Return of the Crimson Guard (39 page)

Then, in his dreams it was as if Stoop was still alive: the old saboteur came and knelt at his side. ‘Time to wake up, lad,’ he said. ‘The enemy's coming. T'ain't safe. This is my last warning, I'm sorry. That snake Cowl's sent me off. But I promise I'll try to make it back. Now, wake up –
they've found you’

Coughing, groaning, Kyle forced open his eyes and he awoke wincing, surprised that he was still alive, the sun high. He was not alone; a Dal Hon woman stood to one side, hands hidden in the folds of her robes that she wore bunched over one shoulder. Her kinky black hair hung in thick strands that covered her shoulders like foam. Mara, one of Skinner's Avowed mages.

A smile quirked up her full lips. ‘So, now that you are rested we can have a conversation, can we not, little rabbit? Such as who you truly work for, yes?’

Kyle was too weak to care; he hadn't eaten in three days. ‘Work for? What in Father Sky do you mean?’

‘I mean that you have eluded the combined efforts of over twelve mages to locate you and we are now very intrigued – who could possibly be so potent? What power has taken enough of an interest in the Guard to plant a spy among us, hmm? Tell me now, little rabbit, for you surely will later. Who do you work for?’

Kyle gaped up at the woman.
‘Spy?
I'm no spy.’

Frowning, Mara drew her hands from the folds of her robes. ‘Very well. I find interrogations distasteful, but you leave me no choice. I—’

She broke off, turning to where a crash of undergrowth preceded the arrival of a man who leant against a tree, gasping in air, his leather vest dark with sweat, twigs in his wild grizzled hair. One of the two fellows always hanging out with Stalker, Badlands. ‘Damn,’ he breathed, ‘but you can run, lad.’

Mara lowered her hands. ‘You were supposed to have tracked him down by now.’

Hands on his knees he bared his teeth. ‘Guess I'm gettin’ old.’

‘Where is—’

‘Here.’

Both Mara and Kyle flinched, surprised to see Stalker crouched opposite from where Badlands had crashed in with so much noise.

‘And here.’

Mara turned; the other fellow, Coots, now leaned against a tree behind her. Her mouth tightened. She adjusted the robes at her shoulder. ‘Better late then never, I imagine. Perhaps now we could return him alive for questioning.’

‘Questions regarding what?’ Stalker asked, straightening.

‘What power has extended his –
or her
– protection over him. Who is spying upon us.’

‘Not questions ‘bout why he killed Stoop?’

‘
I did not
—’ Kyle began but Badlands motioned for his silence.

The Avowed mage paused, the tip of her tongue emerged to touch her upper lip. She turned in place, eyeing the three men surrounding her. ‘Of course … that as well … is of great concern to us …’

Coots and Badlands leapt, drawing knives in the air. Mara gestured, yelling, to disappear into darkness as the men landed in a tangle where she'd stood. They helped each other to their feet.

‘Suspicious bitch,’ Stalker spat into the long silence that followed the echoes of the Warren closing.

Kyle gaped anew from man to man.
What in the name of all these foreign Gods was going on?

‘They'll be back,’ said Coots.

‘In force,’ from Badlands.

‘No more questions neither,’ finished Stalker.

Badlands and Coots nodded and took off running into the forest. Stalker pulled Kyle to his feet. ‘Let's go.’

‘Wait! What's—’

The scout yanked Kyle onward. ‘Move.’

Kyle wrenched his arm free.
‘What's going on, damn you!’

Stalker grimaced his irritation. ‘They'll be comin’ back, Kyle. Maybe Cowl himself. We have to move, now.’

‘While we go then.’

A curt nod and the scout headed out, following Badlands and Coots. ‘I didn't kill Stoop,’ Kyle began, pushing aside branches and jumping fallen trunks.

‘That's their story,’ answered Stalker. ‘You killed him ‘n’ ran.’

‘Who'd believe that?’

A shrug from the scout as he trotted along. ‘Don't matter. That
renegade, Greymane, he doesn't seem convinced. But it's official. What can they do?’

‘What about you three? Why attack Mara? What's it to you?’

The tall scout held up a hand for a halt, crouched behind cover, peering behind them. Kyle joined him. They listened, trying to dampen their breathing. After a moment Stalker straightened. He yanked the pin from the breast of his leathers: the silver dragon sigil of the Crimson Guard. He tossed it aside. ‘Me ‘n’ the boys, we never really were cut out for this mercenary business. We don't think much of fighting for money or power. We fight for other things.’

Kyle realized that he still wore his sigil. Somehow, he could not bring himself to throw it away. ‘So what now?’

Stalker shrugged. ‘Get the Abyss away from here. Clear some land.’ He offered a one-sided smile. ‘Raise chickens. C'mon, my brothers won't wait for ever.’

‘Brothers?’

