Return of the Crimson Guard (49 page)

As the timbers neared, Ghelel threw up one hand to grab hold. She banged her head, her body and legs being sucked under. The object that had supported her across the gap of open river was pulled
away and run over, tumbling – an upturned chamberpot.
Ha! Very funny, Molk.

She held for a time, washed by the churning waves, gathered her strength. After this she managed to pull herself up then sat, trailed her legs in water that felt warm now that the cold night air brushed her. Eventually, her breathing returned to normal. Movement, and a dripping wet Molk sat next to her and pulled the bag on to his lap. ‘Have a good dip, Captain?’

Ghelel blinked at the man. Captain? ‘Oh, yes.
Thank you,
Molk.’ Lower, she murmured, ‘I was almost killed. And that's Captain Alil.’

‘Alil? Very good, Captain.’ He sliced the rope sealing the bag. ‘Let's see what we've got here for you.’

The lack of personal space among the regulars was the first thing that struck Ghelel. That and the stink. Sitting on piled sacks, she was jammed shoulder to shoulder with Talian soldiery. One fellow even fell against her asleep until Molk straight-armed him down to the sodden logs; all much to the amusement of his squadmates. It was very confusing for Ghelel: these men and women were this fellow's friends yet they found it humorous when some stranger dumped him into the drink.

And the language! If she heard one more time how much some fellow was looking forward to catching some Hengan snatch she'd scream. The farting, belching and spitting were all rather much as well. Every time she almost threw herself to her feet to abandon the whole thing she'd catch Molk's watchful amused gaze and she'd subside: there was no way she'd give the man the satisfaction.

As it was she stayed awake the entire night and did not know what fed her tense muscles and the sharp sensory images from her surroundings: a soldier lighting a pipe from a lantern, a couple, a man and a woman, making out with only a plain camp blanket over their shoulders, a fight stopped by friends pulling the two men apart, the moon reflected bright silver from the rippling surface of the river. Was it excitement at doing what she'd always dreamed, or was it a plain and simple fear coming from the certainty that somewhere knives were being readied for her? She couldn't tell. In any case, she took some satisfaction from the knowledge that Molk also spent a sleepless night; every time she glanced to the man she'd found him watching the surroundings, his eyes scanning, watchful, glittering in the dark.

She pulled at the hauberk of overlapping metal scales over leather, not the best fit. Her sword though – her old one! How did they get hold of it? She almost pulled off the helmet but remembered Molk's comment:
the best place to carry that is on your damned head.

The pre-dawn yellow and pink light gathered over the eastern horizon. It brought a strange optical illusion. A mountain rising all alone on the relatively flat plain. Ghelel squinted into the glow. She caught Molk's eye, gestured ahead. ‘What's that?’

Again, that amused knowing look. ‘Li Heng.’

‘But that's impossible. Those walls must be enormous!’

Wincing, Molk glanced around. Ghelel followed his gaze; soldiers nearby glared. Evidently she'd stuck her foot in it. He sidled closer, lowered his voice. ‘Yes. Strongest fortified city on the continent. Those walls have never been breached. Haven't you studied your histories?’

‘Yes!’

‘Well then, you know they were built to keep out more than just humans.’

Something in Ghelel shuddered. Of course! How could they possibly hope to succeed! Those walls were raised against the ancient enemy of the central plains, the rampaging demon – some said God – the man-jackal, brother of Treach, Ryllandaras, the man-eater. And they had never been overcome. Many say they would even have held against Kellanved's continent-sweeping armies. That is, without his dreaded undying T'lan Imass warriors. With their help Dancer assassinated the city's titular Goddess, the Protectress.
Assassinated.
Ghelel held Molk's gaze to let him know she understood his message. He nodded his slow acknowledgement.

Towards midday it was their raft's turn to unload. Ghelel grabbed for a handhold as it bumped up against its neighbours. Poles banged wood, soldiers cursed. The sun glared down with a heat and weight exhausting to her; it was never this hot on the coast. Downriver, the walls of Heng loomed like a distant layered plateau.

‘How will we find the Sentries?’ she asked Molk.

By way of answer Molk turned to a nearby soldier. ‘The Marchland Sentries?’ he asked.

‘How the Abyss should I know?’ the woman snorted.

Surprising Ghelel, Molk simply shrugged. He invited Ghelel to try. She crossed to the woman. ‘The Sentries?’ she asked loudly.

‘I said—’ the woman turned, her gaze flicked to the silver gorget at Ghelel's neck. She straightened. ‘Sorry, sir. The quartermaster on shore, perhaps, sir.’

‘Thank you, soldier.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Molk gave Ghelel a small secretive nod. The gorget also worked wonders in getting them ashore. Ghelel merely stepped forward and
everyone slipped from her path. Molk picked up a set of saddle-bags that at some time in the night he'd switched for the bag.

Ghelel decided that she might come to like being an officer. Amid the chaos of the rafts and barges being unloaded she merely had to catch a soldier's eye, ask, ‘The quartermaster?’ and be pointed on her way. By the time she neared the quartermaster's tent she found she was staring down everyone she met.

The tent possessed a floor of lain boards. Ghelel stamped the mud from the tall leather boots – the last item out of Molk's miraculous bag – and entered. Molk waited outside. Within, a man sat studying a slate in his hands amid piled crates and sacks that reached the tent's tall ceiling. Ghelel cleared her throat.

