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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘You have come far enough, I should think.’

  Kyle turned. He faced a woman, an extraordinarily beautiful woman with deep black eyes and long straight black hair wearing a flowing dress that shimmered white and silver. He attempted to throw himself face-down in the dirt before this Goddess but found that he could not. He closed his eyes, face averted. Who was this? Sister Dawn? Queen of the Night? Great Mother Goddess?

  The woman laughed and the sound brought shivers to his spine. ‘Come with me, Kyle. It is time that you returned. You are in powerful company, lad, and it is drawing you along with its wanderings. Your dreams are not your own. And I have to say, they are quite perilous.’ She led him off.

  After a time he dared ask, ‘Who were they?’

  She waved a hand dismissively. ‘Memories. Nothing more than old clinging memories.’

  Kyle glanced back to the heap, the ‘house’. He was startled to see yet another figure now standing beside it – this one tall and slim as well, but by his silhouette quite ragged and carrying a longsword at his back. Kyle raised a hand to point but the woman, Goddess, whoever she was at his side, urged him on. ‘Some things,’ she said, ‘are best left unnoticed. Now,’ and she faced him, ‘it is time for you to move along.’

  He opened his mouth to speak but found that he could not. He was frozen, immobile. His vision darkened. He heard water, nearing.

  ‘Lad? Kyle?’

  Kyle opened his eyes. Stalker crouched over him, his hazel eyes narrowed. Seeing Kyle awake the scout grunted and moved aside. ‘You were fast asleep. Something's come up.’

  ‘What?’

  In answer the scout gave a disgusted wave to the sea beyond. Kyle pushed himself up. The sky and sea held a formless grey pre-dawn light. Mist enclosed them on all sides. The sail hung limp. They were becalmed. He glanced back to Ereko who sat motionless, a hand still on the tiller, squinting off into the fog. Kyle shifted to the stern, whispered, ‘What is it?’

  A shrug from the giant who did not take his eyes from the mist. ‘Something. A presence. But,’ and he gave a lopsided smile, ‘I am not afraid.’

  ‘We've moved.’ This from Traveller at the bow.

  ‘Yes. Question is … are we closer, or farther …’ Ereko raised a hand, took a long deep sniff of the air. ‘Land,’ he announced, smiling.

  Stalker went to the gunwale, sniffed the air. He looked to the giant. ‘Desert?’

  Ereko agreed.

  ‘I hate deserts,’ said Coots.

  ‘Lizard gives him god-awful indigestion,’ Badlands explained.

  ‘Man the oars,’ said Traveller.

  The brothers readied the oars. Kyle sat at one, flexing his arm – Ereko had healed it their third night out. ‘I think everything gives you indigestion, Coots.’

  Sitting, the brother strained furiously on the oar and let out an enormous fart. He looked surprised. ‘By the Dark Lady, you're right. Even rowing gives me indigestion.’

  Stalker cuffed him on the shoulder. ‘Pay attention. I hear breakers.’ The mist dissipated and the wind rose revealing a long flat coast of dunes guarded by a reef. Ereko stood tall and scanned the shore. He nodded to himself, satisfied. ‘North around the coast a space yet,’ and he sat heaving the tiller around to face them away from the waves breaking over the reef. ‘Ready sail.’

  * * *

  Captain Moss's search for the Seti Wildman of the Hills brought him and his troop of thirty horse north to the rugged High Steppes that formed one heartland of Seti territory. On their way they encountered bands of Seti young bloods, soldiers of the Jackal, Plains Lion, Ferret, Wolf and Dog warrior societies, male and female. Some demanded payments in weapons or coin before allowing the troop of Malazan horse to proceed; others challenged Moss to single combat, but when he told them he was on his way to find the Wildman they laughed and said they would leave Moss for him.

