Return of the Crimson Guard

The Marquis's mouth straightened in a cold humourless smile. ‘Have you not heard the stories then?’

Ghelel thought of the bedtime tales her nanny had told of the Guard and how they opposed the emperor. Romantic heroics of great champions and fanciful unbelievable deeds. ‘I've heard them. Troubadours’ tales and romances. But that was all long ago. Why should Ullen fear them now?’

It was now the Marquis's turn to look confused. ‘Do you not know who he is, was?’

Ghelel stared, taken aback, then cut off a snarled reply. She pulled her mount closer to the Marquis. ‘How in the Queen's own Mysteries am I to know anything if no one tells me anything!’

The Marquis raised a hand in surrender. ‘Apologies. I thought you knew. The man served on Dassem's staff! Was Choss's adjutant for a time. That's why I believe him.’

Astonished, Ghelel relaxed and fell behind the Marquis. Ranks of her cavalry thundered past while her mount slowed. Served with Dassem! Served all his life yet had never left the continent — the man had fought during the wars of consolidation! Damn the fellow! She was half tempted to turn her horse around and confront him. Why didn't he just out and say so? Yet why should he have to? Why shouldn't she have faith in him regardless? Urko chose him for a reason, didn't he? Didn't she accept his competence unquestioned?

She slowed her mount to a canter, gazed back to the encampment, a distant glow in the clear starry night. Her and her mount's breath steamed in the frigid air and Ghelel thought of a bony Seti girl riding east dressed far more poorly than she. Ahead, four of her cavalry had held back from the column, awaiting her. Idly, she wondered where Molk had got himself off to and whether she'd ever see the man again. The stars blazed down with a hard cold light from horizon to horizon and suddenly new ones appeared in the east. Ghelel squinted, surprised. No, not stars, yellow flickering lights, torches. A handful appearing and disappearing in the dark above the horizon where…

Gods turn from her! Ghelel raked her spurs, leaning high and forward. Ride! ‘Haugh!’ She dashed between her startled guard, racing for the column. When she reached the van, the Marquis took one glance at her face and raised an arm in the halt.

His mount rearing, he called, ‘What is it?’

Also struggling to control her own mount, she pointed, ‘Look! Lights! It must be them. They're taking the ruins of the monastery.’

The Marquis studied the east. His mouth twisted his disgust. ‘Trake take us, we'll never lever them out of there! It's a rat warren.’ Then he stared at Ghelel as if seeing her for the first time, his eyes widened, and he yanked on his helmet, securing the strap one-handed. ‘Outriders! Form up! We ride for the bridge!’

A guard of the cavalry formed around Ghelel and the Marquis. Scouts stormed ahead. The Marquis signalled the advance. The column gathered speed to a gallop into absolute darkness.

They met no one, though fires burned fitfully beside the road where bands of travellers lay sleeping. Down toward the Idryn dogs rushed out of the dark, snarling at the mounts. Fires burned before the black openings of caves. Ghelel's face was numb with cold, her hands frozen claws around her reins.

Before they reached the bridge their scouts emerged from the dark, barring their way. ‘Armed men at the bridge.’

‘Hood bugger them!’ the Marquis exploded. Then he inclined his head to Ghelel. ‘Pardon me, Prevost.’ To the scouts, ‘Can you identify them?’

‘No, sir. No colours.’

‘It's them,’ Ghelel said, feeling oddly like laughing. Strange how she was the one to deny even the Guard's existence yet now she felt completely certain of their presence ahead. She thought of those stories from her youth; of the romantic yet tragic figure of Duke, then Prince, K'azz. ‘We should go to meet them. Parley.’

‘Parley?’ the Marquis answered, annoyed. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Passage south, of course.’

‘Passage? Why in Fanderay's name should they grant us passage?’

‘Why ever should they not, Marquis?’

He studied her for a time, his head cocked to one side. Then he raised a hand in consent. ‘Very well, Prevost. Let us go down and speak with these mercenaries. I admit to no small curiosity myself.’

They took a guard of four men. With torches held high they advanced slowly on the bridge. Four figures, that they could see, awaited them, blocking the way across. Torches on poles stood to either side where the flagged way met the broad granite blocks of the bridge. The figures themselves stood far back from the light.

‘Far enough!’ a man called in Talian as the Marquis and Ghelel entered the flickering light.

‘Who are you? And how dare you block this way?’ the Marquis called. ‘This is a pilgrim road, open to all.’

‘It's still open to pilgrims,’ the man responded. ‘Well armed for devotions, you are.’

‘Come forward,’ Ghelel invited. ‘Let's discuss passage.’

A tall man and a very short and broad woman came forward into the light. Both wore helmets wrapped in dark cloth that wove around under their chins and surcoats of a thick dark cloth over blackened mail shirts that hung to their knees. Gauntlets covered their hands. The man bore a shield at his back, a longsword at his side, while the hilts of two curved blades jutted forward from the woman's wide sash.

‘Identify yourselves,’ the Marquis demanded again. ‘Are you part of a legitimate army or mere brigands?’

‘Questionable distinction,’ the woman said, a dark brow arching.

‘It's just a matter of scale, really,’ the man said to her.

‘Or success,’ Ghelel added.

Both looked up, surprised. ‘Hello,’ the man said. ‘I am Cole, this is Lean.’

‘Prevost Alil, the Marquis Jhardin of the Marchland Sentries.’ While they had been talking, Ghelel's sight had been adjusting to the light and she could now see that the cloth wrapped around the helmets and the jupons as well was of a very dark, almost black, crimson.

‘Prevost, Marquis, greetings,’ the man said. ‘That you have chosen not to charge down here with your cavalry to overrun us means that you already know who we are. I congratulate you on your intelligence services. We've tried to keep as low a profile as possible.’

‘Obliterating half of Unta?’ the Marquis snapped. ‘Burning Cawn to the ground?’

The man smiled, baring sharp teeth. ‘As I said — a low profile.’

Ghelel leaned forward, crossing her arms on the tall pommel of her saddle. ‘Cole, we formally request passage south for our detachment.’

Waving an invitation, Cole bowed. ‘Granted, Prevost. All, ah, combatants wishing to withdraw south are invited to do so. But none may come north. Spread the word if you would, please.’

The Marquis glared his disgust. ‘Expecting a flow of desertions, are you?’

‘In the near future, to be brief… yes.’

With a curt nod the Marquis sent a man back with word to advance. ‘I suppose we should thank you for our passage.’

Cole and Lean stood aside. ‘Just doing our job.’

Hurl found Storo on the parapet of the Inner Round wall, chin on hands, staring north. Talian soldiers in the cover of a tower in the lower Outer Round wall were taking pot-shots at him and the nearby soldiers manning the wall. ‘Collect those bolts,’ Storo called to the men as Hurl came to his side and ducked behind a merlon.

‘What are you doing up here?’ Hurl demanded.

‘Being useful.’

‘You'll be pincushioned!’

Occupational hazard of straw targets.’

‘You're in a mood.’

Storo lay his chin on his hands once more. ‘How're you feeling now?’

Hurl couldn't help rubbing her side. ‘Better. Thanks.’

‘Thank Liss. Where is she now anyway?’

‘Watching the east. Won't turn from it for an instant.’

Storo frowned, tilting his head. A crossbow bolt ricocheted from the merlon next to him, spraying stone dust. ‘We know she's coming. Just a matter of time.’