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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Silk now faced the twin pillars of flame that had halted, perhaps uncertain. ‘You would dare unleash such flames upon this threshold? His outrage pierced the furnace roar. ‘Bastard practitioners of a degenerate Warren! Thyr! Retarded child of incestuous union! You provoke me now to teach you the blind shortcomings of your sad ignorance! Behold now, for the last instant of your consciousness, the true wellspring of power of which yours is but a corrupted rivulet!’

  Silk threw his arms wide and Hurl gaped. Of all the Forgotten Gods! Had the man lost his mind?

  ‘I summon you!’ His words shook the stones beneath Hurl's feet. She winced at their power. ‘Come! You who have been gone so long! Grant us a glimpse of that which has gone out from the World! Show us how it was when Light first cleaved Night! Bless us with a vision of Pure Undiluted Light, Kurald Liosan!’

  Nothing happened. Hurl, recovering, almost cursed the man. Orlat, she saw far beyond, had cocked his head as if reaching the same conclusion as her: poor guy, the pressure was just too much.

  Then something struck Hurl from behind. Not a fist or a club, but a wall. It was like falling backwards into water only it was the water that was rushing up to hit her. Then nothing. Silence. Whiteness. The physical presence of light like a sea of blinding radiance. Silk in silhouette like a shadow eroding. The two mages and Orlat and his men, black paper cutouts shredding and wisping away like dust in a wind of Light.

  Then gone. Dawn coming like darkness, so pale and weak was it. The ceiling dim above her. A face, close. Bearded. Malazan greys. A voice near but sounding so far away. ‘Bring healers.’

  CHAPTER IV

  See the mourning exile sitting by the lake. His cloak is ragged, his stomach cramped. Does he cry for fallen friends, for tankards never to be raised again to the long rafters? Where are his companions, his brothers and benchmates? All stiff and staring in fields they lie. Their spears are broken, their swords blunt. Oh, where shall he go, this lone exile? Shall he cross the water? What is to become of him? What if he were you?

  Lament of the Lonely Traveller

  Anonymous (attributed by some to Fisher Tel Kath)

  TWELVE DAYS AFTER THE STORM, THE KESTRAL AND THE> Wanderer dropped anchor at a length of uninhabited shoreline of the Sea of Chimes. At Shimmer's orders, the Nabrajan captains had kept clear of all coastline where possible, yet what lengths of shore Kyle had glimpsed appeared far from promising: grey and black tumbled rocks skirted by twisted and stunted trees, distant dusty-grey rounded hillocks, and forests of thin black-limbed evergreens. Glimpses of a level plateau of some sort broken up by copses of trees.

  That dawn Kyle had watch. In the calm, almost glass-like bay, he sat cross-legged on the raised cargo hatch at mid-deck, needle in hand, attempting to mend the padded quilted shirt he wore beneath his hauberk.

  ‘A sailor'd do a better job of that.’

  Kyle looked up. It was Greymane, standing at the gunwale. He hadn't heard a thing. How could a man so big be so quiet? He returned to his sewing. ‘Have to learn some time.’

  ‘True enough.’

  Kyle kept his head down. Why was the renegade talking to him? The man was practically an Avowed – had even fought against them in the past, so he'd heard. The Malazan cleared his throat. ‘Kyle, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I've been meaning to have a word about the Spur. I understand you're a Bael native – that the Ascendant, or whatever he was, we found up there meant something to you, and maybe your people …’

  Kyle looked up from his sewing. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well,’ the man frowned at the deck, ‘I suppose I want to apologize for that. I didn't intend for things to go the way they went.’ He looked out over the water, to the dark treed shore a stone's throw distant, crossed his arms. ‘Things just have a way of taking on a life of their own …’

  Kyle watched, wondering if perhaps he'd been forgotten. For the man was now obviously thinking of other things.

  After standing silent for a time the Malazan said, ‘You know they call me a renegade.’

