EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II / Chapter 22: The Wager of Speed
🕑 Added 2025-07-01 00:24:13 +0000 UTCSmederovo, Early June 1434
The only light in the small chapel came from a trio of beeswax candles on the altar. Emperor Sigismund knelt on the cold flagstones before them, his hands clasped so tightly that the leather within his gauntlets creaked. The air was heavy with the faint sweetness of spent incense from last night’s rites, mixed with the damp stone smell of the fortress walls. Above him, a painted icon of the Virgin and Child flickered in candlelight. Sigismund bowed his head, silver-threaded hair falling forward, and let the silence settle in his bones. In that hush, he could almost forget the weight of crown and sword; he was simply an aging man in need of God’s ear.
His knees ached against the hard floor, a dull reminder of his years. Sigismund murmured a Latin prayer under his breath. Lord, he thought, I have made costly mistakes in your service. Grant me wisdom now, and strength.
As if on cue, a cautious knock echoed from the chapel door. Sigismund straightened and nodded to the young Hungarian guardsman who peered in. “Your Majesty, the council gathers,” the man said quietly. Sigismund gave one last glance at the icon—the Holy Mother’s face half in shadow, unreadable—and left the chapel, ready to don again the mantle of Emperor.
They assembled in a chamber adjoining Smederevo’s great hall, around a heavy oak table strewn with maps and charcoal sticks. Dawn light filtered through a narrow slit window, illuminating motes of dust above the parchment rolls. The mood was grave; each man’s face was drawn with the knowledge that feasting and celebration were over. Now came the burden of decision.
Sigismund took his seat at the head of the table, nodding in greeting. Despot Đurađ Branković sat at his right, the Serbian despot’s stocky frame clad in a plain leather vest this day, a contrast to the brocaded host of yesterday. His dark eyes flickered with an uneasy determination. To Sigismund’s left was Palatine Miklós Garai, austere and hawk-nosed, fingers drumming lightly on the table’s edge. Farther down stood János Hunyadi, a younger man among these graybeards, broad-shouldered in mail. Hunyadi’s keen gaze moved restlessly over the maps, as if already scouting the roads ahead. Prince Fruzhin of Bulgaria stood near the window; he had only returned the night before from Albania, and the weariness around his eyes spoke of long rides and tight escapes. A handful of other officers, Hungarian and Czech captains, a German banneret, clustered respectfully at the room’s margins, silent unless called upon.
No one spoke. Through the stone walls came the muted sounds of an army mustering: horses snorting, wagon wheels creaking, distant shouts of sergeants organizing the ranks. It made the hush in here all the more pronounced.
Sigismund placed his gauntleted hands flat on the table. “My lords,” he began, his voice low, “the hour is come. We ride south as one host. Let us speak now on our route and purpose, so that once we quit these walls, we march without quarrel or confusion.” He looked to Hunyadi and gave a small, deliberate nod.
Hunyadi stepped forward. Without ceremony, he brushed aside an unfurled map of the Balkans that was weighted with a dagger at each corner. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I strongly advise that we do not tarry for any sieges. Speed is crucial, now more than ever.” He moved a charcoal piece across the map, drawing a bold line along the inked course of the Morava River. “From Smederevo we follow the Great Morava valley straight south. Niš lies on our way.” The charcoal stopped at a marked town by a tributary. “But rather than invest Niš, we bypass it. A siege there could cost us weeks and men we cannot spare.”
A pause as the council absorbed the calculated urgency.
Garai cleared his throat. The Palatine’s hooded eyes flicked to Sigismund for permission to reply, and the Emperor gave a slight nod. “Hunyadi,” Garai began, his voice clipped but composed, “passing Niš by means leaving an Ottoman garrison intact in our rear. We all recall what happened when we left enemies behind us at Nicopolis.” His face darkened. “Should we not secure Niš to keep our victuals and our road of retreat safe?”
A murmur of agreement came from one of the older captains near the back of the hall. Sigismund felt the stir of old wounds, Nicopolis again, always just below the surface. He steadied his breath. “Let him finish,” he said quietly, and Garai inclined his head, continuing.
“If we hold Niš, we have a strongpoint to fall back to if needed. And it would hearten the Pope and our allies to hear we liberated a major city so early. It lends weight to our cause.”
