Ian Esslemont - Return of the Crimson Guard

The figure glanced back, his rag-wrapped head bent almost to the sands. ‘Oh? We do?’

‘Yes.’ Skinner studied the shore, squinted in the dazzling light reflected from the white sands. ‘Here are my terms — I deliver to you myself and some forty Avowed and in return I claim the title of King.’

Oh? You claim it?’

Skinner drew off his gauntlets, let them fall on to the sands. He nodded, his gaze hooded, almost sleepy, on the bent-double figure. ‘Yes. It is mine.’

‘Good.’ The figure hobbled off. ‘It's about time somebody took it.’

‘My people!’

A negligent wave of a misshapen hand over his shoulder and the figure ducked within the low sagging tent. Skinner turned to examine the surf. In ones and twos men and women appeared washed up in the lazy waves. He went to help pull them up on to the strand.

It was night, and the battlefield of gouged, naked soil and blackened stubble was empty but for sniffing, hopeful jackals and the odd human scavenger searching for loot. A man in a mail coat under laced leathers stood motionless, his head lowered. His long black hair blew about his scarred dark face.

‘Greetings, Dessembrae,’ spoke a nearby gnawed skull, once buried but since dug up by scavengers. ‘And I say Dessembrae for I see you are here now in that aspect.’

The man let go a long breath, rolled his neck to ease its tension. ‘A long time, Hood.’

‘Indeed. Dare I say how just like those old times?’

The man's face twisted in loathing. ‘No, you may not.’

‘Yet here you are — why are you here?’

‘I am bearing witness to a death. A soldier's death.’

‘How… commonplace.’

‘He was no common soldier, though he knew it not. Had the Seti remained he would have out-generalled the Imperial forces, and had his bodyguard been a fraction of an instant faster, would have proven victorious over the Guard as well. He would have made High Fist and risen to become one of the greatest commanders ever thrown up by the Empire. But all that potential died here today, unrealized. Known to none.’

‘I know, Dessembrae. I took him.’

‘Yes. As you take everyone — eventually. And I will not ask what all others ask of you — why? Because what I have come to understand is that there is no why. To ask why is to impose expectations on mute existence — expectations it is in no way obliged to meet or even extend. And so I make no more, ask no more.’

The skull was silent for a time — as skulls are. ‘So that is the course of your thoughts,’ said Hood, and the man believed he detected a note of… surprise.

‘What of it?’

Silence.

We will speak again, I promise you.

Lurin, Amagin and Shurll were out throwing stones at the Deadhouse. That was what everyone in Malaz city called the old abandoned building in its creepy grounds of trees that never grew leaves in any season. They'd always thrown stones at it, and their mothers and fathers before them had tossed their share as well. This night the streets gleamed from a cold rain that had swept in from the south. Lurin, barefoot, felt the chill so he put an extra effort into his arm to warm himself up.

‘Did you see that?’ he called to Amagin and Shurll. ‘Went right in that window — I swear.’

‘Didn't,’ Amagin sniffed.

‘Did too!’ He looked to Shurll for support but the older girl was just hugging herself, staring off down the street where it descended to the waterfront, the wharf and the sea glimmering beyond. She'd been doing that more often these days. ‘It did too, Shurll,’ he called. She shrugged her bony shoulders.

Amagin held out a stone, grinning, his nose wet and running. ‘No way you can hit that window.’

Lurin snatched it from him. ‘You'll see.’

He held the stone out before himself to sight on the window — heavier than he'd have chosen — Amagin always picked poor throwing stones which was why he couldn't hit any target to save his life. Tongue tucked firmly between his teeth, he drew back, raised one foot and threw.

The instant he released something changed on the grounds. A man now stood where Lurin couldn't recall ever having seen anyone walk. The man's hand snapped up then held something to his pale face. While they gaped, dumbfounded, he walked up to the wall near them.

Amagin was already sobbing. Shurll stared, immobile. Lurin flinched, tensed to run but unable. The man's clothes hung open in sliced folds. Dark wetness gleamed beneath down his torso and arms. Scars gleamed also at his neck like lines of pearl. He held up Lurin's stone between thumb and forefinger, leaned over the wall.

‘Run.’

Blubbering, Amagin ran. Lurin threw himself at Shurll. She had not moved, perhaps not even blinked. He wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her chest, too terrified to look. They were dead. It was a spirit come to drag them away to the Abyss. He waited for that bony touch that was Hood's beckon.

But after a time, heart in a frenzy, nothing happened. Shurll made quiet soothing sounds while her hands brushed his shoulders.

‘Welcome, Topper!’ Lurin heard the spirit call, his voice distant.

He dared a glance: the spirit, or man, had moved away and now faced the low front wall.

‘Don't be a fool, Cowl,’ another voice answered.

Lurin turned completely, pressed his back to Shurll, glanced up to her; she watched, avid, her eyes huge.

Cowl, the one within the grounds of the Deadhouse, gestured an invitation to the other with his blades. ‘Come in — let us finish our debate here. Who will have the last word, do you think?’

The other, Topper, stepped into view: long tangled white hair, dark-faced, clothes hanging rags. But his eyes! Angular and bright like lamps. He shrugged. ‘By my hand or the House's… is of no matter to me.’

Cowl spread his arms wide. ‘I choose my own fate, Topper. I remain undefeated. You lack the will to challenge me? So be it — the defeat is yours.’

‘Dancer took you.’

Cowl's eyes rolled as he made a show of considering. He pointed a blade to his neck. ‘I call this a draw.’

‘You are mistaking desperation for defiance. You only fool yourself.’

‘And you are a coward.’

Topper motioned to the grounds. ‘Time is short. Flee while you can.’

Lurin glanced across the yard and jerked, terrified. The tree branches were moving. Never had he seen those black limbs shiver or bend, even in the strongest of storms. Steam as of freshly turned earth climbed from the heaps that littered the grounds. The heavy mist gathered to carpet the yard.

Cold like a winter morning bit at Lurin. He shivered uncontrollably.

‘Fool!’ Topper called. ‘It will have you! Flee, now!’

Cowl stumbled as if something had yanked upon him. But his smile was fixed, his teeth bright and sharp. ‘I choose defiance!’ he yelled, wild fever in his voice.

‘You choose despair.’

Falling, the one called Cowl went on one knee. He laughed, low at first, but climbing in pitch and volume until it rang so loud it drowned out a comment from Topper. And then Lurin's skin crawled in horror as the one named Cowl appeared to sink — yes, sink straight down into the steaming earth as if pulled. ‘Come join me!’ he shouted, laughing mockingly.

Topper lunged forward to grip the top of the stone wall. ‘Fool! You are Avowed! You will never die!’ The man sounded genuinely horrified.

Cowl's answer to that was to burst forth with even greater fevered, ardent laughter — exulting, darkly triumphant — the mirth of a man gone truly mad. Lurin buried his face once more in Shurll's chest. Eventually, the peals choked off, fell to silence. When Lurin looked back the grounds were empty.