Fallen Eagle-Chapter 9: Beating Raw Iron into Shape

“You do not have to come, Demetrios.” Theodorus found himself saying for the thousandth time on the day of their departure. “It will be dangerous. This isn’t a weekend escapade.”
"And let you have all the fun?" Demetrios said with a half-smile as he finished packing the few belongings they possessed - a small bundle of clothes, a few bedrolls, and a handful of other essentials.
Theodorus grabbed his arm, his grip firm. “I’m serious. We are going to a dangerous military post. You could be maimed. Or worse. You are also bound to Lord Iohannes.”
Demetrios’s smile vanished completely as he saw the earnestness in his lord’s eyes. “I had already received Lord Iohannes’s tacit consent before even coming to the capital, my Lord. I had already made up my mind then. Your father would haunt me through the afterlife if I let you set out on that foolish dream of yours without any help.” He gripped Thedorus’s arm as well. “I will follow you to the end, whether you want me to or not.”
A moment of silence passed between them, heavy with unspoken loyalty and the weight of their new reality.
“Thank you,” Theodorus said, his voice sincere.
Demetrios waved a hand, dismissing the gratitude. “Come, my Lord. Or we will be ‘late’ for the caravan.” He said, voice dripping with irony.
They arrived a full hour early at their meeting point just inside the city's northern gate. As he watched the first of the men begin to trickle in, Theodorus felt the cool morning air on his face. This wasn't just about punctuality. He was no longer a nameless nobleman wandering the city’s public spaces. He was now a Captain in the Theodoran army, and from the very beginning, he intended to set a standard.
He also wanted time to observe in close detail the men he would now lead. Who showed up on time? Who was late? What was their appearance? Their demeanor? Every detail mattered. The absurdity of the situation didn’t escape Theodorus: he, a fifteen-year-old boy, was expected to command dozens of grown men, some of them veterans. It was a ludicrous system, but one that worked to his advantage. Demetrios’s quiet presence beside him also lent gravitas, the presence of a servant a clear sign of his newfound status, for which he was grateful.
The wagons they were tasked with escorting north were laden with supplies for the Probatofrourio Border Fort, literally the “Sheep Fort”. It had been damaged in recent Crimean raids, and from the briefing he'd received, the situation was dire. The fort itself was little more than a stony watchtower meant to hold fewer than fifty men, a fallback point for occasional raids, a defense meant to be abandoned at the first sign of a real invasion.
The raid had collapsed one of the main walls, and the lands the tower was meant to protect were, thus, subject to looting. His mission, as the newly minted Captain, was to provide an initial assessment of the situation. The from the lone guard the fort had sent to bring word back to the capital was, understandably, lacking in strategic detail. As a noble, Theodorus was expected to provide a more accurate assessment to requisition the capital for the supplies needed for repairs. And to get the survivors, leaderless for over a month since their original captain had died in the wall collapse, back into some semblance of fighting shape.
It spoke to the state of the Principality’s bureaucracy that a relief force was only now being organized, and that its command was being handed to a newly minted captain. Theodorus stood by the north gate, watching the chaotic assembly. It spoke even more to the Principality’s economic woes that the caravan was manned not by loyal servants, but by a handful of merchant caravans, laden with everything from wool to clay pots, who would be taking advantage of the military escort to conduct trade in the nearby villages, transforming a critical reinforcement mission into a lumbering trade convoy. A two-day journey to Probatofrourio would now stretch to three, a delay that, while small, signified more than just mismanagement. To risk a strategic outpost to save on a few extra silver stavraton for its supplies was a symptom of a bleeding state.
Out of the morning bustle, a knot of five men marched up in a tight, disciplined block. They were grizzled veterans, their faces sun-leathered maps of old campaigns, their armor worn but meticulously maintained. Theodorus recognized several from the duel in the castle’s training grounds. One in particular stood out - a man built like a colossus, the same giant who had handed the Megas Doux his sword prior to their duel.
The Doux had sent him proper soldiers, men who knew how to hold a line. That was the good news. The bad news was they were the Doux’s men through and through, their loyalty pledged to the man in Mangup, not the boy-captain before them. They were his leash as much as they were his command. Of course the Doux wouldn’t let him run rampant without oversight.
