Toc and Choss glanced to the captain. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, touched the raw livid tear across his face. ‘Well, not seen exactly. Had it described to me by someone who had seen it in Genabackis. That style of fighting. That fellow, he's Seguleh.’
‘Seguleh?’ Choss repeated in wonder. ‘I've heard the name. What's he doing here?’
‘Storo's company was stationed in Genabackis,’ Moss said.
Toc studied his captain sidelong. ‘You know a lot about this Storo
Moss rubbed his gouged nose, wincing. ‘Ah, yes, sir. Gathering intelligence. Know your enemy, and such.’
‘In which case, captain,’ Toc said. ‘Would you like to go on a mission to the Crimson Guard? We have a proposal for them.’
The man smiled. The talon slash across his face cracked and fresh blood welled up. ‘Yes, sir. It would be a privilege.’
Though exhausted, his joints aflame with pain, Toc mounted a fresh horse that morning and set out alone to track down the Seti. He found their camp deserted, but here he also found unusual tracks. Something had visited the camp before him. Like wolf tracks, they were, except far larger, more the size of the largest bear track. And of an enormous breadth of gait. He knew this man-beast Ryllandaras could cover ground faster even than a horse. Though it was common lore that the creature hunted only at night, Toc suddenly felt very exposed out all alone on the plains. A part of him wondered if that was just a detail of atmosphere the jongleurs had tossed into the songs they recited of him. He could just hear Kellanved snarl: never mind what you imagine to be the case, what do you know? Not one to let reputations or legends stand in his way, was he. After all, he trapped the fiend, didn't he? And how did he manage that? A piece of information perhaps relegated to some archive somewhere is suddenly now not so trivial any longer. Knowing how wild Kellanved had been back then, he'd probably used himself as bait.
Towards noon, as he crossed a shallow valley, horsemen appeared in small bands all around him and moved in. He stopped to await them, crossed his arms on the high cantle of his saddle. They circled him from a distance until one broke through and closed. He was a burly fellow, wearing only deerskin trousers, a thick leather vest and wide leather vambraces. His curly hair was shot with grey, as was his matted chest hair. He looked Toc up and down in open evaluation. ‘You are Toc the Elder,’ he said in Talian.
‘And you are the Wildman of the Plains.’
A nod. ‘You ride to speak with Imotan. I think you shouldn't go.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘He has his white-haired God now. What need does he have for you?’
‘There's a lot of history between us. We've exchanged many vows.’
‘Between you and the Seti, yes. Not him.’
Toc flexed his back to ease its nagging pain. He studied the man before him: sword- and knife-scarred, speaks Talian fluently. An Imperial veteran, perhaps a noncommissioned officer. ‘What of you?’ he asked. ‘You might not accept Imotan's authority but we could use you and your warriors to throw off the Empire just the same.’
The man bared his sharp yellow teeth. ‘Do not insult me. Empire, League. It's all the same.’
‘Not at all … You and others would be nearly independent.’
‘Empty promises at best. Lies at worst. We've heard all that before.’
‘You should consider my offer carefully, veteran. We are set to defeat Laseen. She is so short of proper troops she's desperate. I've heard she's even dragooned all the old veterans on Malaz to bolster her numbers.’
The old Seti veteran grew still. His tight disapproving frown vanished. ‘What was that?’
Toc shrugged, puzzled. ‘I just said that she'd sent out the call to gather up everyone she can, even from Malaz.’
The Wildman tightened his reins. ‘I'm going now. I will tell you one more time, Toc – do not pursue this allegiance.’ He clucked his mount into motion and signed his warriors to follow. They thundered away.
Toc sat still for a time, watching them while they rode from sight. Something. Something had just happened there, but exactly what it could have been, he had no idea. Shaking his head, he urged his horse on.
