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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Shaky, Hurl and Sunny did not look from their cards. Storo squinted blearily up at the man. ‘Do I know you?’

  The officer used his boot to hook a chair from the table, sat. The pommels of twin duelling swords thrust forward under his armpits. His black hair hung curled in tight thin rat-tails tied off by bright twists of cloth; these he pushed back from his wide, tanned face. ‘No. Haven't had the pleasure. Allow me to introduce myself. Harmin, Captain Harmin Els D'Shil, of Fist Rheena's staff.’ He inclined his head in the ghost of a bow.

  Shaky, Hurl and Sunny glanced sidelong. Storo grunted his recognition. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Harmin's smile was as smooth as Sunny's was gnarled yet they seemed eerily akin. ‘Well, imagine my surprise – nay, my dismay – to learn that the hero of the north Genabackis campaigns had returned only to be digging dirt and piling rocks like a convicted criminal.’

  Shaky, Hurl and Sunny lowered their cards. Storo growled, ‘Hero?’ He yanked Sunny's hand from the pouch at his side. ‘What do you mean, hero?’

  The bright focus of Harmin's smile shifted to Sunny. ‘Surely your men have no doubt heard the story many times by now, yes?’ The smile returned like a bared blade to Storo. ‘How your Sergeant Storo here slew an Avowed of the Crimson Guard?’

  Hurl blew her hair from her sweaty grimed forehead, brought her arms down under the table to rest her hands near her belted knives. ‘Yeah. We'd heard. An’ that's Captain, now, ah … Captain.’

  Harmin inclined his head to Hurl. ‘I didn't believe it myself when I first heard it, of course. I thought it one of those wild stories you hear of from the front.’ He crossed his arms, leaving his hands near the pommels of his swords. His smile on Storo revealed even more teeth. ‘You know the sort … lies woven by fame hounds …’

  Sunny lurched up from his chair only to be pulled down by Storo. Harmin, who had not moved, bestowed his smile once more on Sunny. Storo thumped his elbows to the table, rested his chin in his hands. ‘But you found out it was true.’

  Nodding, Harmin slowly uncrossed his arms. He took the cup from in front of Shaky, sniffed at it and set it down untasted. ‘Yes. Needless to say I was astonished. But Fist Rheena assures me of its veracity.’

  ‘So you have come to get a look at me and to hear how it happened.’

  ‘Yes, that. And to deliver a message.’ He raised a hand. ‘But please, do not misunderstand. My interest is not merely that of the common dumb gawping foot soldier. I have something of a connection to the Guard. As you can tell from my family name. The D'Avore family are – were – cousins of mine.’

  Storo topped up his cup and sat back with a long-suffering sigh. ‘All right. I'll tell you all about it.’ Shaky, Hurl and Sunny all shot their commander surprised looks. Shaky quickly dumped out his own cup on to the straw-heaped floor then refilled it. Storo took a long drink, cleared his throat.

  ‘It was just outside Owndos, during the siege. My squad was assigned the objective of a tower overlooking the sea of that same name. Take it, or, failing that, destroy it to deny it to the warlord Brood. We were lucky ‘cause we still had our cadre battle mage, Silk – who's still with me now.’ Storo raised his voice. ‘Ain't that so, Silk?’

  Harmin glanced around and jerked, startled. A slim, pale man now sat at the next table. He wore a fine dark silk shirt, vest, and trousers now faded and worn. He offered a mocking smile to Harmin who returned it through clenched teeth.

