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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Kyle had decided that he really ought not be where he was. Traveller, however, blocked the exit. Since he was stuck, then, he decided he ought to be useful and guard the man's flank. He rested his hand on the grip of his tulwar and found the sword surprisingly warm – hot, almost. He yanked his hand away, alarmed.

  ‘And your offer?’ Traveller ground out.

  ‘My offer?’ Ammanas fairly squawked. ‘Gods! Need I spell it out?’

  ‘From you? Yes. Exactly so.’

  The god – yes, the god of deceivers, Kyle reminded himself – hissed a string of curses beneath a breath, drew himself up as tall as he could manage – a height yet far below even that of Kyle, who was considered squat – and swished his walking stick back and forth through the air, mimicking swordplay. ‘You strike at shadows. You chase ghosts. Yet always your quarry eludes you … Well, I know something of shadows and eluding. I can help you along, old friend. A nudge here; a hint there. What say you?’

  ‘And the price?’

  The walking stick set down with a tap. Translucent hands rested upon its silver hound's head grip. ‘A mere service. That is all. One small service.’

  Traveller was silent for a time, his gaze steady upon the wavering transparent figure. Kyle's sword had become intolerably hot. He pulled it away by stretching his belt. Yet instead of alarm what he felt was embarrassment – how dare he interrupt such talk so far above his ken with a complaint about his weapon?

  ‘I will agree, Ammanas, provided you agree to a condition.’

  The shadow figure hunched, almost wincing. ‘A condition! What's this of conditions? I ask no conditions of you! One does not raise a finger to the one you seek and insist upon conditions!’

  ‘Hear me out. Don't fly to the winds.’ A harsh laugh sounded from Cotillion at that. The figure turned a dark glare upon the man. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Two requests.’

  ‘Two! Two!’

  ‘Hear him out,’ Cotillion said wearily.

  ‘I'm handling these negotiations.’

  ‘Is that what you call this?’

  The figure wavered closer to Cotillion. ‘Don't—’ Though appearing to float, Ammanas seemed to suddenly trip, stumbling. ‘What?’ He poked with his walking stick and came up with limp folds of muddy torn robes. ‘What is this mess? Look at it! Mud all over the floor! Who is going to clean this up? Where is he! I'll skin the rat.‘ He shot a finger into the air. ‘Wait!’ The finger lowered to point to Kyle. ‘What are you doing?’

  Kyle could not help but back away. ‘Nothing. Nothing! It's just my sword. Something's—’

  ‘Cotillion! I sense an emergence!’

  A hiss accompanied Cotillion's coiled rope seeming to come to life of it own accord. It leapt to twist around the sheathed weapon at Kyle's side. A flick and Kyle's belt snapped, the tulwar flying loose. A coil then snapped around his neck, tightening. Traveller motioned and the rope parted, snipped cleanly in two. Cotillion and Traveller faced one another, Cotillion spinning his foreshortened length of rope, Traveller with his sword held in a two-handed grip above his head, point down. Kyle yanked the now limp coil of rope from his neck and gasped in a breath.

  ‘Halt!’ Ammanas bellowed. Surprisingly, both men obeyed the Deceiver, edging back into guard positions. He raised a finger it to where the tulwar had fallen. ‘An uninvited guest.’

  The sheathed weapon had fallen in a tangle of Kyle's leather belt. Smoke now climbed from the equipment, then flames as the wood and leather burst into fire. Incredibly, molten iron poured out over the stones, bubbling and hissing. It steamed like boiling water. The clouds became biting, forcing Kyle to cover his eyes and nose. Even Traveller, at Kyle's side, was batting an arm through the mixed steam and smoke.

  As the smoke dispersed Kyle caught sight of a tall shape hunched where the sword had fallen. The figure slowly straightened, climbing taller and taller, stretched out his long arms. A bunched mane of white hair fell down his back. He was barefoot in loose trousers and a long loose shirt.

  When the newcomer turned, Kyle was astounded to see the Archmagus of the Spur. It was he! The Wind King! Closer now, Kyle was certain that he must also be the figure from his dreams.

