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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Kyle stopped. Stalker continued on for a moment then stopped himself, resting a hand on the bole of a pine. ‘What is it?’

  Shrugging, Kyle adjusted the folds of his sling. ‘I was just wondering – you said the Guard were leaving when you volunteered to track me down. But how then did they plan for you to link up with them?’

  Stalker pushed up his helmet, wiped the sweat from his brow. Only now you've worked your way through to that? I thought it would be obvious …’ The scout took out a waterskin, squeezed a stream into his mouth. He offered it to Kyle who shook his head. He waved to the sea shimmering in the west. ‘We'd bring you to the coast, take a small boat and sail for Quon.’

  ‘Not funny, Stalker.’

  The scout brushed droplets from his moustache, smiled, then looked around for a place to sit. He selected a moss-covered rock.

  ‘Apologies.’ He pulled off his helmet and rubbed his sweat-slick hair. ‘Don't worry, lad. Just a joke.’ He invited Kyle to sit. ‘Naw. We've left the Guard for sure. No future in it.’

  Kyle sat. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘No chance for advancement, hey? And they're crippled anyway. Doomed to rot unless something big happens to shake them up.’

  ‘The Avowed don't strike me as rotting. They're strong.’

  The scout waved that aside. ‘Not what I mean. I mean they're blind to the present. Stuck in the past.’ He rubbed the pouch hanging from his neck. ‘It's as if they're walking backwards into the future – you know what I mean?’

  How much Kyle understood must have shown on his face for the scout took a deep breath and tried again. ‘You asked about Badlands and Coots. Well, we are related. Some might call them my cousins, distant cousins. You might say brothers. We're all of the Lost back where we come from. Well, back there, it's just the same. Stuck in the past. We left because we'd had enough of it. Imagine our disgust when we found more of the same in the Guard.’

  Kyle nodded. ‘I see – I think.’

  A thin, wintry smile. ‘Never mind. Let's see what we got left to eat.’

  They sat in the shade of tall cedars, chewed on smoked rabbit then ate wild berries of a kind unknown to either of them. Kyle thought maybe it was the berries that had been giving him the runs. While he sat letting the cool breeze dry his back and hair, Coots lumbered up.

  ‘Ain't disturbing your Hood-damned dinner party, am I?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Stalker. ‘Have some berries?’

  ‘No, They twist up my guts awful.’

  ‘Is that why you're here,’ said Stalker, ‘to tell us all about your digestion?’

  Coots pushed a hand through his curly grey hair. ‘Since you asked, my digestion's been the shits since you dragged us on this Poliel-damned expedition. It's a damned disgrace.’ He winked to Kyle. ‘This fellow's got the organizational skills of a squirrel in a cyclone.’

  ‘That your digestion acting up, Coots?’

  ‘No. You'll know it when that happens.’

  ‘So what's the news then?’

  Coots knelt to his haunches. The plain leather vest he wore made his arms look enormous while leather bands strapped them above and below the elbow. He took up a handful of branches that he broke in his wide blunt hands. ‘We've found a pitiful little fishing village on the coast. As rundown as you can imagine. But they've got a sweet-looking new boat just sitting there ready to be pushed down the strand. It's like a damned gift from the Gods.’

  ‘And that's what worries you.’

  ‘Yeah. Makes me all queasy – but maybe that's just my innards clenching.’

  ‘OK. We'll keep watch for a while. You and Badlands first.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’

  To Kyle, ‘We'll wait here, hey? Then we'll steal our boat.’

  ‘OK. But, I have to warn you, I don't know a thing about sailing ‘n’ such.’

  Stalker and Coots exchanged amused glances. ‘That's OK,’ said Stalker. ‘’Cause neither do we.’

  BOOK II

  The Eternal Return

  These stories of one-time Trell or Thelomen occupation of our lands are utterly false. There never have been, nor are there any, systematic eliminations or nefarious schemes to eradicate any race. All these rumours are the inventions of our enemies intended to stain us. I ask you, if such peoples once lived here, where are they? Where have they gone? What has become of their works?

  Paulus of Rool

  Continent of Fist

  CHAPTER I

  After the mêlée

  All is quiet –

  Just me

  And the Eel.

  Uligen of Darujhistan

  FAR DOWN BELOW HURL'S BOOTS THE RIVER IDRYN HISSED AS IT parted around the iron bars of Heng's Outer River Gate. She squinted east, downstream, into the dead of the moonless night and held her crossbow tight, balanced on the stone crenellations of the bridge.

  ‘See anything?’ asked Shaky from her side.

  ‘’Course not. Bloody dark as the inside of your head, isn't it?’

  ‘Just askin’.’

  Hurl bit down hard on her anger – Shaky wasn't the cause of it. ‘Sorry. No, I can't see a Lady-damned thing.’

