Scarred Man

by Bevan McGuiness

  ‘Call me Slave.’

  Korbinian nodded. ‘The others?’ He gestured at the other released slaves. They were standing motionless, watching the exchange.

  ‘What about them? They are free to do whatever they want.’

  ‘They are all my clan.’ Korbinian turned away to stare at them. ‘They are all that is left of my clan. Can they come with us?’

  Slave shrugged and started to walk south, towards Leserlang. If they wanted to follow, it was their decision.

  ‘The Great Revenant,’ Korbinian started, ‘was summoned by the Scaren race to wipe out the Mertians, their implacable enemy. Their battles had been unending, dating back since before the Eleven Kingdoms. A Scaren sorcerer somehow called up the Revenant and set it to battle, but in a cruel twist of fate, the Mertians summoned something to stand for them also. In the destruction that followed, both races were all but annihilated, leaving only a few scattered remnants. A strange mystical sect calling themselves the Acolytes of Varuun awakened the Sixth Waste and were able to entrap the two …’ Korbinian hesitated, as if unsure what word to use, ‘things and imprison them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Korbinian admitted.

  ‘Where?’ Slave pressed.

  ‘Beneath the city that is now called Vogel, on the southern edge of the Sixth Waste.’

  Slave shook his head and looked down at the hard, icy ground beneath his feet. ‘Imprisoned? Not killed?’

  ‘No, not even the Sixth Waste could kill such things as those.’

  ‘What can?’

  Korbinian shrugged and gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Perhaps the Seventh Waste, but how would I know? What do I look like, a Reader?’

  Slave considered that for a moment before nodding. ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘In my clan, I would normally have to challenge you for such an insult, but I have seen you fight. I think I will overlook it this time.’

  ‘And me? What is my part in all this?’

  Korbinian sighed. ‘I don’t know that, either. Only our Tahir would have known that, and he is dead now.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘A few days ago. He woke screaming that the army of the Beq would arise from the earth and wreak chaos on the world. Naturally, we started to look for the hidden meaning in his words, but he was being literal for once. A small troop of Duregs tunnelled under our camp and killed him while he slept the next night. They all bore scars like yours and either had no left eye or wore a silver eye patch.’

  Involuntarily, Slave raised his hand to the silver orb that the creature beneath Vogel had given him, along with the scars and ‘his blessing’. At least now he knew what that creature was — the Great Revenant. Not that that knowledge meant much yet.

  Korbinian watched Slave’s hand, but looked away when Slave returned the look.

  ‘The mark of the Revenant’s Beq,’ Korbinian muttered.

  ‘What’s a Beq?’ Slave asked.

  ‘Scaren warleader.’

  ‘Am I Scaren?’

  ‘Unlikely. They were all killed in the Gurrig, the great purge that followed the entombment of the Revenant.’

  ‘What do you know about the Eye of Varuun?’

  Korbinian stared up at the grey sky and wrapped his thin clothes tightly around him as if warding off a sudden chill beyond the already bitter cold.

  ‘She is a pureblood Mertian. Her mind is able to survive the insidious poison of the daven and interpret the Seeing, her visions. There are fewer and fewer left in the Eleven Kingdoms, so even such poor seers as us have become sought after for our weak visions.’

  ‘And you had a vision of me?’

  Korbinian lowered his eyes and braved Slave’s silver eye for a moment. ‘Yes, our Tahir did, just as I told you. You are the Beq who comes before, who bears the mark of the Great Revenant, but follows it not. You will raise the Revenant’s Claw,’ he gestured at the weapon tucked into Slave’s jerkin, ‘and show its army the way. You released the Revenant, but you will be surrounded by peace.’

  Korbinian’s clan walked close together, several paces behind Slave and Korbinian, talking quietly among themselves. They stripped everything from the slavers and left the bodies — and the wounded — to the elements. The clothes were shared among the women and children, the weapons among the men and the food carried by the two horses who had survived unhurt.