  Ammanas, Cotillion and Traveller all edged together to face the intruder and Kyle almost laughed to see them shrinking from the entity. His second thought was: all that is Holy! Who was this being? Ammanas eventually slid forward, planted his walking stick. ‘Osserc! You are trespassing upon my demesnes!’

  So! It was he! Sky father of his people. Alive after all! Known to these – an Ascendant?

  The blunt, almost brutal features of the being did not even register recognition that anyone had spoken. His gold eyes scanned the room, avid. A smile of satisfaction tightened his heavy lips. ‘After so long …’ he rumbled in accented Talian.

  ‘You must go! You are not permitted here!’

  Kyle's stomach clenched in dread upon seeing Cotillion and Traveller, flanking Ammanas, exchange narrowed glances. The doorway was now unoccupied but Kyle did not move. He longed to approach yet dared not interrupt. From the distance, muted by the walls of the ruin, or building, or whatever sort of construct it was, came the long and low baying of hounds. Ammanas straightened to rest his hands on the handle of his walking stick. A creamy satisfied smile crept up his lips.

  Osserc merely turned his back upon everyone, stretched his hands out, running them over the walls. ‘Yes, yes. I see …’ he breathed, his tone almost reverent.

  Ammanas's insubstantial features twisted his frustration. He stamped his walking stick. ‘Do not be so foolish as to provoke me!’

  ‘And do not be so foolish as to repeat the mistake you made with my compatriot Anomander not so long ago,’ Osserc growled. ‘How many guardians did you lose bickering with him, little shadow crow? Two? Three?’

  Flinching away, Ammanas turned to Cotillion. The two appeared to share unspoken communication. The rope in Cotillion's hand twitched as if it were part of the thoughts. Traveller slid forward, sword raised, the light gleaming from the oily magenta blade. His back to the room, Osserc murmured, ‘I know that weapon better than you and we have no business, upstart.’ Traveller carefully edged back, his eyes slitted.

  A rumbling snarl shook the stones beneath Kyle's feet. He turned his head aside to see there in the entrance a crouching hound, a monstrous one that appeared as if it could be fully as tall as Kyle himself, mangy brown and scarred. Its snout, longer than Kyle's forearm, rested on its outstretched forepaws. Ammanas crossed to it, set a hand on its head, murmured reassuringly.

  Into this tableau came the little monkey-like messenger. He was pushing a mop ahead of himself as he came from further within. All eyes, but for those of Osserc, moved to track the creature as it became increasingly obvious that his path would take him straight into the giant. The mop bumped up against Osserc's bare foot. The giant did not move, though he clasped his hands behind his back in what Kyle thought might have been irritation. The creature repeatedly banged the wet mop-head against Osserc's foot. Its face screwed up in vexation. The giant edged his head down. The monkey-like thing jumped up and down, waved its arms, stamped a foot. Letting out a deep rumbling sigh, Osserc stepped aside to allow the fellow to pass. The creature slathered the mop over the flagging, muttering to itself.

  Ammanas straightened, his gauzy face relieved. The House is unconcerned. We need not bother ourselves with this rude intrusion. We may ignore it as one might an irksome fly.’

  Osserc snapped a glare to Ammanas that just as quickly eased into indifference and he turned away. His gaze found Kyle and the eyes swirled molten, his lips pulled back in what one might generously call a smile, revealing prominent tusks at his lower jaws. ‘Well done, son of the steppes. I am in your debt.’

  ‘Father of Winds,’ Kyle began, stammering, ‘I had no idea …’

  ‘You were not to. And I am not father to winds or to your people. Your ancestors merely adopted the ancestral totems of sun, sky and winds – a
ll of which shine, turn and blow without my intervention. So are traditions invented. It is up to you to keep them – or not. Here,’ and he gestured and a weapon appeared in his hand. ‘I owe you a weapon. Take mine with my thanks and we are even. Goodbye.’ The giant abruptly turned and walked away, disappearing into the gloom further within. Kyle stared after him as one might a phantom.

