Scarred Man

by Bevan McGuiness

  The human came into view.

  It was male. Old and feeble, he neither posed a threat nor offered a meal. She was about to ignore him when he addressed her.

  ‘Shapeshifter,’ he said. ‘You are a long way from home. What brings you this far north?’

  Tatya growled and raised her mane in threat but the old human did not falter, nor did he show fear. Instead, he held her eye and continued approaching. She held her ground, allowing her growl to deepen, her mane to rise to its full extent. Her teeth showed white against the black of her raised upper lip. At last the human stepped back; a pleasing wash of fear flooded out from him. She stepped forward and was pleased to see the human step back again.

  She was less pleased at the sudden scent of another human close behind her. With a snarl, she went to turn, but the heavy blow to the base of her skull was too quick. Stars exploded behind her eyes and she dropped unconscious to the ground.

  Pain.

  Restraints.

  More pain.

  She opened her eyes to stare up at the old human.

  ‘Do not struggle, shapeshifter,’ he said. ‘You are securely bound, even allowing for your particular nature.’

  Tatya struggled nonetheless. She had been moved while unconscious, and was now in a damaged room. The walls were scorched and the roof had more gaps than solid sections. Through the gaps, she could see that night had fallen.

  The old human showed his teeth, so Tatya showed hers. She knew the intent was different, but pretending ignorance was a game she played often and well. To test the words, she shifted into her lesser form, but the human had spoken well. The bonds shifted with her, retaining their grip.

  Sorcery! Tatya shifted back into her major form and spat at the old human in disgust.

  ‘You did well, Ilmari,’ the old one said, looking over the top of Tatya’s head at the other human.

  ‘I told you it would work, Wielder,’ he replied.

  ‘So you did, Ilmari, so you did.’ The Wielder of the Key lowered himself slowly and with great difficulty until he was seated cross-legged on the ground in front of Tatya. He stared intently into the shapeshifter’s red eyes. ‘Now,’ he mused, ‘what are we going to do with you?’ His long, spindly fingers moved erratically across his knees as he sat. Tatya shifted her gaze down to watch them as they danced and skittered like unsteady insects. ‘I think I know just the thing for something like you, shapeshifter.’

  The fingers stopped their distracting motion as the Key Wielder raised his hands. The man called Ilmari stepped forward and, gripping the old man’s hands, helped him to his feet.

  ‘Keep watch on her,’ the Wielder told Ilmari. ‘I will return soon.’

  Despite the cold, Tatya decided that once the old man had left, it might be time to try her other form. She shifted into her human shape. With her teeth bared in the confusing human custom, she gave Ilmari her best sultry stare.

  ‘You are not human, shapeshifter,’ Ilmari said stiffly. ‘No matter what you look like, you are still a beast, an animal. Your inhuman wiles are not effective.’

  ‘Your words lie, human,’ Tatya said. The human’s scent was rich, redolent with fear and growing desire. ‘Surely we can play, just a little.’ She looked down at where her skin was responding to the cold. The human’s eyes followed her gaze down, resting predictably on her breasts. ‘It is getting cold,’ Tatya went on. ‘I need to warm up. Could you help me?’

  The human’s scent shifted further into desire, rapidly overcoming fear. Not long now.

  Ilmari stepped back abruptly. ‘You are not human,’ he repeated.

  ‘Really?’ Tatya said. She writhed sinuously, offering the human a fuller view of her body. The cold was beginning to bite. Unless she was successful soon, she would have to shift back to the warmer form. Snow drifted in through a gap in the roof, bringing with it the promise of painful cold. Tatya hooded her eyes and curled her body. Ilmari took half a step forward.

  Very close.

  Cold.

  Biting cold seeping into an unprotected body.

  Deep, aching shivers starting, moving up through legs.

  More snow drifted down onto uncovered skin.

  Curse this naked form!

  A growl escaped her lips as her control over her form failed completely in the face of the brutal cold. She shifted into her primary form, the large black feline with yellow mane and ridge running the length of her spine.