Hunyadi’s lips curved in a tight, impatient frown. He leaned forward, one arm braced on the table. “And while we bleed at Niš’s gates,” he said, “Constantine will already be crossing the plains of Thessaly. The agreement was to combine our forces near Thessaloniki. If we delay here, we arrive too late, or not at all.”
That name, Thessaloniki, carried a quiet charge through the chamber. Murmurs swept the room. Sigismund could feel it. The possibility of reclaiming the city from the Turks and joining forces with Constantine in a single strike… it had the flavor of redemption.
Branković now spoke, voice measured and soft. “My spies report Niš’s garrison is close to one thousand strong,” he said. “They could harry our rear, yes, but I can send Serbian riders to mask the fortress, feigning a siege, while the army slips past to the east.” With a long finger, the Despot traced a line skirting around Niš. “There are old forest roads here. My men know them.”
Sigismund watched the charcoal tip arc beyond Niš’s circle. He could already hear the weight in Garai’s silence. This was risk, no doubt. But also speed. The Emperor’s gaze rose to Branković. “You are confident your guides can lead the army through those paths swiftly?” he asked.
Branković nodded. “We’ve used them for generations to avoid Turkish tax patrols. If we move hard, Niš will never see us.”
There was a pause as Sigismund weighed the map and the promises beneath it. Hunyadi stepped forward. “If we bypass Niš and Skopje both, we may slip into the Vardar valley before Murad fully understands our movement. And if we’re quick enough, we link with Constantine before the Sultan can split us apart.”
Garai pressed his palms together. “Avoiding Niš, so be it, but Skopje…” He shook his head slowly. “Skopje is no village. It is the Ottoman provincial seat. We will be deep in enemy land with no fortress at our back. Every league forward doubles the danger if we must retreat.”
A silence followed his words. The truth of them sank in. Prince Fruzhin swallowed and glanced uneasily at Hunyadi. Even Branković furrowed his brow.
Sigismund exhaled through his nose. He was painfully aware of supply and retreat; at Nicopolis decades ago, overzealous crusaders had pushed too far, trusting in valor rather than logistics, and found themselves trapped. He would not repeat that folly lightly.
Yet another memory pricked him: hesitation and over-caution at other times, which had cost opportunities. In war, as in statesmanship, one had sometimes to gamble. He felt all eyes on him now, awaiting his decision. The Emperor straightened to his full height, armor faintly clinking. “Lord Garai is right that we must be mindful of supply,” Sigismund said, slowly and clearly. “We cannot sustain ourselves on valor alone. However”—and here he managed a faint, sardonic smile—“if we spend the next month trying to capture every castle between here and the Aegean, the Sultan will certainly have time to pen us in.” He swept his gaze across the council. “Our crusade did not gather so that we could sit besieging stone walls. We came to strike a blow at the Ottoman heart.”
Branković gave a single nod of agreement. Hunyadi’s chin lifted proudly. Sigismund placed a hand on Garai’s forearm in a reassuring gesture. “Miklós, I hear your caution. Believe me, I feel the weight of it.” His eyes met the Palatine’s. “But I judge that speed offers us the best hope. Niš we shall bypass. And Skopje… we will not besiege it. We’ll take the route east of Skopje’s plains, down toward the Vardar valley.” He tapped a point on the map beyond Skopje. “If luck favors us, the enemy will remain unsure of our aim until we are well south.”
A few of the seasoned commanders exchanged glances, weighing the decision. Finally, Garai inclined his head, acquiescing to his sovereign. “As you will, Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “We shall contrive the means.”
Sigismund squeezed the older man’s shoulder appreciatively, then looked to the Serbian Despot. “Đurađ, your knowledge of these lands is our lifeline. You’ll send guides with the vanguard for the Niš bypass and the route toward Kumanovo.”
Branković thumped a fist to his chest. “Of course. My scouts are ready. They know every goat path and shepherd’s trail. We’ll move as swiftly as the Morava flows.”
They left Smederevo just after sunrise two days later, as agreed. The great fortress’s gates groaned open, and the crusader host poured forth like a river in spate. Hooves and boots churned the muddy track leading from the castle down to the banks of the Morava.
