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

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Stubbin made a motion for quiet.

  ‘What is it?’ Nait whispered.

  The boy waved furiously for silence.

  Oh, right. He listened. He didn't hear a damned thing. That is, except for the wings of night feeders, the growls and snapping of fighting jackals and plains wolves, the moaning of one or two wounded still alive somewhere out there in the dark. ‘I don't hear—!’ A hand grasped him and another covered his mouth, stifling his yell of surprise. He was yanked around to face the sweaty, dark, scarred features of Master Sergeant Temp. He relaxed and was released. ‘It's you!’

  ‘Yeah. Damned unfortunate.’

  ‘They said you were blown up.’

  ‘That's the story. ‘Predate you keeping to it.’

  ‘Uh, OK. Why?’

  ‘Let's say I first left Imperial service under sharp circumstances.’

  Nait's squad gathered around. ‘What's up? Kibb asked.

  The man was a gruesome sight, hacked and slashed, the front of his layered iron hauberk and scale gauntlets dark with the remains of blood and gore. His shield was gone, but from his short time in the phalanx Nait knew it was common to go through two or three or four shields in any one engagement. ‘What're you doing out here?’

  ‘Same as you, I expect.’ He flicked the cloth tied around Nait's arm. ‘What's this?’

  Nait thought maybe he blushed and was thankful for the dark. ‘Made sergeant.’

  ‘Handin’ them out to anyone these days.’

  ‘Listen – we're headin’ back. You coming or not?’

  ‘No, you're coming with me.’

  ‘Coming with you? What in Fanderay's ass for?’

  ‘There's Seti poking around out there and I want to know who and why.’

  ‘What? Who cares? Ryllandaras is out here. We gotta get back!’

  The master sergeant dragged Nait up. ‘Ryllandaras ain't gonna bother with little ol’ us so don't bother with your cover story.’ He motioned to the squad. ‘Fall in, double-column.’

  ‘Cover story? What d'you mean cover story?’

  ‘I know why you came out here with your saboteur squad.’ He shook Nait by the arm. ‘Got yourself some munitions, don't cha? Gonna bag yourself the big one, ain't ya?’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘The old fart's got a point,’ Kibb said aside.

  The veteran waved a gauntleted hand. ‘It's all right. You'll get your chance for everlastin’ fame and glory. I just want a quick parley with these Seti here, then we'll hustle back to camp and I'll help you ambush Whitey.’

  ‘For the last time, I don't—’

  ‘Shhh.’

  The master sergeant led them west past the killing fields out on to horse-trampled prairie. Farther west Nait could just make out a party of Seti horsemen, dismounted and gathered together. They seemed to be just waiting, watching the east, towards the Imperial encampment.

  The master sergeant whispered into Nait's ear:

  ‘Call for the Boar.’ ‘What? Nait hissed. ‘No, you call!’

  The veteran nudged him none too lightly. ‘G'wan.’

  Eyes on the master sergeant, who winked his encouragement, Nait cleared his throat. The Seti all dropped from sight as if felled. ‘Ah – is the Boar there?’ he called in a strained whisper.

  After a time the answer came in Talian: ‘Who is asking?’

  ‘Tell him,’ whispered the master sergeant, ‘his sword-brother.’

  Nait cleared his throat once more. ‘Ah – his sword-brother.’

  A man stood, short and very stocky, long arms akimbo. ‘Sword-brother? Stand up then, damn you!’

  The master sergeant stood. ‘I know that voice!’ ‘And I know that silhouette.’

  The two men started forward towards one another through the grass, slowly though, warily, until close they threw themselves into each other's arms, pounding each other on the back.

  ‘Am I seein’ things,’ Kibb asked. ‘Or are those two guys hugging?’

  The Seti chief, or warleader, Nait wasn't sure what he was, gave instructions to his band. They mounted and rode off to the north-east without him. ‘Gonna ambush Whitey on his way back if they can,’ the master sergeant explained. The man then came east with them. Turns out he was some kind of Malazan veteran who'd served with the master sergeant. The two led the way back, talking in low gravelly tones.

