Return of the Crimson Guard (56 page)

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.

‘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.’

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.’