Return of the Crimson Guard (87 page)

After a time, as the stars came out, Kyle sat against the side and set his chin on the gunwale. He stared back at the dark line on the
horizon that was the coast of Jacaruku. His suggestion to come to the Dolmans had been a disaster for them. K'azz dead or gone. Ereko slain. And, Kyle now worried, he may have insulted Traveller beyond forgiveness with his words back at the Dolmans. He saw that now. But he'd been so
angry.
He'd given no thought to the fact that the man had known Ereko far longer than he. And now Traveller was taking them to Quon – the very destination of the Guard. Perhaps he meant to hand Kyle over to them. It suddenly occurred to him that Traveller might actually blame him for his friend's death; if he hadn't suggested this destination of Jacuruku out of all possible headings then Ereko would still be alive. He glanced to the bow. The man was awake, brooding, it seemed to Kyle. His eyes were glittering in the dark, fixed on the seemingly oblivious Jan at the tiller, whose gaze held just as steady to the north-east horizon.

* * *

For Toc the assault began with a burgeoning roar that shook the hooves and flesh of his mount before it struck his gut. To the south, what seemed the entire horizon lit up behind the Outer Round curtain wall as incendiaries flew tall arcs in both directions over the Inner Round walls: inward from Talian catapults and outward from Hengan onagers. Remnants of the Talian legion that had participated in the original assault watched from the pickets alongside the gathered camp followers and support staff of armourers, cooks, drovers, washerwomen, prostitutes and trooper's wives and their children.

Beyond the encampment bands of Seti roved the fitfully lit hillsides, chanting warsongs, waving lances, bellowing their encouragement and cursing the Hengans. Toc longed to be in the thick of things with Choss, though well could he imagine the horror of it: frontal escalades were always high in body counts. Pure naked ferocity versus ferocity.

As the assault dragged on into the night, the constant low roar not abating, up out of the night came the White Jackal shaman, Imotan, and his bodyguard to Toc and his staff. The shaman urged his mount to Toc's side. A simple leather band secured the old man's grey hair and his leathers were mud-spattered. Instead of a lance he carried a short baton tufted in white fur held tight across his chest. The old man's eyes blazed bright, either in excitement or alarm, Toc wasn't sure. ‘What is it?’

‘You must get all your people inside,’ Imotan called.

‘Why? A sortie?’

‘No. Something is coming. For you, something terrible. Yet for us, a prophecy fulfilled.’

Toc stared his confusion. Was the man mad? ‘What do you mean?’

‘Ryllandaras is coming. I feel him. I can almost smell his breath.’

‘Ryllandaras?’
The man must be mad. It was impossible. He'd been imprisoned long ago. ‘No. You must be mistaken.’

Imotan flinched away, glowering. ‘Do not insult me, Malazan.’ He sawed his mount around. ‘Very well. I have done my part. Ignore me and die.’ The White Jackal shaman stormed off into the night surrounded by his bodyguard.

Toc watched him go then straightened up tall in his saddle, peering to the left and right, squinting at the lines. Surely the old man would not have come to him unless he was certain. But still, Ryllandaras, after all this time? And why now?

‘Rider!’ he called.

One of his staff urged his mount alongside. ‘Sir?’

‘Go to Urko's command. Tell them the Seti warn of a dangerous presence out in the night.’

‘Sir.’ The messenger kicked his mount and rode off.

‘Captain Moss?’

‘Sir?’

‘Take a troop and do a circuit of the perimeter. Warn the pickets to be sharp.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The captain saluted and reined his mount away.

There. But had he done all he could? Should he warn Choss? No, the man had more than enough to handle, electing to direct the assault from the front. He would wait to see if anything came of this – on the face of it – utterly outrageous claim.

It was a full hour later, close to midnight, when a woman in a dress torn and stained dark came walking out of camp. She headed straight to Toc, as silent as a ghost, her eyes empty, hands held out before her dark and wet. His men shouted, pointing. Toc stared. He could not speak; would not believe. He slid from his mount and took her hands sticky with blood.
‘Where?’
he shouted.
‘Tell me where!’
She stared up at him, uncomprehending, her brow clenched in confusion.

‘They are dead,’ she told him. ‘Everyone is dead.’

‘Where, damn you!

‘By the creek.’

‘Blow to arms,’ he yelled. ‘Form square. Escort all civilians behind the walls!’

Far to the back of camp, screams sounded – not human – the shrill shrieks of terrified dying horses. Toc straightened.
Gods preserve all of us.
He remembered. He remembered Ryllandaras. He'd been there. Not even Dassem could kill him. They had nothing. Nothing to counter the Curse of Quon, eater of men. The man-jackal, brother of Trake, god of war.

* * *

Escorted by a bodyguard of Malazan regulars, Storo climbed the Inner Round wall where Hurl waited. His surcoat was rent, blood smeared his gauntlets and his face glistened with sweat and soot. ‘This had better be good,’ he warned, his voice hoarse from shouting commands. ‘We're barely hanging on out there. We'd be overrun if it weren't for those three brothers. They're a right horror, they are.’

Hurl said nothing, her eyes avoiding his. Storo drew breath to speak but something in the timbre of the noise here stopped him; it was different from the tumult elsewhere: rather than rage, screams sounded alongside shouts of panic. And no escalade persisted here. He drew off his helmet, pulled back his mail hood revealing smeared blood where a blow had struck. ‘What is it?’

Hurl raised her chin to the parapet where, opposite, the north gate of the Outer Round wall stood. ‘It's begun.’

