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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Agreed.’

  Captain Tonley pushed aside the canvas flap. Wincing, he shielded his eyes from the bright lantern light. ‘What is it – ah, sirs?’

  ‘Yes!’ Ghelel added. ‘What is it, damn it to Hood!’

  ‘The sigil of the Crimson Guard,’ Ullen said.

  Ghelel stared, her brows rising. The Crimson Guard? That hoary old-woman's bogeyman? Mere mercenaries? Was this what so unnerved Ullen? Only her tact stopped her from laughing out loud.

  Captain Tonley scratched his auburn beard. His face betrayed an utter lack of recognition. ‘The Crimson Guard, you say? That so, sir? Amazing.’ He took a great deep breath, noticed the carafes of wine and scooped one up. ‘Orders, sir?’

  Ullen either didn't notice or was inured to the man's manners – or lack thereof. ‘Send your best rider to Urko at Command.’ He scratched a message on a scrap of vellum, handed it to Tonley. ‘The invading army confirmed as Crimson Guard.’

  ‘Anyone could use that symbol,’ Ghelel objected.

  ‘No one would dare,’ the Marquis answered. ‘Come, Prevost. We leave immediately.’ He bowed to Ullen. Ghelel did not move. She watched Ullen who bowed his farewell to her while, she thought, keeping his face carefully empty of emotion. The Marquis took her arm. ‘Prevost.’

  Outside, the Marquis said low, ‘Change quickly, we ride within the hour,’ and he was off to his tent. Feeling somehow drunk, stunned by these quick developments, Ghelel walked slowly away. Inside her tent, she found Molk lying across the entrance, an arm over his face. ‘Get up. We're going.’

  He moved his arm to blink up at her. ‘Going? So soon?’

  ‘Yes. And hurry – you have to pack.’ She began changing to dress in her armour.

  He sat up quickly. ‘What's the news? Is it her?’

  Pulling off her shirt, Ghelel paused. Her? Oh, yes, her, ‘No. Not her.’

  ‘Who then?’

  A laugh from Ghelel. ‘Yes, who indeed.’ She shook out a silk undershirt, pulled it on. ‘Apparently our glorious commander believes these raiders are the Crimson Guard returned. Can you believe that?’ She straightened the front lacings, looked up. ‘Molk?’

  She turned full circle, peering around the tent. The fool had disappeared. Well, damn the man. Now who was going to pack?

  It was not until the column started off south for the Pilgrim road that Ghelel had an opportunity to speak in relative privacy with the Marquis. Side by side just behind the column's van riding with lit torches, she leaned to him. ‘So you believe him then? That this is the Guard, returned?’

  Helmet under an arm and reins in one hand, the Marquis turned to examine her. His eyes were dark pits in the night and his black curly hair blew unbounded about his face. ‘I believe Ullen,’ he called back.

  ‘Why should Ullen be so certain? And why so fearful? They are only mercenaries. Famous, yes. But just a band of hireswords.’

  The Marquis's mouth straightened in a cold humourless smile. ‘Have you not heard the stories then?’

  Ghelel thought of the bedtime tales her nanny had told of the Guard and how they opposed the emperor. Romantic heroics of great champions and fanciful unbelievable deeds. ‘I've heard them. Troubadours’ tales and romances. But that was all long ago. Why should Ullen fear them now?’

  It was now the Marquis's turn to look confused. ‘Do you not know who he is, was?’

  Ghelel stared, taken aback, then cut off a snarled reply. She pulled her mount closer to the Marquis. ‘How in the Queen's own Mysteries am I to know anything if no one tells me anything!’

  The Marquis raised a hand in surrender. ‘Apologies. I thought you knew. The man served on Dassem's staff! Was Choss's adjutant for a time. That's why I believe him.’

