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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘So what did you think of our warlord?’ Liss asked of Hurl.

  ‘I'm impressed – unfortunately. I was hoping for someone less competent-seeming.’

  Liss nodded her agreement, her broad mouth widening in a smile. They said he had something of Dassem about him, and they're right. I've seen both.’

  Hurl eyed the old woman. ‘Who does?’

  ‘Why, Toc the Elder, of course. Congratulations! Few come away from any meeting with him in such good form.’ Reaching over she slapped Hurl's thigh. ‘You did well, lass.’

  Hurl could only share a wondering look with Sunny. Gods Above! Toc the Elder. They were going to get handed their own asses. Then, all she could think of was her commander. Poor Storo! To stand opposite Toc! He was gonna take this hard. They might not see him sober till the Wolf Soldiers battered down the doors of the last tavern in the city.

  They rode in silence until just short of the closed North Gate of the Plains. Hurl had returned to keeping an eye on her mount just in case it thought she'd forgotten all about its horse-evil, when Sunny cleared his throat.

  ‘Liss,’ said Sunny, and Hurl knew he was about to ask what she was dying to ask but dared not broach. He was always one to dive straight in. ‘You're not really this whatsit, this Baya-Gul thing, are you?’

  The old woman just smiled at Sunny. Aside, to Hurl, she said, ‘Here's a tip, lass. Things only have the power people are willing to give them.’

  Hurl frowned over that. Sunny snorted, ‘What a crock of shit.’

  Liss just kept smiling. ‘That's because you don't believe.’

  * * *

  The evening of their sixth day of flight Kyle sat with a thick patch of thorn bush behind him while he ate a raw fish and a handful of mushrooms that the brothers had scavenged during the day's run. Stalker drank from a skin they'd filled at the stream. Their best meal in days. For his part, Kyle hadn't contributed a thing; it was all he could do just to keep up. And these fellows were running and scavenging food all at the same time! He shook his head. He'd always prided himself on his endurance and running prowess, but these three put him to shame. Who were they anyway? Brothers, or close cousins, perhaps. But who were they in truth?

  He picked scales from his mouth and stretched his burning legs to stop them from seizing, then he turned his thoughts to the real question plaguing him. Why were they still alive? If these Crimson Guard Avowed were so fearsome why hadn't they caught them already? Or simply murdered them one night as easily as he, Kyle, might swat insects?

  Stalker tossed Kyle the waterskin which he caught in one hand. ‘How you feelin'?’

  ‘Worn out. You fellows set an awful pace.’

  The scout grunted. ‘Well, you let me know how you're holdin’ up. I'll rein in the boys even more if need be.’

  Even more? By the Ancestors, Kyle knew that only the best runners of his tribe could have accomplished what they had managed in the last five days. Still, and he relaxed back to flexing his legs, what did distance matter when those hunting had access to the Warrens? He watched while the rangy, sandy-haired scout examined the bottom of one moccasin. ‘What does it matter? If they really wanted us, they could have us.’

  ‘True enough. And they did want you those first few days. But like Mara said, you had protection. Anyway, by now I figure they're long gone.’

  The fish slipped from Kyle's grasp. ‘Gone? You mean they've left? Where?’

  ‘Quon, o’ course. The invasion. They were organizing the departure when me ‘n’ the boys volunteered to track you down.’ The scout gave his wolfish smile. ‘Sorry to be the one to give you the bad news, lad, but I guess you're just not that important, hey?’

  Kyle gaped, appalled. ‘Then why in the Dark Hunter's name have we been killing ourselves running halfway across Stratem!’

  ‘Well. Better safe than sorry, eh?’

  ‘I don't blasted believe it!’ Kyle fought to open the waterskin.

  ‘Hey now! Don't be upset. Things are looking up. Remember I said you had protection, right?’

  ‘Yes – what was that about?’

  Stalker raised his chin aside. ‘Well, let's see if they're willing to talk now.’

