Return of the Crimson Guard (80 page)

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Authors: Ian C. Esslemont

Tags: #Fantasy, #War, #Azizex666, #Science Fiction

BOOK: Return of the Crimson Guard
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Laughing, Ullen waved the Marquis out. When the heavy canvas flap closed Ghelel faced Ullen alone. For a time neither spoke. Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Did the Marquis tell you I am new to his command?’

Ullen nodded. ‘Yes … Your family goes back quite far in Tali?’

Ghelel felt her face reddening and damned the reaction. To cover it, she shrugged. ‘Rich in ancestry, poor in cash. Yourself?’

An edge of his mouth crooked up. ‘Like you. Rich in experience, poor in cash. I have served in the military all my life.’

‘Then you have been overseas? Genabackis? Seven Cities?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’ A mischievous smile. ‘Unless Falar counts?’

She answered his smile. ‘Oh, I suppose we could allow that – just for this one night.’

Ullen raised his glass. ‘My thanks. Now I possess a more soldierly exotic flair.’

But Ghelel was troubled. The man looked to be in his late forties, yet had never served overseas. Where had he been all these years?

Had he seen only garrison duty for the last twenty years? Yet Urko seemed to have every confidence in him; could he be nothing more than a competent manager, more clerk than soldier?

A knock at the front post. ‘Yes?’ Ullen called.

A guard edged aside the thick canvas. ‘Seti scout here, sir, with word from the raiders.’

Sighing, Ullen pushed himself to his feet, crossed to the work table. ‘Send him in, sergeant.’

A slight wisp of a figure slipped through the opening and Ghelel stared. A child! What had they come to, sending children into the field? The girl-child's deerskin trousers were torn and muddied, her moccasins worn through. A sleeveless leather jerkin was all else she wore despite the bitter cold night. Her long hair hung in a tangle of sweat, knots and lengths of leather and beads, and a sheathed long-knife hung from a rope tied round one shoulder. Despite her bedraggled and hard-travelled appearance the girl-child surveyed the contents of the tent with the scorn of a princess.

‘Ullar yesh ‘ap?’ she addressed Ullen in obvious disapproval.

‘Aya,’ he replied easily in Seti. ‘Tahian heshar?’

‘Nyeh.’

Ullen looked to Ghelel. ‘Excuse us, please.’ To the girl-child, ‘Bergar, sho.’

The child launched into a long report in Seti. When she gestured Ghelel was wrenched to see that her fingertips were blue with cold, as were her lips. Gods! This child was half-frozen with exposure from riding through the night. The Seti youth tossed a fold of torn cloth on to Ullen's table and turned to go. Ghelel intervened, ‘Wait! Please!’

A hand went to the grip of the long-knife and the girl glared an accusation at Ullen. ‘What is it?’ he asked of Ghelel.

‘Ask her to stay. To warm herself – anything.’

He spoke to her and the tone of the girl's reply told Ghelel all she needed to know. She offered her own cloak. ‘She can take this.’

Ullen translated; the girl responded, shooting Ghelel a glare of ferocious pride that would be humorous if it were not so obviously heartfelt. Ullen translated, ‘She thanks you but says she would only be burdened by such a possession.’

Ghelel squeezed the thick rich cloth in both hands. ‘Then will she not stay?’

‘No. I'm sure she means to return immediately to her scouting party.’

‘She'll die of exposure! Can't you order her to stay until tomorrow?’

Ullen passed a hand through his hair, sighing. ‘Alil … her party probably consists of her own brothers, sisters and cousins.’

Ghelel leant her weight into the chair, let the cloak fall over its back. ‘I … see. Tell her … tell her, I'm sorry.’

In answer the girl reached out a hand to cover Ghelel's who hissed, shocked, so cold was the girl's grip. She left then, and Ghelel could not raise her head to watch her go.

After some moments Ullen cleared his throat and came around the table. He squeezed Ghelel's arm. ‘Your concern does you credit, Alil. But it is misplaced. She was born to this. Grew up with it, and is used to it.’

Ghelel flinched away, shocked by the man's words. ‘So they are less than us, are they? Coarser? They feel less than we do?’

Ullen's face froze. He dropped his arm. ‘That is not what I meant at all.’ He returned to the table, picked up the scrap of cloth the messenger had left. ‘Ehra – that's her name by the way. Named for a tiny blue flower you can find everywhere here – she reports that her party captured a runaway from the raiders. And since they're under my orders to find out what they can about these pirates, they questioned him. The fellow claimed the sigil they wear is important.’ Ullen waved the fold of cloth. ‘He sketched it here.’

Sitting heavily, Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Commander … I'm sorry. I forgot myself. No doubt you meant that she was used to such privation; that she's grown up riding in such weather all year round. You are no doubt right. I'm sorry. It's just that we Talians border on the Seti. There is a long history of antagonism and I have grown up hearing much that is … how shall I put it – bigoted – against them. You have my apology, commander.’ Hearing nothing from him, she glanced up, ‘Commander?’

Ullen had backed away from the table. His gaze was fixed upon the opened cloth. He appeared to have had a vision of Hood himself; his face was sickly pale from shock. His hands had fisted white. Ghelel threw aside her glass and came to his side. ‘What is it?’

‘Gods no

it's true,’
he breathed.

She picked up the scrap. Sketched in charcoal and ochre dust was a long rust smear bearing a weaving undulating line. ‘What is it?’

Ullen swallowed, wiped a hand across his glistening brow. ‘Something I prayed I'd never see again. Sergeant!’

The guard stepped in. ‘Sir?’

‘Summon the Marquis and Captain Tonley, quickly.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Ullen went to the low table and poured himself a glass of wine.

‘What is it?’ Ghelel asked again.

