Fallen Eagle-Chapter 40: Unwanted, Untapped Assets

Fallen Eagle-Chapter 40: Unwanted, Untapped Assets

“Rotate!” Stathis and the other veterans bellowed the moment Theodorus’s whistle cut through the air, the shrill note their signal for the lead squad rotation. In theory it was simple: the two foremost Dekarchos were to veer off at a slight angle to either side of the road, splitting ten men each way, easing their pace just enough to let the following squads file past in succession before slotting back in at the rear. Done properly, the movement was a smooth, rippling wheel that kept the levy’s pace unbroken and shared the burden of the vanguard among all the men, as the front rank usually had to wrestle with the worst of the principality’s neglected paths, where shrubs grew freely and branches and foliage fell haphazardly on the road.
The reality was a hiccuping stutter that nearly sent the main column folding in on itself. One of the lead men hesitated, going forward when he should have stepped sideways, and collided shoulder-first with the man in front. That man stumbled, checked his stride, and the three files beside him had to slow abruptly to avoid piling into each other. The neat wheel dissolved into a muddled cluster of shouted apologies and muttered curses as boots skidded in the mud.
Theodorus was not disappointed. Irritated, yes, but not surprised. This was what drills on the march were for. The levy had, by now, more or less mastered about-turns and basic marching discipline - keeping step, closing gaps, turning on command. These more complex maneuvers would demand a longer learning curve, especially from peasants who had never marched in their lives, as most of his lot hadn’t. That alone made his levy an oddity; most working-age men in the principality had done at least a few military tours. It was no coincidence his ranks were filled with exceptions. He had picked the dregs after all.
Nevertheless, they would have plenty of patrols to fine-tune their coordination. Out here, on quiet foraging runs, mistakes only bruised shins and pride. The fact that Theodorus would march with them on patrols would also help set the standard and correct mistakes.
“Reform! We try again!” Theodorus called, voice firm but not harsh. “Front squads, you veer when Stathis shouts, not when your neighbour twitches. Eyes ahead, think of the man behind you. If you stumble, he is the one who falls. Now, back into column.”
Theodorus had to time their drills around the stretches where the dekarchos were all together near the wagon. The squads periodically fanned out to probe different paths and approaches, checking for signs of banditry, raiding parties, or newly inaccessible roads and bridges. For these early outings, however, his routes were deliberately conservative. He allowed the levy to split only down parallel paths for 10 to 15 minutes at a time. Partly for security, since they weren’t anywhere near ready for real combat, partly because he wanted to spend the time training them further in complex, layered marching formations and movements, and partly just to ease their legs to the rhythm of marching.
On that note, Theodorus raised his hand and slashed it across his body. The veterans recognized the signal at once.
“Switch sides!”
“Come on, you lot!” The veterans echoed, adding a string of colourful encouragement.
For the next exercise, the groups attempted to trade places across the column. Their marching order was simple enough on paper: two dekarchos in front of the wagon, two behind it, and one squad riding or walking close by the wagon itself, where the sergeants lingered to help stiffen the center. It meant an almost even spread of steel and bodies from front to rear. Now, all along the line, the five men on the left of each file had to cross over to the right, and the five on the right to the left, all without breaking stride or tangling themselves.
It was a difficult exercise on the muddy track they followed. Men tried to sidestep at different moments, packs knocked together, and more than one soldier found his boots sliding out from under him. Late November had turned the road into a churned brown ribbon; a thin, needling drizzle had slicked cloaks and helmets and left fingers cold and clumsy. The weather felt like a punishment the troops could not escape from, seeping into their bones as surely as the fatigue in their calves.
When Theodorus had seen enough of the shambolic weaving and near-collisions, he called a halt. The column shuddered to a halt just as they crested a low hill and the land dipped toward a narrow, stone-banked creek.
“We stop here,” he called.
“Already, Captain?” Charilaos, one of the sergeants he had poached from the castle garrison, stepped up beside him, eyes widened in surprise. “It has scarcely been less than half an hour.” His tone held curiosity rather than challenge, still trying to take a measure of his unorthodox new commander.
“Five minutes rest, wash in the creek.” He commanded the troops, then added more softly. “An easy pace for the first forage outside the walls is a prudent effort with this group.” He gestured toward the men, who were already trudging down toward the water with evident relief, some kneeling to cup the slow, cold current into their mouths, others splashing their faces.
“It also allows the men a chance to clear the knots in their shoulders and to change loads from one side to the other,” he added. It was the sort of small, practical detail most commanders never thought of, but one that could decide whether a column could keep its pace after a full day’s march. You had to keep them moving, yes, but changing a shield to the other arm or shifting a pack’s strap was far harder when you were exhausted, slipping, and every step sent a complaint up from blistered, aching feet.
