Return of the Crimson Guard (75 page)

Still, they did not pull in – even when the last of the water was shaken from the last keg. The afternoon golden light faded to the red sunsets that came with disorienting suddenness. He almost asked again why Ereko made no effort at landing and would they simply career along like this until they all died of exposure when he realized that no one else was asking. Everyone else, even fiercely independent Stalker, seemed content to defer to the giant's experience. Clenching his teeth, Kyle sat back against the warm, damp and now mouldy planking of the
Kite.

As the evening deepened Kyle dozed in the deadening heat and humidity. A grunt from one of the Lost brothers woke him. Everyone was staring ahead. Kyle sat up straighten Distant torches lit the edge of a long low spit of sand. Behind the torches stood a large tent, the thin cloth of its sides billowing lightly in the weak night wind. Ereko turned the bow to shore.

Traveller stood, rearranged the simple padded mail hauberk he wore beneath his dark leathers, and belted his long, slim black-hilted sword at his side. Kyle found he could not take his eyes from that weapon. As the bow scraped up into sand Traveller leapt down into the wash to steady the vessel. Stalker and the brothers joined him. They pulled the
Kite
as far up the strand as they could. Kyle belted on his own tulwar and jumped into the wet sand. Ereko stepped down unarmed. When his feet touched ground the giant stood still for a time, head lowered. Kyle thought he heard him whispering something that may have been a prayer. Straightening, his usually
smiling lips were set, his brow lined. He had the air of a man facing a trial. Traveller led the way to the tent.

As they neared, a man stepped from the open flap. He was a large fellow, tall and well-padded in fat. The torchlight glimmered on his bright silk robes and his round head was shaved. His flesh held the hue of oiled ironwood. He bowed. ‘Welcome to you all,’ he said in accented Talian. ‘Welcome to the lands you call Jacuruku.’

Within, carpets covered the sand. Lamps on tall iron tripods lit the large interior. Pillows lay scattered, as were silver platters containing covered bowls, cups and carafes. Traveller eased himself down to sit cross-legged. Their host sat opposite. Stalker, Coots and Badlands sat together uneasily, glancing about. The tent was tall enough to accommodate Ereko who sat near the entrance. Kyle sat with him.

‘Greetings all,’ their host continued. ‘Please … eat, drink. My name is Jhest Golanjar. How it is I know your language you are wondering. That is simplicity. It is the language spoken by an invading army that conquered a neighbouring kingdom decades ago. They rule as a caste of warrior-aristocrats who enforce their will with sword and magery. All in the name of that kingdom's ancient Goddess – the Queen Ardata. Know you them?’

Their host seemed to be addressing everyone, but his dark glittering eyes remained fixed upon Traveller. Coots, his mouth stuffed full of bread and meat sauce, slurred, ‘No.’

Untroubled, Jhest continued. ‘In our language we call them the
Isture´ Forlan Edegash.
In your language,’ he lifted a meaty hand to Kyle, ‘the Crimson Guard.’

Kyle stared, speechless, then he remembered the sigil still pinned to his chest and he felt his face redden in embarrassment.
Fool, to have kept it!

‘Are we enemies, then?’ Traveller asked, his voice low, yet Kyle now felt attuned to the man's moods and he heard the coiled warning behind the question.

Jhest's smile was broad and easy, yet oddly flat. He raised both hands. ‘Not at all. We admire the
Isture´
for what they have accomplished.’

‘Which is?’ Ereko asked.

Jhest answered without so much as a glance to the Thel Akai; it was as if the giant did not exist. ‘They have advanced far in the path that is our … how shall I put it? … our passion – my brothers and sisters’ speciality of interest and research.’

‘That being?’ Stalker prompted.

Again, the broad yet oddly empty smile. The man's black eyes unmoving on Traveller. ‘Why, the Paths of Ascension, of course.’

No one spoke for a time. Badlands and Coots ate noisily; Stalker picked up a flatbread and tore off a bite. Kyle poured himself a drink that proved to be some sort of sweetened water. Traveller pressed a hand to his brow, sighing. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Jhest, but we are tired and should sleep. Perhaps tomorrow we could trouble you for water and supplies?’

‘Of course.’ The man stood, brushed at the folds of his robes. ‘Until tomorrow, then. Goodnight.’ Bowing, he left the tent.

Chewing a mouthful, Stalker caught Badland's eye and cocked his head to the flap. Badlands crossed to the opening. ‘Gone.’

‘Anyone around?’ Stalker asked.

‘Hard to say. It's damned dark. Probably someone.’

Grunting his assent, Stalker gestured Coots out. ‘You two, first watch.’

Glowering, Coots picked up the tray and carried it out the door. ‘Figures. First decent meal in months …’

Stalker now turned his attention to Ereko. ‘What do you think?’

During all of this, Traveller merely ate, eyes downcast. It was as if the man had given up on everything and was willing to accept whatever might come to him; it was either the worst sort of pathetic fatalism, or a kind of enlightened understanding that expectations, plans, ambitions, were no more than deluding vapours that, in the end, could not change anything. It was maddening to Kyle that he couldn't decide which.

Ereko lifted a pot of a thick yellow cream that Kyle thought might be yogurt. He sniffed it, set it down. ‘I have been away for a very long time, of course. But I have heard rumours. It seems they may be true. This portion of the continent is ruled by a magiocracy, an oligarchy of powerful mages who bend all their resources and research to unravelling the mysteries of Ascendancy. It is said they are masters of the Paths of Denul, and even conduct rather horrifying surgeries and experiments upon the bodies of their people to that end. No doubt they see Ascendancy as their way to power and immortality, and so on.’

‘Yet he ignored you,’ Kyle said.

