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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Nait lost his smile. ‘Oh, right. Yeah. Maybe so.’

  Tinsmith signed the guard to form up.

  * * *

  The mute shuffling and grunts of continued fighting prodded Possum to crack open an eye. The noises came from out back; everyone inside was quite obviously dead. He rose silently to his feet and as he did so the mortal slash that laid open his entrails disappeared leaving behind a much shallower, albeit deep enough, cut. Bodies strewed the blown-out first storey, Claws and Guardsmen alike. Wincing, Possum clenched an arm across his slashed abdomen and surveyed the carnage. He and the seven Claws had managed to take down the five Guard – all but one, an Avowed, who then finished off the two remaining Claw and Possum himself, or thought he had.

  Yet the fighting continued. Stiff with pain, Possum crossed carefully to a window looking out on the rubbish-strewn enclosure behind the tenement. There the Avowed duelled a single Claw. Possum stared. Run, you damned fool! Who was this idiot? He'd not authorized any lone hunters this night. The man, woman, Possum corrected himself, had elected to face the Avowed barehanded. Possum could not understand it, the highest, most exacting of the disciplines taught at the Claw cre´ches and the Academy, yes, but against an armoured opponent wielding a longsword? Granted, the Avowed moved rather awkwardly having been thrust through the back and front scores of times by Possum and his own guards before managing to cut them all down, but still: bare hands against iron mail?

  The Claw, wrapped all over in black cloth strips, including her head, leaving only a slit for her eyes, circled the Avowed, probing, shifting her stance. He waited, sword raised, his other arm hanging useless having been shattered in the explosion. Possum decided that though she might be the stupidest of his ranks she deserved help if only for, well… sheer brainless audacity. He calmed himself to summon his Warren.

  A cold knife blade bit his neck. He froze. From behind, a head nestled its weight on his left shoulder. A woman's low voice breathed hot and damp into his ear, ‘Let's see what she's got.’ Despite the blazing pain of his abdomen Possum felt a shiver of hunger to know the possessor of such a voice.

  The flickering glow of burning city blocks lit the enclosure and painted the night sky orange. Distant screams and the murmur of battle marked the front where the Guard inexorably bulled its way back to the harbour. The Claw continued her circling dance while the Avowed clumsily tracked her, one lumbering step after another. So swiftly that Possum missed it, one foot lashed in to swipe the side of the Avowed's helmet, the sword swung after, and the armoured giant righted himself, shaking his head. Fool! What did that accomplish? You'll only break the bones of your foot. Another kick, this one connecting square in the chest, rocking the Avowed backwards – again, another slow swing. The woman at his shoulder snorted her impatience and Possum had to agree; what was the point in this wasted time and effort?

  Yet useless punishment was not the Claw's purpose, as became clear to Possum in an instant as another kick brought another swing, but this time the arm was trapped, locked and the Claw's own elbow pushed in and the mailed arm snapped backwards with an audible wet popping. The Claw sprang away. The woman at Possum's shoulder grunted her appreciation of the move. The sword had fallen from the numb grip and now the Avowed struggled with his shattered arm to reach a dirk sheathed at his belt. The Claw launched herself upon him, legs twisting around his torso. Hands jabbed straight over the Avowed's vision slit, fisted, thumbs extended to disappear entirely within.

  The Avowed bellowed his excruciating pain – the first sound Possum recalled hearing from him. The Claw sprang free once more, faced the blinded, crippled giant. He sank to his knees. He appeared to say something which was lost in the din of the surrounding battle;

  she answered. He lowered his helmeted head. The Claw spun, leg lashing out to take the man low on the neck beneath the lip of the helmet, snapping the head sickeningly aside. The Avowed toppled to his side.

  Possum could not believe what he'd just seen; how was this possible? Hood preserve him! Who was this woman? None he knew of in the ranks. The one holding the blade to his throat snarled something in a language unknown to Possum and withdrew. He spun but she was gone. So quick! A mage as well; and damned good.

