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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Queen preserve her! One of the old city mages who defended Heng so long ago. And, a friend of Silk? So, he, too … But of course he as much as confessed such to her. Yet it was one thing to hear of it abstractly. Another to see it in action. ‘Set me down here.’ Ahl shot her a questioning look. ‘We have to hold this section for the retreat.’ He grunted his understanding. She waved an Urban Levy to her as Ahl gently sat her against the parapet. ‘Any regulars here?’ A frightened nod. ‘Good. Go get one.’ She asked Ahl, ‘Can you do anything for me?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not my … speciality.’

  ‘Well, bind it, would you?’

  The mage began undoing the lacings and buckles of her armour. A Malazan regular, a woman, arrived to kneel next her. Hurl waved her close. ‘Forces should be retreating to us,’ she said, her voice falling. ‘We must hold this section.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’ She squinted aside, smiling, ‘I think I see them.’ Another regular arrived.

  ‘Who're you?’ Hurl slurred.

  ‘Fallow,’ he said, and brushed aside Ahl's hands. ‘Squad healer.’

  Hurl laughed, almost vomiting in pain from the convulsion. Fallow held something, a vial, under her nose. She jerked up a hand to slap it away. ‘Don't dope me!’

  ‘Then stop bloody moving!’ Fallow pulled up Hurl's undershirt, began wrapping her middle. He jerked his head to Ahl, asked low, ‘Who's the civilian?’

  ‘Mage,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe Soletaken.’

  ‘Hood's dead breath …’

  ‘What's going on? Have to know.’

  The man's hands were warm on her stomach and side. Hurl felt the pain retreating. He was looking away. ‘They're close now. A slow retreat in ranks. Banath is organizing crossbowmen …’

  A terrible thought struck Hurl. ‘Close?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Past the stair-tower?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good Burn, no!’ She struggled to rise. Fallow's hands pressed her down.

  ‘Don't you dare ruin my work! What is it?’

  ‘Shaky! In the stair-tower. We have to—’

  ‘It's lost. The Talians have it.’

  All the strength fled from Hurl. ‘Oh shit, Shaky …’

  They lifted her, set her on a rough litter made from two shields over spears. Ahl retreated at her side. She caught his eye. ‘Where's Silk? Where's Storo, Jalor, Rell? We've lost the wall!’

  ‘You think … you're alone? The Inner Round Gate … as well. It was … priority. Rell broke them there … fighting now … to take the Outer. Troop rafts on the Idryn. The River Gate … must hold.’

  Great Fanderay, it was worse than she imagined. She let her head fall back on the litter. So, now they knew what it was like to face the Old Malazans. Terrifying. They charge over you like a flashflood. What a gambit. And it may yet succeed.

  They reached the short tower that secured the most westerly reach of the wall together with the north arch of the bridge supporting the River Gate. Hurl planned to hold the Talians here. She ordered barricades assembled. Banath's slow methodical retreat fell back to them. He gathered what levies he could as he went. The salute he offered Hurl was as crisp as his earlier ones despite a round shield hacked to kindling, a bloody slash across his mouth exposing both upper and lower teeth, and two missing fingers. Hurl decided that maybe it hadn't been an act after all. ‘Well done, Sergeant.’

  Banath nodded, saluted, and turned to the soldiers, pointing and shoving men. Hurl realized that with a wound like that the man could no longer make himself understood. She gestured Fallow to see to him. Arrows sang into the tower over the barricade. A tossed incendiary burst flaming oil over the piled table, barrels and chairs. Everyone flinched, then quickly straightened to return fire through the flames. More Malazan regulars, crossbows rattling on their backs, climbed the ladder to the trap in the tower roof to pour fire down on the walkway. After a time it became quiet out on the curve of the curtain wall beyond the knot of mixed Talian troopers and Heng levies besieging the barricade. But now sharp yells reached them: shouts full of sudden panic and open fear.

  ‘What is it? What's going on out there?’ Hurl demanded, hoarse.