“Huh, I guess you are right, Captain.” Charilaos took the lesson in stride, shoulders lifting in a small shrug, but Theodorus wasn’t entirely sure how much of it had sunk past the man’s good-natured surface.
“I also want to take the time to care for their feet.” Theodorus raised his hand and signalled Stathis, who moved to the wagon. With a practiced motion, the veteran pulled back the canvas and revealed the small, half-filled bucket of lard Theodorus had negotiated from the swineherd near the Southern District.
“Rub this on any sore spots and mind your feet,” Stathis called out, loud enough for the nearby squads. “If you feel any sore spot, rewrap your foot wraps like we showed to lessen the burden on that end.” He took a smear on his fingers and demonstrated on his own heel, while the other veterans, catching the implicit order, went to their own men and repeated the instructions.
“Ah,” Charilaos said, and Theodorus could picture the lightbulb lighting above his head. “So that’s why you had us teach them all those foot-wrapping techniques, Captain! I had wondered why we were to show them so many ways to wrap a bit of cloth.”
Theodorus couldn’t help a small chuckle at the sergeant’s frankness. “Not just the levy, Sergeant. The veterans can benefit just as much from the technique,” he explained patiently. “Blisters lame old soldiers as much as new ones.”
The tiny rest also let the men reset their minds, to shake off the dull grind of one foot in front of the other. For a peasant who rarely went farther than a cluster of nearby villages or the market town in his whole life, even this short march was a trial. Still, Theodorus had another trick up his sleeve for that particular problem.
After the brief halt, he called for the group to form up and move out again. A few minutes into the renewed march, he glanced sideways and gave Charilaos a subtle hand signal. The sergeant frowned, missed it, and Theodorus tried again, and then a third time before the dense but eager man finally caught on. When he did, understanding dawned, and he drew in a breath.
Charilaos began a low, steady tune, his voice surprisingly smooth for such a thickset man.
“Oh, the road is mud and stone,
chewing leather down to bone.”
The veterans recognized the lyrics they’d practiced late last night and answered in a rough, merry, and utterly disjointed chorus.
“Step by step, rhyme by rhyme,
Ain't no peasant got time to whine.”
Charilaos lifted the next verse, louder now, the rhythm matching the group’s steps.
“Rain that soaks us to the skin,”
The reply rolled back along the column.
“Is just the Lord wantin’ us clean.”
And so the back and forth continued.
“Whatever happens, we’ll make do,”
“Because that’s a peasant’s due.”
A few of the younger levies started to grin, smirking at the shared misery and lyrics.
“Don’t cry, don’t whine, you don’t have time.”
Charilaos called again.
“First one there gets extra wine!”
The veterans answered in similar vein.
Laughter rippled through the ranks. The song was simple, the rhymes coarse, but the rhythm lightened the load on aching shoulders, and the melody began to weave itself naturally into the beat of their feet on the wet earth.
“There’s nothing here, my lord.”
The village headman’s voice was a grave note after the easy melody that had carried them along the road. The tune had spread quickly through the levy, but there was no song in this place, no warmth in the grey little cluster of houses, only shuttered windows and thin smoke from stingy hearths.
“I understand that, good man,” Theodorus replied, keeping his tone diplomatic and even. He had to tread carefully. Being the face of tax collection among the peasantry was one of the quickest ways for a noble’s name to curdle in common mouths. “I come here not to wring you dry, but to plead your case to the Steward. To show that you truly do not have more to spare.”
Despite the disadvantages of the role, he knew it was also an opportunity. Each village on this circuit was a chance to make his face known, to be remembered not only as a captain with armed men but as a man who listened. He would become a known name, whether for bad or good, depended on the story he spun.
“Lord Adanis will surely recognize your position if presented in the correct light,” he continued gently. “But for that, you must show me the truth of the situation - your truth.”
The headman stood with his hands knotted on the knob of his staff. His hair was thin, his back slightly stooped, the lines at the corners of his eyes carved deep by worry more than age. His blank expression made it clear what he thought of promises made in a lord’s name. His faith in Lord Adanis’s mercy was, Theodorus judged, all but nonexistent.
Theodorus sighed. “Leave us,” he said quietly, gesturing to his entourage - Christos, Stathis, and Charilaos. “I must speak with the elder alone.”
The men exchanged a hesitant look, then obeyed, filing out of the cramped house with awkward, dragging steps and the faint rustle of mail and leather. The headman watched them go, his gaze sharpening with curiosity, but he did not move from his spot by the small hearth. His mouth remained pressed into the same severe line it had taken since Theodorus had arrived and announced he was there to collect the additional tithe.
