Return of the Crimson Guard

‘Hang on!’

Plummeting through a whistling, howling wind. An instant explosion of crashing, splintering timbers. An agonizing blow. Tumbling. Nothing.

Nait was sitting with Urfa and Bowl and a few other saboteur sergeants watching their boys and girls trying to get fires going to cook a hot meal. Heuk's darkness still coursed above their position but it was fraying gently, dissipating. Nait figured it'd be gone by dawn. Heuk himself slept still, curled up nearby, a dopey drooling smile on his face, jug clenched tighter than a pricey hired girl, or boy. Nait was all ready to fall asleep too when Urfa sent a bulging, cross-eyed look his way and motioned aside.

There came the Sword of the Empire himself, bandaged and bloodied, armour clattering all bashed and battered, marching up to the officer's fire followed by his guard of lieutenants and captains. Nait hung his head. Gods no — please don't fuck us up!

‘Why are we not moving?’ the man demanded so loud everyone on the slope could hear. ‘I gave the order that we march! The Guard remain on the field. We must attack!’

Faces turned among the assembled saboteurs from where they argued over the best way to start the fires. They'd been comparing tinder boxes and flints, slow-burning coal sticks wrapped in leather, goose-down and lint ember beds, and all the while the fires remained unstruck. Oh, oh. Nait pushed himself up and motioned Urfa and Bowl to come. The three ambled over to where captains Tinsmith, Kepp and Blossom all struggled to their feet. Kepp and Blossom helped Tinsmith up with a padded stick that had been fashioned as a crutch.

‘Yes, Sword?’ Tinsmith offered.

‘Why have the orders for the troops to assemble not been conveyed?’ Korbolo demanded, enunciating his words with great care.

‘Move out — where? Sir?’ Tinsmith inquired.

The Napan commander jabbed an arm to the west. ‘West! A Guard strongpoint remains! They could attack us at any moment. They must be eradicated. Slain to a man!’

Tinsmith thoughtfully ran a thumb and forefinger along his silver moustache. ‘Messages indicate they have effectively withdrawn, Sword,’ he said with all reasonableness.

Korbolo stepped right up to the captain. His mouth twisted in a frown of exaggerated disappointment. ‘You are not refusing a direct order, are you, Captain?’ he asked, his voice now very soft. ‘Because I will have you arrested. And then, tomorrow, after we have killed them all, I, Korbolo Dom, Sword of the Empire, will be proclaimed victor over the Crimson Guard. Defeater of Skinner. And I will have you and your entire command crucified. Believe me — I've done it before. Now… move out.’

A salute from Tinsmith. ‘Hail the Sword.’

Korbolo answered the salute. ‘Very good, Captain. Carry on.’ He marched off followed by his troop leaving Tinsmith hopping in place and studying his crutch. Nait and Urfa and Bowl ran up together with other sergeants. Everyone spoke at once, complaining, threatening, refusing to move. Many pointed in the direction of the sleeping Heuk. Tinsmith, Kepp and Blossom raised their hands for calm.

‘We've no choice,’ Tinsmith said, curtly. ‘Make a stretcher for the mage. We'll take him with us. I want a column of infantry with skirmishers surrounding. At the first sign of trouble we scoot back here. OK?’

Nait could only shake his head at the awesome, monumental stupidity of it all. He'd managed it: he'd fucked them up.

Nait opted to range with the skirmishers, leaving Heuk to be carried within the ranks. This squad didn't march so much as skulk, spread out, crossbows readied, hunched. A faint lightening brushed the eastern horizon; the stars were dimmer there. Nait cast quick glances over his people. They'd been lucky, lost only two: Kal and the lad, Poot. The lad hurt the worst. Not because he was young ‘n’ all that, but because it had been friendly fire. In all the ruckus of people jumping the trench, climbing in and out, someone's crossbow had been jiggled and it fired right next to his head. No warning at all. That had been a hard one for everyone to take.

