“Gentlemen,” thundered the Chamber Speaker, “The vote stands at 91 to 72, Fartown is thusly committed to war against the Western Wildmen with the objective of ensuring Rockhelm’ survival, and of removing the military threat they pose to the Federation.”

	Half the chamber rose to their feet, and cheered in great merriment. The other half looked on, shaking their heads and whisphering disapproval. The latest Crisis had split the Fartown Merchant Council, and it took three votes and many hours of deliberation before a majority was finally reached. 

	“If you please,” shouted the Chamber Speaker over the commotion, “be seated, so that we may elect the leader of our armies.”
	
	The cheers and merriment ended at once, and within seconds the chamber was back to its subdued, boring state. This was an important issue; the man who commanded Fartown’s legions was the greatest honour any citizen of the trading city could ever hope to aspire to. With the title Consul, a man went from a petty leather merchant to the most powerful man in the known world. Riches, glory and fame would be theirs. 

	This was no usual campaign however, and much was at stake. Many were divided between voting for those who had paid them to do so, and for someone who could actually lead an army and had experience. Fartown had fought many battles on the fringes of civilisation, but few wars, and not on this scale. The whole Federation was to be tested at Rockhelm, and it would rise and fall by the outcome. 

	There were two names on everyone’s lips, and those two names represented very different ideals. 

	Minister Octavian Gatus was a wine merchant by trade, but a proven battlefield commander. It was he who led the 5th Legion to victory against the remnants of the Old Kingdom at the battle of Herin, and it was he who reformed Fartown’s widely differing militia into a more uniform fighting force. He commanded the respect of the famed Jake Irons, with whom he had stood side by side at the Great Siege of Tears during the Southern War. At the sound age of thirty-nine, he had done much, achieved much and was promised much.

	Minister Helshar Basra was an arms trader, with two thousand armed men at his call day and night, but he was no commander. He had taken the 2nd and 3rd Legions westwards, with the aim of conquering the foreign trade hub of Trapbourg, but was utterly crushed by what many observers described as a numerically and materially inferior opponent. Three thousand good Fartown men had died in that campaign, and though Trapbourg sued for a biased peace on the belief that the Merchant Council would dispatch more Legions, it was always seen as stinging defeat for the Federation. However, with all this said, he was a very wealthy man with seven wives and innumerable mistresses. His weapons from Anthastiln had garnered him many friends, and his inexhaustible Federation Dollar reserves had bought him many more. He had bribed over half the council to vote for him that day.

	The Chamber Speaker, an old and haggard man with a hunched back, pulled open a scroll and cleared his throat.

	“The names most voted to lead the Legions were Minister Octavian Gatus of the Feathermore District, and Minister Helshar Basra of the Misty Isle District,” he said.
	
	There were many cheers for Helshar, but few for Octavian. Both men were present in the chamber, and both had cast their votes. Even from their appearance, in their simple stately gowns of white cotton, it was evident they were very different people.

	Octavian was tall, handsome with a shock of black hair and wide shoulders. He looked everything a prince of the old world. He stood rigid, looking up at the ceiling of the chamber. Helshar was short, extremely fat, and balding and had a face that resembled a rotten potato. He swayed with the consumption of fine wines, and smiled at the coming blessing he was to receive. 

	“Both ministers shall now stake their claim, before voting commences,” finished the Chamber Speaker, reclining in his austere wooden arm chair and waving an arm at Helshar.

	Helshar was up at once, and he rushed to the centre of the chamber so that all eyes were on him.

	“My Sirs,” he started, “my good Gentlemen, my fellow citizens of Fartown. It would be with great honour that I lead our mighty army eastwards, and claim for ourselves some new land with which to cultivate our future wealth!” 

	The room responded in a thunderous applause. 

