Return of the Crimson Guard

She had them gather wood through the day for a towering bonfire. As evening came she set the few remaining regulars to guarding the horses and motioned Hurl to accompany them.

Hurl just stared, unmoving.

‘Go on, Hurl. You're no veteran like these. You have to stand aside.’

‘I can fight as well as anyone.’

‘No one questions that. Please. It's important to me.’

Hurl waved to the south where they planned to hobble the horses a safe distance away. ‘You want me way over there? Fine! I'll go. But as soon as I hear anything I'm coming!’

‘Thank you.’

Urko walked up, nodded to Liss. ‘Evening's coming.’ He tucked his broad spade-like hands up under his armpits. The man's giant arms were as wide as Hurl's thighs. ‘Amaron tells me we should give your plan a go.’ He cocked a brow. ‘So, what is it?’

‘You men should lie low in a broad circle around the bonfire. When Ryllandaras comes, encircle him. Keep him close to the fire. If you keep him close he won't escape.’

‘Really?’ The man's fleshy mouth drew down in disbelief. ‘Just like that?’

‘Yes. If you do your part and don't let him past you.’

‘Oh, we'll do our part — you can count on that.’ And he walked off scratching his head.

Hurl listened to all this with a jaded frown. ‘What about you? Where will you be?’

‘I'll be at the fire, Hurl.’

‘The fire?’ Hurl glanced out to the gathering dusk. ‘With him? What kind of a plan is that? Why should he come to the fire? Didn't you say he's an opportunist? Why not attack the regulars at the horses?’

The woman actually gave a shy, modest smile. ‘Because I'll summon him.’

Hurl stared, hardly believing what she was hearing. ‘You'll summon him? What kind of nonsense is that? He'll tear you to pieces.’

The woman's smile grew. ‘Not so long as I dance, Hurl.’

‘Dance?’ Hurl turned to call to the others. ‘Rell, talk some sense to her. You know what he can do!’

Scratching his cheek, Sweetgrass rumbled, ‘The old Seti legends say-’

‘Oh, shut up!’

Liss took her arm. ‘It's all right, Hurl. I can do this. You forget who I am… seeress and dawn-dancer.’

Were, you mean. Hurl looked her up and down. ‘Liss — sorry to say this, but you are no young thing any more.’

The old woman's laugh was coarse and loud. ‘The beauty isn't in me, Hurl. It's in the magic of the dance. Now go — see to the horses.’

Blasted horses! What do I care about horses? But she went.

Rell jogged over, following her. ‘Do not worry. If the beast shows, we'll all close in on him and bring him down.’

‘Thanks. Watch out for her.’

‘Yes.’

‘And warn Urko and his boys I'm gonna come — and I'll come loaded!’

‘Yes, Hurl. We've all seen your pack.’

‘Right. Well, OK then. Burn favour you.’

‘We Seguleh do not accept the idea of luck or chance, but thank you just the same.’ The man jogged away.

Hurl glared at the horses and her men. Horses. I can't believe I'm guarding Hood-damned horses.

Night came. Hurl set out a watch order then sat down to pack her shoulder-bag. Sharpers — as many as she could fit. And two — no, three cussors. That should send him on his way to the Abyss. Every noise from the dark yanked her to her feet. She scanned the dark. Liss's bonfire lit an intervening rise in bright silhouette against the night. She sat back down again, checked her weapons for the umpteenth time.

The horses nickered nervously, shifted, pulled at their staked hobblings. The men moved among them, calming, whispering. Hurl strained silent, listening. Had that been something? A noise? Distant rumbling?

A sudden grating snarl made her jump. The horses shrieked, kicking and rearing, entangling in their ropes. ‘See to them!’ she shouted and, grabbing her shoulder-bag, ran. Puffing, one arm pumping, the other supporting the stuffed shoulder-bag, she made the rise, started down.

Ahead, between her and the roaring bonfire shooting its sparks into the night sky an elemental vision confronted her: men, arms outstretched, shuffling side to side, closing in on a monster rearing some three times their height, slashing, bellowing. Beyond the fire the shape of Liss, dancing, circling the fire, turning, arms above her head twisting, somehow always opposite the monster no matter which way it lurched to reach.

Hurl stood transfixed. She imagined that if this were a troubadour's song at this time Liss would somehow be transformed into her younger lithe self by the magic of the dance. Her beauty would enchant the monster. But this was no courtly romance. Liss still held her familiar ungainly shape. Her arms were still thick, her waist heavy. Yet the dance itself was beautiful, its movements mesmerizing. From where did the woman draw such grace? And it drew the man-eater. This must be old magic. A ritual of some kind — an ancient calling.