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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Still hard on your tableware, I see,’ he commented, studying the broken glass.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she hissed.

  The man rolled his bulging eyes, his mouth widening. ‘Around. Listening. Watching.’

  ‘Some bodyguard you are! I'm a prisoner!’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he warned. ‘You've been safe so far, haven't you?’

  ‘So far!’

  ‘Exactly. But now I'm worried you're about to try something stupid.’

  ‘Me?

  ‘Yes. Such as running off in a huff without thinking things through.’

  Lowering her voice even further, she whispered, carefully, ‘There's nothing to think through.’

  ‘Yes, there is.’ The man went to the table, selected a cut of smoked meat, poured a glass of wine. ‘Why should you be the one to leave?’ he asked, innocently.

  ‘I'm sorry … ?’

  He turned to her, shrugging. ‘I could make it look like the Claw …’

  Ghelel stared, her hand fell from the dirk. Make it look like the … Dessembrae, no! What a terrifying offer! She felt sick, wiped her palms on her cloak. ‘What an awful thing to suggest.’

  He gave a thoughtful frown. ‘Yes, I suppose it would be best to wait until you are actually married. Then kill him.’

  ‘That's not what I meant!’ she shouted, then slapped a hand to her mouth. Molk listened, cocking his head. After a moment he waved off any worries. ‘No? Really? Well, of course the problem is that the man's already married.’

  ‘What?

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Then what…’

  A shrug of regret. ‘Well, her blood is not nearly as rich as yours …’

  ‘He wouldn't…’

  Molk sipped his wine. ‘An ambitious man, our Marquis.’

  Through clenched teeth Ghelel hissed, ‘You're enjoying this far too much, Molk.’

  He stepped closer, lowered his voice even further. ‘This is what I do, Ghelel. What I'm good at. My business … Now you face an important choice. A major fork in the path of one's life, so to speak. Do you want to stay in the business or do you want out? Which will it be?’

  Ghelel almost said immediately that she wanted out but a small voice whispered: just what are his orders from Amaron regarding me? To guard me and, if failing that… to kill me? Is that what he means by ‘Out’? She walked away, saying, ‘I have to think,’ then turned back with the dirk bared and ready. ‘What if I said I did want out, Molk. What would you do?’

  His broad mouth stretched in a large smile. He gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘I would say too bad – you have the right crafty turns of mind. But no, nothing like that. Suffice it to say that if I wanted to kill you – you'd be dead already.’

  Ghelel did not lower the blade. ‘So you say now. But how can I believe you?’

  The smile melted away. He raised a hand, cupping the fingers, and a darkness blossomed within. A dancing flame of night. ‘Believe me.’

  Oh. She straightened, sheathed the dirk. ‘I see. Now what?’

  ‘Get dressed for travel. We'll leave tonight.’

  Assenting, she pulled aside the inner hangings.

  When they were ready, Ghelel having gathered all the food and water they could pack, Molk went to the rear wall of the tent and stood listening for a time. He waved her over then pulled up its staked lip. She gave him a glare and he shrugged. ‘Simplest is always best,’ he mouthed, and urged her on.

  She didn't know if he used his arts to disguise their passage, but they made it out of the camp without being seen or any alarm sounding. They climbed a hill north of the sheltered, hidden forest depression the Sentries had chosen as their retreat and she could now hear the roar of the distant falls, Broke Earth Falls, where they tumbled down Burn's Cliff on their way to Nap Sea. ‘Now what?’ she asked him.

  ‘We'll cross at the falls. Lots of rafts ‘n’ such there. After that I'll escort you back.’ He looked to her. ‘I presume you do mean to return to Quon?’

  ‘Yes. And you'll … let me go?’

  A waved agreement. ‘Oh yes. It's plain to me you don't have the, ah, stomach for this life. Way too many scruples. No, best get out before you're killed, or become something you despise …’ He looked away, clearing his throat. ‘And I wish you luck.’

  The night was perilously old by the time they reached the lagoons east of the falls. The flat diffuse light of a false dawn lit the swampy shore with its ghostly tangle of logs, uprooted trees and broken timbers all clogged downriver of the falls. A cool mist kissed Ghelel's face. The roar of the falls was a deep bass rumbling that seemed to vibrate her entire body.

  They crouched for a time in the cover of the nearest treeline. Molk studied the apparently deserted lakeside. Standing, he waved her forward. They reached the littered shore. ‘Now, we just have to find one of the rafts or a small boat. There's lots about. Locals—’

  The man was knocked backwards off his feet and lay face up, the finned end of a crossbow bolt standing from his chest. ‘Oh shit!’ he gasped.

  Ghelel cried her shock and surprise and spun, drawing her sword and heavy fighting gauche. There, a slim man in charcoal-hued clothes tossed away a strange thin crossbow. He flexed his arms and long-bladed throwing daggers appeared in his hands. Coming towards her, he waved them in a knife-fighter's dance. She shifted to face him sidelong, struck her guard.

