Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER V

The slaughter spread for nearly a league in all directions. Hurl walked her uneasy mount gently around the field of picked-clean Seti dead. Two days and nights old they looked to her; stench beginning to thin; clouds of carrion drifting away but for the odd fat kite or crow too befuddled with food to bother flying from them; jackals and their rival wolves trotting slunk low across the gentle hillsides.

The column was quiet behind her and Rell and Liss. Many rode two to a mount as the journey had proven too hard for the weaker, sicker horses. As every sign pointed to a long pursuit Hurl considered more seriously sending most of them back. After all, she'd seen Ryllandaras, knew what he could do. Why throw these troopers against him when really, in the end, it would come down to Rell and the burden slung on the back of her mount?

And Ryllandaras was not one to challenge such a large column. He was a scavenger, an opportunist, a predator of humans. No doubt he would merely run and run, on and on across this seemingly endless plain dominating the centre of Quon Tali until they gave up the chase. Or became so weakened as to prove a tempting target. If she sent the column back leaving, perhaps, ten… that might, as they say,… sweeten the offer.

They came upon the main Seti encampment: tattered, abandoned wikiups, trampled cookfires, abandoned equipment, and dead. Many dead. Men, women and infants. A camp massacred and abandoned. Mounted, Liss pointed ahead and Hurl squinted, a hand pressed to her nose and mouth against the flies. A horse and rider waiting ahead. Hurl angled the column towards the man. He was a large fellow, tall and broad, dark bluish-black Napan, wearing an expensive coat of blackened mail. Old as well, his tightly curled hair going grey. Hurl raised a fist in a halt. The men and women of her column dismounted. She heard Sergeant Banath ordering a search for survivors — and food and water.

She stopped in front of the man, who inclined his head in greeting. From his appearance she was afraid he would be who she suspected he might be. His wary, almost resigned expression only supported her suspicions. He directed her attention to a pole stuck into the ground beside a large fire-pit. A grisly object decorated the pole, a man's head gnawed by scavengers, eyes gone, tongue gone from slack jaws.

‘Imotan,’ the man said, ‘Shaman of the Jackal warrior society.’

‘Did you have any part in this?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I came to do it. But Ryllandaras beat me to it.’

‘Ryllandaras? Why?’

‘Imotan tried to compel him,’ Liss said, stopping next to Hurl. She tilted her head in wary greeting. ‘Amaron.’

Laugh, Hood! It is him. The man who'd tried to have her killed; who, along with his Old Guard cronies, was responsible for all those dead at Heng. Including Shaky. Hurl turned away, looked to the sky, blinking to clear her eyes.

Rell arrived to stand close to Hurl, watching Amaron warily.

‘Why did you come?’ Liss asked, tired and rather curt.

‘I came to answer a murder.’

High-pitched laughter burst from Hurl. ‘What? A murder? One murder?’ She opened her arms wide. ‘Take a good look around!’

‘You're not one to talk, Hurl,’ he answered, his voice as unforgiving as iron.

She stopped laughing as if slapped, clutched at her throat.

‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘he was a good friend and a good man. He had befriended the Seti. He should not have died the way he did.’

Liss nodded, accepting that. She pushed back the matted curls of her greasy hair. ‘And now…?’

Amaron lowered his gaze, let go a long slow exhalation. ‘I ask to join your party.’

Hurl laughed anew, either at his staggeringly brazen request, her glaring culpability behind it all, or at both of them. Even she wasn't sure. Liss said nothing, only looking between her and Rell, her face held carefully neutral.

Rell crossed his arms, saying flatly, ‘We could use him.’

They camped upwind a short distance from the slaughter. As dusk gathered the barking of jackals and calls of wolves closed. Hurl doubled the perimeter guard.

‘You don't expect him this night, do you?’ Sergeant Banath asked Hurl as they sat around the fire eating hardtack scavenged from the abandoned Seti camp.

‘No. Just being careful.’

‘Mightn't he circle around to return to Heng?’

‘Not with us after him,’ Liss said, then she went on to explain: ‘Right now, we're far more attractive.’

Banath's brows rose in such a way that said maybe he didn't really want to know that. Hurl just watched sidelong to where Amaron had thrown down his gear.

Dawn brought a whistle and a call from the perimeter guards. Hurl straightened from a smouldering fire, a cup of tepid tea held in both hands to warm them. Rell jogged up to her side fully armed and armoured, visor lowered. ‘What is it?’ she called loudly.

‘Four riders approaching!’

‘Seti?’

‘No.’

‘Ready arms! Crossbowmen!’ Hurl tossed back her tea, sucked her teeth, handed the cup to an aide. Amaron joined her as she walked to meet the horsemen. She could not help but watch him warily.