The giant stepped forward, his shadow falling over Theodorus. He moved with a casual, smooth stride. The others stayed behind, watching the interaction with care. He was the group’s informal leader, then.
“Lord Theodorus,” his voice was a deep, smooth baritone. “I am Leonidas. We are the reinforcements for Probatofrourio.” He gave a precise bow, a masterclass in calculated deference - low enough to be correct, but not so deep as to be servile. “I am at your command.”
“What is your rank, Leonidas?”
“Sargeant, my Lord.”
“I believe we’ve met, Sergeant,” Theodorus said, his tone deceptively mild. “But let us be clear. My title of Lord is for the court. I prefer to dispense with such pleasantries when in command. Here, I am your Captain.” It was a subtle but clear assertion of power, a reminder of the military hierarchy they were sworn to follow, and a declaration that he was their military commander before being a noble.
“Of course, Captain,” Leonidas replied, his expression unreadable. “We have met, yes.”
“I remember you and your men at the training grounds,” Theodorus nodded toward the others, letting his gaze pass over each of them. “It is good you were sharpening your skills. You will need them where we are going. I require diligent men. I will accept no less.” He had drawn the line of his authority; now he offered the carrot. He needed these men, not just as soldiers, but as converts. But he knew that this wasn’t the 21st Century. Earning loyalty from men like these was not done with false praise or easy camaraderie. It was done by proving competence.
He glanced at the sun. “You were ten minutes early to the rally point.” He fixed them with a calm, deliberate gaze. “Which means you were five minutes late.”
A few of the men bristled. Leonidas’s jaw tightened.
“From now on, when I give a time, that is the latest you are to arrive. We do not aim to be on schedule. We aim to beat it.”
“With all due respect, my Lord,” Leonidas spoke up, the words a low rumble. “Some of the caravan guards have yet to arrive.”
“I am not concerned with other men, Sergeant,” Theodorus emphasized the title. “And neither are you. Under my command, we do not aim for the minimum. We aim for excellence. Your duty is to be early, to train hard, and to conduct yourselves with a discipline that shames all others. There are no breaks. There is only duty.”
“But, my Lord-”
“
Sergeant
,” Theodorus’s voice was an iron whip, cutting him off mid-word. The men’s eyes widened. “That is the third time you have failed to address me by my correct and only title. If it happens again, I will consider it direct insubordination.”
Leonidas’s face was a mask of thunder. His fists, two giant slabs of marble, clenched at his sides. Theodorus didn’t flinch. Let him stew. Let him hate. Anger was a fire that could be channeled. Indifference was a swamp that drowned all purpose. And Theodorus had just ensured he had all of his men’s attention.
“Go help secure the goods.” Theodorus gestured with his chin toward the nearest wagon, where two men were fumbling with poorly balanced crates, grumbling about the tardy guards who should have been helping them. “We are already behind schedule. A fact I’m sure you’re well aware of by now.”
Leonidas didn’t move a muscle, all but openly glaring at Theodorus. He was commanding them to help load up goods like common labourers.
Theodorus closed the distance between them, stepping into the giant’s personal space until he was forced to look up at the tower of a man. He never broke eye contact.
“I said
go
, Sergeant,” he spoke quietly, the menace in his voice more chilling than any shout.
The words were ground out between Leonidas’s teeth. “Yes, Captain.”
He spun on his heel and strode briskly toward the chaos, his men following like a sullen storm cloud. Leonidas practically tore a fifty-pound sack of wheat from the hands of a clumsy, overburdened caravan hand and slung it onto the wagon with contemptuous ease.
Theodorus stood there silently, watching them. Demetrios surreptitiously materialized at his elbow.
“Was that wise, my Lord?” the old servant murmured, his brow furrowed with concern.
“No. But it was necessary, Demetrios.” Theodorus’s gaze followed Leonidas, who now single-handedly heaved a massive, iron-bound crate of tools onto a cart - a load that should have taken three men. “A poorly tempered sword can as easily harm the wielder as it can his victim. This principality has been forging its weapons through the grinding heat of pride and the slow cooling of inertia. It ends now. I refuse to use flawed weapons.”
