Return of the Crimson Guard

‘Then perhaps a city magistrate would no doubt be appropriate.’

The clerk bowed again. ‘Sadly, said magistrate's family has been proven to be distantly related to one of the claimants…’

Mallick clasped his hands at his stomach, his eyes narrowed to angry slits. ‘Very well, court clerk. Here is my judgment upon the case that said self-important appellants are so keen to bring before me to the exclusion of all else I may have to attend to. Said plot of land or property is to be divided exactly in half and fifty per cent given to each party — even if said property constitutes a slave. Am I understood?’

The clerk bowed deeply again — perhaps to hide the tight grin that he fought to disguise. ‘Excellent, sir. I shall write up the papers immediately.’

‘That should winnow the line of petitioners, do you not think?’

‘Most drastically, sir.’

For the next few days while they skirted the Jacuruku north coast, Traveller lay at the bow gripped in a fever of sweats and shuddering chills. Ereko guided the Kite while Kyle and the Lost brothers slept in turns. The third night Traveller suddenly cried out, weeping in-consolably, his body wrenched with the violence of his convulsions. Kyle went to the Thel Akai's side. ‘What did they do to him, those mages?’

Ereko was surprised. Under their broad bone ridge, his argent eyes flicked to Kyle, smiled their reassurance, then returned to scanning the shore. ‘They? Nothing. He carries his illness with him. It has been whispering to him all these months. I have seen it growing upon him day by day. Those fools with their interference have weakened him and now he feels its pull keenly.’

‘You cannot cure it?’

A shake of his shaggy head. ‘You have not guessed, Kyle? It is the sword he carries. That is not a blade meant for any human, no matter who. It brings with it the memories of terrible things. Bloodshed, yes. But much worse — acts of cruelty and of soul-corroding anguish. It was forged ages ago by the one known as the Son of Darkness, Anomandaris. Know you of him?’

‘Yes. We have legends of him. Stories of the Moon itself floating overhead and dragons soaring.’ Those fireside tales no longer sounded so incredible to Kyle.

‘It has held many names over the ages. Anger. Rage. Vengeance. Of them all, he chose for himself vengeance. A choice we should perhaps be grateful for. Now that choice eats at him like acid. I pray it will not taint his spirit.’

Kyle watched the man, curled up under a cloak, hands clenched in his sweat-slick hair, his face hidden behind his forearms. ‘Then we should take it from him.’

The giant grasped Kyle's upper arm in his massive grip. ‘No. You mustn't. He would strike without thought. Would you add yet another burden to his conscience?’

‘Then what can we do?’

Without turning his head, Ereko slid his bright gaze to Kyle in a strange sort of sideways regard. He bared his tusk-like teeth in a one-sided grin. ‘You can pray, Kyle.’

Kyle flinched away. Pray? Is there so little hope? He moved off to lie down next to the Lost brothers wrapped in cloaks and blankets. Pray? To who? He thought of the bewildering array of Gods, spirits and heroes he'd heard mentioned since leaving Bael lands. None appealed to him. That left his old guardian and tribal ancestral spirits going back all the way to their legendary progenitor, Father Wind. Perhaps that very entity taken from him by the very company he joined? Yet, as time has passed, it all seemed so unreal to him.

The gentle night waves rocked the Kite, and the susurration of the nearby surf whispered rhythmically. Kyle eventually did slip into an uneasy sleep. He repeated his people's ancient invocation:

Great All Father,

Whose breath cleanses, brings life,

Guide me. Show me my path.

Kyle awoke, spluttering and coughing on a mouthful of smoke. He lay in a tent made of roughly sewn hides. But not a tent like the one he'd recently slept in; this one was cramped and dark, its ceiling low. A hunched figure, a man or a woman, occupied half the sagging quarters. A brazier next to the occupant sent out gouts of smoke that made Kyle's eyes water and his breath catch in his throat. Outside, a strong wind blew, gusting at the sides of the frail construction. The figure waved a hand wrapped in tatters of cloth. Its shape was unnervingly strange and distorted. ‘Apologies for the poor domestic arrangements. Recent setbacks have reduced my circumstances.’

‘Where am I? Where is everyone?’

‘You are not so far away from your ship and your friends, Kyle.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Who am I?’ The shape rocked back and forth, cackling. ‘A friend, of course. One who has, how shall I put it — intervened — to help.’

‘Help?’

‘Yes. Help you. Whereas those you erroneously pray to ignore your pleas, I, however, am always responsive.’

Kyle attempted to wave the choking fumes from his face. ‘How did I get here?’

A great gust of wind kicked the frail tent and the figure hissed indistinct mouthings under its breath. ‘Never mind that, Kyle. Time is pressing. Your friend is ill. It lies within my power to ease his sufferings. What say you? For a small price I will sooth his misery, calm his nightmares. Do you not wish to see him revive?’

‘Yes, of course — but what price?’

‘Oh, nothing awful, I assure you. Nothing like your blood or your spirit or anything absurd like that. No. However, I am interested in that sword you carry. It has unusual characteristics. You could say I have an interest in uncommon weapons.’ The arms opened in a shrug. ‘There you have it. Nothing unreasonable. Surely you do not value this blade above your friend's health and recovery?’

Kyle blinked to clear his blurring vision, coughed into a fist. ‘No, of course not. But why-’

A wind slammed the tent with a thundering boom, completely flattening one side. The figure pressed both hands against the bulging hides, snarling, ‘No! I am master here! Be gone!’

A woman's voice came cutting through the howling wind then. It rose and fell as if calling from a great distance. Kyle cocked his head, straining to listen. ‘You are not the master here. Chained One,’ the voice seemed to scold. ‘Come, Kyle. Come away.’

Unable to stand, Kyle crawled on his hands and knees towards the entry. ‘You!’ the figure roared. ‘How dare you! There will be retribution! I will remember this!’ Kyle reached the flap, scrabbled under it. ‘Wait! I can tell you what you carry — don't you want to know? Aren't you curious? How you've been betrayed? Used?’

‘Speak not of using others, great deceiver,’ the voice answered.

On his elbows, Kyle pulled himself out from under the hide into the night to find himself before the bare feet of a woman. She stood above him, her pale slim body wrapped in loose gossamer scarves the colour of darkest night that whipped sinuous in the wind. The long veil over her face flicked like a banner and her black hair lashed about her face. She turned and walked away.

‘And you! Speak not of deception^ was the last thing Kyle heard spat from within the tent.

Stumbling, crawling, he followed the woman. Broken wood and tatters of cloth littered the beach; it looked as though a shipwreck had crashed ashore. None of it seemed to obstruct the woman yet Kyle had to pick his way carefully. At one point the wind brought a long-drawn-out mournful howling like that of a hound. The woman's head snapped aside, to the north, and she raised a pale languid hand as if waving something away, then continued on. Kyle joined her far down the strand, the surf licking his sandals. ‘Where am I?’ he gasped.

Back to him, scanning the sea's starry horizon, she said, ‘It is a dream, Kyle. Only a dream. Nothing more.’ She turned her oval, achingly beautiful, veiled face to him. ‘And you are haunted.’

‘By you?’

A teasing smile; a cool hand at his brow. ‘Among others,’ and she gestured down the beach. Kyle squinted — there, through the curtains of blowing sand, a figure, shouting, a hand at his mouth. An old man, one-handed…