Side story: On the Frontiers/Part 2

Later that afternoon, as the sun dipped toward the mountains, Andreas found himself poring over a map spread on a table in the same cramped office. Pins marked the newly won territories and chokepoints where Ottoman counterattacks might come. He was running a callused finger along the ridge lines North of Thermopylae when a distant clamor arose beyond the walls: shouting voices and the hurried clop of hooves on cobbles. Andreas looked up sharply. Within heartbeats, a mailed guardsman threw open the door without ceremony. “Captain, a messenger from Neopatras,” the guard blurted. “He’s in the courtyard, urgent news.”

Andreas wasted no time. He grabbed his sword-belt from the chair and strode out, practically vaulting down the stone steps two at a time. In the fortress courtyard below, a small crowd of soldiers had gathered. They parted as Andreas approached, revealing a mud-splattered rider half-slumped off his horse. The messenger’s chest heaved; he must have ridden hard. One of the men offered him a skin of water, which he gulped greedily, eyes flicking to Andreas. “Speak, man,” Andreas urged, voice low and controlled, though a knot of apprehension coiled in his gut. News that sent a courier at full gallop was seldom good.

“My lord, an outpost was attacked!” the messenger gasped between breaths. Up close, Andreas could see dust caked on the man’s stubbled face, and a hastily bandaged cut across his brow. “Where?” Andreas demanded. “What happened?”

The messenger steadied himself, wiping sweat from his forehead. “South of Domokos, Captain. Early this morning. The mountain pass outpost at Stromos, it was hit by Ottoman riders.” A ripple of alarm went through the nearby soldiers. Andreas’s jaw tightened. Stromos was a tiny watch-post guarding a narrow pass that led from the Domokos plain down toward Zetouni. It was a quiet sector untill now. “Survivors?” Andreas asked, though the grave look on the rider’s face already told the answer.

“None, sir. A patrol from Neopatras found the place… burned out. The garrison, ten men under Lieutenant Marinos, all dead. It was swift; bodies still lay by the palisade, arrows in their backs.” The messenger’s voice hitched with anger and sorrow. “They didn’t even have time to send word.” He swallowed. “The patrol didn’t linger, they feared the attackers might still be near. We think it was a band of akıncı raiders, perhaps a dozen or so. They struck at dawn, then vanished like ghosts.”

Andreas felt a familiar heat rising in his chest. For enemy raiders to slip through and massacre a border outpost under his watch… His fists clenched until the leather of his gloves creaked. A dozen akıncı, fast Ottoman light cavalry known for sudden raids​, could indeed have done this bloody work. These were Turahan’s jackals, likely probing the newly won passes. His mind flashed back to other predawn raids he’d witnessed in years past, the screams, the smoke. Andreas realized the messenger was still speaking.

“…Commander in Neopatras sent me to alert you, Captain. He’s dispatching twenty riders to scour the hills, but feared it’s too few. If the akıncıs slip back South, they may threaten villages on the way.” The man hesitated, then added, “Or it could be they’re baiting us… trying to draw a response into an ambush.”

Andreas nodded grimly at the thought. It was exactly the possibility he would consider, one he was already considering. Ottoman irregulars were cunning and cruel; a small victory like this would embolden them to get even more bold. He thanked the messenger curtly and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You did well. Get yourself a hot meal and some rest.” Without another word, Andreas turned on his heel. His decision was made in an instant. If the enemy thought to terrorize these passes, he would answer them swiftly and decisively.

“Signal the alarm,” he ordered the nearest sergeant. “I want fifty cavalry readied at the north gate within the hour, light and swift. Additionally, fifty of the Pyrvelos and a hundred pike infantry from the reserve. Full kit.” The sergeant’s eyes widened – it was essentially a fast strike force, two hundred men. “Captain, shall I inform His Majesty?” he began.

But Andreas shook his head. “No time. The Emperor entrusted me with keeping these passes secure. I’m not about to sit and wait for orders while our outposts burn.” There was an iron finality in his tone that brooked no dissent. “Move!”

Within minutes, Zetouni buzzed like a kicked beehive. Trumpet calls blared from the ramparts, mustering the garrison. Messengers sprinted through gates and barracks. Andreas himself donned his mail shirt and breastplate swiftly over his padded tunic, with the help of a young aide who handed him his helmet. The captain cinched his sword-belt tight and swung a cloak over his shoulders, the autumn winds in the mountains could cut to the bone once the sun fell.

Down in the courtyard, horses were being saddled and men armed. The chosen fifty cavalrymen were mostly veterans, not as heavily armored as old cataphracts of legend, but well-trained light lancers, ideal for a rapid pursuit. They checked stirrups and tightened girths. Nearby, the Pyrvelos musketeers gathered, a mix of younger soldiers wielding the Emperor’s handheld firearms. The smell of sulfur and oil clung to them, these men were proud of their deadly craft, having proven it on many a field recently. One grinned as he patted the barrel of his weapon, boasting quietly to a comrade that the akıncı wouldn’t know what hit them. Lastly came the one hundred pikemen: sturdy lads from the local tagma, all carrying pikes, their armor a patchwork of old Byzantine lamellar and looted Ottoman pieces. They formed up quickly under their officers’ barks.

