Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘That I could?’

  Laseen blinked. Her lips drew tight and thin. ‘That she would go so quietly.’

  Possum shrugged. ‘I surprised her.’

  Her gaze snapped to him, sidelong. Possum refused to acknowledge the attention. Let her imagine what she may. Had she not been his right hand? Was he now not hers? Let her wonder, and consider.

  Without a word the Empress moved on. Possum followed.

  Atop a wall of Reacher's Square a spiked skull laughed but no one heard.

  * * *

  Ereko and Traveller had left behind the mountains and descended south into the vast leagues of evergreen forest when they met the first brigands. Ereko was not surprised when these men treated with Traveller, for though they were robbers and cutthroats he knew they were still men all the same and so craved company and news of the outside world here in their isolated mountain retreats.

  They wore rotting pelts, the remains of smoke-cured leather leggings and shirts, and a mishmash of looted armour fittings and weapons. Pickings, so they appeared to Ereko, were painfully thin here along this desolate pass. To his sensitive nose they stank worse than animals. Traveller crouched at their fire to exchange news.

  Ereko kept to the rear, erect, arms crossed. Traveller had told him he loomed much more imposing in this manner. He watched the men eye him up and down impressed, he hoped, by his height – at least twice their squat malnourished measure. But he had walked long enough among humans to know their thoughts; in their shared sly looks he could see them considering that anyone, no matter what their astonishing size or kind, falls down if you put enough holes in them.

  ‘Late in the season to be coming down from Juorilan,’ said their chief. Grime and grease painted his face nearly black. His beard shone with oil and was shot through with grey. His long black hair was drawn up and tied with a leather thong at the top of his head. ‘Does the Council still claim Jasston, and deny passage to Damos Bay to all?’

  ‘That is so,’ allowed Traveller.

  ‘And this one here with you,’ the chieftain pointed the honed knife he played with in Ereko's direction. ‘I have met Thelomen. Even Toblakai. He is not of those. He is far too tall. What is he?’

  Traveller glanced back over his shoulder. Ereko saw no humour in the man's dark-blue eyes even though he'd lately been complaining of human ignorance and bigotry. ‘Ask him yourself,’ he answered. ‘He can speak.’

  ‘Yes?’ The brigand chief raised his chin to Ereko. ‘Well? Who are your people?’

  Though Traveller had his back turned, at that particular phrasing of the question Ereko saw him flinch beneath his layered shirts, armour and pelts. Ereko thanked him silently for that gesture of empathy.

  ‘Cousins. Those you name and I. We are something of cousins.’

  The bandit chief grunted, placated. He cut a strip of flesh from a boar's thigh skewered over the fire's embers. ‘And the Malazans? What of them? The traders say they have been as quiet as stones all summer.’

  ‘That is so. Mare and the Korelans hold them pinned in Fist. There they rot.’

  The bandit chief slapped his thigh. ‘Good!’

  Ereko kept watch on the woods – was this man delaying while his rabble completed an encirclement? But no one moved through the sparse forest of scrawny spruce and short pine over naked granite. The bandit chief had stepped out to meet them with six men – two of whom appeared to be his own sons. They wanted to kill the both of them, Ereko could see that. How often the chief's eyes went to the slim sword strapped on Traveller's back. But Traveller's assured manner gave them pause. That, and Ereko's size and even taller spear.

  ‘I say good because we are all descended here by pure blood from the Crimson Guard. Know you that, friend?’

  Traveller nodded.

  The bandit chief's voice grew louder. He gestured to the woods around. ‘Yes. The Malazans are frightened to come here because the bones of Guardsmen protect these lands. I myself am a descendant of Hap the Elder, a sergeant under Lieutenant Striker. The bones of many Guardsmen litter these northern forests. And there is an ancient legend, you know. A prophecy. A promise that should the Malazans come again the Guardsmen will rise from the dead to destroy them. That is why they have never come back to our lands. They are afraid. We beat them once.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Traveller. ‘You beat them once.’

  ‘And you, friend? There are many black men among the Malazans and some among the Korelri as well. But you are no Korelri. You speak the Talian tongue well.’

  Traveller shrugged beneath his shaggy bear hide cloak. ‘I am of Jakata myself. My companion is from farther afield as you can see. I'm travelling south to find a spot to build a ship. My companion here wishes to travel beyond, down to the old North Citadel to take passage east around the Cape.’

  The chieftain smiled as if he'd been expecting an answer similar to that. ‘It takes much gold to build a ship – or buy any passage. Traders come down this pass each year bearing much wealth for just such a purpose.’

  Traveller laughed easily despite this ominous threat. ‘Those men are rich traders. They can also afford many guards, can they not? We have no guards for we have no wealth to guard. I will build the ship myself. With my own hands. My friend here plans to work for his passage east. He is of great use at sea.’

  The chief joined in Traveller's easy laughter and stuffed more shreds of greasy boar meat into his mouth. ‘Of course, of course. Visit the coast by all means. See how you like it.’ And he laughed anew.