“The Lord will bleed you dry, you know this,” Theodorus said at last, bluntly. The headman’s eyes widened at the unexpected candour from a noble.
“In truth, the Steward sent me as an attempt to ease that bleeding, my good man,” Theodorus went on. “If I return with nothing from here, the Lord will have just cause - in his eyes, at least - to come himself and take everything that isn’t nailed down. I don’t need you to give me the full weight of the tithe.” His expression had hardened into something intent, almost fierce. “I need you to help me work out how much you can possibly give without starving this winter.”
“We have given what we could,” the headman replied, unmoved. “The harvest was not bad, thank God, but the tax is exorbitant. Every mouthful of grain we give now will either mean bellies going hungry or fewer seeds in the ground come spring.”
This was the third village Theodorus had visited on this round, and the first where the headman had stood so firmly against him. It told him something about the edge of the ledge these people were standing on - and how little room there was left before they slipped.
“What are you willing to give up for your loved ones?” Theodorus asked quietly. “Tell me.”
The man, to his credit, recovered quickly from the unexpected question. His jaw tightened, shoulders squaring as if bracing for a blow. “Everything,” he said at last. His eyes were dead set on Theodorus, the single word as much an answer as a warning of what he might do if the captain pushed him too far.
Theodorus nodded slowly, acknowledging the resolve rather than challenging it. “If you could go hungry for a season so your sons, your family, your neighbours could live,” he pressed, voice still calm, “would you not do it?”
The headman stayed silent, lips pressed into a thin line, throat working. He was likely biting back something sharp and dangerous - words that, if spoken to a noble, could not be easily recalled.
“What I’m asking from you is not fair. It is not right. But it is the reality of the situation. You know this.”
Theodorus angled his face to establish eye contact with the headman, who was fastidiously trying to look away from him. Theodorus held the older man’s gaze until the headman, almost against his will, met his eyes. “You have no reason to trust me, but you have to.” Theodorus stated. “If I come back with nothing, the next face that rides through here won’t ask. They will take what they want at sword point. And you know this as well.”
Colour rushed up the headman’s neck, reaching into his cheeks, turning his weathered face a mottled purple, primed for explosion.
“It’s not fair,” he burst out. “It’s never been fair. We break our backs in these fields from dawn to dark, year after year, and every time it’s the same story,” The words tumbled over each other, years of bitterness pushing them out. “Another tax, another ‘exceptional’ levy that’ll never happen again, so they say. Just this once, they say. Just this season, just this war.”
His hand slammed down on the small table between them, the rickety wood groaning from the impact.
“We slave away for this Principality,” he went on, voice rising, “and what do we get? Pretty lies and deadly threats. Smiling stewards in fine cloaks who speak of duty and sacrifice while they count every grain we hand over. I am tired, Captain. Tired of being told to be grateful while my people starve.”
Tears welled up and spilled over, carving clean tracks down his grime-streaked cheeks.
“Where was the Crown last winter when little Acamas died from a wheezing cough, too thin to even fight it?” he demanded, voice breaking on the name. “Or when old Gerasimos couldn’t pay the tithe ‘cause of a bad hip injury?” His eyes were red and bloodshot with suffering, with the horror of being the man everyone looked to for answers and the one who felt the weight of every death as a personal failure. “Where were they when my Cleo passed away, when just a single more sack of wheat might have kept her alive?!”
He crumpled onto his chair, as if his anger had cut its own legs out from under him. “Forty years… forty years she gave to this Principality, Captain,” he whispered, the fight gone from his tone. “And that is how they repaid her.”
Theodorus let the man spend the next few minutes grieving, shoulders shaking with deep, helpless sobs. There was nothing he could say that would not feel like an insult, nothing that would not sound like a noble’s polite lie. To the headman, Theodorus was a noble, someone who could never and would never experience the pain of losing someone to hunger.
So he stayed where he was, quietly beside the headman, offering no hollow consolations, no promises he could not keep - only a steady, respectful silence and the inescapable presence that reminded the old man of the choice he would have to make.
After all the rage, all the sadness had burned itself out, the headman scrubbed at his face with the heel of his palm. The room returned to the brittle stillness of before, but something inside him seemed spent, hollowed out.
“Very well, Captain.” The headman’s voice was a thin, frayed thread. The sad, weary tone of a man who had long since given up hope, but who went on living because others depended on him. “I’ll show you what we have.”