  Kyle looked up from his sewing once more. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ever wondered why?’

  Kyle shrugged. ‘No. It means nothing to me.’

  The man laughed. ‘Good. Then I'll tell you. I'm a renegade because I tried to make peace, Kyle. Strike an accord. For that I enraged the Korelans and was denounced by Malazan command. Me ‘n’ a handful of others.’ The big man glanced to Kyle, his pale ice-blue eyes bright in the gathering dawn. ‘And do you know why of all of them I alone survived the hunt that followed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because I ran the farthest of all of them. Was the most thorough coward of the lot.’

  Kyle's fists clenched his undershirt. This was not what he wanted to hear. Apologies! Confessions! Damn the man. He, a coward? What could he mean by such a ridiculous claim? ‘Perhaps I'm not the one you should be talking to …’

  ‘No. You're the one. Perhaps the only one. Because you're not from around here, Kyle. No one from around here would understand.’

  The renegade pushed himself from the gunwale, walked off, his sandalled feet silent on the deck. Kyle watched him go. Understand? He didn't understand any of it.

  The next morning Kyle saw Shimmer for the first time in months; apparently she'd been locked away in the only private cabin for what seemed the entire crossing. A sailor told him that she appeared suddenly that dawn, startling the captain as had no other event during the voyage. Later, word came for the Ninth squad to assemble.

  They stood at attention, some having come across from the Wanderer, Shimmer examined them and they in turn examined her. At first Kyle hardly recognized her. Gone was all her usual garb of war and so startling was the transformation he could well appreciate the captain's reaction. Her hair was unbounded by her usual bright steel domed helmet and hung midnight-black and shimmering to the small of her back. The next thing Kyle noted was her height – she barely reached his chin. He'd always held an impression of her as taller. Her eyes, however, remained the same. Black under narrow slanted lids, they matched the blue-Napan cast of her face. And they held that slow reserved light that had seen just about all they possibly could, and wouldn't be surprised by anything more. Instead of her glittering coat of fine mail that reached her ankles and her long whipsword sheathed at her back, she now wore only a short-sleeved soft leather jacket and loose pantaloons.

  ‘Just north up the coast stands Fortress Haven,’ she began, ‘one of the first of our settlements here in Stratem. There, Lieutenant Skinner pledged he would return and await us. The Ninth Blade will go secretly without alarming any Malazan forces or spies that may be present, and contact him.’

  While Shimmer spoke, her hands moved restlessly, brushing at her waist or searching for the scabbard that would've rested at her back. Kyle didn't know her well enough to read her moods, but she appeared nervous and rushed.

  ‘We have no idea if he still lives, or even if Malazan forces occupy Haven. You'll find that out also. But if you do reach him, all the Guard forces will immediately reunite under his command as agreed at the beginning of the Diaspora. Understood?’

  ‘Aye, Commander.’

  They gathered their equipment, rolled and belted armour, weapons and one pack each, then climbed down the rope ladder to the waiting launch. The sergeant, the Falari exile Trench, two hulking ex-Free City swordsmen, Meek and Harman, a Barghast half-breed, Grere, the Genabackan Free City mage just attached to the blade, Twisty, and the Bael natives Stalker and Kyle.

  Just before they pushed off Stoop came one-handed down a rope ladder to join them. ‘Thought I'd have a look,’ he told Kyle, grinning, and he took the tiller next to Trench. Everyone else manned oars. They followed the shore north. Stalker next to Kyle at an oar examined the forested shore. ‘Uninhabited,’ he judged.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘All old growth. No logging, no trails.’

  ‘You know such woods?’

  The sc
out pursed his lips, nodded.

  ‘Quiet,’ Trench ordered.

  Late in the afternoon they rounded a rocky headland revealing a forested bay and the huts of a modest village. The towers of a grey stone fortress thrust high above the treetops overlooked the settlement. A set of rotting canted docks stretched out from the shore beneath.

  ‘Back oars,’ Trench ordered.

