* * *
Kyle awoke to a light kick of his heel. Keeping himself still he glanced over to see Stalker silently wave him up. Awkward, he pushed himself up by his off-hand, his right wrapped tight in a sling. The night was bright, the mottled moon low and glowing. Unaccountably, Kyle thought of ancient legends from the youth of his people when multiple moons of many sizes and hues painted the nights in multicoloured shadow. Even this one had been discoloured as of late. And the nights have been lit by far more falling stars than when he was a child. He glanced to the glittering arc of stars demarking Father's Cast where his people's Skyfather first tossed the handful of bright dirt that would be Creation. As glowing and dense as ever despite his fears.
Stalker brought his head close. ‘We have a problem.’ In answer to Kyle's querying look he motioned to Coots waiting at the dark tree-edge.
As Kyle approached, Coots adjusted his armoured hauberk of iron rings sewn to leather and checked his sheathed long-knives. His mouth was his habitual sour grimace behind his thickening moustache and beard. ‘We've spotted the boat's owner. He's a Togg-damned giant of a fellow. Bigger than any I ever heard of. Bigger'n any Thelomen.’
A shiver of dread ran through Kyle; giants, Jhogen, were creatures from the nightmares of his people. ‘A Jhogen?’
‘What's that? Jhogen?’ Comprehension dawned on Coots with a quiet humourless smile. ‘No. Not one of them.’
‘I heard talk in the Guard about giants who live in Stratem. In the East. Toblakai.’
Coots grunted. ‘No, not like them.’
‘The bigger they are, the slower,’ Stalker said, urging them on.
‘That from personal experience, there, Stalk?’ asked Coots, arching a brow. Stalker signed for silence. Making his way through the woods, Kyle wanted to ask Coots more of this giant but the time for that had passed. They moved silent through the trees, reached tended fields cut from the forest edge that led down to a loosely scattered collection of huts and pens that in turn straggled down to a strand of black rock and the grey choppy waters of the White Sea beyond. A biting landward wind stole through Kyle's armour, quilted padding and linen shirts. He pulled his cloak tighter. The gusts seemed to carry the sharpness of the ice that had given birth to it somewhere far out past the western horizon.
Hunched, Coots jogged down between the open ground of the fields. Kyle scanned the scattered huts; not one fire or lamp showed, though white tendrils climbed from some roof smoke-holes. Stalker followed, Kyle brought up the rear. Amid the huts Badlands emerged from behind a stick-pen holding goats. The four of them jogged down to the dark strand where the boat rested slightly aslant, bright against the black water-worn gravel, its single mast tall and gracefully slim.
Badlands pressed a shoulder to the raised stern, feet scraping amid the rocks. He pushed again, gasping. ‘Lad take it! Here's a complication.’
‘Keep watch,’ Stalker told Kyle. The three bent their shoulders to the boat. They strained, breathing in sharp gasps. Their sandalled feet dug into the gravel. Keening loudly, the boat scraped forward a hand's breadth on its log bedding.
Glancing away from their efforts, Kyle was shocked to see two men already approaching. One stunned him by his size, nearly twice the height of a normal man, carrying a spear fully half again as tall as him. The man at the side of this giant of a being, Jhogen or not, was somehow not in the least diminished. Dark, muscular, he moved with an easy grace that captured Kyle's attention. ‘Here they come,’ he murmured, aside. The three cousins straightened from their efforts. The boat had moved a bare arm's span.
As the two closed, Kyle found that he did not feel fear so much as an unaccountable chagrin and embarrassment – as if he were a common thief caught in the act – which, he reflected, was pretty much the truth of it. ‘You surprise me,’ the man said in Talian, motioning to the boat. ‘I didn't think anyone but my friend here could move it.’
‘Yeah, well, we're just full of surprises,’ Stalker ground out, a hand close to his sword.
The man's bright gaze moved to Kyle. ‘Young for the Crimson Guard, aren't you?’
Kyle glanced down; he still wore his sigil. ‘We quit.’
