Ian Esslemont - Return of the Crimson Guard

Ride, lads and lasses! Ride!

The glow of the horses’ eyes shocked him — all whites! Unconscious! But of course, what animal could endure such chaos? And so they ran, pulled along by the will of the warlocks. And he and all those who followed as well! He saw that at some point he'd unsheathed a sword, and, laughing, he awkwardly resheathed it. What use such a pathetic instrument?

Something moved upon the face of the unformed, churning sky — distant yet immense — wings outstretched, long tail lashing. A body of rib and spine only — a skeleton dragon? And why not? In such a place where everything yet nothing is possible. And farther yet, if such things as distance applied here, a great dark fortress. Static, brooding. Appearing to float upon nothing. What were these things? Hallucinations?

He glanced back and the hair on his neck and arms rose, charged. It was gaining! The land was falling away closer and closer upon their rear. Nothingness was overtaking them!

Ride, fools! Death's reaching!

The twins pointed ahead where a dark smear stained the churning miasma ahead. Our gate? But so far! Rillish glanced back again and screamed. The rear ranks were slipping off the edge, hooves scrabbling, horses tumbling, men and women spinning backwards from sight. He kicked his mount savagely, almost weeping.

Ride to the Abyss!

Ullen ordered his legion into two arms, each of which would meet the Guard phalanx leading face at angles, hopefully to then wrap around and envelop. That was the best he could hope for. The Crimson Guard standard was held just a few ranks back from that face. The Avowed, he knew, would overcome any individual soldier who might oppose them, but eventually, if numbers should tell, they would find themselves beleaguered from all sides to be cut down by these stolid, grim Malazan and Talian heavy infantry veterans. Or so he told himself.

The two forces came marching towards one another out of the dark. The ruins of the Imperial pavilion smouldered just to the north. Ullen knew the Empress was nowhere nearby; yet for the Guard to march unopposed this far would be tantamount to victory, a tacit acknowledgement that the Imperial forces could no longer muster the wherewithal, or will, or spirit, to face them. The closest thing to defeat that becomes defeat in its realization.

When only a few paces separated the two lines Ullen raised his sword for the final charge. The Imperials sounded a low animal roar that swelled to a ferocious demanding invocation of rage, hate and battle-lust. They raised shields, leaning forward, the pressing shields of the ranks behind at their backs forcing them on. The two formations smashed together with a bone-breaking clash of shields smashing, blades probing, legs thrusting at the dirt. Line pushed against line; ranks slid across one another, mixing, milling. Men died but could not fall, so crushing was the press. The screaming cacophony melded into one undifferentiated rumble that punished Ullen's ears into a ringing, oddly muted, din. He knew he was yelling but he could not hear his own voice.

Sword held awkwardly in his left hand, for his right remained too weak, he thrust savagely between shields. The ground beneath the grunting, scrabbling mass became glutinous with shed blood. Sandalled feet slipped, bodies fell. Men and women cursed fallen friends and enemies alike when they entangled their feet, tripping them. As the lines shifted back and forth these fallen became trampled down into the mulch of mud and gore.

Anything that moved before him, Ullen stabbed. Blades hacked at his shield, cutting, some sticking. He flicked his sword over the top, slicing arms. A hand yanked at the shield, almost pulling it down; he bashed, pushing, sliced a leg. Men and women fell around him. Footing became treacherous. The Malazan regular on his right was hacked down by a stupendous blow that shattered his shield then helm, the sword continuing on down to split the skull, face, lodging in the collarbone and upper ribs. Without thinking of the terrifying power of that blow, he swung, severing the arm holding that blade at the elbow. An eruption of rage rocked him back. Ignoring the severed limb, that Guardsman turned on him. Lady's Pull, he'd found one.

The Guardsman threw his shield down, gripped Ullen's and yanked it, snapping the leather grip and breaking Ullen's elbow. A figure pushed forward at Ullen's side, Captain Moss, his twin blades slashing, but the man ignored the blows. His berserk all-white eyes remained fixed on Ullen. The Guardsman's fist lashed out and Ullen's head snapped backwards so far he saw the night sky. The rear of his helmet struck his own back between his shoulder-blades, flew from his head.

Things seemed to slow down. He watched while the man pulled his fist back once more. Scintillating lights gathered in his vision. All noise became a blurred murmur. All sensation seemed to flow away leaving an odd feeling of ease.

From behind Ullen's shoulder and sides spears thrust, impaling the man in a series of impacts. Snarling, he fought to push forward against the hafts, reached with his one remaining clawed hand for Ullen. Other hands pulled Ullen back into the ranks. He fought to remain. The Dal Hon lieutenant, Gellan appeared before him, held his face, fought to look into his eyes: ‘Commander!’ she shouted, or he thought she shouted, she sounded so far away.

He blinked, frowning. Commander?

‘We're breaking! We can't hold them!’

Breaking?

‘Where do we rally?’

What? Rally? He searched the grounds with his swimming vision. Knots of men and women were recoiling — too many Avowed, too closely concentrated. Ye gods, forty of them! Who could stop such a formation? They had nothing left. All that remained was to hunker down, hope to resist for the best terms. He tried to shake his head — the spinning! It would not stop. ‘The redoubt! Rally to the redoubt. We'll make our stand there.’

‘Aye,’ she shouted, still holding his head. ‘I will spread the word.‘ Aside, she ordered: ‘Take him south.’ Arms grasped him, urged him on. He pushed at them — leave me alone, damn you\ He recognized one of the men, Captain Moss, and he relaxed. He'd lost a gauntlet, wiped at his cold head. The hand came away blood-smeared. He stared at it, surprised. When had that happened? That punch, fool! It shattered your helmet!

He and his escort staggered, fumbling, southward, across the burnt black field littered in bodies. Ullen knew he'd taken a serious head-wound when he saw walking past them out of the gloom a figure from his youth — the unmistakable broad, armoured silhouette of Greymane. His guard pulled their weapons, arranged themselves around him. He raised his hand, ‘It's all right! I know him. Greymane!’ he called. The man swerved their way. ‘Greymane!’

Closing, he halted, breathing hard. His eyes appeared preter-naturally bright within the confines of his full-helm. They narrowed on Ullen. ‘You know me?’

‘Ullen Khadeve. I was with Choss long ago.’

‘Ah.’ The man glanced down. ‘I heard. I'm sorry.’

‘So am I — what are you doing here ?’

The helm turned aside, he gestured north. ‘I'm here for Skinner.’

That statement from any other man or woman would've made Ullen laugh. He shook his head, dizzying himself. ‘There's too many Avowed. They'll cut you down.’

The hands in their iron gauntlets tightened into fists that almost shook. A curse sounded from within the helm. ‘Yes — you're right… for now.’ A chuckle of self-mockery. ‘So much for simple-minded delusions of satisfaction demanded on the field of battle, hey?’

‘Come with me. We're headed to that hillock, our last strongpoint. He'll be headed there next.’ Ullen pressed a hand to his searing brow. Had the man shattered his skull? ‘But I warn you — I may ask for terms. If the men agree, I'll not have you break them.’