Theodorus was led out into the cold air and to the least run-down building in the village - a squat structure whose walls actually looked as though they might withstand a strong wind, and whose roof was not a patchwork of leaks waiting to happen.
At the door, however, he spotted something that piqued his interest: In a wild patch of ground that looked untended, near a shallow pool of near-freezing water, a horse stood tethered. Its dark coat was dusted and feathered with snowflakes, steam faintly ghosting from its nostrils with each breath. The animal did not seem to mind the cold, ears flicking lazily as it cropped at the short nubs of grass within reach of its rope, movements steady and unbothered.
“Whose horse is that?” Theodorus asked, pausing. Possessing such a fine steed seemed well beyond the means of any in the destitute village.
The question drew a sour sneer from the old man the moment he saw where Theodorus was looking.
“It’s a nomad’s horse, my lord,” the headman said, distaste curling his lip. “They sometimes graze their beasts close to the village, but only if there’s no better pasture nearer their own camps. At least, they’re supposed to.” He narrowed his eyes at the horse, as though weighing some private grievance.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from NovelFire. If you see it on Amazon, please it.
“You have Tatar families living nearby?” Theodorus asked, genuinely surprised.
“Aye,” the headman said. “They’re scattered all across the countryside, in truth, my lord. But I’m not surprised you’ve not heard of it. They avoid the bigger towns, keep to their little islands of family, or clan, or whatever they call it.” He spat on the ground. “Claim they’re Theodorans, but they’ve as much blood in common with me as I do with the Pope. We let them live in their lot - it’s not worth the trouble to chase them out - and the Crown doesn’t seem none too eager to bother with them either.”
“I see…” Theodorus murmured. He had always known, in the abstract, that Gothia was a mixing ground of Gothic and other Germanic tribes, Alanic/Turkic nomads, Greeks, and more besides. It made perfect sense that this mixture played out in the cracks between villages; there were no neat lines demarcating each community, especially in a medieval world with little to no border control.
Despite this cultural mixing pot, simmering prejudice, quiet separation, and suspicion lingered in every sideways glance. In a society as deeply religious and traditional as this, old lines were not easily erased.
“Best stay away from them, my lord,” the headman advised curtly. “Follow me. The granary is this way.”
Theodorus fell into step beside him, but his gaze lingered a moment longer on the horse before he followed suit.
Inside the room, it was immediately clear where the village had poured most of its meager resources. The walls of the old house had been shored up with fresh daub, the gaps between the timbers stuffed with straw and mud. The floor, though uneven, had been swept clean, and the tiny, clouded window was shuttered tight to keep out damp and thieves alike.
Many dozens of sacks were stacked in neat, careful rows, rising almost to the rafters in places. The makeshift granary, an abandoned home turned communal store, smelled of dust, chaff, and the faint sourness of old grain.
“This is our communal store,” the headman explained, his voice steadier now. “A portion set aside to distribute amongst those who need it the most.” He gestured at the sacks with a tired, proprietary pride. “Close to a hundred and fifty sacks of grain.”
It sounded like a fortune when said aloud, but Theodorus knew better. Those sacks had to carry the village through winter, spring planting, and the hungry stretch before harvest, and still leave enough seed to put in the ground next year. Suddenly, the stacked rows looked much smaller.
“What kind?” Theodorus asked. He stepped up to one of the sacks, eased the cord loose, and carefully pried it open. The rough cloth rasped under his fingers. He plunged a hand into the grain and let it run through, feeling the weight, the texture.
“Mostly barley and oats, my lord,” the headman replied, his tone soft and raw. “The ground here doesn’t allow for more.”
“These grains…” Theodorus said slowly, catching a few kernels between his fingertips. He rolled them, studying their shape and colour. “What happened to them?”
The kernels were underfilled, not ruined, but stunted.
“Aye, the grain here is poor, my lord,” the headman admitted. “But only in half the patches. In most fields, it turns out better.” He sounded faintly surprised; it wasn’t every day a military commander noticed the difference in the grain itself rather than just the count of sacks.
“In patches?” Theodorus repeated, his attention sharpening. He tied the sack shut again, eyes narrowing in thought. “Show me the fields.”
Theodorus scooped up a clod of earth from the recently harvested fields, his gloved hands straining as he dug through the thin crust of snow. The fields were blanketed with a pale, uneven sheet of white, short, stubbled stalks of barley poking up through it like bristles.
“This is the bad patch?” he asked, bringing the compact lump of soil up to eye level. Under the snow, the earth was dark and clay-thick, frozen almost solid.
