Corvus by Paul Kearney Page B

Demetrius. He had one eye, the other a
socket of whorled scar tissue - he was general of the conscript spears, the
levies which Corvus had brought east from each of the twelve cities he had
conquered. Rictus wondered how these men - there were some six thousand of
them, by all accounts - felt fighting far from home for a man who had destroyed
their independence. They were likely here as hostages for their cities’ good
behaviour as much as anything else.
    But the real shock
was the leader of Corvus’s own Companion Cavalry. This fellow’s name was
Ardashir, and he was a head taller than anyone else in the room, with violent
green eyes and skin a pale gold. His face was so long as to be almost equine,
and he had dragged his long black hair into a topknot.
    Ardashir was not
Macht. He was Kufr.
    It had been a long
time since Rictus had laid eyes on a Kufr. From his own experience he knew that
the other peoples of the world came in many shapes and sizes. He had
encountered most of them in his travels, and while the Macht might lump them
all under the same derogatory label, he knew better.
    There were many
castes in the Empire, but the highest were formed by those who came from the
heartland of Asuria, who spoke the language of the Great King’s court, provided
his bodyguards and administrators. By his appearance Ardashir was one of these,
a high-caste Kefren of the Imperial nobility. And he sat here at a Macht table,
commanding troops in a Macht army.
    Rictus found the
tall Kefren studying him almost as intently as he was being studied. Ardashir
smiled. “It is not often one finds oneself breaking bread with a legend. Rictus
of Isca, I have heard your name in stories all my life, as have we all here. It
lifts my heart to think that we shall be fighting shoulder to shoulder from
this day on.” His voice was deep, melodious, his Machtic almost perfect.
    “Come, drink with
me.”
    Rictus found his
throat seizing up on him. The Kefren’s face had jolted his memories. He
remembered faces like that raging down at him in a line thousands strong,
crashing in close enough that their spittle sprayed his face, their blood
soaked his skin. He had trampled faces like that into the muck and mire of
Kunaksa. He had not believed the memories could be brought back so bright and
vivid while he sat eyes open and wide awake, and had to fight a momentary,
overwhelming urge to spring to his feet. He bowed his head and choked down a
cup of yellow wine.
    The whole table
was watching him; Rictus, leader of the Ten Thousand, thrown into panic by the
sight of a single Kufr. He beat it down, grinding his teeth on the wine. When
he raised his head again his face was as blank as a flint.
    “You are a long
way from home,” he managed.
    Ardashir bowed his
head in acknowledgement. “A friend came this way, and I followed him.”
    “Ardashir’s people
make up most of the Companion Cavalry,” the one-eyed man, Demetrius, said. “They
were among the first to fight for Corvus, and have come all this way -”
    “They are my
friends, all of them,” Corvus said, his high, clear voice cutting the older man
short. “They have fought by my side on a dozen battlefields. The Macht have
never been a people to appreciate the potential of cavalry, and a man does not
become a horse-soldier overnight. To create a mounted arm, I had to look over
the sea. Rictus, in your youth you battled your way across half the Empire. You
of all men should be able to appreciate the valour of the people within it.”
    Corvus was
taut-faced, staring at him. Here was a test, Rictus realised. He spoke to
Ardashir again.
    “I fought the
Great King’s Honai at Kunaksa, and the Asurian cavalry at Irunshahr. I do not
have to be convinced of your people’s prowess.”
    Druze leaned close
to Ardashir and reached up to shake the Kefren by the shoulder. “Prowess or
not, he still beat you, you big yellow streak of shit.”
    The table erupted
in laughter, Ardashir laughing as loud as