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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Yes, but-look!’

  The enemy mage, named Yath apparently, had been plucked off the ground. He flailed now, limbs churning, enmeshed in the argent puissance invoked by Tayschrenn. It looked as though the High Mage intended to force him through his own rift.

  ‘Yes …’ Heuk murmured appreciatively, ‘he may just bridge it…’ Then the mage stiffened and turned to Nait, his face blanching. He gripped Nait's shoulder. ‘Eldest forgive me! What of Tourmaline? The munitions! Tayschrenn stands almost on top of them!’

  * * *

  No one asked Kyle to leave the hilltop and so he remained, arms crossed, watching the fireworks of the mage duel out on the battle plain. With him was the Untan nobleman who'd come as part of the Wickan delegation – Kyle hadn't caught the man's name. He watched and listened just as Kyle did, his face torn between awe and dread. The battle below reminded Kyle of the Spur, only on an even grander scale. So this was what the old hands meant when they spoke about the Warren-clashes of the old campaigns. Fearsome stuff. He understood more clearly now the relationship between the different arms of these armies out of Quon. No wonder the presence of a powerful mage corps could deter any aggression – or the lack invite it. Still, from the reactions around him he understood what they were seeing now to be unprecedented; a deliberate effort at whole-scale destruction.

  That duelling appeared to jump to a yet greater confrontation as light like the reflection of the sun from still water blossomed on the plain. The Avowed mages remaining around Kyle, Opal, Lor-sinn and Shell, all cursed and winced, Shell staggering backwards as if pushed by some unseen force.

  ‘I know that!’ Opal said through clenched teeth.

  ‘Brethren report it is the High Mage,’ said Shimmer, her tone amazed.

  ‘The only time I've ever been glad to see him,’ K'azz said.

  The old Malazan commander, Urko, grunted appreciatively. ‘Couldn't turn a blind eye to something like this.’

  ‘Did you witness the confrontation at Pale?’ Lor-sinn asked of Shell.

  Shell straightened her jerkin, her lined face wrinkled up as though pained. ‘I watched from the distance.’

  ‘Challenged Anomander,’ Lor-sinn breathed. ‘Lord of Moon's Spawn.’

  Kyle watched Opal shake her mop of curly auburn hair. ‘Hubris. The Ascendant held back.’

  ‘And how do we know that?’

  Opal gestured to the field. ‘And risk such consequences?’

  Lor-sinn, Kyle could tell, remained unconvinced. A glimmering brilliance out of the field made Kyle flinch and look away; he glanced back, a hand shading his eyes. The rumbling of a particularly loud eruption of power rolled over them. The mages winced in empathic pain.

  K'azz raised a hand for attention. ‘Brethren say a messenger is here for Commander Urko.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Urko.

  ‘The messenger claims to be an officer of the assembled Cawnese Provincial Army.’

  Kyle looked to the Malazan commanders Urko and Fist D'Ebbin. Urko's greying brows rose like shelves. Fist D'Ebbin, though beaten down by what he had endured through the night, at first appeared pleased, then that pleasure slipped into unease as he glanced to K'azz. These two were all that remained of Imperial command in the field – other than the Sword, who was rumoured to be in charge of the eastern redoubt. Cowl's Veils had taken an awful toll.

  Urko motioned to K'azz. ‘Send him up.’

  A soldier climbed the hillside, his helmet under an arm. He wore mail under a white surcoat bearing the diamond design of Cawn. He saluted Urko. ‘Commander.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I bear news from the east.’

  ‘Yes?’

  The man glanced about at the Guardsmen. Voice lowered, he said, ‘Perhaps a more private talk …’

  ‘Here will do. As you can see – we are facing a common enemy.’

  ‘I understand. Very well. The Cawn Provincial Army is marshalling to the east. It was judged prudent to remain a good distance away. We bring five thousand cavalry and thirty thousand mixed infantry. Command is Lords Mal Nayman, J'istenn, and Viehman ‘esh Wait. We are also pleased to host the Imperial representative Councillor and Assembly Spokesman, Mallick Rel.’