  Astonished, Ghelel relaxed and fell behind the Marquis. Ranks of her cavalry thundered past while her mount slowed. Served with Dassem! Served all his life yet had never left the continent – the man had fought during the wars of consolidation! Damn the fellow! She was half tempted to turn her horse around and confront him. Why didn't he just out and say so? Yet why should he have to? Why shouldn't she have faith in him regardless? Urko chose him for a reason, didn't he? Didn't she accept his competence unquestioned?

  She slowed her mount to a canter, gazed back to the encampment, a distant glow in the clear starry night. Her and her mount's breath steamed in the frigid air and Ghelel thought of a bony Seti girl riding east dressed far more poorly than she. Ahead, four of her cavalry had held back from the column, awaiting her. Idly, she wondered where Molk had got himself off to and whether she'd ever see the man again. The stars blazed down with a hard cold light from horizon to horizon and suddenly new ones appeared in the east. Ghelel squinted, surprised. No, not stars, yellow flickering lights, torches. A handful appearing and disappearing in the dark above the horizon where …

  Gods turn from her! Ghelel raked her spurs, leaning high and forward. Ride! ‘Haugh!’ She dashed between her startled guard, racing for the column. When she reached the van, the Marquis took one glance at her face and raised an arm in the halt.

  His mount rearing, he called, ‘What is it?’

  Also struggling to control her own mount, she pointed, ‘Look! Lights! It must be them. They're taking the ruins of the monastery.’

  The Marquis studied the east. His mouth twisted his disgust. ‘Trake take us, we'll never lever them out of there! It's a rat warren.’ Then he stared at Ghelel as if seeing her for the first time, his eyes widened, and he yanked on his helmet, securing the strap one-handed. ‘Outriders! Form up! We ride for the bridge!’

  A guard of the cavalry formed around Ghelel and the Marquis. Scouts stormed ahead. The Marquis signalled the advance. The column gathered speed to a gallop into absolute darkness.

  *

  They met no one, though fires burned fitfully beside the road where bands of travellers lay sleeping. Down toward the Idryn dogs rushed out of the dark, snarling at the mounts. Fires burned before the black openings of caves. Ghelel's face was numb with cold, her hands frozen claws around her reins.

  Before they reached the bridge their scouts emerged from the dark, barring their way. ‘Armed men at the bridge.’

  ‘Hood bugger them!’ the Marquis exploded. Then he inclined his head to Ghelel. ‘Pardon me, Prevost.’ To the scouts, ‘Can you identify them?’

  ‘No, sir. No colours.’

  ‘It's them,’ Ghelel said, feeling oddly like laughing. Strange how she was the one to deny even the Guard's existence yet now she felt completely certain of their presence ahead. She thought of those stories from her youth; of the romantic yet tragic figure of Duke, then Prince, K'azz. ‘We should go to meet them. Parley.’

  ‘Parley?’ the Marquis answered, annoyed. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Passage south, of course.’

  ‘Passage? Why in Fanderay's name should they grant us passage?’

  ‘Why ever should they not, Marquis?’

  He studied her for a time, his head cocked to one side. Then he raised a hand in consent. ‘Very well, Prevost. Let us go down and speak with these mercenaries. I admit to no small curiosity myself.’

  They took a guard of four men. With torches held high they advanced slowly on the bridge. Four figures, that they could see, awaited them, blocking the way across. Torches on poles stood to either side where the flagged way met the broad granite blocks of the bridge. The figures themselves stood far back from the light.

  ‘Far enough!’ a man called in Talian as the Marquis and Ghelel entered the flickering light.

  ‘Who are you? And how dare you block this way?’ the Marquis called. ‘This is a pilgrim road, open to all.’

  ‘It's still open to pilgrims,’ the man responded. ‘Well armed for devotions, you are.’

  ‘Come forward,’ Ghelel invited. ‘Let's discuss passage.’

  A tall man and a very short and broad woman came forward into the light. Both wore helmets wrapped in dark cloth that wove around under their chins and surcoats
of a thick dark cloth over blackened mail shirts that hung to their knees. Gauntlets covered their hands. The man bore a shield at his back, a longsword at his side, while the hilts of two curved blades jutted forward from the woman's wide sash.