‘Brothers, cousins, call it what you will. We're all descended from one big family. The Lost. That's us. Welcome to the family.’ The scout cuffed Kyle on his back and jogged off.

Lost.
Well, that's just great. Wonderful! Not only was he a renegade, disbanded and hunted. He was now lost too, by adoption. Shaking his head at the strange rightness of it all he set off as well, hurrying to catch up. Before them stretched league after league of boreal forest. The western reach of the Stratem subcontinent.

B
EFORE THE SERVANT COULD ANNOUNCE HIM, HIGH FIST KORBOLO
Dom, Sword of the Empire, stormed into Mallick's residence, throwing down his gloves and travelling cloak. ‘It's happened again! Another of the damned coward nobles has fled the capital, taken his guard with him – over four hundred horse!’

Silence answered his pronouncement. ‘Mallick!’ he roared. ‘Damn you! Don't tell me you've run off too!’

‘Baron Nira's concern for his lands and crops is well known to me,’ came Mallick's disembodied voice from further within. Korbolo followed the voice to find the man soaking in the broad shallow pool at the centre of his quarters, a towel over his shoulders. Mallick raised a goblet. ‘Wine?’

Biting back his rage, Korbolo fought the urge to slap the glass from the man's hand.
Damn him! Was he insane? Things are slipping beyond their control and he's bathing!
Sensing another presence he glanced aside to see the withered old manservant Mallick had brought with him from Seven Cities, Oryan. He dismissed the man from his thoughts. ‘While you splash in your pool the Assembly is dissolving. Representatives are fleeing! Even those you put on it! Soon there will be nothing left to rule, Hood take it, even if we could.’

Mallick sipped the wine. ‘Dissolving – how appropriate. My friend, you are a poet.’

Korbolo stared down at the repulsive squat figure at his feet. The strong urge took hold of him to push the man's head beneath the waters, to throttle this monstrous lurking curse that had so taken over his life. But then, for all he knew, that could prove impossible; this creature seemed born of a swamp. ‘Meanwhile,’ he continued, struggling to regain his thoughts, ‘neither you nor she do a thing. Kingdoms continue to rise in revolt against the Imperial Throne and we do
nothing!’

Mallick sighed. ‘But my dear High Fist, First Sword. That is precisely what we have been encouraging them to do.’

Korbolo ground his teeth – mockery! One day this toad would push him too far. ‘Riot and dissent against
her,
yes. But
secession
? This is chaos. Nothing less than civil war. It is out of everyone's control!’

Mallick's bulging eyes blinked up at him. ‘Again you amaze me, First Sword. Pure poetry – chaos and loss of control. Amazing.’ He sipped his wine. ‘In the first place it is not a
civil
war, it is devolution to the rather monotonous old-fashioned warfare of a century ago. City state ‘gainst city state. Neighbour versus neighbour. I understand that is something of a tradition here on Quon.’

‘Yes, before the emperor.’

‘Exactly. Before the strong hand of the emperor …’

Korbolo stood motionless, breathless, as the implications of Mallick's hints blossomed. And who would the populace accept at the head of the legions restoring peace and order to their smoking, war-ravaged countryside? Surely not this bloated travesty of a man. No, not
him.
He let out a long shuddering breath, swallowed to wet his suddenly tight throat. ‘Very well, Mallick. However, this does not explain your or
her
utter inaction.’

‘But, High Fist, just what would you have her
do?’

‘March! We have, what, some eight thousand regulars here in the capital? We should march on Gris or Bloor before they ally against us.’

‘And leave Unta undefended?’

‘Against who? There is no one to threaten her.’

‘Not at the moment. But should we leave … perhaps our friend Nira and his brother nobles who are so, ah,
coerced
in their support, might put their resources together and decide they could do a better job of defending Imperial interests, hmm, Korbolo?’

The High Fist saw it then – deadlock. Three jackals circling a wounded bhederin. Who dared strike first and risk attack from the rear? Yet how could any of the three walk away to leave such a prize
for any other? Laseen, who ruled in name only? Or he and Mallick who ruled in fact? Or the nobles and Assemblymen who also may?

Yet, the thought troubled Korbolo, the beast was dying while they chased one another. Perhaps it didn't matter to this creature Mallick, for whom a dead beast would serve just the same. But it certainly mattered to him. It must then be his duty to be sure to act before Mallick allowed things to degenerate too far. The High Fist nodded to himself, yes, that obviously was to be his responsibility. He looked down; Mallick was watching him expectantly. ‘Yes?’

‘Is that all, High Fist?’

‘Yes, Mallick. That is all.’

‘Very good. Then we are in agreement?’

‘Yes. Full agreement.’

‘Excellent.’ Mallick finished his wine.

Korbolo turned away from the sight of the man's nauseating pallid flesh. He straightened his shirt. ‘You 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?’