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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Mallick sipped the wine. ‘Dissolving – how appropriate. My friend, you are a poet.’

  Korbolo stared down at the repulsive squat figure at his feet. The strong urge took hold of him to push the man's head beneath the waters, to throttle this monstrous lurking curse that had so taken over his life. But then, for all he knew, that could prove impossible; this creature seemed born of a swamp. ‘Meanwhile,’ he continued, struggling to regain his thoughts, ‘neither you nor she do a thing. Kingdoms continue to rise in revolt against the Imperial Throne and we do nothing!’

  Mallick sighed. ‘But my dear High Fist, First Sword. That is precisely what we have been encouraging them to do.’

  Korbolo ground his teeth – mockery! One day this toad would push him too far. ‘Riot and dissent against her, yes. But secession? This is chaos. Nothing less than civil war. It is out of everyone's control!’

  Mallick's bulging eyes blinked up at him. ‘Again you amaze me, First Sword. Pure poetry – chaos and loss of control. Amazing.’ He sipped his wine. ‘In the first place it is not a civil war, it is devolution to the rather monotonous old-fashioned warfare of a century ago. City state ‘gainst city state. Neighbour versus neighbour. I understand that is something of a tradition here on Quon.’

  ‘Yes, before the emperor.’

  ‘Exactly. Before the strong hand of the emperor …’

  Korbolo stood motionless, breathless, as the implications of Mallick's hints blossomed. And who would the populace accept at the head of the legions restoring peace and order to their smoking, war-ravaged countryside? Surely not this bloated travesty of a man. No, not him. He let out a long shuddering breath, swallowed to wet his suddenly tight throat. ‘Very well, Mallick. However, this does not explain your or her utter inaction.’

  ‘But, High Fist, just what would you have her do?’

  ‘March! We have, what, some eight thousand regulars here in the capital? We should march on Gris or Bloor before they ally against us.’

  ‘And leave Unta undefended?’

  ‘Against who? There is no one to threaten her.’

  ‘Not at the moment. But should we leave … perhaps our friend Nira and his brother nobles who are so, ah, coerced in their support, might put their resources together and decide they could do a better job of defending Imperial interests, hmm, Korbolo?’

  The High Fist saw it then – deadlock. Three jackals circling a wounded bhederin. Who dared strike first and risk attack from the rear? Yet how could any of the three walk away to leave such a prize for any other? Laseen, who ruled in name only? Or he and Mallick who ruled in fact? Or the nobles and Assemblymen who also may?

  Yet, the thought troubled Korbolo, the beast was dying while they chased one another. Perhaps it didn't matter to this creature Mallick, for whom a dead beast would serve just the same. But it certainly mattered to him. It must then be his duty to be sure to act before Mallick allowed things to degenerate too far. The High Fist nodded to himself, yes, that obviously was to be his responsibility. He looked down; Mallick was watching him expectantly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that all, High Fist?’

  ‘Yes, Mallick. That is all.’

  ‘Very good. Then we are in agreement?’

  ‘Yes. Full agreement.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Mallick finished his wine.

  Korbolo turned away from the sight of the man's nauseating pallid flesh. He straightened his shirt. ‘You presume much, priest. Too often in the past you've promised everything but delivered nothing. The rebellion of Seven Cities – failure. Laseen's fall in Malaz city – failure. If you fail this time you will not live to promise anew. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘You do, First Sword of the Empire.’

  Korbolo loosened his fists, forced himself to breathe out. How did the man manage to make even that title an insult? ‘When I wish to speak to you again I will summon you, Mallick.’

  As he went to collect his cloak he heard the man's soft voice responding, ‘So you command, Sword of the Empire.’

  Some time later Mallick set his goblet on the marble border of his pool. Oryan padded silently forward to collect it. He stood over Mallick for a time, looking to the door. ‘Yes, Oryan?’

  ‘Why is that man still alive, master?’

  ‘I have always found it convenient to keep someone around upon whom everything can be blamed. Also, armour gives me hives.’

  The old man sneered his disgust. ‘Any fool can wave a sword and order men to their deaths.’

  ‘As all of these military commanders prove again and again. Yes, Oryan. But this one is our fool.’

  * * *

  The morning of the second week of siege Lieutenant Rillish stood staring into a polished copper-fronted shield attempting to dry-shave himself. His hand shook so abominably it was his third attempt. He told himself it must be from having just stood command through the entire night; at least he hoped that was the case. A knock at his barracks door allowed him an excuse to abandon the effort. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sergeant, sir.’

  ‘It's not the Hood-damned south wall again, is it?’

  ‘No, sir. Not that,’ Sergeant Chord called through the door. ‘Given up on that they have sir, as a bad job.’

  ‘Then pray what is it, Sergeant?’

  ‘It's the elders, sir. Another delegation. Like a word.’

  Again? Hadn't he made it plain enough? Rillish eased himself down into a camp stool. He massaged his thigh where a leaf-bladed spearhead had slid straight in. ‘Very well, Sergeant, let them in.’

