Scarred Man

by Bevan McGuiness

  The sounds of pursuit grew louder. The Agents were slashing at the bushes behind her, moving inexorably closer. She had to move faster to keep ahead of them — an indiscriminate sword slash through the branches could damage her, no matter what Huitzilin had ordered.

  ‘Hold!’ Huitzilin bellowed. The sounds of the slashing swords stopped immediately. Huitzilin’s voice dropped to a mutter, but Maida did not stop to listen, she kept moving, now aware of the noise her movement was causing, hoping she was far enough away for it to be dismissed as normal woodland sounds.

  ‘I see her now,’ Huitzilin shouted. ‘Ahead, thirty paces, down to your right.’

  Maida heard Agents running, straight towards her. Their boots pounded and stopped right by her. Hands tore at the bush, ripping away her cover, leaving her vulnerable. A sword touched the back of her neck.

  ‘Said she was a tough little slag,’ Opochtli said to his companions.

  Maida stopped moving and looked up at him.

  ‘You have no idea,’ she hissed at him.

  Huitzilin walked up to join them and looked down at Maida with thinly disguised contempt.

  ‘It is not just the Blindfolded Queen who sees, Red,’ he said.

  Maida regarded him closely and noticed something she had not seen before. His tattoo was just the crown, high on his left cheek, but those of his Agents had a black line underneath them.

  A mark of rank? Even as she thought it, she realised it was more than that, but as yet she did not know what it meant. And what did he mean by seeing? Could he see me? How?

  ‘Take her back,’ he ordered. ‘And chain her up again.’

  5

  If it wants her dead, we should keep her alive.

  Hinrik’s words rang in Slave’s head. What had he done? Released this thing, this Revenant onto the world. But what did that mean? What could it do? What was it capable of? After so long trapped beneath the ground, Hinrik had said it would be insane.

  Slave remembered the thing, the beast he had met in the utter dark beneath Vogel. Ancient malice, cunning evil, vast strength — all he had witnessed, but insanity? He did not think it was insane. Which meant it might act rationally, or at least consistently, with a plan. Slave recalled the way it had laid its hand on his chest, the way it had intoned the words: Accept my blessing and live for the battle to serve me in the fray. Take my offering and live, or refuse me and die, the choice is yours. These were not words chosen at random, they were oft-repeated, ritualistic. A ritualistic pattern meant plans, method — predictability. And Myrrhini might have visions that could reveal plans.

  If it wants her dead, we should keep her alive.

  If what Slave had done could possibly be made right, Myrrhini must be able to have her visions. He must keep her alive.

  He ran on, the ground icy and hard beneath his feet. Behind him, he could hear Hinrik labouring, falling ever further behind. Soon the open air with its currents and unstable scents would no longer bring him the sounds and smells of the weak man.

  Ever since the confusing, terrifying moment he had escaped his subterranean home, Slave had been lost, without plan or purpose. His time with Slaaj had only served to open his eyes a little to the world around him. So far he did not like much of it, but even so, it was better than being a slave. Spending time with Waarde had been almost as confusing as escaping from Sondelle’s dungeon, while Ileki’s duplicity had hurt him almost as much as Waarde’s death, but still it was better than being a slave, being owned.

  If he had released that beast from its underground prison, he had to either destroy it or send it back.

  He skidded to a halt as he realised both the imperative of his decision and the fact that he had just done to himself what he had feared more than the vast, open sky above him — become a slave again, this time to his own decision. Cold sweat formed over his skin despite the icy wind. Trapped by his own actions and their consequences, he felt his heart begin to pound. His knees went weak and he fell forward onto his face. The white flash of pain when his head slammed into the hard ground was almost a welcome relief from the panting and the wave of panic that washed over him.

  ‘Not again,’ he gasped. ‘I won’t let it happen.’ He pushed himself up to a crouch. Drawing on all his mental discipline and harsh training, he wrestled his breathing back under control. Gradually, his heartbeat slowed from its frenetic pounding. He wrapped his arms around his chest as his mind tried to hold onto the hard-won control.