  The troop entered the Lands of the Jackal, so named for Ryllandaras, the legendary man-beast, brother to Treach who was now ascended as Trake, god of war. The bands they passed no longer continued on southward, but trailed them instead, coalescing into an informal escort of considerable numbers. Moss also noted that many no longer carried fetishes or colours proclaiming their allegiance to one or another clan Assembly.

  On the third day smoke ahead announced a large encampment. Moss's slow pace brought him to the very lip of a grassed escarpment that fell steeply to a wide valley dotted by hide tents and corrals. Moss waved away the fat biting horseflies that circled his head, eased forward in his saddle. ‘Near a thousand, I should think,’ he said to his sergeant who nodded. The sergeant, a great wad of rustleaf bunching one cheek, raised his chin to the east where an erosional cut offered a way down. ‘Have to do,’ Moss sighed, and waved his men on.

  They crossed a thin stream, an undersized remnant of what once must have been a massive flow. On the opposite shore a crowd was gathered. A raised hand from one Seti elder stopped Moss, who inclined his head in greeting then cocked a knee around the pommel of his saddle, watching. By way of his height advantage, he could see that the crowd surrounded an oval of open ground. At one edge stood a tall muscular Seti youth, his bare chest and legs smeared in paints proclaiming his many victories. His knife-brothers and sisters laughed with him, wiping more paint across his face. One pressed a functional-looking fighting blade into his hand. Moss cast across the oval for the youth's opponent but saw no likely figure. Eventually, straightening from a crouch, an unlikely candidate did appear. An old man, wild-haired with a gnarled grey beard. The Wildman? If so, he was from that much older Seti generation, back when it was unusual to meet any who stood taller than the backs of their mounts.

  Moss leant aside to a Seti warrior, asked in Talian, ‘What's going on?’

  The woman answered, reluctantly, ‘A challenge.’

  ‘Who would challenge such an old man?’

  She looked up, smiled sharp white teeth. ‘The old man challenged him’

  ‘Why?’ But the woman didn't answer because the old man had drawn a knife from the back of his deerskin trousers and strode ahead. Waving the blade, he beckoned the tall youth forward. Moss could see him more clearly now; other than his trousers he wore only a thick leather vest revealing a barrel chest matted by silver-grey hair and equally hairy bent arms that seemed to hang unnaturally long. His lips were pulled back from canine-like yellowed teeth in an eager, almost scornful grin. The young blood laughed as he came forward but Moss knew he was in for more than he expected – the old man was fully as wide as he was tall.

  Moss had always thought these ritual challenges raucous, chaotic mob scenes but an eerie silence now took the crowd, as of a collective holding of breath. The two combatants crouched, arms reaching out to one another. Moss straightened in his saddle, more than a little anxious since the target of his mission might just be eviscerated before his eyes.

  Blades slashed, hands grasped, a grunt, crunch of a solid blow, then the youth spun away, hand at his face where bright blood smeared his chin. Many in the crowd let out breaths in a knowing exhalation. The old man straightened, made a throwing gesture as if to say, ‘we're finished,’ and turned to go.

  But the youth angrily slapped aside the hands of his friends and advanced to the centre of the oval. Warnings brought the old man about. Turning, he called something; the youth's answer was a growl and a ready stance. With a shrug, the old man complied, advancing. This time he held his arms out wide, his hands empty. The surrounding crowd tensed, shocked, edged back a step to offer up more room. The two circled warily, the youth shouting – perhaps demanding that his opponent arm himself. The old man just smiled his feral toothy fighting grin. After two circuits the youth gave up, yelled something to the crowd – probably asking they witness that he'd given the old fool every chance to defend himself – and pressed the attack.

  This time the exchange lasted longer. The youth slashed, hunting an opening while the old man gave ground, dodging. Moss could only shake his head; it was so damned
obvious to him. A swing from the youth and the old man seemed to casually step inside and twist, throwing his opponent yet keeping a grip on the arm. That arm forced backwards farther and farther. A shriek from the youth. A sickening bend and wet snap of that elbow. And the old man straightened leaving the youth hugging his arm, rocking it like a crippled infant.