  The door opened and in shuffled five Wickan elders of those trapped with them within the fort. Rillish knew the names of two, the hetman, Udep, and a shaman held in high regard, Clearwater. It struck him how beaten down they looked. Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. Trousers of tattered cloth and torn thin leather. Even their amulets and wristlets of beaten copper looked tarnished and cheap. These were the feared warriors the Empire could not tame? But then, a Wickan without a horse was a sad sight no matter the circumstances; and these were the worst.

  ‘Pardon, Commander,’ Udep began, ‘we would speak again.’

  ‘Yes, hetman. You are aways welcome. And you, shaman.’

  The grey-haired shaggy mage managed a jerked nod. It seemed to Rillish that the man was dead on his feet: hands twitching with exhaustion, face pale as if drained of blood. A haunted look in his sunken eyes. Was the man expending himself sending curses out among the besiegers? If so, he'd heard nothing of it. He'd have to question Chord.

  ‘We again ask that we be allowed the dignity of defending that which is ours.’

  ‘We've been through this before, hetman. Malazan soldiery will defend this installation.’

  The man's scarred hands clenched and unclenched on his belt as if at the throat of an enemy. ‘What is it you wish, Malazan? Would you have us beg?’

  ‘Beg?

  Barked Wickan from the three old women with Udep made the man wince. He took a great shuddering breath. ‘My pardon, Commander. That was unworthy. Even now you spill your own blood in defence in our land.’ The hetman looked down.

  Rillish saw that his leg wound had re-opened. The packed dirt under his chair was damp with blood. He took hold of his leg. One of the old women said something that sounded suspiciously like idiot and slapped his hands aside. She began rebinding the wound.

  ‘You need every hand you can get, Commander,’ continued Udep.

  ‘We've been over that already.’

  ‘At least we would die fighting.’

  ‘Don't be impatient. There's every chance of it yet.’

  The hetman crossed his arms, hugging himself. He seemed to be struggling with something; he and Clearwater exchanged tight glances. ‘You leave us very little choice. We still have our pride.’

  Rillish knew the elders had been cooking something up in the main stone building he'd moved them and the children to. So far he'd not interfered. He raised a finger. ‘No attacks. Not until the last soldier falls. Thi
s is still a Malazan military possession. Understood?’

  The shaman Clearwater opened his mouth to address Rillish, but Udep cut him off with a curt command. They turned to go. Rillish touched the arm of the aged Wickan grandmother who had rebound his leg. She turned back, her gaze narrowed, wary.

  ‘My thanks.’

  A smile of bright white teeth melted decades from the squat woman and dazzled Rillish. At the door the hetman paused. ‘Commander, when you lose the walls you will be falling back to us at the main building, yes?’

  For a moment Rillish thought about disputing whether they would ever lose control of the walls but because it was so obvious to the both of them he decided against insulting the man with empty assurances. Instead, he allowed a curt nod.

  Udep answered in kind and left. Sergeant Chord stuck his head in. ‘Movement in their camp, sir. Looks like new arrivals.’

  ‘More of them, Sergeant?’

  The man grinned. ‘Don't matter. We've iron enough for all.’

  Rillish stood, wincing. He belted on his twinned Untan duelling swords. ‘Let's hope it's not someone who knows what he's doing.’

  ‘No, sir. Baron Horse's-Ass still looks to be in charge.’

  ‘Well thank Trake for small blessings, hey, Sergeant? Let's have a look.’

  * * *

  He thought of himself as Ragman now. A knotted bundle of used up bits and pieces whose original cut had long since been lost. Walking the seeming endless plains of ash and fields of broken rock that was the Imperial Warren the man stopped suddenly, examined the tattered remains of his once fine clothes and nodded, satisfied. Yes, inside and out; so it should be. Allowing himself to fall forward he twisted the move into a series of cartwheels and spinning high kicks. Tatterdemalion, he named himself as he ran through his impromptu pattern. Harlequin. Clown. He froze, crouched, arms outstretched. No – he must not lose hold of the one thread that could lead him back. Though they were coming far less often now; perhaps they'd learned their lesson.

  Movement above in the unchanging lead sky drove him to cover behind a large boulder. Dark shapes moving across the sky, far off, ponderously huge. So, not just wild reports and stories from sources of… questionable … veracity. Telling himself they were too distant and that he was no doubt too insignificant, he stood and set off at a jog, following.

  The ground steadily broke into shallow gullies and high buttes surrounded by erosional slopes and gravel fans. Skittering down one such slope he stopped just short of a jutting spine of basalt. His Warren-sensitivity told him someone was near, hiding, watchful. After catching his breath he called, ‘You can come out.’

  A figure detatched itself from the shadows of one jagged black spire. It climbed down, lithe and quick. Ragman caught his breath – one of them yet not. Different by her style. Much more colourful, individual. Similar, yet not regimented in her moves. She stopped before him, a safe distance off. Dark eyes regarded him through a slit between veil and headscarf. ‘And you are?’ she asked.