With the help of the five veterans, the arrival of the tardy guards, and Theodorus himself taking command of the loading with sharp, precise commands, the caravan was ready to depart as the sun climbed to its ten o’clock peak, even if barely.
“Mount up!” Theodorus ordered. “We move out now!”
As he swung himself into his saddle, one of the caravan masters, a portly merchant named Mikhail, scurried over, his face slick with sweat.
“Captain Theodorus! A moment, I beg you! One of my men has not yet arrived. Can we not wait a few minutes more? My deepest apologies.”
“I’m afraid not, Kyr Mikhail,” Theodorus replied, his tone polite but firm. “We depart now.”
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“With all due respect, Captain,” the merchant complained, “I paid good coin for this escort! My man is tardy, yes, a thousand apologies, but surely-”
“With all due respect, Kyr Mikhail,” Theodorus cut in, his voice taking on an edge that made the nearby guards pause. “This is a relief column to a compromised border fort. It is not a private security detail. Your man is late. We are not. We leave.”
“But the Steward assured me-”
“I believe you were warned of the departure time when you made your deal,” Theodorus interrupted, aware that the conversation was now the center of attention.
Merchant Mikhail’s brows furrowed in perplexity at the Captain’s intransigence, then rose in understanding as he had an epiphany. He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Not to worry, Captain. I am sure I can make it worth your while. A small cask of fine Persian wine, perhaps?”
“Did you just attempt to bribe an officer of the state?” Theodorus thundered. The question cracked like a whip, and every head turned. Mikhail looked like a rabbit caught in a snare, the color draining from his face.
“N-no! Of course not, my Lord!”
“It is
Captain Theodorus
,” he corrected, his voice relentless. “My men” - he gestured to Leonidas and his unit, who looked startled to be included - “have worked as common laborers to load your goods because your men arrived late. We are taking detours from our mission to escort you to the villages where you will ply your trade.” Theodorus spurred his horse so close that Mikhail had to stumble backward. “And now you ask us to dally because one of your men is still drunk in a tavern? And when refused, you dare to offer me a bribe?”
Mikhail flinched with every word. “I-I am sorry, Captain. Forgive me.”
“Let me make one thing clear to you, Mikhail. From this moment forth, you will be the first to be ready at dawn. Your men will be the first to break camp. Your transactions will be the swiftest. You will not complain, and you will obey my every command as if it were the holy testament.” Theodorus leaned down from his saddle, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Or you will be explaining yourself to the Prince on charges of bribery and undermining the authority of the Crown. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes, Captain,” Mikhail stammered, terrified.
“Move out!” Theodorus roared.
As the column passed through the gate, the very same gatekeeper who had mocked his father’s name was already waving them through, a frantic, babbling wreck. He had witnessed the public evisceration of the merchant, the demonstration eliciting painful flashbacks of his own humiliation. He practically bowed the column out of the city, his frantic greetings trailing behind them like smoke.
Leonidas’ men, riding a few paces behind their new commander, watched it all. They watched the merchant shrink and the gatekeeper grovel, and understanding dawning on them. The boy-captain was not merely harsh on them. He was a storm, wreaking havoc on everyone who failed to meet his impossible standards.
The two confrontations at the gate set the tone for the journey. Its rhythm was an unrelenting pace. Breaks were for watering the horses, not for resting the men, and they were few and far between. The pace was punishing, but it was efficient.
About an hour shy of the first village, Theodorus reined in his horse, calling Sergeant Leonidas to his side.
"You and your men will ride ahead to the village," he began, “You are to announce our approach, secure a central clearing for the merchants, and ensure the villagers form an orderly queue. There will be no brawling over goods. I want discipline, not a bazaar."
Leonidas’s pride flared once more. He, a veteran sergeant, was being made a herald, an errand boy to traveling merchants. “Yes, Captain.” He ground out nonetheless.
Theodorus then called out to Giannis, the stable hand who had struggled with the grain sack. Theodorus had noticed he shared an easy confidence in his words and a dramatic eccentricity suited for the work he had in mind.
"Yes, Captain?" Giannis was surprised at being singled out.
"You will ride with them, to serve as our herald." The man looked perplexed. Theodorus continued. “You will announce the caravan's goods, the range of prices, and you will tell the villagers to call for their kin in the surrounding hamlets, their cousins, their in-laws. We have enough wares for all."
