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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Captain Tinsmith lay having his slashed leg re-bandaged while Kepp sat silently by – he could only sit silently as the fist of an Avowed had shattered his jaws.

  Of the lesser officers and sergeants present, Nait shared nods with Least, Lim and others, and watched while these conferred in whispers and grunts. Everyone was whispering because they squatted on the border of the Darkness. All was quiet here; even the battle's roar just a few paces away was a feeble distant murmur. And it was cold; Nait's damp sweat-soaked shirt and padding chilled him. He knew of course what was coming before they said a thing. So he shared an all-suffering roll of the eyes with Least when Tinsmith called out, ‘Sergeant Jumpy, a word.’

  He jogged up and knelt on his haunches. ‘Aye.’

  ‘We want you to go up and talk to him.’

  ‘I ain't goin’ up there to talk to him. You go.’

  A savage glare from the old sergeant, now captain. ‘In case you hadn't noticed – I can't walk.’

  ‘Then Kepp, here.’

  Through clenched teeth: ‘He … can't … talk.’

  ‘Then Blossom, here.’

  ‘He doesn't speak Talian!’

  Fucking troop of carnival clowns, we are. Fucking hopeless. ‘Fine!’

  Tinsmith stroked one side of his long silver moustache, smiled evilly. ‘He's your squad mage.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He straightened, grunting and wincing – so tired, and things ain't even come to a head yet – and started up the slope. The grass crackled brittle with hoarfrost under his old falling-apart sandals. The dark was extraordinary, unrelieved, yet he could still see and he thought of Heuk's swill – the iron tang of which still caked his tongue. It was as if he were wrapped in layers of the thickest, darkest, finest cloth imaginable. Sable, maybe, he decided, though he'd never seen or touched it. The chill bit at him; lacings of frost appeared on the iron backings of his gauntlets.

  ‘Heuk!’ The dark seemed to swallow his voice. A silence answered; but it was not a true silence. Something filled it. He strained to listen: the faintest rumbling and rattle of chain? Deep reverberations such as wheels groaning somewhere in the dark? ‘Heuk?’

  ‘Here.’

  Nait started; the fellow was practically kneeling right before him.

  ‘Ah, you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Why're you kneeling there?’

  ‘I was giving thanks, of course.’

  ‘Ah;

  The mage pushed himself to his feet, weaving slightly. He was a sight. Blood dried black, or what appeared black in this strange place, covered his face and shoulders, and had run in streaks down his robes. Oddly, he seemed taller and straighter than before. ‘What is it?’ he asked, as if there was nothing strange in any of this.

  ‘Ah, well. The boys down below want you to know we have Avowed headed our way. An’ I guess, they're worried. C'n you handle them?’

  ‘I will give it everything I possess,’ the man said, sounding more lucid than Nait could ever recall. But it was unnerving as well: he was so calm, his gaze so steady and self-possessed. And that eerie all-black pupil, iris and orb.

  ‘Ah! Great! Everyone'll be happy to hear that. We'll keep them off your back then.’

  ‘I know you will, Nait. Good luck to you. I will do what I can to protect all of you. If I am overcome, there will be no mistaking it.’

  ‘Right.’ Nait almost saluted. Strange how an aura of unassuming command seemed to have suddenly enveloped the old bird. After a sort of half-bow, Nait started down the slope. He had no idea of where the trench was, of course, as the dark was so unremitting – yet he could see to walk in it. He decided it must've been that sip from the jug.

  It all thrust itself at him in one pace as it had before: the yells, clash of weaponry, rattle of shields. Hands pulled him down and he crouched, blinking. Far down the modest slope, curving arcs of layered defences of heavy infantry behind shields protected a screen of skirmishers who took turns stepping up to fire then withdrawing. Behind these, an inner defence of Moranth Gold and more Malazan heavies, and behind these the trench where a dense thicket of cross-bowmen and women, skirmishers and saboteurs, rained a punishing hail of bolts down on the ranks of Guardsmen pressing the defences.

