‘Send word to all the – well, the glove has become the hand now, has it not? Send word to our Hands. Corrupt officials will be attempting to steal munitions from the arsenal this night. Assassinate them all, enslave their families and confiscate all assets and possessions to the Throne. All in the name of the Empress, of course.’
‘And the Empress?’
‘The matter is too small to concern her.’
The woman inclined her head. ‘So it shall be.’ At the door, she turned. ‘Strange that none of us visited Imry on any night. What make you of that, Mallick?’
The priest's thick lips turned down as he examined the liquid gold in his glass. ‘Laseen must still have her loyal followers among the Claw, Coil. They must be rooted out.’
‘Yes. We have our suspicions.’
Mallick's gaze rose, his round face bright in the lantern light. ‘Oh? Who?’
‘Possum, among others.’
Smiling, Mallick set the glass down. ‘Ah, yes. Possum. Your superior now that Pearl is gone. He remains.’
The woman stood motionless while the lanterns sputtered and flickered at the centre of the room. Finally, she allowed herself a stiff half bow. ‘So be it – for the time.’ Yet she did not leave; Mallick pushed his hands into the sash across his wide stomach. ‘Yes, Coil?’
‘It occurs to us, Mallick, that with this night you will be in control of the Imperial Assembly. You perforce command the Claw. Therefore, there are those among us who wonder – when will you … act?’
‘Past failures in Seven Cities and elsewhere have impressed upon me the harsh lesson of patience, Coil. Instruction I, more than any, ought to have appreciated long ago. But, as you say, I command already. Why then act at all?’
‘She would not show such restraint.’
He waved Coil away. ‘Her chance missed. Now none remain. Go!’
* * *
In the doldrums of the Southern Rust Sea, a slave galley, the Ardent, came across a sodden raft. The galley's master, Hesalt, ordered the lashed fragments brought alongside. A sailor searched among the sprawled bodies.
‘How many live?’ Hesalt called down.
The sailor straightened and even from far to the bow Hesalt could see the wonder on his upturned face. ‘The God of the Deep's mercy. Every one! Eleven living souls!’
The Twins smiled upon them, whoever they are, Hesalt reflected. But he considered himself lucky as well – eleven warm bodies for the shackles. ‘Give them water and food then throw them below.’
‘Aye, Master.’
The nine men and two women, whoever they were, recovered with amazing speed. One, a burly scarred fellow – a veteran obviously – even pulled himself upright when a sailor came with a ladle of sweet water. ‘I demand to see the captain,’ he rasped in a passable north Genabackan dialect of the East Coast.
‘The captain is nothing to you now, friend,’ whispered the sailor. ‘You live, but the price is your freedom.’
The man knew to take only a small sip to wet his throat. ‘Tell your captain I demand that he set sail for Stratem at once.’
Those nearby laughed. The sailor took in the castaway's cracked and oozing skin, burnt almost black across his shoulders. How many weeks marooned under this pitiless sun! Amazing the fellow was even conscious. No wonder he was delirious. ‘Lay back, heal. Thank Oponn for your life.’
‘What is your name, sailor?’
‘Jemain.’
‘You are a compassionate man, Jemain. Therefore, I warn you – stand aside.’
Something in the man's eyes quelled Jemain's laugh. The castaway pushed himself to his feet, staggered but, with a groan, righted himself. ‘See to my men,’ he croaked.
The crew watched amused while the castaway made his laborious way to the stern. There, he stopped and stood swaying before the gaze of an old man at the tiller flanked by guards in leather armour who watched him, arms crossed, mouths downturned. ‘Who is the captain of this slave-scow?’ he asked of the old man.
‘That would be Master Hesalt of the Southern Confederacies.’
‘That's enough from you,’ said one of the guards. ‘Turn around or we'll whip the burnt flesh off your back.’
‘How many guards does he travel with?’
Brows rising, the tillerman replied, ‘Eight.’
The guards pulled truncheons from their belts – no edged weapons that might damage the merchandise. The first to swing had his head grasped in both of the castaway's hands and twisted until a wet noise announced the neck breaking. The second guard beat the man about his shoulders, tearing the burnt skin and raising a sluggish flow of dark blood. But the man ignored the blows until he managed to grasp one forearm, which he twisted, snapping. Then he drove his fingers up under the guard's chin to crush his throat. The guard fell to the deck gagging and thrashing.
All this the tillerman watched without shifting his stance. ‘There's six more,’ he observed, laconically.
‘Think they'll surrender?’ the castaway gasped, drawing in great shuddering breaths.
‘Don't think that's likely.’
‘I fear you're right.’
The yells brought the remaining six stamping up the deck. They surrounded the man, beat him down to the blood-slick timbers. Yet somehow he would not stop struggling. One by one he dragged the guards down. He bashed heads to the decking, throttled necks, clawed eyes from sockets, until the last one flinched away, his face pale with superstitious dread.