  Turning back, he caught the one wrapped in black swathings staring right at him. He took a breath to call but she ran, disappearing into another tenement. He cradled his front with a gasp; that sudden breath hadn't been a good idea. When he looked up again another lone Claw had entered the garbage-strewn enclosure. This one wore grey cloth, her short black hair uncovered. Great Fanderay! Yet another one! And another female to boot! Where were they all coming from? The Claw knelt to examine the fallen Avowed. Possum limped to the shattered rear door.

  By the time he reached the Guardsman this third mystery woman was of course gone. He shuffled to the fallen Avowed. A hand at the man's broken neck assured him that the man was indeed dead - asphyxiation, Possum assumed, from feeling his crushed larynx.

  He straightened from the corpse. Intriguing mysteries, yes, but all would have to wait. He studied the glow of flames brightening the night sky, black smoke billowing from nearby. Time to reassert some measure of control – if possible. And find a healer too. He probed the slit across his front gummed with drying blood, and grimaced; yes, definitely the closest he'd yet come to the end of his career. A wave and an opening to darkness appeared. Possum stepped through delicately.

  * * *

  Coming up the Way of Opals, Nait and the harbour guard met a wagon headed the opposite way. A tarp covered its contents and the drover was afoot, pulling on the tack of the two harnessed oxen. His face glistened with sweat and his eyes were wide with terror as he nodded to Sergeant Tinsmith. Up the road fires looked to be gathering Strength in the fine tailoring district. ‘How goes things?’ Sergeant Tinsmith called to the man.

  ‘Very good, sir. Very good. Just trying to save some possessions from the fires.’ He pulled two-handed on the yoke, muttered feverishly to the oxen.

  ‘I meant with the battle,’ Tinsmith said.

  Men and women came running down the street carrying bundles and baskets. A crying child was being dragged along by her shirt-front. The man blinked at Tinsmith. Oh, that! Have no idea. Sorry. You'll have to reach the Gemcutters’ Bourse for that.’

  ‘The gemcutters?’ said Nait. ‘They're fighting there? Sergeant, please, we've to get a piece of that’

  The man clenched both hands in his hair and he stared pleadingly at the oxen. ‘There's some kind of riot in the district. Something about protection fees. Move, you great anuses!’

  Tinsmith raised an eyebrow. ‘I'm sorry … ?’

  The man yanked on his hair so hard it was as if he was attempting to raise himself from the ground. ‘Not you – them! Why won't you move? Please! Come ow.’

  ‘Maybe we can help,’ offered Hands.

  Tinsmith glared at her. To the man, ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I'll fucking kill you!’ the man yelled at the oxen.

  Honey Boy tapped a finger to the side of his head. Least nodded, the fetishes tied in his hair jangling. As they moved up the Way of Opals the stream of refugees grew so congested they had to push to make any headway. It occurred to Nait that toe-to-toe fighting was not why he'd signed up with the harbour guard, but it looked like that was exactly where the sergeant was taking him unless he could think of something quick. It also occurred to him that he'd seen that fellow before. And recently too. He pushed his way to Tinsmith's side. ‘Something strange about that fellow and his wagon, sir.’

  ‘That there certainly was.’

  ‘I mean, he was probably on his way to the harbour, don't you think?’

  Tinsmith slowed. ‘What tells you that, Nait?’

  ‘Just a hunch.’

  Tinsmith shook his head. ‘Not good enough, Nait.’ He waved a go-ahead to a glaring Hands.

  ‘I've seen that scraggle-haired fellow before, sir,’ Nait called.

  ‘Where was that?’ Tinsmith
called back.

  ‘On board the Ragstopper.’

  Sergeant Tinsmith stopped. He turned to Nait. ‘You sure?’

  ‘My nose tells me so.’ He tapped the side of it.

  Hands sneered. ‘He just doesn't want a sword shoved up it.’

  A comment similar in kind occurred to Nait but Tinsmith waved for silence. He stroked his grey moustache. ‘OK. Let's check it out.’

  He raised his voice, ‘Load crossbows! Spread out!’ Hands signalled a reverse.