  They walked south-east towards Leserlang. Slave walked ahead with Korbinian a pace or so behind, to his right. At first, Slave believed it was something to do with fear or distrust or suspicion, but as the day passed, he began to wonder.

  ‘Why are you walking there?’ he asked.

  ‘As Beq, you march ahead.’

  ‘You said yourself, I am not Scaren. So I cannot be Beq.’

  Korbinian nodded, but did not shift his position.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Slave went on. ‘This Revenant will bring chaos and destruction and you say I am supposed to have released him, yet you treat me with reverence. Why not just kill me? Surely I deserve it.’

  ‘Our Tahir said you would be surrounded by peace,’ Korbinian said. ‘If chaos is upon the world, I think standing beside one surrounded by peace would be a good place to be.’

  ‘You said that it would be better to stand at the left arm of chaos than in its way. Is that how you see me? The left arm of chaos?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Slave fell silent again and walked without speaking until the sun started to sink in the west. With people around him, his apprehension at the open sky, the shifting air, the confused scents had faded, but he felt the nervousness start to build once more with the approaching dark. He could feel his senses become confused as the sky overhead changed colour. The sheer instability of the world outside of his changeless cell still managed to unnerve him.

  With the dark came the cold. And with the cold came the wind and the open sky. Knowing that above him was nothing save the mysterious points of light and the two moons struck him with a fear that gnawed at his gut. He reasoned that nothingness was, rationally, nothing to fear. Yet all that nothingness terrified him.

  The clan gathered around Korbinian, leaving Slave on the outer, which suited him. Being in a crush of people was uncomfortable enough without black nothingness above him as well. He sat at the edge of the gathering and listened.

  The conversation was subdued and Slave could not make sense of anything. After a short time, he gave up and wrapped his cloak tight around his shoulders. The wind carried the scent that he had come to recognise as ice. This night promised to be as cold as the previous, but with less wind.

  What wind there was had become light, shifting direction and strength without apparent reason. Sitting on a folded blanket, wrapped in his cloak, hood pulled up over his head, Slave was thoroughly miserable.

  However, as long as he stayed miserable, focused on feeling so bad, he was able to keep his mind off the vast expanse of nothingness stretched above him. So he shivered in the cold and cursed the shifting wind, the frozen ground and the inadequacies of his boots. And stayed in control of his fear.

  He started awake at the sense of someone approaching. His eyes snapped open. Footsteps, soft and uncertain, were coming close from behind. He listened, thankful that the cursed wind had dropped for a moment, as the small person crept up on him. A scent drifted ahead of … her. She was unwashed, hungry and had been asleep, but definitely female. A woman, not a child.

  She stumbled. ‘Ice and wind,’ she muttered.

  Slave rolled over and swung his legs around, taking her feet out from under her, sending her tumbling to the ground. The impact drove the air from her lungs and before she could react, he was sitting astride her chest, Claw at her throat.

  ‘What do you want?’ he hissed.

  The woman stared up at him with fear in her eyes. Despite the darkness of the night, Slave could see that her gaze was not directed at his silver eye as he had expected, but at the softly glowing Warrior’s Claw pressed against her skin
. She tried to swallow.

  ‘I thought you might want some company, Beq,’ she whispered.

  Slave rose from her chest and stepped aside, offering her his hand. She took it and he helped her to her feet. Appearing to take his hand as an offer, she leant into him, wrapping his arm around her back.

  Slave pushed her away. ‘Do not stay near me,’ he snapped. ‘It is unwise.’

  ‘Don’t send me away,’ she said. ‘I am afraid.’

  ‘No.’ He stepped further back as a waft of wind brought a new scent to his nostrils. ‘No,’ he repeated.

  ‘Why not?’

  Slave grimaced. ‘I need to get moving.’

  ‘What? It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘I need to get away from you all, now, before they get here.’

  ‘Before who gets here?’ The woman turned, looking into the darkness. ‘I can’t see anyone coming.’