  ‘Here they come.’ This from Sunny in the dark. Hurl peered down the arc of the bridge's walkway. Figures closed, not one torch or lantern among them: Storo, magistrates Ehrlann and Plengyllen, Sergeant, now Captain, Gujran – turns out the man's a Genabackan from Greydog – and a squad of garrison regulars.

  ‘Again,’ Ehrlann was telling Storo in a fierce strained whisper, ‘we, the Council, stand against this decision. It that not so, Plengyllen?’

  The tall bearded magistrate nodded his ponderous agreement. ‘We consider it ill-advised.’

  Storo simply threw his arms over the crenel. ‘Quiet?’ he asked Hurl.

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘They're going of their own free will,’ Storo said, louder.

  ‘You could have forbidden it.’

  ‘As you could have.’

  The paunchy magistrate held up his hands. ‘We have no power to force anyone to do anything. We are not the coercive arm of governance.’

  ‘How convenient for you.’

  ‘That sounds sour, Sergeant – Captain. Ah, my apologies … Fist. Why be sour now that you have achieved that for which no doubt you always longed – a command of your own, yes?’

  ‘[ didn't ask for it.’

  ‘Yet here you are.’

  ‘Just doing my duty.’

  ‘Oh yes – that.’

  Seeing Storo's hands tighten into fists, Hurl hastily cut in, ‘Where's Jalor, ‘n’ Rell, and Silk?’

  ‘Out with a squad of Gujran's best on the south shore.’

  ‘The Council was not informed of any sortie!’ burst out Plengyllen, outraged.

  ‘That's because I preferred it remain a secret.’

  ‘How dare—’

  ‘Are they ready?’ Storo asked Captain Gujran.

  ‘Ready, sir.’

  ‘Raise it.’

  Gujran drew his shortsword, held it high. A deep rumbling shook the stone arch. Behind them, the top of the gate ratcheted upwards. Hurl squinted to scour the ghostly shades of trees lining the shores. If the Seti youngbloods weren't out there now, they'd be there soon. Beneath her feet the first of the flotilla of rafts and boats nosed silently out carrying those refugees who had agitated to be allowed to flee the city. Hurl wished them Oponn's favour, but personally she considered their chances slim to nil.

  ‘Ten to one says none make it through,’ said Sunny from the dark.

  ‘Shut the Abyss up!’ grated Hurl. Noise brought her attention around. A sibilance such as that of many voices speaking, subdued. Movement atop the eastern walls. The populace of Heng gathering to watch. Damn the Lady! This was supposed to be secret – which meant they were probably selling Trake-damned tickets. How could any mass flight such as this have been kept secret?

  ‘Any takers?’

  ‘No one's going to take you up on that, Sunny!�
��

  ‘Yeah, I'm in,’ said Shaky.

  ‘Me too,’ said Gujran.

  Hurl glared. ‘How can you two …’

  ‘Movement in the south,’ said Storo.

  Everyone looked. Hurl slitted her eyes till they hurt, straining to see beyond the silhouettes of the trees to where the hillsides rose into the distance. There, swift movement of lighter greys: Seti horsemen sweeping like clouds across the hills.

  ‘They're using the old Pilgrim Bridge. The road to Kan,’ said Magistrate Ehrlann. ‘Why didn't you demolish that bridge?’ he demanded of Storo. ‘I told you to demolish it.’

  Storo sighed. ‘The Seti can ford the Idryn wherever they want. They don't need any Burn-blasted bridge.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, others are coming. Forces that may need the bridge.’

  ‘Forces? What forces could you possibly mean?’ demanded Magistrate Plengyllen.

  ‘I don't know right now. We'll see who gets here first.’

  ‘Oh come,’ Plengyllen scoffed, ‘how could you know anyone is coming?’

  ‘Someone is.’

  ‘But how could you know this?’

  ‘Because Toc and Laseen both know goddamned horses can't climb walls!’

  ‘They're gettin’ away,’ called Shaky, his voice rising to a near squeak.

  Everyone turned to the river. Jammed with refugees and citizens convinced of Heng's immediate ruin in flame and slaughter, the convoy of small boats and rafts had poled and oared their way beyond bowshot of the city walls. Now, Hurl knew, came the most dangerous time. Now was when any ambush would be sprung. Out past any hope of intervention on the part of the city defenders. Everyone watched, silent, breath held, as the vessels disappeared into the dark. Don't bunch up, she urged. Stay apart. Quiet.

  The night remained still. The stars shone bright and hard. Light's Path arched as a smear of paleness across the dark vault. Hurl allowed herself a small hope that perhaps, perhaps, some of the train would escape. Misguided fools though they may be. She stiffened at a hiss from Sunny. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Through the trees …’

  Orange lights now blinked in the far distance under cover of the trees lining the river's edge, north and south. ‘Shit…’

  ‘Yeah. That's a shitter all right.’