  Yet so few. So few left on both sides. Where was everyone? Could the fallen number so many? Thousands remained in the centre, though, of course, and in the west. Thankfully, the Guard elements here had been reduced to so few that all they could do was harass and pin down – yet why do more? Why bloody themselves further cracking this hard nut when all they had to do was wait for their Avowed to arrive and break us open for them?

  Yells went up around the curve of the defensive line as two figures were spotted charging the trench. Nait jumped up, running, ‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ The two shouldered aside closing regulars, straight-armed Moranth Gold from their path, and tumbled into the trench. Nait arrived as they straightened, sharing mad grins. ‘You damn fools!’ he snarled. ‘You could've gotten yourselves killed.’

  The shorter of the two, Master Sergeant Temp, wearing an ox's load of layered mail and banded iron armour, flinched back his grey-stubbled chin behind the cheek-guards of his helmet. ‘Why, it's our old friend Sergeant Jumpy himself. Sounds like he's gone all responsible on us, Ferrule. Command does that, I hear.’

  The two climbed up out of the trench. ‘I told you, it ain't Ferrule no more,‘ the other, the burly Seti, complained. ‘It's …’ and his thick brows clenched in concentration, ‘… Bear.’ His face lit up, all pleased. ‘Yeah, Bear.’

  ‘Bear? That's just plain stupid. Don't you have any imagination? How about … Dainty?’

  The Seti struck Temp a blow on his chest that would've broken Nait's ribs. ‘No! That don't take any imagination – that's just saying the opposite. Like Rock.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, Rock. I forgot about that guy. Lady, could he run!’

  ‘Hey! Hey!’

  The two glared at Nait. ‘What?’

  ‘What in the Abyss are you two doing here?’

  Temp shrugged, winking. ‘We heard this was the place to be.’

  Oh great! They were gonna get hammered.

  Almost as if reading Nait's thoughts, silence gathered over the lines. The Guardsmen had pulled back all around the length of the curving front. Figures pushed forward to the front of the makeshift Guard shieldwall: both glowing like miniature suns to Nait's blood-enhanced vision. Here we go! Damned Avowed mages come to answer the challenge. Through the blazing auras surrounding them he could just make them out: a man leaning on a staff, twisted-looking like he'd been wounded bad, or had survived childhood rickets. The other was a Dal Hon woman in thick dark robes gathered at one shoulder, her hair bunched and wild.

  The men and women around Nait shouted, pointing off to the side. He squinted into the night lit by fitful fires over the field cluttered with broken equipment and piled bodies. A long column of soldiers was marching by and at their fore a tall banner, dark with the bright silver dragon rampant. Skinner circling around to head north. Why? Was he that confident of his mages?

  Temp struck Ferrule's, or Bear's, shoulder, motioning to the distant banner. ‘There's our boy.’

  ‘What? Circlin’ around?’ The Seti was affronted. ‘Fener take it! After all the trouble we went to.’

  ‘C'mon,’ the master sergeant called, and jumped the trench. ‘He's gettin’ away.’

  ‘Wait!’ Nait called but they were gone, jogging hunched down the hillside like two boulders launched against the Guardsmen line. They crashed into it and kept going, men falling backwards before them, weapons flying, to disappear into the night. ‘Shit!’

  It had got perceptibly colder, as if the darkness were gathering itself for what was to come. The two mages in Nait's sight raised their arms. Crossbow bolts flew at them like a hailstorm but none came near. From the Dal Hon woman's position pressure mounted against Nait like a wind that was no wind. Waves of it advanced up the hill before the woman, each stronger
than the last. First they pressed the broken grass stalks flat. The next waves gouged the stalks and dense root matrix from the ground. The next then began pushing a ridge of loosened dirt up the hill like a chisel. Just in time the trench was abandoned by scrambling men and women as it collapsed, pushed back and filled by the shifting earth. Some soldiers fell, hands clutching at their ears, helmets torn off. Nait fell to his knees. Hunched, he glimpsed much worse appearing before the other Avowed mage. In a slow advance up the slope soldiers fell as if scythed, shrieking, gagging. They writhed in wordless agony, limbs twisting up like drying roots. The sight brought Nait's gorge to his throat. He fell to his hands and knees and vomited.