A modest smile played at his mouth. ‘No need for alarm,’ he said. ‘I know one of them.’

‘Friend of yours?’

‘Yes.’

Hurl didn't know whether to be reassured or uneasy. The closer the riders came the more impressed she had to admit she was by their cut. A more hard-bitten, intimidating gang you'd be hard pressed to gather anywhere.

Amaron stepped out to greet them. One threw a leg over his mount and the two hugged. The other three dismounted with much groaning, back-straightening and feet-stamping. Hurl now saw that each was also rather long in the tooth as well.

Rell came to her side, arms crossed. Amaron escorted the four to her. ‘Urko,’ he said, indicating the burly, square-faced one with silver brush-cut hair. Gods, the old commander himself. ‘Master Sergeant Braven Tooth.’ The fellow gave a short bow, his thick gnarled brows nearly hiding his eyes. ‘And, ah…’

Of the remaining two, the obvious Malazan veteran inclined his balding tanned pate. ‘Temp.’

The last, an old burly Seti warrior, gave a peremptory tilt of his head. ‘Sweetgrass.’

Hurl introduced herself, Sergeant Banath and Rell. Liss was nowhere to be seen.

The veteran who'd given the name of Temp raised a hand to Rell. ‘You the one who stood against Ryllandaras?’

Rell nodded. Temp and the Seti exchanged a long glance.

‘So,’ Hurl addressed Urko. ‘What can we do for you? Everything's been settled down south, I understand. Shouldn't you be making yourself scarce?’

The Old Guard veteran may not have led part of the siege against Heng, but he had abetted it. Now, he rubbed a gouged and scarred hand over his head, grimaced something resembling discomfort. ‘We, ah, come to join up.’

‘Join?’

‘Yes. ‘Gainst Ryllandaras. We want his head.’

‘Why?’

‘We saw the field hospital, lass,’ Braven Tooth said.

Urko nodded. ‘Word of it came to me after the battle. I went and saw the remains. Hundreds of wounded soldiers massacred. Unarmed men and women. He made a mistake there. No one does that and gets away with it.’

‘We're after him, with or without you,’ Temp said, matter-of-fact.

They would too — just these four. Oponn forefend! They may have a chance now.

Hurl gave a noncommittal bob of her head. ‘We'll see. Welcome, for now.’ She waved them into camp.

She found Liss out walking alone on the prairie. The grass caught at her many-layered skirts. The brisk wind pulled at her thick, matted curls of hair. Her arms, bare, showed thick veins, red angry sores, and bulged with fat. Hurl came close to her, found her gazing down at the ground, prodding the dirt with one sandalled foot. ‘What is it?’

She took a deep breath, looked away as if studying the horizon, but her gaze was inward. ‘Word came last night from Silk. Storo's dead.’

Hurl stared. ‘What?’

Liss's dark eyes captured hers. ‘A bone infection. Not caught in time. Ryllandaras's wounds are — notoriously virulent. I'm sorry. They want you back, Hurl. To rebuild. Perhaps you should leave this to Urko and his friends. I know who those two are. They may just be up to it.’

But Hurl lurched away. No. It wasn't true. When she'd last seen him he was alive. Weak, yes. But recovering. This wasn't true. She pushed through the thick grass seeing nothing. They wanted her back? To rebuild? That's a joke. She'd destroyed everything. Released a monster that was the greatest mass murderer of men and women known. And what of this curse? True or not? Of those who'd participated in his release who was now left? She, Silk and Rell. Yet, when Liss had met her, she'd called her builder. And her attitude to Rell? Looking back now: a kind of reverence? Admiration? She stopped walking. What if Liss really was a seeress, patroness of seers?

She spun and walked straight up to the woman, who turned her face, would not meet her gaze. ‘Have you seen us succeed? Will we defeat Ryllandaras?’

Chin pulled in, her puffed pale face rounded, Liss said slowly, ‘I have seen one way you may succeed.’

‘Good enough.’ Hurl went to find Sergeant Banath.

Tracking him down she ordered him to return with the cavalry column. She'd only retain a small guard. He objected, of course. Refused to go. But she would not yield and so eventually, later that day, two columns set out. The far larger one south-west, the much smaller one north-west.

Over the next few days Hurl established a kind of an accord with her mount. She came to accept that perhaps the mare wasn't going to do her in for the affront of actually riding her. And for her part, she would admit that perhaps the breed of horse had some claim to worthy service among humanity.