Ereko laughed, smiling. ‘Ascendancy holds no interest for me, Kyle. To them, I am probably just some sort of wretched failure. Nothing more than that.’

‘You are the Eldest of all living things here of the world, Ereko,’ Traveller suddenly announced. ‘Father to us all.’

‘Father?’
Kyle echoed, his wonder and amazement obvious.

Ereko waved the words aside. Our friend is speaking poetically, Kyle. When one considers such ancient times one's only recourse is the language of poetry. Thus legends, myths, creation accounts, history. All are no more than stories shaped to justify the present appearance of things.’

Rolling his eyes, Stalker tossed back a drink. ‘I was hoping for rather more practical information.’

Ereko laughed, smiling self-consciously. ‘Sorry, yes. To the point then. They are torn. They want to move against us – but they are of course anxious as to our capabilities. The question for us is which faction will prevail. The voices for caution or the voices for action.’

‘They will act.’ This from Traveller as he sat, head lowered, studying one of the land's unfamiliar yellow fruits. ‘When it becomes clear that we will perhaps get away, a small faction will take matters into their own hands and will move. Once they do so the rest will have no choice but to commit themselves.’

Kyle stared, unable to breathe. ‘You have
seen
it?’

The eyes rose, met his. The intensity of that gaze drove Kyle's gaze aside, but not before he glimpsed a well of terrifying emotion kept locked under an almost inhuman control. ‘I have seen it all before, Kyle.’

Ereko gestured to the cushions. ‘Sleep for now, lad. You can have the last watch.’

Having eaten and now sitting comfortably on soft cloth Kyle already felt his eyelids drooping. He lay back and curled up without argument – Ereko would wake him if anything happened. Sleep took him almost instantly.

A tap of his foot woke Kyle. Stalker stood looking down at him; the scout gestured him out and left. Kyle grabbed up his armour, helmet and weapon belt and followed. Outside, a false dawn of diffuse light made the sea look strangely flat, the beach lifeless and the jungle a dark mystery. Stalker unbuckled his tall conical helmet. ‘Been quiet.’

Over his linen shirt and padded aketon, Kyle pulled on his hauberk of iron rings laced to leather, adjusted the leather wrappings at his legs. ‘No one at all?’

‘Only if you count the soldiers surrounding us.’

‘What? When?’

An indifferent shrug. ‘Who knows? Right away maybe. Coots has
been watching them all night. Says it ain't right the way none of them have moved. Not even to take a piss, apparently. Coots thinks that's downright unnatural for any soldiers.‘ Stalker gestured around. ‘You can maybe make them out on the dunes and the forest edge.’ His watch done, the scout ducked inside. Kyle adjusted the weight of his tulwar on his left hip, pulled on his helmet. For the thousandth time he wished he had a shield, a bow or even a fistful of javelins. Squinting, he could just distinguish the tall dark shapes standing still as tree trunks in the mist and pre-dawn gloom. Big bastards, with good discipline, sounds like. He didn't relish having to tangle with them.

Nothing stirred during Kyle's watch. The day brightened and the sun rose like a ball of fire over the jungle. Kyle thought it a wondrous sight, quite unlike anything he'd seen on the prairie. It was as if the entire east jungle was aflame. Traveller eventually emerged behind him. The tall swordsman was tying back his long, kinked black hair. He gestured Kyle in with a nod. ‘Break your fast.’

Over the remains of the platters Badlands and Coots worked the edges of their weapons with the small sharpening stones they carried with their gear; Badlands his two long-knives and Coots his single-edged longsword with an extended two-handed grip. Out of their rolls also came helmets – iron and bronze, with faceguards that curved down to nasal shields. ‘Haven't seen those recently,’ Kyle observed.

‘Haven't faced a stand-up fight recently,’ Coots said. ‘We prefer to avoid them.’

Badlands pulled his helmet on. ‘Yeah. They can get you killed.’

Kyle almost burst out laughing: the helmet looked two sizes too small on the hairy burly fellow, like a bull wearing a pot. After mastering himself Kyle reflected that he mustn't look much better in his hand-me-down mismatched armour. He drew his tulwar, examined its edge – as bright and keen as the day Smoky inscribed it. Nothing seemed able to mar it. He turned to Ereko who sat cross-legged with no weapon in sight.

‘Where's your spear?’

The Thel Akai looked up and in his golden eyes something flashed that stabbed Kyle to his heart before it was hidden away and the familiar wintry smile returned to his lips. ‘Not here, Kyle. Not in my homeland.’

The brothers continued fussing with their equipment. Stalker checked the positioning of more weapons than Kyle had even guessed he might be carrying. He wondered what they were waiting
for then, then Traveller re-entered the tent, and he understood.

The man examined each of them in turn, his face dark with churning emotions Kyle couldn't name, a kind of impatient anger, even disgust. The lines that bracketed his mouth slashed down like cuts. He nodded his approval and the Lost brothers jumped to the tent flap, flanking it with hands on their weapons. Stalker ducked out first. Traveller exited, then Kyle and Ereko. The brothers brought up the rear.

Jhest awaited them down the beach near the
Kite.
He stood next to a collection of bundled fruits, foodstuffs and wooden casks that Kyle presumed held water. Also present were the tall soldiers, positioned in a wide semicircle. They wore no uniforms or colours, only a strange sort of armour made from a mosaic of small stones, each a slightly differing shade of green, varying from dark sea-blue-green to a pale yellow-olive. Helms completely enclosed their faces and gauntlets their hands – all of the same shimmering mosaic surface. The weapons at their waists were hidden in wooden sheaths clasped in worked bronze, but from the shape they appeared curved and perhaps flaring out toward the point.