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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  A messenger pointed to the north where a broad cloud, more like an approaching dust storm, was darkening the sky. Soon, a van of horsemen could be seen galloping down a far broad slope. Tall pennants of white fur flew prominently, along with white fur capes. Imoten, not the atamans. Has the man usurped them completely?

  He waited while the column closed. A standard-bearer led, a tall crosspiece raised above him hung with white pelts and set with what looked like freshly skinned animal skulls. The sight of that grisly standard made Toc profoundly uneasy. Imotan followed directly, together with his bodyguard, which had swelled to some seventy men and women, all sworn to their White Jackal god. Imotan drew his mount up next to Toc's and smiled, inclining his head in what seemed an almost ironic greeting. ‘Well met, Toc the Elder.’

  ‘Imotan. Where are the atamans? We should discuss the coming engagement.’

  ‘You will discuss the matter with me. I have direct authority over all warriors.’

  I see. What has been the political infighting there in your encampment these last few days, shaman? Clearly, I have been away for too long. ‘Very well. Let us find a vantage point.’

  Imotan nodded to the standard-bearer who dipped the pennant forward. Blood, Toc noted to his distaste, dripped liberally from the skulls and pelts of the macabre standard, having soaked the shoulders and hair of the bearer. The massed bodyguard burst into howls of enthusiasm. Moments later, in the distance the calls were echoed and a great thunder of hooves kicked to life, shaking the ground. All along the north horizon of hilltops and crests of mounds horsemen advanced. Toc stared, his heart lurching; it was a massing such as he could not have imagined. Where had Imotan gathered such numbers? Seemed the coming of their old foe and totemic animal Ryllandaras might have given Imotan limitless reach. The bodyguard surged ahead and Toc and his troop kicked their mounts to join their numbers.

  Forward Seti scouts – the small bands Toc had seen riding the grounds – directed Imotan's column to a rise that offered a prospect of the assembling forces. Toc rested his new horse, a slim grey youngling, next to the shaman's large bay. A heavily overcast sky frowned down on a wide, very shallow basin. To the south-east, the top of the tall promontory that supported the Great Sanctuary of Burn could just be made out as a smear of yellow and umber. After jockeying and scouting through the night, elements of both forces had settled on this front in a mutual, unspoken accord. Small flags could even be made out marking the marshalling points for various units. Forward elements from both armies were already forming up.

  Opposite, the skirmishers of whom Toc had been hearing so much were pouring into the basin from the south like a flood. So many, Where did Laseen get them all? She must have emptied the gutters of Unta and every town in between. And they seemed eager enough, too. Within their formless tide could be made out the ruled straight columns of marching infantry. Malazan heavies. The very forces he'd counted on in the past to anchor his own light cavalry and skirmishers now arrayed against him. It was an intimidating sight. And what was this? A banner at the fore, the sceptre underscored by a sword! The Sword of the Empire! So it was true. That Fist – what was his name? – from the Seven Cities campaigns had claimed the title. Wait until Urko sees that! He'll wrap the man's own sword around his neck.

  Seti bands, Imotan's outriders, had stormed down into the basin and were already beginning to exchange arrow and crossbow fire with the skirmishers. Choss's own light infantry and skirmishers, pitifully few in number, were scrambling to catch up. Three separate columns of Moranth Gold then entered from the west, escorted by troops of Talian cavalry. They made for the centre where the standard of the Sword of the Empire had been planted.

  ‘That horde of skirmishers must be contained and swept aside,’ Toc told Imotan, who nodded, stroking his grey-shot beard. ‘Our intelligence tells us Laseen hasn't the cavalry to oppose you.’

  ‘So you say. Yet if that is true then why is she here?’

  Toc's brows rose at the question. ‘Well, I suppose I would have to say that she has no choice. She has to oppose us – to do otherwise would be to admit defeat. And that is hardly in her nature.’

  ‘Is she counting on some hidden asset to deliver her? What of the Kanese?’

  Toc shook his head. ‘I don't believe they'll cross. A lot to lose and too little to gain.’