  He straightened then, cursing, and quickly disappeared in a flurry of shifting shadows. Oh come on! Ghelel cried to herself, outraged. As if this wasn't bad enough! She spun, slashing the air around her and saw that Molk was gone as well. The Warrens! They're duelling! Get him, Molk! Not knowing what else to do she slashed again. Then she thought – the water! She ran.

  Where she'd stood something burst like a branch exploding in a fire but she did not turn, did not slow. She slogged into the swampy muck until the water reached her thighs, then she tuned to face the shore. Come for me now, bastard!

  She scanned the clutter of fallen branches, the stands of wind-brushed marsh grasses, her heart almost choking her. She strained, listening for any betraying sound; logs bumping out in the current spun her round; an animal splashing into the lake upstream almost made her scream. Come on! End this one way or another!

  Within the root mat of a fallen tree grey shadows suddenly writhed. A shape of darkness squirmed from the shadows. It writhed, limbs twisting, black flakes exfoliating from it, and a high keening of excruciating pain reached her. Gods! Not Molk, she prayed. It disintegrated into nothing while she watched. Ice stabbed as a blade slashed the meat of her forearm followed by a splash. She gasped, throwing herself forward. Two bodies grappled in the water behind her. Blood bloomed. Wincing, hunched, she watched, sword raised one-handed. The water foamed, steaming and churning as if boiling, then stilled, hissing with bubbles that spread, dissipating. A body touched the surface and by the barbed crossbow bolt standing from its back she recognized it as Molk. She pushed forward to grab him. The water burned her legs and hand. Snarling her pain she dragged him back, flipped him over and pulled him to shore with one hand, the other at her side, useless.

  She fell next to him, studied his boiled beet-red face. ‘Molk!’

  He coughed, spat up a great gout of water. His face twisted its agony. ‘Damn! That…’ he gasped a breath ‘… went poorly.’ He cracked open an eye. ‘Ghelel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Apologies. Should've guessed. Hubris, hey? Thought I was so smart.’

  ‘Relax, don't talk.’

  ‘No, have to. Won't last. You'll have to hide deep now. Those two were mages. It will be noticed. They'll send someone even better to take up the trail. Run now. Cross over, head west. Best of luck staying … free of all this ugliness. I hope you succeed.’

  ‘I might as well run back to the Sentries now. They'll just track me down.’

  Molk smiled smugly, then coughed, spitting up blood. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I let the Kanese know where they are.’


  ‘No! You didn't! You scheming, tricky …’

  ‘Knew you'd come around. Now go. I'd like to think that a little good might've come of all of this …’

  She rested a hand at his brow. ‘Yes. I'll go. I'll get away, thanks to you.’ She kissed his cracked blood-wet lips. ‘Thank you. You're not … you're not what I thought at all.’ She grabbed the dropped pack and ran to find a boat.

  Behind her, alone, Molk lay flat on his back. His breaths came slower, more shallow and laboured. Finally, he offered a weak rueful laugh to the brightening sky. ‘Neither of us were.’

  After abandoning the leaky boat in the weeds she jogged west, keeping to the wettest, soggiest patches of land she could find. At dawn she reached the great escarpment of Burn's Cliff. South of her now ran the main beaten road that switch-backed up one of the shallowest portions; she decided against it. Instead, she selected a slim meandering path traced out by locals. A mule-trail. This she followed to the top then found a copse of trees to hide in. She sat for a time on her knees, thinking through her options. As the day brightened and the insects gathered, she pulled off her helmet and, one-armed, began stripping off her armour. She used her dirk to dig a pit and into it went the armour, her surcoat, leggings, gauntlets, helmet, even her boots. Ghelel Rhik Tayliin and Prevost Alil, she decided, had to die.

  But her sword. Her old familiar blade. Without it she'd be defenceless. How could she give up her weapon knowing what was after her? No, it had to go. It all had to go. What good would a sword do if a Claw should find me in any case? She lengthened the hole and pushed the blade down. Even the pack she emptied and jammed in. She filled the depression, stamped down the dirt. Wearing only a linen shirt, the dirk underneath, her hair unbounded and mussed, her arm bandaged and the food and remaining skin of water in a shoulderbag, she set out.

  The sun on her back warmed her and seemed to help push her on her way. Here I am in the most dire straits so far of my life, alone, undefended, yet I feel incredibly free and light. Even reborn. I could go anywhere, do anything. So, what am I to do? And I will have to be careful. These people will never give up. Still, the future, once no better than a prison, now seemed completely unbounded. For the first time since that bloody day at the Sellath estate she felt in control of her own destiny. Come what may, at least she would be the one deciding.

  At the shore of the Idryn she came to a squalid hamlet so small it no doubt boasted no name. She passed the few wattle-and-daub buildings to walk straight down to the shore where a shallow, single-masted cargo-boat was being readied for a trip upriver. The youths loading stopped their work to watch her and she smiled. ‘Who's the owner? I'd like to ask about heading upriver. I came following the army but my man's dead, so I'm going home. I have a few coins.’

  ‘M'father,’ said one, his eyes growing huge.

  ‘Could you get him?’