  Hidden behind the headland, they pulled the launch up out of the water and camouflaged it as best they could. While the light held, they moved inland. Stalker, Grere and Kyle spread out to scout. All he saw that afternoon was virgin land, forest stretching inland free of any sign of habitation.

  After dusk Trench ordered camp set; they would scout the village at dawn. In the light of a small fire he unrolled a tattered vellum map of Stratem. The squad, all but Stalker who stood watch, crowded around. Kyle sensed their hushed anticipation. Meek and Harman exchanged hungry grins. Theirs were the most clear-cut duties of the squad, and the hardest. They were simply expected to stand and fight until they or the attackers were all dead. The squad was in the field again, except this time it was Guard lands, a war more theirs than any before. During the passage Kyle had heard constant talk of the rewards waiting: fiefs, land for each. Titles. Everything a fighting man desired – if they won.

  Trench pointed a blunt finger to the unsettled western shore of the inland Sea of Chimes. ‘We're here.’ Then he pointed to a string of fortresses built by the Guard to keep watch over their southern shores. Exile stood over the extreme east; Thick at the straits leading into the Sea of Chimes; Iron Citadel over the sands to the south-west; and North Bastion over the far west.

  ‘But they ignored them,’ said Stoop.

  No one asked, ‘Who?’

  ‘It was a three-pronged attack,’ Stoop said. ‘In the middle of the coasts, east, west and south. Forty thousand men. We were vastly outnumbered. They hadn't forgotten the years we opposed them on Quon Tali. They meant to wipe us out. Things were pretty confused then, the Duke disappearing, lines of communication cut, forces encircled. Skinner fought Dassem to a standstill but the effort broke us. The Diaspora was ordered to preserve the Guard for the future.’ Stoop grinned, winking. ‘And now we're comin’ back with ten times the men we left with – not counting what the other companies have assembled. We may find that the Guard now numbers more than thirty thousand.’

  Kyle examined the map. A cordillera labelled the Aurgatt Range crossed the extreme north. ‘Korel is north of this?’ he asked of Stoop.

  ‘Yes. Korel lands. Stratem is the name of the southern lands of this continent. Korel is the northern; then some islands and the south shore of Quon Tali. Took the Malazans long to get here ‘cause of the strait, the Sea of Storms. It separates us from them. The Korelri fight demons out of the strait – Riders, they call them. The current is eroding Korel lands. An unfriendly lot. The Empire's welcome to them.’

  Kyle tried to imagine the line that their voyage must have taken. As far as he could figure they came from the south-east. There was no way they should have gone anywhere near the Sea of Storms. He stood, said to Trench, ‘I'll relieve Stalker.’ The sergeant nodded, his eyes on the map.

  He walked a ways into the woods and shook a branch. A few minutes later Stalker appeared. They squatted together; Kyle scratched at the damp earth with a twig. The land looked rich: full of resources. During their short march they'd passed only one hint of human activity: an abandoned logging camp. Low, wooded hills appeared to lie ahead, cut by clear streams and thick with wildlife sign. So far the appearance that it wasn't permanently occupied carried.

  ‘What did you see on the Wanderer?’ Kyle asked, thinking if there was any time to put aside pretences, it was now. He waited, tense for the tall man's reply.

  Stalker let out a long breath, pulled off his helmet. ‘I listened and watched mostly. Shimmer won't answer a direct question and is suspicious of anyone who asks. What I can piece together is that these Riders were waiting for us. They allowed our two ships through but the rest were scattered. How this was arranged I have no idea.’

  The man kneaded a pouch hanging from his neck, a habit of his when thinking. Kyle waited. He realized he shouldn't be surprised there were rivalries among the Avowed. Now that they'd reached the homeland, everything was bound to come to a head.

  ‘I figure the other ships were delayed because Greymane and Shimmer wanted to get here before Cowl and his Veils. From what I picked up this Skinner is one nasty fellow. The only remaining Avowed who can put Cowl in his place. We were sent because the Ninth is Skinner's old command. Seems those who know are afraid the man might be around the bend – the Ninth is the only squad he might listen to.’

