Return of the Crimson Guard

‘And now this Thelomen fellow, or whatever he is, says he's of Jacuruku.’

‘Yeah.’

Stalker spun away, disgusted. ‘Dark Lady, someone's meddling here. I don't like it. Too overt. There's going to be trouble. Push-back. I know it.’

‘What do you mean?’

He rubbed his hands on the planks of the boat. ‘A slapping down. A dispersal. Lad,’ he said, turning back, ‘the Gods are just scheming children. One is attempting to build a castle in the sand here. Soon the others will see this, or they have seen it. They'll come and kick it down.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they can't let the schemes of others succeed, Kyle. They each of them only want their own to succeed.’

‘I don't know if I agree with that.’

The tall scout shrugged. ‘Agree or not, that is how it is. In any case, seems we're still working for the Guard after all.’

‘One direction is as good as any other,’ said Coots with a dismissive wave.

‘Except home,’ said Badlands, hawking up a great throatful of phlegm and spitting on to the rocks.

Coots nodded. ‘Yeah. That would be the worst.’

Traveller and Ereko returned quite quickly. Kyle had to kick the cousins awake; they'd lain down on their cloaks and gone right to sleep. The two tossed their bundles in then Traveller waved everyone to the boat. One- armed, Kyle had barely touched the overlapping planks of the sides when the boat took off sliding down the logs; Ereko had merely leant his shoulder to the stern and it fairly flew down the strand. It gave a nerve-grating screech of wood-against-wood then charged prow-first into the grey water. Ereko had continued on with it and now stood in what for him was waist-deep water; Kyle, short himself, suspected it would come up near his shoulders. Traveller pointed to a row of sealed earthenware pots. ‘Those hold sweet-water. Get them aboard.’

Stalker didn't move, but after an ‘Aye, Captain’ from Coots the brothers bent to the task.

‘Those bundles of charcoal,’ Traveller told Kyle, indicating a ready-made pile.

‘Aye,’ Kyle responded without thought. Eventually, Stalker lent a hand to the loading of wrapped dried fish and roots.

Ereko had manoeuvred the boat closer to shore. They climbed aboard, getting wet only to the knees. Ereko pushed off then pulled himself in over the gunwale. He took the side-tiller while Traveller sat at the high prow.

‘Raise sail,’ Ereko called. The brothers set to, pulling on ropes. A patchwork square sail rose, luffed full in the strong wind. Ereko steered them north, parallel to the shore and slightly seaward. Already a false dawn brightened the east. They'd worked all night preparing the craft.

Kyle sat close to the stern, wrapped himself in his cloak. ‘What's the boat's name?’ he asked the giant.

‘We call her the Kite,’ he answered with an easy and pleased smile. ‘Let's hope she flies just as swift, hey?’

Kyle could only nod his uncertain agreement. Why must they hurry? Were they afraid the Guard might give chase? Or, more likely, the fellow had his own reasons for speed. The one who'd given his name as Traveller — what an odd choice! — had installed himself at the very prow, looking ahead past the tall spit. Stalker, Badlands and Coots sat amidships, wrapped themselves in cloaks, and promptly went to sleep. Kyle tried to sleep but found that while he was exhausted by the night's work, he was too excited. He was on his way — but to what? Would it prove to be the meeting or the discovery he hoped? But it was too late now for second thoughts. It seemed to him that the splash of the Kite's prow into the water had set a tumble of events into motion that could not be stopped. Not by men nor even these meddling Gods who may have — foolishly! — interfered. They had set off on a chosen path. One path among many that like any in hindsight becomes Fated. And their destination, their future, awaited them.

CHAPTER II

The wise learn more from their enemies than fools learn from their friends.

Attribution Unknown (Possibly Gothos)

‘O Belisk High, Deathslayer close, crown inverted, the Apocalyptic!’

Arm raised to throw, Nait stared at Heuk, the company cadre mage. ‘So? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

The old man blinked sallow bloodshot eyes and fell back into his seat. He gestured to the cards. ‘It means something's happening.’

At the company table, Least let go a great farting noise. Nait kept his hand high, shaking the bone dice. ‘Something's always happening somewhere, you daft codger!’

‘Swearing,’ Corporal Hands warned, ‘and throw the damned dice.’

‘Fine!’ Nait shook the dice in Hands’ broad sweaty face. ‘You want me to throw, I'll throw!’ He threw; the dice bounced from the box, disappeared among the sawdust, straw and warped boards of the Figurehead Inn's floor.

‘Aw, you dumb bumpkin!’ said Honey Boy.

‘Shithead.’

‘Swearing!’

‘Look, you better find them,’ said Honey Boy, ‘they're made from my grandmother's own knucklebones.’

‘Then she can bloody well find them.’

Hands, Honey Boy and Least all stared. Nait threw up his arms. ‘Fine! I'll look.’ He got on his hands and knees between the crowded tables. ‘Can't find shit down here anyway.’

‘I did,’ Least said, serious.

Nait searched the floor, deciding to look more for dropped coins than anything else. The door banged open and a man stopped in the threshold blocking the bright light of midday. ‘It's the end of the world, he bellowed into the common room. Conversation and the thumping of pewter tankards stopped. Everyone turned to squint at the man, his eyes wide, hair dishevelled, fine velvet jacket askew and wrenched. ‘Hood's Gates have opened and the dead of all the Abyss are vomiting up upon us!’

Nait, straightening, banged the back of his head on the table. ‘What in Hood's ass?’

‘Flee! Run!’ and, taking his own advice, the man ran.

Nait looked to Hands who looked to Honey Boy. A few patrons peered out the oiled and stretched hides that served as blurry windows. The light shining in the door did have a strange greenish cast to it — like that of an approaching storm front. A number of blurred figures, no more than wavering shadows, ran past the windows like fleeing ghosts. Shrugging, most patrons returned to talking — now discussing even stranger things they'd seen; the day a two-headed cat haunted the streets of Unta and the whole quarter was turned upside down so that the cursed thing could be caught and drowned in a trough; or that night not so long ago when a falling god — perhaps Fener himself — turned the night into day.

Yet Nait thought he heard distant yells of alarm and wonder from the open door. Sighing, Hands pushed herself up from the table and stretched her arms, straining the broad front lacings of her linen shirt. Looking up from the table, Least whimpered and Honey Boy sank his head into his hands. Hands glared, ‘Oh, c'mon!’ She drew on her padded vest and hauberk, took her belt and sword from the back of the chair. Nait pocketed his coins from the table, pushed the birdbone toothpick into the corner of his mouth. He eyed them at the table. ‘Well? C'mon, you limpdicks.’

Watching Hands go, Least rumbled sadly, ‘Not so limp now.’

Honey Boy slapped the Barghast on the back of his bhederin cloak. ‘Wasn't that swearing? I'm sure he swore.’