He rode through most of the rest of the day before catching any sign beyond empty horse tracks. Dust rose to the north-east. He kicked his mount to pick up his pace a touch. He was just becoming worried about being caught out in the dark when he topped a gentle grassed rise to see below a horde of mounted warriors circling in a slow churning gyre, calling war chants in crowded rings around tents of the shamans. The clouds of yellow dust they raised plumed into the now darkening sky. He approached and waited but the young bloods ignored him. Most of the youths carried white hair fetishes on their lances, around their arms or in their hair. Eventually, perhaps at a command from within, grudging space was allowed for Toc's mount to push through.
In past the flank-to-flank pressing rings of hundreds of horsemen the atamans were sitting before the central tent, that of Imotan, the White Jackal shaman. Toc bowed and Imotan gestured him forward, patting the ground next to him. He sat and greeted the atamans while Imotan eyed him with a steady, weighing gaze. Toc met it, waiting. ‘I am sorry for your dead, Toc,’ the shaman finally said.
‘My thanks. It is him, then? The very one named Ryllandaras?’
Imotan used a short eating knife to cut meat from a haunch. ‘Yes, it is he. We've hoped and prayed for generations and now he is returned to us.’
‘Hoped? You hoped? If it is him, who do you think he'll turn to once we're gone?’
‘That is our concern, Malazan. We lived with him long before you ever came.’
‘We rid you of a predator.’
‘You interfered.’
‘We freed you!’
The old man stabbed the knife into the ground between them. ‘Freed us! Can you free a man from himself? A people from themselves?’ Taking a long hard breath to master himself he turned to the platter of food and gathered a handful of grapes. He laughed and shook his head at some thought that struck him. ‘Liss's curse! We are a lost people, wandering lost. Lost from ourselves. But now our way has returned to us.’
‘I see no true path.’
‘You are not Seti.’ The shaman was silent for a time. He appeared troubled while he pulled and studied the blade of his knife. Toc the Elder,’ he began carefully, ‘we honour you for what we have accomplished together in the past, but you should not have come.’
‘The old agreements still stand, Imotan.’
‘Do they?’ The shaman glanced aside to Hipal, the ferret shaman, who grinned, evilly, Toc thought, then he scanned a circuit of the men and women sitting in a circle before him. Many glanced away when his gaze reached them. Toc was struck by how much had changed in one night. Before, at the councils, Toc spoke with the atamans, the warrior society warchiefs and tribal Assembly chiefs, while Imotan and Hipal sat relegated to the rear. Now, though, Imotan occupied the seat of honour while the atamans sat at his feet, looking like no more than supplicants.
Having reviewed his council, Imotan sighed, thrust his knife into his sash. ‘What is it you ask, Toc?’
‘This coming battle will be the final arbiter of all. After it, you may consider all agreements fulfilled, all obligations met. It is the last and final request I shall make of you.’
The White Jackal shaman had nodded through Toc's statement. He held his thickly-veined hands up open. ‘So be it. We will be there. Now, for obvious reasons I suggest you spend the night here in our encampment. You will be safe with us. Tomorrow you may join your command.’
Toc bowed. ‘I thank you, Imotan of the White Jackal.’
* * *
Nait threw another handful of dried dung on to the fire and sat back in disgust. ‘I'm tellin’ you guys, if he says “clozup” one more time I'm gonna knife the old fart.’
Least let out his own loud fart while Honey pointed into the night. ‘You're welcome to it – he's over that ways.’
‘That's offensive,’ Hands com
mented to Least who looked abashed. Lim Tal, the Kanese ex-bodyguard, undid a clasp in her hair allowing its full black shimmering length to fall down past her shoulder to her shirt front. Nait, who looked about to say something, appeared to have forgotten what that was and stared along with everyone except Heuk, the company mage, who lay snoring wrapped around a brown earthenware jug. Hands watched as well, sighing. ‘I wish mine would do that.’
Brushing her hair, Lim smiled, flexed her bare bicep. ‘I wish I had your arms.’