  Traveller handed a drinking skin across the fire and Ereko winced to see it was one of their three of Jourilan brandy. The bandit gulped it down without comment, spilling much from his mouth. He slung it over his shoulder. Ereko groaned silently at that – does Traveller want him to think we're afraid and trying to buy him off?

  ‘I have heard rumours that the Korelri claim the Malazans have formed unholy pacts with the Ice Demons. What think you of that?’

  Traveller's answered that he had neither seen nor heard anything to substantiate such a rumour. The two exchanged more news then on the Council of the Chosen, the likelihood of this winter being a harsh one, and, as usual when such shallow and shifting topics as contemporary politics among humans came up, Ereko became bored. The chief's six men in their mismatching of studded leather hauberks, rusting iron helmets and vests of rings sown on to leather watched him unswervingly. Avarice, boredom, fascination and dull angry resentment glittered in their eyes as they glanced between Traveller and him.

  The treat dragged on past the mid-day and into the afternoon and still Traveller made no move to break off. Ereko wondered at such uncharacteristic patience. Normally it was Traveller who chafed to be on, who resented any delay or obstruction in his path. Surely he must see that this man sought to delay them – perhaps he had sent for the rest of his men and now waited for their arrival.

  Talk then turned to the subject that preoccupied all the inhabitants of the continent to the north: the state of the Shieldwall, the strength of the ranks of the Chosen, and of Korelri readiness to repel the Riders this coming winter season. Speculation all the more anxious and uncertain these last years now that the Malazans had drained off so much of the needed Korelan strength.

  Ereko watched the chief closely then for some sign that he knew: that word had reached him through the mouths of traders who had traversed the pass before them this season. Word of two outlanders who have been named deserters from the Wall. Traitors condemned by the Council of the Chosen with all swords and hands raised against them within northern lands. Yet the man's eyes betrayed no such knowledge; they glittered with animal cunning, yes, but appeared empty of the triumph and satisfaction that hidden advantage can bring.

  Eventually, much delayed, the rambling exchange ended and the chief groaned and grumbled as he pushed himself to his feet. His followers rose with him. Their hands went to knife-grips and hatchet handles, and their eyes to their chief for any sign or direction. Traveller b
acked away from the fire. ‘Many thanks for your hospitality.’

  The chief laughed his exaggerated good humour. ‘Yes, yes. Certainly, certainly.’ He waved away his followers. ‘Good travelling. To the coast. Ha!’

  Ereko and Traveller backed away for a short time then returned to their path. Traveller struck a south-west course. They walked in silence, listening. They came to a narrow stream that descended steeply among boulders, foaming and chuckling its way west to the coast, and Traveller followed it.

  ‘I make it to be two,’ he said after a time.

  ‘Yes. The youths, I think.’

  ‘They'll wait till night.’

  ‘Yes. How many, do you think?’

  ‘More than the six. That's for certain.’

  They pushed through a bracken of fallen trees and dry branches, jumped from rock to rock. ‘Why did you not break things off?’

  Traveller's nut-brown features drew down into a pained grimace. ‘I hoped to show him that we were not afraid to travel alone. To make him think about that, and what that might mean.’ He shook his head. ‘But the fool did not appear to be the thoughtful kind.’

  ‘Perhaps he knows.’

  Traveller glanced to him. ‘Then nothing will stop them from coming for us tonight.’

  They made camp among a tumble of boulders. Traveller struck a small fire but sat with his back to it. Ereko sat across the fire and sometimes watched the darkness and sometimes watched Traveller. The man sat with his sheathed sword across his lap, waiting, and Ereko wondered again at this man who could show such gentleness and what was called, generally, humanity and yet be willing to cut down a handful of ill-armed and untrained rabble, youths included, none of whom could possibly stand a chance against him.

  ‘Let us just keep going,’ Ereko urged again across the fire. ‘Why stop at all?’

  ‘I'll not watch my back all the way to North Citadel. Any fool can get lucky with a bow.’

  Ereko eyed him, perplexed. Yes, that was true; at least in Ereko's own case. Though he aged very slowly, he could still be killed by mundane physical trauma. But what of Traveller? Was he not beyond such concerns? Obviously not. He was yet a man. He lived still. Clearly, he remained wary of that unlooked-for bolt from behind. Perhaps no matter how competent – or miraculously exquisite in Traveller's case – one's skills in personal combat, a random bolt or arrow could always spell the end.

  Extending his awareness out through the earth, Ereko could sense them: a handful of men down the slope closer to the stream. They were gathered together, hesitant perhaps because of Traveller's and his refusal to sleep. Would they wait until they did? He prayed not; already the delay was agonizing.

  He glanced back across the dim glow of the embers to find that Traveller had already reached the same conclusion. He now lay wrapped in his bear-hide cloak, pretending sleep. Ereko followed suit by easing himself down the rock he leant against and although he did not feel the cold or heat as sharply as humans, he pulled up his own broad cloak of layered pelts and let his head droop.

  They waited. From a great distance up the mountains a wolf's howl drifted through the night and Ereko wondered if it was one of the shaggy pack that had shadowed them across the ice wastes north of the mountains. Owls called, and an even more distant booming as of an avalanche or the cracking of an ice field echoed among the mountain slopes.

