The Guns of Empire by Django Wexler

brought to bear was still a shock to Marcus every time he walked up the little rise. Neat rows of blue canvas stretched on and on, broken at regular intervals by avenues for traffic. In the artillery park, the guns of the army reserve were parked hub to hub, line after line of gleaming iron and brass, muzzles covered with leather bags to keep out the mud and damp. Endless strings of horses, off on the edge of camp, filled the early evening with faint animal sounds.
    And this was only a part of the total force—four divisions, plus the artillery and cavalry reserve. Already a larger force than the Army of the East, and four more divisions waited off to the south and west, under Fitz Warus’ overall command. To the east, at another flyspeck town called Glarusk, two more divisions under Winter Ihernglass had made their own camp.
    To the north, of course, across a long stretch of empty fields and small forests, Dorsay’s Borelgai army had made its own camp by the banks of the river Ytolin. Perhaps one hundred and sixty thousand soldiers between the two armies, driven by the will of two men. For a moment Marcus saw it all as some vast clockwork machine, each cog helplessly driven by the next, pressing onward no matter what was ground to dust in the gears . . .
    He shook his head, smiling ruefully.
You asked for this, d’Ivoire. Janus would have let you stay behind in Vordan minding the stores. Don’t get melodramatic
now
.
    Marcus turned away from the camp, where fires were starting to wink on like stars, and back to the command tent. It was a monstrous six-poled affair, big enough for a dozen men to stand comfortably around a map table. Lanterns glowed inside, and a pair of sentries with shouldered muskets waited beside the tent flap.
    Janus himself came into view, hiking up the short cow path that led up the side of the little rocky hill. He’d shed the dress uniform he’d worn at the peace talks for a standard blue one, distinguished only by gold laurel wreathes on the shoulders. The two guards who followed him wore the new silver scorpions of the Colonials, matching the one on Marcus’ chest. Janus’ personal troops, the Mierantai rifles, had been volunteers who’d left their lives behind to answer his call, and over the winter he’d released them to return to their mountain farms and villages. A special detail from the Colonials was now responsible for the safety of the First Consul.
    â€œMarcus!” Janus said. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
    â€œNo, sir,” Marcus said, snapping a salute, which Janus waved away. “I only just arrived.”
    â€œGood.” Janus flashed a grin. “The march seems to be going well, for the moment.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Marcus glanced back at the long lines of tents. “Frankly, I’m astonished we haven’t had more problems.”
    â€œA little practice goes a long way.” Janus followed Marcus’ gaze and grimaced. “Though I’ll be happier once we leave our royal accompaniment behind.”
    Raesinia’s tent was silvery white and larger than the others, with its own separate camp of cooks, grooms, and carters, cordoned off by Grenadier Guards. The queen had kept her entourage to a minimum, and Marcus couldn’t complain that they were encumbering the march, but it worried him having her so close to the battlefield.
    â€œI do wish she wouldn’t take the risk,” Marcus agreed.
    â€œThe risk to
her
isn’t the issue,” Janus said. “I’m more concerned about the risk to us. The last century provides many examples of the folly of trusting battlefield command to hereditary royalty.”
    â€œHer Majesty doesn’t seem inclined to assume command,” Marcus said.
    â€œFor the moment. But she may not be so permissive if things look likethey’re going badly.” He pursed his lips in thought. “I may have to speak to the