Return of the Crimson Guard

sort of god? You forget, Ryllandaras is the enemy of humanity.’

‘He's…’

‘… no…’

‘… god.’

‘You fool!’ Liss stamped a sandalled foot, cracking a marble flag in an explosion that echoed like the eruption of a Moranth munition and rocked Hurl where she stood. In the stunned silence following, all recovered from their flinch and stared at the fat woman in her tattered layered skirts and stained muslin wrap. ‘The Seti have worshipped him for ten thousand years!’

Storo rubbed a hand over his balding pate, glanced to the others. ‘Well. They'll be spared the brunt of his savagery. He'll fall on the Talian forces. Just what we want.’

‘You remain determined?’

‘Yes.’

Liss tightened her wrap, shaking her head. ‘Do not expect my help.’

‘Very well. I'm sorry.’ Storo motioned to the exit. Coming aside Hurl, he said, ‘They can curse my name, Hurl, so long as they die doing it.’

The ancestral castle of the D'Avig family of Unta was burning at night. Flames gouted from windows and painted the keep in writhing shadows. The town of the same name it overlooked echoed with screams and the harsh clap of hooves as Wickan raiders looted and burned. But no slaughter, Rillish told himself. Please, Lady, little of that. Nil and Nether had been stern in their warnings — take all you want but no killing. Not that some would not die this night. Rillish had witnessed enough sackings to know it inevitable, as hot blood demanded it. Still, the twins’ warning ought to carry weight — they'd threatened the most ignoble punishment imaginable to any Wickan — death by drowning.

With his Malazan command Rillish had been assigned the barricading of a crossroads on the main road south out of D'Avig. They found it to be the centre of a small hamlet. A wayside inn, a corral and a carpenter's workshop lined the crossroads. Rillish promptly had the men toss everything big and moveable across the road. Watching the glow of the sacked castle, he took the waterskin from his side and drank, easing back on the high cantle of his saddle. His leg throbbed; the wild ride through the hills and down in the rich Untan farmlands had re-torn the freshly healed muscle. He sought out and caught his sergeant's eye. ‘No one gets past, Chord.’

‘No chance, sir. There's Wickans crawling all over the hillsides. Like the old days it is, so I understand.’

Yes. The old border warfare all along the Wickan frontier. How appropriate; the central authority collapses and it's a quick return to the tried and true old ways of doing things. No one's learned a thing. Cocking his head, he listened: distant panicked cries only, no clash of sustained resistance. From where he sat it looked as if D'Avig had well and truly been overrun. Surprise had been complete. His job was to keep it so. ‘Sergeant.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Gather the freshest horses and send a squad all the way south to the fortress at Jurda. I want eyes on that stronghold.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Chord spat out a wad of rustleaf, bellowed, ‘Talia! Get your squad provisioned and ready to move!’

Rillish shot a glance to the rear. Talia — newly promoted squad sergeant and his lover — signed her acknowledgement to Chord and flashed a bright mocking smile to Rillish. The lieutenant spun to stiffly face the front. Were those grins he'd caught on the faces of his soldiers? Damn Togg, woman, show some discretion. He ached to glance back once more but dared not now. The most dangerous assignment he'd be asking of his command and she pulls it. What if he was to countermand Chord's selection? He'd just undermine the man's authority — never mind what he'd be doing to his own. No, he would just have to trust his senior sergeant's judgment in the matter. And wish her Oponn's favour.

‘Cavalry, sir!’ came a shout. ‘And it ain't Wickan!’

‘Form up!’ Chord barked.

The double ranks of regulars levelled the spears they'd collected to assemble the traditional hedgehog. Rillish glanced to the second-storey windows of the inn and the lofts of the stable and woodworking shop opposite, and eased his swords in their scabbards. Soon the crash of horses at full gallop reached them and the horsemen — perhaps twenty — reined up before the barricade of upturned carts. Untan white and red surcoats declared their allegiance. Among their milling numbers one pointed, ordering, ‘Remove the barrier, fools! Are you blind! We're no Wickans!’

‘Then who are you?’ Rillish called.

‘Who? Who!’ the man yelled, outraged, his face darkened above his full grey and black beard. ‘Dol D'Avig, you fool!’

Rillish felt his insides twist sickeningly. Curse Fener, it was the man. He recognized him now, brother to the count. They had met once or twice at functions in the capital. Rillish tightened his stomach muscles and clenched his jaw against a vertigo as it came home that now was the time he would cut his own past from himself as surely as if he had lost a limb. Either with this man or another, sooner or later — it was just a shock for it to have come so soon. ‘Then I ask you, Dol, for the sake of your men, to throw down your weapons and surrender.’

The brother to the count yanked the reins of his mount, shearing the beast's head aside. ‘What! Surrender?’ His thick brows clenched as he studied more closely the forces arrayed before him. ‘You wear Imperial colours — where in Hood's Arse did you come from?’

Not there, I assure you. ‘Never mind. I ask you again — throw down your weapons.’

Teeth shone white in a savage, knowing smile. And something surfaced in Rillish's mind, a memory of chatter during those dreary social gatherings at the capital: ‘Dol D'Avig — a better mage than his brother is count.’ Queen take it! He drew breath to shout but at the same instant Dol waved curtly and Rillish's throat constricted shut. All around him spears and swords clattered to the cobbles as his men gasped, choking, tearing at their throats.

The same overwhelming need for breath flamed in Rillish's chest and it was all he could do to draw a sword and hold it high. The shutters of the inn's second-storey windows banged open and in the loft doors opposite crossbowmen rose to their knees. Bolts raked the Untan cavalry. Get him! Gods, please! His sight was darkening, the sword fell from his grip.

Then, thank Soliel! breath, sweet clean air. Rillish sucked great lungfuls deep into his chest. ‘Where is he?’ he gasped as soon as he could manage, righting himself in his saddle.

‘Gone, sir. Rode off.’

‘Well-get him!’

‘Where?’ asked Chord.

Cursing, Rillish sawed his mount around and kneed it into motion. ‘South, of course!’

‘Sir! Wait!’

But Rillish could not wait. Only he was mounted. Only he stood any chance of catching the man. Storming through the modest hamlet he left it behind almost immediately and entered the unrelieved darkness of an overcast night. Empty flat fields lined the way in monochrome pewter, interrupted occasionally by black lines of low stone walls and the darkness of small copses. His leg screamed its pain at him, making him squirm in his saddle. A cool mist, the beginnings of rain, chilled his face and neck. Where he imagined he should have caught up with the fellow his mount balked at the road ahead, almost throwing him over its neck. He grunted the agony of using his legs to rescue his seating. When he'd recovered a mounted rider blocked the way. Rillish reached for one sword but found an empty sheath only. Damn! He drew the left.

‘Wrong rider,’ called the figure in a young woman's familiar voice. Rillish peered into the gloom. ‘Nether?’

‘Come. We must hurry.’

Rillish kneed his mount forward, clenching his teeth. ‘How did you…’ But of course — the Warrens. He sheathed the sword.

‘He's good, this one. Eluded us all night but betrayed himself at your roadblock.’

‘He is headed south?’

Nether tossed her wild black hair, hacked unevenly to a medium length and damp with sweat. ‘You could ride