Scarred Man (9 page)

Slave put down his bowl and regarded the speaker. It was a man, so weather-beaten and wind-blown his age was impossible to tell, but the hardness in his face and steel in his eyes suggested a mature harvester.

‘Three,' Slave said, guessing at the man's inquiry.

‘Amatios,' the man said, offering his hand. Slave slapped it and offered his own to be slapped in return. ‘Three is good.'

‘You?'

Amatios shook his head. ‘Only one, and I'm not sure about it.' He spat on the ground. ‘Tomorrow's harvest will be better.'

‘How long will we stay here?'

‘As long as the harvest continues. Then we shift our shadow.' Amatios gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘It's how it is.'

‘How far is Leserlang?'

Amatios looked up into the darkening sky and pointed to the south. ‘Twenty days' travel, that way.'

‘On a horse?'

‘Ten.'

The first gust of a strengthening wind stirred their clothes and brought the smell of ice. Amatios wrapped his yok tighter and grunted as he walked away. Slave followed him back inside the natona and sought out his bed. Kirri was sitting cross-legged beside it. She looked up at him with an unreadable expression as he approached.

‘Good harvest?' she asked.

‘Three.'

Her eyebrows rose. ‘A good harvest.'

‘Is it? I don't know about such things.'

Kirri rose to her feet. ‘Are you still well?'

Slave nodded. ‘I'm a little stiff after the day, but my wounds are healed. Thank you.'

Kirri opened her mouth as if to say something before snapping it closed again and walking away. Slave watched her weave her way through the tribe without looking back. Like all of the tribe, she was dark-skinned with dark brown hair and deep,
almost black eyes. Yet even when nearly to the other side, past all the others, she was easily visible due to the unusual streak of pale hair that hung from the crown of her head to below her shoulders.

‘Bad case,' a woman said. ‘Worst I've ever seen.'

‘What?' Slave asked, startled by both the words and the voice.

‘Virginity. She's had it a long time and it needs to be treated soon or it will be with her all her life.'

Slave frowned. ‘I don't understand.'

‘I noticed that.' The woman shifted her gaze up to regard Slave. ‘You don't understand much, do you?'

Slave felt anger prickle at the insult. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Kirri is not subtle, but you! You make a cague look quick.'

Stupid woman! Leave me alone.

Slave grunted as if he accepted the gibe and understood what it was about. He looked away from her and prepared for sleep. She sniffed and walked away, muttering under her breath. He could only make out a few words over the low rumble of people preparing for sleep: ‘… deserve each other …'

The Arch of the Shamed was an ancient structure, left behind from an earlier people, long since disappeared from the world. Before the Eleven Kingdoms, many such peoples roamed the world. Only scattered remnants were left, such as the Arch of the Shamed. Its true purpose was long forgotten, but the Readers had turned the simple structure into something dark.

It consisted of three huge stones, one lying across two that stood as high as three men. When someone angered the Readers, a new metal cage was built and hung from the top stone with the condemned person sealed inside, left to die. There was no lock, no opening; each cage was a coffin from which there was no hope of escape.

 

The icy wind cut through him like a sword, shocking him into wakefulness.

Keshik jerked sharply, his arm jamming hard against one of the heavy bars of his cage. He grunted in pain, but the harsh reality of his situation washed the momentary injury from his mind. His cage
swung slightly, two or three paces above the ground. He gripped the bars and shook with all his strength, but they did not budge. All he accomplished was to increase his swing.

‘That's it, use up your strength,' croaked a voice. Keshik looked around quickly.

At the far end of the horizontal top stone hung another cage containing a man obviously close to death. He was shrivelled, hunched over as far as the cage would allow him. One arm dangled limply through the iron bars.

‘The more you use now, the shorter your time will be,' the voice went on.

‘Who are you?' Keshik asked.

‘I am dead, like you. But unlike you, I die with less adornment.'

‘What do you mean?'

The limp arm gestured towards a point below Keshik's cage. Keshik strained to look down. Hanging by chains so that they just touched the ground, were his swords. Hope appeared. If he could somehow reach them! The magical blade might even be effective against the bars.

‘Forget it,' the other man said. ‘You cannot even move in that thing, let alone reach down and drag them up.'

But Keshik had to try.

He tried to kneel, but there was not enough space around his knees. He tried to lean over, but his torso could not move. He thrust his arm out between the bars, but could not reach down far enough. The frustration of his swords being so close, yet utterly unreachable, was so strong as to be almost a physical
sensation. His struggles set his cage swinging again. The cage was not quite high enough for him to stand upright. It left him half crouching with his knees pressed against the bars and his head bowed, resting on the cage. Already he was uncomfortable — in time this position would be agonising.

‘Good, exhaustion is faster and so much better than thirst,' the other man said.

‘You fool,' Keshik snapped. ‘When did you give up on life?'

‘About two days ago,' he replied.

‘Why?'

‘That is a long story.'

