Return of the Crimson Guard (97 page)

‘No.’

‘No? Why not?’

‘You no longer need it.’ The swordsman scanned the horizon, inclined his head to indicate a direction. ‘You should go that way.’

‘What do you—’ Stalker began but something flew out of the open portal to land in the dust with a wet slap. A torn muddy robe.

Everyone traded glances. ‘I suppose,’ Coots said, ‘that means we ought to be on our way.’

‘Yes. You should.’

‘Traveller,’ Kyle begged. ‘Don't…’

‘It's best this way. I'm endangering you. Attracting unnecessary attention.’ He walked to stand before Jan. The two locked gazes for a time, neither looking away. Finally, taking a deep breath, the swordsman studied Jan directly for the longest time, his gaze moving up and down; the old man did not move at all, his mouth clenched tight as if he dared not speak. After a moment Traveller sighed, nodded at some unspoken evaluation and turned to Kyle. He set his hands on Kyle's shoulders. ‘Farewell, Kyle. Bring your case to the Guard. I hope they will prove worthy of you.’ He released Kyle's shoulders.

‘Please come with us!’

The swordsman gently reached out to touch the amber stone hanging at Kyle's neck. ‘You were right to pick that up. But I know he will always be with you regardless. I know he will always be with me. Farewell.’ And he turned away, blinking.

Kyle felt the hot tears at his cheeks. ‘Traveller …’

The man's shoulders tightened. ‘It is how it must be, Kyle. I … I am sorry.’ He faced the brothers. ‘Stalker, Coots, Badlands. An honour.’

They tilted their heads in goodbye.

Traveller ducked into the tomb, disappearing into the darkness.

‘Farewell Whorou!’ a voice called from aside. ‘Fare thee well!’ Kyle spun. Their guide, the dirty-robed fellow, had returned. As they all watched, he blew his nose on the arm of his torn garment. Kyle glanced back to the entrance; it was of course gone. ‘Come, come,’ the man beckoned, the loose wet sleeves hanging empty. ‘Come.’

Reluctantly, Kyle last, they started away from the beehive-shaped tomb, striking a direction that to all appearances seemed no different from any other across the flat dusty plain dotted by its ancient sepulchres. Overhead, in the slate sky, things flew, looking like nothing more than folded shadows.

S
URROUNDED BY COMMAND STAFF AND BODYGUARD, ULLEN STOOD
next to Urko and the Moranth Gold commander atop a modest rise to one side of the marching columns of Talian and Falaran infantry. Toc, together with a troop of some forty, came riding up and reined in. ‘A good day for battle,‘ Urko called and Toc gave his assent. ‘Not too hot.’ Ullen peered at the sky; yes, overcast, though it might rain. He didn't look forward to that. They had left the fort before first light and been marching through dawn. The night had been relatively calm – the beast, Ryllandaras, if indeed it was he, had probed twice but been driven off by the massed ranks of Gold, backed up by a liberal dose of their munitions. Already flights of gulls, crows and kites crowded the skies over the line of march. How many generations of warfare, Ullen wondered, had it taken them to learn what the massing of so many men and women in armour might presage?

‘Commander V'thell,’ Toc greeted the Moranth in his armour hued a deep, rich gold like the very last gleam of sunset. The Moranth inclined his fully enclosed helmed head.

‘Still unmounted, I see,’ Toc said to Urko with something like a nostalgic smile.

Urko shrugged beneath his heavy armour of banded iron. ‘It
reassures the soldiers. They don't like their commander being mounted when they ain't. Makes ‘em suspect you're gonna ride off as soon as things get hot.’

Toc's staff, all mounted, shared amused glances. Captain Moss caught Ullen's eye and winked. ‘And the carriage?’ Toc asked, gesturing down the gentle slope to where a huge carriage painted brilliant red and green waited while grooms fought its fractious team of six horses.

Urko rolled his eyes. ‘Bala. She'll be with me at the centre rear. I'll have the reserves. The Falaran cavalry and elements of the Talian and Falaran infantry. Choss is already with the south flank. You'll have the north – and where are those blasted Seti anyway?’

Toc scanned the north horizon. ‘Bands are appearing. They'll be here soon.’

‘Bloody better be.’

‘What of this force in the south? The Kanese?’ Toc asked.

‘Still arrayed around the south side of Pilgrim's Bridge. None too eager to take on the Guard – can't say I blame them. Amaron has some hints that they are to come out for Surl—’ Urko stopped, correcting himself, ‘for the Empress. But he's not sure. They might decide it's worth it, though, at any time.’

‘We'll keep an eye on them.’

‘Aye.’

‘And the Marchland Sentries?’

Urko paused, glanced away, his mouth drawing down even more. ‘Withdrawn to the west. Out of harm's way ‘n’ all. Too bad. Could've used them. But perhaps for the better, all things considered.’

‘Perhaps.’

V'thell bowed to the general. ‘Permission to join my people.’

‘Granted. And V'thell …’ The Moranth Gold turned back. Urko raised a fist. ‘You're the hammer. Break them.’

V'thell bowed again. ‘We shall.’

‘I should track down an ataman,’ Toc said. Urko nodded his assent. The cavalry commander rode off with his troop.

‘And myself?’ Ullen asked.

‘I want you here. If things go to pot I'll have to wade in and I want you to take over.’