  ‘They could gain much by arriving in time to deliver her …’

  ‘Imotan,’ Toc said, gesturing to the battle grounds, ‘once it looks as if she will lose they will throw in with us. If she wins, her rule will be absolute. No one will rise to oppose her for a generation.’

  The White Jackal shaman flinched at that, glowering. ‘There is more to this continent than just Tali and Unta.’ He turned to his guards. ‘Send word to the warbands.’ The guard bowed and rode off. ‘What of this mercenary army? Why are they not with us? Didn't Urko offer enough?’

  Toc almost laughed, mastering himself in time. ‘The Crimson Guard wants the Empire crushed. That's their goal. I suppose they're thinking – why bloody themselves when we'll mangle each other for them, hey?’

  ‘Then why not get rid of them?’

  ‘It's Choss's estimate that despite the Avowed they are not a viable threat. He believes they don't have sufficient forces.’

  ‘Estimates?’ Imotan echoed. ‘You would gamble when so much is at stake?’

  Toc edged up his shoulders in a small shrug. ‘Every engagement is a gamble. You make your best choices and hope you made no major mistakes.’

  The shaman grunted a reluctant acceptance of the point. ‘And Laseen? Where is she?’

  Toc scanned the east. ‘Hasn't arrived yet. She's probably in the rear.’

  A coarse laugh from Imotan. ‘So why don't I send my warriors to the rear and rid us of her?’

  ‘Because she's probably guarded by all the Claw and mage cadre on the continent, that's why.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ the shaman sneered. ‘Your vaunted mages. Where are they now? Where is the Tayschrenn, the Hairloc or the Nightchill now? Why are we even here assembling soldiers when in the old days your mages would turn this valley into an inferno?’

  Toc eased his seat in his saddle, eyed the man edgeways. What odd directions the man's thoughts were flying in. Pre-battle jitters, perhaps. ‘We formed rank back then too, Imotan. Even with Tayschrenn. Because mages can't hold territory. In the end, it always comes down to leather on the ground – the plain spearman or army regular. They win the wars.’

  ‘Myself, I would say otherwise.’ Imotan hooked a leg around the pommel of his saddle. ‘I would say that you Malazans foolishly squandered your talent. Burned them up and drove them mad as your reach exceeded your grasp.’ He regarded Toc squarely. ‘And now you have none left worth the name.’

  Toc answered the man's steady gaze from under knitted brows. He wasn't certain how to respond to that claim – or provocation. Could it even be denied? What was the man getting at?

  Imotan gestured to the field. ‘Ah. Something is happening.’

  Toc glanced down. What was happening was complete murderous chaos. Laseen's skirmishers were not waiting for their own heavies to complete their formations. They charged forward in waves, kneeling and firing, then retiring while the next rank took their place. A steady hail of bolts punished the Gold, who displayed astonishing discipline in retaining ranks. The Talian and Falaran flanking phalanxes were forming clean enough. Toc turned to a staffer. ‘Send word to Urko to sign the advance!’ To Imotan, ‘I'm surprised Laseen unleashed her skirmishers so early; but then she may not have had any say in the matter. They seem to think they can win this battle all on their own. Your warbands should retake the open ground – if you would, Imotan.’

  The shaman nodded his assent, signed to a guard who rode off.

  Below, signal flags waved frantically between the League elements. As one the Gold drew their heavy curved blades and advanced. Urko seemed to have sent the command already – or V'thell had simply lost patience. The flanking phal
anxes moved forward as well, covering them. The skirmishers palpably shrank back. Far across the basin tall Imperial banners signalled Surly – Laseen, Toc corrected himself – entering amid a column of Untan cavalry, many bearing noble banners, and flanked by marching Malazan heavy infantry.

  A Talian message rider stormed up to Toc, reined savagely. ‘General Urko inquires as to the disposition of the Seti,’ the man panted, his face flushed.

  I don't doubt that he does – though not in those words. ‘Sweeping back the irregulars momentarily.’

  The rider saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’ He reined around and gouged the iron spikes of his stirrups into his mount's flanks, galloping off in a flurry of thrown dirt.

