Return of the Crimson Guard

Pulling at his sodden robes, Smoky grunted his assent. Kyle eyed this unknown Guardsman; brethren, the man had said. He'd heard the word used before. Something to do with the elite of the Guard, the originals, the Avowed. Or perhaps another word for them, used only among themselves? Kyle continued to study the fellow sidelong: battered scale hauberk, a large shield at his back, sheathed longsword. He could very well be of the Avowed himself — they wore no torcs or rank insignias. You couldn't tell them from any other Guardsman. Stoop had explained it was deliberate: fear, the old fellow had said. No one knows who they're facing. Makes ‘em think twice, that does.

When they returned to the inner chambers, Guardsmen filled the rooms. It appeared to be a pre-arranged rallying point. Through the arched gaps between stone pillars Kyle watched the mercenaries converging on the complex of rooms. Men slipped, fumbling on the rain-slick polished stone. He turned to the short mercenary beside him. ‘What's going on, Junior?’

Beneath the lip of his sodden cloth-wrapped helmet, the man's eyes flicked to Kyle, wide with outrage. ‘The name's not Junior,’ he forced through clenched teeth.

Kyle cursed his stupidity and these odd foreign names. ‘Sorry. Smoky called you that.’

‘Smoky can call anyone whatever he damned well pleases. You better show more respect…’

‘Sorry, I-’

Someone yanked on Kyle's hauberk; he spun to find Stoop. The old sapper flashed him a wink, said, ‘Let's not bother friend Boll here with our questions. He's not the helpful type.’

Boll's lips stretched even tighter into a straight hound's smile. Inclining his helmet to Stoop, he pushed himself from the wall and edged his way through the crowd of Guardsmen.

‘What's going on?’ Kyle whispered.

‘Not too sure right now,’ the old veteran admitted candidly. ‘Have to wait to find out. In this business that's how it is most of the time, you know.’

And just what business is that? Kyle almost asked, but the men all suddenly stood to attention, weapons ready. Kyle peered about, confused. What was going on? Why was he always the last to know? It seemed to him that they straightened in unison like puppets on one string. It was as if the veteran Guardsmen shared a silent language or instinct that he lacked. Countless times he'd been sitting in a room watching a card game, or dozing in a barracks, only to see the men snap alert as if catching a drum's sounding. At such times he and the other recent recruits were always the last ready, always bringing up the rear.

This time Kyle spotted everyone's centre of attention as the open portal of the main structure on the far side of the roof garden. The men assembled along the colonnade, levelled cocked crossbows at that door. The front rank knelt and the rear rank stood over them. Kyle himself carried no such weapon as the company was running short.

‘Here they come,’ Stoop murmured.

Through the sheets of driving rain, Kyle made out a squad of men exiting the portal. Greymane emerged last. All alone he manhandled shut its stone slab of a door. The men jog-trotted across the abutting levels of gardens and patios. They threw themselves behind benches and stone garden planters that now held nothing more than the beaten down stalks of dead brush. These men and women covered the doorway while their companions jogged and skittered to another section of the courtyard. Stalker was among them, his own crossbow held high. Greymane brought up the rear, walking slowly and heavily as if deep in thought. Not once did he look behind. Oddly, wind-lashed mist plumed from the man like a banner.

The men reached the cover of the colonnade. As Greymane emerged from the curtain of rain Kyle saw that a layer of ice covered the man — icicles hung from the skirts of his hanging scaled armour. The Malazan renegade slapped at the ice, sending shards tinkling to the stone floor. Vapour curled from him like smoke. To Kyle's astonishment, no one commented upon this.

Smoky closed to Greymane's side. ‘Can't take the cage,’ he shouted. ‘The wind's too blasted high.’

Greymane nodded wearily. ‘The stairs are no good. Shen saw to that.’

The solid stone under Kyle's feet jumped as if kicked. A column cracked, splitting like a dry tree trunk, sending men ducking and flinching aside. Rock dust stung Kyle's nose.

‘He's awake,’ Greymane said to some unspoken question from Smoky. ‘Be here any moment.’ He turned to face the main building which was a long and low black bunker without windows or ornamentation. ‘Shen woke it before I could stop him, the filthy Warren-leech.’ At Greymane's side, Sergeant Trench waved to the men to spread out. They shuffled to both sides, crouching for cover, crossbows trained.

Smoky rubbed his rat-thin moustache while chewing on his lower lip. ‘Maybe we ought to get Cowl.’