Downing the drink, Ullen said, ‘It means nothing to you? A red field, a long sinuous beast – a dragon perhaps?’

‘No.’

He spoke into the depths of his empty glass. ‘How quickly so much is forgotten.’

The Marquis threw open the tent flap; he wore only an open felt shirt, trousers and boots. ‘What news?’

Ullen nodded to Ghelel, who held out the torn strip. The Marquis took it. ‘Surely you are versed in liveries, Marquis. What do you make of that insignia?’

‘A red field, a long beast or perhaps a weapon – it could be any number of things.’

‘And if the thing were a dragon?’

‘What would that mean?’ Ghelel asked.

‘Then—’ Snorting, he tossed the cloth to the table. ‘Imposture, surely. An empty boast.’

‘I think not. This confirms rumours out of Unta.’

‘What rumours?’ Ghelel asked more loudly.

‘You cannot be certain though,’ said the Marquis.

‘No, but certain enough to treat them more warily. I ask that you return to your command south of the Idryn.’

‘Agreed.’

Captain Tonley pushed aside the canvas flap. Wincing, he shielded his eyes from the bright lantern light. ‘What is it – ah, sirs?’

‘Yes!’ Ghelel added. ‘What is it, damn it to Hood!’

‘The sigil of the Crimson Guard,’ Ullen said.

Ghelel stared, her brows rising. The Crimson Guard? That hoary old-woman's bogeyman? Mere mercenaries? Was this what so unnerved Ullen? Only her tact stopped her from laughing out loud.

Captain Tonley scratched his auburn beard. His face betrayed an utter lack of recognition. ‘The Crimson Guard, you say? That so, sir? Amazing.’ He took a great deep breath, noticed the carafes of wine and scooped one up. ‘Orders, sir?’

Ullen either didn't notice or was inured to the man's manners – or lack thereof. ‘Send your best rider to Urko at Command.’ He scratched a message on a scrap of vellum, handed it to Tonley. ‘The invading army confirmed as Crimson Guard.’

‘Anyone could use that symbol,’ Ghelel objected.

‘No one would dare,’ the Marquis answered. ‘Come, Prevost. We leave immediately.’ He bowed to Ullen. Ghelel did not move. She watched Ullen who bowed his farewell to her while, she thought,
keeping his face carefully empty of emotion. The Marquis took her arm. ‘Prevost.’

Outside, the Marquis said low, ‘Change quickly, we ride within the hour,’ and he was off to his tent. Feeling somehow drunk, stunned by these quick developments, Ghelel walked slowly away. Inside her tent, she found Molk lying across the entrance, an arm over his face. ‘Get up. We're going.’

He moved his arm to blink up at her. ‘Going? So soon?’

‘Yes. And hurry – you have to pack.’ She began changing to dress in her armour.

He sat up quickly. ‘What's the news? Is it her?’

Pulling off her shirt, Ghelel paused. Her? Oh, yes,
her,
‘No. Not her.’

‘Who then?’

A laugh from Ghelel. ‘Yes, who indeed.’ She shook out a silk undershirt, pulled it on. ‘Apparently our glorious commander believes these raiders are the Crimson Guard returned. Can you believe that?’ She straightened the front lacings, looked up. ‘Molk?’

She turned full circle, peering around the tent. The fool had disappeared. Well, damn the man. Now who was going to pack?

It was not until the column started off south for the Pilgrim road that Ghelel had an opportunity to speak in relative privacy with the Marquis. Side by side just behind the column's van riding with lit torches, she leaned to him. ‘So you believe him then? That this is the Guard, returned?’

 

Helmet under an arm and reins in one hand, the Marquis turned to examine her. His eyes were dark pits in the night and his black curly hair blew unbounded about his face. ‘I believe Ullen,’ he called back.

‘Why should Ullen be so certain? And why so fearful? They are only mercenaries. Famous, yes. But just a band of hireswords.’

The Marquis's mouth straightened in a cold humourless smile. ‘Have you not heard the stories then?’

Ghelel thought of the bedtime tales her nanny had told of the Guard and how they opposed the emperor. Romantic heroics of great champions and fanciful unbelievable deeds. ‘I've heard them. Troubadours’ tales and romances. But that was all long ago. Why should Ullen fear them now?’

It was now the Marquis's turn to look confused. ‘Do you not know who he is, was?’

Ghelel stared, taken aback, then cut off a snarled reply. She pulled
her mount closer to the Marquis. ‘How in the Queen's own Mysteries am I to know anything if no one tells me anything!’

The Marquis raised a hand in surrender. ‘Apologies. I thought you knew. The man served on Dassem's staff! Was Choss's adjutant for a time. That's why I believe him.’

Astonished, Ghelel relaxed and fell behind the Marquis. Ranks of her cavalry thundered past while her mount slowed.
Served with Dassem! Served all his life yet had never left the continent – the man had fought during the wars of consolidation!
Damn the fellow! She was half tempted to turn her horse around and confront him. Why didn't he just out and say so?
Yet why should he have to?
Why shouldn't she have faith in him regardless? Urko chose him for a reason, didn't he? Didn't she accept
his
competence unquestioned?

She slowed her mount to a canter, gazed back to the encampment, a distant glow in the clear starry night. Her and her mount's breath steamed in the frigid air and Ghelel thought of a bony Seti girl riding east dressed far more poorly than she. Ahead, four of her cavalry had held back from the column, awaiting her. Idly, she wondered where Molk had got himself off to and whether she'd ever see the man again. The stars blazed down with a hard cold light from horizon to horizon and suddenly new ones appeared in the east. Ghelel squinted, surprised. No, not stars, yellow flickering lights, torches. A handful appearing and disappearing in the dark above the horizon where …

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