  They found the wagon not too far down the way from where they'd left it. The drover ignored them, yanking on the harnessing. He was weeping. Tinsmith walked up, followed by Hands, Nait and Least.

  ‘You with the Ragstopper?’ Tinsmith called out.

  The man jumped as if stabbed. He spun, dragged a sleeve across his face. ‘What? Why? Who're you?’

  ‘Sergeant Tinsmith, harbour guard. Are you with the Ragstopper? Is that cargo?’

  The man wrung his hands. ‘What's that? Cargo? No, of course not.’ He climbed up on to the seat, took up a whip. ‘Now, I have to go. Goodbye!’

  ‘Oughtn't we …’ began Hands. Tinsmith waved for her to wait.

  The man cracked the whip over the oxen. ‘Go! Run! Move!’

  Tinsmith, Hands and Nait watched him. Nait moved his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘What'cha got back there, friend?’

  He stared at them, then threw down the whip. ‘Nothing! Just some supplies.’ He clambered up on to the load of tarped boxes. ‘You have no right to stop me. This isn't the harbour. Go away!’

  Tinsmith sighed, looked up and down the street, watched the citizenry streaming past on their way to the waterfront to escape what might burgeon into a firestorm. ‘Looks to me like this wagon represents a blockage in a public thoroughfare. Therefore, by the power invested in me as a public servant and enforcer of civil writs, it lies within my authorization to have this conveyance seized and impounded.’

  On his hands and knees on top of the piled boxes, the fellow stared down at them. ‘What?’

  ‘Least, Honey Boy, get this wagon off the main road.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Least. He waved Honey Boy to him and the two yanked the oxen by their nose rings into the mouth of an alley. The man threw himself flat, hugging the tarp.

  ‘No! You mustn't! You don't understand – it's mine! Mine!’

  ‘Keep your invoice?’ Nait asked with an evil grin.

  The fellow rolled off the back. His hands went to his hair, yanked furiously, then flew out wide. He ran down the street, waving his arms, shrieking, ‘Noooooo!’

  Nait and Tinsmith watched him go. ‘Oughtn't we …’ said Hands. Tinsmith just waved the thought aside. He turned to the wagon.

  ‘All right, let's take a look.’ They untied the tarp, threw it up, lowered the gate. Boxes. Identical boxes of dark wood piled four deep in six rows. Nait examined the latches of the nearest. There didn't appear to be a lock plate or a keyhole. He pulled out his knife. ‘How do you open these things?’ He jammed the point of his knife into the wood.

  Tinsmith suddenly knocked the knife flying from his hands. Nait glared at his sergeant. ‘What?’

  ‘Blame my nose,‘ Tinsmith said. ‘Now stand back. I seem to remember seeing boxes like these back in my old days with the marines in Genabackis.’ He stood up on the lowered gate and gingerly felt at the twin latches of one of the top rear boxes. These gave easily. Kneeling, his face close, he lifted the lid a finger's width. Nothing happened. He stared inside for a time, motionless.

  ‘Sergeant?’ Hands asked.

  Tinsmith cleared his throat. ‘Corporal, how close would you say those fires are now?’

  ‘A few blocks – getting closer.’

  He closed the box, jumped down. ‘Back up the oxen. Get ‘em moving. Now.’

  ‘They ain't interested,’ complained Least.

  ‘Use your knives.’

  Honey Boy blew out a breath and raised his brows as if to say, ‘my goodness’.

  Nait followed Tinsmith out on to the street. ‘What's in the boxes?’ His sergeant ignored him, peering up and down the thoroughfare.

  ‘Corporal Hands,’ he ordered, ‘send men to confiscate and ready a launch large enough for this load.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘Is it gold?’

  ‘Least, organize a perimeter of men around the wagon. Don't let anyone on to it.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Is it maybe the Imperial jewels looted from the twelve continents?’

