Return of the Crimson Guard (4 page)

Kyle wanted to ask about all these other battles but the man
appeared troubled. He glanced to Kyle twice, his eyes touched by worry as if he regretted speaking his mind.

In the light of Stalker's candle Kyle could make out a short set of steps rising beyond the gate. It glittered darkly – black basalt, the rock of the Spur. The steps had been worn almost to bowls at their centre. He straightened; his hand seemed to find the grip of his tulwar on its own. Stalker shook out the candle and after a moment Kyle could discern the glow of lantern light ahead.

They met up with Ogilvy who gestured up and gave a whistle of awe. The tunnel opened to a circular chamber cut from the same rock as the steps. More black basalt, the very root-rock of the Spur. The dimensions of the chamber bothered Kyle until he realized it was the base of a hollow circular stairway. Torches flickered where the stairs began, rising to spiral tightly around the inside of the chamber's wall. Squinting up, he saw the column slowly ascending, two men abreast, Smoky and Greymane leading. He stepped out into the centre and looked straight up. Beyond the men, from high above, dark-blue light cascaded down along with a fine mist of rain. The moisture kissed his upturned face. A flash of lightning illuminated a tiny coin-sized disc at the very top of the hollowed-out column of rock. Dizzy and sickened, Kyle leant against one slick, cold wall. Far away the wind howled like a chained dog, punctuated by the occasional drum-roll of thunder.

Without a word, Stalker stepped to the stairs, a hand on the grip of his longsword. His leather moccasins were soundless against the rounded stone ledges. Ogilvy slapped Kyle on his back. ‘C'mon, lad. Just a short hike before the night's done, hey?’ and he chuckled.

After the twentieth full revolution of the stairs, Kyle studied curving symbols gouged unevenly into the wall at shoulder height. They were part of a running panel that climbed with the stairs. Portions of it showed through where the moss and cobwebs had been brushed aside. It seemed to tell a story but Kyle had never been taught his symbols. He recognized one only: the curling spiral of Wind. His people's totem.

After a time his legs became numb, his breath short. What would be there waiting for them? And more importantly, what did Smoky and Greymane plan to do about it? Just ahead, Ogilvy grunted and exhaled noisily through his flattened nose. The veteran maintained an even pace despite a full mail coif, shirt and skirting that hung rustling and hissing with each step. Kyle's armour, what cast-offs the guard could spare, chafed his neck raw and tore the flesh of his
shoulders. His outfit consisted of an oversized hauberk of layered and lacquered horn and bone stripping over quilted undershirts, sleeves of soft leather sewn with steel rings – many of these missing – studded skirting over leather leggings, gloves backed with mail, and a naked iron helmet with a nose guard that was so oversized it nearly rested on his shoulders. Kyle had adjusted its fit by wrapping a rag underneath. The combined weight made the climb torture. Yet one morning a year ago when Stoop had dumped the pieces in his lap he had felt like the richest man in all Bael lands. Not even their tribe's war-leader could have boasted such a collection. Now he felt like the company's beggar fool.

He concentrated on his footing, tried to grimace down the flaring pain of his thighs, chafed shoulders and his blazing lungs. Back among his brothers and cousins he'd been counted one of the strongest runners, able to jog from sun's rise to sun's set. There was no way he'd let this old veteran walk him into the ground.

A shout from above and Kyle stopped. Distant blows sounded together with shouts of alarm. Weapons hissed from sheaths. He leaned out to peer up the inner circular gap but couldn't see what was going on. He turned to speak to Ogilvy but the veteran silenced him with a raised hand. The man's eyes glistened in the dark and he held his blade high. Gone was the joking, bantering mask and in its place was set a cold poised killer, the smiling mouth now tight in a feral grin. It was a chilling transformation.

The column moved again, steel brushing against stone in jerking fits and starts. Three circuits of the stairs brought Kyle to a shallow alcove recessed into the wall. At its base lay the broken remains of an armoured corpse, ages dead. Its desiccated flesh had cured to a leathery dark brown. Kyle stared until Ogilvy pushed him on.