	“I know there are some reservations about my military judgement, but worry not, for I shall bring with me the sound council of a dozen 29 advisors. With my eye for a good decision, and their analysis of situations, Fartown’s Legions will press onwards, unmatched and unstoppable. I will claim the East for Fartown, for the Federation!”
 
	More applause followed, and several Council members stood to clap their approval. A few remained seated, not trusting in his ability to heed wise advice from anyone, even if they were advisors from the Outpost. Helshar returned to his place amongst the benches, shaking hands as he went and smiling like a child who was about to be awarded first place in a running race. 

	The Chamber Speaker, himself nodding approval towards Helshar, then waved Octavian forwards.

	Octavian was a quiet man, but he was well known. The whole room fell silent as he made his way to the chamber centre, and eyes fell upon him. Everyone stood to win for voting for Helshar in the short term, but everyone may well stand to lose if the arms trader blundered like he did at Trapbourg. Money was a fine bribe when the consequences were small, or were dwarfed by the gain, but this was a real war – 10,000 Wildmen surging into the Federation’s borders was not the same as storming a desolate town of a few hundred. 

	Not to mention that Fartown, whose army once boasted 10,000 strong itself, had never recovered from the Trapbourg disaster. Other battles and skirmishes had chipped away at it too, and every victory was always through force of numbers than through discipline or tactics. Except at Herin, of course. To lose the battle at Rockhelm would leave Fartown virtually defenceless, and there would be few men left to carry the Federation banner into a second confrontation. 
	
	“I killed a Wildman once,” said Octavian in a cold and sober tone, “I fired my pistol between her breasts, and she fell backwards with a broken body.”

	The room was nonplussed. Some Councilers looked around in boredom, but others looked on waiting for the punch line. 

	“She had sliced her way through my forward line, through my second line and through my third line. Two of my personal guard lay dead at her feet by the time she came to me. An axe clenched in each hand, and a body of solid rock, she had broken my army before my eyes, or so it seemed. I shot her, though I hate making war on womenfolk, and she died there. In all, fifteen of my men had died in her wake. I am lucky, that her friends were two hundred strong, and that we were three thousand strong, or it is unlikely Fartown would be here today,” he continued.

The room was silent now. No murmurs. Just focus.
	
	“Now ten thousand of her are surging towards Rockhelm. The soldiers there are strong, as strong as the Wildmen and very proud. They will hold their palisade for maybe a week, but they have not the numbers, and wooden walls are easy prey to fire. If we fail to break the Wildmen there, before the walls of the town, with the united arms of the Federation at our backs, then we will all be consigned to death or slavery. This I promise you, this, I can guarantee. What can Helshar guarantee you?

	Money in your pockets, so that tonight you may fuck your way through a whore house and into the tavern beyond. Hopes in your minds, so that you may fuck and drink your way through the next few days. Doom, in that he will fail to deliver, being as stubborn and as arrogant as he is, and I assure you, there will be no more fucking or drinking from that point on. For any of you. Well, not at your leisure anyway.”

	This drew seething rasps from some of the chamber, and Helshar himself started calling obscenities and threats at Octavian. 

	“Vote with Fartown’s future in mind, not your own. Wealth can only achieve so much. If you want a suitable man at the head of our Legions, then send me, and I will do what needs to be done, so that you all can carry on living in your high rises, with your beautiful women, fine foods and drink.”

	The chamber became a riot, as Councillors exchanged insults with each other. Many had switched to Octavian, spurred on by brutal depiction of the situation. Helshar declared death for any who went back on their bribe. The Chamber Speaker weighed in, but could not quiet them. In the chaos, Octavian marched from the chamber centre, and fighting off as many grabbing hands as he could, exited Fartown’s parliament building. 

	He would be Consul, and an hour from now, he would be leading the world’s greatest power to war against a very worthy adversary. Four thousand troops were already assembling, a thousand of them cavalry, and he would not wait for official word of his victory – Hell, even if he didn’t get the position of Consul, the militias called his name, not Helshar’s.