  Imotan caught Toc's gaze, directed it to the ridge line. ‘The Seti are here – just as promised, Toc the Elder.’

  Riders climbed the ridges and crests to the north, a curving, undulating skirmish-line of thousands of light cavalry lancers. Below, on the broad open plain a great moan went up among the Untan irregulars. The flights of crossbow bolts – so thick at times it was hard to see through their waves – faltered, thinning to nothing. The exposed men and women swarmed, bunching up like ants around three squares of infantry in their midst, seeking sanctuary within. Toc could well imagine the brutal exigency of those infantry pushing back their own allies – to allow entrance to any would mean compromising the integrity of their own formation. Still, so many! If they should recover, take a stand of any kind …

  ‘And now, Toc,’ Imotan said, a hand raised, his voice climbing. ‘Because we Seti remain a free people – free to choose! We choose to go!’ And he signalled to the standard-bearer, who circled the tall crosspiece hung with its freshly skinned white pelts and animal skulls. Droplets of blood pattered down on Toc's bare head and he flinched, ducking. Go? Does he mean attack?

  All along the crests of the shallow hills, the mounted figures turned and rode off, descending out of sight. Toc gaped, turning left and right. What? What was this? Imotan's white-caped bodyguards pushed their mounts between him and the shaman as the man turned his horse around.

  What? ‘Wait! Wait, damn you! You can't do this!’ He reached for his sword. All of the nearest bodyguard, some twenty, went for their weapons and Toc's staff set their hands to their grips. Toc lifted his hand away carefully. ‘Imotan!’ he bellowed to the shaman cantering his mount. ‘This is wrong! You can still salvage your honour! Imotan! Listen to me!’ Listen …

  ‘We should get word to Urko,’ a staffer said, his voice faint.

  ‘I'm sure he can see clearly enough,’ Moss suggested.

  Still staring after the retreating back of the shaman, his shoulders as rigid as glass, Toc said, ‘Everyone go to Urko. He'll need all the cavalry he can get.’ None moved; all sat regarding their commander. He turned to scan their faces one by one and all glanced away from the complete desolation written there in the man's eyes. ‘Go! All of you! … And tell him … tell him, I'm sorry that in the end, I failed him.’ Toc kicked his mount to ride after the White Jackal shaman.

  After glancing amongst themselves for a time, uncertain, the assembled staffers and messengers turned their mounts down on to the plain. All but one, who lingered behind.

  For a few leagues the Seti ignored Toc, the lone rider attempting to push his way past the surrounding screen of the escort. The dull roar of battle had fallen away long ago. The guards swung their lances, urging him off, laughing, as if he were no more than an unwanted dog.

  Eventually, either in disgust or from a feeling of safety that the battle had been left far enough behind, the group slowed and halted. After they searched him and took his every weapon, including his famous black bow, Toc was allowed to pass through the crowding guards. Still mounted, he was led before Imotan, who waited, glowering his impatience.

  ‘Do you wish to die, Malazan?’ he snarled.

  ‘What you have done is wrong, Imotan,’ Toc said, calmly. ‘You have stained the Seti with the name of betrayers. But you—’

  ‘Wrong!’ the shaman shrieked. ‘You betrayed your promise, Malazan! You promised us Heng! You turned away from that promise and so now we turn away from you.’

  Toc knew it was useless but he held out his open hands. ‘Imotan, after this battle we can turn all our resources to Heng—’

  ‘Too late, Malazan? Spittle flew from the man's lips. His hands knotted themselves within the strips of his reins. ‘Another false promise! More of your empty words. All too late. Now we have our ancient patron returned to us! With him we will level Heng ourselves. Why should we die for you, eh?’ The rheumy, lined eyes slitted as the man eased into a satisfied smile. ‘And now such alliances as this are no longer necessary, Malazan. Have you any last words?’

  Toc forced himself to relax. Useless, how useless it all was. ‘Ryllandaras can't destroy Heng, Imotan. Never could, never will.’

