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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Silk motioned to a row of lanterns. ‘Light those.’ Hurl and Jalor complied; Silk turned his attention to the jackal head. Standing directly before it he inscribed in the air a complicated twisting pattern with his arms then spoke in a language Hurl did not recognize. The grinding of stone announced the jackal's maw grating open once more.

  ‘Why didn't you just do that the first time?’ Sunny asked resentfully.

  ‘Because we're going somewhere different now.’

  Indeed, behind the open jaws, where the throat would open up was now a dark stone pit set with iron rungs. Of the tunnel they'd followed out, no sign remained. Silk led the way in and down. Hurl imagined that were Shaky still with them he'd be asking something like ‘How'd he do that?’

  They climbed down a long chute that, thankfully, bore the dry dusty air of never once having had shit poured down it. The chute ended at a claustrophobic rectangular chamber of roughly shaped limestone blocks. Intricate drawings of geometric designs covered the blocks of the roof, all four walls and the floor. A layperson to theurgy, even Hurl could recognize multilayered linked wards, or inscribed incantations, or investments of overlapping Warrens. A section of one wall had been deconstructed, and the huge blocks, far larger than Hurl imagined any man could move – except perhaps Ahl – had been tossed aside. Beyond ran a low descending passage that looked to have been carved from the very igneous rock underlying the city. Again, Silk led the way, followed by Rell. Coming along close to the rear, just ahead of Jalor, Hurl's lantern lit the wrenched and torn remains of a series of barriers set across the passage: first a slab of copper as thick as three of her fingers, blasted as if by some physical blow; then a slab of what she recognized as hardened silver, melted; lastly a slab of iron, shattered and bent outward. Surely not Ahl?

  The passage debouched into a large chamber that echoed their footfalls and groans as they straightened their backs and stretched. Three ghostly figures emerged from the gloom to meet them: Ahl and his brothers Thai and Lar. Grime and sweat smeared their clothes almost black. Lopsided grins leered at them wetly making Hurl damned uncomfortable.

  ‘Is this it?’ Storo asked, his voice booming in the immense quiet of the chamber.

  Silk nodded.

  ‘Kellanved didn't build all this, did he?’ Hurl asked, awed by the sheer scale of the construction.

  ‘No. It was built long ago. All in the hopes of eventual occupation. He merely fulfilled its purpose.’

  ‘Merely,’ Sunny echoed, sneering.

  ‘What next?’ Hurl asked.

  Silk waved to the darkness. ‘This way.’ An object ahead dimly separated itself from the surrounding shadow. It resolved into a circular ledge, then finally into the raised border of what appeared to be a common well. A chain of black iron descended from the darkness above, and on down into the well. It was constructed of enormous square links each as thick as Hurl's forearm. But of all these wonders what caught Hurl's eye were the two bright objects thrust through the opening of the link level with the top of the mortared stones of the well: two longswords, their blades spanning the diameter of the opening. It seemed to Hurl that to pull the swords would free the chain to continue its descent.

  ‘The last barrier,’ Silk said into the silence of them all gathered around studying the amazing arrangement. Or last link. Pull these and he is released.’

  ‘Where?’ Storo asked. ‘Released where? Into this room?’

  ‘Gods no!’ Silk laughed – more than a touch feverishly, Hurl thought. ‘Far below. He will be released to make his escape to the plains, north.’

  ‘Who can do it?’ Storo asked.

  Silk waved a hand. ‘Oh, anyone strong enough, I imagine. But I wonder if you, Rell, might…’

  The engraved visor turned to Storo who waved for him to do so if he wished. Rell stepped forward, studied the arrangement. Hurl looked to Silk – it seemed to her that there was more going on here than the mage was letting on. And Silk was now more animated than he'd been so far the entire evening; watching the Genabackan swordsman the mage's eyes glowed, his hands were fists at his sides. The three brothers, Hurl also noted, appeared uniformly sour, almost uncomfortable. She took a strange sort of reassurance from this.