  His concentration was broken by a hard slap on the shoulder.

  ‘Hey, hard man,’ Hinrik gasped. ‘I thought you were tough. Why the —?’

  His words were cut short by the flash of a blade as Slave whirled around, moving smoothly to his feet, whipping the Claw out and slashing it upwards to rest, not gently, against the scholar’s throat. Slave snarled a bestial, out-of-control sound.

  Hinrik froze in horror at the sight of the unsettling silver eye shining softly with a light of its own. His fear rose as Slave started speaking in a low mutter, giving voice to a language he could not possibly have known.

  On and on the Scarred Man went, spewing out the most vile curses, calling down hideous imprecations upon Hinrik in the ancient language of the Revenant so long ago consigned to perpetual imprisonment beneath Vogel. Hinrik paled as he heard the words of banishment that were uttered by the mightiest mystics of the Mertian people when they, aided by the Varuun itself, finally drove the beast down.

  As a Reader, Hinrik had studied the old texts and learnt the ancient tongues, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of this Scarred Man, eye glowing, spitting out the words he had pored over in the cloistered rooms of the Ruthia. Hinrik swallowed hard and tried to keep motionless. The razor-sharp blade pressed against his throat had parted the skin. A warm rivulet of blood trickled towards his chest.

  The snarled curses slowed and then stopped. Slave was panting hard as if exhausted. The Claw wavered against Hinrik’s neck before being slowly lowered. Slave slumped onto his hands and knees, head bowed.

  ‘Don’t stay near me,’ Slave gasped. ‘I will kill you if you stay.’

  Hinrik scrambled back. He raised his hand to the wound on his throat. It was shallow and thin. It would heal quickly, unlike this shock — the shock of hearing the ancient tongue of the Revenant spoken. When he was out of range of the Claw, Hinrik turned and fled.

  Slave flattened himself on the frozen ground and lay still, panting with the exertion of wresting back control of his mind and body. When the scholar had struck him, the black rage had taken him, and he had seen himself lash out in a killing blow. Somehow, he had held the blade back. For a time, Slave had felt the rage, the chaos, the need for destruction surge through him but the fury had seemed less urgent, less importune. Though he knew his grip on his own body and mind was tenuous, it was still there.

  Strange words had rung in his ears, muffled as if from a great distance, but as he slowly regained control, they faded and fell silent. He wondered if Hinrik had cast a spell on him.

  He wondered where Hinrik had run to.

  He wondered if he would be sane when he woke up in the morning.

  The sun crept up over the horizon into a grey sky, banishing Grada’s soft light. Slave rolled over and stared up at the clouds. His breath steamed out in the still air. Ice had formed on his body during the night and crackled as he moved. His stomach growled with hunger and his mouth was dry. He realised he had neither eaten nor drunk since leaving Venste.

  A scurrying sound reached his ears. Slowly, with extreme care, Slave reached into his jerkin and pulled out his Claw. He tensed and flicked the weapon towards the sound. A sharp squawk followed. He sat up and regarded his prey — a healthy-looking furred animal lay nearby, its blood pooling below where the Claw had pinned it to the ground.

  Warm blood slaked his thirst and fresh meat filled his stomach as he walked through the morning. The unending sky above him and the distant horizon still made him uncomfortable, but knowing the sourc
e of his discomfort helped him keep under control.

  Some time early in the afternoon, Slave scented people: a shift in the wind brought the unmistakeable odour from the south. He stopped and concentrated on the smell. Unwashed, with horses. More than one person. Wary, Slave crouched by a low hummock and waited.

  They came into sight — a weary group of slavers trudging most likely to Venste. There were six on horseback, two driving a wheeled cage and ten armed men on foot, all guarding a pathetic line of about thirty chained and shackled slaves. In the grey cold they were wrapped in rags with arms clasped tightly around their chests in a desperate attempt to keep in what little body warmth they could.

  The wind shifted again, increasing in strength, bringing stinging ice from the north. Slave pulled his own cloak tighter around his shoulders and watched the sad group fight against the cold. He found himself planning to attack without making the conscious decision to do so. Eighteen armed men — six of whom were on horseback — against one were not good odds, but he would take them.