The morning of the third day Liss announced that he'd been close that night; that he'd been watching them. Hurl imagined he was probably trying to figure out whether they were merely appallingly overconfident or might actually pose a threat. Liss believed he would either strike that next night or dismiss them and return to hunting. She said she intended to draw him in.

Liss gave the orders for the preparations that night. She'd been close to the Seti warrior, Sweetgrass, these last few days, talking often and long, and now the man carried a very different expression on his brutal features from the glower he arrived with. He actually appeared thoughtful — if that were possible.

She had them gather wood through the day for a towering bonfire. As evening came she set the few remaining regulars to guarding the horses and motioned Hurl to accompany them.

Hurl just stared, unmoving.

‘Go on, Hurl. You're no veteran like these. You have to stand aside.’

‘I can fight as well as anyone.’

‘No one questions that. Please. It's important to me.’

Hurl waved to the south where they planned to hobble the horses a safe distance away. ‘You want me way over there? Fine! I'll go. But as soon as I hear anything I'm coming!’

‘Thank you.’

Urko walked up, nodded to Liss. ‘Evening's coming.’ He tucked his broad spade-like hands up under his armpits. The man's giant arms were as wide as Hurl's thighs. ‘Amaron tells me we should give your plan a go.’ He cocked a brow. ‘So, what is it?’

‘You men should lie low in a broad circle around the bonfire. When Ryllandaras comes, encircle him. Keep him close to the fire. If you keep him close he won't escape.’

‘Really?’ The man's fleshy mouth drew down in disbelief. ‘Just like that?’

‘Yes. If you do your part and don't let him past you.’

‘Oh, we'll do our part — you can count on that.’ And he walked off scratching his head.

Hurl listened to all this with a jaded frown. ‘What about you? Where will you be?’

‘I'll be at the fire, Hurl.’

‘The fire?’ Hurl glanced out to the gathering dusk. ‘With him? What kind of a plan is that? Why should he come to the fire? Didn't you say he's an opportunist? Why not attack the regulars at the horses?’

The woman actually gave a shy, modest smile. ‘Because I'll summon him.’

Hurl stared, hardly believing what she was hearing. ‘You'll summon him? What kind of nonsense is that? He'll tear you to pieces.’

The woman's smile grew. ‘Not so long as I dance, Hurl.’

‘Dance?’ Hurl turned to call to the others. ‘Rell, talk some sense to her. You know what he can do!’

Scratching his cheek, Sweetgrass rumbled, ‘The old Seti legends say-’

‘Oh, shut up!’

Liss took her arm. ‘It's all right, Hurl. I can do this. You forget who I am… seeress and dawn-dancer.’

Were, you mean. Hurl looked her up and down. ‘Liss — sorry to say this, but you are no young thing any more.’

The old woman's laugh was coarse and loud. ‘The beauty isn't in me, Hurl. It's in the magic of the dance. Now go — see to the horses.’

Blasted horses! What do I care about horses? But she went.

Rell jogged over, following her. ‘Do not worry. If the beast shows, we'll all close in on him and bring him down.’

‘Thanks. Watch out for her.’

‘Yes.’

‘And warn Urko and his boys I'm gonna come — and I'll come loaded!’

‘Yes, Hurl. We've all seen your pack.’

‘Right. Well, OK then. Burn favour you.’

‘We Seguleh do not accept the idea of luck or chance, but thank you just the same.’ The man jogged away.

Hurl glared at the horses and her men. Horses. I can't believe I'm guarding Hood-damned horses.

Night came. Hurl set out a watch order then sat down to pack her shoulder-bag. Sharpers — as many as she could fit. And two — no, three cussors. That should send him on his way to the Abyss. Every noise from the dark yanked her to her feet. She scanned the dark. Liss's bonfire lit an intervening rise in bright silhouette against the night. She sat back down again, checked her weapons for the umpteenth time.

The horses nickered nervously, shifted, pulled at their staked hobblings. The men moved among them, calming, whispering. Hurl strained silent, listening. Had that been something? A noise? Distant rumbling?

A sudden grating snarl made her jump. The horses shrieked, kicking and rearing, entangling in their ropes. ‘See to them!’ she shouted and, grabbing her shoulder-bag, ran. Puffing, one arm pumping, the other supporting the stuffed shoulder-bag, she made the rise, started down.

Ahead, between her and the roaring bonfire shooting its sparks into the night sky an elemental vision confronted her: men, arms outstretched, shuffling side to side, closing in on a monster rearing some three times their height, slashing, bellowing. Beyond the fire the shape of Liss, dancing, circling the fire, turning, arms above her head twisting, somehow always opposite the monster no matter which way it lurched to reach.