  The Seti woman at Moss's side murmured something and Moss gave her a questioning look. ‘He should consider himself lucky,’ she explained. ‘The Boar showed great patience with him.’

  The Boar?’

  ‘Some call him the Boar. Many elders swear he reminds him of the Boar of their youth.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Moss noted that from across the oval the Boar was now watching him steadily.

  ‘He was our last great champion from a generation ago. No one could defeat him.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  The female Seti warrior gave Moss a strange penetrating look. ‘Your Dassem Ultor came to us.’

  The Wildman, or Boar, was now coming straight to Moss's horse. The crowd parted before him, some reverently reaching out to touch him as he passed. ‘You, Captain,’ he called in the Talian dialect. Moss moved to dismount. ‘Stay up there!’ Shrugging, Moss complied.

  He stopped beside Moss's mount. Small brown eyes well hidden within ledges of bone studied Moss, roved about his figure. He sniffed, wrinkling his flattened nose. ‘I'm smelling a stink I haven't smelled in a long time, Captain. And I don't like it. You can stay the night. But don't you step outside your camp.’

  Moss bowed his head. ‘Warlord Toc sends his regards and extends his invitation.’

  ‘He can keep both.’

  ‘You may bring an escort, perhaps fifty of your most loyal—’

  ‘I'm not interested in reminiscing. I'm looking to the future. One without any of you foreigners.’

  ‘Wouldn't a future without Heng help in that regard?’

  ‘Heng?’ the old man snorted. ‘Heng?’ He smiled his unnerving, hungry, bestial smile. ‘You've been on the trail for some time now, haven't you, Captain? Well, word's come. Heng's a sideshow now. She's left Unta. Coming by sea.’

  Moss stared. So, she's coming. Now his choice would matter even more. He bowed as best he could while mounted. ‘My thanks. This is welcome news. I hadn't heard.’

  The old man, Wildman, Boar, now scowled ferociously. ‘Yeah. It's welcome all right. I have a few things to pick over with her, I'll tell you, if I could be bothered.’

  He waved Moss off. ‘Now go. We're finished.’ He marched off without waiting for a reply.

  After a minute Moss dismounted. Seti warriors pointed him to an empty field; he waved his command over. While his men led their mounts to the bivouac, Moss watched where the Wildman now crouched shoulder to shoulder within a circle of elders, sharing a pipe and a platter of food. Who was he? Such men do not simply appear out of nowhere; he must have a history. A Malazan veteran, that much was obvious; he knew Moss's rank. Fought abroad and learned much of the world. A Seti officer returned from overseas. How many of them could there be? Toc and the atamans would have the resources to find out. Once he returned the mystery would be solved. Then he would also know whether this man might prove a factor in his mission – or not. He pulled his mount's reins to urge it on after his men.

  CHAPTER IV

  Battle is for an army to win or lose; war is for civilization to win or lose.

  Wisdom of Irymkhaza

  (The Seven Holy Books)

  NEVALL OD’ ORR, CHIEF FACTOR OF CAWN, WAS BREAKING fast with tea and a green melon on his terrace overlooking the Street of Virtuous Discretion when his worthless nephew shouted up from below, ‘Another fleet, Uncle! A fleet!’ Nevall gagged, scalding the inside of his mouth – and spat the offending liquid over the terrace. ‘What? Already?’ He stood at the railing and sure enough a cloud of sails was closing on the harbour mouth. His perfidious nephew had taken off down the street to the waterfront carried in his new sky-blue palanquin. Gods, even the village idiot travelled in style these days.