  The lad dropped his basket to run down the shore. ‘Da! Da!’

  Ghelel winced at that but followed. She did have coin – more than this fellow had probably seen in all his life. Enough, she hoped, for his silence. Enough, she hoped, to cover whatever cost the Gods deemed necessary to buy one's life back.

  BOOK III

  Fates and Chances

  Light strikes

  Dark smothers

  Shadow goes round.

  Ancient saying,

  original meaning lost

  CHAPTER I

  All bow to the Eternal Round,

  Save the Avowed.

  All sink down into dimming Night,

  Save the Avowed.

  All to the wither of time must go,

  Save the Avowed.

  None gainst Hood's touch make defence,

  Save the Avowed.

  Yet to lure of the eternal return they did yield.

  Lay of K'azz

  Fisher Tel Kath

  SKINNER HAD SELECTED SHIMMER AND ONE OF HIS AVOWED MAGES, Mara, to ride out to with him to discuss terms with the Empress. Just after dawn on a slight rise south of her encampment he pitched the tall cross-piece standard with its long crimson banner and they waited. They had dismounted and Shimmer walked a distance off, her thoughts very far from the coming meeting. The Brethren of course were triumphant. Soon would come the fulfilment of the Vow. All they had dedicated their lives and deaths to. Not one whisper of reserve or disquiet could she detect among them. Smoky's and Greymane's case, so compelling at the time, now seemed utterly implausible, even shameful. Smoky, the Brethren whispered, jealous of Cowl now that he stands next to the commander, not him. Greymane – Outsider! – they sneered. Ignorant. What does he know of us? And yet, she wondered, what of Stoop? Deserter! He must have snuck away, abandoned the Vow!

  ‘Shimmer,’ Skinner called. ‘You have been quiet of late, reserved. I have noticed. Now is not the time to be troubled – we are close to achieving our ambition.’

  She adjusted the fit of her silver-chased helmet, its hanging camail. ‘I wish we had more men to achieve it with.’

  ‘We Avowed will rule any engagement.’

  ‘Any engagements, yes. But our reception in Unta—’

  A dismissive wave from Skinner. ‘We do not need their approval.’

  Shimmer turned to study the man more closely. Approval? For just what… ?

  ‘Someone comes,’ Mara called, pushing back her thick wind-tossed curls. ‘Four. No mage.’

  ‘Has she any worth the name at all?’ Skinner asked, more to himself.

  ‘Very few. But Heng is close. And there are extraordinary presences there.’

  ‘Thank you, Mara.’

  The Dal Hon woman bowed, adjusted her robes. ‘They come.’

  Four riders closed. All four male, Shimmer noted. So, no Laseen. Not that she'd expected her to come, but still. It rankled. Surely she and her councillors must understand that they were not to be brushed aside. The lead rider was a Napan, as was common enough among the highest ranks of the Imperium – predictable cronyism, Shimmer knew – and rode under the banner of the Sword of the Empire. So, here the man was, the inheritor of Dassem's position come to treat with one of the very few opponents, if not the only one, who had survived a clash with his predecessor. She wondered whether this was a man capable of appreciating such finely layered irony. Probably not.

  With him rode one surprise – a Moranth Gold – perhaps the very commander who had opposed Laseen yesterday. Ah yes, the notoriously businesslike, or perhaps adroit, attitude the Moranth take to alliances now showing through. The two others, one tall, poplar-slim older commander and one younger, appeared commonplace.

  They reined in; the Sword drew off his helmet, inclined his head. He appeared flushed, sweaty. ‘Korbolo Dom, Sword of the Empire. Gold Commander V'thell, High Fist Anand, Commander Ullen.’

  ‘Skinner. I command the Crimson Guard. This is Mara and Shimmer.’ The four inclined their heads in greeting. ‘So, the Empress does not deign to speak with us. Did she give a reason?’

  ‘The Empress does not treat with hirelings.’

  Skinner's arms uncrossed with a scraping of armour. The gauntlets clenched at his sides. ‘I wonder if you have any idea with whom you are dealing.’

  ‘To the contrary – I know a great deal of you,’ Korbolo answered, undeterred. ‘It is you who knows nothing of me.’ And the man glared his challenge, his hands twisting in his reins, his breath short.

  Studying the man, the Crimson Guard commander slowly nodded his helmed head, re-crossed his arms. ‘I believe I now know all I need know.’ He raised his voice, addressing all four. ‘Our terms are these: The Empress Laseen is to formally abdicate all authority and to stand down as sovereign over any and all lands or holdings, or we will prosecute her forces in the field into unconditional surrender.’

  The Sword of the Empire openly sneered his disdain. ‘And these are our terms, mercenary. You are an unsanctioned body of armed men and women, no more than brigands in our lands. You will throw down your arms to be escorted to the nearest port for trans
port or be crucified to a person. The choice is yours.’

  Shimmer almost laughed aloud. Gods, could a greater gulf be found this side of the Abyss? This is the man the Empress sends to treat? Did she deliberately wish to goad them beyond endurance?