Fallen Eagle-Chapter 19: Everything Else, We Burn

Nestled in a valley southeast of Kerasia, a particular grove held its breath. Here, an offshoot of the Belbek river gurgled around a colossal, moss-eaten boulder that local legend claimed was a tear shed by a giant. The valley walls were steep, creating a natural funnel that opened onto a flat, grassy plane. The trees that grew here were a resilient breed, their wood tough and unyielding. It was a sacred place. It was also a perfect kill box.
“Here.” Theodorus’s voice was quiet, but it landed with the finality of a gavel. He sat astride Boudicca at the mouth of the valley, his gaze sweeping the terrain not with a poet’s appreciation, but with a butcher’s geometry.
“Here, my lord?” Demetrios paused his horse beside him, gripping a quill in one hand and his ever-present stack of notes in the other. The doubt in his voice was a familiar, grounding counterpoint.
“Yes, here.” Theodorus dismounted, his boots sinking into the soft earth. He looked to the third rider, the aged master woodcarver Cistos, whose presence lent a grave authority to their survey. “Cistos. I want this clearing treeless. These pines are strong. Perfect for what we need.”
The old man ran a hand over the rough bark of the nearest trunk, his expression a mixture of professional appraisal and weariness. He had just finished overseeing the construction of crude redoubts in the northernmost hamlets - one reinforced house per settlement, a desperate attempt to give the outlying shepherds a fighting chance. “It will take time, Captain. The harvest is three weeks away. My best men will be in the fields.”
“Then you will have my men,” Theodorus stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Every soldier not on patrol will learn the bite of an axe. I will find a way, because I must.”
Cistos gave a slow, deep nod. He had seen the captain’s will reshape the fort and the very foundations of its garrison; he did not doubt it could reshape a forest.
“CHARGE!”
The roar was a physical force, a wall of sound that slammed into the recruits. Leonidas and his veterans thundered across the training ground, their horses not merely galloping but devouring the earth, a terrifying avalanche of muscle and steel. The recruits braced, their knuckles white on their new oak shields, their feet planted in the mud. This was the final, brutal lesson: how to stand your ground when every instinct screamed at you to run.
The charge was a lie. The veterans would veer away at the last possible second. But the fear was real. The ground trembled, the air crackled with the horses’ snorting fury, and the world narrowed to the sight of those iron-shod hooves and the murderous intent in the riders’ eyes.
They were in the final stretch. Soon the harvest would begin, and half of the garrison’s rotational militia would be gone, called back to their farms. The fort would be at its most vulnerable. Theodorus watched from the ramparts, his mind a topographical map of risk and contingency. The protocols were in place. The recalled men knew to help guide their villagers in their retreat and run, not to their homes, but to one of three predetermined rally points, their path guided by the subsequent smoke signals that would be lit across the frontier, originating from the direction of the raid. His Shepherd Network - made up of hunters and herders who were now his eyes on the frontier - was in position, their signal pyres built and ready to be lit at a moment’s notice and the first trace of invasion. Theodorus’s knowledge of the terrain was now absolute; every game trail and hidden ravine logged in his mind. He’d assembled an army, developed a system, and planned for every contingency. Now, they were in the endgame. And there was one more crucial piece he needed to assemble.
He watched as the recruits held the line, their bodies trembling but their formation unbroken. They were no longer as green as they once were. They were a wall. And soon, he would see if they would bend, or if they would break.
He had his anvil, now he needed his hammer.
Pain and misery were a horseman’s best companions, and Nur Devlet had known their saddle his entire life. The morning’s ritual was a familiar balm against it: the sharp, sour tang of
kumis
, fermented from the milk of his father’s finest mares. He swirled the white liquid in his cup, the scent of the steppe filling his tent. It was the smell of his lineage, a direct line to the Great Khan himself, a legacy forged by his father, Haci the Stallion, who had broken from the Golden Horde to carve out his own Khanate. A lot was expected of his firstborn. Nur would not fail.