  And just two on this side! Two of how many all around the refuge? Four? Five? Had all the soldiers assembled here just to pile the hill in dead? Something tickled his hand – a black snake. He flinched away, his hand passing through the snake. What?

  It was no snake; its length ran all the way up the hill and it was weaving down through the grass. Others followed, slithering down around him, making for the Dal Hon mage. Nait pushed himself to his feet, wiped his mouth. ‘Saboteurs!’ he bellowed louder than he had ever before. ‘Ready munitions!’

  Weak calls answered him up and down the line. He readied one of his few remaining sharpers. The Dal Hon mage slammed her hands together before her, fist to palm, and a bell-like reverberation sounded, tearing Nait's hearing from him. The ground moved beneath his feet like the sea. Malazan and Gold heavies buckled as waves seemed to pass through them shattering armour, bursting chests. Lines of soldiery heaved backwards as if rammed. Nait threw himself down into the loose soil of the collapsed trench. It felt as if a sledgehammer struck every inch of his body: his feet, his shins, his knees, thighs, hips, stomach, chest and head. Something punched him down into the yielding earth. Not only did he have his breath hammered from him, he lost the ability to inhale. Dazed, punch-drunk, he flailed in a blind panic, dug himself up to stand, tottering. Fucking bitch! Where was she! He'll ram this beauty up her – there she was! The glowing bitch!

  Something warm was soaking his neck and shirt front. He pressed a gauntleted hand to his neck and it slipped up his slick chin and over his mouth and nose to come away clotted with blood and dirt. He eyed the bloodied leather in horror, then fixed his eyes on the mage.

  ‘Throw!’ he roared, his eyes tearing, blood flowing from his nose and mouth, dripping from his chin. ‘Throw, throw, throw!’ He heaved the sharper, the effort unbalancing him and he fell to lie groaning at the pain.

  The peppering burst of munitions brought a smile to his face. Got the bitch! Must've! It seemed to him that a shriek followed the eruptions, but not one of pain, a cry of soul-rending surprise and utter terror.

  After a time soldiers lifted him up; he recognized Jawl, Kibb and Brill. ‘What happened?’ he croaked and spat out a mouthful of blood and catarrh.

  ‘Drove ’em off,’ said Jawl.

  ‘Blew ’em up?’

  ‘Naw. Was the dark. Looked like it actually tried to eat them. They jumped like Hood himself had snuck up and goosed them with his bony finger. They ran.’

  Maybe not his bony finger, Jawl. ‘Get me up.’

  Brill and Kibb raised him to his feet. ‘What happened to you, Sarge?’ Kibb said. ‘You look like someone beat you all over with boards.’

  Tell May to load the lobber – toss all we got at the Guard column, break ’em.’

  ‘Lobber got broke, Sarge,’ Brill said sadly.

  Oh, for the sake of Fener! ‘Then get them firing – fire! Now!’ He pushed both away.

  ‘OK, sheesh!’ said Kibb. He asked Brill as they went: ‘Is he always like this after a fight?’

  Nait staggered up the hill. The dark and cold was the same. The smeared blood, sweat and grime began to solidify on his armour. ‘Heuk!’ Silence. He pulled a small skin of water from his belt, found it had burst, threw it aside. ‘Heuk!’ After just two paces more he suddenly burst in upon two figures near the flat crest, one lying curled as if dead or asleep, the other standing over him. It was the standing figure that captured Nait's attention. He'd never seen a Tiste Andii, but had heard them described often enough. This one resembled such: tall, black as night, almond eyes, long straight shimmering black hair. The calm, almost contemplative expression that Nait had seen upon Heuk rested now in this man's features. He wore a coat of the finest mail that descended all the way to his ankles, shimmering like night itself. And it seemed to Nait that the figure was not entirely there; he could see through it. Something hung at its side. Nait almost looked there but pulled his gaze away in time: a void hung there yammering terror at him. It seemed to suck in the night. The figure inclined his head to him.