“Aye, this field’s grain is cursed, my lord,” the headman said. “Has been for as long as we can remember. The grain comes out half as full and twice as poor. But we’ve nowhere else to plant. The land yields little.” His gaze wandered across the fields that filled the little nestled vale, a patchwork of white and muddy brown. “But it is what we have, and we’ve always made do.”
“Does the field clog with water during the rainy seasons?” Theodorus asked, crushing the earth gently in his palm, feeling the resistance. “Do puddles form at the outskirts? Is the soil damp long after the rain stops?”
“Yes, how did you know, my lord?” The headman’s eyes widened in honest surprise.
It was, Theodorus knew, a stroke of luck that he recognized the problem at all. He was no farmer, but history had taught him plenty about the inefficiencies of early medieval horticultural practices, and the various famines brought about in the Indian Raj, ironically not to drought, but to too much rain during monsoon season.
“The soil isn’t cursed, elder,” Theodorus said. “It is drenched with water.” He offered the clod to the headman, dropping it into the man’s coarse, scarred hands. The callouses were so thick he barely seemed to feel the cold bite of the frozen earth.
“Tell me what you feel,” Theodorus prompted.
“It’s hard,” the headman said slowly, confused. “And cold.”
“Exactly. It’s filled with water that has frozen with the cold.” Theodorus nodded, glancing sideways. Stathis and Christos, standing a few paces off with their cloaks drawn tight, were both watching with thoughtful expressions.
“But what does that matter, my lord?” the headman asked. He was being pulled along by Theodorus’s chain of thought, but the conclusion hadn’t yet settled.
“Water trapped under the soil drowns the roots,” Theodorus explained, gesturing toward the field. “Same as a man would drown if his head were held beneath a river. They can’t breathe, can’t take what they need. That’s why the grain is so poor here, and why the seed kernels are only half filled.”
The headman exhaled, a long, weary gust of breath. “We had realized this ground yielded little on account of the water,” he admitted. “But we never understood the why of it.” His eyes narrowed slightly, looking Theodorus up and down, taking in the young man’s straight back, his clean cloak, the sword at his hip. “Although… how can you be so sure, my lord? Do you have experience farming?”
“Back on my estate we had similar problems,” Theodorus said smoothly. “And there were plenty of men far smarter and more experienced with the soil who taught me how to spot this particular problem,” Theodorus lied through the skin of his teeth. Demetrios wasn’t here to contradict him, after all. “And how to
fix it
.”
Theodorus paced out a line with his boot, tracing a shallow curve that ran from the higher ground down toward the natural dip of the valley. “The answer is simple enough,” he said. “You cut drains where the water likes to creep after a rain. About a foot deep and a foot wide. Nothing grand.”
The headman folded his arms, brow furrowing. “Drains,” he repeated, clearly unconvinced.
“Yes,” Theodorus went on. “You watch the next rainfall, see where the puddles linger, and your boots squelch. Then you cut shallow trenches,” He toed an imaginary line along the field. “With the ground sloping gently toward the fall. The water will follow the cut and move downslope instead of sitting under your crop.”
The headman sucked his teeth. “And when the trench fills?” he countered. “A cut like that holds only so much. Then it’ll turn into a boggy furrow and we’ll have traded one cursed strip for another.”
“For those stretches,” Theodorus explained, a flicker of respect passing through his glance at the man’s astuteness. “You pack them with tight rolls of twigs and reeds, what we call fascines.”
“Fas-cines?” The headman tasted the words with a good pinch of doubt.
“Lay them into the trench where the water is worst.” Theodorus pressed on, unabated. “They’ll soak up the extra water so what you fear won’t come to pass.”
He nudged the edge of the field with his heel. “And you can even heap the soil you dig out for the drains across the fields - little dry islands where you sow the seed. When it rains, the excess runs into the cuts below, and your crop sits higher, in drier earth.”
The headman stared out over the field, jaw working as he imagined it. “It… has a sort of sense to it,” he admitted grudgingly. “But we don’t have the people to do this for every bad field. Not with winter on us. The folk are tired, Captain. Bone-tired.”
“You don’t have to,” Theodorus said, “Let us do it.” He turned to meet the elder’s eye. “My levy will cut the drains, lay the fascines, raise the ridges. But in return, you lend the Steward’s tithe in full.”
“In full?” The headman’s gaze sharpened.
“In full,” Theodorus repeated. “Don’t pretend there’s nothing buried or tucked away beyond reach. I know I’m asking you to gamble with your bellies. You will be hungry.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “But with rationing, you can survive this till next harvest, and you’ll have better fields next year, something you’ll benefit from for many years to come.”