  Ilmari sprang back. ‘Ice and wind!’ he gasped.

  Tatya snarled, her anger at her own weakness battling with her anger at her failure. Her claws slid out, unsheathing like curved daggers, seeking out the restraints. Even so soon after shifting, her instincts to struggle, to rend, to escape, to draw blood were strong.

  So different from the instincts of her secondary form.

  To hide, not fight.

  To gnaw, not tear.

  To flee, not devour.

  The restraining bonds tightened, seeming to slide away from her seeking claws. Ilmari stepped closer and swung a powerful kick at her head. His boot landed hard, sending a burst of agony screaming through her. Her snarl shifted up to a yowl of fury. She slashed at his foot, but the bonds stayed strong, reducing her attack to a humiliating thrashing about.

  ‘Ilmari!’ The old one had returned. He stood in the ruined doorway and glared at Ilmari. ‘Do not hurt her. She is precious, and so very rare.’

  Ilmari bowed and stepped away from Tatya as the other human shuffled in.

  ‘Now, shapeshifter,’ the Wielder said. ‘My name is Joukahainen and I think we can be of great service to each other.’ Stiffly, with Ilmari’s steadying hand, the old human lowered himself to the ground to sit beside her.

  Tatya stopped moving and snarled at him, showing her teeth in defiance. The old one showed his in reply.

  Feeble, yellowed teeth.

  Small and blunt.

  His breath is rancid with rot.

  Old thing is not long for life.

  Even shorter when she escaped these sorcerous bonds.

  ‘Just lie still, shapeshifter,’ Joukahainen murmured. ‘This won’t take long.’ He pulled a small bowl out from under his robe and placed it on the ground between them. Into it he poured a powder. Tatya’s heart rose as she recognised the ritual.

  Next the liquid.

  Then the flame.

  Then the yellow smoke.

  The ritual played out exactly as she remembered it. Her head swam as the pungent smoke wafted towards her, filling her nostrils and lungs with its powerful narcotic haze. She saw images, they danced across her mind, telling their own bizarre, disjointed tales of adventure, pain and subjugation. Tatya let the tale play itself out in her mind before uttering a low growl and feigning sleep.

  The bonds would come off.

  Someone would die.

  Then she would run.

  Head north.

  Away.

  Flee and hide from it.

  Hide.

  Joukahainen rocked back on his heels, his eyes a mystery.

  ‘Well, well, shapeshifter,’ he muttered. ‘You poor thing.’ He chuckled as Tatya opened her eyes to stare balefully at him. ‘Let’s see what we can find out about it, and turn it to my advantage.’ He discarded the bowl and the burning powders before reaching his skeletally thin fingers out to grip Tatya’s head. She tried to pull away, to better rip at the grasping hands, but again the sorcerous bonds defeated her.

  Once the bony fingers gripped her head, she was wrenched around to face the old human. His eyes bored into hers, his powerful mind battering away at her defences, smashing its way through to the core of her terror, her despair, her need to flee.

  Her link.

  The tussle of minds was as short as it was bitter, and the shapeshifter stood no chance against the trained, strong, vicious mind of the Key Wielder. In moments, her defences lay in tatters before him, her fears spread out naked before his questing mind. She saw again the awful moment when the human had put her in t
hrall.

  The moment when her own identity lay at risk of utter subjugation to another.

  The moment every shapeshifter feared above all — the forging of the link.

  ‘Is there any way we can help Tatya?’ the woman had asked.

  ‘If we give her the talisman after Cort pays us, she will be free.’

  Stupid human — instead of freeing her, she had bound her more tightly than any talisman ever could. The talisman that held Tatya captive to the ignorant human in Mollnde was destroyed, long gone, but by saving her and then freeing her, the hateful woman had doomed the shapeshifter to a lifetime of utter servitude. Until one of them was dead, Tatya was bound beyond any hope to worshipping the human.

  Unless she could flee and hide, far from the grasping tendrils of destined purpose.

  Unless she could find the Revenant that, according to legend, dwelt in the frozen wastes.