Keshik needed to plan. If this old idiot prattled on it would give him time to think. ‘I'm not going anywhere at the moment,' Keshik said. ‘Tell me.'

The other man coughed, a dry rasping sound that ended with a gurgling sigh.

‘Varuun,' the man muttered. ‘Mighty Varuun, rescue me from this torment.'

Keshik grunted as he systematically applied whatever force he could to the joins at each end of the cage.

‘You know the name, I see,' the other man said. ‘In that case I shall tell you more. My name is Enst. I was a Reader's assistant. Very keen I was, very dedicated. I helped my Reader in his research into ancient texts. He studied the old languages, especially the ones from before the Time of the Wastes. There were seven of them, did you know? Before the Eleven Kingdoms there were the Seven Wastes presided over by the great Powers and their families — races enslaved by them to do their bidding and carry on their
internecine battles. The two greatest families were the Scarens and the Mertians. Over time, they and their Powers threw down all the others, leaving only them in the world.' He howled. Like a wolf with a broken back, he yowled and screamed. Banging his head against the iron bars he gave voice to his despair. He pounded at the unyielding cage until the blood flowed freely down his face.

Abruptly, he stopped, leaving his head pressed against the cage. Something like a bubbling sigh escaped his bloodied lips. For a while he remained motionless and silent, his blood dripping slowly onto the cold ground where it joined the other stains. Keshik continued working his way around the joins of his cage, ignoring the dying man.

‘My daughter,' Enst suddenly cried out.

Keshik looked up, hoping to see a woman approaching, but he could see no one, only the open plains, grey and windswept. He stared in the direction of the ugly walls of Leserlang, but there was no one approaching.

‘What do you mean, your daughter?' Keshik demanded. ‘I see no one.'

‘She came to me, bringing me water only two days ago.'

‘And will she come again?'

‘No, she will not. This is why I give up hope.'

Keshik grunted again, dismissing the old man's ramblings. If no one was coming to help, it was, as usual, only himself he could rely upon. He went back to his examination of the cage.

‘Why did you do that, child?' Enst cried out. ‘I would have died but for your kindness. I would have
been spared this torment but for you! Why did you send me this pain?' His cries faltered, weakened, stumbled once again into gurgles.

Enst stayed silent for so long, Keshik started to believe the man had finally died, but as the sun dipped to the horizon and the chill wind brought the scent of distant ice, he jerked, spasming, gasping in pain.

‘Fair Lys, you wanted to help, but paid such a great price. Even the Varuun itself would not have demanded such payment.' Enst sighed before going on. ‘Who has done this thing? Who unleashed this evil upon us all again? The Varuun is old, its powers diminished, its followers decayed and depraved. I fear even they cannot prevail.'

‘What are you talking about?' Keshik demanded. The temperature had dropped alarmingly with the increasing wind. The sky was clouding over as the sunlight faded. A storm was building. Out here, so exposed, so vulnerable, Keshik was feeling doubt. He might not survive the night. He needed to stay alert. Perhaps conversation would help.

‘Done what thing?' he said.

‘Released the Revenant,' Enst said.

‘The what?'

‘The great Revenant, the ancient evil that drove the Scarens to insanity, is abroad again. Can't you feel it? The earth beneath its feet groans in pain. Someone has stolen into its prison and released it upon us once more. Without the Mertians, without the Varuun — curse its black name — we will all fall beneath its chaos.'

A chill that went deeper than the wind shook Keshik.

‘When did this happen?'

Enst threw back his head and howled again. His screams went on and on, ringing out across the vast plains. At first Keshik thought he was screaming in incoherent madness, but he soon realised there were words buried in the screams.

‘… arise from the madness … bringing chaos … the Scarred Man will come before … the Eye … she must have the Eye … the Eye … the Eye …' He went on screaming for the Eye until darkness covered the plains.

With the dark came Enst's silence and Yatil rising in the east. The Big Sister cast an eerie light over the plains. Under her glow the flying dust vanished, to be replaced with writhing wind seemingly made visible. The air danced crazily as it surged across the open land, intent on bringing the cold wastes with it. Keshik stared at the wind, watching as impossible shapes formed within its dance. He saw monsters from legend, people he had killed, women he had loved before Maida, fellow Swordmasters of Tulugma, then Maida and a strangely familiar feline beast. They wheeled and spun, whirling across the barren wastes of the north, carrying with them their own stories. Each shape seemed to bear a tale, a history that had to be told but would no longer be spoken. A flash of light drew Keshik's eyes up to where he saw, towering above them, a massive dark shape. Red eyes glowed deep within the shape, staring down at … Enst. Keshik twisted around to face the dying
man. Enst stirred, as if sensing the monstrous attention, and screamed.