The headman was silent for a long moment. “If the weather’s not cursed and we watch every crumb, we can make it,” he said at last, slowly. “But hear me, Captain.” His eyes hardened. “ I have been tricked before. Many times. If this time is no different…” His voice dropped, low and flat. “Next time it won’t end in pretty words.”
As Theodorus walked the headman back to his house, he could not keep the question to himself. “Pardon me for asking, elder,” he said, “but why is your house not the largest? I couldn’t help but notice other homes in the village are just as spacious, some better furnished than yours.”
The headman had spent the afternoon leading Theodorus through the village, persuading families, sometimes with only a look, sometimes with a quiet talk behind closed doors, to hand over their hidden stores. In that time, Theodorus had compared this place to the other villages on his circuit. Yes, they were poor, underfed, and clearly struggling like the rest of the principality, but there was a vigor here he had not seen elsewhere. Children were less silent, less hollow-eyed. An occasional laugh slipped from a doorway. The people walked with a touch more purpose, as if life were hard but not yet hopeless.
And then there was the granary. Even if only part of their food passed through it, the very existence of a communal store was a step above the scattered hoards he’d found elsewhere, where grain was kept in each family’s house and shared only when desperation forced it. The communal granary suggested a level of organization a step above, brought about by someone.
Theodorus suspected that someone was the tired, stubborn man at his side.
“I would have thought your cot was the largest in the village,” Theodorus remarked, glancing around at the modest dwelling. “You’ve been reeve for many years, from what I understand, and they often have access to certain benefits like priority in gleaning and pasture rights, and better rent rates. Could you not invest in a better dwelling?”
“I did,” the headman confirmed, increasingly impressed by the young noble who not only knew their customs but asked questions that cut straight to the heart of things.
“Then where is it?” Theodorus asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Oh, but you saw it,” the headman replied, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked, for a brief moment, like a much younger man smirking at a private joke. “You saw its inside very well,” he added, eyes gleaming.
“The granary?” Theodorus asked, taken aback as the answer fell into place. “That used to be your house?”
“We had need of a place to store the grain,” the headman said with a simple shrug. “And it was the best-built house for the task. Dry roof, sound walls, close to the center.” He waved a hand, as if surrendering such a prize were nothing. “So we turned it over. The village needed it more than I did.”
Theodorus was impressed; he deduced that this canny old man had not only done this out of the kindness of his heart. He’d also used it to win trust, to establish the authority needed to push through practices - like the communal granary - that had kept this village a fraction stronger than its neighbours.
The man was, in his own quiet way, wrestling the odds on behalf of his people.
“Might I learn your name, elder? I believe I haven’t asked for it yet.” Theodorus inquired, his tone much more respectful than the diplomatic tone he’d used so far.
Stathis, standing a little behind, raised an eyebrow at the shift. It was rare enough, in this principality, for a noble to speak politely to a peasant. To treat a reeve - let alone a mere village headman - with this kind of deference was almost unheard of.
“It’s Pantelis,” the man replied. For the first time, a full, unguarded smile spread across his face, softening the deep lines of grief and worry. “And you can drop the ‘elder,’ my lord. It makes me feel old.”
That drew a quiet chuckle from Theodorus. He inclined his head. “Master Pantelis, then.”
As they parted, Theodorus felt a small but real sense of satisfaction. In the middle of this half-frozen backwater, he had stumbled on something truly precious - not a hidden hoard of silver or a secret store of weapons. Something much more valuable: a leader, rooted in the hardy Theodoran soil.
As the patrol was tramping out of the village and onto the road toward the next settlement, Theodorus lifted his arm and gave a sharp signal.
“Left here,” he called.
Charilaos, who had been drawing breath and straightening his shoulders in preparation for another marching song, blinked and turned in surprise.
“Here, my lord?” he asked, gesturing down the better-kept track to the right. “Isn’t the proper road that way?”
“I want to check something. It won’t be long,” Theodorus replied. He offered no further explanation, but from the knowing look Stathis shot him from, Theodorus suspected his intentions were not entirely opaque to everyone.
As the patrol rounded the bend, the path deteriorated quickly. The ruts deepened, stones jutted through the thin crust of snow, and exposed roots turned the ground into a treacherous maze. The wagon began to lurch and groan with every step of the oxen.
Theodorus raised his hand again. “The wagon stays,” he ordered. “And the levy with it.” Where he was going, an armed presence wouldn’t be welcome anyhow.
He pressed on with a smaller party: his honour guard of Christos and Stathis, and a handful of the steadiest levies.
“Where are we going, Captain?” Christos ventured once they were out of earshot of the main group. His breath steamed in the cold, words puffing into the air.