  Rell took firm hold of the grips, set one booted foot against the side of the well, and yanked. The first time nothing happened. Sunny snorted. Rell adjusted his grip, hunched his back. He yanked again. The screeching of iron on stone pierced Hurl's ears; she flinched, covering them. Finger's breadth by finger's breadth, the blades scraped towards Rell. Ominous rattling ran up and down the length of the chain above. Finally, with an explosive shattering of the stone, the tips fell. Rell was yanked forward, disappearing, and only the quick hands of Storo and Jalor at his thighs saved him. He straightened with the swords still in his hands, blades intact. The enormous length of chain, each link as large as a child's head, jangled and knocked, descending. Hurl felt the movement of something distant shuddering the ground beneath her feet. Dust sifted down around them. She brushed it from her hair and shoulders.

  ‘It is done,’ Silk exhaled into the dark. ‘He will have to dig a long distance but that won't stop him.’

  No one spoke. The chamber was quiet but for the distant rumbling. Storo rubbed a hand down his stubbled jowls. ‘Let's go, then. We've been away for damn long enough.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sunny ground out, and he spat into the well.

  Walking away, Rell admired the blades still in his hands. ‘You should use them,’ Silk said. ‘I think you'll find them …’ his voice trailed off into silence.

  Hurl turned to the mage. ‘What is it?’

  Silk raised a pale hand for silence. Hurl listened, straining.

  Something … sounds from behind them, from the well. Words? The hair at her neck and forearms stirred as Hurl recognized the sounds for hoarse, growled Talian, distorted, but understandable, echoing up the pit of the well:

  ‘Those who free me,

  be my enemies.

  Those who enslave me,

  kneel to me.

  When the end of all things comes,

  as surely it does,

  on which scale stand you?

  In the final balance

  And the accounting?’

  A long low chuckle, more a panting than a laugh, followed. Hurl sought out Silk's gaze but the mage's eyes were resolutely downcast. The three brothers, however, grinned insanely at everyone.

  ‘Let's get out of here,’ Storo rumbled.

  CHAPTER V

  Only the dead should be certain of anything.

  A scholar's ancient warning

  Jacuruku

  ‘SHIPS, UNCLE! A CONVOY OF SHIPS!’ NEVALL OD’ ORR'S nephew called from outside the tent. Nevall Od’ Orr, once Chief Factor of Cawn, gagged on the mouthful of chewed charcoal he used for ink as he sat attempting to bring his books up to date. In a fit of coughing he clutched the edges of his high table.

  ‘Ships, uncle!’ his nephew shouted again.

  The factor took a drink from a cup, rinsed and spat on to the bare dirt floor. ‘What of it?’ He drew his blankets tighter about himself.

  ‘They fly the Imperial sceptre!’

  ‘Wonderful. Yet another fleet to sack us. Will they take our hoard of turnips, I wonder?’

  ‘You have turnips?’

  Nevall slammed shut his scorched book. Sighing, he rubbed his blackened hands across the back of his neck. ‘I suppose I should go down and grovel picturesquely. Perhaps she'll toss me a copper moon. I wonder if I am attired appropriately to receive an Empress?’

  Nevall listened, arms open. Silence. He hung his head, ‘Lout.’

  He stepped down gingerly on to the damp dirt ground, crossed to the front flaps and peeked out. Downhill, over the blackened ribs of burnt Cawn, a rag-tag flotilla of ships of all sizes and ages was filling the harbour. Now she comes. Still, better than if she had come before the mercenaries. They had at least a small chance to recoup their losses. He sniffed the air and wond
ered if any of the day's catch was left. He should send his other nephew for a fish.

  ‘Nevall Od’ Orr.’

  He stiffened then, slowly turned. A man occupied the rear of the tent, nondescript in a loose dark shirt and trousers. Nevall inclined his chin in greeting, shuffled back to his table. He tore a pinch from a dark loaf and popped it into his mouth. ‘Ranath. It's been a while. The Claw, now, is it? I've lost track of all the changes.’

  A shrug. ‘It's all the same shell game.’ Ranath straightened the front fold of his shirt. ‘Listen, Nevall. She's here. She means to wipe this League and the Guard from the face of the continent, but…’ and he opened his hands, ‘… she needs the funds to do it. Lots of funds.’

  A burst of cackled laughter. Nevall opened his arms wide to gesture all around. ‘She's welcome to all of it – even the blanket from my back.’

