Return of the Crimson Guard

Nait turned on him. ‘Yeah, I could see her!’

‘Good. Look around. What more do you see?’

Wanting to tell the old man to stuff it, Nait reluctantly glanced away to scan the field. Lights moved through the dark of gathering twilight — bright glowing figures among those milling, running and fighting. ‘I see people all lit up.’

‘Good. You have a touch of the talent now. The blood has given you this, as it has everyone down in the trenches. You can see anyone with raised active Warren magics. Now get down there and use that arbalest to blow them to Hood.’

Nait did not have to be told the advantages of this. He grasped hold of his shoulderbag and jogged down the slope. ‘Kibb! Load the lobber!’

Laseen had been very strict in her last orders: do not enter the Imperial Pavilion. No matter what. And though Possum was dearly tempted to edge aside the thick layered cloths of its walls to peek within, he restrained himself. No sense offering myself as a target to whatever awaited hidden inside. Planted torches lit its outside perimeter, Malazan regulars stood guard at intervals. No messengers or attendants came or went. Possum watched, as before, hidden half in veils of Mockra and slanting shadows of Meanas. Night gathered, thickening. He would wait. Eventually someone worth his attentions would make a mistake; then he would pounce. In the meantime he entertained himself imagining tableaus of what was occurring within. Had Havva Gulen woven multiple layers of wards and Warren-sprung traps for any attackers? Gods knew she didn't seem useful for anything else; he hadn't seen her dirty, lank hair or stained robes since they'd arrived. Perhaps the Veils had already taken her out. How would they ever know? In any case, he could wait. The Hand-commanders all had their orders — the sum total of which amounted to little more than hunt down any isolated Avowed and take them out. What more could they do? Laseen had ordered no Claw bodyguards remain with her. Very well. Who was he to disagree? Technically, he wasn't really with her, was he? He was watching from a safe distance. And should anything untoward happen… well, someone would be needed to step in to take charge…

Movement of the thick overlapping cloths brought Possum to the balls of his feet. A shriek tore from within, inhuman, gurgling, bubbling down into the mewling of incandescent agony. Possum ran for the pavilion. Guards backed away, swords out, as something dragged itself out from under the staked edgings of the cloths. A demon, its limbs and taloned hands twisted, almost melted. Smoking patches ate at its shaggy pelt. It trailed smears of ichor and dustings of red earth behind as it writhed free of the pavilion. Possum knelt, touching the strange rust-red dust. He rubbed it between his gloved thumb and forefinger. Smooth, like chalk.

Sighing, the tortured thing expired. Its flesh melted into a bubbling, hissing mess before everyone's eyes. Possum backed away. Queen preserve them! What could do such a thing to a summoned creature — an inhabitant of Gods knew what Warren or Realm? Then the thought struck him: summoned! A creature of magic! As if stung Possum wrenched off his glove, turned it inside out and flicked it away like a viper. Gods! He'd almost… too horrible even to consider! He backed away further — at least none of the guards appeared to have perceived him — his Warren magics remained active. He found another vantage point, his back covered by the spear wall of an impromptu horse corral.

Pure Laseen. Vicious and efficient. A floor dusted in Otataral and she in the centre. The dust negates the magics of any entering, levelling the field. As to the fight that followed, well, she had been mistress of the Claw after all. And the pavilion's thick cloth walls disguised the fates of all who entered from those who waited without. How many have fallen within? Five? Ten? And by dawn how many? How many would Cowl send before entering himself? And when he did… the vaunted Avowed High Mage would find himself crippled — as would that mystery female mage who'd got the drop on him before. Yet Cowl duelled Dancer in his time. It was a pairing Vd almost step within to watch.

Almost.

It appeared that for the meantime Laseen had things well in hand. Perhaps there was time for a tour of the field fishing for targets of opportunity. Yes, perhaps so. And he ought to gather a feel for the engagement — in case the situation was such that discreet withdrawal was called for. Warren raised, half within natural shadow and half within Meanas, Possum jogged unchallenged on to the field.

