Return of the Crimson Guard

The aura brightened, thickening. A wind swelled out of the west. Something big comin’ their way. Then a flash like sheet lightning blinded him. He glanced aside, wincing, as did everyone. An explosion made him drop to the ground. In the distance something huge slammed into the earth, impacting, shaking, crashing in the cacophony of a huge object dissolving into shards. The ground shook beneath Nait. The juddering continued, closing like the constant reports of a thunderstorm on its way. A shape rolled towards them as a mass of churning dirt and pale things flashing. Then it, slowed, falling, sliding, and the blossoming dust-cloud enveloped it, obscuring everything from view.

An eerie silence followed in which rocks clattered, ground shifted, tumbling and sighing. Nait shaded his eyes, blinking back tears.

The great cloud of dust and thrown earth enveloped them. As it slowly drifted away he saw that a bite had been taken out of the shoulder of the hill the Guard held. The bite extended down in a long gouge that cut a swath through Fist D'Ebbin's lines to carry on, shallowing, in a trail of smashed timber to the wreckage of what appeared to be the tangled remains of an actual sailing ship, here, practically at the very centre of the continent.

He stood and stared, as did his squad one after the other together with nearby skirmishers. ‘What do we do?’ Urfa asked, wonder filling her voice, her askew eyes fairly goggling out of her skull.

‘I don't know.’

Movement: someone walking, staggering, out of the shattered ruins. Nait and Urfa exchanged looks of awed amazement. Trake's balls! Who might this be? The figure returned to the wreckage, and then emerged dragging another. That broke the spell for Nait. ‘Let's go,’ he yelled. ‘Help them out!’ The squads and skirmishers jogged for the broken tumble of shattered timber.

It was a broad, heavy-set woman. She was struggling to return to the ruins but was now unable to walk straight. She was obviously in shock. Her face was a mass of torn and bruised flesh; she was practically naked and, bizarrely, her head was unevenly shaved. Nait grasped her shoulders. ‘What's your name? What happened?’

She blinked, her mouth worked, mumbling, dribbled bloody spit. ‘Stop,’ she managed.

‘Stop? Stop what? What do you mean?’

‘Stop… him.’ And she sat heavily, her limbs twitching. More survivors appeared, being dragged from the shell, all dressed alike in rags, with hair hacked short or shaved as well. Too intact — they should've all been shredded like the vessel. Must've been protected by magery.

Two men came running up, dressed just like the ship's crew. One's arm was a lacerated, tattered thing of red flesh, creamy bone, and hanging sinew, but he appeared to be ignoring what would otherwise be an instantly fatal injury to any other human. The other pressed a hand to his side where a length of slivered wood pierced completely through his torso. Blood soaked his front and that leg. Avowed! Must be. ‘Find him!’ this one bellowed, almost weeping his pain. ‘An old man — a Seven Cities native! Find him!’

‘Just sit down!’ Nait yelled, running up. Behind them a troop of Wickans was closing.

‘Find him! Kill him!’ and he wept, his face contorted in agony. His companion's eyes rolled up all white and he tottered, fell to his knees, then his side. Nait reached the impaled fellow then stopped — he had absolutely no idea what to do. ‘Healer!’ he yelled. Then he yelped as the fellow had somehow closed and yanked Nait's own shortsword from his scabbard. Armed, he started limping for the wreck. ‘Wait! Kill who? Why?’

From behind the vessel's remains violet fire lashed out to strike the closing Wickans in a swath of incandescent destruction. Horses and men flew, spinning. The ground itself shook with the concussion and Nait staggered.

‘Him,’ the man snarled. Cursing, he stopped, grasped hold of the jagged shard of wood as long as a sword, and, with a scream, drew it out.

‘Who are you?’ Nait breathed.

‘Ho. Now, get your men — kill him, now!’

