Paul Kearney - Corvus

“You’re too short!” Rian exclaimed, colour rising up her face. Aise set a hand on her arm. “Enough, daughter. You will eat in silence now.”

Corvus seemed to have taken no offence. “My mother was a wise woman, like yours,” he said. “She always told me that a man is as tall as he thinks he is.” He raised his cup to Rian. “And besides, lady, I am tall in the stories, am I not?”

The stilted meal ended, and Aise led the girls out of the room, Rian still smouldering. Eunion took himself off to a corner where he affected to read a scroll, though he fooled none of them; he was as prick eared with curiosity as a bald-headed cat. Rictus, Fornyx, Corvus and Druze remained about the table, watching one another, until finally Fornyx, who had drunk deep of the superb wine, rose with in irritated hiss of breath and turned to Rictus. “Get me out of this damned thing, will you?” And he slapped at the black cuirass on his back.

“Let me,” Corvus said, rising as swiftly as a dancer. And before Fornyx could protest, he was working on the clasps of the armour, opening them with sharp clicks. He lifted the cuirass off Fornyx and held it in his hands a moment.

“It amazes me, every time I touch one of these,” he said. “The lightness of it, the strength inside. What are they made of, Antimone’s Gift? Do you ever wonder, Rictus?”

“Gaenion made the stuff of them, they say,” Druze put in. “Out of the essence of darkness itself. And because she wove them into chitons for us, Antimone was exiled from heaven, to watch over us in pity, and to take us behind her Veil in death. I’ve heard it said that the life and fate of the Macht are woven into them in patterns we cannot see.” Druze had awide, broad-nosed face, that of a farmer, and he had the olive colouring of the eastern tribes. But his eyes missed nothing, and the hilt of the drepana hanging from his shoulder had seen much use.

Corvus was turning the cuirass this way and that to catch the fire while Fornyx stood looking at him owlishly.

“You see the way it takes the light sometimes – a gleam here or there. And yet at other times it will reflect nothing, but will be as black as a hole in the earth itself.”

Fornyx took his cuirass back, swaying a little.

“With all the conquering you’ve been doing, I’d have thought you would have one of your own by now,” he said to Corvus.

The strange youth’s face hardened, became a pale mask. “I have one,” he said softly. “I choose not to wear it.”

“Why so?”

“A man must earn his right to the Curse of God, Fornyx.”

Fornyx snorted, and then wove his way to the end wall where he placed his cuirass on its stand there. He set a hand on it.

“They do not care who wears them,” he said over his shoulder. “They fit your bones like a second skin, whether you’re fat or thin, tall,” he turned round with a sneer, “or short.”

Corvus seemed all at once to grow very still, and in the room the only sound was the crackle of the fire, and the breath slowly exhaling from Druze’s mouth.

“Rictus, your friend has savoured too much of the wine,” Corvus said quietly. “He forgets himself.”

“I forget myself, do I?” Fornyx snarled. He strode hack to the table. “You short-arsed little fuck – how about I break you in two over my knee?”

Rictus stood up. “Enough.” One look halted Fornyx in his tracks.

“We’ve played your game,” he said to Corvus. “Now I want to know your intent. Are you here to kill us, or make some kind of offer? We’re mercenaries, not seers. Be straight, and get it over with.”

Corvus nodded, and some life came back into the mask-like face. He really was as fine-boned as a girl, Rictus thought. It did not seem possible he was the man who had been conquering the cities of the eastern coasts for going on three years now, the unstoppable conqueror of rumour. A leader of armies.

And yet, when one looked in the eyes… There was a coldness there, an implacability.

Corvus stood by the hearth and splayed his long white fingers to the flames, the nail-paint on them black in the firelight. It was barely midday outside, but here in the farmhouse it might have been the middle of the night. There was the low murmur of talk from the men beyond the walls, but no wind in the valley. The Andunnon River was a mere liquid guess of noise.

Corvus turned around. He was smiling.

“It is very simple,” he said. “I am here to hire you, your friend Fornyx, and your men. I wish you to come and serve in the ranks of my army.”

Rictus took a seat, squirted more wine for himself into a clay cup, and methodically filled cups for them all. Druze raised his in salute before sipping at it, black eyes as watchful as those of a stoat. Fornyx sat down beside him, the two dark men looking more than ever like children of the same father, though one was hefted with wide-boned muscle, the other as lean as a blackthorn stick.

“Mercenaries pick their employers,” Rictus said. “They choose their contracts, and vote on them. You may wish to hire us, Corvus, but that does not mean you can.”

Corvus approached the table, lifted a cup, and studied the trembling face of the wine within.

“Oh, I think I can,” he said softly. “Druze, tell him.”

“Your senior centurions, Valerian and Kesero, are guests of our army as we speak,” Druze said, flapping a hand in apology. “Your centons have been rounded up and are in our camp outside Hal Goshen.”

“Prisoners,” Fornyx hissed.

“Guests,” Corvus corrected him. “I have already broached my terms of employment to them, and they find them agreeable. But they want to know your word on it, Rictus of Isca.”

There it was. The glove slipped off, the fist shown at last. This slender cold eyed boy held Rictus and his family in the palm of his hand.

“What if I said no?” Rictus asked.

Corvus looked back down into his cup. “This is a harsh world. A man must do what he can to safeguard those he loves. And he will do what he must to make the life he has chosen for himself. I know that Karnos of Machran has approached you and your centons with a view to employment – employment against me. The Dogsheads are renowned across our world – how many are they now, Druze?”

“Four hundred and sixty two,” Druze said instantly, “Not including those present here.”

“Four hundred and sixty two men, only – but those men have been trained by Rictus of Isca. Their prowess, their very name – your name – is worth ten times those numbers of ordinary spearmen. And if Karnos sees sense, and offers you, Rictus, overall command of the League’s field-army, why then, my work would be doubled. The leader of the Ten Thousand, at the head of the Avennan League’s army – think on it! You would light a fire in the Harukush, one that might consume my ambitions forever.”

Corvus was smiling now, tight-lipped, and in the firelight his high-boned face did not. seem entirely human. His eyes caught the flames like those of a fox.

“So you see why I am here.”

Rictus’s voice rasped like gravel out of his mouth. “What if I take employment with none of you -what if I wish to stay here and till my land and live out my life in peace, here in this valley?”

Corvus nodded. “Your centurions have told me that you have spoken thus. You think of hanging up your spear, of following a plough, herding goats, laying down that scarlet cloak.” He paused. “You have loyal friends, Rictus. They almost convinced me.”

Slowly, he tipped his cup and poured a thin stream of the ruby wine onto the tabletop. It spattered and pooled like fresh spilt blood.

“For Phobos,” he said. “A libation.” He placed his hand in the wine and then raised it, palm outwards.