The confusion on Giannis's face slowly gave way to a blossoming, flattered pride. To be a herald, a man of importance… it appealed deeply to his vanity. "Of-of course, Captain! I would be honored! But... I have no horse."
Theodorus didn't even look at Giannis. His gaze settled on the still-waiting Leonidas. "Sergeant," he said, his voice cool and deliberate. "Find Giannis a mount. He can ride with you."
And so the vanguard rode out - a knot of furious soldiers led by their resentful giant, with a terrified but preening wagon hand perched precariously on the back of one of the horses.
Theodorus imposed a 45-minute time limit per village. The merchants, still wary of their young commander, grumbled quietly about the ludicrously short window. For men who thrived on the slow, deliberate art of haggling, it was like tying their limbs in a knot before running a sprint.
They arrived at the first village expecting chaos and lost profits. Instead, they found a crowd already gathered, their faces full of anticipation. The villagers stood in orderly lines, coin already in hand. Giannis, the wagon hand now pressed into the role of a flamboyant town crier, had a way with words that naturally lent itself to the dramatization necessary to attract people, even if he often stretched the quality of the goods on offer. He nonetheless gave people a notion of the prices and selection of commodities to the villagers before their arrival, which dramatically sped up the process.
The process was a whirlwind. The soldiers' quiet, imposing presence, helped by their murderous mood, discouraged arguments, and their assistance in unloading the goods directly to the villagers' homes was a gesture of goodwill that sped things up immensely. The merchants were stunned. Their haggling was brief, yet they found their profits were no lower than usual. In fact, with people from smaller, outlying hamlets drawn in by the advance riders, their sales were higher than ever.
The soldiers, for their part, took to the work with a murderous sullenness. But a strange thing happened. The villagers, seeing these grim-faced enforcers heaving their goods, responded not with fear, but with heartfelt thanks. Sharing what food they could spare or pressing small gifts into the men’s hands. These small, unexpected kindnesses were like water on stone, slowly breaking through the men's hardened carapaces and kindling a reluctant flicker of pride.
As the convoy moved, Theodorus made a point of speaking with each village headman, his questions sharp and specific - about the rainfall, the state of the paths, the nearest clean water sources, and any whispers of Tatar movements. He was a known face before they even left a village, a commander who directed labor and gathered information with equal intensity. They made such good time that by late afternoon on the first day, they were approaching a ridge that should have marked the beginning of their second morning. The final village for the day, Agroktima, was just beyond it.
"We turn east here," Theodorus announced, reining his horse.
The merchant Leos, who had been enjoying the brisk, profitable pace, trotted his horse up beside him. "East, Captain? The path to Agroktima is straight ahead. There is nothing to the east but hills."
"We will not be going to Agroktima today," Theodorus stated, his eyes on the horizon.
"What? But why? It is just over that ridge!"
"Because," Theodorus said, turning his gaze to the merchant, "a storm is coming. A downpour."
Leos glanced at the brilliant, cloudless blue sky. "Surely you jest, Captain." he said, his doubt clear. His greed for extra sales overriding his caution.
"Are you questioning my order, Kyr Leos?" Theodorus's voice was ice. "I do not have to explain myself to you. I said we turn east. That is all you need to know."
"Of course, Captain," Leos stammered and bowed his head, the memory of Mikhail's dressing down suddenly reappearing to the forefront of his mind. "Forgive me."
A quarter of an hour after they turned onto a barely-there path into the wooded hills, the first sign appeared: a dark smudge on the northern horizon. Within a half-hour, the smudge had become a bruise, and the bruise was growing into a wall of roiling darkness, racing toward them on the wind. The men began to murmur, their gazes darting nervously at the sky and then at their impassive commander.
It was then that they saw it. Tucked into a fold of the hills, almost invisible amongst the trees, was the sturdy stone frame of an abandoned building. Theodorus guided them toward it.
As they drew closer, they saw it was an old monastery. It was built of solid stone, with a slate roof that looked mostly intact, a functioning well in its courtyard, and ample pasture for the animals. As they entered the crumbling walls of the outer courtyard, they found that their advance riders, Leonidas and his men, were already there. A fire was crackling in the hearth of the main hall, and a stack of dry firewood was piled beside it. They had already secured the perimeter.
