Scarred Man (27 page)

Maida was about to make a sarcastic comment about her chances of ever seeing such a gift when Itxtli suddenly looked beyond her, at something over her shoulder. She stopped talking and turned to see what he was looking at. Myrrhini walked unsteadily towards them. Her face was vacant, her mouth was working spasmodically and her clothes were torn into tatters. When she came close, she tottered and fell. Maida leapt forward to catch her before she hit the deck. Sounds were coming from Myrrhini's drooling, daven-stinking mouth. Maida stooped to hear.

‘The Dark reached out for you, Maida. It took you, consumed you and gave you back. But it will never be sated. The Dark will always have you, it will never set you free.' Her eyes snapped open, but she was not looking at Maida, she was staring instead at Tatya, who was still nestled against Maida's neck. Myrrhini gave a harsh hiss and raised a pale hand to point at the shapeshifter. ‘You and yours belong to the Dark. It calls and you will answer. You and yours do not belong.'

With the noise from the
Queen's Quest
's passage, the slapping of the damaged sail as the Agents changed it and the continued shouting as the ship resumed its journey southwards, only Maida heard what Myrrhini said. She held Myrrhini close, hoping that her gesture would be interpreted as concern. She could not afford anyone else knowing about the daven or the Seeing.

‘I'll take her back to her cabin,' Maida said over her shoulder to Itxtli. ‘She is a little delicate.' Itxtli said nothing as Maida lifted Myrrhini to her feet and guided her back down the stairs.

Below, out of the bright sunlight and wind, Myrrhini seemed to recover her wits somewhat and was able to walk unaided back to her cabin. Maida went inside with her and closed the door behind them.

‘You should get some other clothes on,' she said. ‘Those are a little more revealing than you normally like.'

Myrrhini looked down at her tattered dress and frowned. ‘How did that happen?'

‘I guess you did it while away with the daven.'

Myrrhini dropped heavily onto her bunk and buried her face in her hands. ‘How long have I been, um …?'

‘Away with the daven?'

‘Yes.'

‘Three days.'

‘It doesn't seem that long.' She looked away from Maida to stare out the porthole at the silvery water. ‘Did I say anything?'

‘Not much,' Maida lied.

‘Did I speak in any strange languages?'

‘You grunted a lot.'

‘Are you sure that's all it was? I have spoken in ancient languages before and one of them sounds very guttural.'

‘It sounded like grunting to me.' Maida was torn. Half of her wanted desperately to ask Myrrhini what she had Seen, but the rest of her
wanted nothing to do with the mystic. This world was complicated enough without delving into the other, the world of the mystical, the unseen, the ancient mysteries. Yet she still wanted to grab the Eye by the shoulders and scream at her:
Where is Keshik? What do you know about him?

But she knelt, waiting silently on the planked floor, and watched as Myrrhini stared out at the Silvered Sea. Slowly, the sun set and darkness crept over the
Queen's Quest
. The wind blew steadily from the west, carrying them closer towards the Blindfolded Queen where so much might be revealed, where Maida's life might just come to an abrupt end.

Keshik fell.

For a moment, he fell in silence, disbelieving, but the black Wall hurtling past him, together with the brutal wind tearing at him, snapped him back to reality. Panic threatened to overtake him as a scream was ripped from his throat. All thought vanished as the wind generated by his headlong plunge to death closed his eyes and filled his ears with roaring. He therefore neither saw nor heard the dark shape arrowing towards him.

The wyvern slammed into him like a rock fall, grabbing him hard around the chest with her claws. As she hit him, she veered sharply to avoid smashing into the Wall. Keshik's right arm was pinned to his body while his left flailed wildly, dislocating his shoulder. Even over his scream of agony, the wind and the screech of the wyvern, he could hear — and feel — ribs crack. He wished for unconsciousness as the hot agony shot through his body, but it would not come. The wyvern gave an ululating cry as she beat her brilliantly coloured wings hard to send her rising once more into the
darkening sky. Keshik's screams of anguish mixed with hers to shatter the evening.

Below them, so far below, the Great River of Kings was a glittering black line against the pale rock of the canyon. Keshik hung from the wyvern's claws, the pain from his injuries building. Blood was filling his mouth. He had seen a lot of men with rib injuries like his, and not many survived them. The blood spilled out of his mouth to be blown away by the wind of their passage. He spat more blood out, but even that much exertion sent a new spasm of pain through him.

His head spun, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. Everything around him swirled crazily, blending together into a single mess of colour and sound. Finally, welcome oblivion came over him, blanking out the pain.

 

Keshik came back to the world when the sun was once again high in the sky. He was lying under a tree, wrapped in a blanket. Overhead, the sky was grey with low clouds and the air was heavy with moisture. He tried to rise, but the pain in his chest was sudden and intense. With a groan he lay back on the ground, contenting himself for the moment with surveying the world around him.