This
çapul
- this raid - was another test. A simple one. If his feckless brother, Meñli, had already bloodied these Greeks with half as many men, Nur’s one hundred riders would be an apocalypse to their unfortunates in their countryside. They would be a storm that scoured the earth and made these southerners learn the price of their insolence. They would learn to respect the Khanate. They would learn to respect him.
“The beys have gathered, Kalga-Sultan.” Mustafa stood at the tent flap, his hand over his heart in a gesture of perfect deference. “They await you.”
Nur grunted, downing the
kumis
in one swift, practiced motion. It was a drink of virility, of strength, and he felt it sharpen the world to a predator’s clarity. He rose, his movements economical and swift. Purpose was a current that pulled him through life; to dawdle was to drown.
The war tent was a grand, empty space, the half-dozen beys gathered before the campaign map looking like a sparse handful of stones cast on a vast desert. They were the young scions of their clans, eager for glory.
“Gentlemen,” Nur’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Kalga-Sultan,” came the chorus of respect.
“The Khan has decreed that our southern vassal has forgotten the art of tribute,” Nur stated, his gaze sweeping over them. “A
çapul
is required. There will be plunder for your men and glory for your names. Gather your warriors.”
A figure detached itself from the group. It was Seit, prince of the Bozkurt clan, a man so handsome he seemed carved from marble, his armor polished to a mirror sheen. Nur saw the softness beneath the shine. He was a courtier playing at war.
“My Kalga,” Seit began, his voice as smooth and polished as his armor. “A most worthy calling. The Bozkurt clan will be the first to answer.” He paused, gesturing to the small assembly. “But with so few beys, will the glory not be equally small? Surely a raid of greater scale would yield greater plunder. I have associates who would leap at the chance to join such a prestigious venture.”
Nur felt a familiar, cold contempt. Seit wasn’t seeking glory; he was seeking allies, currying favor. A politician’s move. If there was one thing Nur Devlet despised, it was scheming, conniving bastards like Seit. Despite looking like a warrior, he was anything but. He was the price paid for settling down roots in grand castles like the Europeans. Every year, more soft, entitled children like him joined the Khanate.
“This isn’t a grand raid across the northern pastures or deep into the western Christian Kingdoms.” Nur’s voice was flat, cutting the legs out from under Seit’s ambition. “This is the punishment of an insolent little state. They have earned our attention, but not our respect. The men in this tent are all that is required.”
“Surely taking more men would not hurt our position,” Seit pressed, his voice unwavering. “Underestimating our enemies sets a dangerous precedent.”
Nur fixed him with a deathly stare. Seit was only in this tent because his clan’s influence was a necessary evil, but insolence was a luxury Nur would not afford him. To his credit, the fop did not look away. It was the first worthy thing he had seen from the man so far. It was also a dangerous act of insolence, and it would be his last.
He closed the distance between them, his face contorting into a snarl. His breath, sharp with the morning’s
kumis
, washed over Seit, whose own handsome features curdled in a disgust Nur took pleasure in. “The Khan’s command was clear: one hundred riders. Not one hundred and one. I choose the men. Not you. Not your friends. Not Allah.” He punctuated the statement by deliberately breathing the sour air onto Seit’s face.
“Of course, I did not presume-”
Before the lie could be completed, Nur’s hand shot out. He grabbed the gilded hilt of the ceremonial dagger at Seit’s belt, twisted it from its sheath with contemptuous ease, and pressed the razor-sharp tip just under the man’s chin, forcing his head back.
“Question my command again,” Nur whispered, his voice a chilling hiss, “and I will leave your tongue on a spike for the Greeks to find. It will be the only part of you to see their lands.”
He shoved, sending Seit sprawling to the ground amidst the campaign maps. Nur turned to the other beys, who watched with the impassive eyes of predators. He spat on the felt floor, dangerously close to Seit’s head. “Gather your men. Follow your orders. Or you will end up like our friend here.”
