EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 64: Embarking on the Mission

The Kyrenia cut through the calm waters of the Ionian Sea, its sails taut with the steady wind. The rhythmic creak of timber and the splash of oars from the escorting galleys filled the air, blending with the cries of gulls overhead. The small fleet sailed in close formation, their banners fluttering in unison as they pressed northward along the Greek coast.

On the main deck, Aristos stood near the railing, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The sun hung low now, its golden light casting long shadows across the rippling waves. The sea was merciful today, no raging storms, no treacherous winds, only the endless blue stretching ahead, guiding them toward Corfu.

The men, still fresh from the excitement of departure, had settled into the rhythm of the voyage. Some sat on crates, sharpening their weapons or adjusting their armor. Others gathered near the mast, murmuring prayers with the monks who had joined the expedition. The engineers huddled near the bow, discussing how best to position the cannons when they reached the siege.

Basil, a young soldier, leaned against the ship's railing, his gaze drifting over the endless sea.
"Strange, isn't it?" he said softly.

Aristos glanced over, his face thoughtful. "What's strange?"

Basil shrugged, nodding toward the horizon. "Sailing toward a war we haven't even seen. On land, at least you know where you're headed. Out here, it's just water until we arrive."

Aristos offered a reassuring smile, more to steady his own nerves than Basil's. "You get used to it. War doesn't always let you know what's ahead, but that doesn't mean we aren't ready."

A sudden call from the lookout interrupted them. "Land ahead!"

All eyes turned toward the horizon. There, rising from the sea like a darkened jewel, was the island of Corfu—Venetian territory.

The fleet adjusted course, angling toward the sheltered bay near the town. As the ships neared the shore, the towering walls of Corfu's fortress became visible, standing like a sentinel against the encroaching twilight. Venetian galleys bobbed in the harbor, their captains watching the approaching Byzantine fleet with quiet scrutiny.

"Lower the sails!" came the orders. Ropes were thrown, anchors dropped, and soon the ships rocked gently in the harbor's embrace.

A small Venetian delegation awaited them on the dock—no grand reception, just a handful of men in fine but practical attire. Their leader, a thin man with keen eyes and a well-groomed beard, stepped forward as Aristos and a few officers disembarked.

"Captain," the Venetian said smoothly in accented Greek. "I am Pietro Morosini, governor's aide. We received word of your arrival, your passage has been approved as agreed. You and your men may stay for the night, as per the arrangement."

Aristos offered a respectful nod, careful to project calm authority despite the youthfulness visible on his features. "We appreciate your hospitality, and we'll set sail for Himara at first light tomorrow."

Morosini studied him carefully. "War stirs in Albania, and now Byzantine ships sail north with armed men. Venice values its neutrality, as I'm sure you understand."

Aristos met his gaze directly, voice steady and respectful. "We have no quarrel with Venice, nor would we jeopardize your neutrality. You have our assurance, we'll keep our stay brief and peaceful."

The Venetian pursed his lips, then gave a small nod. "Very well. Your men may remain for the night as agreed, but ensure there is no trouble."

Aristos inclined his head slightly. "You have my word."

With that, the delegation departed, leaving the Byzantines to organize their encampment near the docks. Some men stretched their legs on solid ground, others remained aboard, resting for the next day's journey.

Aristos watched the fortress for a long moment before turning back toward his men. Tomorrow, they would set sail at dawn.

The morning sun had barely risen when the Byzantine fleet left Corfu behind, the dark silhouette of its Venetian fortress fading into the horizon. A steady wind filled the sails, carrying them swiftly across the Adriatic toward the Albanian coast.

After a couple of hours, the small port of Himara came into view, nestled between rugged cliffs and the shimmering blue sea. Unlike the grand harbor of Corfu, Himara's dock was modest, a cluster of wooden piers jutting into the water, weathered by salt and time. Beyond it, the town's whitewashed stone houses clung to the hillsides, their rooftops bright against the deep green of the surrounding mountains.

Bonfires flickered on the slopes above, signals from Depë Zenebishi's men, confirming that the Byzantines were expected. On the docks, a gathering of armed men stood waiting, their posture rigid, their weapons glinting in the sunlight.

As the ships approached, Aristos stood at the bow, studying the shore with a keen eye. The Albanian rebels were warriors of the mountains, fiercely independent, hardened by years of resistance against the Ottomans. They had accepted Byzantine aid, but trust was something that had to be earned.

With a final command from the helmsmen, the ships eased into the harbor, their hulls bumping gently against the wooden piers. Gangplanks were lowered, and the Byzantine soldiers began disembarking, their boots thudding against damp planks. The dock groaned under the weight of barrels of gunpowder, crates of weapons, and the canons, which had to be hauled ashore with the help of oxen and sweating laborers.

A small delegation of Albanians stepped forward, their leader a tall, bearded warrior clad in worn leather and chainmail. His dark eyes swept over the Byzantine force, lingering on the cannons before returning to Aristos.

"You bring arms and men," the warrior said in heavily accented Greek. "Good. But war is not won with gifts alone."

Aristos straightened slightly, his voice clear and sincere. "We bring more than weapons, we bring experience." He gestured to the engineers and veteran soldiers organizing the supplies. "Soldiers who've fought the Ottomans, cannons to breach their walls, steel to empower your fighters. We'll stand together and drive them back."

The Albanian's lips curled slightly, not quite a smile, but close enough. He gave a firm nod. "Then let us waste no time."

With that, the march to Gjirokastër began.

The journey inland was grueling. The mountain passes were steep and unforgiving, the narrow trails barely wide enough for the carts carrying the cannons. The soldiers moved in disciplined columns, while Albanian scouts darted ahead, their eyes scanning for signs of Ottoman patrols.

Villages along the route offered what aid they could, baskets of bread and dried meats, flasks of honeyed water, and whispered blessings from Orthodox priests who saw the Byzantine arrival as a sign from God. The locals spoke of the siege in hushed tones, of Depë Zenebishi's forces encircling Gjirokastër, of Ottoman garrisons still holding strong behind the city's walls.

"The Turks are trapped inside, but they do not yield," one elder warned Aristos as they passed through a small settlement. "They wait for reinforcements from the east."

Aristos exchanged a glance with his officers. Time was against them. If Murad's forces arrived before the city fell, all would be for nothing.

On the fourth day, as dusk settled over the land, the Byzantine force crested a ridge, and there, stretched before them in the valley below, was Gjirokastër.

Smoke curled from the besieged city, black scars of war marring the stone walls. The banners of the Ottomans still hung defiantly over the towers, while beyond the trenches of the Albanian rebels, flickering torchlight marked the positions of the encampments surrounding the city.

Aristos surveyed the battlefield, his mind already calculating the best approach. His eyes locked onto a weakened section of the southwestern wall, where the masonry was older, worn from years of exposure.

He turned to his officers, his voice hard and decisive. "We will set the cannons on that southwestern wall. We'll hammer them until the stone gives way."

Aristos drew his sword and pointed toward the city.

"It's time we give the Turks a taste of our fire."