  Badlands came pushing through branches and brush. With him was an old woman, squat and bandylegged, her face the hue of ironwood. She wore pale leathers decorated with fur edging, feather tufts and shells. The soft jangling of the shells accompanied her walk and Kyle did not wonder how she could move silent through the woods for he recognized her – his own tribe had its shamans, male and female, healers, priests and even warleaders. He stood to meet her.

  Badlands nodded to Stalker. ‘This is Janbahashur – as least, that's the best I can manage/ To her he said, ‘Stalker, Kyle.’

  They bowed. Her smile was wide and showed large white teeth. Kyle was struck by the broad ridges above her deep brown eyes. It was as if she was watching them from within a cave. ‘Thank you for your protection,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘We only helped a little,’ she said in Talian. ‘You did most.’ Kyle was deeply puzzled by that but he bowed just the same. ‘You travel west,’ she said. ‘We will help.’

  Badlands and Stalker exchanged glances. ‘How so?’ the scout asked. It seemed to Kyle that Stalker had wanted to ask another question, why? but that good manners stopped him.

  ‘We shall open a way. You cross through. Travel west.’

  ‘A Warren?’

  Janbahashur raised her brows, smiling. ‘A way, a path, call it what you will.’

  Neither of the soldiers spoke, obviously reluctant. Kyle wondered if it was up to him to say something. He decided not to be so well-mannered. ‘Why? Why help us – me?’

  The old woman's eyes glittered with hidden knowledge and humour. ‘You could say it was whispered to us in the wind.’

  Wind. There it was. Kyle stared, daring the woman to say more, but her gaze remained calm and steady and he was forced to look away. ‘Very well. We'll go.’

  Stalker nodded at Kyle's acceptance. ‘OK. When and where?’

  ‘Not here. Follow me. It is not far.’

  As they walked Janbahashur fell into step next to Kyle. Her soft hide moccasins made no sound as she stepped over fallen branches and patches of moss. She directed them upslope and soon bare lichen-stained rock mounded around them. Dead fallen oak and spruce made the going slow.

  ‘Your people are like us, I think,’ she said to Kyle. ‘You live on the land, yes?’

  ‘Yes. And we worship it, and the sun, the rain – and wind.’

  She smiled again. ‘Yes. Wind. Many people worship it. To some it is merely a route to power – a tool to be used. But to us it is life.’ She breathed in expansively, exhaled in a gust. ‘Every living thing takes it in. Even the trees. It is part of all of us, intermingling. For us it is really a symbol for that most unknowable of things, the life essence.’

  ‘I see – I think.’

  She laughed. ‘There is no need to understand.’ She gestured ahead. ‘Here we are. Up here.’

  They climbed a rising dome of striated bedrock. Lichen painted it orange and red amid its dark green and zigzag of quartz veins. The peak overlooked virgin forest for as far as Kyle could see. Other than this magnificent view, the dome was empty. A few small round stones dotted it here and there, in what might be drawn as a large circle.

  Kyle looked around, caught Stalker's eye, gestured a question. The scout nodded reassuringly.

  ‘One of your friends is watching my people, as should be,’ said Janbahashur. ‘They watch him in turn. That is good. To do otherwise would be foolish and we do not wish to waste our time on the foolish. Call him up.’

  Stalker signed something to Badlands who jogged down the slope.

  ‘It is ready,’ Janbahashur said, pointing to the centre of the broad circle. Kyle saw nothing, just empty rock. She smiled at his puzzlement. ‘Look more closely. Take your time.’

  Shading his eyes from the setting sun, Kyle squinted at the smooth exp
anse. At first he still saw nothing, then he noticed a slight shimmering of the ground and air around the centre of the circle, as if dust was blowing. While he watched, patches of dust and sand stirred to life on the rock, swirled faster and faster, blurring, then were sucked away to disappear as if by an invisible wind. Listening carefully, he could just make out a loud hissing as of a waterfall heard from far away.

  He looked to Janbahashur. ‘What is it?’

  ‘As you said, a path of Wind.’

  ‘Like nothing I've ever seen,’ said Stalker. ‘But I'm new to these Warrens. What I've seen were more like tears, gaps and holes.’