The men didn’t bat an eye at the casual display of violence, which pleased Nur. A nomad shouldn’t fear pain; he should embrace it. Without a word, the beys turned their backs on the fallen prince, a silent, collective shunning that was more brutal than any blow. They filed out, leaving Nur alone with the humiliated man.
Nur took a moment to appreciate his handiwork, then he too vacated the premises, Mustafa following closely behind. From the floor, Seit watched him go, his eyes cold with a vicious, simmering hatred.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. sightings.
“Brother.” Iohannes’s voice was a low, appraising murmur, but the ice had gone out of it. “It is good to see you.”
He stood with the unyielding posture of a man who had settled comfortably into his own authority. As Theodorus entered the study, Iohannes offered a genuine smile of appreciation. He had come to respect his younger brother in a way he had never thought possible. The coalition had been a masterstroke.
“Vintage wine from Lord Evander’s estate,” Iohannes said, pouring a dark red liquid into two copper goblets. “A gesture of goodwill after our last negotiation. He was complaining about the cost of timber. I reminded him that my lands produce a surplus. Our talk was so productive that we ended up forming a joint caravan with Lord Gideon,” He chuckled at the memory. “Now we can bypass the usual traders who so enjoy skimming off our profits. This way, we sell our products directly.”
He handed a goblet to Theodorus, his eyes glinting with the thrill of the transaction. “The investment for this…coalition of yours was steep, I will admit. That first cartload of supplies felt like throwing gold into a fire pit. But the return…” He swirled the wine, a self-satisfied smile touching his lips. “The return is immeasurable. For the first time in living memory, the Sideris name commands respect on this frontier. And I am at the head of it.”
He had established himself as the administrator of the alliance, the logistical mind that calculated the needs and supplies of the various lords, and the delivery of those same goods. By acting as the middleman, he had put himself in a position of importance. It was a role that played perfectly to his strengths, casting him as a meticulous and competent leader in the eyes of his peers. He thrived in the world of ledgers and logistics, and his prestige had soared in the local lords’ eyes as a result.
“And Georgios?” Theodorus asked, taking a slow sip of the wine. It was excellent.
Iohannes scoffed. “Our brother sulks in his hills. The other lords see him for what he is now - a blunt instrument with no vision. They know he was excluded. They come to me.” He gestured to a neat stack of scrolls on his desk. “I’ve been taking your other advice into consideration as well. Identifying their needs, their vanities.”
Theodorus gave a slight, appreciative nod. He had merely planted the seeds; Iohannes, in his own fertile ground of ambition, had made them flourish.
“So, why did you wish to see me?” Iohannes asked, leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.
“As you know, the Tatar threat is real,” Theodorus began, his voice cutting through his brother’s comfortable mood. “And its arrival could undermine everything we have built.”
The mention of the nomads never failed to sour Iohannes’s disposition. “I am aware. That is why we have made these contingencies. Your men are well-trained, and the coalition is strong. The situation is well in hand.”
“No,” Theodorus stated, the word a simple, cold stone dropped into a quiet pool. “It is not enough.”
Iohannes’s frown deepened. “I would have hoped our extensive preparations were sufficient.”
“Do not underestimate them,” Theodorus fixed him with a severe expression. “We have at our disposal a sturdy hedgehog, men who will hold the line against the Tatar charge. But that is not enough. We have no way to hurt them. They can stand in their shieldwall all day, for all the nomads care. That will just make them sitting targets for the Tatars to practice their shooting.”
Hearing the cool, fatalistic certainty in his clever brother’s voice sent a wave of anxiety through Iohannes. This was no laughing matter; a great deal was on the line. He had known the risks of the coalition from the start, and accepted them willingly for the prize of the prestige and power it brought him. Technically, a mutual self-defense pact was not treason, which was why the state had not intervened. But to organize infrastructure projects and collect payment from civilians was to tread upon the authority of the Crown. It was the act of a state within a state, a precedent the Prince could not ignore.
