Return of the Crimson Guard

‘He's no demon,’ Master Sergeant Temp announced loudly to the crowd.

‘How in the Abyss would you know?’ Nait demanded.

The master sergeant crossed to Nait, peered up at him — he was a very squat, but very wide, man. ‘’Cause demons don't smell like that.’ He walked off to study the trail of slaughter. Braven Tooth clenched a hand on Nait's shoulder, grinned behind his bushy black beard. ‘You can trust the master sergeant on that one, soldier. Knows his demons, Temp does.’ Squeezing the shoulder painfully, he pulled Nait close to growl, ‘You keep your yap shut or I'll give you your real name, soldier.’

‘What d'you mean, my real name?’

His mouth tight in distaste, the commander looked him up and down. ‘Like Jumpy, soldier. You are definitely Jumpy.’ He pushed Nait aside, raised his head to the column. ‘All right! That's far enough! I want all the veterans, guards and Malazan regulars front and centre, now!’

Nait followed Hands to the master sergeant, who had returned from the trail. She asked, ‘What's going on?’

‘We're splitting up. Most of you guards and regulars are gonna escort the skirmishers back to camp-’

‘What?’ Nait blurted. ‘That's stupid, splitting up.’

Master Sergeant Temp just watched Nait for a time, saying nothing. He turned to Hands. ‘The recruits are too green to see what's ahead. It might break them. We need to get them back.’

‘Aye.’

While Braven Tooth was ordering the column, a troop of Imperial cavalry came riding out of the dark, torches sputtering. It was led by none other than Korbolo Dom, High Fist and Sword of the Empire, in full regalia of layered iron-banded armour and iron-scaled sleeves and hose. A black jupon displayed the silver Imperial sceptre while his mount supported long black and silver trappings that brushed the trampled grass. Master Sergeant Temp and Commander Braven Tooth saluted.

The High Fist pulled off his helmet. ‘You are wasting time here, Commander. You should give pursuit!’

Braven Tooth frowned thoughtfully as if considering the proposition. ‘We were thinking that if we did that he might just swing around and take a bite outta our arses.’

The Sword's bluish Napan features darkened even further. ‘You have been long from the front, Commander. You have perhaps lost the proper fighting spirit. Very well, stay hidden among your men. I go to hunt him down!’

‘I wouldn't go out there if I were you,’ Master Sergeant Temp said. ‘He'll just string you along then turn on you.’

The Sword sawed his mount over to look down at the man. ‘And who are you?’

‘Master Sergeant Temp,’ and he saluted.

‘Then that, Master Sergeant,’ Korbolo explained loftily, ‘is why I am the Sword and you are not.’ And he kicked his mount to lunge away into the night, followed by his troop. Commander Braven Tooth and the master sergeant exchanged glances of arched brows.

‘Think we'll ever see him again?’ Braven Tooth asked.

‘With his luck and ours? Yes.’

After more cajoling and cuffing the commander led the main column of skirmishers, escorted by regulars, back to camp. Master Sergeant Temp led the smaller column of ex-guards and Malazan regulars, including the cadre mage Heuk, onward, tracking the way the beast had come. As they walked through the night Nait complained, ‘Jumpy? I ain't jumpy. Who in the Abyss does he think he is? It ain't even a name. Might as well call someone Stone, or Stick.’ He cuffed the fellow marching ahead of him who, from his size, must be a heavy. ‘Hey, what's your name?’

The fellow turned, blinking slowly. ‘Fish.’

‘Fish? Your name is Fish? What in the Abyss kind of name is that?’

A shrug. ‘I dunno. The commander gave it to me.’

‘Hey, Jumpy,’ someone shouted, ‘Shut the Abyss up.’

They backtracked the beast until they lost the trail along the rocky bed of a dry creek that wended across the plain. Straightening, Master Sergeant Temp waved Heuk forward. The old man came puffing up, looking as if he was about to pass out. His curly brown mop of hair hung stringy and sweaty. He hugged his earthenware jug as if it held his deliverance — which, Nait presumed, wasn't too far from the truth. ‘Well?’ the master sergeant demanded. ‘Try your Warren — track him down!’

The old man raised the jug and took a long pull then wiped his mouth with a greasy sleeve. He squinted blearily at the trail, shook his head in a long drawn out negative. ‘No, Temp- that is, Master Sergeant. I'm not a Warren-mage. Blood and the Elders is my path. And you don't want me opening it. Not yet.’

The master sergeant looked like he was about to savage the man with a few good curses, but then he stopped. He scratched his stubbled cheeks while studying the old mage and actually appeared unnerved. He tilted his head, accepting the explanation. ‘Yeah. Let's hope it don't come to that.’ He raised a hand to sign a return. It was dawn before they sighted camp and when they returned they found everyone packing for another day's march.

Ho came and kicked Grief — that is, Blues — awake where he dozed in the shade under canvas hung at the bow of the Forlorn. ‘Yath's drowning another of us.’

The man cracked open one eye. ‘Why're you telling me? I'm not his keeper. You lot can rule yourselves — like you were so proud of.’

‘We're on board your ship! If you can call this rotting wreck a ship. You have authority.’

Blues groaned, fumbled to his feet. Ho still could not get used to calling the man by his real name. Real? More like his earlier alias. Who knew what his real name was? To him, he'd always be Grief. Ho chuckled aloud — he liked that. Blues gave him a puzzled glance. ‘The stern.’

‘Right. The stern.’ He motioned to two of his companions. ‘Get Fingers.’ Grumbling, the two headed below.

The Seven Cities cargo ship Forlorn boasted two decks, the main and a raised second stern deck. The gap between was tall enough for most save the tallest of the men. At the very stern, where the keel rose up tall and curving, Yath and Sessin were overseeing a party of his most enthusiastic supporters teamed on a rope. Seeing so many of the inmates all crowded together almost made Ho laugh aloud again; what a ragged, seedy and just plain scrofulous spectacle they all presented! Most had hacked their hair to brush-cut length to rid themselves of the clinging dust; most wore no more than blankets or rags taken from the ship's stores. All the pale-skinned ones were sun-burnt red with cracked, bleeding skin. Ho ran a hand over his own shaved head and winced as he was sun-burnt just as badly. And to make it worse, they were already nearly out of water.

‘That's enough,’ Blues called.

The men looked to Blues then glanced at Yath. After a moment the Seven Cities priest allowed an indifferent shrug. The men hauled on the rope. It was amazing, Ho reflected, how the revelations that followed the arrival of the Forlorn with the rest of Blues’ squad, or blade, had instilled a spirit of cooperation among the fractious band of inmate mages. The truth that Blues and Treat and his squad were not just secessionists working against the Empress, but in fact were Crimson Guardsmen, and not only that, all six were of the Avowed: well — it certainly ended the talk of throwing them overboard.

The rope team pulled an old man up over the railing to splay naked and unconscious on to the deck. He had tightly curled greying hair and brown skin, and scars of swirling designs covered him. Ho recognized him as Jain, a Dal Hon warlock. ‘Yath! You idiot!’ Blues snarled. He knelt over Jain, listened at his chest, then tilted his head back and blew into his mouth. The man coughed, spluttered, inhaled a great gasping breath.

‘Wasted effort,’ sneered a voice from behind Ho and he turned to see the skinny, almost skeletal shape of Fingers, the mage, with Treat and Dim. While of the Avowed, the mage had the appearance of a gangly apprentice.

‘He must be cleansed of the taint,’ Yath said. ‘All of us must be.’

‘Have you gone under?’ Blues snapped.

‘I have.’

Blues waved curtly to the grinning Sessin. ‘Has he?’