Return of the Crimson Guard (53 page)

‘The Thousand,’ the Seguleh said.

Bars could only stare. There's a
thousand
of these swordsmen? ‘Bars. Iron Bars, Fourth Company, Second Blade, Avowed of the Crimson Guard.’

All remaining Seguleh turned to stare. Bars returned the glances then remembered Jemain's warning and looked away. The one Seguleh who had kept the most apart from everyone, standing far at the bow, walked back to face him. His mask was far less decorated than the others, marked by just a few lines. But of course Bars could not make any sense of its design. Then he again recalled Jemain's words and he quickly pulled his gaze from the man's face. ‘Word of you Avowed have reached us,’ this one said. ‘Why did you not identify yourself before?’

Bars shrugged. ‘I saw no reason to.’

The Seguleh seemed to understand such reasoning. ‘You are a stranger to our ways, so I will be plain. I challenge you.’

‘Don't accept!’
Jemain blurted.

Bars gently touched the wet dressing at his neck, wiped his forearm across his mouth to come away with a slick of drying blood from the gash down his face. The pain of his pierced leg was a roar in his ears. It twitched, hardly able to support him. ‘I, ah, respectfully decline,’ he murmured, his voice a gurgle.

The Seguleh inclined his mask fractionally. ‘Another time, then.’ He glanced to his men and as one they moved to the ship's side. ‘We go now.’

Bars stared again.
Gods, these people. They were constantly wrong-footing him.
‘Wait. Where are you going? What're you doing out here? Twin's Turning, man. Why're you even talking to me now?’

As the others carried the dead spokesman to the side, their leader, so Bars assumed, faced him again. ‘You have standing now. I am named Oru. I am now your, how is it …
Yovenai
…’

‘Patron, or commander – something like teacher, too,’ Jemain supplied.

Oru did not dispute Jemain's translation.

Bars gestured to the dead Seguleh. ‘And his name?’

‘Leal. Her name was Leal.’

‘Her?
Her!’

‘Yes.’

Gods Below. He'd no idea.
But he would remember her name; he'd rarely come so close to being overborne. Oru had jumped down lithely to the galley. Bars leaned over the side. Holding his neck he croaked, ‘What are you doing out here? Why are you just going like this?’

‘You are of the Agatii. You have your mission. We have ours. We search for something … something that was stolen from us long ago.’

‘Well … may the Gods go with you.’

‘Not with us,’ Oru replied flatly.

Crewmen pushed off with poles. As the oars were readied, Bars did a quick head-count and came up with fifteen.
Burn's Mercy, fifteen of them.
Then the fog swallowed the vessel leaving only the echoes of wood banging wood and the splash of water.

Turning from the side Bars found Jemain studying him once more. ‘What?’

‘I would never have believed it.’

‘Yeah. Well, the Lady favoured me.’

‘The Seguleh don't believe in luck.’

‘There you go. Now, let's get to rowing. You give the orders, first mate. I can hardly speak.’

‘Aye, Captain. And Captain … ?’

‘Yes?’

‘I tried to get a good look at Oru's mask. If I'm right, he's ranked among the top twenty.’

* * *

On the second day of their flight from the fallen Border Fort, Rillish awoke to find five Wickan children staring down at him with the runny noses and direct unfiltered curiosity of youths. Rillish sat up on his elbows and stared back. The children did not blink.

‘Yes? Are you going to help me up, or not?’ The gruelling demands of their escape had worsened Rillish's leg wound. Yesterday soldiers took turns carrying him. His dressings stank and were stained yellow-green.

‘No,’ said the eldest, their guide, a girl who might just be into puberty.

‘No?’ Rillish gave a thoughtful frown. Then you're planning to put me out of my misery they way you do your wounded.’

The girl's disdain was total. ‘A townsman lie. We do no such thing.’

‘No,’ Rillish echoed. It occurred to him that he was now being studied by what passed for the ruling council of the band of youths he'd rescued – the five eldest. ‘May I ask your name?’

‘Mane,’ said the girl. A sheathed, antler-handled long-knife stood tall from the rope of woven horsehair that served as the belt holding the girl's rags together – all of which amounted to nothing more than a frayed blanket pulled over her head. The blade would have been laughable had the girl's face not carried the tempered edge to match it. It also occurred to Rillish that he knew that blade.

Then may I ask the purpose of this council meeting?’

‘This is not one of your townsman
council meetings,
the girl sneered. This is a command meeting. I command.’

‘You command? No, I think I—’

‘Think as you like. Here on the plains if you wish to live you'll do as
I
say …’

‘Mane, I command the soldiers who guard you and who rescued you and your—’

‘Rescued
us?’
the girl barked. ‘No, Malazan. From where I stand
we
rescued
you
…’

It occurred to Rillish that he was arguing with a ten-year-old girl; and that the girl was right. He glanced up to study the shading branches of their copse of trees. ‘Very well. So, I will do you the courtesy of assuming all this is leading somewhere …’

‘Good. He said you would.’

‘Who?’

A grimace of self-castigation. ‘Never mind. The point is that we've decided you will ride in a travois from now on.’

‘A travois. How kind of you.’

