Paul Kearney - Corvus

“According to Tynon’s constitution, in time of war, extraordinary assemblies may be called to pass laws by popular acclaim. Brothers, I need to hear your voices now. Forgive me for my infraction of our codes, and let it be written that I did so only in the city’s interest – in your interest.

“Brothers, will you now formally legalise my actions of last night, the calling out of the army, and the convening of this assembly? Let us hear what you say. All in favour, say aye.”

The dome roared.

Karnos struggled to be heard. “Those against -”

He could see the mouths of the well-dressed men at the floor of the circle opening, but whatever noise they made was drowned out by the thunderous wave of ayes that was still shaking the Empirion. He raised his arms.

“I declare the motion passed!”

The crowd kept roaring. Gobbets of food were thrown down from the topmost circles of the amphitheatre to land on the lower benches.

Men stood up. He heard his name called out by thousands, arms lifted to him. He stood and raised his own arm in salute.

I have you, he thought. I have you.

One of the other Kerusia members crossed the floor to stand at his side. It was Katullos, the bull-necked, grey-bearded patriarch of the Alcmoi family who had been Speaker himself at one time. He leaned close to be heard and said to Karnos:

“That was nicely done.”

“Thank you.”

“You are safe for now, my friend, with the mob shouting your name. Let us see how long it lasts.” He set a massive hand on Karnos’s shoulder in what looked like a friendly gesture. But Karnos could feel the fury in the grip of the older man’s fingers.

“One day they will cheer the news of your fall, Karnos. And I swear I will be there to see it.”

Karnos smiled at him with perfect affability.

“You must count on living a long time, Katullos.”

Druze halted, panting, and held up a hand. He made the hand into a fist. At once the column behind him bifurcated, splitting to left and right of the road in a movement reminiscent of a shoal of fish. The men formed a line, caught their breath, and began weighing the heft of the javelins in their hands.

“Some stubborn bastard has decided to make a stand,” he said.

The man to his right, a gangling thatch-haired youth with eyes the colour of cobweb, tossed his javelin up in the air and caught it again, out of sheer lightness of heart, it seemed.

“I hope so, chief. Antimone’s tits, I hope so. The last good fight I had was with a whore in Maronen.”

Druze grinned. He clapped the youth on the shoulder. “That’s right, brother – and I hear she won.”

A crackle of laughter ran along the ranks. The Igranians stood easily, tightening their belts, retying sandals, fingering the cruel iron points of their javelins. Each man carried a bundle of them, and these they now untied, checking the shafts for warp, stabbing them into the ground to clean the blades. They wore the felt tunics of the inner mountains for the most part, and rough wool chlamys whose folds they now tied up under their left armpits to leave their throwing arms free.

A pasang away on the road their path was blocked by a body of spearmen. These had formed up in four ranks and extended four to five hundred paces. At least sixteen hundred men, Druze thought, measuring them with his bright black eyes.

“They’ll be out of Goron, that city on the crag to the west,” he said. All humour left his face. He watched the enemy phalanx closely, noting their intervals, they way they stood, how they held their spears. These small details meant something. If spearmen kept their shields on their shoulders long before battle was joined, it meant they were nervous. If they left the ranks to piss or shit instead of doing it where they stood, it meant they were not well-drilled.

“These lads are not bad,” he said, noting the stillness in the enemy formation, and the fact that slaves to their rear were passing water-skins up the files.

The flanks of the phalanx were protected by woods, half a bowshot on either side of the road. Hazel woods, stark with winter but with enough brush remaining to act as a concealer. There might be more men in those trees, hunkered down on the cold ground with the snow numbing their bellies.

“Send back word to Corvus,” Druze said. “We’ll hold here for now. Gabinius, take a couple of fists down to the treeline and see if there’s anything more than rabbits in there. I want no surprises.”

“You got it, chief.” The thatch-haired youth sped off at a run, calling out to the men nearest him. Eight of them peeled out of the line and followed him down the roadside at an easy lope, black against the snow-covered ground. Druze blew on his hands.

“A cold day to die,” he said.

Down the vast column, Rictus strode along with the tireless pace of the old campaigner. As far as the eye could see the road was choked with marching men in both directions, and from their labouring bodies a steam rose in the chill air so that they were marching in a fog of their own making. There was little to see except the backs of the men in front.

They were two day’s march out of Hal Goshen, and Corvus was pushing the pace hard. The men’s armour was piled in the baggage wagons and they carried only what they had to on their backs, using their spears as staffs. The Dogsheads were an unmistakable scarlet vertebra in the backbone of the army.

Horses cantering past on either side of the trudging infantry, like ghosts from a swifter world. A knot of them reined in, the snow flying from their hooves, the animals snorting and white-streaked with sweat. Huge horses, larger than any the Macht countries ever bred. Atop one, a gaudily cloaked figure raised a hand. The Kufr, Ardashir.

“Rictus! Corvus wants you and the Dogsheads at the front of the column at once. Get your gear from the wagons and arm up – we have work to do!”

The Kufr’s long, shining face broke out in a grin, and as he sped off again his long black hair flew out behind him like his horse’s mane.

Fornyx grimaced. “I was just getting ready to piss.”

“Piss in your own time,” Rictus told him. “Valerian, Kesero – break ranks, off the road. Time to earn our pay, brothers.”

The line of the army’s march had mushroomed out, formations wheeling left and right of the road and taking up position in extended ranks, out to the trees. This was the old Imperial road of Machran, which had come all the way from Idrios, and the cities along its length kept it maintained and cut back the brush and woodland on either side of it to foil the designs of brigands and goatmen. Rictus led his centons off the road and marched them smartly past the waiting files of the army, aware of the hundreds of eyes watching his red-cloaked men.

“Tighten it up, you plodding fucks,” Fornyx quipped in an undertone. “Let’s make it look good for the crowd.”

There was a gap, where the vanguard had halted, and then beyond it were Druze’s Igranians and a body of the Companion Cavalry. The personal raven banner of Corvus snapped busily in the wind.

“There you have it,” Corvus said, dismounting and joining Rictus as his men reformed into line. “Goron’s citizen’s have decided to make a fight of it. Two morai of spearmen and a cloud of light troops hidden in the trees. Druze has sounded out the position; it can’t be turned without a long flank march over the hills, so we’ll pitch straight into it. You will assault with your Dogsheads, Rictus, with one of Teresian’s morai following you in. Druze will flush out the woods with his Igranians, and when the line is ruptured, I’ll take in the cavalry. Any questions?”