  Only it, with its limitless power over anachronisms like her, could break the ancient betrayal.

  Only it could overturn the treachery of the Scarens.

  Desperation gave her strength. She tore at the binding ropes, sensing for the first time a hint of weakness. A fibre broke. Tatya yowled and doubled her efforts. Another fibre gave way under her furious assault, then another — and suddenly the magic failed.

  She sprang to her feet and went to slash at the old human, but he raised his hands in defence. Instead of the feeble fingers, Tatya’s claws met a magical shield stronger than metal. Sparks flew where claw met magic. Pain shot along Tatya’s forelegs, sending her sprawling backwards, whimpering and trembling from the shock. Before she could recover her wits, the human gestured again and a hot wave of magical energy swept over her, sending her teetering to the edge of unconsciousness.

  There, on the dark precipice, Tatya relived every hateful moment from the time she saw the red-headed woman climb through the window to when the Scarred Man released her and outlined the plan. What he did not know was that already the evil, insidious link was being forged. Tatya followed the plan, even to snatching the bag of useless clothes from the woman she had pretended to hurt, even though it caused her actual physical pain to pretend such an abhorrence.

  With every passing heartbeat, the strength of the link grew. Unless she could tear herself away from this intimate revisiting of the events, she would be lost, without even the will to run.

  Joukahainen released her.

  ‘The Scarred Man,’ he mused. ‘Who is he, I wonder? Return to him.’ Once again, the powerful mind invaded her own, driving her back to the man with the scars down his face. She relived every instant she had spent in his presence, scenting him, feeling his touch, even tasting his flesh again. Her breath came in short, sharp pants as the link took on strength, building the cage that would hold her forever under the thrall of …

  NO!

  The silent scream tore through her mind, jolting the human, sending his mind out of hers. Her last great act of defiance amounted to little more than a whimper of regret as …

  Maida!

  The wonder of her presence.

  The joy of her smile.

  The need for her, the ache to be with her.

  The deep-rooted terror that something might happen to her.

  She might be in pain!

  Tatya realised she was free from Joukahainen’s mind. With a snarl of feral hatred and a single swipe of her forepaw, she laid his face open to the bone before she took flight.

  Out into the snow.

  South.

  To find her.

  Maida.

  7

  The cell was dark, stinking and featureless. Keshik slumped against a wall and stared at the door. There were no windows and he had lost track of how long he had been here. Food and water, just enough to keep him alive, were shoved through a narrow slit under the door occasionally. At first, he had taken one smell and recoiled, but as hunger started to bite, he put aside his revulsion and ate. In the darkness between meals, he sat with his back to the damp wall, thinking.

  For all his bluster at Alberrich, he knew his chances of carrying out his threats were gone now. No simple power of will would get him out of this. He had acted without thought and killed, again. He would face his accusers and pay for his actions. He would die here in this stinking ugly city and never again feel the cleansing scour of the north winds nor smell the biting tang of ice. The simple joys of life were gone. Maida was gone. His swords were gone.

  Despair threatened to overwhelm him, to unman him, leaving him hollow and weak. He slowly slid further away from himself, towards what he had always feared — unworthiness. Time passed in a blur, punctuated only by the arrival of food. He crawled across the floor whenever it came. Food meant life, and life meant Maida.

  Maida — she was the only thing that kept him from utter despair. It was not love, not this time; it was bitter, roiling anger that kept the remnants of a fire burning in his belly. He had failed her. He had not protected her and she had been taken. They would die, these weak men who preyed on women. His anger had two targets: the men and himself. In the darkness, his anger grew and changed, becoming hatred, before sliding into vicious need. Were it not for his certainty that she loved him still, he would have surely become a worthy bearer of his exile. The knowledge of her love was a tiny flickering flame of peace amid the tumult of his pain, keeping him away from the hate. Without it, he would have embraced his new title: kabutat, night guard of the Tulugma. Cast aside, exiled, shunned forever.