Andreas swung onto his own stallion, a dapple-gray charger named Skiron, as the troops assembled at the north gate. He trotted down the lines, inspecting. Despite the sudden call, these were battle-tested men; they wore determined, eager looks. Many had been chafing for action while the army reorganized in captured towns. Andreas understood the feeling well – his own blood sang at the prospect of a fight, washing away the morning’s boredom. Satisfied, he drew up at the head of the column.

“Listen up!” he called, voice carrying over stamping hooves and clanking gear. The hubbub quieted. “Ottoman raiders struck one of our outposts this morning and slaughtered the garrison. We’re going to hunt those bastards down.” A low growl of approval rippled through the men. Andreas raised an armored hand for silence. “We move fast and light. Stay alert, the enemy may still be in the area. If they’re foolish enough to linger, we’ll make them pay. If they’ve already fled, we’ll secure the pass so this doesn’t happen again.” He swept his gaze over his force. “No one, and I mean no one, harms our land and escapes unpunished. Am I clear?”

A resounding “Yes, Captain!” thundered from two hundred throats. Satisfied, Andreas yanked his sword from its scabbard and pointed it forward. “Advance!”

With a creak and rattle, the north gate of Zetouni yawned open. The column set out at a steady pace, cavalry in the lead. Hooves and boots churned up dust from the road as they left the fortress behind and headed north into the hills.

The journey was arduous but unhindered. The road, little more than a dirt path, snaked upward into pine-covered slopes. Fallen needles carpeted the ground beneath the trees, and the air was sharp with the scent of resin. The men marched in relative silence, wary eyes scanning the brush and crags. Every so often, Andreas sent pairs of cavalry scouts ahead to range beyond the bends. He wasn’t about to let his force stumble blindly into a surprise.

The following day

As the light grew ruddy with approaching dusk, the troops crested a last rise and beheld the southern mouth of the Domokos pass opening before them. Steep ridges rose on either side, clothed in dark pines that murmured with the evening breeze. This narrow defile was one of the few routes between Thessaly and the south, strategic, but easy to overlook. Now it had become a killing ground. Even from a distance, a thin plume of smoke smudged the darkening sky. It came from somewhere within the pass. Andreas’s gut tightened; it had to be the outpost at Stromos, still smoldering.

He raised a fist, halting the column. “Camp here,” he ordered. The site was a small glade by a mountain stream, just off the road. It would serve for the night. “Fires low and few,” he added. “We don’t advertise our presence any more than necessary.” The men understood. They were deep in potentially hostile ground now. As soldiers began clearing brush and unsaddling horses, Andreas pulled aside the scout lieutenant, a wiry Cretan named Nearchos.

“Take a half-dozen of your best and see what’s ahead,” Andreas instructed quietly, nodding toward the smoke in the pass. “The outpost should be about a mile in. Approach carefully. I want to know if the Turks are gone or laying in wait.” Nearchos saluted silently and beckoned six scouts – lean men in light armor, adept at moving unseen. They melted into the twilight gloom of the pass on foot, leaving their horses behind for stealth.

The camp made minimal noise. Soldiers spoke in low tones as they erected a few tents and posted sentries along the perimeter. The cavalry watered their mounts at the brook; the pikemen munched on hardtack and dried figs in the growing dark. Andreas himself paced along the edge of camp, too restless to sit. He peered up at the heights looming over them. The ridgelines were jagged silhouettes against the purple sky, the pines atop them like a bristling crown. Up there, an enemy observer could probably see the glow of their few cook-fires. If they’re watching, they’ll know we’re here, he pondered. Perhaps that was just as well, let the akıncı know retribution was coming. But a nagging caution tugged at him: these raiders had slipped in unseen; they might linger unseen too.

As darkness fell fully, Andreas found himself standing near a small fire where a pot of lentils simmered. A couple of his officers crouched there, murmuring. They fell silent as the captain approached. One of them, a young noble-blooded lieutenant named Nikolaos, ventured to speak: “Sir, do you think the Turks will try to strike again tonight? Perhaps at our camp?” In the firelight, the man’s face was half-lit, showing his youth and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. Clearly he was anxious.

Andreas shook his head slowly, eyes fixed on the flames. “No. Not likely tonight. A handful of raiders wouldn’t dare attack two hundred armed men head-on.” He poked at the fire with a stick, sending a swirl of sparks up to join the stars. “They prefer softer prey, lone outposts, stragglers, villages. But…” He paused, then looked at the circle of officers around him, voice lowering. “I do suspect they’re still nearby. They hit Stromos, then vanished. The tracks likely lead north, but I’d wager they haven’t gone far. Maybe they want us to think they ran.”

“To draw us in after them,” finished Marcus, an older sergeant, scowling. “Classic trap.”

Andreas nodded curtly. “Just so. But if they think to catch us napping, they’ll be in for a surprise.” There was a hard glint in his eye. He already had the kernel of a plan forming. Before he could elaborate, a shout came from the edge of camp: the scouts were returning.

Author's Note:
By popular demand, here’s the next part of Andreas’ side story! Hope you enjoy it! The next part will be out in a few days.