Ullen was alarmed but struggled to disguise his unease.
Wade in? You're not young any more, Commander.
‘Aye, sir.’

The general waved to the carriage. ‘Now go down and see what Bala has to say.’

Ullen less successfully hid a smile. ‘Yes, sir.’

*

Toc and his troop combed the rolling hills north-west of the assembly point. From high ground the dust of Laseen's forces was clear to the east. Midday, his instincts told him. They'd finish manoeuvring by midday. Where were Brokeleg and Ortal? It was unthinkable they should let him down. After all the years he'd spent among the Seti; after he'd fought with Kellanved for their interests. He'd even raised his own children among them: Ingen, Leese and little Toc the Younger.

A messenger pointed to the north where a broad cloud, more like an approaching dust storm, was darkening the sky. Soon, a van of horsemen could be seen galloping down a far broad slope. Tall pennants of white fur flew prominently, along with white fur capes.
Imoten, not the atamans. Has the man usurped them completely?

He waited while the column closed. A standard-bearer led, a tall crosspiece raised above him hung with white pelts and set with what looked like freshly skinned animal skulls. The sight of that grisly standard made Toc profoundly uneasy. Imotan followed directly, together with his bodyguard, which had swelled to some seventy men and women, all sworn to their White Jackal god. Imotan drew his mount up next to Toc's and smiled, inclining his head in what seemed an almost ironic greeting. ‘Well met, Toc the Elder.’

‘Imotan. Where are the atamans? We should discuss the coming engagement.’

‘You will discuss the matter with me. I have direct authority over all warriors.’

I see. What has been the political infighting there in your encampment these last few days, shaman? Clearly, I have been away for too long.
‘Very well. Let us find a vantage point.’

Imotan nodded to the standard-bearer who dipped the pennant forward. Blood, Toc noted to his distaste, dripped liberally from the skulls and pelts of the macabre standard, having soaked the shoulders and hair of the bearer. The massed bodyguard burst into howls of enthusiasm. Moments later, in the distance the calls were echoed and a great thunder of hooves kicked to life, shaking the ground. All along the north horizon of hilltops and crests of mounds horsemen advanced. Toc stared, his heart lurching; it was a massing such as he could not have imagined. Where had Imotan gathered such numbers? Seemed the coming of their old foe and totemic animal Ryllandaras might have given Imotan limitless reach.
The bodyguard surged ahead and Toc and his troop kicked their mounts to join their numbers.

Forward Seti scouts – the small bands Toc had seen riding the grounds – directed Imotan's column to a rise that offered a prospect of the assembling forces. Toc rested his new horse, a slim grey youngling, next to the shaman's large bay. A heavily overcast sky frowned down on a wide, very shallow basin. To the south-east, the top of the tall promontory that supported the Great Sanctuary of Burn could just be made out as a smear of yellow and umber. After jockeying and scouting through the night, elements of both forces had settled on this front in a mutual, unspoken accord. Small flags could even be made out marking the marshalling points for various units. Forward elements from both armies were already forming up.

Opposite, the skirmishers of whom Toc had been hearing so much were pouring into the basin from the south like a flood.
So many, Where did Laseen get them all? She must have emptied the gutters of Unta and every town in between. And they seemed eager enough, too.
Within their formless tide could be made out the ruled straight columns of marching infantry.
Malazan heavies. The very forces he'd counted on in the past to anchor his own light cavalry and skirmishers now arrayed against him. It was an intimidating sight. And what was this? A banner at the fore, the sceptre underscored by a sword! The Sword of the Empire! So it was true. That Fist – what was his name?
–
from the Seven Cities campaigns had claimed the title. Wait until Urko sees that! He'll wrap the man's own sword around his neck.

Seti bands, Imotan's outriders, had stormed down into the basin and were already beginning to exchange arrow and crossbow fire with the skirmishers. Choss's own light infantry and skirmishers, pitifully few in number, were scrambling to catch up. Three separate columns of Moranth Gold then entered from the west, escorted by troops of Talian cavalry. They made for the centre where the standard of the Sword of the Empire had been planted.

‘That horde of skirmishers must be contained and swept aside,’ Toc told Imotan, who nodded, stroking his grey-shot beard. ‘Our intelligence tells us Laseen hasn't the cavalry to oppose you.’

‘So you say. Yet if that is true then why is she here?’

Toc's brows rose at the question. ‘Well, I suppose I would have to say that she has no choice. She has to oppose us – to do otherwise would be to admit defeat. And that is hardly in her nature.’

‘Is she counting on some hidden asset to deliver her? What of the Kanese?’

Toc shook his head. ‘I don't believe they'll cross. A lot to lose and too little to gain.’

‘They could gain much by arriving in time to deliver her …’

‘Imotan,’ Toc said, gesturing to the battle grounds, ‘once it looks as if she will lose they will throw in with us. If she wins, her rule will be absolute. No one will rise to oppose her for a generation.’

The White Jackal shaman flinched at that, glowering. ‘There is more to this continent than just Tali and Unta.’ He turned to his guards. ‘Send word to the warbands.’ The guard bowed and rode off. ‘What of this mercenary army? Why are they not with us? Didn't Urko offer enough?’

Toc almost laughed, mastering himself in time. ‘The Crimson Guard wants the Empire crushed. That's their goal. I suppose they're thinking – why bloody themselves when we'll mangle each other for them, hey?’