Return of the Crimson Guard

Choss grunted his scepticism. ‘Well, go. We still need them.’

‘Aye.’

They rode back to camp, silent for a time. ‘That soldier,’ Toc finally said, ‘who faced Ryllandaras. Have you ever seen the like?’

‘Dassem drove him off as well,’ Choss said. ‘But he was favoured by Hood.’

‘I've seen it,’ Moss said.

Toc and Choss glanced to the captain. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, touched the raw livid tear across his face. ‘Well, not seen exactly. Had it described to me by someone who had seen it in Genabackis. That style of fighting. That fellow, he's Seguleh.’

‘Seguleh?’ Choss repeated in wonder. ‘I've heard the name. What's he doing here?’

‘Storo's company was stationed in Genabackis,’ Moss said.

Toc studied his captain sidelong. ‘You know a lot about this Storo

Moss rubbed his gouged nose, wincing. ‘Ah, yes, sir. Gathering intelligence. Know your enemy, and such.’

‘In which case, captain,’ Toc said. ‘Would you like to go on a mission to the Crimson Guard? We have a proposal for them.’

The man smiled. The talon slash across his face cracked and fresh blood welled up. ‘Yes, sir. It would be a privilege.’

Though exhausted, his joints aflame with pain, Toc mounted a fresh horse that morning and set out alone to track down the Seti. He found their camp deserted, but here he also found unusual tracks. Something had visited the camp before him. Like wolf tracks, they were, except far larger, more the size of the largest bear track. And of an enormous breadth of gait. He knew this man-beast Ryllandaras could cover ground faster even than a horse. Though it was common lore that the creature hunted only at night, Toc suddenly felt very exposed out all alone on the plains. A part of him wondered if that was just a detail of atmosphere the jongleurs had tossed into the songs they recited of him. He could just hear Kellanved snarl: never mind what you imagine to be the case, what do you know? Not one to let reputations or legends stand in his way, was he. After all, he trapped the fiend, didn't he? And how did he manage that? A piece of information perhaps relegated to some archive somewhere is suddenly now not so trivial any longer. Knowing how wild Kellanved had been back then, he'd probably used himself as bait.

Towards noon, as he crossed a shallow valley, horsemen appeared in small bands all around him and moved in. He stopped to await them, crossed his arms on the high cantle of his saddle. They circled him from a distance until one broke through and closed. He was a burly fellow, wearing only deerskin trousers, a thick leather vest and wide leather vambraces. His curly hair was shot with grey, as was his matted chest hair. He looked Toc up and down in open evaluation. ‘You are Toc the Elder,’ he said in Talian.

‘And you are the Wildman of the Plains.’

A nod. ‘You ride to speak with Imotan. I think you shouldn't go.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘He has his white-haired God now. What need does he have for you?’

‘There's a lot of history between us. We've exchanged many vows.’

‘Between you and the Seti, yes. Not him.’

Toc flexed his back to ease its nagging pain. He studied the man before him: sword- and knife-scarred, speaks Talian fluently. An Imperial veteran, perhaps a noncommissioned officer. ‘What of you?’ he asked. ‘You might not accept Imotan's authority but we could use you and your warriors to throw off the Empire just the same.’

The man bared his sharp yellow teeth. ‘Do not insult me. Empire, League. It's all the same.’

‘Not at all… You and others would be nearly independent.’

‘Empty promises at best. Lies at worst. We've heard all that before.’

‘You should consider my offer carefully, veteran. We are set to defeat Laseen. She is so short of proper troops she's desperate. I've heard she's even dragooned all the old veterans on Malaz to bolster her numbers.’

The old Seti veteran grew still. His tight disapproving frown vanished. ‘What was that?’

Toc shrugged, puzzled. ‘I just said that she'd sent out the call to gather up everyone she can, even from Malaz.’

The Wildman tightened his reins. ‘I'm going now. I will tell you one more time, Toc — do not pursue this allegiance.’ He clucked his mount into motion and signed his warriors to follow. They thundered away.

Toc sat still for a time, watching them while they rode from sight. Something. Something had just happened there, but exactly what it could have been, he had no idea. Shaking his head, he urged his horse on.

He rode through most of the rest of the day before catching any sign beyond empty horse tracks. Dust rose to the north-east. He kicked his mount to pick up his pace a touch. He was just becoming worried about being caught out in the dark when he topped a gentle grassed rise to see below a horde of mounted warriors circling in a slow churning gyre, calling war chants in crowded rings around tents of the shamans. The clouds of yellow dust they raised plumed into the now darkening sky. He approached and waited but the young bloods ignored him. Most of the youths carried white hair fetishes on their lances, around their arms or in their hair. Eventually, perhaps at a command from within, grudging space was allowed for Toc's mount to push through.

In past the flank-to-flank pressing rings of hundreds of horsemen the atamans were sitting before the central tent, that of Imotan, the White Jackal shaman. Toc bowed and Imotan gestured him forward, patting the ground next to him. He sat and greeted the atamans while Imotan eyed him with a steady, weighing gaze. Toc met it, waiting. ‘I am sorry for your dead, Toc,’ the shaman finally said.

‘My thanks. It is him, then? The very one named Ryllandaras?’

Imotan used a short eating knife to cut meat from a haunch. ‘Yes, it is he. We've hoped and prayed for generations and now he is returned to us.’

‘Hoped? You hoped? If it is him, who do you think he'll turn to once we're gone?’

‘That is our concern, Malazan. We lived with him long before you ever came.’

‘We rid you of a predator.’

‘You interfered.’

‘We freed you!’

The old man stabbed the knife into the ground between them. ‘Freed us! Can you free a man from himself? A people from themselves?’ Taking a long hard breath to master himself he turned to the platter of food and gathered a handful of grapes. He laughed and shook his head at some thought that struck him. ‘Liss's curse! We are a lost people, wandering lost. Lost from ourselves. But now our way has returned to us.’

‘I see no true path.’

‘You are not Seti.’ The shaman was silent for a time. He appeared troubled while he pulled and studied the blade of his knife. Toc the Elder,’ he began carefully, ‘we honour you for what we have accomplished together in the past, but you should not have come.’

‘The old agreements still stand, Imotan.’

‘Do they?’ The shaman glanced aside to Hipal, the ferret shaman, who grinned, evilly, Toc thought, then he scanned a circuit of the men and women sitting in a circle before him. Many glanced away when his gaze reached them. Toc was struck by how much had changed in one night. Before, at the councils, Toc spoke with the atamans, the warrior society warchiefs and tribal Assembly chiefs, while Imotan and Hipal sat relegated to the rear. Now, though, Imotan occupied the seat of honour while the atamans sat at his feet, looking like no more than supplicants.

Having reviewed his council, Imotan sighed, thrust his knife into his sash. ‘What is it you ask, Toc?’

‘This coming battle will be the final arbiter of all. After it, you may consider all agreements fulfilled, all obligations met. It is the last and final request I shall make of you.’

The White Jackal shaman had nodded through Toc's statement. He held his thickly-veined hands up open. ‘So be it. We will be there. Now, for obvious reasons I suggest you spend the night here in our encampment. You will be safe with us. Tomorrow you may join your command.’

Toc bowed. ‘I thank you, Imotan of the White Jackal.’