Thankfully, this portion of the field was relatively empty. The worst was just south where fires still burned and kites and other bold night-feeders wheeled. They'd crossed most of the field when a contingent of horsemen came pounding out of the dark. ‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ Nait heard sergeants bellow among the skirmishers. It was a troop of Wickan lancers. They pulled up, halting.

‘Who commands?’ one shouted — an old veteran. In fact, they all looked like hard-travelled veterans.

‘Sword of the Empire,’ came the answering shout. ‘Korbolo Dom.’

The Wickans gaped, motionless, then hands went to sheathed long-knives and other weapons. Wickan curses sounded. ‘What name was that?’ the old spokesman asked again as if unbelieving.

‘Mine!’ Korbolo came walking up from the column. ‘What news?’

The grey-haired old veteran rested his forearms on the pommel of his high saddle and studied the man with something akin to amazement. Finally, after a time, he shook his head and spat aside as if to ease his mouth of a sour taste. ‘You are bold and brave, I give you that. How does it feel, murderer, to be in our debt?’

Korbolo appeared supremely untroubled. ‘I am in no one's debt. I am the Sword of the Empire — I command all Imperial forces.’

‘Well for us, then, that according to your own Empress, we are not Imperial forces. Yet you owe your victory to us. I wonder, then, what recompense the Throne might offer to repay such a debt, yes?’

The Sword's smile of self-assurance was almost a smirk. ‘Such matters are for the Empress to judge.’

‘Indeed. And she and the army all bore witness to what happened this night.’ The Wickan sawed his reins around and the troop stormed off.

Nait watched them go. Boy, a lot of history there. Official word was that the Wickans up at Seven Cities had betrayed Imperial interests and Korbolo barely managed to salvage the whole theatre. For himself, Nait didn't believe a word of it; and this confrontation clinched things for him. The Wickans had treated Korbolo as the traitor. He turned to his squad who stood watching the retreating horsemen. ‘Move out! Let's go! Got ground to cover.’

Ahead, the plain rose slightly in a series of modest hills. One held the retreat of the remaining Crimson Guard. Some three thousand, he'd heard; who knew how many Avowed. Surrounding the hill was Fist D'Ebbin's command plus all the Talian and Falaran and other elements that had joined up with him through the night. The Wickan cavalry circled as well, appearing ready to charge the hill all on their own. But no arrows or crossbow bolts flew. The Guard had withdrawn to behind their shieldwall; the Imperials merely maintained their encirclement.

Kibb sidled up next to him. The lad puffed beneath the unaccustomed weight of all his new armour plus the burden of his crossbow, shield, munitions shoulder-bag and a whacking great scab-barded Grisan bastard-sword, the bronze-capped tip of which scraped along the ground behind him. ‘What're we gonna do?’ he asked.

‘You're carrying too much gear, soldier.’

‘Wasn't plannin’ on any marching. We're not gonna attack, are we? I mean, we got lucky once — no point pushin’ it.’

Nait laughed. ‘Listen to you. You was ready to piss in everyone's eye, now you just want to keep your head low. You're all grown up.’

The lad flinched away, bristling. ‘Piss on you!’

Nait continued laughing, walking along. Wasn't it cute the way they got all huffy. The chuckling slowly died in his throat as he peered ahead. The sky was looking all strange over the west. Green, yellow and pink lights blossomed there like the ones that sometimes glowed in the north, but smaller, much more contained. A breeze brushed his face, stirred the trampled, broken stalks of the grass. He raised a fist for a halt, knelt. What was this? Some Avowed mage counter-attack?

The column had halted as well, shields being unslung. Nait spotted Urfa's bunch and waved them over. She ducked down next to him. ‘What is it?’

Oponn's own trouble.’

‘No kidding. What're we going to do?’

Nait scanned the empty slope — not enough cover for an emaciated rat. ‘Don't know.’

‘What about your old boy, the wonder mage?’

‘He's sleepin’ it off. Wouldn't wake even for Hood.’

‘Well…’ She pointed west. ‘I think he's coming.’