‘Yes, sir?’ the man replied without looking up.

Well. So much for the talisman of rank. ‘The Marchland Sentries?’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘I didn't ask whether you'd heard of them – I asked to locate them.’

‘Don't know where they are. Sorry, sir.’

‘Well, then, pray tell who might?’

He looked up, blinked at her bleary-eyed, like a mole. ‘Try the Day Officer, Captain Leen.’

‘Thank you, soldier.’

The man returned his attention to the slate, scratched at it with a small nubbin of chalk. Ghelel sighed, counted to ten, then asked the damned question. ‘And
where
might I find this Captain Leen?’

The man slowly looked up again and said in a carefully neutral tone, ‘I would try the command tent … sir.’

Ghelel was clenching her jaws so tight she could not respond. With a fierce nod she turned and stamped from the tent. Outside she sucked in long deep breaths of the hot prairie air. ‘Where,’ she said aloud, ‘is the command tent?’

‘My guess would be that big one up on the hill,’ Molk offered from behind.

‘Thank you
so
much.’

‘Here to serve, Captain.’

She started up the shallow rise of trampled brown grass.

‘I'd say you're doing pretty good so far,’ Molk said as they walked.

‘Well, I haven't stabbed anyone yet.’

That got a laugh.

Guards at the wide entrance of opened flaps nodded Ghelel in. Molk waited outside. She was met by a young man at a table cluttered with
reports who stood, bowing. ‘Lieutenant Tahl, aide to Captain Leen. Sorry about the mess – we'll soon be moving to a new location closer to the city. May I be of service?’

‘Yes. I'm looking for the Marchland Sentries. Where are they bivouacked?’

Tahl's browrs rose and he quickly looked her up and down.

‘Yes?’

‘Ah! Sorry, it's just that I was unaware they were due … a replacement.’

‘A replacement?’

‘Yes. Well, something of a cock-up you being here. Wrong shore. You should've disembarked to the south.’ And he opened his arms, shrugging.

‘Silly me.’

He smiled stiffly, sat. ‘Good luck, sir. You should find them in a village to the south.’

‘Thank you.’

Walking back down the hill she let out a long hard sigh. ‘What are they doing here anyway?’

‘Special assignment,’ Molk replied. ‘They were sent in early. They're doing scouting and, ah, intelligence gathering.’

She caught her step but kept walking. ‘Thought so.’
Amaron, the scheming rat!
‘Let me guess – they're working for Amaron.’

Molk rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘They're doing their job – guarding a frontier.’

She turned on Molk. ‘Burn take it! Amaron's touch will make that the first place anyone will look for me, dammitall!’

He glanced around, motioned for her to lower her voice. ‘No they won't. In the first place no one knows what I just told you. And secondly, as far as anyone knows you're still on that barge right now and will soon be disembarking into your wagon to be taken to the Seti camp.’

‘Really? You've got someone playing me?’

‘Of course! Gods, woman … honestly. Sometimes I wonder.’

‘I'm new to all this.’

‘That's for sure.’

She commandeered a small riverboat to take them across the river while a hundred yards downstream the broad royal barge wallowed in reed-choked shallows and the heavy wagon driven down to meet it looked to be sunk in the mud. On board the barge dozens of men pushed on poles while drovers cracked their whips over the pitiful
lowing oxen. Molk sat at the bow of the punt, watching. ‘Too bad we missed all the speeches,’ he said.

Ghelel sat next to him, lowered her voice. This is stupid, me arriving at the unit the same day the barge arrives here at Heng. Shouldn't I have come ahead or something?’

Molk shrugged. ‘Down south they've got no idea what's happening here. And I don't think they much care either.’

‘Someone will piece it together.’

He sighed. They'll all piece something or other together – that's how they are in the unit. The important thing is that if they accept you, they'll defend you.’

She turned to study the man. ‘What do you mean //
they accept me
… ?’

‘Don't worry. Just, ah, don't give any silly orders and you'll be fine.’

‘I've never given an order in all my life!’

‘Really? I find that difficult to believe.’

Ghelel let that pass. ‘How am I supposed to know what's silly and what's not?’

He pulled a hand through his tangle of unruly black hair. ‘Well, don't give any then.’

‘None? But I'm supposed to command!’

The nose of the boat stuck into the mud of the shore. Molk jumped down. ‘Our thanks,’ he called to the fellow who'd paddled them across.

‘Yes, thanks,’ Ghelel called.

Throwing the saddle-bags across one shoulder, Molk immediately climbed the steep embankment. He pulled himself up by tree roots and handholds of brush. Ghelel followed. Past the screen of trees, she emerged once more on to the prairie of thick stiff grass. The sharp blades slashed at her mailed sleeves and leather greaves, hissed in the wind. Eastward, past the curve of the Idryn, the walls of Heng reared through a haze of smoke from the countless fires within. Ghelel took the opportunity to study the walls; they appeared to run in three ranks, the outermost the lowest, each rank increasing in height as one moved inward, so that even if one were to capture the outermost defences, one would still be subject to fire from further in. The gates too, she'd heard, ran in staggered openings around the circumferences of the various encircling walls – there was no straight run into the heart of the city. She was no student of siegecraft, but the prospect of investing this city seemed a chancy thing. What if they exhausted themselves taking Heng and had nothing left for Unta?