Return of the Crimson Guard

The mage pushed himself to his feet, weaving slightly. He was a sight. Blood dried black, or what appeared black in this strange place, covered his face and shoulders, and had run in streaks down his robes. Oddly, he seemed taller and straighter than before. ‘What is it?’ he asked, as if there was nothing strange in any of this.

‘Ah, well. The boys down below want you to know we have Avowed headed our way. An’ I guess, they're worried. C'n you handle them?’

‘I will give it everything I possess,’ the man said, sounding more lucid than Nait could ever recall. But it was unnerving as well: he was so calm, his gaze so steady and self-possessed. And that eerie all-black pupil, iris and orb.

‘Ah! Great! Everyone'll be happy to hear that. We'll keep them off your back then.’

‘I know you will, Nait. Good luck to you. I will do what I can to protect all of you. If I am overcome, there will be no mistaking it.’

‘Right.’ Nait almost saluted. Strange how an aura of unassuming command seemed to have suddenly enveloped the old bird. After a sort of half-bow, Nait started down the slope. He had no idea of where the trench was, of course, as the dark was so unremitting — yet he could see to walk in it. He decided it must've been that sip from the jug.

It all thrust itself at him in one pace as it had before: the yells, clash of weaponry, rattle of shields. Hands pulled him down and he crouched, blinking. Far down the modest slope, curving arcs of layered defences of heavy infantry behind shields protected a screen of skirmishers who took turns stepping up to fire then withdrawing. Behind these, an inner defence of Moranth Gold and more Malazan heavies, and behind these the trench where a dense thicket of cross-bowmen and women, skirmishers and saboteurs, rained a punishing hail of bolts down on the ranks of Guardsmen pressing the defences.

Yet so few. So few left on both sides. Where was everyone? Could the fallen number so many? Thousands remained in the centre, though, of course, and in the west. Thankfully, the Guard elements here had been reduced to so few that all they could do was harass and pin down — yet why do more? Why bloody themselves further cracking this hard nut when all they had to do was wait for their Avowed to arrive and break us open for them?

Yells went up around the curve of the defensive line as two figures were spotted charging the trench. Nait jumped up, running, ‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ The two shouldered aside closing regulars, straight-armed Moranth Gold from their path, and tumbled into the trench. Nait arrived as they straightened, sharing mad grins. ‘You damn fools!’ he snarled. ‘You could've gotten yourselves killed.’

The shorter of the two, Master Sergeant Temp, wearing an ox's load of layered mail and banded iron armour, flinched back his grey-stubbled chin behind the cheek-guards of his helmet. ‘Why, it's our old friend Sergeant Jumpy himself. Sounds like he's gone all responsible on us, Ferrule. Command does that, I hear.’

The two climbed up out of the trench. ‘I told you, it ain't Ferrule no more,‘ the other, the burly Seti, complained. ‘It's…’ and his thick brows clenched in concentration, ‘… Bear.’ His face lit up, all pleased. ‘Yeah, Bear.’

‘Bear? That's just plain stupid. Don't you have any imagination? How about… Dainty?’

The Seti struck Temp a blow on his chest that would've broken Nait's ribs. ‘No! That don't take any imagination — that's just saying the opposite. Like Rock.’

‘Oh, yeah, Rock. I forgot about that guy. Lady, could he run!’

‘Hey! Hey!’

The two glared at Nait. ‘What?’

‘What in the Abyss are you two doing here?’

Temp shrugged, winking. ‘We heard this was the place to be.’

Oh great! They were gonna get hammered.

Almost as if reading Nait's thoughts, silence gathered over the lines. The Guardsmen had pulled back all around the length of the curving front. Figures pushed forward to the front of the makeshift Guard shieldwall: both glowing like miniature suns to Nait's blood-enhanced vision. Here we go! Damned Avowed mages come to answer the challenge. Through the blazing auras surrounding them he could just make them out: a man leaning on a staff, twisted-looking like he'd been wounded bad, or had survived childhood rickets. The other was a Dal Hon woman in thick dark robes gathered at one shoulder, her hair bunched and wild.