  The female Malazan soldier came to her side. ‘Don't know. It's dark. All the torches have been thrown aside. There's no light.’

  ‘I smell oil,’ a soldier called from the barricade. ‘Lots.’

  ‘What is that?’ another said.

  ‘What's going on?’ Hurl snarled. ‘Look!’

  The female regular stood tall, peering. ‘Something's pouring down the walls from the walkway. Water?’

  Hood's Laughter! Shaky! ‘Get down!’ Hurl shouted. ‘Everyone! Take cover!’

  Ahl turned to her, his good eye narrowed. ‘Why?’

  Brilliance suddenly silhouetted the man. A yellow-white chiaroscuro of blinding light and shadow seared Hurl's vision. A roar such as that of a landslide slammed into the barricade, pushing it backwards. Soldiers rolled away slapping at themselves, clothes aflame. Screams quavered an undertone of hopeless pain beneath the furnace roar. A howling thing of flame crashed through the fallen barrels and furniture and thrashed about until soldiers stabbed it repeatedly. Ahl, a hand raised to shield his eye, turned to look down to Hurl once more. ‘You saboteurs … you fight dirty,’ and he frowned his distaste.

  Likewise I'm sure, friend.

  In the morning orders arrived to withdraw to the southern Inner Round Gate. Talk was they were abandoning the entire Outer Round. Too many rods of wall and not enough men. Hurl grated at the news; all those men dead, Shaky's sacrifice, and for what? All to hand the wall over to the Talians?

  A dishevelled, hollow-eyed Storo met her as she was being carried to the gate. He took hold of her shoulder. ‘I heard you took one in the side.’

  ‘A gift from Amaron.’

  He winced, looking away. ‘Yeah. Well, I guess we've all got one coming. Listen, don't take it bad. It was chance. You just happened to have that section last night. That's all. Could've been anyone. Don't take it personal.’

  She laughed hoarsely. ‘I'll try not to.’ She eyed the man, gauging his strength. He was exhausted and had taken a slash across the arm – he'd been in the fighting – but he didn't have the look of a man sliding down into despair. ‘We lost Shaky.’

  ‘Yeah. I heard.’

  ‘We were betrayed. The Urban Levy …’

  He raised a hand. ‘I know. We'll get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘And don't you take it personal. There was nothing you could do about it. Betrayal's always the way sieges end.’

  The man smiled his rueful agreement and his eyes brightened for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck then pulled down his mail hood to scratch his head. ‘Yeah. I understand. Who could beat Choss and Toc, eh? But listen.’ He waved her bearers on, walked alongside the litter. ‘They did us a favour. We were stretched too thin out there on the Outer anyway. And they tipped their hand too early with that move. To gain what, the Outer Round?’ He waved the success aside. ‘They should've held out for the Inner. Now we know.’

  ‘We should've suspected …’

  ‘We did.’

  Hurl raised her head to eye Storo directly. ‘What do you mean? Do you mean that city mage, Ahl? What's his story? Do you trust him?’

  Storo would not meet her eye. ‘You'll have to ask Silk.’

  ‘I will … What happened, anyway?’

  A shrug. ‘Cohorts isolated your section at the Outer Round while a second group secured the North Gate. Shaky took care of the gang who took the wall but the other groups opened the gate. They overran the north ring of the Outer Round but we stopped them at the Inner Gate. Rell earned his pay there; he held the gate. Everyone's full of what he did there.’

  ‘On that subject, my sergeant, Banath, he deserves a commendation.’

  A nod. ‘Good. I'm glad.’ He offered a big smile. ‘These noncoms, they're only as good as their officers,’ and he squeezed her shoulder.

>   It's OK, Storo. I ain't broke yet.