The entire venture was a gamble, one that was actually predicated on the raiders showing up and Theodorus winning a victory so stunning that it would be politically impossible for the Prince not to reward them. But now, the architect of that victory was saying the odds were not in their favour. Suddenly, Iohannes’s newfound prestige felt fragile, the potential rewards distant and pale next to the catastrophic consequences of failure. He felt like a fool for believing it could be so simple.
“Then what are you saying?” Iohannes demanded, his voice tight with urgency.
“I am saying a shield wall is an anvil. It can endure a blow, but it cannot strike back,” Theodorus replied, his tone deceptively mild. “The Tatars’ greatest strength is their mobility. They will harass us, test us, and when they find a weakness, they will crash through us. We cannot win by simply waiting for the hammer to fall.”
“So what can we do?” Iohannes asked, his stress making him brusque.
“We turn the entire frontier into a weapon,” Theodorus said. “But to do so, I will need your help.”
“Lay it on me, little brother.” Iohannes leaned forward, his focus absolute.
“I need you to gather every able-bodied hunter and archer from the lands of our coalition. Your forests, Lord Evander’s hills… anyone who can draw a bow and move unseen through the woods.”
Iohannes’s focus fractured into disbelief. “The hunters? You want them to face a Tatar charge? They are not soldiers.”
“I don’t need them to be soldiers,” Theodorus countered. “I need them to be precisely what they are. They will not stand in the shield wall. They will hunt, like they have always done, only this time it will be a different type of prey.”
“This is a significant undertaking you’re asking of me. Conscripting a levy is within my rights, but my own people will hate me for it. Why am I only hearing of it now?” Iohannes asked, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.
“Because it wasn’t necessary." Theodorus had not mentioned it before because he knew how his brother would oppose the idea. By shortening the timeline until the expected attack, Iohannes felt more keenly the pressure to act. "We have 3 weeks until the harvest. There is enough time for you to work your magic and finagle the men. I don’t need them trained, I just want their word that they’ll show up for the fight.”
“You want me to weaken my own defenses against the Tatar when we expect they will try to strike at my estate.” Iohannes stated, the words a flat line of resistance.
“Precisely, Brother.” Theodorus said with a predatory smile.
Iohannes sighed, exasperated, “Explain.” He had come to assume Theodorus had some reasoning behind his outlandish requests.
“You know my battle plan, Brother. Your estate is unlikely to come to any harm whatsoever.”
“
If
all goes according to plan and the Crimeans act in the way you predicted.”
“They will. Of that, I am sure. And I am willing to wager my reputation on this. I have the most to lose with this whole scheme, Brother, you know this. But the rewards… well, I don’t think I need to mention them. Imagine how it will look to the Prince when he finds out that it was your troops who participated in the battle that beat back the Tatar raiders and protected the Crown’s own lands?”
Iohannes found himself wavering, cursing himself that his greed and ambition were once again getting the better of him. “The estate cannot come to any harm.” He stated, distressed.
“We will meet them before they come to our lands,” Theodorus assured him, hand raised in a pacifying gesture. “And when we do.” He closed his fist into an iron clench, his eyes growing deadly. “We will kill them all. And we will collect the prize.”
Iohannes looked into the cold eyes of a man readying himself to unleash a slaughter and resigned himself to the leap of faith he would take. Like a gambler on a losing streak, he went all in. “Tell me what you need.”
By the southern hills where the Rotted Pine met the Bear Stone, the
çapul
had gathered. They arrived not as an army, but as a confluence of streams flowing into a river - small, tight-knit bands of riders, each loyal to their bey. The air was thick with the smell of horse sweat and woodsmoke, a controlled chaos of men checking bowstrings, sharpening blades, and trading boasts before their invasion.
