Return of the Crimson Guard

Storo inclined his head to the guards, who motioned the magistrates from their seats. ‘It seems to me, Magistrate Ehrlann, that you are only legitimately blind to the truth that oppression comes in many forms. Consider, if you are capable, the rather narrow constituency you and your circle claim to speak for in this city for the last hundred years.’

The magistrate gaped at Storo — as did Hurl. Never before had she heard the man speak in such a manner. It occurred to her that many hours of expensive private tutoring stood behind such opinions.

Contact with rulership seemed to be bringing out the man's hidden talents.

As a guard reached for him, Ehrlann spun to his servant. ‘Do something, Jamaer! They're arresting me!’ Jamaer's feather pen scratched as he dutifully copied down the magistrate's words. Snarling, Ehrlann slapped the papers from the man's lap. ‘No, no! Do something, you fool. You've worked for me for over thirty years! Doesn't that count for something?’

Slowly, solemnly, Jamaer handed the magistrate his umbrella.

Hurl suppressed a laugh while Liss chortled. The stunned incomprehension on Ehrlann's face was worth it.

Once the magistrates had been taken away Storo ordered the guard to withdraw. He waited for the room to clear, his hands reclasped at his back, and studied the flagged black marble floor. Silk paced, and Hurl noted that despite the opportunity, even in a besieged city, the mage had yet to replace or mend his tattered finery, or even repair his worn boots. He also noted that while the mage paced from one side of the room to the other, his glance unfailingly returned to Storo. While Storo, it seemed to her, with his downcast eyes, was avoiding the man's attention.

Then Liss straightened, hissing, and faced the single lower floor entry portal. Silk stopped pacing. Three men entered — or, rather, three versions of what seemed to Hurl to be the same man, though each was dressed differently — Ahl, the very mage who had saved her. Hurl rubbed her eyes. Liss visibly shrank from the three's advance. Reacting to the tensions of the room, Rell shifted to stand next to Storo, his hands on the grips of his twinned swords now returned to his shoulder baldrics.

Liss's heated gaze darted to Silk. ‘How dare you invite this man — this creature — back into the city.’

‘We need allies, Liss.’

A fat arm shot out, pointing. ‘That Path is an abomination!’

As one, the three grinned — though their smiles were not identical; the one Hurl was sure had introduced himself as Ahl, the left side of his face drooped as if dead, while another's right side hung slack, also as if dead. The third seemed to suffer no such affliction at all. Studying them more closely now, Hurl noted many more differences: one had his hair cut short while it hung long and unkempt on another. Each also bore differing wounds: a facial slash on one, a mangled, mishealed hand on another.

‘Nice to see…’ said the one in a soldier's light leathers.

‘… You too…’ said Ahl, wearing his dirty frayed robes.

‘… Liss,’ finished the third, in a reversed sheepskin tunic sashed at his waist.

‘Explanations, Silk,’ Hurl demanded in the silence following the three Ahls’ eerie, mangled form of communication. Six glittering black eyes shifted to Hurl and she felt the power of that regard, like a red-hot iron plate held just before her face.

‘Later,’ Silk said, and the weight of the three's eyes slid from Hurl leaving her able to inhale.

Liss obviously had more to say but Storo straightened, letting out a long breath, and turned to study everyone present. Smiling at a sudden funny thought, he scratched a thumb across his chin. ‘Ehrlann was closer to the truth than he realized. We are gathered here to consider a very serious course of action.’

Silk was shaking his head, his thin blond hair tossing. ‘No,’ he barely mouthed, hushed. ‘Don't do it.’

Liss took a step to Storo, her eyes now narrowing to slits, the three forgotten. ‘Do — what?

‘We're far outnumbered, Liss. Have to shorten the odds. And a way does exist to do just that. Here, in the city.’

The Seti shamaness, who claimed to be the reborn Vessel of Baya-Gul, patroness of all Seti Seeresses, stood frozen for an instant, then, it appeared to Hurl, her matted greasy ropes of hair actually seemed to stand on end and her eyes, raw red with exhaustion, widened in horror. ‘So,’ she said, now nodding her comprehension, ‘this is how it will be fulfilled — his last words: “Those who hate me most shall set me free”.

‘Who-’ began Hurl.

‘What of the containment wards?’ Liss demanded.

‘Between all of us, we have a chance,’ Silk said, hugging himself.

Liss snorted her disdain. ‘Us? Wards set by Tayschrenn, the emperor himself and Gods know how many mage cadres?’

‘We think…’

‘… we can…’

‘… manage.’

A fat arm shot out to point in the three's direction. ‘You stay out of this.’ Liss faced Storo. ‘Please, consider all the lives that will be lost. The bloodshed.’

‘That's the idea, Liss. I'm sorry, but he'll tear them to pieces out there and that's what we want.’

The old woman shook her head. ‘And after all this is over, Storo? All the lives to be lost in the centuries to come? What of them?’

Storo lowered his gaze. ‘We'll deal with that then — assuming any of us remain alive.’

Hurl had had enough. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she shouted. ‘What's going on, Captain?’

The three regarded one another in silence for a time. Then Silk turned to her. ‘The man-jackal's still alive, Hurl,’ he said, still hugging himself. ‘He was imprisoned beneath the city. Probably yet another of the hidden assets Kellanved seemed to love salting away for emergencies.’

‘I heard he was cast over the cliffs of the escarpment.’

‘He was,’ said Silk.

‘What? Am I just slow or am I missing something here?’

‘Many have claimed to have destroyed him but he just keeps showing up again. Some say he is unkillable. That so long as the plains remain, so shall he. But…’ and the mage's gaze slid to the three brothers, ‘there are other theories.’

The three gave Silk their mix-matched unnerving grins. The avid glitter of their eyes made Hurl's skin shiver. They struck her as unhinged.

‘In any case, Silk knows how to get to him,’ Storo said.

Hurl looked from face to face. Gods no. Ryllandaras. The eater-of-men. Heng's Curse. A God, some said. She shook her head, appalled by the vision of centuries of slaughter. ‘No, Captain. Don't do it. They'll curse your name for a hundred years.’

‘There!’ Liss pointed again. ‘That from the most level head among you.’

Storo kicked at the polished black flagging. ‘Rell?’

The Genabackan did not answer immediately. He kept his head low. ‘Do not ask me strategy,’ he finally said.

Waving that aside, Storo took hold of one of the man's sheathed weapons and shook it. ‘Think tactically.’

A shrug. ‘In that case there is nothing to discuss. We are engaged in a duel. We have an opportunity to wound the enemy. We must take it.’

‘That's good enough for me.’ Storo motioned Silk to the exit.

‘Wait!’ Liss raised a commanding hand. ‘There is more going on here than just this. I must speak now as Seeress. Have you forgotten that Ryllandaras is said to be brother to Trake? Of the First Heroes? Trake ascends as god of war and now war comes to Heng and his brother is released? Is this coincidence? Just who do we serve here — have you considered any of this?’

Broad, feral smiles had been spreading on the crippled lips of the three Ahls for some time now. The madness that seemed to sparkle in their eyes kept dislodging Hurl's thoughts. Looking away, she offered, ‘It would serve Trake, I imagine.’

Or weaken him? Might he challenge his brother? Are we releasing a rival claimant to the Godhead? And what