  Urko's brows now clenched in puzzlement. ‘Mallick? He's left Unta?’ He dismissed the mystery with a shake of his head. ‘Fist D'Ebbin, would you accompany the captain here and coordinate the commands?’

  A salute. ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘A moment,’ K'azz called. ‘What of your mage cadre, Captain? We may have need of them.’

  The captain faced Urko, saying nothing. The old general's face tightened. ‘Well?’

  The captain admitted, reluctantly, ‘Squad mages, only, sir.’ And he added, weighted with significance: ‘For generations Cawn has given up its best to the Empire.’

  Urko glowered a nod. ‘Very good. Dismissed.’

  Fist D'Ebbin bowed to K'azz and Shimmer. Kyle thought the last look he gave them one of silent apology. The two officers descended the hillside.

  Kyle's gaze was pulled back to the field. Why that look of apology? he wondered. Ah, yes – numbers. The Imperial force was now twice as large.

  The Avowed mages all let out excited calls then, pointing to the field. One of the duelling figures, the summoner of the rift, Kyle assumed, was airborne, wreathed in an argent conflagration. Kyle was still not all that familiar with these contests, but it looked as though this Tayschrenn had gained the advantage.

  And should he win? What then? Kyle's gaze edged over to study K'azz. That Cawnese officer probably hadn't even realized whom he'd stood before. And why should he? K'azz was now just another old man, his white hair tousled. He still wore his sun-faded, tattered old fisherman's canvas trousers and shirt. He hadn't even belted on a sword. The only gesture he seemed to have allowed himself was a silver sigil of the Guard at his breast. Yet he clearly was in command. All the Avowed instinctively arrayed themselves around him. While Kyle watched, the Duke's troubled gaze followed not the coruscating mage duel of the plain but the retreating figure of the Cawnese messenger. Yes, he too must be wondering … Laseen gave her word … but that was when the field was more even. Would the temptation to try to finally rid the Imperium of its most enduring enemy lead her to reconsider?

  * * *

  Nait edged his way through the blackened ash of the seared grass, the dust of the dirt and gravel powdered by the incalculable forces competing, thrashing, just above his head. Ants, just us ants down here. And me the dumbest of them. The High Mage was close, manoeuvring to edge the writhing, flailing shape of Yath above into the mar. Close enough to be blown to droplets by Tourmaline's cussors. What a monumental fuck-up!

  Nait paused – which way? All looked the same: churned-up, flame-scorched, blasted wasteland. Then a glint of gold through the ash-grey and black. He shuffled over. The Moranth was in a bad way. Thrown soil covered her, disguising the worst of her injuries. As it was, Nait winced. Her back was one burnt scar of puckered flesh and the strange chitinous Moranth armour all melted and twisted. She was lying on a mound – the buried charge.

  ‘Tourmaline!’ Nait called, his head next to hers.

  The helm stirred, turned to him. ‘You return, saboteur.’

  ‘Your charms.’

  A chuckle. ‘You have no idea, little man. But get me out of this and perhaps I shall enlighten you.’

  Don't think I won't take you up on that. He studied the mound of pressed earth. His hair stirred to stand and his breath caught as he glimpsed in one of the Moranth's gauntleted fists the tall slim length of an acid fuse. Using both hands he gently prised it loose and only then managed to exhale. Gods below – my nerves weren't going to take much more of this.

  He studied the thrashing figure above in its cocoon of blinding, virulent energy, the arcs and sizzling connections between him and Tayschrenn below. The enemy, Yath, was close to the yawning, roiling lip of the rift. ‘Not much longer now,’ he called to Tourmaline. ‘Looks like we'll maybe ge
t to keep all our goodies, hey?’

  The banners of power quivered then as if struck. Some snapped to lash the air and ground like whips of flame sending up curtains of blasted earth that pattered down across him and Tourmaline. Nait covered his head. Damn, I should not have said that!

  He peered between his forearms. Through the penumbra of energies surrounding Tayschrenn Nait glimpsed figures at the man's rear enmeshed in an eerie dance of move and counter-move. Three faced one who seemed some kind of a bodyguard, fending them off from the High Mage's back. This one, slim, short and blurringly quick, whirled a stave feinting at the attackers. And since those three were certainly not Claws, that left Crimson Guard Veils, probably Avowed. Come to take Tayschrenn while they had the chance!