Hurl stood transfixed. She imagined that if this were a troubadour's song at this time Liss would somehow be transformed into her younger lithe self by the magic of the dance. Her beauty would enchant the monster. But this was no courtly romance. Liss still held her familiar ungainly shape. Her arms were still thick, her waist heavy. Yet the dance itself was beautiful, its movements mesmerizing. From where did the woman draw such grace? And it drew the man-eater. This must be old magic. A ritual of some kind — an ancient calling.

So fascinated was Hurl that she'd forgotten the battle. Six men now closed upon the beast. Roaring his outrage, Ryllandaras swept his long muscled arms to throw them aside. But none fell. His blows slid from firm broad shields, met sharp iron. Rearing once again, he hammered Temp down with a swipe of one long arm. He bent down to snatch the stunned man in his maw, larger than a horse's head, but Braven Tooth was there to cover Temp. He wielded a great two-handed blade with which he deflected raking swings from Ryllandaras. Incredibly, Temp stood once more, shook the shattered ruins of the shield from his arm, drawing a second weapon. The Seti warrior, Sweetgrass, charged in next, slicing savagely, bellowing his own challenge. He leapt in against Ryllandaras's leading leg — a hamstring! But the monster kicked him away; Hurl could almost hear the ribs breaking from where she stood.

Remembering herself, Hurl looked down to the sharper in her hand. She almost laughed at its puniness. No! This won't do at all… she started down the gentle slope while fishing for a cussor.

Behind Ryllandaras, surrounding the fire, a rippling in the night now grew where Liss danced. Hurl squinted. What was this? The ritual? For what? But her thoughts flew at the sight of Ryllandaras suddenly straightening with Urko on his back. She almost dropped the cussor to leap her triumph — who would have thought it possible, but who else could have achieved such a thing? The old commander had slid one cabled arm under the beast's jaws. The monster bellowed hoarsely, clawed at the man. The others charged in swinging, thrusting. And Ryllandaras gagged. His blazing carmine eyes rolled. He fell to his knees, then one taloned, misshapen hand. Urko's face was contorted black in effort, one fist closed at his opposite elbow, yanking, crushing. Ryllandaras was gasping for breath. Hurl could not believe what she was seeing; was this possible? The man-jackal, Quon's curse, brother to Treach, strangled by a mere man? She'd heard stories of Urko, of course — the man's feats were legendary, yet Ryllandaras seemed a force of nature.

A wide rake from the man-jackal sent the rest of the men staggering backwards. He reached up behind his head, talons tearing, grasped hold and yanked. Urko was thrown flying overhead, spinning, to disappear into the dark. Hurl heard the crunch of his fall.

Howling his own rage, Amaron charged. A massive blow gouged the man-jackal's side, sending him backwards one step, but the beast captured the weapon and slashed talons in a backhanded swipe across the big man's front that threw him spinning in a dance of torn mail and sheeting blood that stained the trampled grass wet.

Hurl continued to close. Now she could hear their laboured gasping breaths, grunts of pain. Though it appeared to her that Ryllandaras would slaughter them all, the beast tried to dash away then, only to meet Rell who fended him back into the circle, blades rippling and flashing in the firelight. Braven Tooth completed the encirclement, aiding Rell. Ryllandaras whirled with his astonishing speed: his jaws slashed the man's shoulder as he ducked, sending him stumbling backwards, bellowing his agony. Sweetgrass was up again; the man limped, hugged his chest, and his chin was dark with coughed-up blood but he closed, a long-knife in each hand.

And Liss emerged from behind the fire, beckoned to Ryllandaras's back. The beast spun — alarmed, it seemed to Hurl. It slashed at Liss but she wavered away, teasing, just beyond reach. She seemed to ripple as if a heat mirage. The glimmering band of light encircling the bonfire now glowed a gold and crimson brighter than the flames. Ryllandaras flinched from the radiance, turned away to face the remaining men. Temp, a longsword in one hand and heavy parrying gauche in the other, held each out wide, hunching low. Rell stretched his arms as well, one of the twin longswords almost touching Temp's blade. Sweetgrass also held his arms out, shuffling side to side.

Rearing back to his full massive height the monster opened its black-lipped jaws and loosed an infuriated eruption of frustrated blood-lust that stunned Hurl where she stood. It leapt upon Sweetgrass, hammering him to the ground, but Temp was there to bull him back like a man holding up a falling tower. A slash from Ryllandaras's black talons raked the mail and banded armour from the man's front and he fell to his knees. Rell lunged in, jabbing, thrusting, and the man-jackal yielded a step howling his agony. Its eyes rolled now, seeking escape, it seemed to Hurl. Rell pressed on, feet shuffling forward, blades dancing like liquid flame in the brilliance now bathing Ryllandaras's back.

