Return of the Crimson Guard

‘Hard starboard!’ the captain roared.

Rillish scanned the deck jammed full of standing Malazan regulars — reinforcements on the way to the stranded 6th. He spotted a sergeant bellowing at his men to form ranks. ‘Ready crossbows!’ he shouted down.

‘Aye, sir!’ the sergeant called.

Before he could turn back, the Mare war-galley struck. The stern-castle deck punched up to smack the breath from him. Men screamed, wood tore with a crunching slow grinding. A split mast struck the deck.

Entangled beneath fallen rigging, Rillish simply bellowed, ‘Fire! Fire at will!’

‘Aye, sir!’ came the answering yell. Rillish imagined the punishment of rank after rank of Malazan crossbowmen firing down into the low open galley. He hacked his way free, one eye blinded by blood streaming from a head cut. ‘Where's the cadre mage, damn her!’

‘Dead, sir,’ someone called from the dark.

The deck canted to larboard as a swell lifted the two vessels. With an anguished grinding of wood they parted. The ram emerged, gashed and raining pulverized timbers. The war-galley back-oared. Hood take this Mare blockade! The only allies of the Korelri worth a damn. He wondered if one out of any five Malazan ships made it through. The vessel disappeared into the dark, satisfied it had accomplished its mission; Rillish was inclined to agree. The transport refused to right itself, riding the swells and troughs like a dead thing. He picked his way through the ruins of the stern-castle, found the sergeant. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

The sergeant grimaced, spat. ‘I'm thinking the water's damned cold.’

‘I agree. Have the men drop their gear. We'll have to swim for shore or hope another of the convoy is nearby.’

A'ye aye, sir.’

‘Lieutenant? Sir?’

Rillish opened his eyes. It was night. The stars were out, but they were behaving oddly, they had tails that swept behind them whenever he looked about. Sergeant Chord was peering down at him. He felt hot, slick with sweat. He tried to speak but couldn't part his lips.

‘You've taken a fever, sir. Infection.’

Rillish tore his lips apart. ‘I was thinking of the day we met, Chord.’

‘That so, sir? A bad day, that one. Lost a lot of good men and women.’

A young Wickan boy appeared alongside Chord. Mane was there as well. ‘This lad,’ Chord said, ‘is a Talent — touched with Denul, so Mane says. He's gonna have a look.’ The boy ducked his head shyly.

Just a child! ‘No.’

‘No, sir?’

‘No. Too young. No training. Dangerous.’

Chord and Mane exchanged looks; Chord gave a told-you-so shrug.

‘It's been ordered,’ Mane said.

‘Who?’

Mane glanced to the other travois, bit her lip. ‘Ordered. That's all. We're going ahead.’

‘No, I-’

Chord took hold of him. Other hands grasped his shoulders, arms and legs. Folded leather was forced into his mouth. Rillish strained, fighting, panted and yelled through the bit. The youth touched his leg and closed his eyes. Darkness took him.

He awoke alone in a grass-bordered clearing under the stars exactly like the one he'd last seen. In fact, so similar was it all that Rillish suspected that perhaps Chord and the others had simply decided it most expedient to abandon him. He found he could raise his head. He saw the youth sitting cross-legged opposite a dead campfire, head bowed. ‘Hello?’

‘Don't bother yourself, outlander,’ growled a low voice from the grasses. ‘He won't answer.’

Rillish scanned the wall of rippling brown blades. ‘Who's there?’

Harsh laughter all around. ‘Not for you, outlander. You shouldn't wander lost, you know. Even here.’

He felt at his sides for a blade, found none. Harsh panted laughter again. ‘What's going on?’

‘We're deciding…’

Shapes swept past the wall of grass — long and lithe. ‘Deciding… what?’

‘How to kill you.’

The shapes froze; all hints of movement stopped. Even the air seemed to still. Something shook the ground of the clearing, huge and rippling slow. Rillish was reminded of the times he'd felt the ground shake. Burn's Pain, some called it.

‘Enough…’

The shapes fled.

A presence entered the clearing — at least that was all Rillish's senses could discern. He could not directly see it; his eyes seemed incapable of processing what they saw. A moving blind spot was all he could make out. The rich scent of fresh-turned earth enveloped him, warm and moist. He was reminded of his youth helping the labourers on his family orchards. The presence went to the boy, seemed to envelop him.

‘Such innocence’ The aching desolation within the voice wrenched Rillish, brought tears to his eyes. ‘Must it be punished?’ The entity turned its attention upon him and Rillish found he had to look away. He could not face this thing; it was too much.

‘Rillish Jal Keth,’ the thing spoke, and the profound weight of a grief behind the voice was heartbreaking. ‘In these young times my ways are named old and harsh, I know. But even yet they hold efficacy. Guidance was requested and guidance shall be given. My children needs must now take a step into that other world from which you come. I ask that you help guide that step.’

‘You… askr

‘Subservience and obedience can be coerced. Understanding and acceptance cannot.’

Rillish struggled to find his voice. ‘I understand — that is, I don't understand. I-’

‘It is not expected that you do so. All that is expected is that you strive to do so.’

‘But how will I know-’

The presence withdrew. ‘Enough…’

Rillish awoke to a slanting late afternoon light. The female soldier who had helped him escape the fort was holding a cool wet cloth to his face as she walked along beside the travois. He gave her a smile that she returned, then she jogged off. Wait, he tried to call, what's your name? Shortly afterwards Sergeant Chord appeared at his side. ‘Sergeant,’ he managed to whisper.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The boy. Where's the boy?’

Chord held a rigid grin of encouragement. ‘Never you mind anything. You just rest now, sir.’

‘Sergeant!’ But he was gone.

The next morning Rillish could sit up. He asked for water and food. The most difficult thing to endure was his own smell; he'd shat himself in the night. He asked for Sergeant Chord and waited. It seemed the sergeant was reluctant to come. Eventually, he appeared. Rillish now saw that the man had a good start on a beard and his surcoat of grey was tattered and dirt-smeared. He appeared to be sporting a few new cuts and gashes as well. Rillish imagined he must look worse, he certainly smelled far worse. ‘I need to get cleaned up. Is there water enough for that?’

The sergeant seemed relieved. ‘Yes, sir.’

Mane came walking up; she now wore settler's gear of soft leather armour over an oversized tunic, trousers and even boots.

‘The boy?’ Rillish demanded. ‘The healer?’

Sergeant Chord lips clenched and he looked away, squinting.

‘Dead,’ Mane said with her habitual glower. ‘He died saving you. Though why I do not know, you being a cursed Malazan. That's a lot of Wickan blood spilled saving you…’

‘That's enough,’ Chord murmured.

Rillish let his gaze fall. She was right, and had a right to her anger. But he had not asked to be healed. He looked up. ‘You said something. Something about orders. What did you mean?‘ Mane bared her teeth in defiance.