What he found appalled him. Never had he witnessed such indiscriminate slaughter. Hanging curtains of Mockra drifted about, perhaps bringing to those it covered a crushing demoralization, or certitude of defeat. Thyr- induced walls of flames stalked the already burnt embers of the ravaged grassland. Skirmishers huddled in defensive knots firing on all who approached. Malazan regulars were digging in, forming shieldwalls against attack from roving bands of Crimson Guardsmen. Smoke wreathed all amid the dark. As far as he could make out things had descended into little more than chaos, murder and mayhem in which anything that moved was a target.

An enormous eruption of munitions battered his ears and buffeted him. He ran for the nearest vantage. The explosions rippled on in an incessant crashing that seemed to grow and grow in waves, climbing into a continuous roar. He reached the top of a modest hill to see down the slope toward the cliff to the Idryn valley. There, the Moranth Gold phalanx had been met by a Crimson Guard force ludicrously small by comparison. But it was not the mundane attack that captivated and horrified: the phalanx was under assault by ritual battle magics. A tornado of Sere squatted over the unit plucking up Moranth into its gyring maw. There they twisted, doll-like, limbs flailing, some being swept down to bowl over entire ranks. There they collided and, sometimes, erupted, disappearing in clouds of burst flesh and fragmented armour. Hood refuse this! This was not war. This was slaughter. And the thought clenched his chest, almost stopping his heart: they have no mages!

They have no mages. Stop this! Someone must put an end to this!

‘It's begun,’ a coarse, gravelly voice announced beside him. Possum leapt, spinning: an old bearded man in dirty robes hugging a chipped brown earthenware jug.

‘Who are you?’

‘Heuk. Cadre Mage. Sixth squad, Second Company, Fourth Division, Fourth Army.’

‘What's begun?’

Our duel.’

Possum eyed the man up and down as if he were mad. ‘Your duel? There are at least twelve Avowed mages out there.’

‘Less than that. The boys got maybe three. In any case,’ and his eyes looked directly into Possum's, ‘that's not your concern, is it?’

Possum could not help but back up a step: that smell, blood? The man's eyes — midnight black upon black? And at his mouth — blood? ‘Who are you?’ he breathed.

The fellow gestured to the south. ‘Look. They've broken.’

Indeed. The Gold phalanx was disintegrating under the pressure of the widening ravenous cyclone. Knots of soldiers fled in all directions.

The man's smile twisted, revealing black, crooked teeth. ‘We're next.’ His glance returned to Possum. ‘Who am I? Your recruiters named me a mage, but I am no mage. And now,’ he hiked up his jug, ‘you'd best fly away, little death crow. Keep to your games in the shallows of shadow. As for myself — I plumb the infinite depths of Night Eternal!’

Possum continued backing away. ‘No — that Warren is beyond us.’

‘Fool! As I said, I am no mage. I am a mere worshipper of Night. And as the old saying goes, my blood is up. Now flee, because I am about to call upon my God for he has returned and the time is long overdue for a demonstration of his gathering presence upon this world.’

While Possum watched, revolted, the man upended the jug over his head. Thick fluid — clotted blood, he imagined — ran down over the man's hair, face and shoulders. Possum turned away, his gorge rising. Madness! Utter insanity. And the night had barely begun! At the base of the shallow rise he stopped short as cocked crossbows in the hands of tens of soldiers kneeling and lying in the grass jerked to train themselves upon him. He froze.

‘Lower your Warren,’ someone shouted. ‘Or die.’

Possum complied. They see him. How could they see him?

‘Ach!’ someone snorted. ‘It's only a fucking Claw.’ The crossbows all swung away.

Feeling rather piqued, Possum sought out the owner of that voice. He found the man — a sergeant — in a trench arguing with a Moranth Gold who towered above. ‘I don't give a rat's ass,’ the sergeant was saying. ‘Your