Paul Kearney - Kings of Morning

The King rose, picked up an ivory pointer and let it range over a map of the country on both sides of the Korash Mountains. The men at the table became silent, watching.

The pointer traced the route from Sinon, where the army had crossed from the Harukush, to the Haneikos River, where they had destroyed the army of the satrap Darios, east across Gansakr to Ashdod, which now lay in ruin behind them, and so to the foothills of the mountains, and the pass of Irunshahr, where once the Ten Thousand had walked.

‘Brothers,’ Corvus said quietly, ‘Here we stand. Two day’s march from the high country, some two hundred pasangs from Irunshahr on the far side of the mountains. We have crossed the sea, established our base of operations at Sinon, and beaten back the first riposte from the enemy.’ He paused.

‘I do not expect any more organised resistance on the part of the empire for some time. We will be in the Land of the Rivers before the Great King can gather his forces.’ He tapped the tip of the pointer lightly upon the inked vellum. ‘That is where the decisive battle will take place — if we are fortunate.

‘Common rumour has it that Ashurnan has already begun marching west to meet us, with the Honai and the imperial troops. This is the main effort of the enemy. What has gone before has been mere skirmishing.’

There were some murmurs at this, and Corvus smiled.

‘We faced some fifty thousand men at the Haneikos River, the greatest army all of us save Rictus has ever seen. But I tell you, brothers, that when the Great King himself takes to the field, we will be fighting many times that. This Kufr has fought the Macht before — he saw what they could do, at Kunaksa, and again at Irunshahr. There are some things even old men do not forget.’

A rustle of amusement as Fornyx patted Rictus on the back solicitously.

‘The battle of the Haneikos, and the sack of Ashdod, have shown him that we are not mere raiders, nor are we here to annex a few outlying provinces of his empire. He knows, now, that we mean to take all of it from him.’

‘Are you so sure of that?’ Fornyx asked.

‘I have made sure of it. I sent him a letter.’

Exclamations up and down the table. Druze laughed aloud, incredulous.

‘I have captured Darios, satrap of this province, alive. He survived both the Haneikos and the taking of Ashdod. I would hazard he is a resourceful man. So I have sent him east bearing a message for his master.’

Corvus tossed the ivory pointer onto the map with a flourish.

‘I told Ashurnan that I have come for his crown, his cities, his palaces and all he possesses, and I will be satisfied with nothing less than all of it.’

‘Phobos!’ Fornyx cried. ‘You don’t do things by half, do you?’

‘He will take us seriously now,’ Corvus said, an odd gaiety creeping into his face.

‘But it will slow him down, too,’ Rictus mused. He stared closely at Corvus. ‘You’re betting he’ll take longer now to complete his levies, to gather as many troops as he can; and that we’ll be well beyond the mountains before he can intercept us.’

Corvus nodded. ‘I do not mean to be hemmed in by rocks and stones when the thing happens. I want open country for the cavalry.’

‘They say the Great King has cavalry too,’ Ardashir said, with a raised eyebrow. ‘The Arakosans are not to be taken lightly.’

‘They damn near destroyed the Ten Thousand at Irunshahr,’ Rictus said quietly.

‘They are no match for the Companions. And besides, brothers, we will not be alone in this thing.’

At this, Corvus held up one long finger, then turned without explanation and left the tent.

The Marshals looked at one another. The silence was such that they could hear the spent charcoal shifting in the braziers.

‘Can this be done?’ Teresian asked at last.

‘The whole empire — he wants the whole thing,’ Fornyx said, shaking his head.

‘It’s what he has always wanted,’ Ardashir told them. ‘We knew it from the beginning, or should have.’

‘It can be done,’ bald Parmenios spoke up for the first time. ‘He has me on it, evening up the odds.’

‘Can you invent us fifty thousand new spearmen?’ Demetrius growled. ‘Because that’s what it’ll take. We don’t have the force to do this, not here, not even with the reinforcements coming in. And that’s to say nothing of the garrisons we’ll have to leave behind on the way. The boy’s a genius, but he’s lifting his throat to the knife with this.’

‘It can’t be done,’ Fornyx agreed. ‘Rictus; you have his ear more than any of us. You must speak to him.’

Rictus’s face did not change. He stared at the map on the tabletop, at the names thereon, where a generation before he had bled and killed and watched his friends die. At last he said, ‘Let’s hear him out.’

Corvus chose that moment to re-enter the tent. He was not alone. Beside him walked a strange, squat figure with oddly dark skin whose eyes had the same yellow gleam as a wolf’s.

‘Brothers,’ he said. ‘Let me introduce someone. This is Marcan, and he has come a long way to see us.’ He raised a hand and a page came forward with a glass and jug. The boy spilled the wine as he poured it, and retreated again in some confusion. The newcomer flicked the liquid from his fingers, raised the glass to the astonished marshals and drained it, but tipped the last few drops out onto the floor of the tent.

‘For Mot, lest he thirst,’ he said in a deep, hard voice like the creak of timbers in a tunnel.

‘He is Juthan,’ Ardashir said, wide-eyed.

‘I am Marcan of Junnan, of the free kingdom of Jutha,’ the stranger declared. ‘I give you greetings.’

The Juthan’s skin was a deep grey, and he came up only to Corvus’s shoulder, but was broad as the barrel of a horse. His hands were massive, shovel-like, and he had large, flat features. But there was humour in the yellow eyes, as he stood there and took in their open-mouthed stares.

‘Marcan is an emissary of King Proxanon of Jutha,’ Corvus said breezily. ‘The Juthans have been at war with the empire since the time of the Ten Thousand. Now it has occurred to both Proxanon and myself that we could be of use to each other. Brothers, shift up and let us find a seat for our new ally.’

Seated, the Juthan was as tall as any one of them, so massive was his torso. It was as though some crag from the mountainside had been chiselled off and set in their midst.

‘What does this mean?’ Demetrius asked, his one eye blinking. He was kneading the half-healed wound in his thigh without realising it, bringing fresh blood to the dressing. Druze tapped his arm and he stopped.

‘It means that we are not alone in opposing the Great King,’ Corvus said. He set a hand on the Juthan’s shoulder. It looked as small as a child’s resting there.

‘Proxanon offers us five full legions in support of our endeavours. That is fifty thousand spears, Demetrius, and the Juthan are hardy fighters, by every account I’ve ever heard.’

‘They’re not Macht,’ Demetrius muttered.

The Juthan turned his head and looked at the one-eyed veteran. ‘No, we are not Macht. But the Great King has been trying to destroy us for thirty years, and has failed. We must be doing something right.’

His Machtic was heavily accented, but almost perfect. Rictus found himself wondering where he had learned it.

Teresian spoke up. ‘Corvus, my king, I am with you in this thing, to the death. But if we are to do it, then let us do it alone. War without allies is a simpler thing. And if these Juthan once betrayed the Great King, who is to say that they will not one day do the same to us?’

Marcan’s yellow eyes flashed. He made as if to get up, but Corvus pressed on the Juthan’s shoulder. He remained in his seat.