One dark brow rose. ‘Really? I did not think that possible.’
Through this exchange the giant stood straight, arms crossed, though a smile played at his mouth. His startling golden eyes held something like wonder as his gaze roved about them.
‘We need your boat,’ Stalker said.
‘If the Guard is after you, no wonder,’ the man observed dryly.
‘How much do you want for it?’ Kyle asked, surprising himself.
‘It's not for sale.’ The man's eyes were flat though his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. ‘But it is for hire.’
Stalker grunted something that sounded like a long curse of all the meddling Gods.
‘Where are you headed?’ the giant fellow asked in flowing musical Talian. His voice was taut, expectant, almost febrile in its intensity. It was a question Kyle had been giving much thought of late. Where could he possibly head in all the open world? Back to home, Bael lands? Or off to a new land, this Genabackis of which he heard so much among the Guard? But in the end he did not need to wonder; one place, one name, haunted him since overheard accidentally while he hid in the woods. A locale, and a possible mission as well. He addressed the two, ‘Have either of you heard of the “Dolmans”?’
Their reaction startled Kyle. To the man the name clearly meant nothing; his gaze remained flat, though it shifted to his companion. The giant flinched as if gut-punched. A shiver took him like the swaying of a tree trunk and he expended a hissed breath in a long murmuring supplication. ‘Yes,’ he managed, his voice thick with emotion. ‘I know it well. The Dolmans of Tien. It is of my homeland, Jacuruku.’
‘What fee, then, to take us there?’ asked Stalker, his gaze narrow on Kyle.
The man had already half-turned away. He said over his shoulder, ‘You've just paid it. We'll get our supplies then we will leave immediately.’
Though clearly unhappy, Stalker nodded. ‘What's your name?’
‘Traveller. This is Ereko.’
Stalker gave their names. Ereko inclined his head in greetings. ‘Well met, comrades,’ he said grinning now, having regained his composure. ‘We sail shortly into the maw of the Ice Dancer. It is a sea I know well, and judging from this frigid wind, it is readying itself for us.’ The two walked back up the strand.
While Stalker eyed Kyle, Badlands let out a long thankful breath. ‘Payment might still have to be made …’
‘Don't know if I'm looking forward to that scrap,’ said Coots.
Stalker refused to release Kyle. The Dolmans … that the place Skinner mentioned?’
‘Yes.’
‘And his contact. It was in Jacuruku, wasn't it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now this Thelomen fellow, or whatever he is, says he's of Jacuruku.’
‘Yeah.’
Stalker spun away, disgusted. ‘Dark Lady, someone's meddling here. I don't like it. Too overt. There's going to be trouble. Push-back. I know it.’
‘What do you mean?’
He rubbed his hands on the planks of the boat. ‘A slapping down. A dispersal. Lad,’ he said, turning back, ‘the Gods are just scheming children. One is attempting to build a castle in the sand here. Soon the others will see this, or they have seen it. They'll come and kick it down.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they can't let the schemes of others succeed, Kyle. They each of them only want their own to succeed.’
‘I don't know if I agree with that.’
The tall scout shrugged. ‘Agree or not, that is how it is. In any case, seems we're still working for the Guard after all.’
‘One direction is as good as any other,’ said Coots with a dismissive wave.
‘Except home,’ said Badlands, hawking up a great throatful of phlegm and spitting on to the rocks.
Coots nodded. ‘Yeah. That would be the worst.
’
Traveller and Ereko returned quite quickly. Kyle had to kick the cousins awake; they'd lain down on their cloaks and gone right to sleep. The two tossed their bundles in then Traveller waved everyone to the boat. One-armed, Kyle had barely touched the overlapping planks of the sides when the boat took off sliding down the logs; Ereko had merely leant his shoulder to the stern and it fairly flew down the strand. It gave a nerve-grating screech of wood-against-wood then charged prow-first into the grey water. Ereko had continued on with it and now stood in what for him was waist-deep water; Kyle, short himself, suspected it would come up near his shoulders. Traveller pointed to a row of sealed earthenware pots. ‘Those hold sweet-water. Get them aboard.’
