Return of the Crimson Guard

His haunting the field, scanning in turn through Meanas then Mockra, paid off when Possum sensed his quarry to the north-west. Moving quickly through Shadow he arrived on the darkened slope to see Coil bent over still forms lying twisted in the grass — a full Claw Hand. Damn the woman! They need all their strength and here she is eliminating rivals! That is more than enough justification… Drawing his blades he launched himself forward through Shadow. Just as he arrived her own senses moved her to twist, but not quite quickly enough to avoid the thrusting iron as it entered through her ribs in the back and front, puncturing lung and pricking her heart. He wriggled the knives, lacerating the organs to make sure of it.

Coil stared back at him, stunned, horrified, eyes full of the knowledge of her own coming death. ‘You fool…’ she breathed. He thought nothing of such death-babblings. Strange things are said as life flees. Curses, claims to innocence, innermost longings. ‘These… Mallick's… I was all that stood between them… and her.’

Possum withdrew the blades, straightening. What?

Life dimmed in the woman's dark eyes and she fell. She smiled, her teeth red with blood. ‘Chance,’ she gasped, chuckling ruefully. ‘Chance…’ Her shape writhed, blurring, changing. Possum recognized artistry of high Mockra — and that far greater than his — until the body resolved itself clearly once more for him to see lying at his feet the fat messy form of High Mage Havva Gulen.

Soliel forgive him! What had he done? Why hadn't she told him? Told anyone? Because — fool! — she was running her own game just as he. Now what? First, go! Let the fog of war obscure all. He raised his Warren and stepped into Shadow-

To be hammered down by a blunt blow to his side.

He lay gasping amid dirt and clumps of sharp cactus-like grasses that gouged at his exposed skin. A tall thin shape loomed over him. Blinking, he made out a dead ravaged face of desiccated skin, peeled-back lips, yellowed teeth and empty sockets above tattered torn armour and hanging rags. An Imass? Here?

The Imass reached down, grasped a handful of his shirt and pulled him upright. ‘Your trespassings annoy me,’ the thing hissed. ‘Shadow is not to be used so lightly.’ The being shook him like a child. ‘Now go, and do not return.’ And it thrust him away.

Possum staggered, righted himself. He straightened his clothes. ‘And who are you?’

The Imass — was it, though? — clasped a fist of bone and sinew to the sword sheathed at its back. ‘Go! Keep your disputes out of Shadow!’

‘Yes! Yes.’ And Possum waved, removing himself from the Warren. The night slope reasserted itself around him. The cacophony of battle returned. Who — what — in the Enchantress's Name had that been? Renegade Imass? Ascendant of some kind? Revenant? Never mind. Irrelevant. Focus! He attempted to centre himself, calm his breath. Gods, what had he done! Slain the High Mage. A woman who claimed to be helping! Drop it, man. Think of your own back. According to Havva, Mallick held the Claw while he was the puppet! What options did he have? Laseen! She was all that was left to him. He had to reach her.

Possum summoned his Mockra Warren. Shortly afterwards just another soldier of uncertain allegiance scrabbled hunched across the slopes. He was in the west and found the field now commanded by the Guard. The Avowed had entered the fray, sweeping all before them. Skirmishers and Imperial heavies still ran in clumps here and there like field mice, but the only solid formations were Guard squares, and these far separated as a precaution against mage assault. In the east, the cadre mage's deep unmitigated darkness still hung like a flat cloud over his hillock, apparantly doing nothing — a slowly turning vortex of night — while Malazan forces coalesced around the mage-protected strongpoint. To the south-east the tall silver dragon banner of the Guard was advancing before a broadening phalanx.

Just then from the north a brilliant yellow-orange light illuminated the darkness — the Imperial pavilion bursting aflame. It pushed back the night for a half-league all around. The flames climbed like those of an immense bonfire, a celebration of light and vitality, if short-lived. Possum stared, his arms falling to his sides. Oh, Cowl! Master-stroke! So much for such careful preparations and precautions! I bow before your unbending ruthlessness.

What now for poor Possum? Imperial forces routed, the pavilion aflame, and he himself assassin of the Imperial High Mage. What could possibly be left? Was not all lost? A giddy, almost fey mood took him and he laughed aloud. He felt like dancing amid the dead. His anxious oh-so-important worries of rivals amid the order? Utterly irrelevant! A life-time of scheming, positioning, manipulating? A life wasted! His own ambitions, hopes, dreams? Completely thwarted!

He walked down on to the field between the fallen, laughing aloud. Come Cowl! Come Lacy, Tarkhan or Isha! Let us put an end to the comic tragedy!

Nait knelt in the trampled grass just up from the trench together with a mixed collection of sergeants and officers from three different brigades. Captains Tinsmith and Jay K'epp, or Captain Kepp as everyone called him, and a battered Moranth Gold who gave the name Blossom, were the highest ranking officers present; Commander Braven Tooth was reportedly still active but elected to remain in the field to help rally splintered elements; the Sword was reportedly wounded somewhere amid the carnage of the centre strongpoint where Urko, it was rumoured, was organizing resistance.

Captain Tinsmith lay having his slashed leg re-bandaged while Kepp sat silently by — he could only sit silently as the fist of an Avowed had shattered his jaws.

Of the lesser officers and sergeants present, Nait shared nods with Least, Lim and others, and watched while these conferred in whispers and grunts. Everyone was whispering because they squatted on the border of the Darkness. All was quiet here; even the battle's roar just a few paces away was a feeble distant murmur. And it was cold; Nait's damp sweat-soaked shirt and padding chilled him. He knew of course what was coming before they said a thing. So he shared an all-suffering roll of the eyes with Least when Tinsmith called out, ‘Sergeant Jumpy, a word.’

He jogged up and knelt on his haunches. ‘Aye.’

‘We want you to go up and talk to him.’

‘I ain't goin’ up there to talk to him. You go.’

A savage glare from the old sergeant, now captain. ‘In case you hadn't noticed — I can't walk.’

‘Then Kepp, here.’

Through clenched teeth: ‘He… can't… talk.’

‘Then Blossom, here.’

‘He doesn't speak Talian!’

Fucking troop of carnival clowns, we are. Fucking hopeless. ‘Fine!’

Tinsmith stroked one side of his long silver moustache, smiled evilly. ‘He's your squad mage.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He straightened, grunting and wincing — so tired, and things ain't even come to a head yet — and started up the slope. The grass crackled brittle with hoarfrost under his old falling- apart sandals. The dark was extraordinary, unrelieved, yet he could still see and he thought of Heuk's swill — the iron tang of which still caked his tongue. It was as if he were wrapped in layers of the thickest, darkest, finest cloth imaginable. Sable, maybe, he decided, though he'd never seen or touched it. The chill bit at him; lacings of frost appeared on the iron backings of his gauntlets.

‘Heuk!’ The dark seemed to swallow his voice. A silence answered; but it was not a true silence. Something filled it. He strained to listen: the faintest rumbling and rattle of chain? Deep reverberations such as wheels groaning somewhere in the dark? ‘Heuk?’

‘Here.’

Nait started; the fellow was practically kneeling right before him.

‘Ah, you all right?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Why're you kneeling there?’

‘I was giving thanks, of course.’

‘Ah;