  ‘We shall see,’ and he signed to his guards.

  Two lances pierced Toc's sides, physically raising him from his saddle, then withdrew. He gasped at the overwhelming pain of it. His world narrowed to a tunnel of light and roaring agony. He was only dimly aware of the troop heading off leaving him hunched in his saddle.

  After a time his mount moved a restless step and he unbalanced, sliding off to fall without even noting the impact. He lay staring at the sky through a handful of dry golden blades of grass until a dark shape obscured his view, sat him up.

  A sharp stinging blow upon his face. He blinked, squinted at someone crouched before him, wet his lips. ‘Ah, Captain Moss. Thank you … but I don't think there's much hope …’

  The captain was studying him. The scar across his face was a livid, healing red. Sighing, Moss sat, plucked a blade of grass and chewed it. Slow dawning realization brought a rueful grin to Toc's lips. ‘But … you're not going to try.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Toc laughed, convulsing, and coughed. Wetness warmed his lips. He touched it, examined his bloody fingers. ‘So. She sent you, did she? I thought the Claw was compromised.’

  ‘I'm freelance. I sometimes tie up loose ends for her.’ Moss looked away, scanned the horizons. After a moment, he said, ‘I've come to admire you – I really have. I want you to know that. I'm sorry.’ He shifted his sitting position, checked the grounds behind him. ‘She wants you to know that she's sorry too. So long as you kept away she was willing to look the other way. But this …’ he shook his head, took out the blade of grass, studied it and flicked it aside.

  ‘I suggest you try Urko next,’ Toc breathed wetly. ‘Get real close first …’

  ‘Tell me about these Marchland Sentries. What or who are they guarding?’

  His head sinking, Toc tried to edge it side to side – perhaps he succeeded – he wasn't sure. He dragged his fingers through the dirt, raised the handful of black earth mixed with blood to his face. ‘I'm glad to die here,’ he said, slurring. ‘Glad. The sunlight. The wind. Beautiful

  The man rose, dusting his leathers. After a moment hoofbeats shook the ground. Then, nothing. The wind knocked the heavy grasses. Insects whirred. The sun warmed the side of Toc's face. Then came movement again. He had no idea how much time had passed; each breath seemed an eternity of pained inhaling followed by wet exhaling. Someone else now stood before him – a Seti in moccasins and leathers. The man examined his wounds, raised his face, but Toc saw only a dark blur. The man said something to him, a question, but Toc only noted how the sunlight now held such a golden glow. The man left accompanied by many horses. The silence of the prairie that was in truth no silence returned. Toc felt himself join it.

  * * *

  At first Nait couldn't believe it when the Seti withdrew. He thought it was some kind of diversion or awful cruel trick. He'd been sure they were goners. Now, though, he joined in the great roaring cheers that followed their disappearance. The tall banner marking where the Sword's command was locked in combat with the Moranth Gold waved its encouragement. The steady crushing advance of the Gold into the Malazan phalanx faltered
. In front of Nait the irregulars punched their arms into the air, hugged the infantry who moments before had been beating them away with the flats of their blades.

  Then almost as if with one mind the skirmishers melted away and Nait saw the Falaran infantry phalanx closing double-time. Obviously, they now saw their only chance in breaking the Imperial units. Iron mail skirting chased in bronze flashed as the Falarans stepped in unison. They held broad, engraved leather-covered shields locked and steady, shortswords thrust straight out between the shields. Squared Falaran helmets framed eyes, some narrowed in calculation, searching their targets, others wide in eager bloodlust. ‘Hold!’ the master sergeant was bellowing to Nait's right. ‘Hold!’

  Nait would have run if he could have. This wasn't what he'd signed up for! To be cut down in some stupid pointless battle! But he was pressed within the second rank and couldn't even raise his elbows. He could only watch as the opposing ranks closed, the marching feet shaking the ground, the stink of piss and fear assaulting him from the men and women around him, and perhaps from himself as well. His mouth was cracked dry in terror, his hand numb on the grip of the light duelling longsword he'd picked up during the Guard's assault of Unta.