  Ranath's lazy gaze did not waver. ‘Come, come, Nevall. The spies you have placed everywhere report to us as well. The Guard took everything not nailed down. Horses, oxen, cattle, goats, wagons, carts, preserves, flour, rice, pots, timber, rope, nails. Everything. Everything, that is, except…’ he raised a hand and turned it over to reveal a gold coin. ‘Except cash.’ He tossed the coin from hand to hand, his eyes on Nevall. ‘They didn't find the vaults of the trading houses, did they?’ He snapped the coin from the air, opened the hand to show its empty palm. ‘You know, I wonder if they even knew to ask for them? Now there's an irony – charitable mercenaries.’

  The pointed tip of Nevall's tongue edged out to wet his lips. ‘Now, Ranath. Let's not be hasty here. We back the Empress, of course. The Empire was ever superb for business. But,’ he shrugged his bony shoulders beneath the thin blanket, ‘our hands are tied – it's all spoken for. You know that.’

  Ranath sighed. He raised his gaze to the tent ceiling while he searched for words. ‘Nevall … how shall I put this – oh yes.’ He smiled, raising his hands. ‘The gloves are off. And lo and behold, the claws are unsheathed.’

  ‘Whose?’

  The smile hardened. ‘Careful, my friend. The Throne's, let us say. You say you support the Empress. Excellent. Let us collect the entire contents of every trading house's vault to hold as pledge to said backing. You will notify the Ruling Convene of the province that all their writs have been called in immediately. We will expect the complete commitment of all troops from across Cawn province as the honouring of said debt. Understood?’

  Nevall sat heavily on his stool, lay a hand on his blackened ledger book, nodded.

  ‘As you merchants say, Nevall – a pleasure doing business with you.’

  The factor hung his head. Tent cloth shifted. He looked up and the Claw was gone. Yanking open his book, Nevall took a bite from a stick of charcoal next to it and chewed furiously. He jammed a feather nib into the corner of his mouth. ‘Damn Laseen and Mallick both.’

  * * *

  ‘The place is a dump!’ Nait exclaimed from the crowded rail of the fishing scow that had carried its contingent of seven hundred – limping and wallowing – all the way from Unta to Cawn harbour. Least, in thin torn buckskins only, his fists white on the rail, mumbled abjectly, ‘I just want off. Please Hood, kill me and take me from here.’

  Nait eyed the stricken giant halfbreed Barghast. He leaned close to whisper, ‘Want some fish?’

  ‘Baiting!’ Hands yelled from nearby.

  Rolling his eyes, Nait leaned over the side, made a great gagging show of spitting out the wad of chewed rustleaf bulging his cheek. Least paled, swallowing.

  Hands dragged Nait from the rail. ‘Staff meeting,’ she smiled gleefully. Nait slumped, groaning.

  At mid-deck they met with their old sergeant, now captain, Tinsmith. Many of Tinsmith's old command from the Untan Harbour Guard were gathered around, Hands, Honey Boy, together with many faces from other guard companies within Unta such as Lim Tal, one-time chief bodyguard, and rumoured lover, to Duke Amstar D'Avig. Also sitting with the captain was the old tanned and scarred veteran for whom many had already come to nurture a precious hatred for having drilled them mercilessly day after day since casting off from the capital. A man Tinsmith simply referred to as Master Sergeant Temp, but whom the men called ‘Old Clozup’ after his constant badgering of ‘Close ranks! Close up!’

  Tinsmith looked to each of them, cleared his throat. ‘We'll have to wait our turn to off-load. Cawn's as bare as Hood's bones, so we'll shoulder what rations we have left and march right on out. Orders are to make six leagues a day—’

  ‘Six leagues!’ Nait squawked. ‘After sitting on our backsides for so long?’

  ‘Put Captain after your whining,’ Hands snarled.

  ‘And another thing,’ Nait continued, ‘everyone's a sergeant around here. Hands, Least, Lim, Honey Boy—’

  ‘That's Honey, now.’

  ‘Yeah, fine, Sergeant Honey. Why ain't I a sergeant too?’

  ‘’Cause you lead our saboteurs, Corporal,’ growled Master Sergeant Temp. ‘And no saboteur rises to the dizzy heights of a sergeancy.’

