Ian Esslemont - Return of the Crimson Guard

And Liss emerged from behind the fire, beckoned to Ryllandaras's back. The beast spun — alarmed, it seemed to Hurl. It slashed at Liss but she wavered away, teasing, just beyond reach. She seemed to ripple as if a heat mirage. The glimmering band of light encircling the bonfire now glowed a gold and crimson brighter than the flames. Ryllandaras flinched from the radiance, turned away to face the remaining men. Temp, a longsword in one hand and heavy parrying gauche in the other, held each out wide, hunching low. Rell stretched his arms as well, one of the twin longswords almost touching Temp's blade. Sweetgrass also held his arms out, shuffling side to side.

Rearing back to his full massive height the monster opened its black-lipped jaws and loosed an infuriated eruption of frustrated blood-lust that stunned Hurl where she stood. It leapt upon Sweetgrass, hammering him to the ground, but Temp was there to bull him back like a man holding up a falling tower. A slash from Ryllandaras's black talons raked the mail and banded armour from the man's front and he fell to his knees. Rell lunged in, jabbing, thrusting, and the man-jackal yielded a step howling his agony. Its eyes rolled now, seeking escape, it seemed to Hurl. Rell pressed on, feet shuffling forward, blades dancing like liquid flame in the brilliance now bathing Ryllandaras's back.

The beast glanced behind, its eyes widened white all round. Rell lunged, one blade thrusting deep within the monster's furred stomach. Shrieking, it tottered backwards, sent one last swipe across Rell, ripping the helm from his head and spinning him from his feet. The effort threw the beast back as well and it fell into the circle of rippling light to disappear.

Hurl stared, cussor heavy in her sweaty hand. Not one remained standing. Only Temp on his knees, reeling side to side, head sunk forward. The spinning coruscating ring, or gate, or whatever it was that Liss had invoked, snapped away in an eruption of air that blew a storm of sparks from the low embers of the bonfire.

Hurl staggered forward. ‘Liss? Rell? Liss?’ Of the shamaness there was no sign in the dim glow of the fire. A figure came lurching out of the dark: Urko, holding himself tightly. Hurl ran to support him. He grasped her shoulder in a grip that shot lances of pain up and down her side. He peered blearily at her from a face gleaming with blood. The face turned to examine the battle. He blinked. ‘Coulda used a few more men, hey? Like maybe the Fifth Army.’

‘Take it easy now.’

He frowned at her, tilting his head down. ‘You take it easy.’

She saw that she carried the cussor tucked under her an arm like a helmet. ‘Sorry.’ She gently eased the man to the ground and just as gently slipped away the munition. ‘Are you OK?’ Gods, what a stupid question!

But he waved her off. ‘Go see to the others.’

The nearest man was Amaron. Dead, torn open across his vitals. Reports of hooves hammering the ground pulled Hurl to her feet. A column of cavalry closing at a frantic pace. Well, nothing she could do about that. Braven Tooth was closest then: he lay with a hand pressed to his wound, blood soaking the ground beneath his shoulder and lacerated arm. Though ghostly pale, his face glistening with sweat, he motioned her on with a curt jerk of his head.

She came to Temp; the man was struggling drunkenly to stand. She helped him up, groaned beneath his solid weight. He still held his weapons but his armour hung from him in lacerated tatters, clattering and swinging loose. ‘Gods damn him,’ he kept repeating. ‘Gods damn that thing’ His wild gaze found her and he grinned his pain. ‘If you don't mind, lass, I'll have me a sit down. I think I'm gonna retire.’

‘Yes, go ahead.’ She eased him down.

Next was the Seti, Sweetgrass. He was breathing but shallowly, wetly. His eyes tracked her when she moved. He mouthed something to her. She bent her head close. ‘… She did it…’ came the faintest whisper.

Hurl nodded, ‘Yes. Yes, she did.’

‘… Maybe she really was… really…’

Hurl soothed him with a hand on his hot brow. ‘Yes — maybe.’ Or maybe she was just a crazy old mage.

The guards came running down the hillside, gesturing, while the column of Seti horsemen overtook them. The riders threw themselves from their mounts, ran to the wounded. Hurl saw among them many who looked like shamans and shamanesses, but none carried any animal totems that she could see. She left them to it as a number came to Sweetgrass and she crossed to Rell.

For some reason she'd come to him last. The moment she realized this she knew why. Something in the way he'd fallen. So limp. So… final. He lay now as he'd struck the earth. She knelt on her knees at his side. He was dead; his throat torn out and scarred face further gashed by the flesh-rending talons of the man-jackal. Oh, Rell. I am so sorry. She smoothed his ragged, newly grown hair. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Heng had taken you as its new protector. You were to take her place in the city temple. Usher in a long and prosperous future… yet here you lie. You gave your life to end the curse. Perhaps that was what they sensed. That somehow you would end it for them. This was just not the way anyone wanted it to happen.

What will we do? Go on, I suppose. Rebuild. Ha! Build. And only Silk and I are left. We alone survived the curse. If there ever was one. Yet there was, wasn't there? Ryllandaras himself.

She stood, walked the grounds around the dying fire just to be sure but found no sign of Liss. So she succeeded where all others had failed. She'd delivered the Seti of their curse. And hadn't she given her own? What had it been…?

Seti shamanesses came and spoke to her but she ignored them, shaking her head. No, not yet. What had it been? Ah, yes! That they would wander lost until they prayed for her forgiveness! Well, Lissarathel or not, the woman had just assured herself a place in their pantheon, or at least their legends. Certainly their prayers.

She rubbed her face, glanced around, sighing her exhaustion. Hours till dawn. She waved the corporal of the guard detachment to her. He ran up, saluted smartly, his eyes hugely wide. She motioned to Rell. ‘Wrap him up. We'll return him for burial. And bring the swords. They have to be returned. It's time to go home.’

A bent figure draped in rags emerged from a sagging, dilapidated tent of hides and felt blankets. He hobbled down to a broad white sand beach, leaning heavily on a stick of driftwood, pausing occasionally to catch his breath. He came to the surf where a turquoise lagoon washed up weakly in a thin line of spume. An armoured giant of a man lay half-buried in sand at the surf's edge. The bent figure stood looking down for a time then gave the figure a sharp rap with his stick. The man gasped, fumbling awkwardly, pushed himself heavily to his feet. He yanked off his tall helm to let it fall into the wet sand, clutched at his neck just beneath his blond beard. His eyes filled with wonder.

‘Yes, you are healed, Skinner.’

The man, Skinner, towered over the bent figure. ‘You answered…’ he rumbled.

‘Of course. Have I not been nearby for some time now? I know you sensed my aid here and there, yes? I have had my eye on you, Skinner of the Avowed.’ The figure, his shape obscured in the layered hanging rags, gestured to his tent. ‘The question is, what can you do… for me ?’

Skinner ignored the invitation, peered up and down the shore. ‘Where are my people?’

Turning away, the figure shuffled haltingly back up the strand. ‘They are being held in abeyance until we have reached an accord, Skinner.’

‘We have an accord, Chained One,’ Skinner growled, straightening and wincing. He still touched at his neck.