  Kyle could only shake his head. Far worse than he'd imagined.

  The scout stood, grunting. ‘A word to the wise: if you come across this Skinner fellow, don't let him near you.’ He disappeared into the woods.

  * * *

  Mallick's servants notified him of midnight vistors then saw them to the banquet hall. They offered the representatives of the Untan noble houses drinks and cold meats while letting them know that the master was dressing. Mallick was in fact already dressed but he waited, rearranging the folds of his robes. Timing, he knew, was everything in conspiracy.

  Eventually, Mallick nodded to his servants, waved off his bodyguards and threw open the double doors of his banquet chamber. The men straightened at his entrance. Dim lamplight flickered at the chamber's centre. ‘And to what do I owe this honour?’ he asked as he crossed to a table crowded by carafes. He poured a small glass of golden almond liqueur.

  ‘You know,’ growled one, a grey-haired elder wrapped in a burgundy cloak.

  Mallick swallowed slowly, nodding. ‘The generalities, yes, Quail. But not the specifics.’

  Quail's answer, a dark ‘I wonder’, was lost beneath an outbreak of clamour from the others. Mallick raised a hand for quiet.

  ‘Please, please. Illata, would you speak?’

  Illata helped himself to a tall glass of red wine. His cloak fell open, revealing that he wore a boiled leather cuirass studded with iron. ‘It has happened as you predicted, Mallick. Imry has withdrawn from the Assembly.’

  Mallick lowered his gaze to this glass. ‘His actions remain his own, of course. Though it weakens our cause greatly. Was any explanation offered?’

  ‘Sickness in the family,’ sneered Illata. ‘But—’

  ‘I have a source in his household,’ interrupted another, ‘and that source overheard talk of a visitor in the night and threats to the family.’

  ‘And you think …’

  Illata tossed back his wine. ‘Dammit, man, isn't it obvious. The Claws! She goes too far!’

  ‘Illata!’ This from several of the men.

  A raised bare arm from Quail brought silence. ‘Regardless of who – ’ he eyed Mallick ‘– or how … we need men and materiel to guard our lands. If we cannot push emergency measures through the Assembly to gain them then we are forced to act independently.’

  ‘The emperor forbade all private armies,’ Mallick observed, setting down his empty glass.

  ‘Nonetheless, Grisan nobles are massing on our eastern border. Our intelligence has it they command a “bodyguard” of over four thousand men. And she has done nothing.’

  ‘We need the Imperial Arsenal,’ said Illata. ‘And we are prepared to take it.’

  ‘Much we have speculated on this in our confidence, of course, yet—’

  ‘No more talk,’ cut in Illata. ‘The plan is in motion. We will hold the arsenal by dawn.’

  Mallick regarded the tense gleaming faces arrayed before him. ‘I see. And I, like a goat to the slaughter, shall be the one you would push forward?’ His sibilant voice fell even further, ‘Are you all still so terrified?’

  ‘Your, ah, influence, is known. You will speak for us. We mean no disloyalty. We merely wish to defend our own. All costs to Imperial coffers will be redeemed.’

  ‘Very well. I sha
ll humbly bow before her as spokesman and beg our case. There may be complications though, you understand. The arsenal is guarded.’

  Illata swept his cloak over his shoulder. ‘We understand. It is to be regretted, yet it is unavoidable.’

  Mallick gave the slightest of bows. ‘Then the chaff is cast upon the waters. We each have our assigned fates. Let us go see what the currents may bring.’

  After the men had left the chamber a woman in a dark plain tunic and leggings entered by a side-door. ‘Your orders?’ she asked. Mallick refilled his glass then turned. At the woman's chest the small silver sigil of a bird's foot grasping a pearl glimmered in the lamplight; Mallick studied that one bright point of light.