  Other figures came charging in; Nait recognized Blues, Ho and the other Avowed, Treat and Sept. But the bodyguard fell, having absorbed terrible punishment. Ho threw himself upon one attacker and wrenched the man or woman's head around. Blues and another fell together in a storm of knife-thrusts. The third leapt forward, rolling, evading all to strike the High Mage.

  A detonation of power blasted everyone tumbling away like weeds uprooted in a cyclone. A wall of dirt and stones thrown up by the shockwave punched into Nait who yelled as all his earlier wounds pounded anew. But that was not the worst – the worst was his effort to hold the acid fuse steady against his chest like a babe. Once the pressure eased, Nait rolled on to his back, wiped his tearing eyes.

  Staring upwards it took him a moment to comprehend just what he was seeing. Close to the rift two figures now rotated around each other – one flailing, the other limp – while the raw Warren energies reverberated between them, thrumming and gyring with the release of all that power. As Nait watched, open-mouthed, the wild spinning tumbled both of them into the open maw of the rift and they disappeared within.

  * * *

  Standing next to K'azz, Shimmer watched in surprise and alarm as all the Avowed mages within sight grunted and stepped back, rocked by an eruption of brilliance like the sun itself. A booming avalanche report washed over all, striking Shimmer full in the chest. Shell whispered low: ‘Tayschrenn's been hit. One of ours, I'm sorry to say. Isha, I believe.’ She took a breath murmuring a curse. ‘He's drifting, rising … there's a pull from the …’ She lurched forward, hands rising. ‘No!’

  ‘What!’

  Shell faced them, her eyes revealing her utter disbelief and horror. She pushed a shaking hand through her short hair. ‘He's gone. Taken by the rift. Both of them.’

  ‘And that thing? The rift?’ K'azz demanded.

  ‘Still growing.’

  Shimmer caught K'azz's eye and he nodded. ‘Commander Urko,’ she called gently, but firmly. ‘It would appear that we must pull together everything we have left.’

  Urko's grimaced nod almost seemed to grind his neck. ‘I agree.’

  ‘We have some six, perhaps eight, Avowed mages. I understand there are many witches and warlocks among the Wickans. What of the mage cadre?’

  His dark eyes hidden away beneath a great shelf of bone glared their anger then glanced away. ‘Crushed. We have some squad mages but no one of great stature, ‘cept maybe one.’

  ‘This Tiste Andii mage?’

  ‘No. There ain't no Andii mage – none I know of. There's an ex-High Mage named Bala. Bala Jesselt. She's at the east redoubt.’

  ‘Very well. Perhaps we may use the Imperial Warren to move—’

  K'azz had held up a hand. ‘Excuse me, Shimmer. The Brethren report we may have one more option. We should wait.’

  ‘Wait?’ Urko growled. His gaze searched K'azz's face. ‘What's this? More of your old tricks? Wait for what?’

  ‘For it to grow a bit more.’

  * * *

  Nait could not believe what he'd seen. The big powers were supposed to bail them out of trouble. Not disappear into a great big steaming pile of it. He studied the slim acid fuse clenched in his dirty hand. Just me V you now, honey.

  ‘Are you all right?’ someone shouted over the roaring, which was so deafening and constant Nait had almost forgotten it.

  Flinching, Nait peered around. Ho, on his knees in the dirt, was peering down at him. Nait nodded, completely bemused. He cocked his head, thinking of the puzzle of this man who seemed able to overcome everything thrown at him and he mouthed: ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  The mage smiled crookedly, nodding his understanding. ‘I'm just another damn-fool mage, Sergeant Jumpy.’ He pointed up. ‘Just like this one. I thought I was capable of anything. But all my researches and experiments brought me only misery.’ Improbably, he eased himself down cross-legged, as if they were relaxing on a hillside. He cast one gauging look up to the rift then returned to studying Nait. ‘I was inspired by Ryllandaras, believe it or not. He is Soletaken, yes, a man-beast. But few remember now that he is also D'ivers – one who is many. Who is to know how many there are of him? Perhaps this one is the last. In any case, I attempted an incalculably ancient and complex ritual. One none dared re-create, since the few times it was invoked were far beyond living memory. And I did succeed. After a grotesque fashion. I am D'ivers, Sergeant. Human D'ivers. There are four of me left alive. The others conspired to have me cast into prison to be rid of me. But I am returned and they have fled.

