“That is what they claim,” Gioseppo said with a short nod.

“It is a trap,” Philemon declared, no hint of doubt in his voice.

“My thoughts exactly.” The Italian stroked his thin moustache, eyes lingering on the inviting southern road as if it were a bright ribbon stretched over a concealed pit.

“They are desperate to ambush us,” Ilnar grunted from his pelt-covered armchair - a ridiculous throne he insisted on dragging to every council. He refused the low stools the others used, and to be fair, they were wholly inadequate for his stout frame. Fur spilled around him like he was some barbarian chieftain rather than a mercenary captain.

“They know they cannot beat the might of the Red Hands in a straight fight.”

His laugh was a harsh, booming thing that filled the pavilion.

“It is an obvious trap,” Philemon agreed, lips curling into a thin smile. “They even tore down the main passage between our lands to funnel us toward the only good road left. And by cutting the road, they hide whatever preparations they are making there for the ambush.”

“Could they not be waiting for us on another road?” Apostolos asked, frowning. “It feels too convenient. Too easy to spot.”

“That is unlikely,” Gioseppo said, turning to face him. The Italian’s dark eyes were shrewd, measuring. “To bring the Crown army through the western passes and then rush them south in time to prepare a proper ambush on another route is already a stretch. A true ambush takes days, sometimes weeks of work. The Crown was counting on us following them into the western passes, or likely choosing this main road, where they had their reinforcements from Kalamita waiting all along ready to respond to either ambush they had planned.”

He tapped the map with a forefinger, the nail clicking softly on the canvas.

“They could, in theory, make for a more distant road,” he went on, “but making it in time to catch us would be uncertain, and why would they think we wouldn’t go on the main thoroughfare?”

“Because the information that the road was blocked was easy to obtain.” Apostolos pointed out but felt that his point was already accounted for by the calculation hidden beneath the Italian’s mild manner.

“Ah, that is where you are mistaken…” Gioseppo smirked, “The information was not easy to obtain at all. The Crown bribed and seized any travellers on that road to keep silent and threatened execution for those who spoke out of turn. My men had to pay dearly for the few terrified merchants who managed to avoid capture and were willing to whisper what they had seen.”

Apostolos was beginning to understand why Philemon had paid Gioseppo’s exorbitant fees.

“The Doux is desperate,” Philemon said, his own smile blossoming into something close to a victorious grin. “His ambush in the west failed, and this one in the south has been discovered likewise. He will have no choice but to fall back on Kalamita and endure a siege or face us in a pitched battle.”

“Our plan is clear, then,” Adanis declared, seizing the moment. His voice was pitched just right, as if he were drawing together a conclusion he alone had reached. “We march by the middle path. The mud will slow us, yes, but better to be cautious than to walk headlong into the enemy’s snare.”

There were nods around the table, and no one openly challenged the decision. The southern road on the map now looked less like an inviting line and more like a blade laid across their path.

The meeting wound down in fits and starts, captains and lords excusing themselves one by one. Apostolos watched them go, weighing his moment, then stepped forward.

“Father,” he said, pitching his voice carefully, “I need a word.”

Adanis turned toward him, gaze raking over his son as he always did, measuring him. After the inspection, he gave a short nod.

“Very well.”

They stepped out together into the grey light beyond the tent flaps and the camp stretched before them in layers with the mercenary companies closest to the command tents and the levy encampment farther out.

“Father, I wanted to speak about the levy militia,” Apostolos began.

“This again?” The displeasure in Adanis’s tone was weary and faintly irritated, the way he got when reminded of some minor, recurring inconvenience. “We have weightier matters than peasant complaints.”

“They are more than complaints,” Apostolos pressed. He kept his voice low as they walked, weaving between tethered horses and stacks of baggage. “They are exhausted. They live in squalor. Coughs and fevers are running through their lines, and riddled with foot injuries. They cannot keep pace with the mercenaries much longer.”

They passed one of the mercenary encampments as he spoke. For all their vices and slovenly habits, the professionals moved with practised efficiency. Tents were coming down in neat order, fires were being stamped out, and equipment was strapped to packs with quick, economical motions. Men joked and swore, but their hands did not slow.