‘Listen,’ Nait called across the fire, ‘you two wanna compare any more body parts I got me a nice big ol’ blanket over here …’
‘Should we bring him naked to the line tomorrow?’ Lim asked of Hands. ‘Push him out front?’
Hands snorted – either at the image or at the idea of Nait at the front of anything. ‘They might die laughing …’
‘Tomorrow?’ Nait asked, leaning forward. ‘You think maybe it's tomorrow? You heard that?’
Lim shrugged. ‘Tomorrow or the next.’
‘I hear there's a demon out there who will eat us all,’ Least said.
Beside him, Honey stared. ‘Where'd you hear that?’
Least pointed to the fetishes of wood and bone tied in his hair.
‘No – really?’
A sombre nod.
‘G' wan! No! I heard it from a guy in line.’
Least's eyes widened. ‘They speak to other people?’
A youth in an oversized studded leather hauberk came out of the night and squatted at the fire, warming his hands. He carried large canvas bags at each side hung from leather straps crossed over his neck. A crossbow hung ungainly on his back and a wooden-handled dirk was thrust through his belt. ‘You got any food?’ he asked them.
‘Who in the Abyss are you?’ Nait demanded. The youth looked confused. ‘Listen, kid. This fire's for sergeants only, right? Bugger off.’
The boy straightened, sneering, pointed to Nait. ‘You're no sergeant.’
All except Nait laughed. Honey handed over a cut of hardbread. ‘You tell him, kid.’ The youth snatched the bread and ran into the night.
‘Too full of themselves, they are,’ Nait grumbled, and he took a stick from the fire to examine the blackened, shrivelled thing at its end. He pinched it in his fingers, frowning.
‘I'd say it's done,’ Least offered.
‘I'd say we're all done,’ Nait said without looking up. At the long silence following that he raised his eyes. ‘C'mon – you all got ears, eyes. I heard what they were sayin’ in Cawn.’ He pointed to the darkness. ‘They got ten thousand Moranth Gold! They got twenty thousand Falaran infantry – plus the Talians! Plus the Seti!’ He threw down the stick. ‘An’ what have we got? A horde of civilians is all, maybe ten thousand real soldiers?’
‘That horde beat the Guard,’ Hands said, her voice low and controlled. ‘I heard seven Avowed died. Those Gold come marching against us and they'll find themselves so full of quarrels they won't be able to fall over.’
‘The Seti will sweep those amateurs from the field.’
‘They're so hungry out there they'll be happy to see all those Seti horses.’
‘They'll—’
‘Enough!’ Honey bawled. ‘Hooded One take you both! Quit bickering like you're already married. We already got us two High Fists.’
Snorting, Hands dismissed Nait with a wave; Nait chuckled at Honey's comment. ‘Two,’ he mocked. He picked up the stick and dusted off the burnt wrinkled thing at its end.
‘Where'd you get that anyway?’ Least asked.
‘Found it dead.’
‘You ever been outside a town?’
Nait took a test nibble at the thing, looked to Least, puzzled. ‘No, why?’
Heuk suddenly jerked upright, making everyone flinch. His rheumy bloodshot eyes rolled, scanning the dark. ‘Something's happening,’ he croaked.
Nait threw a handful of dung at the man. ‘Not again! All the time, old man. Things happen all the time.’
‘He's here. I can taste his lust and hunger. All our blood couldn't slake it.’
Everyone stared. Leaning over, Nait cuffed the man. ‘Will you cut it out! You're giving everyone the willies.’
Heuk raised the earthenware jug, gulped down a mouthful of its dark contents. He spilled much over his beard and dirty robes. Honey waved a hand in front of his nose. ‘Faugh, old man. What's in there?’
‘Blood and bravery.’
Shouts suddenly sounded from the dark. Everyone stilled. The shouts took on a panicked note, followed shortly after by the beginnings of a scream suddenly cut short. Hands jumped to her feet. ‘What in the Abyss was that?’ She scanned the surrounding fields, dotted in campfires. ‘North, I think.’ She picked up her sword and belt. ‘C'mon!’