  ‘But they are coming.’ Slave tucked his Claw into his jerkin and went to run, but she grabbed at his arm and held him back. ‘If you want to live,’ he said, ‘run. Now.’ He pulled her hand away from his arm and held it briefly.

  ‘Run where?’ she asked.

  ‘In the opposite direction to me. Stay as far away from me as possible.’

  A scream, not of fear or pain, but of simple madness, cut the night. The woman looked around, her fear shifting into terror.

  ‘What was that?’ she said.

  Slave sniffed the air. Long-term unwashed, blood, death, underground as well as surface dwellers.

  ‘An army.’ His shoulders drooped. ‘My army.’

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘The one I am supposed to lead.’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Go. Go now,’ Slave urged. He could now hear the sound of running feet. Many feet. Along with the rushing feet came the cries of manic chaos. Incoherent shouts, roars of mindless frenzy mingled with the clatter of weapons. The noise of approach shifted into the sounds of battle as the army of the Beq crashed into the sleeping clan.

  Above the screams, the cries of agony, the metallic scrape of weapon on weapon, Slave heard one coherent and controlled voice roar an order.

  ‘Kill them all!’

  Slave was torn. He knew the danger, but could he now run into the dark and leave these unarmed people to their fate? A scream that could only be the agonised cry of death rose into the night. It was a woman. Slave stopped thinking and drew his Claw. The black rage enfolded his mind in chaos before he even reached the melee.

  Dawn was near when Slave awoke again. The sky was showing signs of lightening with the softer indigo creeping into the black. Struggling against the stiffness and pain in his body, he raised himself to sit. The sight that greeted him made him close his eyes again, but even that fleeting glimpse was seared onto his mind. His stomach heaved. The scent of death filled his nostrils.

  For a long time, he just sat, not moving, barely breathing, trying to remember what had happened after the black rage had come upon him again. Brief flickers of memory, fleeting images of carnage, of blood splashing and bodies falling before his sweeping Claw. He could feel the warm, sticky blood as it spattered from each victim. The screams, the hideous sounds of metal meeting flesh, the other, less identifiable sounds and smells of battle, all flashed through his cringing mind. Tears trickled down his scarred cheeks, washing narrow paths through the blood. Stained red, his tears dripped unhindered onto his clenched, shaking fists. He opened his eyes, just narrow slits to allow himself to see the blood covering his hands.

  How much of it is mine?

  How much of it is Korbinian’s?

  He closed his eyes again, unable to prevent the visions of the people he had killed parading before him. Waarde, Ileki, the slaves, Korbinian and his clan. Other faces, other nameless faces stared accusingly at him. He saw the people in the arena, soldiers, slavers, women — a red-haired woman with startlingly green eyes screamed noiselessly as his Claw smashed into her head. Slave shook his head to try to clear the images, but they would not leave him alone.

  He lay back onto the ground. His body ached from too many wounds and his mind ached from too many deaths. Slave suddenly drove himself to his feet and staggered away, weeping, retching and not once looking back.

  6

  The scars.

  The scars across the face.

  Tatya moved quickly among the bodies, examining those with faces still intact. Every one of these creatures had the same scars — some real, some drawn. Many had only one eye, others had coloured an eyelid silver.

  The images that had haunted her sleep, taunted her mind, were these scars dragged across the faces of these nearly human creatures that lay scattered like fallen leaves in this northern forest. She knew now that these things, these bulky, large-eyed creatures were the underdwellers. The humans, as was their wont, had given them a name. But what were they doing above ground? Why had a julle pack killed so many? The scattered bodies of julle told her that they had fought back ferociously, but the sets of tracks departing this place told her neither pack had been destroyed.

  Tatya was heading north. She had to keep going north.

  Had to lose herself in the wastes.

  Had to allow the brutal north to cleanse her mind and soul.

  Had to keep going.

