Return of the Crimson Guard (123 page)

‘It is a general contagion that infects almost all of us to greater and lesser degrees. But which is concentrated mainly in two carriers …’

Yath slowly straightened from his cross-legged position. He levelled his staff across his front. A wide, hungry smile crept up his lips.

‘Yes?’ Ho asked again, vexed. ‘Who?’

‘Its two main foci are our Seven Cities friend and …’ she turned her head aside, pointed, ‘… him.’

Across the stern Blues’ brows rose. He pointed to himself. ‘What? Me?’

‘Oh yes …’

Yath pointed his staff at Reed; the Avowed looked to Blues, unsure. An aura identical to that of the shifting walls surrounding them lashed out from the staff to strike Reed who shrieked, writhing. Before their eyes the mage-fire consumed him, leaving a blackened smoking corpse.

‘… And we have made a terrible error,’ Su finished quickly.

‘Queen take him!’
Blues was up, his speed incredible to Ho. He was halfway across the deck before Yath could bring his staff to bear. Pink and violet fire arched. Blues raised his Warren in answer and the energy deflected, splashing like water. It recoiled outwards to spread in a fan that sliced into the barrier around them – which burst.

The deck fell out from beneath everyone. Ho clasped his arms around Su and Devaleth, pinning them to the side, grasping handholds. Figures flew off screaming into the infinite nothingness of all
directions, though none of the ritual-bound mages shifted at all. Yath had fallen and struggled to reorient himself. An Avowed, Dim, was close. The man was belaying himself by rope toward the Seven City mage.

‘Steady us!’ Ho shouted aloud to everyone.

‘I'm on it!’ Fingers answered.

Dim closed on the Seven Cities mage, reaching out. Then Sessin was there, leaping from behind Yath to grapple the Avowed. The men swung wildly together, only Dim's grip holding them to the vessel. They fought, grappling and gouging as they flew – then gone, both spinning away in silence. The deck rose up to brutally knock the breath from Ho.

Yath lashed power again, catching Blues unready, but the stream of raw inchoate energy passed through him leaving him unharmed. Both Blues and Yath straightened, astonished. Blues stared at himself, uncomprehending.

‘Get ‘im!’ Treat urged from the tiller.

Blues lunged. Yath stood now amid the sitting ritual-bound mages, all as still as statues. He swung his staff and a wall of the rippling power cut across the deck. Blues, Treat and Sept all struck it, rebounding. The Seven Cities mage laughed behind his barrier.

At Ho's side Fingers lay prostrate, his face contorted in a grimace of effort. ‘Can't keep this up for ever, people,’ he ground through bared and clenched teeth.

‘Get us out of here!’ Ho bellowed to everyone.

‘Where?’ Devaleth snarled.

‘Anywhere!’

‘You wish to go?’ Yath called, his voice hollow-sounding through the coruscating banner of power. ‘I will take us somewhere – though I do not think you will much care for it, my friends!’ and he laughed anew, gesturing. The distances became opaque, darkening, taking on a grey-green tinge like an eerie nightfall. The vessel eased gently down on to something, canting to one side. Fingers let out a grateful gasp, his arms and clawed hands unclenching, and he sagged. A roaring, grinding noise like a waterfall swelled to smother all other sounds. A stink assaulted Ho, making his gorge rise. Treat, near the side, flinched away, pointing: ‘What in Hood's own dread is
that?’

Ho stood. They were sliding down a tilted flow of some fluid. It reminded him of a lava flow only clotted, streaked in pus-like yellow and sickly green. Figures writhed within, melting and re-forming, gesturing and beckoning only to fall back into the churning stuff from which they arose. ‘The edge of Chaos,’ Ho said.

‘Yes!’
Yath answered. ‘You invade my lands spreading death and destruction! It is only fitting that I bring a taste of such
chaos
in return!‘ He opened his arms. ‘My lands have been cursed with it … Now it is your turn! From here I shall bring such a plague upon your continent that you will never rise again!’ He turned his back, raised his arms high, staff clenched over his head.

Forming another portal – this time leading directly to Quon.
Ho found himself staring at the Wickan witch. ‘What can we do?’

‘Nothing. We haven't the power. He commands the might of some twenty mages. We are only a few.’

‘Nothing?
Nothing!’

Su eyed him sidelong. Her wrinkled mouth pulled up in a mocking smile. ‘Who am I to say, Ho? Are you not the expert here? Did you not walk these very shores?’

Damn her! How can she know these things?
‘Very well.’ He raised his voice. ‘Blues, Fingers, Devaleth! Join us.’

It was not a ritual; Ho would hardly propose such an effort given its latest employment. Rather, it was a parallel focusing. Each readied themselves to contribute their strength to forestalling the creation of a solid enduring bridge from this place to Yarn's intended destination – wherever exactly that may be.

As they worked, the vessel tilted ever more severely to the bow until they resorted to gripping the stern. Treat and Sept roped them to the sides, the tiller and the gunwale. The
Forlorn
picked up speed, sliding, grating, down the flow of unformed chaotic matter. Ho wondered whether the shapes they'd witnessed were its inhabitants, or prisoners. Mage, perhaps, caught attempting to manipulate the potential of the inchoate materia – as he himself had dared so long ago.

Ahead an opening on to darkness tore through the flow, bisecting it. Ho glimpsed stars – a night sky? The vessel canted even more precipitously, almost vertical, then pitched within. Ho had the brief impression of falling into nothingness. He reached out then for what Su, Blues and Devaleth were prepared to offer and almost recoiled.
Such capacity! It approached even his own. Beru, do not let him be seduced! No wonder none were willing to offer themselves to Yath!

‘Hang on!’

Plummeting through a whistling, howling wind. An instant explosion of crashing, splintering timbers. An agonizing blow. Tumbling. Nothing.