As they crossed a low wooden bridge over an arm of the Morava, Sigismund glanced back once. On Smederevo’s walls, a cluster of figures stood watching their departure, servants, townsfolk, Branković’s pale-faced wife Irene clutching a shawl, and a few of the Despot’s household priests holding up crosses in blessing. Sigismund raised his mailed hand in salute. Behind Irene, he spied the slender form of Katarina, Branković’s newlywed daughter, waving a kerchief, likely for her husband Ulrich of Celje, who rode somewhere in the Emperor’s entourage. The young woman’s gesture was brave, but even from this distance Sigismund could sense the worry in it. He turned away. Let her not become a widow so soon, he thought grimly. Let none of these hopeful souls see their husbands and fathers fall to the sword. It was a prayer as much as a thought.
Day by day, the host wound its way south along the Morava. They passed hamlets and farms along the Morava valley, still under Branković’s rule and thus friendly. Peasant families emerged hesitantly from cottages to watch the long column go by. Sigismund often rode at a moderate pace near the front ranks, so he was one of the first the villagers saw. Time and again, he witnessed a similar scene: an old man or a mother would recognize the crusaders’ cruciform standards and fall to their knees by the roadside, holding up a hand-painted icon or a wooden cross. Some wept openly, out of joy or fear or both, it was hard to tell.
Word traveled ahead of the army: the Emperor and the Christians have come. By the sixth day, they entered a countryside scarred by war. Charred timber frames jutted from blackened farmsteads; the reek of old smoke and rot clung to the wet air. In one hamlet, nothing remained but ashes and a few crumbling walls. The charnel-house stench warned the column before they even saw the first collapsed barn. On its soot-streaked threshold lay two oxen carcasses, half-eaten by scavengers. A dozen great black vultures rose as the crusaders approached, flapping to nearby trees with harsh hisses. Sigismund’s stallion shied at the sudden movement; he steadied the beast with a firm hand and forced himself to look. Among the rubble, pale shapes indicated what might have been human remains. Torn scraps of homespun cloth snagged on a fence post fluttered weakly in the drizzle. An awful heaviness settled on the men as they passed through this silent ruin. Many crossed themselves.
A young Hungarian knight behind them removed his helmet out of respect for the dead and muttered, “By Christ, we’ll make the bastards pay for this.” A few nearby soldiers growled assent. Sigismund said nothing, but allowed that grim oath to echo in his mind. Yes. They will pay.
On the tenth day, they neared Niš. The army made camp in a broad meadow by the South Morava River, still a few leagues north of the city. As tents were pitched, Sigismund climbed a low rise at the meadow’s edge. From its crest, he could just make out, far on the southern horizon, a dark smudge that was Niš’s citadel and town.
“They likely know we’re here,” came a voice at Sigismund’s shoulder. It was Hunyadi, who had crept up the rise as well. The younger man’s eyes were fixed on Niš. “They’ll be watching us tonight, no doubt. Perhaps expecting us to march on them tomorrow.”
Sigismund glanced at him. “Instead, we’ll be gone by dawn and leave them staring at an empty field,” the Emperor said. A trace of dry humor colored his tone.
Hunyadi grinned, wolfish. “Exactly, Majesty.” He pointed eastward. “Branković’s guides say a cattle track winds into those woods and back to the river beyond Niš. We can start before first light and skirt wide around the city.” The Hungarian slapped his gloved palm against the pommel of his sword. “By the time the Turks realize we’ve given them the slip, we’ll be days further on.”
Sigismund studied the faint outline of Niš’s towers one last time, then turned away. “See that every man in the ranks knows: no campfires tonight, and absolute quiet before dawn. We want no signal of our movement.”
Hunyadi nodded and trotted off to spread the order. The Emperor remained a moment, listening to the dim susurration of the river and the rustle of damp grass. So far, so good, he thought. They had reached Niš without incident, and soon they would pass it entirely. Still, he could not shake a prickle of unease between his shoulder blades, as if invisible eyes were tracking him from those far battlements.
Before dawn, the crusader host broke camp in silence. They left smoldering fire-pits and half-packed straw to make the enemy believe they were still abed. Under a moonless, overcast sky, Branković’s Serbian scouts led the way westward, away from the main road. Torches were kept shielded; men shuffled in darkness, biting back curses as they stumbled over roots and ruts. A fine mist clung to the fields, muffling sound. By the time a pale gray light filtered through the clouds, the long column of crusaders was already threading through forested hills well to the west of Niš. If the Turks manning those distant walls peered out, they saw nothing but morning haze and empty road.