“I want to look in on some of the untapped resources of our Principality,” Theodorus answered from atop Boudicca. His dark hair fluttered in the wind, already speckled white by the intermittent, drifting snow. “And see what they have to offer.”
Theodorus left Christos to wander on the meaning as they neared a few felt yurts nestled in a clearing in the woods. A handful of goats nosed at the ground in a rough pen, tearing at whatever tufts of grass they could find. Nearby, a string of horses stood tied to different posts around the perimeter of the clearing, the earth around their hooves beaten down and nibbled short.
Despite the season, the grass beneath the snow still showed patches of stubborn green where the animals had pawed it clear. Each horse wore a rough woollen pelt strapped over its back - a sort of padded jacket against the cold.
A few children were playing with sticks, dragging lines and crude shapes into the snow, though Theodorus suspected they ought to be watching over the animals. The moment they spotted the approaching soldiers, though, their laughter cut off. They stared for a heartbeat, eyes wide, then bolted for the nearest yurt and vanished inside without so much as a backward glance.
By the time Theodorus and his little party rode into the clearing proper, a knot of men had emerged to meet them. Cloaked in heavy furs and equally heavy frowns. Their skin was darkened by wind and sun, their cheekbones high, their eyes narrow and watchful - Tatars, beyond doubt. Their gaunt faces and the spare, hard lines of their bodies spoke of a life lived off the edges of other people’s maps.
“Greetings,” Theodorus called, reining Boudicca in a little distance from the nearest yurt. He raised an open hand to show peaceful intent. “Do any of you understand Greek?”
It was the oldest among them who answered. He stepped slightly forward, the others shifting subtly to give him space.
“A bit, officer,” he said. His syllables were clipped and uneven, the words thick with accent. “What is the problem?”
“There is no problem, my good man,” Theodorus replied, letting his voice soften. “I simply wished to ask a few questions, if you’ll allow it. May I have your name?”
As he spoke, his gaze moved over the camp. The felt of the yurts was worn thin in places, patched and re-patched. The wooden frames of their lean-tos sagged a little. The people’s clothing was much the same: furs and wool, but thinned and mended, more gaps than thickness in places. They would feel the bite of the true winter once it settled.
These people were not living well. Existing, perhaps. Surviving on the margins.
“It is Ilnur,” the old man said at last, reluctance evident in the way the name left his tongue.
“May we speak inside?” Theodorus asked after a moment, breath steaming in the cold. “The wind cuts like a knife out here.”
Ilnur’s mouth tightened, displeasure plain in the lines at the corners of his eyes. For a heartbeat, Theodorus thought he might refuse. Then the old Tatar studied him more closely, gaze sharpening, as if weighing something behind the young officer’s eyes.
“Very well,” Ilnur said at last, stepping aside. “Come into the tent.”
Theodorus placed his right hand flat over his chest and bowed his head in thanks. A simple gesture, but one he knew carried weight among Turkic peoples. Several of the men at the entrance exchanged quick, startled glances at the familiar sign of respect before schooling their faces again.
At the felt flap, Theodorus paused. He unbuckled his sword belt and slid his dagger free, laying both carefully by the entrance where all could see them. Behind him, Stathis reacted instantly.
“Captain, you cannot enter unarmed.”
Christos actually moved forward to physically stop Theodorus from disarming himself.
“That is enough,” Theodorus said quietly, without turning. There was steel in the softness of his tone. “You will remain outside. Weapons in hand and eyes open. I’ll be fine.”
Reluctant silence followed. The Tatars, for their part, stared at the sheathed weapons on the ground, with a focused stillness..
Theodorus ducked through the low entrance and stepped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted. The air was warmer here, thick with the smell of wool, smoke, and fermented milk. Rugs and felt mats covered the ground, a weary patchwork of colour under his boots. He stood just inside, waiting, hands loose at his sides.
Ilnur gestured toward a simple futon laid near the central hearth. “Sit, officer.”
Theodorus inclined his head and settled where indicated. Women moved quietly along the edges of the tent, their faces mostly averted. One approached with a wooden tray bearing small bowls and pale, dried lumps of something white and crumbly.
Soured milk snacks - qurt. Theodorus’s eyes lit up, though he kept the smile small and polite as he accepted a piece between his fingers.
“My thanks,” he said, tasting it. They were sour, salty, hard enough to crack a tooth if you weren’t careful.
They pressed a bowl of thick yoghurt and a few more of the dried curds on him; he accepted each offering, thanking them with the same hand-to-chest gesture.
He let the quiet stretch just long enough to acknowledge their hospitality before he spoke.