A huge taloned hand reached towards Enst. It seemed to pass through the bars and drag out the hapless man's soul. The translucent image of Enst struggled and cried out as he was lifted into the sky, level with the creature's eyes. A low mumble carried over the wind, as if the looming shape was speaking to Enst. The man stopped screaming and hung limp. The muttered speech continued for a long time. Keshik could not make out any words, but the sound carried malevolence that he had never before known. His skin tingled and crawled as the foul speech washed over him. He clamped his eyes shut and whispered his dofain, but the words felt weak in the face of this ancient malice.

With his eyes shut, the images he had seen in the wind burst into life in his imagination. He relived so many battles, so much blood; so many men and women dead by his blades; his own shameful exile. Maida, so cruelly taken from her family, stared out at him from the darkness, her eyes black and unfathomable. Keshik jerked back, slamming his head into the bars of his cage as the scarred face of the fiend who had killed her leered out of the darkness.

He opened his eyes to stare at the ghostly figure of the Scarred Man who had fought with the enchanted weapon and a berserk fury Keshik had only heard of. The spinning, three-bladed Claw hung beside the dark face. Keshik considered the face for the first time. He had never seen that colouring or those eyes on any living man. He
decided the silver orb was not natural and concentrated on the other eye. In a moment of clarity he remembered where he had read about that colouring.

The shock was enough to send his tortured mind over the edge of control into screaming. Images from his past replaced those of his present while he spiralled ever closer into madness. Only his lifelong training and mental discipline kept him from losing his mind entirely.

SO, KESHIK, IT IS YOU AGAIN
, a voice exploded into his mind.

Keshik opened his eyes and looked up, against his will, into the leering eyes that bored down into his. They were huge and red, and behind them danced three tiny motes of blue light. He had seen those lights before.

YOU NEED HAVE NO FEAR OF ME, SWORDMASTER.

Who, what, are you?
Keshik barely thought the words, but they seemed to float out from him, hanging visible in the swirling air before him.

I? I AM WHAT YOU FREED. YOU GAVE ME TO THAT WEAKLING SONDELLE. HE SOUGHT TO TEST HIS STRENGTH AGAINST MINE.
A sound like a surge of malevolent laughter swept over Keshik.
HE FAILED AND DIED, OF COURSE.
There was a pause. Keshik, lost in the vast eyes, the inhuman presence, had no idea how long it was, but eventually, the voice erupted in his mind again.

YOU ARE NOT TULUGMA, BUT YOU FIGHT LIKE HIM.

Even though he had no desire to speak with this thing, Keshik could not prevent himself thinking the question.
Tulugma? You know him?

I DID. BUT HE SHOULD BE LONG DEAD BY YOUR FEEBLE LIVES.

Keshik felt tendrils of consciousness reach into his memories, rummaging around as one might in a box of clothes. Snatches of his past, thrown violently aside by the questing fingers, flashed once more by him until the prying stopped at the gates of the Tulugma Kuriltai, the great training hall where all swordsmen were instructed in the great warrior's ways.

Keshik was dragged back to the day when, as a boy, he presented himself, brash and arrogant, at the black iron gates demanding entrance.

The young man at the gate looked down on the small ragged boy with what Keshik later realised was good-humoured friendliness, but at the time he had believed it to be patronising disdain.

‘I will learn to be a great fighter,' Keshik proclaimed.

‘Why?' the guard asked.

Instead of answering, Keshik drew his stolen sword and attacked the young man, garnering his first lesson in swordsmanship and his first scar. By the time the embarrassing lesson was done, Keshik had realised two things: never underestimate an opponent, and his desire to be a great warrior.

The brutal tendrils invading his mind continued their intrusions into his past, barely pausing as they took Keshik through the long days, so many long days of harsh discipline, training and final
achievement of the status of Swordmaster. Even after he left the Kuriltai to seek his own way in the world, as most did, his forced recollection skipped over the fights, the victories, the killings until he stopped at the day he met Maida. Long buried images tore again at him, bringing with them the anguish, the delicious agony of love.

The icy wind raging down from the Sixth Waste over the tundra … his sturdy horse … the unexpected scream that somehow cut across the wind … the decision to rise in his saddle, draw his swords and attack … the swirling yet rigidly controlled chaos that was a jagun — a standard Tulugma attack pattern … his cry of challenge as he plunged into the melee … the flash of red hair … savagery as he cut down the attackers … so much blood, so many dead … Maida clinging to his blood-soaked jerkin as he rode her away from the wreckage of her old life, her hysterical tears washing the blood away …

… standing before the Kuriltai Tumen to answer the unanswerable — killing fellow Tulugma warriors — he offered no defence save that the jagun was deployed against a peaceful family group.

Of course it was to no avail. While it was common for Tulugma warriors to face each other in battle when they were employed by opposing sides fighting their own war, to kill a fellow warrior without being engaged to do so was unforgivable. The only possible outcome was exile, expulsion from the order, a life spent away from the Kuriltai, never again welcome behind the iron gates.
Condemned to a life as a kabutat — a night guard. Alone, without his home, Keshik was left to wander the Eleven Kingdoms, a rootless vagabond with only his dofain and his skills.