The bypass route proved rough indeed, as Branković had warned, but passable. The tracks wound up and down wooded ridges. Ancient oaks dripped moisture onto the passing helmets. More than one supply wagon’s wheel cracked on stones hidden by undergrowth, forcing frantic repairs. But the army pressed on without halt. Sigismund rode near the van, heartened by the vigor he saw in his men despite the hard march. The need for haste had taken hold. When a rear guard scout came galloping up around noon to report no action from Niš, a collective sigh of relief rippled through the ranks.
“It seems the Turks did not dare come out,” noted Miklós Garai, pulling his horse alongside the Emperor’s. His tone mixed relief with a touch of chagrin; the seasoned Palatine had half expected an ambush. Sigismund gave him a thin smile. “All the better. We’ll save our swords for Murad’s main host.” Privately, he allowed himself a small measure of satisfaction. The plan had worked. A gamble, but it had worked. If only all their gambles might fare so well…
They followed the South Morava’s coursing waters now, moving ever deeper into lands long under the Sultan’s yoke. Villages here were scarcer and warier. One day, the scouts brought in a gaunt farmer who had cautiously flagged them down by a ruined mill. The man knelt trembling before Sigismund’s mounted retinue, not from awe but terror. Through an interpreter, he pleaded that his family meant the crusaders no harm and had hidden in the woods at news of their coming. They feared retaliation from the Turks if seen aiding Christian soldiers. Sigismund dismounted and gently raised the farmer to his feet, assuring him no harm would come to those who did not oppose them. At that, the frightened fellow blurted out what he’d seen in recent days: Turkish riders had passed his lands two days prior, driving a herd of sheep south. They were burning crops and stores as they went—a scorched-earth measure to starve any pursuers. The man’s own barn had been put to torch; he cast a desperate glance at the smoldering heap of timbers by the millpond.
Sigismund’s mouth pressed into a hard line as he listened. The Ottomans knew of their advance now and were stripping the land bare ahead of them. As they rode on, Hunyadi trotted up beside the Emperor, shaking his head. “They mean to slow us by famine, sire.”
Sigismund spat rainwater from his mustache. “It will make the men hate them all the more.” But inwardly he shared Hunyadi’s concern. Each farm the Turks burned was one less source of grain or meat for his foraging parties. Their wagons carried only so much hardtack and salted meat. If the enemy stayed out of reach while the crusaders starved… It was a dark thought, and one he banished for now. They would find a way.
By late day, the column reached a wide bend in the river that Branković’s guides said marked the approach to Macedonia. Kumanovo lay just ahead beyond low rolling hills. Expectation mingled with tension as the crusaders closed ranks. If the enemy were to contest their march, Kumanovo would be an ideal place to try an ambush or defense.
The entry into Kumanovo came cautiously. Serbian scouts rode in first under a flag of truce. They returned with puzzling news: the town’s gates stood open, and no sign of Ottoman soldiers on the walls. An eerie stillness hung over the place. Suspecting a trap, Sigismund ordered Hunyadi and a troop of horsemen to circle around the town while infantry approached from the front. The crusaders advanced through abandoned outer fields where half-grown spring crops had been trampled by boots and hooves. A few stray dogs skulked away at their approach, but otherwise not a soul stirred.
Finally, Sigismund himself entered Kumanovo at the head of a vanguard of knights and Serbian foot. The oaken gates, banded with iron, were unbarred and slightly ajar; one hung crookedly on a broken hinge. Beyond lay a broad unpaved market square surrounded by modest wooden buildings. The place was nearly silent, save for the clop of their horses and the jingle of mail. A wind had picked up, chasing tatters of old pennants above the gatehouse; it carried the faint smell of smoke and something fouler, the telltale odor of decay.
The cause became clear as they pressed inward. The town had been hastily evacuated, and violently. Several houses were burned out, their thatch roofs blackened and collapsed. A merchant’s stall lay overturned in the square, its wares, ceramic jugs and bolts of dyed cloth, strewn and crushed.
A shout came from ahead: “It’s empty, completely empty!” It was Fruzhin’s voice, echoing off shuttered shops. The Bulgarian prince emerged from a side lane, shaking his head in disbelief. “The garrison is gone. The townspeople, gone. Only ghosts here.”