Stalker didn't move, but after an ‘Aye, Captain’ from Coots the brothers bent to the task.
‘Those bundles of charcoal,’ Traveller told Kyle, indicating a ready-made pile.
‘Aye,’ Kyle responded without thought. Eventually, Stalker lent a hand to the loading of wrapped dried fish and roots.
Ereko had manoeuvred the boat closer to shore. They climbed aboard, getting wet only to the knees. Ereko pushed off then pulled himself in over the gunwale. He took the side-tiller while Traveller sat at the high prow.
‘Raise sail,’ Ereko called. The brothers set to, pulling on ropes. A patchwork square sail rose, luffed full in the strong wind. Ereko steered them north, parallel to the shore and slightly seaward. Already a false dawn brightened the east. They'd worked all night preparing the craft.
Kyle sat close to the stern, wrapped himself in his cloak. ‘What's the boat's name?’ he asked the giant.
‘We call her the Kite,’ he answered with an easy and pleased smile. ‘Let's hope she flies just as swift, hey?’
Kyle could only nod his uncertain agreement. Why must they hurry? Were they afraid the Guard might give chase? Or, more likely, the fellow had his own reasons for speed. The one who'd given his name as Traveller – what an odd choice! – had installed himself at the very prow, looking ahead past the tall spit. Stalker, Badlands and Coots sat amidships, wrapped themselves in cloaks, and promptly went to sleep. Kyle tried to sleep but found that while he was exhausted by the night's work, he was too excited. He was on his way – but to what? Would it prove to be the meeting or the discovery he hoped? But it was too late now for second thoughts. It seemed to him that the splash of the Kite's prow into the water had set a tumble of events into motion that could not be stopped. Not by men nor even these meddling Gods who may have – foolishly! – interfered. They had set off on a chosen path. One path among many that like any in hindsight becomes Fated. And their destination, their future, awaited them.
CHAPTER II
The wise learn more from their enemies than fools learn from their friends.
Attribution Unknown
(Possibly Gothos)
‘O BELISK HIGH, DEATHSLAYER CLOSE, CROWN INVERTED, THE Apocalyptic!’
Arm raised to throw, Nait stared at Heuk, the company cadre mage. ‘So? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
The old man blinked sallow bloodshot eyes and fell back into his seat. He gestured to the cards. ‘It means something's happening.’
At the company table, Least let go a great farting noise. Nait kept his hand high, shaking the bone dice. ‘Something's always happening somewhere, you daft codger!’
‘Swearing,’ Corporal Hands warned, ‘and throw the damned dice.’
‘Fine!’ Nait shook the dice in Hands’ broad sweaty face. ‘You want me to throw, I'll throw!’ He threw; the dice bounced from the box, disappeared among the sawdust, straw and warped boards of the Figurehead Inn's floor.
‘Aw, you dumb bumpkin!’ said Honey Boy.
‘Shithead.’
‘Swearing!’
‘Look, you better find them,’ said Honey Boy, ‘they're made from my grandmother's own knucklebones.’
‘Then she can bloody well find them.’
Hands, Honey Boy and Least all stared. Nait threw up his arms. ‘Fine! I'll look.’ He got on his hands and knees between the crowded tables. ‘Can't find shit down here anyway.’
‘I did,’ Least said, serious.
Nait searched the floor, deciding to look more for dropped coins than anything else. The door banged open and a man stopped in the threshold blocking the bright light of midday. ‘It's the end of the world, he bellowed into the common room. Conversation and the thumping of pewter tankards stopped. Everyone turned to squint at the man, his eyes wide, hair dishevelled, fine velvet jacket askew and wrenched. ‘Hood's Gates have opened and the dead of all the Abyss are vomiting up upon us!’
Nait, straightening, banged the back of his head on the table. ‘What in Hood's ass?’