  ‘Identify yourselves,’ the Marquis demanded again. ‘Are you part of a legitimate army or mere brigands?’

  ‘Questionable distinction,’ the woman said, a dark brow arching.

  ‘It's just a matter of scale, really,’ the man said to her.

  ‘Or success,’ Ghelel added.

  Both looked up, surprised. ‘Hello,’ the man said. ‘I am Cole, this is Lean.’

  ‘Prevost Alil, the Marquis Jhardin of the Marchland Sentries.’ While they had been talking, Ghelel's sight had been adjusting to the light and she could now see that the cloth wrapped around the helmets and the jupons as well was of a very dark, almost black, crimson.

  ‘Prevost, Marquis, greetings,’ the man said. ‘That you have chosen not to charge down here with your cavalry to overrun us means that you already know who we are. I congratulate you on your intelligence services. We've tried to keep as low a profile as possible.’

  ‘Obliterating half of Unta?’ the Marquis snapped. ‘Burning Cawn to the ground?’

  The man smiled, baring sharp teeth. ‘As I said – a low profile.’

  Ghelel leaned forward, crossing her arms on the tall pommel of her saddle. ‘Cole, we formally request passage south for our detachment.’

  Waving an invitation, Cole bowed. ‘Granted, Prevost. All, ah, combatants wishing to withdraw south are invited to do so. But none may come north. Spread the word if you would, please.’

  The Marquis glared his disgust. ‘Expecting a flow of desertions, are you?’

  ‘In the near future, to be brief … yes.’

  With a curt nod the Marquis sent a man back with word to advance. ‘I suppose we should thank you for our passage.’

  Cole and Lean stood aside. ‘Just doing our job.’

  * * *

  Hurl found Storo on the parapet of the Inner Round wall, chin on hands, staring north. Talian soldiers in the cover of a tower in the lower Outer Round wall were taking pot-shots at him and the nearby soldiers manning the wall. ‘Collect those bolts,’ Storo called to the men as Hurl came to his side and ducked behind a merlon.

  ‘What are you doing up here?’ Hurl demanded.

  ‘Being useful.’

  ‘You'll be pincushioned!’

  Occupational hazard of straw targets.’

  ‘You're in a mood.’

  Storo lay his chin on his hands once more. ‘How're you feeling now?’

  Hurl couldn't help rubbing her side. ‘Better. Thanks.’

  ‘Thank Liss. Where is she now anyway?’

  ‘Watching the east. Won't turn from it for an instant.’

  Storo frowned, tilting his head. A crossbow bolt ricocheted from the merlon next to him, spraying stone dust. ‘We know she's coming. Just a matter of time.’

  ‘No, not that. She says something else is out there, a blank spot where there shouldn't be.’

  ‘A blank spot, hunh? We have bigger worries.’ He swept his arm to encompass the broad arc of the army camp that spilled out beyond the Outer Round. ‘It's now official – they have enough men.’

  ‘Why don't they attack?’

  ‘They will. In the next few days. Escalade all around the north curtain wall, I imagine.’

  ‘Sir?’ A soldier further along the wall pointed. Hurl glanced through a crenel, saw double ranks of crossbowmen standing atop a nearby tower, all aiming in their direction. She yanked Storo down as a fusillade of bolts staccatoed into the parapet around Storo. Mocking shouts sounded from across the way requesting more target practice. Storo set his forearms on his knees, brushed the dust from his stubbled pate. ‘So, how's our leveller coming along?’

  Hurl could only shake her head. Was the man mad, or determined not to survive the siege? She decided then that however it went she'd have everyone keep a close eye on him. ‘That's the news. Silk says they're ready.’

  He faced her, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken, but still hard. ‘Ready? Well, it's about bloody time. They can go ahead with it.’