  * * *

  Seti warriors whooped and sang their war-chants through the next day, riding circles around Toc's command tent where he reclined together with Choss and the Assembly leaders. Occasionally a warrior would ride past the opened flaps and Toc would glimpse a piece of booty held high, a sword, silver plate, silk cloth, a severed human head. His gaze shifted to Choss who lay back, an arm over one knee, his mouth sour behind his dirty-blond beard, eyes downcast. Sorry, Choss. Things did not go as hoped. We were stopped on two counts by acts eerily reminiscent of Old Empire tactics. Toc shifted his numb elbow, straightening it and wincing. It was as if they faced themselves – and he supposed in fact they were. Malazan-trained military engineers, masters of siegecraft. Poor Captain Leen, blasted from the face of the earth by what was probably the largest mangonel ever constructed on the continent. Then that same engineer dumps his ammunition to immolate the curtain wall. It cost almost an entire battle group. But they took the Outer Round. Yes, the Outer. When we'd planned to have the Inner. Plan was … Toc let his gaze slide up to the bright canvas roof of the tent. Well, plan was to be nearing Unta by now.

  ‘Why so grim, Malazans?’ Imotan called across the tent.

  Toc forced a smile. ‘We'd hoped for more.’

  ‘Yes, yes. That is plain. But you should rejoice for what you have accomplished! Never before have the walls of Heng been breached! We have entered! Soon the rest will fall like a tree wounded and tottering.’

  Toc raised a tumbler of tea to that, which Imotan answered. The walls weren't breached, you fool. Can't you see this was but the first blooding in what would surely prove to be a fight to the death for the both of them? And they'd shot their best bolt first. All to bind you lot to the siege. Now this Fist, Storo, will be wary It won't work a second time. But then you can rejoice, can't you, Imotan, and your lackey, Hipal? Heng wounded all without your warriors hardly spilling a drop? It's our war, Malazan versus Malazan while you watch us bloody each other – no wonder you're grinning!

  Raising the tumbler a second time, Toc held Imotan's gaze. That's the deal, shaman. We'll remove this thorn from your side, which you have failed to reach for so long. In return, you will accompany us east with every living soul able to mount a horse to burn, harass, worry and harry, harry, harry any force she might field against us.

  Imotan answered with his tumbler. His smile behind his grey beard was savage, and his glittering black eyes held the knowing promise of bloodshed – for Malazans.

  * * *

  Riding with her commander, the Marquis Jhardin, and her Sentry of a hundred horse, Ghelel had her first good look at Heng since the attack. They travelled the trader road north-east to the old stone bridge over the Idryn. To the west, the orange morning light coloured the distant walls ochre. Smoke rose from fires still burning throughout the city. She couldn't see the north wall where a horrific firestorm had incinerated so many of her men but she'd heard stories of that amoral, almost petulant, act. How destructively childish! They'd lost the battle and so they should have shown the proper grace and simply bowed out. What were they going to do, burn down the entire city out of plain spite? It was – she searched for the right word – uncivilized,

  ‘So, a rendezvous?’ she said to the Marquis, who rode beside her.

  He gave an assent, drawing on his pipe. ‘Yes, Prevost. Reinforcements.’

  ‘From the east, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Landings at Cawn. Recruits from Falar and abroad. Commanded by no less than Urko Crust himself.’

  ‘Urko? I thought he was dead.’

  The Marquis showed stained teeth in a broad smile. ‘He's been reported drowned more times than a cat.’

  Ghelel thought about all the names now assembled against Laseen in this ‘Talian League’. So many old lieutenants and companions. How must it feel to be so betrayed? So alone? But then, she'd brought it all upon herself, hadn't she? Yet that was the question – hadn't she? Ghelel also thought of herself as alone. How much more might the two of them have in common? Anything at all? Perhaps only this condition of isolation. It seemed to her that while she was the leader-in-waiting of the Talian League, in truth she controlled nothing. And, she wondered, how much alike might the two of them truly be in this regard as well?