“We must keep the force together,” Adanis replied. “If we break the host apart, we invite the very ambush our foes seek. Divided columns are easy targets.”

“I am not asking to split the army in half,” Apostolos reasoned. “But if we continue at this pace without relief, the levies will not simply slow us, they will start collapsing by the roadside. Every night, more of them fall sick. Every morning, we find men who can barely stand.”

“The strong will endure,” Adanis said. His gaze was fixed ahead, on the clean, orderly motion of the mercenaries breaking camp. “Those who cannot march are no use to us in battle.”

“They will only be of use to us if we keep them from breaking entirely,” Apostolos replied, more tightly than he intended.

“We are marching to win a throne,” Adanis did not even give him the time of daylight. “Not to keep every ploughman content. If we slow, we might lose the advantage and give them time to rally or prepare another ambush.”

They had reached the edge of the mercenary lines now. Beyond, Apostolos could see the levy camp.

“They are not trained soldiers, if we slow our pace-” Apostolos tried again, drawing a sliver of strength from Michail’s presence at his shoulder.

“Out of the question,” Adanis said, the words coming out immediately. “We must force an end to this conflict as soon as possible, and striking quickly is of the essence when you are the attacker. You should know this, son.”

His gaze hardened.

“I certainly had you take military lessons from an early age to understand this.”

Apostolos let the barb pass, letting it lodge itself where all the others did.

“We have already had plenty of desertions, and plenty of injured being dragged in the carts. When the new supplies arrive and fill those empty wagons, how will we move the wounded then? Are we to fight our battle with men limping on bloody stumps?”

He heard the edge in his own voice. He was tired of having to wrestle his father for every scrap of sense.

“Then we will leave them by the wayside,” Adanis replied. "Once we reach Kalamita they can rest all they want. It is only three more days to reach it."

He took a deliberate step closer, so that Apostolos had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.

“We do not need riff-raff,” he went on, each word heavy with disdain. “And if you cannot even control the rabble you have been given, how can you hope to succeed me? It is your job to find a way to stop them from deserting.”

Apostolos could not remember the last time he had glared at his father, not truly. He had always been proper, always done what was required for the family, swallowed his protests and turned them into obedience. And it was never enough. He was never enough.

This time, he did not lower his eyes.

“You are asking for the impossible,” a voice cut in on his right.

Michail. His cousin’s face was flushed dark with anger. Apostolos realised with a jolt that he had never heard Michail speak back to his uncle so directly before.

“It is not Apostolos’s fault that men desert,” Michail went on. “We are doing our best with what we have been given.”

Adanis turned toward him slowly. For a heartbeat, he seemed to swell, as if the affront of another kin contradicting him made him grow broader in sheer offence.

“Then try harder,” he barked, the words cracking like a whip.

“What did you-” Michail began hotly.

Apostolos cut him off with a sharp gesture, fingers slicing the air between them. Michail turned to him, startled.

“Of course, my Lord,” Apostolos said to his father.

His voice was flat, utterly controlled. His face felt like stone.

He did not wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and caught Michail by the arm, pulling him away from the command tent. He could feel Adanis’s gaze on their backs as they left, but he did not grant him the courtesy of another glance.

Adanis’s expression, unseen by his son, remained unreadable.

“Apostolos, we could have-” Michail started, still bristling.

“-Done nothing,” Apostolos cut in, the words harsh but steady. “Not now.”

Michail stared at him. He had seen Apostolos frustrated, weary, resigned. He had never seen his eyes as sharp and rebellious as they were now.

Apostolos was stuck far from home, mired in the most thankless, unglamorous work an army had to offer, in a war he did not believe in, for a father he was starting to hate.

He felt shackled.

Apostolos wondered if this is was all his life would equate to, bleeding for causes for other men, never working towards what he wanted, what he needed.

No.

The thought rose from within him, first weak, but gradually gaining strength.

One day he would have to break out of this desolate prison he had been born into. One day, he would choose his own road, even if he had to tear it out of the earth himself.