Return of the Crimson Guard

‘Wait! What's-’

The scout yanked Kyle onward. ‘Move.’

Kyle wrenched his arm free. ‘What's going on, damn you!’

Stalker grimaced his irritation. ‘They'll be comin’ back, Kyle. Maybe Cowl himself. We have to move, now.’

‘While we go then.’

A curt nod and the scout headed out, following Badlands and Coots. ‘I didn't kill Stoop,’ Kyle began, pushing aside branches and jumping fallen trunks.

‘That's their story,’ answered Stalker. ‘You killed him ‘n’ ran.’

‘Who'd believe that?’

A shrug from the scout as he trotted along. ‘Don't matter. That renegade, Greymane, he doesn't seem convinced. But it's official. What can they do?’

‘What about you three? Why attack Mara? What's it to you?’

The tall scout held up a hand for a halt, crouched behind cover, peering behind them. Kyle joined him. They listened, trying to dampen their breathing. After a moment Stalker straightened. He yanked the pin from the breast of his leathers: the silver dragon sigil of the Crimson Guard. He tossed it aside. ‘Me ‘n’ the boys, we never really were cut out for this mercenary business. We don't think much of fighting for money or power. We fight for other things.’

Kyle realized that he still wore his sigil. Somehow, he could not bring himself to throw it away. ‘So what now?’

Stalker shrugged. ‘Get the Abyss away from here. Clear some land.’ He offered a one-sided smile. ‘Raise chickens. C'mon, my brothers won't wait for ever.’

‘Brothers?’

‘Brothers, cousins, call it what you will. We're all descended from one big family. The Lost. That's us. Welcome to the family.’ The scout cuffed Kyle on his back and jogged off.

Lost. Well, that's just great. Wonderful! Not only was he a renegade, disbanded and hunted. He was now lost too, by adoption. Shaking his head at the strange rightness of it all he set off as well, hurrying to catch up. Before them stretched league after league of boreal forest. The western reach of the Stratem subcontinent.

CHAPTER V

Past Quon hegemonies never held;

occupations cannot quell unrest,

indeed, even benign ones foster it.

Must this lesson be learned every generation?

Sadly, some things never do change.

Historian Heboric

Before the servant could announce him, High Fist Korbolo Dom, Sword of the Empire, stormed into Mallick's residence, throwing down his gloves and travelling cloak. ‘It's happened again! Another of the damned coward nobles has fled the capital, taken his guard with him — over four hundred horse!’

Silence answered his pronouncement. ‘Mallick!’ he roared. ‘Damn you! Don't tell me you've run off too!’

‘Baron Nira's concern for his lands and crops is well known to me,’ came Mallick's disembodied voice from further within. Korbolo followed the voice to find the man soaking in the broad shallow pool at the centre of his quarters, a towel over his shoulders. Mallick raised a goblet. ‘Wine?’

Biting back his rage, Korbolo fought the urge to slap the glass from the man's hand. Damn him! Was he insane? Things are slipping beyond their control and he's bathing! Sensing another presence he glanced aside to see the withered old manservant Mallick had brought with him from Seven Cities, Oryan. He dismissed the man from his thoughts. ‘While you splash in your pool the Assembly is dissolving. Representatives are fleeing! Even those you put on it! Soon there will be nothing left to rule, Hood take it, even if we could.’

Mallick sipped the wine. ‘Dissolving — how appropriate. My friend, you are a poet.’

Korbolo stared down at the repulsive squat figure at his feet. The strong urge took hold of him to push the man's head beneath the waters, to throttle this monstrous lurking curse that had so taken over his life. But then, for all he knew, that could prove impossible; this creature seemed born of a swamp. ‘Meanwhile,’ he continued, struggling to regain his thoughts, ‘neither you nor she do a thing. Kingdoms continue to rise in revolt against the Imperial Throne and we do nothing!’

Mallick sighed. ‘But my dear High Fist, First Sword. That is precisely what we have been encouraging them to do.’

Korbolo ground his teeth — mockery! One day this toad would push him too far. ‘Riot and dissent against her, yes. But secession? This is chaos. Nothing less than civil war. It is out of everyone's control!’

Mallick's bulging eyes blinked up at him. ‘Again you amaze me, First Sword. Pure poetry — chaos and loss of control. Amazing.’ He sipped his wine. ‘In the first place it is not a civil war, it is devolution to the rather monotonous old-fashioned warfare of a century ago. City state ‘gainst city state. Neighbour versus neighbour. I understand that is something of a tradition here on Quon.’

‘Yes, before the emperor.’

‘Exactly. Before the strong hand of the emperor…’

Korbolo stood motionless, breathless, as the implications of Mallick's hints blossomed. And who would the populace accept at the head of the legions restoring peace and order to their smoking, war-ravaged countryside? Surely not this bloated travesty of a man. No, not him. He let out a long shuddering breath, swallowed to wet his suddenly tight throat. ‘Very well, Mallick. However, this does not explain your or her utter inaction.’

‘But, High Fist, just what would you have her do?’

‘March! We have, what, some eight thousand regulars here in the capital? We should march on Gris or Bloor before they ally against us.’

‘And leave Unta undefended?’

‘Against who? There is no one to threaten her.’

‘Not at the moment. But should we leave… perhaps our friend Nira and his brother nobles who are so, ah, coerced in their support, might put their resources together and decide they could do a better job of defending Imperial interests, hmm, Korbolo?’

The High Fist saw it then — deadlock. Three jackals circling a wounded bhederin. Who dared strike first and risk attack from the rear? Yet how could any of the three walk away to leave such a prize for any other? Laseen, who ruled in name only? Or he and Mallick who ruled in fact? Or the nobles and Assemblymen who also may?

Yet, the thought troubled Korbolo, the beast was dying while they chased one another. Perhaps it didn't matter to this creature Mallick, for whom a dead beast would serve just the same. But it certainly mattered to him. It must then be his duty to be sure to act before Mallick allowed things to degenerate too far. The High Fist nodded to himself, yes, that obviously was to be his responsibility. He looked down; Mallick was watching him expectantly. ‘Yes?’

‘Is that all, High Fist?’

‘Yes, Mallick. That is all.’

‘Very good. Then we are in agreement?’

‘Yes. Full agreement.’

‘Excellent.’ Mallick finished his wine.

Korbolo turned away from the sight of the man's nauseating pallid flesh. He straightened his shirt. ‘You