Return of the Crimson Guard

Greymane's sky-pale eyes flashed, then he rubbed them with a gauntleted hand and sighed. ‘No. Not yet.’ He crossed his arms. ‘Let's see what we've roused.’

Kyle almost spoke then. What was going on? These two seemed to have led everyone into a position without escape. What was wrong with the stairs? Stoop, as if reading his mind, caught his eye and glanced to the back of the rooms. Kyle nodded.

He met Stoop at the last portal offering a view out on the courtyard. Before them, men crouched and leaned behind pillars, crossbows ready. They muttered among themselves in low voices, glanced with tired gauging eyes to Greymane. A few laughs even reached Kyle through the thunder and drumming of rain. He wondered whether half this mercenary business was simply how much indifference you could muster in the face of impending death.

Stoop gave him an encouraging grin, rubbed his hand at a thigh. ‘What is it, lad? You look like your favourite horse just dropped down dead.’

Despite himself, Kyle burst out a short laugh. Great Wind preserve him! Was the man insane? ‘We're trapped, aren't we? There's no escape and the Mocking Twins alone know what's about to swallow us.’

Stoop's brows rose. He pulled off his boiled leather cap of a helmet and scratched his scalp. ‘Damn me for a thick-headed fool. One forgets, you know. Serve with the same men long enough and it gets so you can read their minds.’ ‘He felt at his fringe of brush-cut hair, crushed something between his fingernails. His eyes, meeting Kyle's, were so pale as to be almost colourless. ‘Sorry, lad. I forgot how green you are. And me the one who swore you in too! A fine state of affairs.’ ’ He glanced away, chuckling.

‘And?’ Kyle prompted.

‘Ah! Yes. Well, lad. You see, Shen — the warlock — he's dead now. Greymane finished him. But the thing Cowl and Smoky feared might be up here, is. Shen has been bleeding off its power all this time. Then he woke it when he died. It's powerful, and damned old.’

‘What is it?’

‘Some kind of powerful mage. A magus. Maybe even an Ascendant of some kind. A master of the Warren of Sere’

Ascendant — Kyle had heard the name a few times — a man or woman of great power? He knew his own tribal labels for the Warrens. Some of the elders still insisted upon calling them ‘The Holds’. But he didn't know the Talian names. ‘Sere. What Warren is that?’

‘Sky.’

It was as if the very wind howling around Kyle whisked him away into the air, tumbling head over heels while the roaring all around transformed into thunderous laughter. The booming filled his head, drove out all thought. He remembered his father saying that thunder was Wind laughing at the conceit of humans and all their absurd struggles. His vision seemed to narrow into a tiny tunnel as if he were once again peering up the Spur's hollow circular staircase. Blinking and shaking his head, he felt as if he were still spinning.

Stoop was peering away, distracted. ‘Have to go, lad.’ Without waiting for an answer the old saboteur clapped Kyle on the shoulder and edged his way through the men.

Kyle fell back against a wall, his knees numb. He raised the tulwar to his eyes. Water beaded and ran from the Wind symbol etched into its iron. Could it be? Could this being be one of them? A founder of his people. A blessed Spirit of Wind?

The rain was thinning, and Kyle squinted into the surrounding walls of solid cloud. The Spur seemed to have pierced some other realm — a world of angry slate-dark clouds and remorseless wind. Even as Kyle watched, that wind rose to a gale, scattering the pools of rainwater and driving everyone behind cover. Only Greymane remained standing, legs wide, one scaled arm shielding his face.

The door to the main house burst outward as if propelled by a blast such as those Moranth munitions Kyle had heard described. It exploded into fragments that shot through the air and cracked like crossbow bolts from the pillars and walls. Kyle flinched as a shard clipped his leg. One Guardsman was snatched backwards and fell so stiffly and utterly silent that no one bothered to lower their aim to check his condition.

A man stepped out. Kyle was struck by the immediate impression of solidity, though the fellow was not so wide as Greymane. His hair was thick, bone-white and braided — and lay completely unmoved by the wind. His complexion was as pale as snow. Folded and tasselled wool robes fell in cascading layers from his shoulders to his feet. Not one curl or edge waved. It was as if the man occupied some oasis of stillness within the storm.

His gaze moved with steady deliberation from face to face. When that argent gaze fixed upon Kyle he found that he had to turn away; the eyes seized him like a possession and terrified him by what they seemed to promise. For some reason he felt shame heat his face — as if he were somehow unworthy. The winds eased then, their lashing and howling falling away. The churning dense clouds seemed to withdraw as if gathering strength for one last onslaught.