  So he stayed, hovering between despair and hope, anger and love, life and death until the day his chance would come. He knew it would come — these people, these Readers would want vengeance dressed up as justice. They would want him publicly humiliated, and there would lie his only hope.

  The sound of the key in the lock woke him from futile dreams. As the door creaked open, he struggled to his feet, to stand and face his jailer.

  ‘Come on, visitor,’ the filthy man grunted. ‘Time to die.’ He stepped back and three guards surged into the cell. They quickly subdued Keshik and dragged him out. He stumbled often as they forced him through passages and up stairs. In moments he lost track of where he was or where he was going. His whole focus was on marshalling his remaining reserves of mental and physical strength so that he would be ready when that one moment, that one chance came.

  Massive double doors were opened and Keshik was urged inside. The doors slammed behind them and he was hurried across a large, featureless room to another guarded door, which was opened without a word. Beyond was a meeting room ringed with ascending rows of seats filled with robed figures. At his appearance, the room fell silent.

  He was forced inside and pushed down onto the floor.

  ‘I bring to the Tribunal the man responsible for the murder of seventeen members of this Tribunal,’ the lead soldier declared.

  A sound not unlike a collective sigh filled the chamber. Keshik tried to regain his feet, but a booted foot shoved him back down.

  ‘Face to the floor, murderer,’ a voice instructed. ‘You may leave us now, with our thanks, Servants of the Readers.’ The boot was removed from his back and Keshik heard the soldiers march away.

  ‘Fellow Readers,’ the same voice went on in a loud, ringing tone, ‘we have the one who slaughtered so many of our colleagues.’

  Other voices cried out, their words lost in the general uproar.

  ‘Silence!’ the first voice bellowed. ‘We will have none of this unseemly babble.’ The sound of a metal object striking stone rang out. ‘Silence, I say!’

  The cries of anger subsided. Keshik attempted to look up, but was struck a powerful blow on the back of his head. ‘You have no right to raise your head in this august company, murderer.’

  ‘I will speak,’ Keshik said.

  The blow was repeated. ‘You will not speak.’

  ‘Readers, this man’s guilt is beyond question. He has been vouched for by three of our Servants and no less than six individual Divining Readers and bro
ught here for judgement. Once again, the skills of the Readers of Leserlang are paramount. Only the manner of his dying is to be decided.’

  As before, general uproar broke out, but this time the noise was allowed to continue for longer before the man with the floor again pounded with his staff.

  ‘If I read the intent of the Tribunal right, he is to die in the Arch of the Shamed.’ The roar that followed this declaration was incoherent, an animal snarl of base hunger. ‘Now you may stand and face your judgement.’

  Keshik scrambled to his feet and stared out at the angry Tribunal. There were at least two hundred of them, all on their feet, roaring, shaking their fists at him. Men and women, faces filled with hate, standing in robes of different hues of red, all shouted at him, screaming for his blood. Even armed, he could not take so many.

  ‘I will overcome,’ he whispered. ‘I will overcome!’ he shouted. ‘This is not justice. This is murder! You accuse me of murder, but commit it yourselves! And to do it, you deal with Alberrich. You sell women to the Agents of the Blindfolded Queen and ignore the actions of the real criminals!’

  His words were hollow, shouted in vain, seeking only to delay, to confuse, to buy time. His words served only to enrage them, to goad them on to further hate. The first missile struck him on the shoulder. The second, a book, caught him in the chest. In moments, he was being pelted with dozens of hurled objects. Books, trinkets, all manner of objects rained down on him as the Readers threw whatever came to hand. Blood trickled down his face from innumerable small wounds. He tried to duck, but there were too many to avoid.

  The staff struck the floor again.

  ‘Cease this vulgar display! Cease, I say!’

  Keshik turned to face the man with the staff. He was young, his face hard, his eyes intelligent, his robe blood red.

  ‘Your words are insulting, murderer,’ he said when the missiles had stopped. ‘Your punishment is as just as your guilt is inescapable. Do not forget you face the Readers. We know by the use of our arts what you did.’