Return of the Crimson Guard

‘Close enough,’ Rillish yelled down.

‘This is parley!’ a man in a bearskin cloak answered. ‘Come and talk.’

‘I do not negotiate with bandits.’

‘Bandits!’ The men laughed. ‘You should get out more often, Lieutenant. Haven't you heard? But then no, you wouldn't have, would you? No messenger has come in — how long has it been now — almost a month?’

So, there it is. This man is more than he seems, or speaks for someone who is. Rillish decided to cut to the heart. ‘Your terms?’

The man waved the matter aside and Rillish caught a clutter of rings at his fingers. His thick black hair was greased as was his beard. ‘Simplicity itself. You and your men, the entire garrison, are free to go. March away west. You are of course welcome to keep your weapons.’

Rillish rested his hands upon the sharpened tips of the palisade. Yes, free to go. Free to walk away… He turned to the fort compound. There, filling the dirt square, sitting and standing, faces peering back up at him, waited more than a hundred Wickan elders and children. He returned his gaze to the envoy and the mob of would- be besiegers beyond. Sour bile rose in his mouth like iron from a stomach thrust. Damn these scum to Hood's darkest path.

‘Come now, Lieutenant, surely you must see your situation is untenable. You are surrounded, without hope of succour. Low on provisions and without water. Come, Lieutenant, throw your own life away if you must, but think of your men.’

His sergeant spat over the wall. ‘Skewer the bastard now!’

Rillish raised a hand to stay his sergeant. ‘Who do you speak for?’

The envoy's smile convinced Rillish that his probe had worked. The man pointed off to the low hills of the Wickan territory. ‘How does North Unta sound to you?’

Rillish considered ordering his sergeant to skewer the bastard. Damned Untan Great Families — they'd feuded with the Wickans for generations. Now they saw their chance.

And he was in the way.

To his sergeant Rillish asked aside, ‘You are certain you saw no soldiers out there?’

‘None. Adventurers, opportunists, squatters, shiftless frontier malingerers. Nothing but filth.’

Rillish drew off his helmet, wiped the sweat from his forehead. Hot here on the plains. Not like down south. Or like Korel. It'd been damned cold all those years in Korel. He cinched tight the helmet. ‘Pack up your mob and decamp and I promise you we will not pursue.’

The envoy stared, frowning, as if the lieutenant had gibbered in some foreign language. Then he rallied, flushed. ‘Aren't you aware of your situation, you ox-brained foot soldier? You haven't even enough men to properly defend your walls!’

‘And you haven't the belly for a siege.’

Raising his voice, the envoy addressed the entire fort: ‘You fools! This man has just thrown away your lives!’

‘Now I'm gonna skewer the bastard.’

‘Is the parley over then?’ Rillish called. ‘Because if it is, my sergeant here would very much like to shoot you.’

The envoy's jaws worked as he swallowed the rest of his words. ‘We are done,’ he spat and turned his back to march away.

‘What now, sir?’ the sergeant, Chord, asked beneath his breath.

‘Quarter rations immediately. Confiscate all water. Double the watch. They'll probably try to rush us tonight.’

‘Aye-aye, sir. Pardon me for saying so, sir, but this garrison's green, sir. Not like the old command.’

‘No new command is ever like the old one, Chord.’

‘Yes, sir. That's true as rain, sir.’

‘We could use some of that.’

‘Use some of what, sir?’

‘Rain.’

‘That's true, sir.’

Rillish looked out over the fort enclosure. The faces of the Wickan elders and children he'd managed to shelter turned up to him. Their eyes watched him, but not with worry, or with pleading, just watchful, patient. ‘A quiet posting until retirement, they said, Chord. A well-earned rest. I should've stayed in that chaos-hole of Korel.’

‘May the Gods answer you, sir.’

Rillish strode to the stairs. ‘Well, on second thought, let's hope they don't, Chord.’

They were trimming and setting the boat's planking when ships breasted the south headlands following the shore north. Shouts from the villagers took Ereko's attention from overseeing the adzing. At his side Traveller set down his axe. ‘Locals?’ Ereko asked, though he felt certain they were not.

Traveller shaded his eyes. ‘Far from it.’

Ereko studied the vessels’ low beam, their simple square sail configuration. ‘They are daring seamen.’

‘They have come a very far way.’

‘You know them, then.’

‘Yes.’

In that ‘yes’ rode the strongest emotion Ereko had yet to hear revealed by his companion. Curiosity grew within him to meet these people who had somehow managed to stir within Traveller what could only be called plain human hate. The headman's nephew came running from the huts, pointing out to sea. ‘They come! It is they! The grey raiders from the sea!’ His people came following in a wave; mothers running with their skirts gathered in one hand, children yanked along in the other.

‘Yes.’

The nephew swallowed to still his panting. ‘What… What do we do?’

‘Run away. All of you. Run into the forest. Don't stop.’

‘What of you?’

‘I'll meet them.’

‘But — if we all hide — perhaps they will pass us by.’

‘I don't want them to.’

The headman gaped at Traveller as if he'd just promised to commit suicide. He backed away, his gaze troubled, then sad, and finally he turned and jogged off.

Traveller crossed to where he'd left his weapon. He shook it from its sheath. ‘You too,’ he said. ‘You need not involve yourself.’

Ereko joined him as he started down to the strand. ‘No, I will come. I should mark these people so that I would know to avoid them in the future.’

Traveller deigned not to answer that, though he did glance sidelong. Out in the bay the ship's prows had turned to shore. Either they had seen them or they intended to land in any case.

‘Your armour?’

‘There's no time.’

Of course he showed no fear but Ereko was worried. Warriors who inspired such dread were obviously no fools. They would bring their bows to bear upon them, if they had such. On the way down he retrieved his spear. ‘Two ships,’ he mused as they reached the strand.

The ghost of a smile teased Traveller's lips. ‘Very well. The right or the left?’

Ereko eyed the two tall-prowed, narrow vessels. Both decks seethed with figures. ‘The right, I think.’

The raiders had jumped down into the surf and were pushing their way up on to shore when Ereko understood the reason behind the villager's dread. The grey raiders from the sea. To him, nothing more than one more race of alien invaders. Tiste Edur. Children of Shadow. As they closed where the surf licked the black shingle Ereko dredged up what Edur he'd picked up over the ages. ‘Welcome.’

The lead figure, this detachment's war leader probably, gestured a halt and looked Ereko up and down. ‘Name yourself.’