‘Back off!’ shouted a new voice.
The man pulled himself to his feet. Blood ran from him, his skin hung in cracked ribbons down his back and shoulders. Master Hesalt stood covering him with a levelled crossbow. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
The man felt about in his mouth, pulled out a bloodied tooth. ‘My name wouldn't mean a damn thing to you. You going to shoot that, or not?’
‘I thought I would do you the courtesy first.’
‘Well, to the Abyss with courtesy. Just shoot.’
Hesalt paused. What a price such a fighting man would bring! What a shame to have to kill him like a rabid dog. Still, he had earned death many times over and the hired crew were watching … He fired. The quarrel took the man low in the chest throwing him back against the gunwale where he slumped. Hesalt lowered the crossbow. What a loss! Still, if the other ten were anything like this one he might yet squeeze some profit from this debacle.
A low groan brought the slave master's attention around. Incredibly, impossibly, the man was now struggling to rise. An arm grasped the side, pulled, and he stood, quarrel jutting obscenely from his chest. Hesalt backed away, his throat tightening in horror. What magery was this? Did some God favour this man?
‘It never,’ the castaway ground out, ‘gets any easier.’ Ignoring the quarrel, he addressed Hesalt. ‘Now, yield this ship to me and no more need be hurt. What say you?’
The slave master could only stare. He'd heard stories of such horrors … But he'd never believed …
The castaway lurched a step closer. ‘Speak, man! For once act to save lives!’
‘I … That is … Who? What… are you?’
Snarling, the man grasped Hesalt by the front of his shirts and yanked him to the gunwale. ‘Too late.’ In one swing he lifted the slave master and tossed him, screaming, over the side. He turned to face the stunned sailors. ‘I am Bars. Iron Bars. I claim this vessel in the name of the Crimson Guard. Tillerman!’
‘Aye?’
Make southwest round the Cape for Stratem.’
‘Aye, Captain. Sou'west.’
‘Jemain!’
The sailor straightened, dread stealing the breath from him. ‘Aye?’
‘You are first mate.’
Jemain wiped the cold sweat from his face, swallowed. ‘Aye, sir. Your orders?’
A cough took the man and he grimaced at the agony of the convulsion. One hand a claw on the gunwale, he pushed back his shoulders. ‘Get my men conscious. The slaves can row for their freedom.’
; ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Now help me get this damned thing from my chest.’
* * *
From the top of the frontier fort Lieutenant Rillish watched the mob of would-be settlers, squatters and plain shiftless land-rush opportunists surrounding his command grow each day. By the fifth they must have judged their sprawling strength great enough because they sent an envoy to discuss terms. At the Lieutenant's side his sergeant spat a great stream of brown juice from the rustleaf jammed into a cheek and raised his crossbow.
‘Skewer the bastards?’
‘No, not yet. Let's see who's taken charge of that mess out there.’
They waited, watching, while a gang of twenty approached the gate.
‘Close enough,’ Rillish yelled down.
‘This is parley!’ a man in a bearskin cloak answered. ‘Come and talk.’
‘I do not negotiate with bandits.’
‘Bandits!’ The men laughed. ‘You should get out more often, Lieutenant. Haven't you heard? But then no, you wouldn't have, would you? No messenger has come in – how long has it been now – almost a month?’
So, there it is. This man is more than he seems, or speaks for someone who is. Rillish decided to cut to the heart. ‘Your terms?’
The man waved the matter aside and Rillish caught a clutter of rings at his fingers. His thick black hair was greased as was his beard. ‘Simplicity itself. You and your men, the entire garrison, are free to go. March away west. You are of course welcome to keep your weapons.’
Rillish rested his hands upon the sharpened tips of the palisade. Yes, free to go. Free to walk away … He turned to the fort compound. There, filling the dirt square, sitting and standing, faces peering back up at him, waited more than a hundred Wickan elders and children. He returned his gaze to the envoy and the mob of would-be besiegers beyond. Sour bile rose in his mouth like iron from a stomach thrust. Damn these scum to Hood's darkest path.
‘Come now, Lieutenant, surely you must see your situation is untenable. You are surrounded, without hope of succour. Low on provisions and without water. Come, Lieutenant, throw your own life away if you must, but think of your men.’
His sergeant spat over the wall. ‘Skewer the bastard now!’
Rillish raised a hand to stay his sergeant. ‘Who do you speak for?’
The envoy's smile convinced Rillish that his probe had worked. The man pointed off to the low hills of the Wickan territory. ‘How does North Unta sound to you?’
Rillish considered ordering his sergeant to skewer the bastard. Damned Untan Great Families – they'd feuded with the Wickans for generations. Now they saw their chance.
And he was in the way.
To his sergeant Rillish asked aside, ‘You are certain you saw no soldiers out there?’
‘None. Adventurers, opportunists, squatters, shiftless frontier malingerers. Nothing but filth.’