  A three-quarter moon emerged from behind thick clouds and Ereko sensed the men advancing. They had been waiting for better light; he cursed himself for not thinking of it.

  Traveller threw himself aside as arrows and a crossbow bolt thudded into his bedding. Ereko had already rolled into shadow and now crouched, waiting. He held his spear reversed for he couldn't set aside his pity, yet.

  A surprised scream of fear and pain tore through the cold night air only to be cut off almost instantly and he knew Traveller was now among them. The scream destroyed any pretence to silence or stealth so now shouts sounded all around.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Tullen? You see him?’

  Sandals scraped over stone. Fallen branches snapped. A head appeared silhouetted by the silver moonlight. Ereko lashed out with the butt-end of his spear and connected in a meaty yielding thump. Iron rang from stone. A crossbow cracked its release and simultaneous pain knocked the wind from his chest. The blow rocked him and he fell. As he lay he blessed the efficacy of this human mail he'd adopted and damned these human missile weapons; they were a constant plague.

  Someone stood over him. Moonlight revealed one of the youths. He lashed out, tripping him, then wrapped a hand over his mouth and pulled him tight. ‘Shhh!’ he mouthed and waited, motionless in shadow.

  Someone approached the camp. He came to stand next to the fire's dying embers. By the fitful sullen light Ereko saw that it was Traveller. The red glow – the colour of war – it suited him; he carried his sword in one hand and its narrow length gleamed slick and wet. His cloaks were gone, revealing his tight shirt of supple blackened mail. He crossed to Ereko and touched the tip of his sword to the youth's chest. Blood, black in the dark, ran down to pool over the layered untreated hides. The youth's eyes swelled huge. His breath was hot and panting against Ereko's hand. It felt to him that he held a trembling colt fresh from foaling. ‘The others?’ Ereko asked.

  ‘One got away.’ His eyes did not leave the youth. The sword point pressed down further, broke the surface of the leather.

  ‘No. I forbid it.’

  ‘He'll just come back. He and his friends will shadow us. Wait for their chance. For vengeance’

  ‘No. This I will not allow. He is just a child. A child.’

  Traveller's eyes flickered then. The fey spell of battle-fury broke, revealing something beneath, something that made Ereko look away, and the man lurched aside. ‘Get him from my sight.’

  Ereko whispered, ‘Run now. Don't stop.’ The youth scrambled away, gulping down air, sobs rising in his breaths.

  Traveller threw himself on to his bear-pelt cloak. Ereko lay holding himself silent and still as if some enchantment might shatter should he speak or move. In time, the man slept, his breath steadying. Ereko lay awake listening to the night and sensing the mood of this new land. Expectant, it seemed. He wondered whether pain such as he glimpsed in his companion's eyes could ever be healed. Perhaps never. As he should very well know.

  Before the new moon he and Traveller topped a hillock to the view of a forested coast, tidal mudflats and the ocean stretching beyond to the western horizon. Some humans, Ereko knew, called this the Explorer's Sea, for so much of it remained to be discovered. Others named it the White Spires Ocean for the islands of floating ice that menaced its mariners. His own people, the Thel Akai, named it Gal-Eresh: The Ice Dancer. ‘What now?’ he asked of Traveller.

  Crouched on his haunches, the man took a pine twig from his mouth and shrugged. ‘We follow the coast. Find a settlement.’

  ‘South, then? We go south?’

  ‘For now.’ And he started down the forested slope. Ereko followed, sighing his irritation. Oh, Goddess, why did you speak to me of this most difficult of men? Why did you break your silence of centuries to say to me when he appeared dragged out in chains on to the Stormwall: this one shall bring your deliverance.

  By that time Ereko had long lost count of his seasons upon the Stormwall. The Korelan winters had come and gone one after the other. The storms unique to the Riders had gathered their ferocity in ice-rafted waves and nimbuses of power that flickered in the night sky as auroras. He came to know that slow stirring of potential just as well as the change of season. The winds would always swing to a steady hard south, south-west pressure that chilled even his bones and left an overnight frost glittering in the morning light on the stone battlements. Snow-flurries blasted the wall during the worst of the storms – and the Riders themselves were never far behind any snow.

  Malazan soldiers had been appearing on the wall for some years by then. They came in chains, captured prisoners of war. The
ir Korelan guards threw them weapons only just before the waves of Riders hit. They acquitted themselves well. The bravest and most cunning turned those weapons upon themselves thereby leaving a portion of the wall unmanned until a replacement could be brought up. Few cowered or wept when the Riders finally appeared cresting waves of ice-skeined ocean to assault the wall, as even some trained Chosen have from time to time. For who could possibly prepare themselves for such a sight as that? A collision of Realms, should certain theurgical scholars be believed. The power-charged impact of alien eldritch sorcery countered purely by brute stubbornness, courage and martial ferocity.

  ‘Who is that?’ he had asked of his Korelan guards. They answered easily enough as he had stood the wall for longer than some of them had been alive.