The beast glanced behind, its eyes widened white all round. Rell lunged, one blade thrusting deep within the monster's furred stomach. Shrieking, it tottered backwards, sent one last swipe across Rell, ripping the helm from his head and spinning him from his feet. The effort threw the beast back as well and it fell into the circle of rippling light to disappear.

Hurl stared, cussor heavy in her sweaty hand. Not one remained standing. Only Temp on his knees, reeling side to side, head sunk forward. The spinning coruscating ring, or gate, or whatever it was that Liss had invoked, snapped away in an eruption of air that blew a storm of sparks from the low embers of the bonfire.

Hurl staggered forward. ‘Liss? Rell? Liss?’ Of the shamaness there was no sign in the dim glow of the fire. A figure came lurching out of the dark: Urko, holding himself tightly. Hurl ran to support him. He grasped her shoulder in a grip that shot lances of pain up and down her side. He peered blearily at her from a face gleaming with blood. The face turned to examine the battle. He blinked. ‘Coulda used a few more men, hey? Like maybe the Fifth Army.’

‘Take it easy now.’

He frowned at her, tilting his head down. ‘You take it easy.’

She saw that she carried the cussor tucked under her an arm like a helmet. ‘Sorry.’ She gently eased the man to the ground and just as gently slipped away the munition. ‘Are you OK?’ Gods, what a stupid question!

But he waved her off. ‘Go see to the others.’

The nearest man was Amaron. Dead, torn open across his vitals. Reports of hooves hammering the ground pulled Hurl to her feet. A column of cavalry closing at a frantic pace. Well, nothing she could do about that. Braven Tooth was closest then: he lay with a hand pressed to his wound, blood soaking the ground beneath his shoulder and lacerated arm. Though ghostly pale, his face glistening with sweat, he motioned her on with a curt jerk of his head.

She came to Temp; the man was struggling drunkenly to stand. She helped him up, groaned beneath his solid weight. He still held his weapons but his armour hung from him in lacerated tatters, clattering and swinging loose. ‘Gods damn him,’ he kept repeating. ‘Gods damn that thing’ His wild gaze found her and he grinned his pain. ‘If you don't mind, lass, I'll have me a sit down. I think I'm gonna retire.’

‘Yes, go ahead.’ She eased him down.

Next was the Seti, Sweetgrass. He was breathing but shallowly, wetly. His eyes tracked her when she moved. He mouthed something to her. She bent her head close. ‘… She did it…’ came the faintest whisper.

Hurl nodded, ‘Yes. Yes, she did.’

‘… Maybe she really was… really…’

Hurl soothed him with a hand on his hot brow. ‘Yes — maybe.’ Or maybe she was just a crazy old mage.

The guards came running down the hillside, gesturing, while the column of Seti horsemen overtook them. The riders threw themselves from their mounts, ran to the wounded. Hurl saw among them many who looked like shamans and shamanesses, but none carried any animal totems that she could see. She left them to it as a number came to Sweetgrass and she crossed to Rell.

For some reason she'd come to him last. The moment she realized this she knew why. Something in the way he'd fallen. So limp. So… final. He lay now as he'd struck the earth. She knelt on her knees at his side. He was dead; his throat torn out and scarred face further gashed by the flesh-rending talons of the man-jackal. Oh, Rell. I am so sorry. She smoothed his ragged, newly grown hair. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Heng had taken you as its new protector. You were to take her place in the city temple. Usher in a long and prosperous future… yet here you lie. You gave your life to end the curse. Perhaps that was what they sensed. That somehow you would end it for them. This was just not the way anyone wanted it to happen.

What will we do? Go on, I suppose. Rebuild. Ha! Build. And only Silk and I are left. We alone survived the curse. If there ever was one. Yet there was, wasn't there? Ryllandaras himself.

She stood, walked the grounds around the dying fire just to be sure but found no sign of Liss. So she succeeded where all others had failed. She'd delivered the Seti of their curse. And hadn't she given her own? What had it been…?

Seti shamanesses came and spoke to her but she ignored them, shaking her head. No, not yet. What had it been? Ah, yes! That they would wander lost until they prayed for her forgiveness! Well, Lissarathel or not, the woman had just assured herself a place in their pantheon, or at least their legends. Certainly their prayers.

She rubbed her face, glanced around, sighing her exhaustion. Hours till dawn. She waved the corporal of the guard detachment to her. He ran up, saluted smartly, his eyes hugely wide. She motioned to Rell. ‘Wrap him up. We'll return him for burial. And bring the swords. They have to be returned. It's time to go home.’