Sigismund joined him, Garai and Branković following. “They evacuated in a hurry,” Garai muttered, pointing to a heap of belongings abandoned in the mud, a bundle of clothes and a cooking pot, lying where it had fallen. Flies buzzed around it, suggesting spillage—or worse. “Likely they panicked when they heard Niš did not stop us.”
“Or were ordered to withdraw,” Branković said. He walked slowly, gaze sweeping the empty windows overhead. “Murad’s generals may have pulled the soldiers back to a larger force south. The townsfolk might have been forced along, or they fled expecting battle here.”
Comments
Pearl of the Orient
salted meet. Meat
pls don't ban me
i'm curious. wouldn't Fruzhin be more useful if sent in the bulgarian innerland to stir trouble? something like " heya fellas, it's me, ya tsar. wanna make trouble, and make it double on the ottomans while the crusaders press on?" also if i'm not mistaken around Lovech is still active the bulgarian resistance
RENAISSANSE SI
Exactly, risky but sharp, and everyone knows the window for unity is narrow. Love that you caught the contrast between Sigismund and Constantine too; one rules with weight, the other still has to earn every inch. As for Murad… yeah, he’s pulling back, but not aimlessly. We’ll see what cards he’s holding pretty soon.
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you! Glad you enjoyed it!
RENAISSANSE SI
That's a bold strategy! We'll see how it plays out as the story moves forward. 18th century sounds great!
RENAISSANSE SI
Murad definitely has some plans in motion! We'll see more of what he's up to in the next chapters!
RENAISSANSE SI
You can feel it, right? The tension’s just about to snap!
RENAISSANSE SI
You're right, the big questions are stacking up fast! We’ll be seeing more of Murad’s actions pretty soon, and let’s just say he hasn’t been idle.
RENAISSANSE SI
Glad you’re enjoying the story! A lot depends on how fast the crusade can build momentum before the situation tightens. And good catch on the date, it’s 1434, not 1433. Fixed now!
RENAISSANSE SI
Totally, classic Ottoman move, especially when things got tight. They’d lean hard into Fabian tactics to buy time or bleed invaders out. It wasn’t just smart; it was standard play when the pressure was on.
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you! We're right on the edge now, between hope and danger. Next chapters will hit even harder
visoled
good chapter, you can really feel the tension creeping in.
Max Müller
Well they ARE running a fabian strategy
bbread
Hey I just binged your story last week, really enjoyed it. The crusade's gonna be in a bad spot if constantine cant capture larissa quick enough, b/c if they have to go around it both armies are gonna be surrounded by ottoman strongholds for miles with their only chance of resupply being predicated on capturing the very well fortified city of thessaloniki. If it comes to that and they dont get lucky within the first couple weeks and take the city, murad can just wait until theyre exhausted to releive the city and stand a good chance of wiping them out. Unless there's another lightly defenended port between larissa and thessaloniki I dont know about, or the ottomans haven't been able to adequately repair the walls since they took the city. Also I think that date's wrong at the start of the chapter
Jan Mantsch
With every chapter the plot thickens, where is the Ottoman Army who will they attack first. What lessons did they learn from their past encounters with the Byzantine army, have reforms been made? What is Murad's overall plan? A chapter from his point of view becomes more desirable with every word read.
russell marsh
I feel the hammer is about to fall
Paxmorgana
If we are seeing Murad pull these tactics from both sides, he's got to be gathering nearly all his forces in Thessaloniki, hoping to force a fight on favorable land for him. That or he's just decided to give them the land but to make them inherit a famine, to spread their armies thin and make for easier conquering next year. The question remains how he's getting all of the goods out of Thessaloniki if that's his plan - by boat? Has Constantine's victory at Domokos and reformed military inspired Murad to create the Barbary Pirate states early?
Gavriil Kourouklis
they better blitz Thessaly quickly and link siege thessaloniki and take Epirus and all of greece to the bosphrous in the treaty and i hope the story goes into the 1500-1700 and etc
Hugo23
Pushing that far without securing the strongholds? Risky but calculated for sure, along with the clear professionalism shown they know united is the best chance of victory, much like Constantine does. The contrast is interesting, people bow to Sigismund and argue that action is needed to Constantine, the difference in age and experience I suppose. It seems Murad is pulling back on both fronts which begs the question... what's his plan?
Elaine
good chappie
