Return of the Crimson Guard

presume much, priest. Too often in the past you've promised everything but delivered nothing. The rebellion of Seven Cities — failure. Laseen's fall in Malaz city — failure. If you fail this time you will not live to promise anew. Do I make myself clear?’

‘You do, First Sword of the Empire.’

Korbolo loosened his fists, forced himself to breathe out. How did the man manage to make even that title an insult? ‘When I wish to speak to you again I will summon you, Mallick.’

As he went to collect his cloak he heard the man's soft voice responding, ‘So you command, Sword of the Empire.’

Some time later Mallick set his goblet on the marble border of his pool. Oryan padded silently forward to collect it. He stood over Mallick for a time, looking to the door. ‘Yes, Oryan?’

‘Why is that man still alive, master?’

‘I have always found it convenient to keep someone around upon whom everything can be blamed. Also, armour gives me hives.’

The old man sneered his disgust. ‘Any fool can wave a sword and order men to their deaths.’

‘As all of these military commanders prove again and again. Yes, Oryan. But this one is our fool.’

The morning of the second week of siege Lieutenant Rillish stood staring into a polished copper-fronted shield attempting to dry-shave himself. His hand shook so abominably it was his third attempt. He told himself it must be from having just stood command through the entire night; at least he hoped that was the case. A knock at his barracks door allowed him an excuse to abandon the effort. ‘Yes?’

‘Sergeant, sir.’

‘It's not the Hood-damned south wall again, is it?’

‘No, sir. Not that,’ Sergeant Chord called through the door. ‘Given up on that they have sir, as a bad job.’

‘Then pray what is it, Sergeant?’

‘It's the elders, sir. Another delegation. Like a word.’

Again? Hadn't he made it plain enough? Rillish eased himself down into a camp stool. He massaged his thigh where a leaf-bladed spearhead had slid straight in. ‘Very well, Sergeant, let them in.’

The door opened and in shuffled five Wickan elders of those trapped with them within the fort. Rillish knew the names of two, the hetman, Udep, and a shaman held in high regard, Clearwater. It struck him how beaten down they looked. Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. Trousers of tattered cloth and torn thin leather. Even their amulets and wristlets of beaten copper looked tarnished and cheap. These were the feared warriors the Empire could not tame? But then, a Wickan without a horse was a sad sight no matter the circumstances; and these were the worst.

‘Pardon, Commander,’ Udep began, ‘we would speak again.’

‘Yes, hetman. You are aways welcome. And you, shaman.’

The grey-haired shaggy mage managed a jerked nod. It seemed to Rillish that the man was dead on his feet: hands twitching with exhaustion, face pale as if drained of blood. A haunted look in his sunken eyes. Was the man expending himself sending curses out among the besiegers? If so, he'd heard nothing of it. He'd have to question Chord.

‘We again ask that we be allowed the dignity of defending that which is ours.’

‘We've been through this before, hetman. Malazan soldiery will defend this installation.’

The man's scarred hands clenched and unclenched on his belt as if at the throat of an enemy. ‘What is it you wish, Malazan? Would you have us beg?’

‘Beg?

Barked Wickan from the three old women with Udep made the man wince. He took a great shuddering breath. ‘My pardon, Commander. That was unworthy. Even now you spill your own blood in defence in our land.’ The hetman looked down.

Rillish saw that his leg wound had re-opened. The packed dirt under his chair was damp with blood. He took hold of his leg. One of the old women said something that sounded suspiciously like idiot and slapped his hands aside. She began rebinding the wound.

‘You need every hand you can get, Commander,’ continued Udep.

‘We've been over that already.’

‘At least we would die fighting.’

‘Don't be impatient. There's every chance of it yet.’

The hetman crossed his arms, hugging himself. He seemed to be struggling with something; he and Clearwater exchanged tight glances. ‘You leave us very little choice. We still have our pride.’

Rillish knew the elders had been cooking something up in the main stone building he'd moved them and the children to. So far he'd not interfered. He raised a finger. ‘No attacks. Not until the last soldier falls. This is still a Malazan military possession. Understood?’

The shaman Clearwater opened his mouth to address Rillish, but Udep cut him off with a curt command. They turned to go. Rillish touched the arm of the aged Wickan grandmother who had rebound his leg. She turned back, her gaze narrowed, wary.

‘My thanks.’

A smile of bright white teeth melted decades from the squat woman and dazzled Rillish. At the door the hetman paused. ‘Commander, when you lose the walls you will be falling back to us at the main building, yes?’

For a moment Rillish thought about disputing whether they would ever lose control of the walls but because it was so obvious to the both of them he decided against insulting the man with empty assurances. Instead, he allowed a curt nod.

Udep answered in kind and left. Sergeant Chord stuck his head in. ‘Movement in their camp, sir. Looks like new arrivals.’

‘More of them, Sergeant?’

The man grinned. ‘Don't matter. We've iron enough for all.’

Rillish stood, wincing. He belted on his twinned Untan duelling swords. ‘Let's hope it's not someone who knows what he's doing.’

‘No, sir. Baron Horse's-Ass still looks to be in charge.’

‘Well thank Trake for small blessings, hey, Sergeant? Let's have a look.’

He thought of himself as Ragman now. A knotted bundle of used up bits and pieces whose original cut had long since been lost. Walking the seeming endless plains of ash and fields of broken rock that was the Imperial Warren the man stopped suddenly, examined the tattered remains of his once fine clothes and nodded, satisfied. Yes, inside and out; so it should be. Allowing himself to fall forward he twisted the move into a series of cartwheels and spinning high kicks. Tatterdemalion, he named himself as he ran through his impromptu pattern. Harlequin. Clown. He froze, crouched, arms outstretched. No — he must not lose hold of the one thread that could lead him back. Though they were coming far less often now; perhaps they'd learned their lesson.

Movement above in the unchanging lead sky drove him to cover behind a large boulder. Dark shapes moving across the sky, far off, ponderously huge. So, not just wild reports and stories from sources of… questionable… veracity. Telling himself they were too distant and that he was no doubt too insignificant, he stood and set off at a jog, following.

The ground steadily broke into shallow gullies and high buttes surrounded by erosional slopes and gravel fans. Skittering down one such slope he stopped just short of a jutting spine of basalt. His Warren-sensitivity told him someone was near, hiding, watchful. After catching his breath he called, ‘You can come out.’

A figure detatched itself from the shadows of one jagged black spire. It climbed down, lithe and quick. Ragman caught his breath — one of them yet not. Different by her style. Much more colourful, individual. Similar, yet not regimented in her moves. She stopped before him, a safe distance off. Dark eyes regarded him through a slit between veil and headscarf. ‘And you are?’ she asked.

‘Impressed.’

A glance toward the spires. ‘They are that. Like a peek?’

‘Very much so.’