The entire procession - merchants, guards, and caravan hands - turned as one, their faces illuminated by the flickering firelight. They stared at their young commander, who sat calmly on his horse as the first fat drops of rain began to fall. The look in their eyes was no longer just fear or resentment. It was awe.
Shortly after the group had secured the last of the goods inside, the storm hit with the full fury of a divine tantrum. Just as Theodorus had predicted, a heavy, wind-driven downpour lashed the hills. The men, huddled inside the cavernous main hall of the monastery, felt none of it, but they heard the gale howling outside the stone walls and knew they had their commander to thank for not being caught in the freezing deluge.
Leonidas and his men sat around a crackling fire, the last of their vegetable stew scraped from the communal pot. The easy jokes and conversations about what awaited them at the fort had died down. It was into this quiet that Theodorus approached. His arrival caused a subtle stir; the men shifted, their postures stiffening. He silently added his own portion of dried meat and vegetables to the pot before Demetrios took the ladle from him to prepare the second meal. Theodorus then found a spot near the fire, a stone that was within the circle of warmth but set slightly apart, and ate in a calm silence, seemingly unfazed by the tension his presence created.
The minutes stretched, measured by the crackle of the fire and the roar of the storm. It was Leonidas who finally spoke. His curiosity had won its long war against his pride.
“How?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Theodorus finished chewing a piece of meat, then met the sergeant’s gaze. “How what, Sergeant?”
“The storm. This place,” Leonidas gestured around the hall. “How did you know?”
Theodorus set down his bowl, taking a moment as if weighing his words. “I listened,” he said simply. “My conversations with the villagers were not simple idle chatter. Though it might have seemed like it from your perspective, carrying heavy foodstuffs and riding hard throughout the day.” He met each man’s eyes as he said this, who looked startled at having their inner thoughts voiced aloud. “In the last village, I spoke with the headman, Pavlos. I asked him why his family was moving their goats from the high meadows when the grazing was still good. He told me that when the north wind carries the scent of pine down from the northern mountains, the goats always seek lower ground. It is a sign their grandfathers taught them - that a great rain is on the horizon.”
The men’s eyes widened. Theodorus let the moment sink in before he continued.
“As for this monastery, the older villagers still remembered stories of it. A convent abandoned during the Great Plague, nearly a century ago. I simply asked the right questions until I knew where it was located.” He scraped the bottom of his bowl fastidiously, spooning it into his mouth.
“Those weren’t benign conversations, Leonidas. They were intelligence gathering.” He put down his empty bowl, his expression unreadable in the firelight. “Our duty as soldiers isn't just to fight. It is to protect the Principality - its people, its trade, its future. By ensuring the merchants could conduct their business swiftly, we strengthened the villages for the winter. By moving with haste, we ensure this convoy reaches the fort on schedule.”
He looked directly at the sergeant, his voice dropping slightly. “Today, we secured a piece of our homeland. And we did it not with our swords, but with discipline, information, and a little hard labor.”
A profound silence fell over the men. They had not been just haulers and guards; they had been soldiers executing a complex, multilayered strategem. The menial tasks they had resented were, in fact, the very reason for the current success.
And their commander, harsh and tyrannical as he was, had sat with them and eaten from the same pot. He hadn’t belittled them when they questioned him, but instead showed them a flash of the inner workings of his mind, trusting them to understand it.
Leonidas stared into the fire. He, better than any of the other men, recognized the boy’s astonishing foresight. A grudging admiration warred with the sting of his own wounded pride. The boy was a natural commander. There was no longer any doubt.
The moment of shared understanding was over. Theodorus rose, his shadow stretching in the firelight, and the strategist vanished, replaced by the commander once more. "Do not linger," he commanded, his voice cold iron. "The storm has cost us time. We move at dawn."
The chorus of “Yes, Captain,” was sharper this time. The assent quicker and a fraction more certain.
As Theodorus retired to his bedroll, Leonidas’s gaze settled on the stew pot. The chunks of meat from the commander's own rations lay untouched at the bottom.