  Shortly, a single arrow trailing yellow flames arched high into the night sky. It fell into the river to be snuffed out but it had done its job. Hurl hugged herself, knowing what would follow. Despite her dread she was unable to look away as a storm of flaming arrows sped up into the sky only to descend, like a cloud of falling stars, straight down over the water. Most winked out yet some remained, slammed into wood, marking the helpless vessels for more. Hurl thought, or imagined, she could just make out the panicked cries of the women and children refugees – the fools! How could they imagine they'd be allowed passage? Better, from the Seti point of view, to keep everyone bottled up behind the walls. Down on the streets food was already short.

  ‘Why do you do nothing?’ Ehrlann demanded of Storo. ‘You must do something …’

  ‘There's nothing I can do,’ Storo ground out, his voice rigid with control. ‘I told them this would happen but they went anyway.’

  ‘And that absolves you?’

  Storo spun on the magistrate. ‘J know it damn well does not!’

  Sunny stepped between the two men. He faced Storo but said to Ehrlann, ‘Get out of here before I do what should be done to you.’

  Ehrlann drew himself up straight, flicked his bhederin-hair switch across his shoulders. ‘Very well. I will go. But know this, Captain, with this debacle this night you have lost all the confidence of the council. Know that. Plengyllen?’

  The magistrates marched off down the bridge. Storo signalled Captain Gujran to him.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Have your men out this night at key points. There'll probably be riots. Some may even try the gates.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Saluting, the captain gestured to his detachment and marched off. Storo turned away only to face east and in the firelight playing across his features Hurl saw the pain of a man facing potential failure. A constant barrage of flame arrows now flew. The pitiful rafts and small boats burned brightly like some kind of grisly offerings as they bumped downstream with the lazy current. The glowing procession reminded Hurl of the Festival of Lights, when the citizenry of Cawn send their offerings in thanks and propitiation out upon the waters – fleets of candles and tiny lamps glimmering like stars in the night. And so to what God or Gods was this offering of blood and suffering? To Trake alone, she feared. And Hood of course. Always Hood.

  Tossed rocks clattered from the arch and Hurl ducked. The citizenry of Heng now yelled their outrage. Their curses and screams mingled into an unintelligible roar. The corpse of a dead dog flew through the night sky, struck the stone arch and fell spinning into the river. Stones and offal flew, but no vegetables, these, even rotten ones, being too valuable to toss. It looked to Hurl that none of the venom was directed out against the besieging Seti – all was directed at them atop the Outer River Gate.

  * * *

  Ho told himself it wasn't spying or probing or prying; he was just being considerate, bringing a small selection of a recent delivery of apples. A rare enough treat worthy of sharing. That's all. Nothing more. He walked the narrow winding slits that served as tunnels here in this, one of the most isolated and distant of the galleries. Ways so narrow at times even he, an emaciated Hengan, had to slide along sideways.

  As he neared the hollowed out cave he'd been told the two had moved into, he heard voices and stopped. He was sure he didn't mean to eavesdrop. He told himself he'd stopped out of mere good manners, to clear his throat, or to call ahead that he was coming. But he heard talk and so he listened.

  ‘Still nothing from them?’ That was Treat, the tall one.

  ‘I told you, nothing.’

  ‘Not even Fingers?’

  ‘No! Nothing! OK? There's nothing I can do.’

  ‘But I thought you lot had it all worked out that the Brethren shouldn't give a damn about the Otataral.’

  A loud exasperated sigh. ‘That's right, Treat. We worked all that out. So who knows? Maybe there's another problem.’

  ‘I say we just go. This is a waste of time. We're late now as it is. Say, maybe it's this pack of squirrelly mages. They'd be enough to keep me away.’

  So not a mage. How was that arranged?

  ‘These squirrelly mages are up to something. Something they think important.’

  Could they know? Yath would surely kill them if he suspected.

  ‘So what we'll do is …’

  The blackened point of a wooden spear thrust itself at Ho who flinched back completely startled, dropping his basket.

  Treat faced him. ‘It's Ho.’

  ‘Come on in, Ho,’ called Grief.

  After collecting the apples, Ho stepped forward, rounded a curve, and found himself in the men's quarters, stark as it might be. Grief sat on a ledge carved from the naked rock and strewn with rags, whittling with the smallest blade Ho had ever seen. Treat stood next to the entrance, spear still levelled. Ho slowly reached out to touch the point. ‘Fire-hardened.’

  One edge of Treat's mouth quirked up. ‘Right you are. Took me forever to whittle the damned thing. Won't tell anyone, will you?’

  Ho shared the smile. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘What can we do for you, Ho?’ asked Grief, not looking up from his whittling.

  He held out the basket. ‘Apples. A rare delivery care of the Malazans.’

  ‘Our thanks.’

  Treat reached forward, took the basket, all the while keeping the point of the spear level. Ho watched the weapon – the first he'd seen in, well, longer than he'd care to think about. It occurred to him that Yath and Sessin had no weapons. That he knew of, in any case. He wet his lips and thought about what to say while the spear remained motionless upon him.