  ‘I thought the Seti was all for the jackal,’ Jawl whispered to Nait.

  ‘Seems this Boar fella's against him.’ He studied the faces of his squad as they pushed their way through the cold wet grass. Here he was asking them to pick through the killing fields for the second time. If they hadn't yet had all their delusions about warfare squeezed from them by now, they would have before this night was done. Tranter and Martin humped their broad shields on their backs, their eyes scanning the dark, never resting in any one place. His infantry saboteurs, Kal, Trapper, Brill and the woman, May, walked more or less together while the Untan kids kept together. He was proud of them, the way they'd handled the horror of seein’ all this. But then, they'd been here when it was delivered. Gone was the fear – you can only sustain a terror-pitch for so long – but gone also were the grimaces of pale nausea and flinches of disgust. It looked to Nait as if walking through the field of the fallen was pushing them down into the worst mood for any soldier, flat sadness. He crossed to them.

  ‘Hey – when we get back maybe I'll see about getting you lot kitted out proper. How ‘bout that?’

  Looking up, Poot brightened. ‘Really? Like with real armour ‘n’ such?’

  ‘Yeah, could be.’

  Kibb and Jawl started taking about what kind of weapons and armour they'd want. Poot just smiled dreamily at the thought of it. But little Stubbin wouldn't be drawn in – nothing could pull his eyes from scanning the fields.

  Ahead, the master sergeant and the Seti had stopped to let them catch up. Temp signed for everyone to stay low. ‘What is it?’ Nait asked. Both veterans signed angrily for silence. Kneeling, everyone listened. At first Nait couldn't hear anything unusual over the same noises of snarling of the sated jackals and the moans of wounded suffering out there among the many, and now tormented by thirst. Then came a distant roaring, as of countless throats shouting – a riot far away, or battle. And a louder echoing bellow and snarl. Everyone's eyes brightened in the dark. The master sergeant and the Seti leapt to their feet. ‘C'mon! Forward!’

  * * *

  It was the worst engagement of Ullen's life though he himself was in no danger. Men and women, his soldiers, pulled themselves by their clawed hands up the mud-filled trench they'd just worked to dig. They threw themselves three, four, five deep against the crossed spikes and makeshift palisade of timbers and logs, begging for weapons, for mercy, for everyone inside to die miserable deaths. Soldiers at the barricade pushed them back with spears, poleaxes and lances. And he and Urko could do nothing. Guarded, they'd been marched close to wagons where Imperial soldiers tossed swords and shields out over the barricade to the clamouring horde beyond. Swords and shields only, no armour or bows or crossbows. Nearby stood Laseen, surrounded by her guards, making it clear what authority lay behind this relief – if delayed.

  Out in the darkness beyond the reach of the compound torches, the man-eater, Ryllandaras, roared and slaughtered. His explosive bellowing shook the boards of the wagons, vibrated the mud upon which they stood. Ullen caught fleeting glimpses of a huge grey shape, astonishingly fast. But the Talians and the Gold fought. Weapons were passed along or thrown further across the press to the front where new hands carried them against the beast, or picked them up from dead ones.

  Fists at his head, Urko spun to Laseen, pleading, ‘For the love of Burn, allow a sortie!’

  ‘What would stop your men from attacking them, pillaging their arms and armour and fleeing? Or attacking?’

  ‘My word! My bond!’

  The Empress's gaze snapped to Urko. ‘You pledge to me?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Ste
pping closer, she said, her voice so low Ullen barely heard, ‘You did before.’

  ‘I—’ the man's stricken gaze was pulled inexorably to the tumult outside, the shrieks and the cries of the wounded. ‘Please – for the men! Yes, I pledge!’

  ‘Your life? Obedience?’

  ‘Yes! I swear.’