Nait signed to the skirmishers to open fire. They hunched, scuttled forward. Violet fire arced into the sky to carve a bright streak across the night. Everyone watched. It hurtled up and over them, curving down to smash into the column. Its churning energies cut a swath some five men wide through the massed ranks. The unit broke like a shattered cup. Knots of men ran in all directions — most back east. Keep runnin lads — seek cover — ‘cause that worst has just arrived.

Ho held out an arm. ‘Take me to the others.’ Nait took his sword back and helped him walk. May came running up, hunched, hands all wet with blood from treating wounds. ‘Dig in!’ Nait bellowed over the roar of coursing power. She saluted, ran off.

Nait led the man to where the ship's survivors had been collected. Here lay the resilient heavy-set woman and another woman, an elderly Wickan; the fellow with the savaged arm; a young fellow who was even more battered and twisted; and two other blood-smeared, lacerated and traumatized survivors. Healers from among the Untan volunteer ranks and a few from the Malazan regulars were busy at work on them, stopping bleeding, hands pressed to bruised flesh.

‘Is this it?’

Clenching down on his pain, Ho said in a tight voice, ‘Yes. And many of these here are of the Guard.’

‘We happen to be fighting them,’ Nait observed, neutrally.

‘We'll need them.’

Nait didn't bother asking what for. ‘What about you? You need a healer.’

‘No — I'm… getting better.’

Nait stepped up to the man, examined his naked side where beneath the drying blood and fluids only a pink scar remained of what had been a gouge worse than a sword thrust. Who — what — was this fellow?

Nait helped the man sit in the grass then turned to watch the skirmishers. They'd taken cover around the sides of the wreckage, firing at something a way east ahead of the pile. They popped up from the grass, fired, then dropped back down again. Damned prairie dogs, is what they are. That's it! The Prairie Dogs.

He was about to congratulate himself when the ground wavered beneath him and he staggered. A curved wall of the dark-blue fire billowed out towards the vessel, scattering the irregulars, erupting the grasses in flame. Nait dived for cover. Something cast an eerie shadow over everything, climbing higher, and he gaped up at a dark mar or bruise in the night sky, coalescing, darkening, seeming to flow inward.

Nait yelled to the men and women staring, gaping upwards, ‘Dig in!’

Kyle and the Lost brothers did not relinquish their line. They remained standing, weapons ready, while the Kanese likewise stood ready, spears and halberds standing tall. Each force eyed the other. The mounted officers sat examining the north sky, the invigilator still and intent, the commander sighing his boredom and brushing at his surcoat. Kyle stole quick glances as well, seeing nothing more than strange lights in the sky. After a time, the invigilator, Durmis, sucked a loud breath through his teeth, his face puckering his alarm. Even the commander's face appeared troubled. Kyle risked a look. Some kind of dark aura flickered in the lightening sky. No stars were visible through it. Renewed thunder reached them and the bridge shook ever so slightly.

‘Remain here if you wish,’ the invigilator called out, ‘but we will not take our forces into that’ To the commander: Order the men back, set up a line of defence on the south shore.’

The commander tapped his gauntlets to his thigh, frowning. On your authority?’

‘Yes, on my authority!’

An insouciant shrug. ‘Very well. If we must.’ He raised a hand, signalling. Horns blew from the rear. Among the massed forces on the shore signal flags rose, waving. The commander saluted Lean, tilted his head in acknowledgement of their stand. Lean bobbed her own, her face pained.

After a great deal of trouble and reshuffling, the commander, the invigilator and their guards succeeded in turning their mounts. They bulled their way back across the bridge while the ranks closed behind.

Kyle heard Lean ask, ‘Should we go?’

‘We'll wait,’ K'azz replied.

Coots and Badlands sat, took out stones and began cleaning up the edges of their weapons. Coots even whistled a tune. Kyle examined his: unmarred, the blade a thin curve of some dark yellow material, not metal, almost translucent at its edge. He sheathed it, wrapped the cords around its long grip — he'd have to get a new