  Sergeant Tinsmith snatched the front of Nait's jerkin, lifted him on to his toes. Face to face, he growled, ‘I'm going to actually tell you, Nait. But only because I know that if I don't you're going to stick your ugly face into one of them and kill us all. So, what's inside?’ He lowered his voice and his eyes held a fey look that Nait had never seen in his sergeant before. ‘There's enough Moranth munitions in that wagon to turn the city's entire waterfront into dust and smoke. All of it sealed with the mark of the Imperial Arsenal.’

  ‘No shit?’ Nait managed, pulling at Tinsmith's fist.

  ‘But what really worries me, Nait, is the fact that someone's pillaging the Arsenal. And sooner or later, that someone's going to make a mistake – and when that happens I plan to be as far away as possible.’

  * * *

  Shimmer glared out the window of the Black Nacht tavern to the fires that seemed to have spontaneously sprung to life all over the city. Crossbow bolts slammed intermittently into half-closed shutters and bounced from the stone wall with sharp metallic tings. Turning, she crooked a finger to Smoky. The mage opened his arms helplessly. ‘Don't look at me. Honest. I'm just playing support here. It's the citizens. They're looting and rioting to cover their looting. Honest.’

  She crossed her arms. ‘I hope so because we do not want to test Tayschrenn's forbearance.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Fine.’ She faced the two blades that remained with her. ‘We've made a mistake, let them pin us down. Their numbers are just growing out there. We have to keep moving.’ Her glance fell to the sturdy tavern tables, their hand-adzed timbers fully four fingers thick; she studied the doors – of similar construction. She looked to Voss, a blade saboteur. He nodded and a broad smile gathered at his mouth.

  Mantlets was one name Shimmer knew for them. Rattels, else-where, pavises as well. In practice they could take many shapes, depending upon the purposes one had in mind and the material available. Large movable shields usually built during sieges to defend attacking crossbowmen, bowmen or sappers. Voss supervised the construction of as many as they could pull together. Held side by side in a tight circle Shimmer would move her command inside a turtle – just like the one the remnants of the 3rd Company reported using to escape their imprisonment.

  Yells and the crash of wood in the distance marked another element advancing – Shimmer watched down a side street while hundreds of armed citizens, this Untan volunteer militia, ran to cover the shifting action. Gods, everyone in the city had a crossbow and armfuls of bolts. It was as if they'd kicked a hornet's nest and now couldn't extricate their foot from it. Voss came to her side. ‘How many?’ she asked.

  ‘Enough – better than none.’

  ‘Are we ready?’

  ‘Could use more time. Do the job right, you know. But they're gathering out there, aren't they.’

  ‘Yes. We have no time. Pull the door and let's go.’

  Voss saluted, the single fist to the chest. ‘Aye, sir.’

  The sturdy front door was yanked from its hinges. Bolts stormed through the opening like driven rain. Everyone had already taken cover. Two mantlets were brought up side by side then edged out one after the other to cover the opening in a ‘V shape. Shimmer waved up the next pair. Crossbow bolts slammed into the shields in a steady driven rhythm like hail. A tossed lit lantern smashed against the wall spraying burning oil. The Guardsmen flinched, but continued on. At her side Smoky pointed, mouthed, ‘See!’ />
  Eventually a full turtle of hefted tall shields now protected her command. Snipers in the taller buildings would still have line of sight down within, but it was the best they could throw together. The tavern's front door served as the final rear mantlet closing all egress. Shimmer peeked ahead through a gap in the timbers. Tossed torches, lamps and lanterns now punished them. The ferocity of the attack amazed her; it was as if the citizens were determined to burn down their own city to get them. Voss had everyone who could carrying water and had doused everyone as they exited, but the flames still inflicted casualties. It was an ugly way to go – Shimmer would prefer anything quicker.

  ‘Left,’ she called, directing them to a narrower alley. Before them a ragged mob of armed citizen militia struggled to simultaneously fire their crossbows and retreat. It proved too much for them and they melted away in a general panic of falling bodies and dropped weapons. As they passed over the spot the Guardsmen helped themselves to the weapons. Yet the punishment from the rear was intense; the occasional bolt found an opening and men fell.