  ‘Says you should be there, you want it done.’

  The eyes rolled to the sky. ‘Tell him I'm busy.’

  ‘Getting yourself killed, I know.’ She tilted her head to the nearest soldier, lowered her voice, ‘Not exactly what you'd call confidence inspiring.’

  The Fist stood once again in full view of the besiegers. ‘The men like a commander with endearing eccentricities.’

  Hurl grabbed his arm to pull him along while crossbow bolts ricocheted from the parapets with sharp metallic tings.

  Silk met them at the central city temple. Rell was with him, as were Sunny and Jalor. Hurl realized that they hadn't all been together like this since the beginning of the siege. She felt a pang of loss for Shaky – unreliable son of a bitch that he'd been.

  The city mage looked worse than he had after the attack. His worn silk finery hung from him in lank sweaty folds. His greasy hair gripped his skull like a cap, and his hand, when he gestured for them to follow, shook with a palsy. ‘Follow me,’ he croaked.

  Storo fell into step with Silk, Hurl with Rell. She'd spent little time with the Genabackan lately. The man was ever on the move around the city leading a company of some twenty elite. Wherever he went morale soared – the Hengans thought him some kind of champion. As far as Hurl was concerned, they didn't know the half of it. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Well.’ His voice was different now, distorted by his burnt lips. He wore a helmet complete with a faceguard of gilded bronze and a long camail that hung to his shoulders. She still wondered if all that was for protection or to cover up the scarring. A cuirass of iron banding, mail sleeves and greaves completed his serious accoutrement. She doubted the man had ever worn that much iron in all his life. But the same twinned, single-edged, slightly curved swords hung at his sides.

  She nodded to Sunny who now commanded a party of emergency response sappers pulled together out of city masons, glassblowers and builders. They'd already blocked a number of attempts upon the Inner Round north gates and had countersunk two tunnels dug by Talian sappers. Jalor, for his part, had somehow fallen even further into a sort of worship of Rell and had elected himself chief bodyguard, accompanying him everywhere.

  And what of her? Somehow she had fallen into a role as well. For some reason everyone seemed to consider her second in command after Storo.

  Silk led them through the city temple, which Hurl noted had been cleared of all the new shrines to the various Quon Talian gods and spirits that the conquering Malazans had forced upon the Hengans: Burn, Osserc, Hood, Oponn, Soliel, Fener, Togg, Fanderay, even the brand new gold incense bowl dedicated to Trake. Hurl came to Silk's side. ‘House cleaning?’

  A tired glance aside and weak smile. ‘Re-consecrated, Hurl.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘Not who, what. The city itself.’

  ‘The city worships itself? Sounds incestuous.’

  ‘Just old-fashioned.’

  ‘That's what my uncle said.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  Hurl cocked her head to study the ceiling as they walked along. ‘Come to think of it, nothing happened to him. He lived a long life in a rule of terror over a huge family of idiots. Choked to death on a bird bone.’

  Silk gave a long thoughtful nod to that. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Yup. There you go.’

  He opened the door of the Inner Sanctum that they'd first entered through during the night of the insurrection. ‘This way.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Sunny growled, stopping. ‘This leads to the shit.’

  ‘Indeed it does – more than you would know.’

  ‘Well, I'm not going back down there to get all covered in crap again.’

  ‘Came off, did it?’ Hurl said.

  Sunny bared his jagged tee
th. Sighing his impatience, Storo waved a forward.

  True to Sunny's forebodings they ended up ducking back out by the gigantic stone jackal head. It slowly ground shut behind them, closing with a boom that shook the floor and leaving them in darkness but for the shielded candle Silk carried. It was gloomy, but it looked to Hurl as if someone had cleaned most of the excrement from the chamber leaving only a dry flaking layer of scum on the limestone floor and a quarter of the way up the walls. ‘Now what?’ Sunny asked in what Hurl thought forced bravado.