Return of the Crimson Guard

Nait just spat. One of these days, Hands, I'll pull those big ol’ boots off you.

Outside the sky over Unta Bay flickered with a strange aura. It reminded Nait of the lights that play over the Straits that some say presage the arrival of the Stormriders; not that he'd ever seen any of those demons himself, being from far inland. The glow was receding or dying away even as he watched, leaving behind the normal midday blue vault laced with high thin clouds.

Honey Boy grunted, pointing to the mouth of the harbour. Two ships had entered, both alarmingly low in the water. One's masts hung shattered, the other listed. Sweeps propelled them, but raggedly, all of them unaccountably short, many broken to stubs. Both vessels seemed to glow as if painted white. The squad headed for the wharf.

Commerce on this reach of the mercantile berthings had stuttered to a halt. Bales and sacks lay abandoned. As they ambled past, labourers gingerly straightened from cover. Sailors watched from the rails of merchantmen. One raised a warding gesture against evil. ‘It's the drowned returned — as at the end of times!’

‘Damned few of them,’ Honey Boy opined.

They came abreast of the guard shack and Nait stepped in, ‘Hey, Sarge, did you-’

Sergeant Tinsmith and another stood at one window. The other wore the rags of a dock rat but stood straight with arms folded, a hand at his chin as he peered out. ‘Who in the Queen's privates is this?’ Nait said.

‘Manners,’ Sergeant Tinsmith ground out. ‘This is a guest.’

‘What do you think?’ the fellow asked the sergeant.

Tinsmith stroked his grey moustache. ‘One of them has a Genabackan cut but the other,’ he shook his head, ‘I've never seen the like. What's left of it, anyway. No flagging.’

‘No, none.’

While they watched, the listing one of the vessels came abreast of an anchored Kanese merchantman. The crew of the sinking vessel swarmed over the sides on to the merchantman. Shortly thereafter, that vessel raised anchor, lowered sweeps and headed for the wharf. The abandoned vessel promptly sank in its wake.

‘Damned brazen,’ the dock rat observed.

‘Get the full company down here, Honey Boy,’ Tinsmith shouted outside.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘They're in an awful hurry to get themselves arrested,’ said Nait.

The dock rat regarded him for a moment with hard, amused eyes. ‘We'll see.’

The vessels reached the head of the wharf. Figures climbed down, all armed and armoured, though also bizarrely pale as if whitewashed, or ghosts. A thought struck Nait and he laughed aloud. Tinsmith raised a brow. ‘I was just thinking, sir. It's the sorriest-ass invasion fleet I've ever seen.’ Both men regarded him in silence. ‘Just a thought.’

The dock rat returned to the window. ‘There's something…’ he began, then fell silent. He jerked backwards a step as if struck. ‘Hood no!’ He gestured and Nait felt the prickling sensation of Warren energies gathering. The hairs of his nape tickled and a wind blew about the hut, raising clouds of dust. Nait covered his eyes. A blow sounded, meaty and final, followed by a gurgle. Nait threw himself into a corner, knife out before him. The wind dispersed. He found himself looking up at the long slim legs of a woman who would have been beautiful if she wasn't covered in filth. Her white hair was matted into tangled locks. A crust of white scale limned her bare muscular arms. A tattered shirt and shorts hung in rags limp on her frame. She had Tinsmith up against one wall, an elbow under his neck, knife to his chin. Hands filled the doorway, two dirks out. Tinsmith waved her down.

‘Water…’ the woman croaked through lips swollen and bloodied. Tinsmith glanced aside to a pail. The woman let him fall, grasped the pail and upended it over her head. Hands cocked a questioning look to Tinsmith who waved wait.

The woman spluttered and gasped, swallowing. Panting, she turned to them. Order your men to stand aside, sergeant, and they won't be harmed. Our argument isn't with you.‘ Tinsmith rubbed his neck and slowly nodded his agreement. ‘Very wise, sergeant.’ She gestured and the wind rose again, raising dust and sand and Nait glanced away, shielding his eyes. When he looked back, she was gone.

‘Who the Abyss was that?’ Hands demanded.

Tinsmith crouched at the side of the dock rat, felt at his neck. The man looked to have been slain by a single thrust. The sergeant returned to the window. ‘So they're back,’ he said as if thinking aloud.

‘Who?’ said Hands.

The Crimson Guard.’

Nait barked a sneering laugh. ‘A name to frighten children!’

‘Pass the word, Corporal. No hostilities. Fight only if attacked.’

Hands frowned her disapproval, her thick dark brows knotting. But she nodded and withdrew.

‘And Corporal!’

‘Aye?’

Put everyone to work readying the chains.’

Aye, sir.’

His back to Nait, Tinsmith said, ‘That was Isha. Lieutenant of Cowl.’

Nait opened his mouth to laugh again but the name Cowl silenced him. Cowl, truly? But he'd been the long- time rival of… Dancer. And Dancer was… gone… as was Kellanved. And Dassem. In fact, no one was left. None who could oppose them. Nait dropped his gaze to his knife; he sheathed it. As the sergeant says, no hostilities.

Mallick Rell was reclined on a divan enjoying a lunch of Talian grapes and a Seven Cities recipe for spiced roast lamb when a servant entered. ‘The streets are seething with news, sir,’ the servant offered, his voice low.

‘Oh, yes? And this news contains specifics?’

The servant paused, coughed into a fist. ‘Well, sir. They say the Crimson Guard has returned.’

Mallick chewed a pinch of lamb meat, savouring it. ‘You interrupt my meal to tell me this? A rumour I myself started?’

‘Ah, no. Sir. I understand they're here now. In the harbour.’

Mallick gagged on the meat, spat it to the marble floor. ‘What?’

‘That is what some are saying, sir. Reliably.’

Sitting up, Mallick wiped his face, waved the cloth at the servant. ‘Get out. Now.’

The servant bowed.

‘I said get out of my sight!’

The servant hurried out. Mallick gulped a glass of wine, straightened his robes. ‘Oryan!’

A shimmer of heat-rippled air and the old man appeared. He bowed. ‘Yes?’

‘The Crimson Guard are here, Oryan?’

The Seven Cities mage blinked his black stone eyes. ‘Some entities of great potential have entered the harbour, yes.’

‘Some entities…’ Mallick reached out as if to strangle the old man. He let his arms fall. ‘That is the Guard.’

‘So you say, Master.’

Mallick's voice was a snake hiss, ‘Yes.’ He snatched up a crystal carafe of red wine, pressed the cold vessel to his brow, sighing. ‘Gods deliver me… At least Korbolo isn't in the city.’

The old man snorted his scorn. ‘How unfortunate for him.’

‘Now, now. So, what steps have you been taking?’

‘I have been raising wards, strengthening protections…’

The carafe slammed cracking to the marble table. ‘What?’

‘Strengthening-’

‘No!’

Oryan blinked anew. ‘I'm sorry, Master?’

‘No, you fool! You'll only pique Cowl's interest. Drop them. Drop them all then hide.’

The mage's wrinkled face puckered in consternation. ‘I'm sorry…’