  Laseen's face betrayed no emotion, though the lines bracketing her thin mouth were severe. This was the only hint of her passion Ullen could see. ‘Very well, Urko. I accept.’ She turned to the captain of the guard detachment with her. ‘Send Fist D'Ebbin with a hundred heavy infantry.’

  The clash of a salute. ‘Aye.’

  ‘I was to lead!’ Urko called.

  ‘I did not agree to that,’ Laseen snapped. ‘Did I?’

  Urko's jaws worked as he ground through all that he might say. Finally, he admitted, reluctantly, ‘No.’

  ‘Now go speak to them, Urko.’

  A slow salute. ‘Aye.’

  Laseen nodded to the guards who allowed him to pass.

  A cavalry detachment rode up led by Korbolo Dom. He took in the wagons, the weapon distribution, and shook his head. ‘It will do no good.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Laseen said.

  ‘A useless gesture. I go now to collect its head!’ And he pulled on his helmet, kicked his mount forward, his troop following.

  ‘Oponn go with you,’ the Empress called after him.

  Ullen turned to V'thell, who had not turned away from the barricade the entire time. ‘Still they fight,’ the Moranth commander said, musing. ‘Despite everything. They know it is their only hope.’

  ‘They could run.’

  ‘No. Your hapless civilians might but your soldiers know their strength resides in the unit. The group. Your soldiers are like us Moranth in this regard. It is one of the reasons we allied.’

  Ullen was struck by the amazing things one learned at unlooked-for times. ‘I didn't know.’

  V'thell's helmed head cocked aside. ‘Very few do, I imagine.’

  At the barricade Urko was bellowing: ‘I have begged the Empress for a sortie and she has agreed! Relief is coming! Imperial infantry! They come to defend you and to fight at your side! Honour that! Do you hear me! Honour that!’

  A column of heavy infantry came marching to the nearest gate, double-time; the Empress had been assembling them already. Ullen could only shake his head. What chance did they have against such planning? Yet – had it not been a close thing? What if the Seti hadn't turned against them? What if— He cut off that line of thinking. The ‘what if's were infinite and meaningless. All that mattered was what occurred. Align yourself with that, man, and perhaps you will stand a chance of remaining sane.

  A great thunderous cheer went up outside the barricades. Ullen could imagine the armed and armoured heavy infantry working to interpose themselves, attempting to push back the beast. Certainly many of them would fall, but with far less ease, and at far greater cost. The timbre of the battle changed. The raw, naked screams of men and women being torn by talon and teeth lessened. The clash of armour and shield rose. Snarls of frustration rent the air. The thump of hooves now joined the turmoil, together with the high-pitched shriek of wounded horse. And so the battle continued. At one point a shield came winging through the air like a kite. Before it fell into the massed crowd Ullen thought he saw that an arm still gripped it. Eventually, however, numbers told – or so Ullen assured himself, listening to the tide of the attack. Perhaps the beast had simply sated his bloodlust for the moment – or perhaps easier targets could be found elsewhere. In any case, Ryllandaras withdrew. A massive, swelling, raucous cheer gripped those gathered outside and within. Ullen yelled; Urko shook his fists at the dark. Men and women rattled the barricade. It was gone. The horror had been pushed back.

  Urko returned, directed a salute behind Ullen, who turned, startled; Laseen had remained through it all. ‘I still wish I'd led that sortie,’ he growled.

  ‘I still need you.’

  His brows knotted, his eyes slitted almost closed. ‘The Guard.’

  Laseen nodded her assent.

  The damp flesh of Ullen's arms prickled with a chill. Gods, the Guard! She anticipates an attack. But why? For who? They have no sponsors. The Talian League has been crushed. Defeating this army, even killing Laseen, would not destroy the Empire. The times cannot be reversed to how they were before the consolidation. What possible purpose could it all serve? But then, by that measure, what purpose did today's battle serve? He pressed a hand to his slick forehead, took a long slow breath. Stop it! I am so tired. My thoughts turn darker and darker.