  ‘Now,’ and he gestured to the mound. ‘Is this it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Others came jogging up, hunched, wincing in empathic pain from the churning lip of the rift now suspended so low. So low! Nait sat up. He waved to these others, Treat, Blues and Sept – Soliel help us! What a sad collection of street beggars! Blues’ face mottled in bruising, an eye swollen shut. Treat's clothes tattered, his limbs black with crusted blood mixed with dirt. Sept's ear and neck sliced in a gash that had soaked his front in blood. Nait pointed to Tourmaline. ‘Take her out of here!’

  Ho arched a brow, mouthed, her? But he nodded and gestured the others up. Tourmaline signed a weak negative they ignored as they grabbed hold of her and dragged her off. Ho remained, cocked a question to Nait who waved him away: ‘Gotta get to work.’

  Ho agreed then straightened, stung. ‘Her! Yes!’ He got to his feet, bent low. ‘There is another one! Tayschrenn's bodyguard! Oponn favour you!’

  Already turned away, Nait gave a curt bob of his head. Dust floated up around him, sifting straight up in the gathering current. He felt the flow plucking at his surcoat. He lay on his side, face lowered, and fought to ignore the yammering oblivion just over his shoulder.

  From his bag he drew a wood dowelling about the width of his littlest finger. This he pushed into the mounded earth. Quickly at first, then slowing, tapping, tapping, until it struck something firm. Then he carefully withdrew it, leaving a hole. He gathered up a handful of the grey topsoil, spat into it, squeezed and moulded it in his hands into a ball. Strong adherence. No sand or clay. Thick and slow. This ball he threw aside, then he gathered up another, smaller, handful. He spat, rolled the dirt loosely around his palm. Not too tight. He rolled an elongated ball that he gently eased into the hole. Taking up the dowelling again he pushed the wet ball down the hole, slowly, tapping, until he met resistance.

  He took a long breath then, exhaling, watched the twitching of his cut and battered hands. Easy. Easy. Slow down, Nait my boy. He glanced up to the rift. Damn close – but close enough? How much longer dare he wait? He watched broken stalks of grass lifting to spin up past his head, sucked into the hissing, roaring gale that hung what seemed just a few man-heights above his head. Experimentally, he threw up a handful of soil – none came back down.

  Maybe that's close enough. But they'll only get the one chance. Maybe – no! This is damn slow dirt; who knows how long it'll take? Right. Do it.

  He gave the dowelling one last press, eased it out and threw it aside – it spun upwards, whipped from sight. Shit! Close enough! Bent over the hole, he thumbed the stopper from the fuse. Slowly, achingly slow, he eased his hand over, tilting. He watched holding his breath as the thi
ck viscous acid mix eased out. One drop swelled on the lip of the tube. C'mon! It hung, wobbling – Oh, for the love of D'rek!-fell.

  Right. One … maybe two. Yeah. Two – best be sure. He tilted further. A second drip swelled, fell. He threw the fuse away and ran. But in his rush he mistakenly straightened fully and something grabbed him from behind, pulling him backwards. He threw himself down again. His helmet was torn from his head. He grasped at handholds of the grass, pulled himself along. His feet kicked in the air behind him. A sandal was sucked from one foot. Leave me be, Hood! Your bony hand ain't quick enough!

  He pulled and pulled, sliced his palms open on the sharp crisp grass blades until he fell again and rolled, came up running. He pelted it, arms pumping, one sandal flapping. As he ran he imagined the heavy acid fluid permeating the saliva, increasing its concentration next to the casing of whichever munition he'd touched. Six per cent, seventeen, twenty-eight, fifty. Until a reaction began, irreversible, that started eating that casing until soon … soon …