* * *

Nait was sitting with Urfa and Bowl and a few other saboteur sergeants watching their boys and girls trying to get fires going to cook a hot meal. Heuk's darkness still coursed above their position but it was fraying gently, dissipating. Nait figured it'd be gone by dawn. Heuk himself slept still, curled up nearby, a dopey drooling smile on his face, jug clenched tighter than a pricey hired girl, or boy. Nait was all ready to fall asleep too when Urfa sent a bulging, cross-eyed look his way and motioned aside.

There came the Sword of the Empire himself, bandaged and bloodied, armour clattering all bashed and battered, marching up to the officer's fire followed by his guard of lieutenants and captains. Nait hung his head.
Gods no – please don't fuck us up!

‘Why are we not moving?’ the man demanded so loud everyone on the slope could hear. ‘I gave the order that we march! The Guard remain on the field. We must attack!’

Faces turned among the assembled saboteurs from where they argued over the best way to start the fires. They'd been comparing tinder boxes and flints, slow-burning coal sticks wrapped in leather, goose-down and lint ember beds, and all the while the fires remained unstruck.
Oh, oh.
Nait pushed himself up and motioned Urfa and Bowl to come. The three ambled over to where captains Tinsmith, Kepp and Blossom all struggled to their feet. Kepp and Blossom helped Tinsmith up with a padded stick that had been fashioned as a crutch.

‘Yes, Sword?’ Tinsmith offered.

‘Why have the orders for the troops to assemble not been conveyed?’ Korbolo demanded, enunciating his words with great care.

‘Move out – where? Sir?’ Tinsmith inquired.

The Napan commander jabbed an arm to the west. ‘West! A Guard strongpoint remains! They could attack us at any moment. They must be eradicated. Slain to a man!’

Tinsmith thoughtfully ran a thumb and forefinger along his silver moustache. ‘Messages indicate they have effectively withdrawn, Sword,’ he said with all reasonableness.

Korbolo stepped right up to the captain. His mouth twisted in a frown of exaggerated disappointment. ‘You are not refusing a direct order, are you, Captain?’ he asked, his voice now very soft. ‘Because I will have you arrested. And then, tomorrow, after we have killed them all, I, Korbolo Dom, Sword of the Empire, will be proclaimed victor over the Crimson Guard. Defeater of Skinner. And I will have
you and your entire command crucified. Believe me – I've done it before. Now … move out.’

A salute from Tinsmith. ‘Hail the Sword.’

Korbolo answered the salute. ‘Very good, Captain. Carry on.’ He marched off followed by his troop leaving Tinsmith hopping in place and studying his crutch. Nait and Urfa and Bowl ran up together with other sergeants. Everyone spoke at once, complaining, threatening, refusing to move. Many pointed in the direction of the sleeping Heuk. Tinsmith, Kepp and Blossom raised their hands for calm.

‘We've no choice,’ Tinsmith said, curtly. ‘Make a stretcher for the mage. We'll take him with us. I want a column of infantry with skirmishers surrounding. At the first sign of trouble we scoot back here. OK?’

Nait could only shake his head at the awesome, monumental stupidity of it all.
He'd managed it: he'd fucked them up.

Nait opted to range with the skirmishers, leaving Heuk to be carried within the ranks. This squad didn't march so much as skulk, spread out, crossbows readied, hunched. A faint lightening brushed the eastern horizon; the stars were dimmer there. Nait cast quick glances over his people. They'd been lucky, lost only two: Kal and the lad, Poot. The lad hurt the worst. Not because he was young ‘n’ all that, but because it had been friendly fire. In all the ruckus of people jumping the trench, climbing in and out, someone's crossbow had been jiggled and it fired right next to his head. No warning at all. That had been a hard one for everyone to take.

Thankfully, this portion of the field was relatively empty. The worst was just south where fires still burned and kites and other bold night-feeders wheeled. They'd crossed most of the field when a contingent of horsemen came pounding out of the dark. ‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ Nait heard sergeants bellow among the skirmishers. It was a troop of Wickan lancers. They pulled up, halting.

‘Who commands?’ one shouted – an old veteran. In fact, they all looked like hard-travelled veterans.

‘Sword of the Empire,’ came the answering shout. ‘Korbolo Dom.’

The Wickans gaped, motionless, then hands went to sheathed long-knives and other weapons. Wickan curses sounded. ‘What name was that?’ the old spokesman asked again as if unbelieving.

‘Mine!’ Korbolo came walking up from the column. ‘What news?’

The grey-haired old veteran rested his forearms on the pommel of his high saddle and studied the man with something akin to
amazement. Finally, after a time, he shook his head and spat aside as if to ease his mouth of a sour taste. ‘You are bold and brave, I give you that. How does it feel, murderer, to be in our debt?’

Korbolo appeared supremely untroubled. ‘I am in no one's debt. I am the Sword of the Empire – I command
all
Imperial forces.’

‘Well for us, then, that according to your own Empress, we are not Imperial forces. Yet you owe your victory to us. I wonder, then, what recompense the Throne might offer to repay such a debt, yes?’

The Sword's smile of self-assurance was almost a smirk. ‘Such matters are for the Empress to judge.’

‘Indeed. And she and the army all bore witness to what happened this night.’ The Wickan sawed his reins around and the troop stormed off.

Nait watched them go. Boy, a lot of history there. Official word was that the Wickans up at Seven Cities had betrayed Imperial interests and Korbolo barely managed to salvage the whole theatre. For himself, Nait didn't believe a word of it; and this confrontation clinched things for him. The Wickans had treated Korbolo as the traitor. He turned to his squad who stood watching the retreating horsemen. ‘Move out! Let's go! Got ground to cover.’