  Ullen jerked as the unmistakable reports of bursting Moranth munitions echoed from somewhere out on the plain. His first reaction was to turn to V'thell who was nodding his helmed head. ‘Excellent,’ V'thell said. ‘Knowing he would come allowed the opportunity for ambush.’ He bowed his admiration to Laseen.

  Urko now also turned to the Empress. The old commander's surprise was obvious. ‘Hood's Gate, Surl – Laseen. Seems we've done nothing but underestimate you.’

  ‘So have a great many others …’ she answered absently. Her dark eyes glittered as she studied the night. ‘I wish I could take credit but I cannot.‘ She motioned to a member of her staff. ‘Find out who that is.’ The woman saluted and ran to a horse. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘I suggest we try to get some sleep before dawn. Urko, V'thell, you may speak with your soldiers but only through the barricade. Until tomorrow.’

  V'thell bowed. Urko gave a curt jerk of his head. Both crossed to the spikes of the barricade. Wiping his hands down his face, Ullen joined them.

  * * *

  Knocking on the front pole of her tent woke Ghelel. She rose, found the sheathed dirk she kept next to her cot then pulled on a thick warm cloak, tucking the blade under it. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Apologies, Prevost,’ came the Marquis's voice, ‘but news has arrived.’

  ‘Come in.’

  The thick canvas hissed, brushing. She heard the man moving about within the outer half of her quarters. The light of a lamp rose. She pushed aside the inner hanging. ‘Yes, Marquis?’

  The man was pouring himself a glass of wine. He wore a plain long shirt and trousers; his considerable bulk plainly consisted of equal muscle and fat. He turned to her. ‘We've lost.’

  ‘Lost?’

  ‘The battle.’ He frowned down into his glass. ‘The Talian League has been shattered. Toc presumed dead. Urko, Choss, the Gold commander captured.’

  Her knees went numb; she searched for a chair then stiffened herself, refusing to display such weakness. ‘So quickly …’

  ‘I'm sorry.’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Will you have a drink?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  He poured another, crossed to hand it to her. ‘Had been there you would now be captured – probably dead.’

  Ghelel took the glass, smiled sadly. ‘Had we been there, Marquis, we might have won.’

  ‘Yes, well.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘We must move. No doubt the Kanese will come to hunt us down to curry favour with the Empress.’

  ‘Where will we go?’

  ‘Back to my province, north Tali. We'll be safe there. There will be some reprisals, of course. A winnowing of the aristocracy. Reparations. Funds will be extorted to weaken Tali. But that will be the worst, I expect.’

  ‘And myself, Marquis? What will I do?’

  The man's face flushed and he glanced aside. ‘That should be obvious … Ghelel. You will be the Marchioness. My wife.’

  Ghelel felt the need for that chair. What? How dare he! I would die first! She tossed the glass aside. ‘So, what now? Throw me down on the cot? Rape me?’ She slipped a hand within her cloak to close on the dirk.

  ‘Nothing so melodramatic, I assure you. No, in time you will come around. You will see the union of our families as the political necessity it is. The Tayliin line must be preserved, after all. I'm sure you understand th
at.’ He returned to the table, set his glass down. ‘We failed this generation – but perhaps our sons or daughters or theirs …’ He glanced back, his blunt features softening. ‘I know it … 7 … am not what you've dreamt of. But think carefully. It is for the best.’ He gestured to the entrance. ‘And do not try anything foolish. You are of course under guard for your own safety. Good night.’

  She longed for that wine glass to throw at him as he left. Once the cloth flap fell she dropped into the nearest chair. Where could she go? What could she do? She was his damned prisoner! Stirring herself, she went to the table for that wine. Perhaps she could collect the food and slip out the back. Movement behind her spun her around, her hand going to the dirk. It was Molk. The man was pulling himself up from under the edge of the tent where she'd thrown the glass.