  A plume of dust ahead announced another party on the road. An outrider stormed up, pulled her mount to a halt, saluted the Marquis and Ghelel. ‘A religious procession,’ she reported to Ghelel.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Common here,’ the Marquis said. ‘This road passes over the bridge to meet the east-west trader road. A major monastery sits at the crossroads—’

  ‘The Great Sanctuary of Burn!’ Ghelel said in wonder.

  ‘Yes.’ If the Marquis was offended by the interruption he did not show it. ‘You've heard of it, then.’

  ‘Of course. But wasn't it ruined long ago?’

  ‘Yes. Struck by an earthquake.’ A wry smile. ‘Make of that what you will. Yet the devout still gather. They squat among its fallen walls. Persistent in their faith they are. This road was lain over the old pilgrim trail. The first bridge was built ages ago to accommodate the traffic’

  As the Marquis spoke they came abreast of the procession: old men and women on foot, some carrying long banners proclaiming their status under the protection of Burn. All bowed as the Sentry rode past, even the ones already on their hands and knees genuflecting in the dust every foot of their pilgrimage, all to the great increase of their merit. As she passed, Ghelel had an impression of brown and grey unkempt dusty hair, tattered rags, emaciated limbs showing bruising and sores. From their darker complexion they looked to have originated from the Kan Confederacy, though it may just have been the grime.

  They descended the southern flank of a broad shallow valley, the old flood plain of the Idryn. Upriver, intermittent copses of trees thickened to a solid line screening the river. Ahead in the distance the old stone bridge lay like the grey blade of a sword, long and low over the water. A great number of dark birds circled over the river and harried the shores. A gust of warm air greeted Ghelel, a current drawn up the valley. It carried the aroma of wood smoke from Heng, plus the stink of things not normally burned. As they neared the muddy shores a much worse, nauseating reek assaulted Ghelel and she flinched, covering her nose. ‘Gods, what is that?’

  The Marquis turned to her, pipe firmly clenched between teeth, his broad face unreadable. He exchanged a glance with Sergeant Shepherd riding behind, and took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Heng uses the Idryn as a sewer, of course. So there's always that downriver from any city. But now, with the siege, it's much worse …’ Riding closer, Ghelel saw that the garbage and broken wreckage of war littered the shore. Among the shattered wood and flotsam lay tangled bodies: a stiff arm upraised like a macabre greeting; a pale bloated torso, obscene. And roving from corpse to corpse went contented dogs, stomachs distended. They flushed clouds of angry crows and kites with their bounding. ‘Because, you see, in the city, there's no room to bury the dead – it's just easiest to …’

  ‘It's criminal!’ Ghelel exploded. ‘What of the proper observances?’ ‘Who knows? Perhaps some basic gestures were made …’ Ghelel was in no mood to share the Marquis's forbearance. For her this was the final outrage from these Loyalist forces, the convincing proof that whoever these men or women were, they truly deserved to be wiped from the face of the earth. They had no common decency such as any reasonable man or woman. They seemed no better than animals.

  The horses’ hooves clattered on the worn granite stones of the bridge. The Marquis raised his chin to indicate the far shore. ‘See there – the caves?’

  Past the north shore, the ascent from the valley was much steeper; the road switched back and forth up cliffs of some soft layered sedimentary rock. Dark mouths of caves crowded the cliffs, forming a sort of abject settlement.

  ‘Hermits and ascetics squat in them. Purifying themselves for better communion with Burn, I suppose, or So
liel, or Oponn, or whoever.’

  Figures that seemed no more than sticks wrapped in rags squatted in some of the dark openings. Beards and ragged clothes wafted with the wind. Children played in the dust with frisky grinning dogs. Beside the road an old man wearing only a loincloth despite the chill air leaned on a dead branch torn from a tree. As they passed he shouted, ‘Why struggle against our universal fate, brothers and sisters? Every step you take brings you closer to the oblivion that awaits us all. Repent this life that is a delusion for the blind!’

  Ghelel twisted in her saddle. ‘That is blasphemy!’

  ‘Ignore him—’ the Marquis began.

  ‘May the Gods forgive you,’ she shouted.