  She tore off a chunk of flesh for the journey and loped north, only coincidentally following the tracks of the remaining human-like creatures. As she ran, enjoying the feel of earth beneath her feet rather than snow, she allowed the new scents to cover her aching needs. She smelt the trees, the small rodents that scurried out of her way, the birds above her, the hints of the julle who claimed this hunt as their home, the humans who passed this way and the bittersweet bite of death. The way north was occasionally interrupted by bodies of the underdwellers who had run this way before her. She felt no need to pause and examine any of them; they were dead and of no more interest to her. Prey was plentiful, her colouring was good here and she was unknown. Her methods, strength and speed were unexpected so food did not know how to counter her.

  If it weren’t so cold, she could live here.

  If she didn’t have to keep heading north.

  But she had to keep going north.

  The days passed unnoticed in a comfortable flow of running, hunting and sleeping. No humans troubled her, no more dreams disturbed her nights, and she even relaxed slightly as she headed north. The hunting was good and, with these creatures unused to her, easy as well. She became sleek again, her coat regained the shine it had lost during her journey north and her eyes were once more keen. The ground beneath her paws was again soft and yielding with the build-up of leaf litter. There were even birds in the air to warn her of things that might creep and stalk. And there were plenty of those here.

  The nights were bitter cold, full of icy winds and rising chill from the near-frozen earth, but the tree roots, leaves and things that crawled deep under the surface kept it from becoming the unwelcoming tundra. She often slept off the ground, nestled in spreading branches, protected by shadows, height and night creatures that swarmed and scurried.

  She almost forgot the driving urge that kept her heading north. Almost.

  She slowed her passage and allowed herself to glory in the life of the simple predator. She hunted by day, hunted by night, ate until sated and slept when she was tired. The time passed easily, unnoticed, as she grew strong once more. With effort, Tatya as hunter forced the face, the need, the urge, the link to the back of her mind and satisfied her hungers amid the rich life of the northern forest. The great wastes further to the north called to her, but their voice was muted by the ancient trees, dimmed by a full belly and warm ears.

  There were times when she abandoned her primary form and scurried about in her secondary form. As a rodent, she gripped the earth more closely, felt it more deeply. She rested amid the comfort of ages, far removed from the conflicts that had raged across and through these ancient woods.

  The problem was that whi
le scurrying amid the living woods, she was also more subject to the stirrings of life, the memories held in the roots of these trees that had survived so much.

  Flashes of the great battles between Scaren and Mertian flickered through her mind.

  Scenes of the mystical conflagrations troubled her.

  Memories of the great powers of old, now reduced to Revenants, stalked these woods.

  Their final throes, so far from death throes, still echoed through the primeval earth.

  Whenever she scurried, she became at once at peace with the world and troubled by the life that scarred its surface.

  She could not stay rodent for long.

  But such times are rare and short-lived. Hers came to an end one afternoon as the sun was sliding down towards the horizon. A new scent, one that had been nagging at the edge of her senses for a while, came into its full strength.

  More bodies.

  Charred wood.

  Death.

  Human detritus.

  Tatya slowed to a walk when she noticed the first human body. It had been dead long enough to have attracted the scavengers, but not so long to have lost its story. This one had been killed by a weapon. She stopped and sniffed. Her nose wrinkled at the astringent sting of one of the weeds these humans sometimes ate. This one would have died soon anyway, even without the weapon.

  It was female.

  Tatya moved ahead more carefully. Slower. Senses alert. Mane and crest prickling with barely controlled tension. The scent of death continued to grow, as did the number of bodies, both human and underdweller. Soon she came upon a building. It had been burned, reduced to rubble and char. Before its destruction, it would have been large, round perhaps. It would have housed many humans before the underdwellers came and killed them all.

  A sound.

  Movement.

  Walking.

  Ears twitched forward. Nose seeking the source.

  A human.

  Walking slowly, it approached her. She gave a low growl in warning, but the human kept coming. If anything its pace increased.