  ‘Good riddance!’ Ammanas called loudly. ‘Now, the rest of you, out as well! Out! Is this a grubby tavern? Am I social host?’

  The hound had left and so Kyle backed into the doorway. It opened on to a hall that led past an alcove containing a huge and ornate set of bronze armour, then on to another door that opened as Kyle approached. Kyle almost stumbled here as he glanced back to see the same old beehive-like tomb behind him.

  Outside, Jan and the Lost brothers sat up, weapons out. ‘Thank the Dark Hunter,’ Stalker called. ‘A hound as large as a horse came running in after you.’

  ‘Yes. It didn't attack.’

  ‘And Traveller?’

  Kyle looked back, surprised. ‘He should be with me …’

  After a moment the swordsman did emerge. He glanced anxiously among them, then relaxed. ‘Good. I was worried that perhaps the hound …’

  ‘It ignored us,’ Stalker said. ‘So? What happened?’ and he looked between them.

  ‘An agreement was reached and you are free to go,’ Traveller said.

  ‘You?’ Kyle and Stalker echoed.

  ‘Yes. I am not going with you.’

  ‘I didn't agree to that,’ Kyle said, his voice rising.

  ‘Don't worry. There's no danger – either for you or for me.’

  ‘No danger? That man, or god, or whatever he is, is a lunatic’

  ‘I've had that impression for some time, Kyle.’

  ‘So, just like that? You'll stay?’ The scout could not have been more sceptical.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do we go back to the boat?’ Jan asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Why not?’

  ‘You no longer need it.’ The swordsman scanned the horizon, inclined his head to indicate a direction. ‘You should go that way.’

  ‘What do you—’ Stalker began but something flew out of the open portal to land in the dust with a wet slap. A torn muddy robe.

  Everyone traded glances. ‘I suppose,’ Coots said, ‘that means we ought to be on our way.’

  ‘Yes. You should.’

  ‘Traveller,’ Kyle begged. ‘Don't…’

  ‘It's best this way. I'm endangering you. Attracting unnecessary attention.’ He walked to stand before Jan. The two locked gazes for a time, neither looking away. Finally, taking a deep breath, the swordsman studied Jan directly for the longest time, his gaze moving up and down; the old man did not move at all, his mouth clenched tight as if he dared not speak. After a moment Traveller sighed, nodded at some unspoken evaluation and turned to Kyle. He set his hands on Kyle's shoulders. ‘Farewell, Kyle. Bring your case to the Guard. I hope they will prove worthy of you.’ He released Kyle's shoulders.

  ‘Please come with us!’

  The swordsman gently reached out to touch the amber stone hanging at Kyle's neck. ‘You were right to pick that up. But I know he will always be with you regardless. I know he will always be with me. Farewell.’ And he turned away, blinking.

  Kyle felt the hot tears at his cheeks. ‘Traveller …’

  The man's shoulders tightened. ‘It is how it must be, Kyle. I … I am sorry.’ He faced the brothers. ‘Stalker, Coots, Badlands. An honour.’

  They tilted their heads in goodbye.

  Traveller ducked into the tomb, disappearing into the darkness.

  ‘Farewell Whorou!’ a voice called from aside. ‘Fare thee well!’ Kyle spun. Their guide, the dirty-robed fellow, had returned. As they all watched, he blew his nose on the arm of his torn garment. Kyle glanced back to the entrance; it was of course gone. ‘Come, come,’ the man beckoned, the loose wet sleeves hanging empty. ‘Come.’

  Reluctantly, Kyle last, they started away from the beehive-shaped tomb, striking a direction that to all appearances seemed no different from any other across the flat dusty plain dotted by its ancient sepulchres. Overhead, in the slate sky, things flew, looking like nothing more than folded shadows.

  CHAPTER VI

  It was an act driven by a profoundly inward – and backward – looking movement. Who are we outsiders to judge? It was, after all, also driven by the honest (if we may claim misdirected) desire to improve the condition and prospects of the Wickan people … In this regard it must be seen as completely earnest and not in the least duplicitous. Especially when bracketed with the act it then allowed.