  He would take them all into the ground with him if he had to.

  Their plodding path would bring them within ten or fifteen paces of where Slave crouched. From the way they were moving, they did not seem particularly alert and Slave reasoned they would not notice him as they passed. He would take them one at a time from behind. With any luck he would take about half of them before anyone noticed.

  The stink wrapped around him as the slavers drove their human cargo north. He was right about their level of awareness. No one so much as lifted a head as they passed his hiding place.

  When the last guard was ten paces past him, Slave moved quickly up behind him and the Warrior’s Claw silently opened his throat.

  One down, left to spill his life onto the icy ground.

  Slave did not hesitate as he moved to the next. Then the next. And the next. He moved on.

  Seven were down. A low mutter was spreading through the slaves. Slave tried to quieten them, guessing the one thing the guards would notice was any sign of life from their captives, but they would not stay silent. He had his Claw to the throat of a guard on foot when one of the horsemen saw him.

  With a cry of anger, the guard jerked his horse around and drove it at Slave. The guard on foot spun quickly to avoid the killing stroke and received a nasty, but not lethal, wound to the side of his neck. He screamed and fell, holding the injury, trying to stem the blood. Slave let him fall and turned his attention to the galloping horse bearing down on him.

  The man was clad in heavy furs and carried a longsword. He held it expertly as he came, but his grasp on the reins was loose. Slave watched, giving the appearance of readying himself to receive the charge, but as the sword was scything through the air towards his head, he dropped under it and rolled, slashing at the horse’s hamstring as it thundered past. It went down with a squeal, catapulting the unprepared rider over its head to land heavily. He lay still. Slave put him out of his mind and advanced on the next horse.

  This guard was even less aware than the first. His swing whistled over Slave’s head and he seemed surprised when he looked down to see his leg sliced open by the Claw. He screamed and fell from his horse. Slave whirled around in time to duck the swinging blade of another horseman as he rode past. As the blade sliced the air above him, he grabbed the man’s arm and pulled hard, jerking him out of the saddle, dislocating his shoulder in the process. Slave wrenched the arm back further, destroying the joint completely.

  The prisoners started yelling as Slave systematically destroyed the guards, distracting two still on horseback, leaving him to face two on foot, one mounted and the two driving the wheeled cage. The driver holding the reins was pulling the wagon around, to give the other man a clearer shot with his bow. Slave heard the dull twang of the release and the hissing of the arrow as it slithered through the air. By its sound, it was apparent that it was heading wide, so he ignored it and concentrated instead on the approaching men on foot.

  Both were armed with swords that had seen much use. Slave’s anger rose as he guessed what kind of use the weapons had seen. He snarled and sprang forward, catching them by surprise. The one on the left tried to raise his blade, but the Claw was faster, while the one on the right attempted a clumsy lunge which grazed Slave’s shoulder. At the blow, Slave felt the black rage start to build. The man before him grunted in exertion as he drew back for another swing, but Slave hesitated in his counterattack. He feared the lack of control and indiscriminate killing that came with the black rage more than he feared these clumsy fighters. From deep within, Slave felt the anger, the hunger for chaos, the need for violence begin to build again. The guard struck home with his blow, sending Slave to his knees, the Claw slipping from a hand suddenly numb. As the weapon left his grip, the need for violence faded. Slave breathed a heavy sigh, but the sound of hooves pounding towards him cut short his relief.

  He sprang back up to his feet and slammed his fist into the face of the guard on foot before diving out of range of the swinging sword. The man staggered back, into the path of the horse. He screamed once as the heavy animal trampled him underfoot. Slave continued to roll as the horseman tried to bring his mount around.