  Storo took another drink. ‘Silk scouted the tower, reported a sizeable enemy contingent occupied it: Free City soldiers, Barghast tribals and local townsmen militia. Seemed it offered a strategic view of surrounding forest and Owndos coastline. In any case, we weren't concerned about the locals. We even had Barghast allies of our own – those boys will fight anyone, anywhere. No, the Lad's push of things was that the tower was commanded by four of the Crimson Guard. Now, that was a pause. You know the old official policy – don't engage the Guard unless you outnumber them five to one. We didn't. So that night I sent in Silk and the boys to mine the tower. The next morning a patrol went out led by three of the Guard. That suited us. We sat pretty till they were long gone then we charged the compound. The plan was to hit fast and hard an’ drive them back into the tower then blow it. Sure enough, things sailed along fine. Once most of the defenders retreated to the tower, we blew it. The whole thing went up, came crashing down in a great blast of stone and dust. The remaining Free City soldiers an’ Barghast were just stupefied and we chased them off easily enough.

  ‘But then the fourth Guard came staggering out of the fire and wreckage – seemed she was an Avowed. She must've been on an upper floor when the blast went off so she didn't get the worst of it. But dropping a four-floor stone tower on her was slowing her down some in any case. She wasn't walking so good – maybe a broken hip – and one arm was all mangled. Our Barghast circled her and thrust her full of javelins and spears. Must've been near ten spears pinning her down on the ground but she was still squirmin’, pulling them out, one by one. That impressed the Barghast no end. Their shamaness called off her boys. Yelled something about spirits and pacts and made it clear they weren't gonna have anything more to do with the Avowed. By this time she was sittin’ up. Only the javelins through her legs were holding her down.’

  Storo took a drink, raised and lowered his beefy shoulders. ‘So it was up to me. I charged in and though all she had with her was a knife I nearly got my leg sliced off for my trouble. I went down. She went back to tuggin’ at the javelins. Time was passing, so I limped over to the side of her bad arm and got a few good two-handed licks in. These slowed her down some even more and I was able to tag her head a few times. After that I could really step in and I managed to chop away until her head came away from her neck. And so she died.

  ‘Later someone told me her name: Sarafa Lenesh.’

  While Storo talked Harmin's smile had melted away into an expression of disgust. He let out a low hissed breath. ‘So, you attacked a wounded woman. Cut her head off while she was pinned down.’

  Storo nodded. ‘That's about the bare bones of it.’

  Harmin seemed at a loss for words; he shook his head in mute denial. ‘You are a barbarian. You destroyed something irreplaceable. Unique in all the world.’

  ‘They're the goddamned enemy,’ Sunny growled.

  Harmin found his smile once more. He stood. ‘Thank you for the story, Storo. Though it does you no credit.’

  ‘The message?’ Storo asked, and took a drink.

  His eyes thinning to slits, Harmin pulled a slip of folded paper from his belt. He tossed it on to the table. ‘Fist Rheena requested I deliver this. It arrived through Imperial administrative channels.’ The smile quirked up. ‘Perhaps it's a notice of retirement. One can always hope.’ After a shallow bow, he turned from the table. The two who had entered with him stood. Just short of the entrance, he paused as he caught sight of two men sitting to either side of the door. Both he knew by sight as the muscle of Storo's under-strength command: Jalor, a Seven Cities tribesman, bearing a tightly trimmed and oiled beard that did little to disguise the scars crisscrossing his dark face; and a fellow named Rell, from Genabackis, slouched in his chair, his greasy black hair hanging down over his face. These two Harmin couldn't be bothered to smile at, and chose to ignore. They returned the favour.

  Once Harmin left, Jalor and Rell crossed to the squad's table. Silk caught Storo's eye, glanced significantly to the door.

  Storo frowned a negative. ‘Let them go.’ He sat rubbing his fingers over the folded slip.

  ‘Do you think he read it?’ Shaky asked.

  ‘A’ course,’ said Sunny.

  Hurl blew the hair from her brow. ‘Why'd Rheena send him of all the garrison?’

  ‘She probably sent someone else,’ offered Silk, ‘but he stepped in.’

  Storo grunted his agreement. He opened the paper, stared for a very long time then crumpled it in his hand. He took a drink. His command exchanged glances. Sunny nudge
d Silk who shifted uncomfortably then finally asked, ‘So. What did it say?’