  So. Already she had arrived. Must have killed all her oar-slaves or squeezed the life from a mage of Ruse. All as his sources had told: and why not, he paid them a fortune. Yet another expeditionary force to be milked. Hood's infertile member: after they've squeezed all the gold from this one even the dogs will go about on silk cushions. He tossed down his half-melon to the mud and shit-smeared cobbles below for the beggars to fight over and called for his robes of office to be readied. His last thought on the terrace was that he would have to get a much bigger palanquin.

  The wharf was heaving with onlookers but his bodyguards beat a passage. ‘Make way for your elected representative!’ Groten bellowed as he kicked the citizens of Cawn aside.

  ‘What is it? What do you see?’ Nevall called through the hangings.

  Groten stuck his glistening bullet-head through the cloths. He wiped a hand across his slick brow. ‘Small for an Imperial fleet, sir.’

  ‘That's Chief Factor. And what do you expect? It must be the lead element.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’ He batted aside the filmy hangings.

  ‘Groten! You're getting the cloth all sweaty!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Ducking his head he glanced out. ‘Pretty damned shabby too, sir.’

  ‘Well, she was probably forced to commandeer the scows and bay-boats left behind in Unta harbour. I heard that attack from mercenary raiders had cost her dear.’

  ‘So you say, sir.’

  Nevall waved him away. ‘Just take me to whoever docks.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the labourers tied the ropes to bollards and the gangway was readied, Nevall had his carriers set him down. He waved a hand to demand help in straightening from his palanquin. A representative stepped down the gangway – a commander or captain. Nevall rearranged his thick velvet robes of office and peered nearsightedly up at the fellow. To the Chief Factor's surprise, the man wore a long set of mail that dragged along the gangway, a tall full helm and scaled, articulated iron gauntlets. And the equipage was not new either. It was blackened and scoured, as if having been thrown into a smith's furnace.

  ‘Cawn welcomes – welcomes …’ Nevall searched the masts, the lines, for flagging or any heraldry at all, ‘… your forces. Consider yourself among friends.’

  The fellow stopped before him. The tall helm turned as he took in the waterfront. ‘We require drayage and mounts. Wagons, carts. All the food you can supply for an army in the field.’

  ‘Of course! Our pleasure. But a secessionist force has preceded you. They left us nothing. What little we have is vitally needed to feed us and our children.’ Nevall gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘In our defence, I must warn you, it will take much for us to part with the least of it.’

  Metal ground and scratched as the helm edged down to regard him directly. ‘It will take what?’

  Flames lit the column of the Crimson Guard as it climbed the road west out of town. Afoot, Shimmer paused to look back to burning Cawn as the buildings collapsed into charred ruins. Wagons piled high with hoarded and hidden foodstuffs rumbled past her drawn by straining, sweaty racing thoroughbreds, their eyes rolling white at their unaccustomed treatment. A column of impressed Cawn levies also marched by, pikes and spears awry, the youths’ own eyes also wide from their unaccustomed treatment. She rubbed her side where Shell had cut deep to cure the infection from that crossbow bolt – one of the worst woundings she'd ever yet received.

  She had spoken against any impressments at the field meeting. But she had to admit that their numbers were needed to flesh out the base of the Guard forces. An officer cadre of nearly one hundred Avowed commanded a force of nine thousand Guard veterans, swelled now by close to fifteen thousand recruits from Bael, Stratem and Cawn. A force small in numbers, she knew, in comparison to Imperial armies, but the Avowed were worth much more than mere numbers, and twelve were mages.

  She watched the flames licking the south horizon and the coiling haze
of smoke and wondered just how many towns and settlements they had left behind in similar straits. So many! Did all now count their name a curse? As surely did the Cawnese. Yet hadn't they come as liberators? She drew off a soot-stained gauntlet to pinch her eyes for a time as if attempting to blot out the sight. A cough brought her attention around; the Malazan renegade, Greymane, at her side. Helmet under an arm, his thinned ice-blue eyes seemed to regard her with real concern. ‘Yes?’

  He raised his grey-stubbled chin to the west. ‘The column's well past, Lieutenant.’