They were at the edge of an open plain covered in pale grasses that rustled in the breeze. It was not a crop, it was high wild grass, the sort that could hide an army. At their back was a lightly wooded forest. Keshik recognised both the grass and the wood — they were in Midacea. He had travelled this grass before, hiding and hunting. Maida hated
the grass: it had sharp edges and left her cut and bleeding from dozens of tiny scratches. Keshik gave a small chuckle as he remembered her cursing.

The chuckle changed to a grimace of pain from both the broken ribs and the memory of her being dragged away screaming by the Agents of the Blindfolded Queen. He leant back against the broad trunk of the hardwood tree that formed so much of Midacean trade. Its massive trunk, spreading branches and huge exposed roots meant each tree supplied a great deal of wood. It also meant that forests formed by stands of such monster trees were sparse and had little by way of undergrowth. Keshik liked them — you could see an enemy from a long way off. He grunted as he shifted his position, seeking some way of sitting that did not hurt so much.

‘It will hurt for a while, I think,' Slave commented.

Keshik grunted again. ‘Good guess.'

‘I put your shoulder back in and strapped your ribs.'

Keshik tenderly ran his fingers over his chest. The strapping was firm and well done. He rolled his shoulders, but stopped at the stab of pain from his left.

‘I wouldn't try that for a few days. There was a bit of damage.'

‘A lot less than if that thing hadn't caught me.' He looked around. ‘Where is it?'

‘She left us and flew south.'

‘I don't remember much about it, but was that a wyvern?'

Slave nodded.

‘And you were riding it?'

‘Hanging on in terror, mainly.'

‘Why?'

‘I didn't want to fall off.'

‘Not the hanging on in terror. Why were you on it?'

Slave shrugged. ‘I don't really know how it happened.'

‘I'm not going anywhere for a day or so — why don't you tell me?'

Slave sat down beside Keshik, leaning on the tree at his back so that he was facing away from Keshik, and stared at the sky. ‘After you were captured by the people pretending to be Tusemon raiders in the forest …' he started.

Keshik closed his eyes and listened to Slave's story. It was as he had suspected it would be. Slave had never left, but followed the troop the whole time, only getting separated right at the end when they moved up into the more well-lit parts of the Wall. It was only when Slave spoke of the events in the wyverns' eyrie that Keshik interrupted.

‘So why did she let you ride her? Why didn't she just leave?'

‘I have no idea. She just wanted me to come with her.'

‘How did you know that?'

‘I just knew.'

‘And now she's left.'

‘She has.'

‘Do you know why?'

‘She's a wild beast. To be tamed and ridden like that as some sort of guard is wrong: she should be
out hunting. Chaos. She is a creature of chaos, not to be controlled.'

Keshik watched Slave's face as he spoke, wondering at the suddenly distant, troubled expression. It was as if he had remembered something disturbing or pieced something together that had been bothering him. He waited, but Slave said nothing more. Keshik sniffed the air. There was rain close, possibly a storm, which would explain the thunder.

Thunder? That was not thunder.

He went to spring to his feet, but the stabbing pain in his chest stopped him halfway and dropped him back onto the ground.

‘Horses,' he grunted past the pain.

Slave was on his feet, Claw already in his hand.

‘I hear them, too,' he said, raising his Claw and pointing to the west. ‘We should hide and let them pass.'

‘In the woods,' Keshik said as he struggled to his feet.

Slave narrowed his eyes as if calculating before grabbing Keshik and heaving him over his shoulder. Keshik cried out in pain as his broken ribs grated on Slave's shoulder.

‘Quiet!' Slave scolded. He started to run towards the woods, every step bouncing Keshik, who groaned, but held in the cries that threatened to burst out with every movement. Blood once again spattered from his mouth, leaving a trail down Slave's back.

Finally, Slave stopped and lowered Keshik to the ground beside a tree before drawing his Claw and
running quietly back through the woods towards the approaching horsemen. Keshik rolled over onto his side, unable to do any more than gasp and spit the blood out while he listened.

The pounding of hooves continued to approach, but slowed as they came close. They stopped and Keshik heard voices raised in command followed by the thump of feet landing as men dismounted. He tried to roll over and draw his swords, but could not, so he lay still, listening to the men coming towards him.

A muffled grunt, followed by the soft thud of a falling body announced Slave's first kill. The footsteps stopped, but the next man went down almost immediately with a scream. More swords were drawn, but the clash of weapons was brief. Keshik heard Slave's running feet approach him. He was able to roll over enough to see Slave coming through the trees pursued by six men in uniform.

‘There he is,' one cried.

Slave slowed, stopped and turned to face them. He stood, apparently calmly, awaiting the attack.

‘If you can, you should leave now,' Slave said without facing Keshik. ‘I cannot be sure I won't kill you.'

Keshik remembered the berserk fury he had seen before and started to crawl away. When the first soldier engaged Slave, Keshik heard the bestial snarl and the hair-raising words in that strange language. He forced himself past the pain, heaved himself to his feet and started running.