‘What in Wind's name was that?’ he asked, hushed.

Ogilvy was about to shrug but stopped himself and instead spat out over the open edge. ‘A guardian. Revenant. I've heard of ‘em.’

Kyle was startled to see that he'd unsheathed his tulwar. He didn't remember doing that. ‘Was it … dead?’

Ogilvy gave him a long measuring stare. ‘It is now. So be quiet, and keep your eyes open. There'll be trouble soon.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Like fish in a barrel.’ He jerked his head to the rear. ‘Tripped the alarm, didn't we? He'll be here, or should be. Stay between me and the wall, hey?’

That sounded fine to Kyle and he was about to ask why when a burst of light flashed above blinding him followed by a report that
shook the steps. Ogilvy snatched at the ringed leather of his sleeve, pulling him back from the open lip of the stairs. Wind sucked at him as something large rushed past down the central emptiness. A scream broke the silence following the report. Kyle's vision returned in time for him to see a Guardsman plummet by down into darkness – the head and neck a bloody ruin. At his side, Ogilvy fumed.

‘He's pullin’ us off one by one! Where's Grey?’

Kyle squinted up the hollow column; he could see better now that they were nearly at the top where moonlight and lightning flashes streamed down with the misted rain. A dark shape hovered. The warlock, Shen. Guardsmen swung torches and swords at him. He stood on nothing, erect, wrapped in shifting shadows. His hands were large pale claws. One of those claws reached out for another man but was swatted aside. Shen snarled and gestured. A cerulean flash blazed. A Guardsman crumpled as if gut-stabbed; he tottered outward, fell like a statue rushing past so close his boots almost struck Kyle's upturned face.

Guardsmen howled their rage. Thrown weapons and crossbow bolts glanced from the slim erect figure. He laughed. His gaze shifted to the man next in line. Kyle leaned out as far as he dared, howled his own impotent rage and fear.

‘Hood drag you down, you piece of inhuman shit!’ Ogilvy bellowed, shaking his fist.

Above, Smoky leaned out to Shen, his hands open, palms out at stomach level. Guardsmen lining the curve of the stairs spun away, raised arms across their faces.

‘Heads up!’ Ogilvy snapped and pulled Kyle back by his hauberk.

Flames exploded in the hollow tube of the circular staircase. They churned at Kyle like liquid metal. He gulped heated air and covered his face. A kiln thrust itself at him. Flames yammered at his ears, scalded the back of his hands. Then, like a burst of wind, popping his ears, the flames snapped away leaving him gasping for breath. Through the smoke and stink of burnt hair and singed leather he heard Ogilvy croak, ‘Togg's teeth, Smoky. Take it down a notch.’

They peered up, searched the smoke for some sign of the warlock. Churning, spinning, the clouds gathered as if drawn by a sucking wind and disappeared leaving an apparently unhurt Shen hovering in the emptiness. The warlock raised his amber gaze to Smoky, reached out a pale clawed hand. Kyle yearned to be up there, to aid Smoky, the only mage accompanying their party. It was clear to him now that they were hopelessly out-classed.

The arm stretched for Smoky. The warlock curled his pale fingers, beckoning. The men close enough swung but to no effect. Then the hulking shape of Greymane appeared, stepping forward from the shadows and he thrust a wide blade straight out. The two-handed sword impaled Shen who gaped, astonished. The warlock's mouth stretched open and he let go an ear-tearing shriek and grasped the sword with both hands. He lurched himself backwards off the blade. Before Greymane could thrust again the warlock shot straight up through the opening.

At Kyle's side, Ogilvy scratched his chin and peered speculatively to the top. ‘Well, that wasn't so bad now, was it?’ he said with a wink.

Kyle stared, wordless. He shook his head, horrified and relieved. Then he started, remembering. ‘Stalker!’ Searching the men, Kyle spotted him close to Greymane. They locked gazes then Stalker, his pale eyes bright against the darkness of his face, looked away.