  Storo did not answer. He offered the slip to Shaky who took it and smoothed it out. He read aloud: ‘ “Storo Matash, we regret to inform you that the Graven Heart sank in a storm off Gull Rocks.”’ Shaky looked up. ‘Did you know someone on board?’

  ‘No. It's code. An old smuggler's code shared by Strike, and Malaz, and Nap, and a few other isles. It's an offer of a meeting from a man I knew when I was young. A friend of my father. A man I'd thought dead a long time ago.’

  Sometime later that night Hurl offered to the table, ‘Hey, that guy, Harmin, I think from now on we should call him Smiley’

  * * *

  The ruins of the shore temple were half-submerged in the waters west of Unta Bay. Its broken columns stood in the waves as mere barnacle-encrusted humps. Though an easy day's ride from Unta, this shore was a deserted stretch of rearing cliff-sides home to no more than water-birds and sea otters. A short fat man in a dark ocean-blue cloak carefully picked his way down the treacherous turning footpath that traced a way to the base of the cliff.

  Reaching the rocky shore, he dabbed the sheen of sweat from his wide face then pulled a folding camp stool of wood and leather from under his cloak and sat with a weary sigh just short of the misting sea-spray.

  Fanning himself, the man addressed the surf: ‘Come now! This coyness achieves nothing.’

  Though the waves had been pounding the tumbled rocks at the base of the cliff, the surf stilled, subsiding. The water seemed almost to withdraw. The man cocked his head as if listening to the splashing as one might a voice. And a voice spoke, though few else living would have understood it. ‘You compelled, Mallick?’ came the response sounding from the gurgle and murmur of the waves.

  Mallick Rel wiped spots of spray from his cloak. ‘Indeed. What news of the mercenaries?’

  ‘Their ships converge.’

  ‘And upon those ships – there are Avowed, yes?’

  ‘Yes. I sense their presence. What will you do, Mallick, when they come for you?’

  ‘They will not live long enough.’

  A chuckled response, ‘Perhaps it is you who will not live long enough.’

  ‘I have my guardians, and you have no idea what they are capable of.’

  ‘You are transparent to me, Mallick. It is you who has no idea of what your guardians are capable. I know this for should you have the slightest inkling you would have come begging for deliverance.’

  ‘Kellanved had his army of undead, the Imass.’

  ‘A common misconception – they never died. They were … preserved. Regardless, even they would not tolerate either them – or you.’

  ‘Fortunately, these Imass are no threat to anyone any longer.’

  The voice of splashing and whispering water was silent for a time, then came a wondering ‘How brief the memory of humans.’

  Mallick gave a languid wave. ‘Yes, yes. In any case, we were discussing the mercenaries. Do not attempt to deflect me.’

  ‘Of the Guard, their end has not yet been foreseen.’

  ‘Do not lie to your High Priest, Mael. It is only through the rituals of Jhistal that you yet have a presence here in the world.’

  The water stilled, smoothing to glass. A bulge rose swelling to a broad pillar of water. It wavered, fighting to lean forward towards the seated man, then burst in a great rushing crash. ‘And so the bindings hold,’ came the voice again. ‘Rituals so awful, Mallick, even Kellanved was revolted. Regrettable that some of you escaped.’

  The man's thick lips drew down in mock pain. ‘Struck to the core, I am. How can you name your own worship revolting? Shall more innocents have their innards splashed out upon you? Or do you resist?’

  ‘None of your acts are of my choosing, Mallick. You and your cult pursued your own interests. Not mine.’

  ‘As is true for all worship. But enough theology, diverting though it may be. When the mercenary ships head for Quon you must rush their passage. They must make Quon with all speed. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And speed the ships of the secessionists.’

  ‘You would have me hurry their progress as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  More chuckling echoed among the rocks. ‘Mallick – you disgust and amaze me. I wonder who of them will get your head first.’

  ‘I am not dismayed. It is a sure sign of success when everyone wants your head.’

