xymnovel Chapter 234 The Wolf's Path
Chapter 234 The Wolf's Path
Night fell over the courtyard outside the command post, and Constantine pulled his military overcoat tighter around himself. The evening breeze carried the chill of the mountains, causing the flags in the courtyard to flutter wildly. His gaze turned northwest; beyond the mountains swallowed by darkness lay Epirus.
Five thousand ghosts are marching across that unknown land.
He did not return to the warm room, but stood motionless in the deep night.
The Pindus Mountains in June are two-sided. By day, the scorching sun bakes the exposed rocks, the heat rising and blurring visibility. By night, a biting wind sweeps down from the mountain peaks, biting through every inch of skin and freezing to the bone.
Metaxas's "Mountain Hunter Division" has been traversing this hellish no-man's-land for ten days.
The 5,000-strong column stretched as far as the eye could see along the rugged mountain path. No conversation could be heard within the marching ranks. Only the rustling of specially made soft-soled military boots on the gravel, the heavy breathing of the mules and horses, and the suppressed heartbeats of the soldiers themselves could be heard.
The officers maintained formation with the lowest possible commands. Occasionally, a rock would slide down the cliff, the sound of which would make the muscles of the entire team tense for a moment before returning to a deathly silence.
They were like a ghostly legion marching from the depths of hell, silently traversing the heartland of the Ottoman Empire, which it thought was impregnable.
At the very front of the procession walked a figure. He was not a soldier; he wore a rough sheepskin vest and carried a well-worn wooden staff. His hair was gray, and his skin was as dark and deeply lined as the bark of an old tree that had been smoked.
This shepherd from Vlach was a "living map" that the Royal Intelligence Service had spent a full three thousand drachmas to find in the Epirus Mountains. This vast mountain range was as familiar to him as the sheepfold in his own backyard.
At this moment, he was leading this massive army along an ancient path frequented only by goats and the most ruthless smugglers. This path was not on any Ottoman map, and even the greedy tax collectors were unaware of its existence.
The accident occurred when the group reached a narrow pass with a rock face that was extremely slippery from the rain.
A mule carrying two boxes of 75mm mountain howitzer shells suddenly slipped. It let out a terrified whinny and frantically pawed at the slippery rocks, trying to steady itself.
The soldier following behind the mule reached out to grab the reins, but grasped only air.
The mule's massive body lost its balance and tumbled towards the edge of the cliff. Along with the two crates of supplies it carried—symbols of destruction and hope—it plunged into the bottomless, dark abyss.
"ah--"
A suppressed gasp escaped the ranks. Everyone stopped and turned to look into the darkness. The mournful braying of the mule echoed through the valley for a few seconds before being swallowed by the abyss.
Every shell was intended for the Turks in Ioannina. The loss of these two crates of shells sank the hearts of all the soldiers.
Metaxus stepped forward from the middle of the column. He was gaunt, with sunken eyes; ten days of marching had left him emaciated. He glanced down the cliff, but could see nothing in the darkness.
His face was expressionless.
Just one second.
He withdrew his gaze, his voice not loud, but clearly reaching the ears of every soldier who had been momentarily stunned by the incident.
"Distribute the load from the sacrificed mules. Count the ammunition and redistribute it by platoon."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the soldiers whose faces were pale with exhaustion and hunger.
"Each of you, bring five extra rifle bullets. Then, discard half of the rations in your backpacks."
The orders were cold and devoid of any emotion.
The soldiers were stunned. They understood carrying extra bullets, but what about losing rations? In this desolate mountain where even wild fruit was scarce, rations were life itself.
No one raised any questions.
Not a single person hesitated.
The soldiers silently unloaded their backpacks and, under the supervision of their officers, discarded half of their rye bread and cured meat in the roadside bushes.
Metaxas watched all this unfold, continuing in his monotone voice, "We must reach the Eagle's Nest before dawn tomorrow. That's an order."
"Eagle's Nest" was the code name they gave to their final assault position.
The column began to move again. The soldiers' backpacks were lighter, but the weight of their rifles and bullets on their shoulders had increased. No one complained, and the silent marching column once again disappeared into the night like ghosts.
The night grew deeper and deeper.
The fresh scent of pine needles after the rain, mixed with the damp earth and the sour smell of the soldiers' sweat, filled everyone's nostrils.
They could hear their own hearts pounding heavily and powerfully in their chests, like war drums. They could hear the heavy breathing of their comrades beside them, like broken bellows.
The cold night wind, like countless tiny knives, scraped across their dusty and sweat-stained faces.
The soldiers pulled out the remaining dry, hard rations from their pockets and mechanically stuffed them into their mouths to chew. The rough texture ground against their gums, and the taste was almost indistinguishable from sawdust.
But they were all staring intently in one direction.
At the far end of the mountains, below the horizon, there is a blurry halo.
Those were the lights of Joanina.
That light, in the pitch-black night, was as faint as a firefly. But within that light, there were warm houses, soft bread, and compatriots waiting for them to liberate.
At 3 a.m., the ghost army finally arrived at the ridge codenamed "Eagle's Nest".
This location is less than two kilometers in a straight line from the western city wall of Ioannina. From here, the entire city appears to be asleep.
Metaxas ordered them to camp on the spot. There were no tents, no campfires. The soldiers huddled behind the cold rocks, using their bodies to shield themselves from the mountain's biting wind.
Under a huge rock, Metaxas covered himself and several officers, along with a lantern, completely with a waterproof tarpaulin.
Under the dim light, a hand-drawn map of the city of Joanina lay open, appearing exceptionally clear.
"Artillery company, your positions are here." He pointed to a raised area marked with a cross on the map. "You have fifteen minutes of free firing time. Targets: the Ottoman army's main barracks in the north of the city, and the Bey residence in the city center. After fifteen minutes, regardless of the outcome, immediately provide five minutes of fire coverage on this section of the western city wall."
"First Battalion, Second Battalion, you are the main assault force. After the artillery barrage ends, you must use your speed to scale over here," he traced a section of the city wall marked with a red dotted line, "Remember, don't linger in battle. Your primary task is to clear the city wall and open a passage for the following troops."
"The third and fourth battalions, once inside the city, will immediately advance in the south and north directions to create chaos and destroy any organized resistance. Our inside agents will use bells as a signal."
His voice was extremely low, and every word struck the hearts of the officers present.
"Gentlemen, the fate of Greece rests in our surprise attack tomorrow."
He looked up, and the light illuminated his bloodshot eyes, which shone with a terrifying brightness.
"Remember, we are not invaders, we are liberators. Anyone who dares to disturb civilians or loot property, I authorize you to execute them on the spot, regardless of rank."
After assigning the tasks, he blew out the lantern.
Darkness enveloped everything once more.
The last night.
The soldiers slept against the cold rocks, fully clothed. They were exhausted, but no one could truly sleep. Every nerve was stretched taut like a bowstring, their rifles clutched tightly to their chests, the cold steel feel more reliable than any lover.
The city of Ioannina, nestled at the foot of the mountain, still slept peacefully.
The people in the city were completely unaware that a blade composed of five thousand vengeful ghosts was already hanging over its throat.
Metaxas didn't sleep. He stood alone at the highest point of the ridge, letting the cold wind whip his thin military uniform. He stared motionless at the faint lights below, until the first hint of dawn appeared in the east.