  ‘Keep them here, soldier,’ he said. ‘Keep them close. Worse is to come. Much worse.’

  Worse! What could possibly— But the figure walked off, hands clasped at his back, disappearing into the dark. Shit! He knelt at the curled man and found it was Heuk, apparently asleep, but deeply so, unresponsive and shivering badly. He grabbed him by his collar and dragged him down the slope. Worse? Worse than this? Damned unlikely unless Hood himself hiked up his rags and elected to shit on them.

  * * *

  Hurl was surprised by the lack of outriders and pickets north of the Imperial encampment. They rode slowly, ready for any challenge, a call to halt. But none came. The night was cool. Their horses’ breath steamed the air. Hurl caught her sergeant's eye and raised a brow in a question. The man shifted in his saddle, glowering, evidently even more uncomfortable with the situation than she. He directed her attention to a torch lying nearly extinguished. They rode over. Before reaching it their mounts shied away from dark shapes lying splayed in the tall grass. Banath dismounted, studied them. He remounted looking far more pale. Hurl cocked another question and he gave a sickly nod.

  So, found him. But the rear elements? Soliel, no – that would be camp followers, noncombatants, families, craftsmen and women, and even … no, please not that. She urged her mount on with a kick. The troop picked up its pace.

  They found the camp a shambles. Wrecked wagons, torn tents, scattered equipment, and everywhere mangled dismembered bodies. Survivors wandered, blank-faced, turned to watch them pass without even challenging their presence. Banath slowed his mount. ‘Shouldn't we …’

  ‘No, not yet. The trail goes on, yes, Liss?’ Riding behind Hurl, the mage gave a tight bob of her head, her lank hair swinging. ‘It goes on. And … I'm afraid I know where he's headed.’

  Banath could only eye her, puzzled, but he acquiesced.

  To the south the green and yellow glow of battle-magics was plain. A muted roar reached them, punctuated by the eruption of munitions. Hurl felt someone close and turned to see that Rell had moved his mount up to her left. She felt infinitely better with him at her side. A field of tents and blankets spread on the ground lay ahead and Hurl made for it. Closer, fires could be seen burning among them and many tents hung twisted and canted, some torn in strips. Banath, at Hurl's rear, groaned as realization clenched him. ‘No. Oh, no.’

  ‘I'm sorry,’ Hurl murmured. But she was far more than sorry. What lay ahead, no matter how horrific, was all her fault, her curse. I killed these men and women.

  Finally, as they almost reached the field hospital, a soldier stood before them and raised a hand. A company cutter by his shoulder-bags. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, dazed.

  ‘Detachment from Heng,’ Hurl answered. ‘We ride under the sceptre.’

  ‘Heng? Heng!’ He gaped up at them. Hurl saw that gore stained his uniform, his hands; none seemed to be his. A chuckle escaped the man. It grew into a deep gut-heaving laugh that he made no effort to suppress. ‘Well,’ he said, tears now mixed with his laughter, ‘you are just too Burn-damned late, aren't you?’

  ‘I'm sorry …’

  ‘Sorry! You're sorry!’ The officer took hold of Hurl's leg, smearing blood on her trousers and boot. ‘All our wounded. Hundreds of men and women. Wounded. Helpless.
Unarmed …’

  Something like jagged iron thrust at Hurl's chest. She took a shuddering breath. ‘I could not possibly tell you how—’

  ‘He butchered us like sheep! Like sheep!’ He tugged at her leg as if to pull her from her mount. ‘Aren't we human? Men and women? How can this happen now? In this day and age? Will he slay us all?’

  ‘Calm yourself …’

  ‘Calm myself? You! You of all people, from Heng. You should know!’ He pushed her leg aside and backed away, disgusted. ‘This is your curse! You brought this upon us!’

  Hurl flinched as if fatally stabbed; she stared, feeling the blood drain from her face, her heart writhing. Yea Gods, so it was now true. Was this foreordained, or did I walk voluntarily, of my own choosing, into this nightmare?