Each step sent a flame of white agony through his chest, but each cry, each snarl from behind him
drove him on in fear. He had fought that madman twice now and lived. Both times he had survived not through skill but through luck. He could now rely on neither. He had no choice but flight. Never in his life had he run in fear like this, but he knew he had never seen an opponent like Slave. He doubted anyone in the Eleven Kingdoms ever had.

The screams, the clash of metal and Slave's barely human speech followed him. Only when it had stopped did he allow himself to slow from a sprint. He pushed himself on until he fell. Even flat on his face and racked with pain, Keshik made himself crawl until blood started to fill his mouth again. He coughed and lay still. His shoulder felt on fire and his chest was a mass of seething agony but there was nothing he could do except lie and hope for unconsciousness.

It must have come at some stage because he jerked awake when a gentle hand rested on his head. He tried to roll over, but the hand pressed him down.

‘Lie still,' a voice said. ‘You are sorely wounded, I feel.'

‘Who …?' Keshik croaked.

‘Hush, I am a friend.'

‘I have none,' Keshik said.

‘You have at least two now.'

Strong hands turned him over and then lifted him up. He gasped at the pain as the broken ends of his ribs grated against each other and passed out again.

 

He awoke in a bed in a room. Sitting beside him was a man, apparently dozing. Keshik tried to sit
up, but found that he had been tied down. He was too tired to bother and stopped struggling. Sleep came easily.

Time passed in a strange fugue-like state as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was dimly aware of two people — a man and a woman — who tended to his wounds and fed him. They were neither young nor old, unremarkable in every way. She was plain and he was simple. Neither of them spoke much, except to mutter soothing blandishments to him whenever he tried to move. The room he was in seemed to be a humble home with a table, a cooking fire and another bed. The roof looked to be slate or something similar and there was a wooden floor to go with the rough-hewn wooden walls. A single door and a single window allowed air and light in and a chimney released the smoke.

 

On a day when he was alert, he asked to be untied. The woman put down her sewing and smiled at him.

‘It's good to hear you awake at last, Kabutat,' she said.

‘What did you call me?'

‘Kabutat. I guessed that is your name: you kept saying it in your sleep.'

‘No, my name is Keshik.'

‘Ah, so who is Kabutat?'

‘It is my title. It means night guard.'

‘I see. Well, Kabutat Keshik, I can untie you now that you are yourself again.' She rose and crossed to his bed. With a knife she pulled out from under her bodice, she cut the ropes holding him down. ‘There,' she said, replacing the knife. ‘That's better.'

Keshik tried sitting up and to his surprise, he was pain free. He ran his hands over his chest, but found no soreness or bandaging. He swung his legs off the bed and stood up. Apart from a moment's light-headedness, he felt fine. He rolled his arm over. Even the pain from his dislocated shoulder had gone.

‘You have worked a miracle,' he said.

‘Indeed we did,' she said.

‘I cannot thank you enough,' Keshik said.

‘You can, in fact.'

‘If there is something I can do for you, in thanks, all you have to do is name it.'

‘You are very brave, or very stupid, to make such a brash promise here, Scarred Man,' another voice said from the doorway.

Keshik turned to where the door had opened to show the man standing with a bow in one hand and a rabbit in the other.

‘I have been called both,' Keshik said.

‘I am not surprised,' the man said as he entered the house. He dropped the rabbit on the table and hung his bow and quiver on a hook in the wall. ‘Do you know where you are?'

Keshik shook his head.

‘Then you are truly stupid,' the man said.

The woman rose from beside the bed and stood close to Keshik. She rested her hand on Keshik's arm and pressed against him slightly.

‘Let him decide for himself, brother,' she protested.

Keshik withdrew from her. There was something not right here. The woman was comely enough,
but her eyes were too sharp, too bright for the rest of her. And her brother was, dark, somehow. He glared at Keshik with an expression of malice that was quite at odds with the kindness they had shown him.

‘It is not his decision, Ambra,' the man said.

‘I say it is, Nikolo,' Ambra countered.

‘He doesn't know what you are asking. Tell him first, then let him decide.'

Ambra stepped back from Keshik and sat at the table. ‘Very well, then,' she said. ‘I will tell him first.

‘Keshik, my brother and I are exiles. We were cast out from Midacean society because we have particular … gifts.'

‘What gifts?'

‘We are oracles and sorcerers. We know things that we should not know and can do things that we should not be able to do.'

‘Like what?'

‘Like heal a dying man,' Nikolo said.

Ambra shot her brother a hard glare before inclining her head in acknowledgement. ‘Like healing a dying man,' she repeated. ‘And because Midacea is a society that eschews the magical arts, we are outcast. Those men who attacked you are soldiers of the King who amuse themselves by hunting down ones like us and killing us for sport.'

Keshik had a sudden idea where this was all heading. It was a direction he had heard before and one of the reasons he rarely came this far south. The Midacean aversion to the practice of magic was well known. Jobs like this one rarely paid well,
and those who took them often did not live beyond them. At least this time he had not given his word before hearing the offer. He might yet survive.

‘Go on,' he said.

‘The local nobility are particularly vicious in their pursuit of the national pastime. We are the last left in this part of the kingdom.'