“How is your health?” he asked mildly. “Your people. The children outside looked lively enough.” They also looked stick thin.
“Some good, some not,” Ilnur replied, guarded. “Winter is hard for all.”
“And your herds? Goats, horses?” Theodorus continued, as if engaged in nothing more than idle conversation.
“We keep what we can,” Ilnur’s eyes stayed on Theodorus, weighing every word. “Enough to live.”
The answers were vague, the tone cautious. They were measuring him as much as he was measuring them. Theodorus did not press, simply nodding and taking another small bite of yoghurt.
At last he asked, in the same mild voice, “How did you come to be here, Ilnur? On this patch of woodland, far from the Khanate’s pastures?”
Silence fell like a dropped cloak. The men glanced at one another, then slipped into Turkic, their words flowing quickly and low. He did not interrupt. He only sat, chewing slowly, eyes lowered in polite patience.
After a time, the muttering died down. Ilnur’s shoulders sagged a fraction, as if some decision had been made.
“We had no place in the Khanate,” he said finally. “Not under the rulers who sit their saddles now.”
Theodorus inclined his head, hiding the glint of understanding in his eyes. Political exiles, then. Out of favour, out of luck, or too dangerous to keep close. “Khanate politics can be… cutthroat,” he said softly. “I have heard as much.”
A few of the men gave him sharper looks at that.
“How is it, then?” Theodorus continued. “Living out here, far from any city walls? Always one eye on the trees, wondering who might come riding through them?”
“It is the way of things,” Ilnur replied stiffly. “The will of the Sky-Father.”
Theodorus turned the empty bowl in his hands, thumb tracing the worn rim. “Do you think so?” he asked at last, quietly. “That this is truly his will?”
Several heads snapped toward him; the air in the tent tightened.
“The Sky-Father, the spirits,” Theodorus went on, voice calm. “They speak of balance, do they not? Between steppe and forest, horse and man, giving and taking? Forgive me, but your situation… does not look balanced. Not from where I sit.”
The words hung there, soft but sharp. For a heartbeat, no one moved.
“You know much of our ways, Captain,” Ilnur said at last, slowly.
“I pride myself on knowing my neighbours,” Theodorus replied, meeting his eyes. “And the people who live within our principality’s borders. Everyone can contribute to the greater whole, if given the chance.”
“That does not always happen, my lord,” Ilnur said. One of the women pressed a steaming cup into his hand; he drank, the faint sour-sweet smell of kumis rising into the air.
“I know,” Theodorus said, nursing his own cup. The drink was warm and strange and familiar all at once. “But would you be open to the idea of a fair agreement? Of coexistence, instead of suspicion?”
Ilnur’s gaze sharpened again. “What would that
coexistence
mean for us?” he asked. “In truth. Not in pretty words.”
“You keep your way of life,” Theodorus assured. “Your tents, your horses, your gods. I have no interest in changing that. I mean only that the hatred between our peoples might lessen. That we might trade instead of raid, help instead of harry. There is much we could offer each other.”
He held Ilnur’s gaze, unflinching.
“If such a dream could live,” Ilnur said slowly, “we would be glad to see it. We are no longer welcome in our homeland. So we must make a new one.” His eyes darkened, fingers whitening around the cup. “But those words smell of dainty dreams. Hate holds deep roots in men’s hearts.”
A quiet settled over the tent, heavy but not hostile. They finished their drinks in silence, the crackle of the small hearth filling the space where words might have gone. When the cups were empty, Ilnur set his down with quiet finality.
“You should go,” he said, his tone a step below command. “The snow will fall harder soon.”
“Of course,” Theodorus replied, bowing his head. “Thank you for your hospitality, Ilnur.”
He rose, backed away from the hearth, and left the tent the way he had entered - hand to chest in farewell. Outside, he buckled on his sword and slipped his dagger back into place, then swung up onto Boudicca’s back.
“That was dangerous,” Christos said under his breath as they turned their horses toward the trees. “Going in there alone, unarmed.”
“It was worth it,” Theodorus answered, eyes on the path ahead.
Stathis rode up on his other side, snow settling on his beard. “What exactly did you hope to gain from trading words with nomads?”
Theodorus smiled faintly. “Two men working side by side,” he said, “can accomplish far more than two rivals tripping each other at every step.”
Christos grunted. “So you want to work with them?”
“Unwanted, untapped assets are often the most valuable of them all,” Theodorus said, looking back once toward the smoke curling over the yurts.
A new variable had entered the equation, a volatile, unpredictable one that could make the difference between the Principality weathering the storm ahead or perishing in its wake.

Chapter 40: Unwanted, Untapped Assets