Ogilvy sniffed and sheathed his sword. ‘Asked me to keep an eye on you, he did. Back down at the bottom.’

‘I don't need anyone to keep an eye on me.’

‘Then there's one thing you'll have to learn if you want to stay live in this business,’ Ogilvy hawked and spat into the pit. ‘And that's accepting help when it's offered ‘cause it won't be too often.’

The column moved again and Ogilvy started up the stairs.

They exited from the corner tower of a rectangular walled court. The rain lashed sideways, driven as harshly as sand in a windstorm. The men huddled in groups wherever cover offered. Kyle fought to pull on his leather cape and ran to the waist-high ledge of an overflowing pond and pressed himself into its slim protection. Cloud-cover smothered the fortress like fog. The wind roared so loud together with the discharge of thunder that men side by side had to shout into each other's ears to be heard. By the almost constant discharge of lightning, Kyle saw that the structure was less a fortress and more of a walled private dwelling. The central courtyard, the walls, the benches, the buildings, were all made from the living black basalt of the Spur. He was astounded by the amount of work that must have gone into the carving.

Only Greymane stood upright, his thick trunk-like legs apart and long grey hair whipping about from under his helmet. He motioned with his gauntleted hands, dividing the men into parties. Kyle wondered what he had done with the two-handed sword he'd used against Shen, for the renegade carried no sheath
large enough for it – only a slim longsword now hung at his belt.

Smoky suddenly appeared skittering toward Kyle like a storm-driven crow. His soaked robes clung to his skinny frame. His black hair, slicked by the rain, gave his narrow face the frenzied look of a half-drowned rat.

‘You the scout, Kyle?’ the mage yelled, his voice hoarse.

Kyle nodded.

A shudder took the mage and he scowled miserably, drew his soaked robes tighter about his neck. The rain ran in rivulets down his face. He pointed to four men near Kyle. These men nodded their acknowledgement. Of them, Kyle knew only one: Geddin, a hulking swordsman Kyle was relieved to have with him.

Smoky leaned his mouth close to Kyle's ear. Even in the rain, soaked through to the bone, the smell of wood smoke and hot metal still unaccountably wafted from the man. He pointed a bony finger to a wall fronted by a long colonnade entirely carved of the dark basalt: the roof, pillars and dark portals that opened to rooms within. ‘We check out these rooms. You got point.’

Smoky caught Kyle's reaction to that announcement and he laughed. The laugh transformed into a racking cough.

Kyle drew his tulwar and searched for intervening cover. Point. Great.

‘Wait.’ Smoky grasped Kyle's weapon hand.

Kyle almost yanked free, but he remembered Ogilvy's words and stopped himself. The mage frowned as he studied the blade. Kyle waited, unsure. Now what was the matter? The rain beat upon his shoulders. The mage's grip was uncomfortably hot. Smoky turned to peer to where Greymane stood with his group. Kyle could see nothing more than a smear of shapes through the slanting curtains of rain. Smoky raised Kyle's sword and arm, his brows rising in an unspoken question. Kyle squinted but could make out nothing of Greymane's face or gestures. The mage grunted, evidently seeing some answer and fished a slim steel needle from his robes. He began scratching at the curved blade. ‘Anything you want? Your name? Oponn's favour? Fire, maybe?’

Thinking of his own totem, Kyle answered, ‘Wind.’

The needle stopped moving. Rain pattered like sling missiles against Kyle's shoulders. Smoky looked up, his eyes slitted, searching Kyle's face, and then he flashed a conspiratorial grin. ‘Saw the histories on the way up too, aye? Good choice.’ He etched the spiral of Wind into the blade. Incredibly, the tempered iron melted like wax under Smoky's firm pressure. The sword's grip heated in Kyle's hand.

Rain hissed, misting from the blade. The mage released him. What had that been all about? What of Wind? What was it his father used to say …
‘All are at the mercy of the wind’?