  The First Civil Wars, Vol. II

  Histories in Honour of Tallobant

  SURROUNDED BY COMMAND STAFF AND BODYGUARD, ULLEN STOOD next to Urko and the Moranth Gold commander atop a modest rise to one side of the marching columns of Talian and Falaran infantry. Toc, together with a troop of some forty, came riding up and reined in. ‘A good day for battle,‘ Urko called and Toc gave his assent. ‘Not too hot.’ Ullen peered at the sky; yes, overcast, though it might rain. He didn't look forward to that. They had left the fort before first light and been marching through dawn. The night had been relatively calm – the beast, Ryllandaras, if indeed it was he, had probed twice but been driven off by the massed ranks of Gold, backed up by a liberal dose of their munitions. Already flights of gulls, crows and kites crowded the skies over the line of march. How many generations of warfare, Ullen wondered, had it taken them to learn what the massing of so many men and women in armour might presage?

  ‘Commander V'thell,’ Toc greeted the Moranth in his armour hued a deep, rich gold like the very last gleam of sunset. The Moranth inclined his fully enclosed helmed head.

  ‘Still unmounted, I see,’ Toc said to Urko with something like a nostalgic smile.

  Urko shrugged beneath his heavy armour of banded iron. ‘It reassures the soldiers. They don't like their commander being mounted when they ain't. Makes ‘em suspect you're gonna ride off as soon as things get hot.’

  Toc's staff, all mounted, shared amused glances. Captain Moss caught Ullen's eye and winked. ‘And the carriage?’ Toc asked, gesturing down the gentle slope to where a huge carriage painted brilliant red and green waited while grooms fought its fractious team of six horses.

  Urko rolled his eyes. ‘Bala. She'll be with me at the centre rear. I'll have the reserves. The Falaran cavalry and elements of the Talian and Falaran infantry. Choss is already with the south flank. You'll have the north – and where are those blasted Seti anyway?’

  Toc scanned the north horizon. ‘Bands are appearing. They'll be here soon.’

  ‘Bloody better be.’

  ‘What of this force in the south? The Kanese?’ Toc asked.

  ‘Still arrayed around the south side of Pilgrim's Bridge. None too eager to take on the Guard – can't say I blame them. Amaron has some hints that they are to come out for Surl—’ Urko stopped, correcting himself, ‘for the Empress. But he's not sure. They might decide it's worth it, though, at any time.’

  ‘We'll keep an eye on them.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And the Marchland Sentries?’

  Urko paused, glanced away, his mouth drawing down even more. ‘Withdrawn to the west. Out of harm's way ‘n’ all. Too bad. Could've used them. But perhaps for the better, all things considered.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  V'thell bowed to the general. ‘Permission to join my people.’

  ‘Granted. And V'thell …’ The Moranth Gold turned back. Urko raised a fist. ‘You're the hammer. Break them.’

  V'thell bowed again. ‘We shall.’

  ‘I should track down an ataman,’ Toc said. Urko nodded his assent. The cavalry commander rode off with his troop.

  ‘And myself?’ Ullen asked.

  ‘I want you here. If things go to pot I'll have to wade in and I want you to take over.’

  Ullen
was alarmed but struggled to disguise his unease. Wade in? You're not young any more, Commander. ‘Aye, sir.’

  The general waved to the carriage. ‘Now go down and see what Bala has to say.’

  Ullen less successfully hid a smile. ‘Yes, sir.’

  *

  Toc and his troop combed the rolling hills north-west of the assembly point. From high ground the dust of Laseen's forces was clear to the east. Midday, his instincts told him. They'd finish manoeuvring by midday. Where were Brokeleg and Ortal? It was unthinkable they should let him down. After all the years he'd spent among the Seti; after he'd fought with Kellanved for their interests. He'd even raised his own children among them: Ingen, Leese and little Toc the Younger.