Return of the Crimson Guard

go, this lone exile? Shall he cross the water? What is to become of him? What if he were you?

Lament of the Lonely Traveller Anonymous (attributed by some to Fisher Tel Kath)

Twelve days after the storm, the Kestral and the Wanderer dropped anchor at a length of uninhabited shoreline of the Sea of Chimes. At Shimmer's orders, the Nabrajan captains had kept clear of all coastline where possible, yet what lengths of shore Kyle had glimpsed appeared far from promising: grey and black tumbled rocks skirted by twisted and stunted trees, distant dusty-grey rounded hillocks, and forests of thin black-limbed evergreens. Glimpses of a level plateau of some sort broken up by copses of trees.

That dawn Kyle had watch. In the calm, almost glass-like bay, he sat cross-legged on the raised cargo hatch at mid-deck, needle in hand, attempting to mend the padded quilted shirt he wore beneath his hauberk.

‘A sailor'd do a better job of that.’

Kyle looked up. It was Greymane, standing at the gunwale. He hadn't heard a thing. How could a man so big be so quiet? He returned to his sewing. ‘Have to learn some time.’

‘True enough.’

Kyle kept his head down. Why was the renegade talking to him? The man was practically an Avowed — had even fought against them in the past, so he'd heard. The Malazan cleared his throat. ‘Kyle, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I've been meaning to have a word about the Spur. I understand you're a Bael native — that the Ascendant, or whatever he was, we found up there meant something to you, and maybe your people…’

Kyle looked up from his sewing. ‘Yes?’

‘Well,’ the man frowned at the deck, ‘I suppose I want to apologize for that. I didn't intend for things to go the way they went.’ He looked out over the water, to the dark treed shore a stone's throw distant, crossed his arms. ‘Things just have a way of taking on a life of their own…’

Kyle watched, wondering if perhaps he'd been forgotten. For the man was now obviously thinking of other things.

After standing silent for a time the Malazan said, ‘You know they call me a renegade.’

Kyle looked up from his sewing once more. ‘Yes.’

‘Ever wondered why?’

Kyle shrugged. ‘No. It means nothing to me.’

The man laughed. ‘Good. Then I'll tell you. I'm a renegade because I tried to make peace, Kyle. Strike an accord. For that I enraged the Korelans and was denounced by Malazan command. Me ‘n’ a handful of others.’ The big man glanced to Kyle, his pale ice-blue eyes bright in the gathering dawn. ‘And do you know why of all of them I alone survived the hunt that followed?’

‘No.’

‘Because I ran the farthest of all of them. Was the most thorough coward of the lot.’

Kyle's fists clenched his undershirt. This was not what he wanted to hear. Apologies! Confessions! Damn the man. He, a coward? What could he mean by such a ridiculous claim? ‘Perhaps I'm not the one you should be talking to…’

‘No. You're the one. Perhaps the only one. Because you're not from around here, Kyle. No one from around here would understand.’

The renegade pushed himself from the gunwale, walked off, his sandalled feet silent on the deck. Kyle watched him go. Understand? He didn't understand any of it.

The next morning Kyle saw Shimmer for the first time in months; apparently she'd been locked away in the only private cabin for what seemed the entire crossing. A sailor told him that she appeared suddenly that dawn, startling the captain as had no other event during the voyage. Later, word came for the Ninth squad to assemble.

They stood at attention, some having come across from the Wanderer, Shimmer examined them and they in turn examined her. At first Kyle hardly recognized her. Gone was all her usual garb of war and so startling was the transformation he could well appreciate the captain's reaction. Her hair was unbounded by her usual bright steel domed helmet and hung midnight-black and shimmering to the small of her back. The next thing Kyle noted was her height — she barely reached his chin. He'd always held an impression of her as taller. Her eyes, however, remained the same. Black under narrow slanted lids, they matched the blue-Napan cast of her face. And they held that slow reserved light that had seen just about all they possibly could, and wouldn't be surprised by anything more. Instead of her glittering coat of fine mail that reached her ankles and her long whipsword sheathed at her back, she now wore only a short-sleeved soft leather jacket and loose pantaloons.

‘Just north up the coast stands Fortress Haven,’ she began, ‘one of the first of our settlements here in Stratem. There, Lieutenant Skinner pledged he would return and await us. The Ninth Blade will go secretly without alarming any Malazan forces or spies that may be present, and contact him.’

While Shimmer spoke, her hands moved restlessly, brushing at her waist or searching for the scabbard that would've rested at her back. Kyle didn't know her well enough to read her moods, but she appeared nervous and rushed.

‘We have no idea if he still lives, or even if Malazan forces occupy Haven. You'll find that out also. But if you do reach him, all the Guard forces will immediately reunite under his command as agreed at the beginning of the Diaspora. Understood?’

‘Aye, Commander.’

They gathered their equipment, rolled and belted armour, weapons and one pack each, then climbed down the rope ladder to the waiting launch. The sergeant, the Falari exile Trench, two hulking ex-Free City swordsmen, Meek and Harman, a Barghast half-breed, Grere, the Genabackan Free City mage just attached to the blade, Twisty, and the Bael natives Stalker and Kyle.

Just before they pushed off Stoop came one-handed down a rope ladder to join them. ‘Thought I'd have a look,’ he told Kyle, grinning, and he took the tiller next to Trench. Everyone else manned oars. They followed the shore north. Stalker next to Kyle at an oar examined the forested shore. ‘Uninhabited,’ he judged.

‘How can you tell?’

‘All old growth. No logging, no trails.’

‘You know such woods?’

The scout pursed his lips, nodded.

‘Quiet,’ Trench ordered.

Late in the afternoon they rounded a rocky headland revealing a forested bay and the huts of a modest village. The towers of a grey stone fortress thrust high above the treetops overlooked the settlement. A set of rotting canted docks stretched out from the shore beneath.

‘Back oars,’ Trench ordered.

Hidden behind the headland, they pulled the launch up out of the water and camouflaged it as best they could. While the light held, they moved inland. Stalker, Grere and Kyle spread out to scout. All he saw that afternoon was virgin land, forest stretching inland free of any sign of habitation.

After dusk Trench ordered camp set; they would scout the village at dawn. In the light of a small fire he unrolled a tattered vellum map of Stratem. The squad, all but Stalker who stood watch, crowded around. Kyle sensed their hushed anticipation. Meek and Harman exchanged hungry grins. Theirs were the most clear-cut duties of the squad, and the hardest. They were simply expected to stand and fight until they or the attackers were all dead. The squad was in the field again, except this time it was Guard lands, a war more theirs than any before. During the passage Kyle had heard constant talk of the rewards waiting: fiefs, land for each. Titles. Everything a fighting man desired — if they won.

Trench pointed a blunt finger to the unsettled western shore of the inland Sea of Chimes. ‘We're here.’ Then he pointed to a string of fortresses built by the Guard to keep watch over their southern shores. Exile stood over the extreme east; Thick at the straits leading into the Sea of Chimes; Iron Citadel over the sands to the south-west; and North Bastion over the far west.

‘But they ignored them,’ said Stoop.