‘Flee! Run!’ and, taking his own advice, the man ran.
Nait looked to Hands who looked to Honey Boy. A few patrons peered out the oiled and stretched hides that served as blurry windows. The light shining in the door did have a strange greenish cast to it – like that of an approaching storm front. A number of blurred figures, no more than wavering shadows, ran past the windows like fleeing ghosts. Shrugging, most patrons returned to talking – now discussing even stranger things they'd seen; the day a two-headed cat haunted the streets of Unta and the whole quarter was turned upside down so that the cursed thing could be caught and drowned in a trough; or that night not so long ago when a falling god – perhaps Fener himself – turned the night into day.
Yet Nait thought he heard distant yells of alarm and wonder from the open door. Sighing, Hands pushed herself up from the table and stretched her arms, straining the broad front lacings of her linen shirt. Looking up from the table, Least whimpered and Honey Boy sank his head into his hands. Hands glared, ‘Oh, c'mon!’ She drew on her padded vest and hauberk, took her belt and sword from the back of the chair. Nait pocketed his coins from the table, pushed the birdbone toothpick into the corner of his mouth. He eyed them at the table. ‘Well? C'mon, you limpdicks.’
Watching Hands go, Least rumbled sadly, ‘Not so limp now.’
Honey Boy slapped the Barghast on the back of his bhederin cloak. ‘Wasn't that swearing? I'm sure he swore.’
Nait just spat. One of these days, Hands, I'll pull those big ol’ boots off you.
Outside the sky over Unta Bay flickered with a strange aura. It reminded Nait of the lights that play over the Straits that some say presage the arrival of the Stormriders; not that he'd ever seen any of those demons himself, being from far inland. The glow was receding or dying away even as he watched, leaving behind the normal midday blue vault laced with high thin clouds.
Honey Boy grunted, pointing to the mouth of the harbour. Two ships had entered, both alarmingly low in the water. One's masts hung shattered, the other listed. Sweeps propelled them, but raggedly, all of them unaccountably short, many broken to stubs. Both vessels seemed to glow as if painted white. The squad headed for the wharf.
Commerce on this reach of the mercantile berthings had stuttered to a halt. Bales and sacks lay abandoned. As they ambled past, labourers gingerly straightened from cover. Sailors watched from the rails of merchantmen. One raised a warding gesture against evil. ‘It's the drowned returned – as at the end of times!’
‘Damned few of them,’ Honey Boy opined.
They came abreast of the guard shack and Nait stepped in, ‘Hey, Sarge, did you—’
Sergeant Tinsmith and another stood at one window. The other wore the rags of a dock rat but stood straight with arms folded, a hand at his chin as he peered out. ‘Who in the Queen's privates is this?’ Nait said.
‘Manners,’ Sergeant Tinsmith ground out. ‘This is a guest.’
‘What do you think?’ the fellow asked the sergeant.
Tinsmith stroked his grey moustache. ‘One of them has a Genabackan cut but the other,’ he shook his head, ‘I've never seen the like. What's left of it, anyway. No flagging.’
‘No, none.’
While they watched, the listing one of the vessels cam
e abreast of an anchored Kanese merchantman. The crew of the sinking vessel swarmed over the sides on to the merchantman. Shortly thereafter, that vessel raised anchor, lowered sweeps and headed for the wharf. The abandoned vessel promptly sank in its wake.
‘Damned brazen,’ the dock rat observed.
‘Get the full company down here, Honey Boy,’ Tinsmith shouted outside.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘They're in an awful hurry to get themselves arrested,’ said Nait.
The dock rat regarded him for a moment with hard, amused eyes. ‘We'll see.’
The vessels reached the head of the wharf. Figures climbed down, all armed and armoured, though also bizarrely pale as if whitewashed, or ghosts. A thought struck Nait and he laughed aloud. Tinsmith raised a brow. ‘I was just thinking, sir. It's the sorriest-ass invasion fleet I've ever seen.’ Both men regarded him in silence. ‘Just a thought.’
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 39