Ian Esslemont - Return of the Crimson Guard

‘Boulbum?’

‘No.’

‘Ishfat?’

‘No!’

Ullen looked to Captain Moss, who walked with the back of his hand pressed to his grinning mouth.

They returned to find mixed Malazans, Talians and Falaran elements being ordered into phalanxes by a battered and bloodied Braven Tooth and Urko. The four old veterans greeted one another with great back-slapping hugs. Then, to Ullen's shock and horror, Braven Tooth and Urko saluted him, sharing wicked grins. He answered the salute then waved aside their gesture. ‘No — you command, Urko.’

‘No. We ain't done yet. These ones all run off but we got a pocket of Guardsmen yet. Dug in on a hill. Fist D'Ebbin and his remaining forces and the Wickans are keeping them tight. Time we contributed. I'll be with one of the units. You can coordinate. Congratulations, Commander.’

The four veterans went to join units leaving Ullen to face his last remaining guard. He rubbed a hand at his wrenched, aching neck, feeling overcome. ‘Well… find a mount and send word to Fist D'Ebbin that we're coming.’

The guard saluted, jogged off. Horns sounded a general advance. After some ragged reordering the columns began marching south. It was now well past midnight. The fires had died down and the field of battle was a dark tangled nightmare of fallen twisted bodies, broken equipment and wounded, dying horses.

With Moss at his side, Ullen picked his way south carefully. After a time, the captain leaned close and glanced about, troubled. The savage gashes that crossed his face appeared livid, raw. ‘Where's your staff?’

‘Scattered.’

‘You need more of an escort.’ He gestured aside. ‘We should join that column.’

Ullen shrugged. ‘If you think it best.’

But the man halted. His hands snapped to the bright ivory grips of his sabres. ‘Something…’

Dust swirled up around them; Ullen shaded his gaze, wincing. ‘Captain?’ The clash of blows exchanged, iron grating iron. Ullen fumbled to draw his sword left-handed. Then an impact into his back like the clout of a sledgehammer. Cold iron slid deep inside him. Gasping, he turned to see a woman, her long white hair wild in the wind, eyes slitted, lips snarling. A flash of silvery-grey then that head tilted, falling, blood jetting, body jerking. Ullen fell as well.

Starry night sky then Captain Moss leaning over him, saying something, but all Ullen could hear was his pulse roaring in his ears. He couldn't breathe! He strained, but nothing would enter his burning, aching lungs. Damn! This wasn't right.

What of-

Couldn't he-

The roaring pulse slowed. Night closed, obscuring Moss's face, his mouth moving. One beat sounded like a heavy, slow hammer echoing.

Wait-

Kyle, K'azz and the lost brothers found that a flotilla of makeshift rafts had been pulled up along the north shore of the Idryn. Lying sprawled on the approach to the Pilgrim Bridge and piled in its mouth lay a trail of slaughtered Kanese soldiery. Facing the dead was one Crimson Guardsman. He was leaning against the stone wall of the bridge, legs wide, sword planted before him, his body and limbs feathered in arrows.

‘Baker,’ K'azz said, his voice thick.

The man stirred, his head rising. A sad smile crept up beneath long, tangled ginger hair. ‘M'Lord.’ He struggled weakly to straighten.

The Guard commander eased him back. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered gently. ‘We need you to guard the north.’

A wry smile pulled Baker's mouth to one side. ‘Oh, aye, sir.’

The brothers were collecting shields from among the fallen. Kyle joined them. Each held as many as they could carry under both arms. Kyle offered one to K'azz who took it with a bob of his head. They jogged up the bridge.

Ahead, a deep sonorous roar, like the continuous detonation of thunder, raised the hair on Kyle's neck and arms. It was a low, reverberating, animal growl of anticipation uttered from thousands of throats, so loud it almost drowned out the clangour of weapons clashing and shields striking. They met the struggle near the bridge's mid-point. Four Avowed, back legs braced, faced the pressing solid wedge of Kanese infantry. Shield thrust against shield, spears and other pole-weapons jabbed, while a fifth Avowed remained a step back, watching, resting. Armour hung hacked and torn from all, helmets battered, arms black with drying gore. The rear Avowed, a short, broad woman, saluted them. The side of her head glistened, one raw wound; her sliced scalp hung down as a flap. Underfoot lay a litter of broken shields, fallen swords, spears, lances, arrows and shattered pieces of armour. Blood darkened the set stones of the bridge crimson.

‘You are most welcome, my Lord!’ the woman shouted to be heard through the din. ‘But we didn't call for reinforcements.’ The woman frowned then, eyeing K'azz up and down. ‘Being away didn't agree with you, I think. But you should leave. We will hold until we fall!’

‘So will I! Good to see you too, Lean.’ K'azz readied his shield, raised his long-knife. Other than this, the man was unarmed. Lean shook her head. ‘No — you're reserve.’ She nodded to Kyle and the cousins. ‘Don't I know you?’

‘Stalker, Coots, Badlands, Kyle,’ K'azz shouted. ‘They're up to it.’

‘Wecome, brothers!’ She pointed to the Avowed hacking at the exposed front line of massed soldiery, rank upon rank of which held spears and javelins which they raised high or thrust at the defenders in a forest of jabbing, waving stalks. ‘Amatt, Cole, Black and Turgal.’

There was room for only eight or so Kan soldiers to stand shoulder to shoulder, though the layered ranks behind could reach with spears and halberds. Lean bashed her own spear to her shield and the four Avowed yielded a step, adjusted their footing and hunkered down. The Kan soldiery surged forward to be met by quick ruthless thrusts from the Avowed. Their wounded and fallen comrades choked and encumbered all those who struggled forward to fill the ranks. Eyeing the fighting, Stalker threw down his load of shields. He kept one and picked up a fallen spear. Instinctively, the brothers followed suit, as did Kyle.

Lean paced back and forth behind the defending Avowed, keeping close watch, and perhaps making sure K'azz did not push forward to join the line. She tapped Black on the back of his leg, waved Badlands forward.

‘Relief!’

Black curled away, spinning, and the startled Badlands was caught surprised. But he leapt forward, knocking aside the hafts of jabbing spears to thrust himself in, bulling in with all his weight. Lean watched narrowly, gauging.

Stalker came and touched Kyle's arm. He pointed to his waist: ‘Use that.’

Kyle glanced to the sword strapped into the outsized scabbard. His gift from Osserc; he hadn't even drawn it yet. ‘No reach,’ he yelled back.

‘It must be something!’ Stalker answered.

Kyle shrugged.

One by one Lean relieved the Avowed until only Cole — whom Kyle recognized from Kurzan — remained, and it was Kyle's turn. K'azz objected but apparently Lean was in charge of this particular contingent and so her judgement ruled. The relieved Avowed, Black, Amatt and Turgal, stood panting, faces glistening. They bore horrific wounds; Amatt coughed up blood; Black's iron cuirass leaked blood at every overlapping band; Turgal, who bore a huge Malazan infantryman's rectangular shield, had it strapped to his mangled, broken left arm.

His turn coming, Kyle readied his spear, tucking it tightly under his arm. He was suddenly deathly thirsty but knew that while he needed water it was best to be thirsty in case of a stomach wound. He tried not to think of what was about to come, and Lean, perhaps sensing his gathering dread, did not wait. ‘Relief!’ she bellowed, and Cole ducked away. Kyle lunged forward. Almost immediately his spear entangled amid the forest of jabbing, swinging pole weapons. Strikes on his shield rocked him, numbing his arm and shoulder. He could not bring his weapon to bear. It was hung up, useless.