  A cry from the line of shackled prisoners distracted both Slave and the horseman. The slaves had rebelled, joining together to overpower the two guards on horseback, pulling them both down. Slave watched as the previously hopeless slaves savagely ripped into the downed men. At the sight of this, the last remaining guard on horseback gasped a curse and urged his mount to a gallop, away to the north. The archer on the wagon fired off one last arrow which also went wild before the driver called to his horses and slapped them with the reins to harry them into a gallop, following the other guard. Slave was content to let them go, but one of the slaves took up a spear from a dead guard and hurled it towards the fleeing wagon. A horse went down with an agonised squeal. The wagon was thrown off balance as the horse fell, dragging the other over. It crashed into the two entangled horses and rose up over them. The two men were thrown clear and the wagon crashed down onto the frozen ground, shattering into splinters under the combination of the heavy cage and speed.

  A spontaneous cheer erupted from the slaves while some scrabbled around amid the wreckage that was the two guards they had killed, searching for the key to their chains. The man who had thrown the spear stood tall and regarded Slave with a speculative eye.

  ‘Our thanks to you, visitor,’ he said. ‘But why?’

  ‘Why what?’ Slave replied. He knelt beside his Warrior’s Claw and stared down at it.

  ‘Why risk your life for us?’

  Slave shrugged, uninterested in talking with this man. He was intrigued by the odd fading of the rage he had felt when he dropped the Claw. Were the Claw and his rage linked? If so, how?

  Slowly, Slave reached out and took up the weapon. It was cool to the touch, smooth and hard. He wrapped his fingers around the carved grip and raised it to his face.

  ‘Never seen one of those,’ the tall slave said.

  ‘Not many around,’ Slave replied.

  ‘My name’s Korbinian.’

  ‘Slave.’

  ‘Not any more, I don’t think,’ Korbinian said.

  Slave did not respond, instead preferring to rock back on his heels and continue contemplating his only possession in the world. Not even the sound of Korbinian’s approaching feet distracted him.

  ‘What is that?’ Korbinian asked.

  ‘Warrior’s Claw,’ he said, without raising his eyes.

  ‘You’re fast with it,’ Korbinian commented. ‘Until you dropped it.’

  Slave grunted, wondering again about the rage and this weapon. How could they be linked?

  ‘You don’t say much, do you?’ Korbinian said.

  Slave raised his eyes to stare at Korbinian, waiting for the flinch as the former slave caught the full impact of the silver eye. He did not merely flinch, but actually took a step backwards while raising his hands defensively.


  ‘Are you the Beq?’ Korbinian whispered.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Beq, who will come before.’

  ‘Before what?’

  Korbinian dropped to his knees. ‘I have heard of you, the Scarred Man, the Beq. Stories of Vogel, of the Place …’ His voice tailed off as Slave rose from his crouch. ‘Why are you here, Beq?’

  Slave shook his head and began to walk away.

  But Korbinian sprang to his feet to grab Slave’s arm.

  ‘Beq? Why have you saved us, just to leave us here to die?’

  Slave tried to shake the hand off, but Korbinian held tight. ‘You are nothing to me,’ Slave snarled. ‘Go your own way.’

  ‘We will follow you, Beq,’ Korbinian said, releasing Slave’s arm and dropping again to his knees. ‘It is better to be at the left arm of chaos than in its way.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Korbinian lowered his face onto the icy ground. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with fear. ‘The great Revenant has risen. We of the visions have known it, and feared it. The Tahir of our clan has seen a strange thing — the Beq who comes before bears the mark of the Great Revenant, but follows it not. The Beq will raise the Revenant’s Claw, show its army the way, release the Revenant, but will be surrounded by peace.’

  ‘Ha!’ burst out Slave. ‘I cannot be this Beq. I know no peace.’

  ‘Being surrounded by peace is not the same thing as knowing peace.’

  Slave hesitated, turned and stood over Korbinian, looking down at the man’s back. ‘I don’t understand any of what you are saying,’ he admitted finally. ‘But I think I should.’ He stooped and gripped the man’s shoulder. ‘Would you walk with me a while? You can tell me about the Revenant.’

  Korbinian rose slowly. At full height, he towered over Slave. With his pale skin, brown eyes and dark hair, he looked not unlike Ileki. ‘I will walk with you, Beq,’ he said.