  ‘Impressed.’

  A glance toward the spires. ‘They are that. Like a peek?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘After you.’

  He gave a courtier's bow and climbed the spine to a gap between spires. Beyond, across a plain of twisting gullies and dunes five titanic geometric shapes hovered. Beneath them the winds blew constantly, billowing outwards in dust clouds that reached high overhead. What were they up to? Could anyone guess? He climbed back down.

  The woman joined him. ‘An invasion, you think?’

  ‘Or the landlords come to fumigate.’

  The dark eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that one must abandon one's self-centred blinders. Not everything relates back to us.’

  The woman stepped away, eased into a ready stance. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A lost fragment of bureaucratic oversight.’

  More questions obviously occurred to the woman but she clamped down on them. ‘Well, as intriguing as all this is …’

  ‘You must report it.’

  She nodded. He bowed his agreement, but instead of straightening he rolled forward, sweeping. The woman cartwheeled aside. They stood, facing one another, he astonished, she calculating in her narrowed glance. He did not bother to hide his delight. ‘Wonderfully done! It has been a long time since I've seen his style.’

  The woman – girl, he corrected himself – gave an elegant bow. ‘You recognize it! My father taught me. And you not ought to have revealed your familiarity …

  ‘It will not matter … shortly.’

  She bowed again. ‘Apologies. Must be off.’ Shadows threaded up from the dirt to spin about her like a whirlwind. His surprise lasted only an instant; he thrust out both arms and lances of darkness struck the girl throwing her backwards. She lay gasping for air, her ribs shattered, lungs punctured.

  He crossed to stand over her.

  Still conscious she stared up, her gaze accusing. ‘Kurald Galain!’ she gasped.

  He knelt on his haunches next to her. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘You! But we thought you … you were no …’

  ‘Yes. I know. I am so very sorry. More sorry because I would not have sent someone like you. For, as you see, I've come myself.’ He rested a hand on her shoulder. Unconscious. Still, her heart beat. There was yet a chance …

  He gestured and a pool of utter darkness emerged from beneath the girl like liquid night. She sank into it, disappearing as if into a well of ink. A small enough gesture … but he felt that he owed her at least that. A pity that it is always the best who are sent.

  He should've anticipated that.

  * * *

  Five days’ continuous favourable winds driving the fleet south-west was good luck enough to draw Urko from his cabin to endure the company of his High Mage, Bala Jesselt. Ullen steadied himself next to his commander, noting how the man remained rock solid no matter the shock of each swell or shudder of a fall into a deepening trough. Yet every league gained seemed to deepen furrows at the old admiral's brows.

  ‘Unexpected reach and influence this new ally possesses, yes?’ said Bala from mid-deck. Ullen glanced back to her; somehow, the woman's voice, pitched no higher than usual, penetrated the howling winds and crashing seas. An eerie calm also surrounded the giant woman, no spray or winds touching her layered robes, or her intricately bunched hair.

  The latest count?’ Urko growled.

  ‘None missing. The transports are still falling behind, though.’

  ‘Have the lead elements drop sail. Hold back, if necessary. No sense arriving without the damned army.’

  ‘Yes, sir. If I may, Admiral …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Our speed – does this not change our plans? Will we not arrive ahead of schedule?’

  Scowling, Urko eyed Bala. ‘Anything new from Choss?’

  The Dal Hon mage edged her head side to side, her fan flickering so swiftly as to be invisible. ‘Nothing, dear Urko. A word perhaps, to my resource – congratulations? He has earned as much surely.’

  ‘That or my fist in his face. I'll decide which once all this is over and done. Until then, nothing. Understood?’

  Bala gave an exaggerated huff that shook her broad bosom. She muttered under her breath, ‘All my efforts …’

  Ullen could only shake his head. Here they were running ahead of typhoon winds threatening to swat them from the face of the sea, shouting to be heard, and she's fanning herself, able to communicate her faintest complaints. ‘Will they be there, in Cawn, to rendezvous?’ he called to Urko.

  The admiral shook his head; spray glistened on his scar-mottled mostly bald pate. ‘No. At this rate, we'll beat them. Mind you, making the Horn could be touch ‘n’ go. No matter, when we arrive in the harbour those Cawnese'll come around. Always able to tell which way the wind's blowing, them.’ And he laughed then for the first time in months. ‘Get it? Wind blowin’? Ha!’

  Ullen smiled, relieved to see his c
ommander in a lightened mood. Yet he could not keep his gaze from returning to the glistening dark face of their High Mage. She sat where she always had, at centre deck, where she'd first positioned herself, and, thinking on it, Ullen could not call to mind a single time when she could not be found there. She even took her meals there, and slept sitting up, her fan shimmering and hissing through the night like a giant insect. He had to admit to being impressed – she reminded him of their old powerful cadre mages, A'Karonys or Nightchill.