Rillish drew off his helmet, wiped the sweat from his forehead. Hot here on the plains. Not like down south. Or like Korel. It'd been damned cold all those years in Korel. He cinched tight the helmet. ‘Pack up your mob and decamp and I promise you we will not pursue.’
The envoy stared, frowning, as if the lieutenant had gibbered in some foreign language. Then he rallied, flushed. ‘Aren't you aware of your situation, you ox-brained foot soldier? You haven't even enough men to properly defend your walls!’
‘And you haven't the belly for a siege.’
Raising his voice, the envoy addressed the entire fort: ‘You fools! This man has just thrown away your lives!’
‘Now I'm gonna skewer the bastard.’
‘Is the parley over then?’ Rillish called. ‘Because if it is, my sergeant here would very much like to shoot you.’
The envoy's jaws worked as he swallowed the rest of his words. ‘We are done,’ he spat and turned his back to march away.
‘What now, sir?’ the sergeant, Chord, asked beneath his breath.
‘Quarter rations immediately. Confiscate all water. Double the watch. They'll probably try to rush us tonight.’
‘Aye–aye, sir. Pardon me for saying so, sir, but this garrison's green, sir. Not like the old command.’
‘No new command is ever like the old one, Chord.’
‘Yes, sir. That's true as rain, sir.’
‘We could use some of that.’
‘Use some of what, sir?’
‘Rain.’
‘That's true, sir.’
Rillish looked out over the fort enclosure. The faces of the Wickan elders and children he'd managed to shelter turned up to him. Their eyes watched him, but not with worry, or with pleading, just watchful, patient. ‘A quiet posting until retirement, they said, Chord. A well-earned rest. I should've stayed in that chaos-hole of Korel.’
‘May the Gods answer you, sir.’
Rillish strode to the stairs. ‘Well, on second thought, let's hope they don't, Chord.’
* * *
They were trimming and setting the boat's planking when ships breasted the south headlands following the shore north. Shouts from the villagers took Ereko's attention from overseeing the adzing. At his side Traveller set down his axe. ‘Locals?’ Ereko asked, though he felt certain they were not.
Traveller shaded his eyes. ‘Far from it.’
Ereko studied the vessels’ low beam, their simple square sail configuration. ‘They are daring seamen.’
‘They have come a very far way.’
‘You know them, then.’
‘Yes.’
In that ‘yes’ rode the strongest emotion Ereko had yet to hear revealed by his companion. Curiosity grew within him to meet these people who had somehow managed to stir within Traveller what could only be called plain human hate. The headman's nephew came running from the huts, pointing out to sea. ‘They come! It is they! The grey raiders from the sea!’ His people came following in a wave; mothers running with their skirts gathered in one hand, children yanked along in the other.
‘Yes.’
The nephew swallowed to still his panting. ‘What … What do we do?’
‘Run away. All of you. Run into the forest. Don't stop.’
‘What of you?’
‘I'll meet them.’
‘But – if we all hide – perhaps they will pass us by.’
‘I don't want them to.’
The headman gaped at Traveller as if he'd just promised to commit suicide. He backed away, his gaze troubled, then sad, and finally he turned and jogged off.
Traveller crossed to where he'd left his weapon. He shook it from its sheath. ‘You too,’ he said. ‘You need not involve yourself.’
Ereko joined him as he started down to the strand. ‘No, I will come. I should mark these people so that I would know to avoid them in the future.’
Traveller deigned not to answer that, though he did glance sidelong. Out in the bay the ship's prows had turned to shore. Either they had seen them or they intended to land in any case.
‘Your armour?’
‘There's no time.’
Of course he showed no fear but Ereko was worried. Warriors who inspired such dread were obviously no fools. They would bring their bows to bear upon them, if they had such. On the way down he retrieved his spear. ‘Two ships,’ he mused as they reached the strand.
The ghost of a smile teased Traveller's lips. ‘Very well. The right or the left?’
Ereko eyed the two tall-prowed, narrow vessels. Both decks seethed with figures. ‘The right, I think.’
The raiders had jumped down into the surf and were pushing their way up on to shore when Ereko understood the reason behind the villager's dread. The grey raiders from the sea. To him, nothing more than one more race of alien invaders. Tiste Edur. Children of Shadow. As they closed where the surf licked the black shingle Ereko dredged up what Edur he'd picked up over the ages. ‘Welcome.’
The lead figure, this detachment's war leader probably, gestured a halt and looked Ereko up and down. ‘Name yourself.’
/> Like his men he wore furs over leather armour decorated by tufts of hair, twists of ribbon and smears of orange and umber pigments. His long hair was braided and greased. He bore a spear, sword and knife – Ereko saw no missile weapons. But his relief at that ended when a woman, no more than a girl really, appeared at the ship's high prow. One of their witch women. The long tatters of the cloths, shawls and scarves wrapped about her flickered in the weak wind.
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 22