Free Corvus by Paul Kearney Page B

upon the face of the countryside. Roughly
square, it was perhaps twenty taenons of tents and horse-lines and wagon-parks,
the largest encampment Rictus had ever seen in the Harukush. Fornyx halted in
his tracks at the sight of it and ran his fingers through his beard. “Phobos!
So all the bullshit is true, after all. You really have conquered the east, and
you’ve brought half of it here with you!”
    Corvus pointed out
segments of the camp to them both.
    “Those lines
nearest to us are the conscript spearmen, citizens of the eastern cities who
are here for the duration of the campaign. Behind them are my own spears, who
have followed me since the fall of Idrios, two years ago. Druze’s Igranians are
encamped on the north side, and in the rear are my Companions, the cavalry of
the army.”
    Rictus had seen
large armies before. There had been over thirty thousand in the forces of
Arkamenes, the Kufr pretender to the Great King’s throne, and Ashurnan had
brought several times that to the field at Kunaksa. This was the camp of many
thousands, but it was not the army he had heard of in the stories - it was too
small.
    “How many men do
you have here?” he asked Corvus bluntly.
    “Enough for the
task in hand. I have had to leave several garrisons behind me.” Corvus cocked
his head to one side in that bird-like gesture of his.
    “The army you see
here numbers somewhat under fourteen thousand.”
    “Phobos!” Fornyx
exclaimed again, but Rictus was not so easily impressed.
    “You had best hope
then that Karnos does not marshal all the forces of the Avennan League against
you.”
    “Numbers are not
everything,” Corvus said. “You of all men should know that, Rictus.”
    They walked down
the descending slopes of the hills to the camp itself. There were mounted
pickets out in twos and threes, unarmoured men bearing javelins, perched upon
the tough hill-ponies of the eastern mountains. Closer to the mass of hide
tents, spear-carrying infantry stood sentry. The Macht’ cities emblazoned the
shields of their warriors with the sigils that denoted their city’s name, but
Corvus’s soldiers all had the symbol of a black bird painted on theirs, their
only concession to uniformity.
    The nearest of
them raised their spears and shouted Corvus’s name as he was recognised, and it
seemed to send a stir throughout the camp, as wind will usher a wave across a
field of ripe corn. The hooded boy walking beside Rictus threw back the folds
of his highlander chlamys and raised a hand as he entered the encampment of his
army, to be met by a hoarse formless shout from the crowds of men who saw him
arrive.
    “They love the
little bugger,” Fornyx said, marvelling.
    A tented city,
with neat streets, the roadways within corduroyed with logs where the ground
was soft. Latrines had been dug at every crossroads, deep slit trenches with
men squatting over them. Fresh ones were being dug even as Rictus watched.
There was discipline here, a level beyond that of the usual citizen-army.
    An open space
before the largest tent they had yet seen. A line of tall wooden posts with
outspanning arms had been embedded in the earth along one side, like a series
of gibbets.
    “What’s this?”
Fornyx asked.
    “The execution
ground,” Corvus told him. “And here is my tent. Rictus, I would be happy to
make you my guest.”
    “Where are my men?”
Rictus demanded. “I wish to see them.”
    Corvus nodded to
Druze, who sped off. It had begun to rain, a cold drizzle clouding down from
the mountains. “Come inside. They’ll be here presently.”
    The tent was tall,
a draped house of hides upon which the rain had begun to drum more insistently,
with one entire wall lifted up on poles. There were braziers within, bright and
hot with charcoal, a broad table covered with maps, a simple cot, and an armour
stand hung with weapons and a black cuirass. Two sentries stood stolid as
marble by the wide entrance, ignoring the rain running down their