  Janbahashur dismissed such things with a wave. ‘Faugh. Brute force. Abusing the fabric of things. We use no such painful means. We merely bend the natural ways, concentrate and redirect forces. If you wish to get the stone from a fruit you can throw it to the ground and step on it, or, you can slowly and gently pull where the fruit would halve until it parts on its own.’

  Coots and Badlands joined them. Janbahashur waved them on, impatient. ‘Go on. Quickly. Do not pause. A few paces, I should think. Go.’

  Stalker signed something and Badlands gave an out-thrust fist and stepped forward. The gesture had something of the look of a salute to Kyle, but one he'd never seen before. Knees bent in a fighting crouch, arms akimbo, Badlands advanced on the blurred patch of air. As he came close he reached out an arm. Janbahashur, at Kyle's side, hissed her alarm. At that instant Badlands simply disappeared. It was hard to say, but Kyle had the impression that he'd been yanked forward with immense power, as if by a giant or a god. The old woman let out a relieved breath. ‘Good. Now, you too. Go.’

  Stalker started forward as did Kyle but the old woman caught Kyle's arm. ‘A word, young warrior.’ Stalker paused as well. His hair, the tag-ends of his shirts, the leather ties, all snapped and strained toward the apex. He was saying something but Kyle could not hear a word of it. While he watched the scout strained forward as if against a storm of wind but was losing ground as his moccasined feet slipped and shuffled backwards on the ridged rock. He must have given up the fight for in the next moment he was gone, snatched into the blur of hissing dust and sand.

  Coots now stood at Kyle's side, a hand on one long-knife at his belt. ‘He's not goin’ last,’ he said to Janbahashur.

  ‘I did not mean to alarm. Just a warning. Do not stop on the path. Do not turn or delay. It would be deadly for you. And do not part with your weapons, yes?’

  Kyle could not stop his hand from going to the grip of his tulwar. ‘I never do.’

  ‘Good, good. Now go.’

  Kyle bowed his thanks and climbed the last of the slope. As he closed upon the apex of the dome his steps became lighter, the going easier. As if he was actually descending. Then, something like a hand thrust itself into his back, not slapping, but accelerating so hard it forced the breath from his lungs. The surroundings blurred into a green smear. A waterfall crash detonated upon his ears, then diminished in volume – either that or he was losing his hearing. Most alarming was his footing: whatever it was he stood upon was soft and yielding like thick water, a blur of sluicing pale mud or clay. Kyle couldn't make any sense of it. He had no idea where he was or where he was headed. He also seemed to be all alone.

  Or perhaps not. Shapes skimmed through the blurring flow parallel with him. Sleek, streamlined, like fish they were but much larger than he. Knowing he shouldn't, Kyle couldn't help but reach out to one. His fingers broke the surface of the shifing flow as if he'd dipped them over the side of a boat. He had the feeling that all he had to do was jump overboard to find himself in a whole new world. One of the shapes nuzzled over as if in response to his gesture. Closer, Kyle had the impression of a stranger, far more alien creature – what had Stoop called the ugly things? – squid.

  He thought that perhaps he'd tempted the Twins enough and pulled his hand back. Now, just how was he supposed to get out?

  Something slapped through the barrier surrounding him and lashed itself around his arm. He screamed in searing pain as he was yanked backwards off his feet with the popping of his shoulder. He drew and slashed almost without thought. A distant keening, the braking snapping away, and Kyle felt himself spinning, his arm numb and lashing about. Then impact, loose gravel sushing beneath him and he lay panting.

  A stream gurgled beside him the whole time; in this manner Kyle knew he'd not lost consciousness. He lay immobile mainly to rest and to delay any discovery of just how seriously he may be injured. Eventually, as the day dimmed, he had to accept that the demands of his flesh were still enough to force him on; especially a full bladder and an empty stomach. Slowly, painfully, he drew his good arm through the gravel to lever himself up into a sitting position. His other arm hung useless, numb, though the shoulder ached as if a fiend had sunk its teeth into it.