Nur moved through it all with Mustafa at his side, his eyes missing nothing. A nomad was only as good as his mount and his bow. He stopped before a warrior whose horse favored its left foreleg, the limp almost imperceptible.
“This animal is lame,” Nur stated, his voice flat.
“It is nothing, Kalga-Sultan, a stone on the road-”
“You are a liability,” Nur cut him off, his gaze already moving on. “Go home. Tell your bey I expect a replacement before nightfall.”
The man’s face fell, the shame of the public dismissal a visible blow. As the disgraced warrior was led away, Seit and his riders finally crested the hill, a polished and pristine island in a sea of rugged readiness. Nur saw him, met his gaze for a fraction of a second, and then turned away, continuing his inspection as if the prince of the Bozkurt clan was nothing more than an afterthought.
Before Nur, a crude map was spread across a low table, a patchwork of ghosts and guesses detailing the northern settlements of the Theodoran Principality. He ran a hand over the worn hide, noting the numerous annotations and revisions that dotted its fragmented landscape as villages relocated and disappeared over the years. Many of them, ironically, were due to previous incursions by Nur’s kinsmen.
“This map is a liar,” he began, his voice cutting through the stuffy air. The half-dozen beys crowded closer. “The information here is old, save for what my brother Meñli gleaned from his timid foray.” The truce with the Theodorans and the trade with the Genoese had made them blind to the domains south of their great Khanate. They had information on a few trails and settlements along the way to their target. It would have to be enough.
“Here,” He tapped a spot on the hide, a small forested plain a day’s hard ride from their position. “Is where Meñli stopped. He ed their defenses were a joke and even reduced their pathetic little fort into a ruin.” He still had no idea how the brat had managed that. He hadn’t left with any of the Khanate’s valuable and slow siege equipment. “We will follow his path. They are weak here, and probably scrambling to patch up their defenses.” Some of the younger beys grinned, smelling easy plunder.
“The Greeks are soft,” Nur continued, his voice dripping with scorn. “They are bankrupt farmers hiding behind crumbling stone. I would be surprised if they have laid a single new brick on their fort.” A few snickers of agreement rippled through the group. Nur picked up a piece of charcoal and drew a single, vicious line from their position deep into the map’s interior. “We strike fast and ride for the heartland. For their soft, tender belly.”
That drew a round of predatory chuckles from the room. Seit, however, remained a silent, stony wall, his arms crossed, his handsome face a mask of contempt.
“The villages there are better stocked, and the fear we are meant to incite will be better felt. We have waited until the harvest, and that patience has rewarded us with fat, distracted prey. We will show them what true fear feels like. We take what we can carry, and we return.”
An older bey, Karajai, a man with a face like a weathered rock, raised a hand. “Kalga-Sultan, forgive my caution, but is it not our way to take plunder where we find it? To bypass these villages on our way in seems… wasteful.”
Nur turned his gaze on the old warrior, his expression one of cold, brutal logic. “Plunder is heavy, Karajai. Slaves are slow. They are anchors. Speed is our shield and our sword. We will be a lightning strike, not a crawling thunderstorm. We hit their heartland before they even have time to muster a defense. They will scramble to protect their core, leaving their frontier exposed.” He smiled, a chilling, humorless expression. “And on our return, laden with plunder and slaves, when their pathetic little army is chasing our shadow in the south, who then will be able to stop us? Their farmers cannot outrun our horses.”
The grim logic settled over the beys, their caution melting away into bloodthirsty comprehension.
“I never said we would take nothing.” He paused, staring into every man present in the tent, his smile a feral promise. “On the approach, we can take what is easy, what does not slow our pace.” Nur’s gaze landed last of all on Seit, who wore a faint, cold smile that displeased Nur.
He slammed a fist on the map, startling the beys. "Everything else,” His eyes were two cold, pale blue crystals as he stared down the handsome prince. “We burn.”