  * * *

  The captain of her Royal Bodyguard woke the Primogenatrix at midnight. ‘T'enet sends word. The wards of the fourth ring are falling.’

  Timmel Orosenn, the Primogenatrix of Umryg, rose naked and waved her servants to her. ‘I felt nothing.’

  ‘T'enet says they are eroding this last barrier physically.’

  ‘Physically?’ Timmel turned while her servants dressed her. ‘Physically? Is that possible?’

  ‘T'enet seems to think so.’

  A servant wrapped Timmel's hair in a silk scarf and raised a veil across her face. ‘Immanent, I assume?’

  ‘Yes, Primogenatrix.’

  ‘Then let us see.’

  Her bodyguard escorted the Primogenatrix's carriage inland to the valley of the burial caverns. Her column passed through the massed ranks of the army, bumped down and up earthworks of ancient defensive lines, up to the front rank of the gathered Circlet of Umryg thaumaturgs who bowed as she arrived. One limped forward, aided by a cane of twisted ivory. He bowed again.

  ‘Primogenatrix. We believe that this night before dawn the fourth ring shall fall.’

  ‘T'enet.’ From the extra height of her carriage Timmel peered ahead to where thrown torches lit the bare dead earth before the granite monoliths blocking the cavern's entrance. She probed with her senses and felt the ward's weakening like a weave of cloth stretched ever further by a fist. Soon it would tear. Then it would snap.

  She stepped down. Bowing again, T'enet invited her to the tent atop a small hillock overlooking the cavern opening. The Primogenatrix's bodyguard surrounded the entire party.

  ‘Why here?’ the Primogenatrix asked as they walked. ‘Why not dig out elsewhere in the caves? They must know we are here waiting for them.’

  ‘No doubt, your highness. We chose wisely, it seems. Like our ancestors who explored them so long ago, these demons have reached the same decision: the caverns, vast through they may be, offer no other exit.’

  ‘Why erode the ward physically?’

  ‘Two prime potentials, your highness. One: their practitioners are spent or dead. Two: the practitioners are hoarding their strength against the moment of escape.’

  ‘Which of these do you favour?’

  ‘The second, your highness.’

  Beneath the tent's awning, the Primogenatrix assumed her seat in a backless leather chair facing the distant entrance. The thaumaturgs of the Circlet arranged themselves before her. Ahead of her position, the group dipped, sloping down to rank after rank of serried Umryg soldiery, wide empty oil traps awaiting the touch of flame, pit traps floored by spikes, and buried nets woven of iron wire.

  The Primogenatrix motioned for T'enet who edged his bald head to her, both hands firm at the cane planted before him. ‘You and I alone survive from the entombing, T'enet. So many died in that war. I acquiesced to your council then. Yet here we are once again. It is as if nothing has changed. We may well succeed again, re-establish all the wardings, rebuild all the barriers.. Yet something speaks to me that we would be doing our descendants no favours in that. Indeed, they may well curse us for it.’

  ‘I understand, Primogenatrix. Your concern does you credit. No doubt, however, they are much reduced after their imprisonment. Perhaps we will manage to destroy them this time.’

  Timmel said nothing. She remembered what it took just to entomb these twenty remaining foreign horrors her sister had hired – summoned many said now – to aid her in her bid to usurp the throne. It had taken her island kingdom decades to recov
er from that destruction. That, and the warriors’ dark-red uniforms, had given birth to their name: the Blood Demons.

  *

  As the night progressed the migraine pain of her strongest warding fraying and releasing like a taut rope snapping tore a gasp from Timmel. T'enet steadied her with a wave of his own power. She nodded to him. ‘Now.’

  T'enet stamped his cane to the ground and a great belling note rang within the valley. Shouts sounded from commanders. A low rustling as of distant rain muttered as the soldiery readied themselves. The pools of oil dug before the entrance flamed alight. Siege catapults and springalds mounted on stands ratcheted taut.