‘It's not kindness. You're slowing us down.’

I see.
The party already burdened by one – a young boy, no more than a toddler, wrapped in blankets and doted on by the children. ‘I'll get my men—’

‘Your men will not pull it. They are needed to fight. Three of our strongest boys will pull it.’

‘Now wait a minute—’

Mane waved him silent. ‘It has been decided.’ She and the four youths abruptly walked off.

Well. He'd just been dismissed by a gang of brats. ‘Sergeant Chord!’

A touch at his shoulder woke him to a golden afternoon light. Sergeant Chord was there jog-trotting beside the travois. The tall grass shushed as it parted to either side and Rillish had the dislocating impression of being drawn through shallow water. ‘Lieutenant, sir?’

‘Yes, Sergeant?’

‘Trouble ahead, sir. Small band of armed settlers. The scouts say we have to take them. Strong chance they'll spot us.’

For some reason Rillish found it difficult to speak. ‘Scouts, Sergeant?’

A blush. ‘Ah, the lads and lasses, sir.’

Their movement slowed, halted. Sergeant Chord crouched low. Rillish squinted at him, trying to focus; there was something wrong with his vision. ‘Very well, Sergeant. Surround the party, a volley, then move in. None must escape.’

‘Yes, sir. That's just what she ordered as well.’

‘She, Sergeant?’

Another blush. ‘Mane, sir.’

‘Isn't that your knife at her belt?’

‘It is, sir.’

‘Doesn't that have some kind of significance here among the Wickans?’

His sergeant was looking away, distracted. ‘Ah, yes, it does, sir. Didn't know at the time. Have to go now, sir.’

‘Very well, Sergeant,’ but the man was already gone. He felt a vague sort of annoyance but already wasn't certain why. Behind him, the other travois sat disguised in the tall grass, its band of carriers kneeling all around it, anxious. Rillish had the distinct impression the older youths, boys and girls, were
guarding
the travois. While he watched, youths appeared as if by magic from the grass, talked with the toddler on the travois, then sped away. It appeared as if they were relaying information and receiving orders from the child. He chuckled at the image. The hand of one of his youthful carriers rocked his shoulder. ‘Quiet, Malazan,’ the boy said.

Quiet!
How dare he! Rillish struggled to sit up; he would show him the proper use of respect. A lance of lightning shot up his leg. The pain blackened his vision to tunnels, roared in his ears like a landslide, and he felt nothing more.

‘Lieutenant, sir? Lieutenant!’

Someone was calling him. He was on board a troop transport north-east of Fist in a rainstorm. Giant swells rocked the awkward tub. He felt like a flea holding on to a rabid dog. The captain was yelling, pointing starboard. Out of the dark sped a long Mare war-galley, black-hulled, riding down upon them like Hood's own wrath. Its ram shot a curl of spray taller than the sleek galley's own freeboard.

‘Hard starboard!’
the captain roared.

Rillish scanned the deck jammed full of standing Malazan regulars – reinforcements on the way to the stranded 6th. He spotted a sergeant bellowing at his men to form ranks. ‘Ready crossbows!’ he shouted down.

‘Aye, sir!’ the sergeant called.

Before he could turn back, the Mare war-galley struck. The stern-castle deck punched up to smack the breath from him. Men screamed, wood tore with a crunching slow grinding. A split mast struck the deck.

Entangled beneath fallen rigging, Rillish simply bellowed, ‘Fire! Fire at will!’

‘Aye, sir!’ came the answering yell. Rillish imagined the punishment of rank after rank of Malazan crossbowmen firing down into the low open galley. He hacked his way free, one eye blinded by blood streaming from a head cut. ‘Where's the cadre mage, damn her!’

‘Dead, sir,’ someone called from the dark.

The deck canted to larboard as a swell lifted the two vessels. With an anguished grinding of wood they parted. The ram emerged, gashed and raining pulverized timbers. The war-galley back-oared. Hood take this Mare blockade! The only allies of the Korelri worth a damn. He wondered if one out of any five Malazan ships made it through. The vessel disappeared into the dark, satisfied it had accomplished its mission; Rillish was inclined to agree. The transport refused to right itself, riding the swells and troughs like a dead thing. He picked his way through the ruins of the stern-castle, found the sergeant. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

The sergeant grimaced, spat. ‘I'm thinking the water's damned cold.’

‘I agree. Have the men drop their gear. We'll have to swim for shore or hope another of the convoy is nearby.’

A'ye aye, sir.’

‘Lieutenant? Sir?’

Rillish opened his eyes. It was night. The stars were out, but they were behaving oddly, they had tails that swept behind them whenever he looked about. Sergeant Chord was peering down at him. He felt hot, slick with sweat. He tried to speak but couldn't part his lips.

‘You've taken a fever, sir. Infection.’

Rillish tore his lips apart. ‘I was thinking of the day we met, Chord.’

‘That so, sir? A bad day, that one. Lost a lot of good men and women.’

A young Wickan boy appeared alongside Chord. Mane was there as well. ‘This lad,’ Chord said, ‘is a Talent – touched with Denul, so Mane says. He's gonna have a look.’ The boy ducked his head shyly.