Return of the Crimson Guard

Corlo gave his wry assent.

Jemain waited at the stern, peering into the dense fog that had enveloped the ship more than a week ago. ‘You'll go blind if you keep that up,’ Bars called to him.

‘Shhh,’ he hissed. ‘Please.’

‘What is it?’

‘Something's out there.’

‘Un-huh…’

‘Yes. I think so. Someone becalmed. Just like us. But shadowing us.’

‘Really? Corlo?’

‘I've quested. Someone. Can't do any better than that.’

‘Un-huh. So? What can we do about it? Maybe they just hope we know where we're going.’

Jemain's face glistened, sweaty and pale; he was clearly unhappy with what he was about to suggest. ‘We should stop oars, listen. Perhaps we'll lose them.’

Or not.’

Jemain shrugged his agreement.

‘What's our position?’

‘North. Far north of where we want to be.’

Bars turned to Corlo. ‘Anything from the Brethren?’

‘Whispers. They are, ah, agitated. Hints of movement. Continued movement.’

‘Hunh. Very well, Jemain. Orders by word of mouth only. Corlo, you and Lamb take the bow. I'll hold the stern. Stop oars. Arm everyone willing.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Soon, the oars stilled, slid gently into their ports. Bars pulled on the largest set of leather armour available. With hand signals he dispersed his eight remaining regular Guardsmen. He signalled for missile fire first. The men readied what bows and crossbows they'd dug up from the holds and neglected innards of the trader scow. Sailors and oarsmen took the deck as well, indifferently armed.

Jemain followed Bars to the port side; both squinted into the thick creamy curtains of fog. ‘Where do you think we are?’ Bars whispered.

‘Perhaps near the middle of Menigal Waters.’

‘Hmph. Reacher's Ocean, maybe.’

Jemain pointed. ‘There.’

Bars strained to see, then he caught it — movement. A low dark shape slowly closing on them, coming in at an angle. A single row of sweeps, open-decked. A war-galley, lateen-rigged, the sail reefed now in the dead air. Bars searched the waters at the bow for any hint of a ram but saw no wake or frothing. Strange that, usually a war-galley would have a ram. Shields lined the sides of the vessel. He raised his arm to signal firing the first volley. Oddly, however, no similar volley flew up to meet them now that they could see each other.

Then Jemain lurched back from the side as if struck by an arrow. He snatched Bars’ raised arm. Bars searched the man's stricken face, ‘What is it?

‘Don't fire,’ he managed, his voice strangled. ‘Please. No firing.’

Scanning the decks of the war-galley, Bars could see no movement — he relented. ‘Very well.’ He signalled a switch to hand-to-hand weaponry. ‘Why?’

The Genabackan first mate appeared terrified beyond words. He could only point. ‘The shields — don't you see…?’

‘Gods, what is it, man?’ What Bars saw now was what he had taken for shields appeared to be that, but oddly shaped, each painted to resemble a mask. The first mate was no longer listening; he glared about as if seeking escape. The man actually appeared to be considering jumping overboard. Bars grabbed a handful of his ratty sailor's jerkin, bodily lifted him by his front and shook him. ‘Who is this?

‘There are legends but no one's ever actually seen…’

‘Who? Hood curse you…’

‘It's a Seguleh vessel,’ he gasped.

Bars dropped him. ‘The Seguleh? Who in Togg's tits are they?’

‘You don't know?’

‘No.’ To his men Bars signalled a stand-by. ‘Tell me.’

‘You must order your men to drop their weapons. Quickly. All weapons. Please.’

Bars stared at the man. ‘Really?’

Yes. Allow me to speak to the crew.’

Feeling almost like laughing, Bars waved for Jemain to go ahead. Meanwhile, the vessel was taking its time manoeuvring to come aside as if this were a rendezvous arranged long ago. Slim straight figures stood motionless, calm and silent. They were behaving as if they fully expected to simply come aboard, Bars reflected. Like they were conducting some kind of damned harbour inspection or something.

jemain called down to the deck where the sailors watched, their faces tense. ‘It is a Seguleh vessel! Yes, that's right! Drop your weapons and you won't be hurt.’

To Bars’ amazement, as one, the sailors and even the freed slaves and oarsmen complied. Jemain dropped his own small sailor's knife. Bars caught Corlo watching from the bow. He raised his shoulders in a question. The mage cocked his head, thinking, then signed agreement.

Bars sighed his utter disbelief. Gods! The things they have to go through to make it back to Stratem. ‘OK, lads. Drop them — but keep ‘em close. Just in case.’ He watched while reluctantly, one by one, his men set down their weapons. All but one who stared back, defiant. The vessel bumped up against theirs. Tossed grapnels took hold at the rail. A few trailed rope ladders. ‘Dammit, Tillin! I ordered you to drop them!’

‘What's come over you, Bars? I'm not gonna just surrender-’

‘Damn you to Hood! I didn't order anyone to surrender! I just ordered you to drop your weapons. Now!’

His face dark with fury, Tillin threw his sword to the deck.

‘And the other,’ called Bars. The sticker.’

Tillin pulled a long-knife from the rear of his belt, threw it down.

A rope ladder jerked, straining. Bars took hold of the railing; he had to admit he was damned curious to see who it was that put the fear of Night into these Genabackans. A masked face appeared at the side. Jup grunted his surprise. Well, what d'you know. Just like the shields promised. Then in one swift fluid motion the man was on deck, erect, hands at a broad waist sash where two swords hung, thrust through. Bars grunted again: damned fast these fellows, whoever they were. Seven more joined the man, all medium- height, whip-lean in light leather armour and cloth trousers, and, surprisingly, barefoot. All wore intricately painted masks.

The appearance of each of the masked fellows drew a whimper from Jemain. Finally, with the last, he clenched the shoulder of Bars’ leather hauberk as if to keep from fainting. ‘There's eight of them! Eight!’

‘I can count,’ Bars grumbled. He motioned to the deck of the galley. ‘There's still more on the ship.’

The sailors remained motionless, allowing the intruders to wander at will; the Guardsmen took their cue from that. The Seguleh walked about the deck, opening casks, poking into piled equipment. ‘What's going on…’ Bars asked of Jemain.

‘I'm not sure. I think-’

A blur of motion, one foot thumping the deck, then a man falling. Bars ran to the mid-deck, pushed aside sailors. There lay Tillin, face up. Bars knelt, felt for a pulse. The man was dead. Bars faced the nearest Seguleh, ‘What's the meaning of this!’

‘He was armed,’ another Seguleh called from across the deck in the dialect of the South Confederacies. The one facing Bars slowly turned his back — pointedly, Bars thought — and walked away.

Bars blinked his surprise. Jemain, who had also come, turned the body over. A sheathed long-knife remained tucked at his belt. He snorted. He'd forgotten Tillin always carried two. He looked up, but the Seguleh who'd spoken had moved. ‘Where'd he go?’

‘I'm not sure I can find him,’ Jemain said.