The men and women around Nait shouted, pointing off to the side. He squinted into the night lit by fitful fires over the field cluttered with broken equipment and piled bodies. A long column of soldiers was marching by and at their fore a tall banner, dark with the bright silver dragon rampant. Skinner circling around to head north. Why? Was he that confident of his mages?

Temp struck Ferrule's, or Bear's, shoulder, motioning to the distant banner. ‘There's our boy.’

‘What? Circlin’ around?’ The Seti was affronted. ‘Fener take it! After all the trouble we went to.’

‘C'mon,’ the master sergeant called, and jumped the trench. ‘He's gettin’ away.’

‘Wait!’ Nait called but they were gone, jogging hunched down the hillside like two boulders launched against the Guardsmen line. They crashed into it and kept going, men falling backwards before them, weapons flying, to disappear into the night. ‘Shit!’

It had got perceptibly colder, as if the darkness were gathering itself for what was to come. The two mages in Nait's sight raised their arms. Crossbow bolts flew at them like a hailstorm but none came near. From the Dal Hon woman's position pressure mounted against Nait like a wind that was no wind. Waves of it advanced up the hill before the woman, each stronger than the last. First they pressed the broken grass stalks flat. The next waves gouged the stalks and dense root matrix from the ground. The next then began pushing a ridge of loosened dirt up the hill like a chisel. Just in time the trench was abandoned by scrambling men and women as it collapsed, pushed back and filled by the shifting earth. Some soldiers fell, hands clutching at their ears, helmets torn off. Nait fell to his knees. Hunched, he glimpsed much worse appearing before the other Avowed mage. In a slow advance up the slope soldiers fell as if scythed, shrieking, gagging. They writhed in wordless agony, limbs twisting up like drying roots. The sight brought Nait's gorge to his throat. He fell to his hands and knees and vomited.

And just two on this side! Two of how many all around the refuge? Four? Five? Had all the soldiers assembled here just to pile the hill in dead? Something tickled his hand — a black snake. He flinched away, his hand passing through the snake. What?

It was no snake; its length ran all the way up the hill and it was weaving down through the grass. Others followed, slithering down around him, making for the Dal Hon mage. Nait pushed himself to his feet, wiped his mouth. ‘Saboteurs!’ he bellowed louder than he had ever before. ‘Ready munitions!’

Weak calls answered him up and down the line. He readied one of his few remaining sharpers. The Dal Hon mage slammed her hands together before her, fist to palm, and a bell-like reverberation sounded, tearing Nait's hearing from him. The ground moved beneath his feet like the sea. Malazan and Gold heavies buckled as waves seemed to pass through them shattering armour, bursting chests. Lines of soldiery heaved backwards as if rammed. Nait threw himself down into the loose soil of the collapsed trench. It felt as if a sledgehammer struck every inch of his body: his feet, his shins, his knees, thighs, hips, stomach, chest and head. Something punched him down into the yielding earth. Not only did he have his breath hammered from him, he lost the ability to inhale. Dazed, punch- drunk, he flailed in a blind panic, dug himself up to stand, tottering. Fucking bitch! Where was she! He'll ram this beauty up her — there she was! The glowing bitch!

Something warm was soaking his neck and shirt front. He pressed a gauntleted hand to his neck and it slipped up his slick chin and over his mouth and nose to come away clotted with blood and dirt. He eyed the bloodied leather in horror, then fixed his eyes on the mage.

‘Throw!’ he roared, his eyes tearing, blood flowing from his nose and mouth, dripping from his chin. ‘Throw, throw, throw!’ He heaved the sharper, the effort unbalancing him and he fell to lie groaning at the pain.

The peppering burst of munitions brought a smile to his face. Got the bitch! Must've! It seemed to him that a shriek followed the eruptions, but not one of pain, a cry of soul-rending surprise and utter terror.

After a time soldiers lifted him up; he recognized Jawl, Kibb and Brill. ‘What happened?’ he croaked and spat out a mouthful of blood and catarrh.

‘Drove ’em off,’ said Jawl.

‘Blew ’em up?’