  Taking a deep breath, he leaned on his hand to push himself upright. A flight of birds launched themselves from a nearby tree, startled, no doubt, by his resurrection. He was on a stranded gravel shore in the midst of a braided stream. Clear water ran west around him, shallow but swift. Trees taller than any he'd ever seen reared around him, blocking out the surroundings. Night was coming, and the air was chill. He started walking west.

  The stream meandered, cutting deeply into its floodplain at times, but ever turned westward. Kyle kept to the open sandbars and gravel. Finally, ravenous, he cut a poplar branch and waded out to mid-stream. There he stood still in the dim light, lance raised. A flicker in the water; a curve of shadow. He threw. A miss.

  Eventually, he sloshed to shore with an impaled fish. One-handed, he gathered dry fallen wood and brittle grass in the dark, stuck a flint pressing his knife under a knee until the grass lit. He cleaned the fish sloppily then angled it over the flames, and sat back.

  Eating, he tossed branches on to the roaring fire. The night deepened.

  Eventually a voice growled out of the dark, ‘The lad could be hurt. Knocked out. Bleeding.’

  Kyle glanced over his shoulder. ‘Evening, Coots.’

  ‘Wounded, maybe,’ Coots knelt to his haunches and warmed his hands at the fire. ‘In Gods know what trouble.’

  Kyle pointed to his shoulder. ‘I hurt my arm.’

  ‘The three of us runnin’ all over all through the night an’ you're sittin’ here stuffing your face.’

  ‘Comes around, doesn't it?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Something grabbed my arm. I think it's broke.’

  ‘Hunh.’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Got any more o’ that fish?’

  ‘There's more in the stream.’

  ‘Hunh. Funny guy. You're turnin’ into a funny guy.’

  ‘So where are we?’

  Coots yawned, rubbed a hand across his face, lay down and stretched his legs out. ‘Close to the western coast. You can see it from any highland.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Don't know. Steal a fishing boat, I s'pose. Maybe head to Korel. Take a look at this Stormwall everyone's goin’ on about.’

  * * *

  Ghelel Rhik Tayliin allowed her fury to grow steadily in the pit of her stomach. This last revelation of the dispersal of the army assembled in her name was too much. Now that they had reached the Seti plains a simple direct forced march east was all that was required. Any fool could see that. But this latest news – to divide the army! Insane! The worst error of any bumbling lackwit. Her own readings of the military arts were plain on that topic. Never, ever, do that.

  The grey mud of the churned-up shore of the Idryn sucked at her boots as she made her way to the command tent raised next to the assembled wagons and carts of the army's supply. Materiel never stopped moving, with more arriving even as she pushed her way through the maze of crates, piled sacks and penned animals. The ten swordsmen of her guard followed a stone's throw behind despite her direct orders to remain at the wagon. Her Royal Palanquin - Hood take it!

  Beyond the ragged borders of the
entrepot, Seti tribesmen rode back and forth, whistling and lashing lengths of braided leather, driving lines of cattle and oxen east. East? Away from the carts? She gaped at the spectacle.

  To make things worse the Talian and half-breed Seti drovers nudged each other and grinned her way – the mud-splattered Duchess! Ghelel gathered up the ends of her long white surcoat emblazoned with the winged lion of her family crest, made sure her helmet wrapped in white silk cord rested firmly and evenly on her head, then raised her chin defiantly.

  The drovers looked away. She almost congratulated herself on that small victory when she caught sight of her bodyguard slogging up protectively close. Glaring at her guard – who seemed not to notice the attention as they scanned the surroundings – she started off again, wincing as she pulled each boot from the stiff sucking mud. May the Gods forgive her: hand-tooled Rhivi leather imported from Darujhistan. From Darujhistan! Why had they dressed her in such finery? As she neared the tent, laughter and raised voices snapped her gaze around. There, in the mud and shallows of the river, bare-chested men used mattocks and iron bars on wagons. Bashing and levering them apart. Demolishing them! Trake take them! They were destroying the wagons. What in the name of the Abyss was going on in this madhouse?