Everyone, even Heuk, climbed to their feet. ‘Anyone have a torch or a lamp or anything?’ Lim asked. Shrugs all around. ‘Great. Just great.’ She picked up her longsword and helmet and jogged after Hands who had not waited.
Least picked up a piece of burning bhederin dung. ‘I got this …’ he called after Lim.
It was chaos out on the dark shadowed slopes of tall, wind-lashed grasses. Men and women shouted, ran together, split up. Crossbow bolts flew, snapping overhead, making Nait duck. Another scream shattered the night in the distance. Nait ran into Honey, who was shaking a crossbowman by the shirt. ‘No shooting, Hood take it!’ He threw the man aide. ‘Almost skewered me …’
‘What is it? An attack?’
‘Don't know. Hope not, ‘cause we're beat already.’
Torches brightened the night to the north. A bellowing voice sounded across the hillside, ‘Assemble! Asssemmbblle! Form up! Close! Close up!’
Nait's shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, Gods Below. I don't believe it.’
Honey slapped his back. ‘C'mon – he's got the right idea.’ He jogged off. After peering about at the dark, Nait followed.
The formation was a broad swelling rectangle swallowing all it met; swordsmen held torches at its edges, crossbowmen behind. The master sergeant was there, and commander Braven Tooth, whom Nait had heard called a walking enraged hairball, a description with which he was inclined to agree. Also keeping order were Hands, Lim and the other sergeants.
After marching for a time, being chivvied into ranks with cuffs and kicks, orders sounded from the front to halt and to hold ranks. Nait pushed his way to the front. Here the stink of spilled bowels, vomit and blood almost choked off his breath – all that plus another reek like that of some kind of sick animal. It reminded him of the village butcher's, only this time instead of goat and pig guts and portions, it was human torsos, limbs and smears of viscera. Master Sergeant Temp and Braven Tooth were huddled over one corpse, torches held high. Both either slept in mail coats or had had the time or wherewithal to pull them on.
‘Looks like Soletaken, don't it?’ Braven Tooth said, his guttural voice kept low.
‘He could be. Not all are known.’ The master sergeant raised his head, calling, ‘Any cadre mages?’
Shortly later Heuk either pushed his way or was pushed to the front. The old man took one look at the splayed corpses and strewn entrails and fell to his knees and hands vomiting up great gouts of dark fluids.
‘I feel so much safer now,’ Honey commented to no one in particular.
‘That thing's a demon!’ Nait blurted out.
Both the master sergeant and Braven Tooth winced, glaring. ‘Will you stop your gob, soldier,’ Braven Tooth grated.
‘He's no demon,’ Master Sergeant Temp announced loudly to the crowd.
‘How in the Abyss would you know?’ Nait demanded.
The master sergeant crossed to Nait, peered up at him – he was a very squat, but very wide, man. ‘’Cause demons don't smell like that.’ He walked off to study the trail of slaughter. Braven Tooth clenched a hand on Nait's shoulder, grinned behind his bushy black beard. ‘You can trust the master sergeant on that one, soldier. Knows his demons, Temp does.’ Squeezing the
shoulder painfully, he pulled Nait close to growl, ‘You keep your yap shut or I'll give you your real name, soldier.’
‘What d'you mean, my real name?’
His mouth tight in distaste, the commander looked him up and down. ‘Like Jumpy, soldier. You are definitely Jumpy.’ He pushed Nait aside, raised his head to the column. ‘All right! That's far enough! I want all the veterans, guards and Malazan regulars front and centre, now!’
Nait followed Hands to the master sergeant, who had returned from the trail. She asked, ‘What's going on?’
‘We're splitting up. Most of you guards and regulars are gonna escort the skirmishers back to camp—’
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 63