  ‘I heard o’ one or two.’

  ‘Then show me what you got

  Nait looked away from the veteran's icy pale eyes, waggled his head mouthing, ‘show me what you got’

  ‘We are part of one battalion of the Fourth's heavies,’ Tinsmith continued, stroking his long silver moustache with a thumb and forefinger. ‘The iron core of this army. Now, we got us hardly any cavalry to speak of, some spotty noblemen, a few mounted scouts. What we do got is thousands of skirmishers, light infantry – enough cross-bowmen to depopulate a country. That's the hand we've been dealt. So, what to do? They need a centre, an anchor. That's us. The ferocity of their fire will wither any force stupid enough to show their heads like they did the Guard, and will do to any cavalry. But when we do hit strong resistance, they'll melt through us to the rear and reform. We don't melt. We hold. Understood? So, all the old veterans,’ Tinsmith inclined his head to the Master Sergeant, ‘they sent a contingent to High Fist Anand – and the Sword, Korbolo Dom, too of course—’

  Nait blew a farting noise.

  ‘To hash things out,’ Tinsmith continued blithely, ‘an’ what they came up with is four main battle groups, mutually supporting, each anchored by a battalion of heavies. The Sword has the lead one, o’ course. Braven Tooth will command us on the left. The right flanking battalion is under Fist D'Ebbin, and High Fist Anand co-ordinates from the rear. Now, the lot of you might think that the Master Sergeant here was just to train you up, but I'm sure you'll all be right pleased to know that he'll be the anchoring right corner shieldman on the front line.’

  Nait eyed the old veteran; sure, he looked tough, but him march six leagues in a day? The geezer'll drop and he'll be sure to step on him on the way past.

  ‘You sergeants,’ Tinsmith added, ‘you have your men follow his lead. Stand with him, follow his orders and I guarantee you our ranks will hold. That's all for now. Dismissed.’

  ‘One last thing, Captain,’ the old-timer threw in, his scarred cheek pulling up in a one-sided smile, ‘while we're out here on this beautiful day waiting for our turn to off-load …’ Nait caught Honey's gaze, rolled his eyes. ‘… I thought I might have the men and women practise some close order drills.’

  Tinsmith smoothed his moustache to hide his smile. ‘All yours, Master Sergeant.’

  From the rear ranks of the Imperial retinue of court functionaries, it appeared to Possum that the Empress was in a hurry. Marines formed in parade ranks guarded the wharf where a glittering crowd of nobles and functionaries, Possum included, awaited the Imperial presence. All the usual ceremonies and speeches of reception had been waived. Behind the ranks of marines the citizens of Cawn stood waiting, silent and – Possum had to admit – looking rather downtrodden and desultory. But then, the town had just been sacked. She appeared at the top of the gangway without fanfare or announcement – just one more passenger disembarking, yet Possum was surprised by the collective inhalation from the Cawnese that
her appearance evoked. How could they have known? She wore no finery, no crown or tiara; no sceptre weighted her arms; nor was she carried by palanquin or raised throne. No, she merely stepped up unannounced, wearing only her plain silk tunic and pantaloons. Her hair was short, mousey-brown and touched by grey; her face, well, plain, and rather sour in its tight thin mouth, lined at the eyes and brow.

  Yet everyone knew it was her. Perhaps it was the glance she cast over the waterfront and all assembled. Severe. Utterly assured. And frankly rather disappointed with what it saw. The nobles knelt followed by the citizens. The marines saluted.

  She did receive the local factors of the Cawn trading houses: they were allowed to crawl forward on their knees like a gaggle of beggars on the street. She acknowledged their abject loyalty with a brief inclination of her head, then was assisted by a groom in mounting her horse. Everyone else then mounted, and the whole cavalcade set off, the screen of cavalry, the honour-guard, the Empress and her bodyguard accompanied by High Fist Anand and staff, the court retinue following along, Possum among them. The other High Fist, Korbolo Dom, also Sword of the Empire, was where he insisted upon being, leading the van, where everyone seemed content to leave him. For his part Possum was dressed in rich silks, Untan duelling sword at his side. He played the part of a minor noble whose job was to sneer haughtily at anyone gauche enough to ask him what position it was he actually filled.