Return of the Crimson Guard

The man was coiling rope. His back to them, he hung his head then raised it as if entreating the sky. ‘It's your decision, Kyle.’

‘Then I suppose so. What's your name?’

‘Jan.’

Kyle made the introductions. The Lost brothers greeted the man but Traveller did not turn around. ‘We should catch the night tide,’ was all he said.

Jan gestured to the village. ‘I'll just get some supplies.’

‘Be quick about it,’ Traveller called after him.

They had the Kite out in the shallows when Jan returned burdened by skins of water, bundles of fruits and pale root tubers. Pushing his way out into the surf he tossed the goods over the side then climbed in. Stalker yielded the tiller. Kyle and the brothers handled the sail. Traveller sat at the bow, arms crossed over his knees. Jan turned them north.

After a time, as the stars came out, Kyle sat against the side and set his chin on the gunwale. He stared back at the dark line on the horizon that was the coast of Jacaruku. His suggestion to come to the Dolmans had been a disaster for them. K'azz dead or gone. Ereko slain. And, Kyle now worried, he may have insulted Traveller beyond forgiveness with his words back at the Dolmans. He saw that now. But he'd been so angry. He'd given no thought to the fact that the man had known Ereko far longer than he. And now Traveller was taking them to Quon — the very destination of the Guard. Perhaps he meant to hand Kyle over to them. It suddenly occurred to him that Traveller might actually blame him for his friend's death; if he hadn't suggested this destination of Jacuruku out of all possible headings then Ereko would still be alive. He glanced to the bow. The man was awake, brooding, it seemed to Kyle. His eyes were glittering in the dark, fixed on the seemingly oblivious Jan at the tiller, whose gaze held just as steady to the north-east horizon.

For Toc the assault began with a burgeoning roar that shook the hooves and flesh of his mount before it struck his gut. To the south, what seemed the entire horizon lit up behind the Outer Round curtain wall as incendiaries flew tall arcs in both directions over the Inner Round walls: inward from Talian catapults and outward from Hengan onagers. Remnants of the Talian legion that had participated in the original assault watched from the pickets alongside the gathered camp followers and support staff of armourers, cooks, drovers, washerwomen, prostitutes and trooper's wives and their children.

Beyond the encampment bands of Seti roved the fitfully lit hillsides, chanting warsongs, waving lances, bellowing their encouragement and cursing the Hengans. Toc longed to be in the thick of things with Choss, though well could he imagine the horror of it: frontal escalades were always high in body counts. Pure naked ferocity versus ferocity.

As the assault dragged on into the night, the constant low roar not abating, up out of the night came the White Jackal shaman, Imotan, and his bodyguard to Toc and his staff. The shaman urged his mount to Toc's side. A simple leather band secured the old man's grey hair and his leathers were mud-spattered. Instead of a lance he carried a short baton tufted in white fur held tight across his chest. The old man's eyes blazed bright, either in excitement or alarm, Toc wasn't sure. ‘What is it?’

‘You must get all your people inside,’ Imotan called.

‘Why? A sortie?’

‘No. Something is coming. For you, something terrible. Yet for us, a prophecy fulfilled.’

Toc stared his confusion. Was the man mad? ‘What do you mean?’

‘Ryllandaras is coming. I feel him. I can almost smell his breath.’

‘Ryllandaras?’ The man must be mad. It was impossible. He'd been imprisoned long ago. ‘No. You must be mistaken.’

Imotan flinched away, glowering. ‘Do not insult me, Malazan.’ He sawed his mount around. ‘Very well. I have done my part. Ignore me and die.’ The White Jackal shaman stormed off into the night surrounded by his bodyguard.

Toc watched him go then straightened up tall in his saddle, peering to the left and right, squinting at the lines. Surely the old man would not have come to him unless he was certain. But still, Ryllandaras, after all this time? And why now?

‘Rider!’ he called.

One of his staff urged his mount alongside. ‘Sir?’

‘Go to Urko's command. Tell them the Seti warn of a dangerous presence out in the night.’

‘Sir.’ The messenger kicked his mount and rode off.

‘Captain Moss?’

‘Sir?’

‘Take a troop and do a circuit of the perimeter. Warn the pickets to be sharp.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The captain saluted and reined his mount away.

There. But had he done all he could? Should he warn Choss? No, the man had more than enough to handle, electing to direct the assault from the front. He would wait to see if anything came of this — on the face of it — utterly outrageous claim.

It was a full hour later, close to midnight, when a woman in a dress torn and stained dark came walking out of camp. She headed straight to Toc, as silent as a ghost, her eyes empty, hands held out before her dark and wet. His men shouted, pointing. Toc stared. He could not speak; would not believe. He slid from his mount and took her hands sticky with blood. ‘Where?’ he shouted. ‘Tell me where!’ She stared up at him, uncomprehending, her brow clenched in confusion.

‘They are dead,’ she told him. ‘Everyone is dead.’

‘Where, damn you!

‘By the creek.’

‘Blow to arms,’ he yelled. ‘Form square. Escort all civilians behind the walls!’

Far to the back of camp, screams sounded — not human — the shrill shrieks of terrified dying horses. Toc straightened. Gods preserve all of us. He remembered. He remembered Ryllandaras. He'd been there. Not even Dassem could kill him. They had nothing. Nothing to counter the Curse of Quon, eater of men. The man-jackal, brother of Trake, god of war.

Escorted by a bodyguard of Malazan regulars, Storo climbed the Inner Round wall where Hurl waited. His surcoat was rent, blood smeared his gauntlets and his face glistened with sweat and soot. ‘This had better be good,’ he warned, his voice hoarse from shouting commands. ‘We're barely hanging on out there. We'd be overrun if it weren't for those three brothers. They're a right horror, they are.’

Hurl said nothing, her eyes avoiding his. Storo drew breath to speak but something in the timbre of the noise here stopped him; it was different from the tumult elsewhere: rather than rage, screams sounded alongside shouts of panic. And no escalade persisted here. He drew off his helmet, pulled back his mail hood revealing smeared blood where a blow had struck. ‘What is it?’

Hurl raised her chin to the parapet where, opposite, the north gate of the Outer Round wall stood. ‘It's begun.’

Storo climbed the parapet. A milling mass of humanity. Torches waved, Talian soldiers shouted and fought to maintain lines facing the half-closed North Plains Gate. Civilians crammed the portal, fought to pass the soldiers, screaming, pale hands grasping at armour. Nearby in the press, one of the few mounted figures gestured, shouting orders, his short grey hair and moustache bright in the gloom. He held a black recurve bow in one hand, emphasizing his orders with it.

‘Gods, Storo blurted as if gut-punched. ‘Toc. Toc himself.’ He glanced to Hurl. ‘Have you any bowmen here?’

‘No.’

‘Huh! The man's luck still holds.’ He stepped down, faced Hurl squarely. ‘Wait ‘til they're clear then do it.’

‘Must we?’

‘Yes, dammit! Otherwise we're lost.’

‘They'll be slaughtered. Soldiers and civilians alike.’