Storo climbed the parapet. A milling mass of humanity. Torches waved, Talian soldiers shouted and fought to maintain lines facing the half-closed North Plains Gate. Civilians crammed the portal, fought to pass the soldiers, screaming, pale hands grasping at armour. Nearby in the press, one of the few mounted figures gestured, shouting orders, his short grey hair and moustache bright in the gloom. He held a black recurve bow in one hand, emphasizing his orders with it.

‘Gods,
Storo blurted as if gut-punched. ‘Toc. Toc himself.’ He glanced to Hurl. ‘Have you any bowmen here?’

‘No.’

‘Huh! The man's luck still holds.’ He stepped down, faced Hurl squarely. ‘Wait ‘til they're clear then do it.’

‘Must we?’

‘Yes, dammit! Otherwise we're lost.’

‘They'll be slaughtered. Soldiers and civilians alike.’

Storo pulled up his mail hood. ‘Then they should've stayed home. As for the civilians, they were warned. I have to go. May the Lady favour you.’

‘And you.’

Storo tramped back down the stairs. Hurl remained with her sergeant and squads of regulars guarding this section of the curtain wall. While she watched, passage was made for the clamouring civilians. The Talians formed lines of crossbowmen facing the gate as others struggled to close it. The last man staggering through was memorable, his dark surcoat and mail coat hanging in tatters, the remains of a shattered helmet swinging from his neck, twin sabres in his hands. Had he actually survived a melee with the man-eater? She'd probably never know. The second wing of the gate was levered shut and iron crossbars frantically lowered into place. Hurl turned to Sergeant Banath. ‘I want you down there.’

He saluted, jogged down the stairs. Along the Outer Wall Talian soldiers climbed to the parapets, scanned down beyond. Hands pointed, alarm was raised, crossbows fired. Hurl waited until the civilians were far clear of the gate then went to the inner lip of the stone walk. She peered down to torches lighting a crew, Sergeant Banath with them, in a trench dug tight against the wall. She looked to her right and left up and down the wall. ‘Brace yourselves!’ she shouted to the men. She raised a hand, thinking, with this hand I doom more men and women than I can imagine. What has happened to me that I could do such a thing? Was it Shaky's death? The attack of Fat Kepten's men? What did she care if Heng fell? Not at all, to tell the truth. No, the mean selfish fact of it was that she wanted to live and if the city fell she'd no doubt be executed.

She dropped her hand and threw herself down, covering her head. Below her, she could imagine a sledge being swung to bash a pipe that ran out underground across the entire breadth of the Outer Round to a stash of carefully ordered and bound Moranth munitions snug against the left gate jamb. There its pointed end would crack a sharper nestled within four cussors. The resultant explosion—

A shockwave kicked the breath from her. The thunderous blast of the munitions was lost on her deafened ears. A bloated roaring filled her head. Tiny rocks peppered her back. Blinking, shaking her head, she climbed to her feet. Smoke obscured the gates. Down in the Outer Round, strewn in wreckage, men and women were picking themselves up. Wounded staggered from the smoke carrying appalling wounds and Hurl's stomach churned. She'd known that not everyone had been far enough away, but most had – or so she told herself. Nearby buildings burned in ruins. And through the smoke
something
ran. She couldn't be sure; it had been too fast. Just a glimpse of paleness, but huge, smooth and terrifyingly fluid. Then it was gone.

She slumped down against the parapet. It was done. Now she too shared Quon's Curse. The blood it would spill from this night forward would now also steep her. She covered her face and great shuddering sobs shook her.

The report of the explosion startled Toc's mount and it sidestepped into a stall, became tangled in ropes and boxes, tripped and fell. He hit the cobbled road hard, losing his breath. The press around him closed in, hands raised him. Shouts and screams continued, only doubled now by the blast. Everyone was asking what had happened; Toc ignored them. He pushed to where his mount thrashed screaming among the shattered slats of the stall, leg broken. He drew his sword – poor animal – one of his favourites, but he couldn't leave it like this.

The instant the report of the eruption reached him he knew what had happened. They'd blown the outer gate. The fierce calculated cruelty of the plan left him awed. Enfilade. Here they were drawn in and trapped between high walls. Death hunting them. By morning the Outer Round would be one long slaughterhouse as Ryllandaras slaked a near century of blood thirst. He had to get to Choss. He raised his sword high in both hands and swung.

Picking up his bow he straightened, shouted, ‘Get indoors, hide. Defend yourselves.’

Soldiers looked to him and the pleading in their eyes clawed at his conscience. He wanted to offer reassuring words but he had none. The most despairing of the men and women did not even bother searching out his gaze for commands. He gathered himself, set one tip of his horn recurve bow to the cobbles and, leaning all his weight upon it, strung it in one quick motion. ‘Form square here for a fighting retreat. Spears, lances, poleaxes, anything you can find on the outside. Crossbowmen and archers within.’

A civilian woman shrieked at him,
‘What of us!’

‘And get these people off the street!’

A nearby soldier, a lieutenant by his arm-tore, snapped a salute. ‘You heard the commander! Set to. Form up!’

‘Slow retreat, lieutenant,’ Toc repeated. ‘I have to find the commander.’

‘Aye, sir. Oponn with you, sir.’

Toc answered the man's salute and jogged up the street.

Burning buildings near the Inner Round wall lit the night. Toc met soldiers assembling hasty barricades on the main thoroughfare. He
almost ordered them to abandon the effort but decided not to add to the confusion and chaos of the night. Yet it was a forlorn hope: the beast would easily sidestep any such position. Soldiers directed him to the rooftop of a sturdy brick warehouse. Here he found Choss, surrounded by staff.