‘Do you also know what was done to us?’ Keshik demanded.
‘You came here with malicious intent. You suffered what you deserved.’
‘What is your name?’ Keshik asked.
‘I no longer bear a name — I lead the Readers, I am the Pall. Not that it matters to you any more.’ He turned away from Keshik and walked to the door. It opened as he approached. Outside stood six of the biggest men Keshik had ever seen. They were clad in metal armour and bore huge axes. Their heads were completely encased in helmets with large spikes like horns rising from the top. Narrow eye slits, like sword cuts, ran across the front.
‘Executioners,’ the Pall said, ‘take the murderer to the Arch of the Shamed and hang him there to die for all to see. Let others know of his fate and tremble.’
Keshik was dragged out of the Tribunal and he was taken to another room where he was chained to the wall. The room was below ground, lit by a fire burning orange in a pit. Hanging on the walls were dozens of weapons, shields, suits of armour and other, less identifiable devices. Despite the heat, Keshik was chilled as he considered what some of these devices might be.
A heavy-set blacksmith wearing the leather apron of his craft presided over a forge, pounding at a glowing hot length of steel. He was sweating as he worked over the fire, and the sweat flowed down his unshaven face, leaving clean trails through the dirt. His head was shaved and shone in the flickering firelight. When the executioners brought Keshik in, he barely looked up, simply grunted and gestured with his hammer towards the far wall. Chains, ending in manacles, dangled from the wall. Keshik was locked by the wrists and the executioners left. Not a word had been spoken. He hung, watching the blacksmith working at his forge, hammering heavy strips of steel. After a while, he dropped the glowing metal into a large tub of water and turned to face Keshik.
‘Managed to irritate the Readers, did we?’ the blacksmith rumbled.
Keshik nodded.
The blacksmith looked Keshik up and down. ‘Don’t look like much, but with those wrists, I’d say you could do some damage. Kill any?’
‘Seventeen, apparently.’
‘That’s a goodly sum,’ the blacksmith said with a low whistle.
‘It seemed reasonable at the time.’
‘Ha! I like a man with a sense of humour.’
‘I don’t have a sense of humour,’ Keshik muttered.
This just urged the big man on to laughter. ‘Good man,’ he said. ‘It’s always good to face Fate with a smile. Spit in the old bitch’s face, that’s what I always say.’ He put down his hammer and strode over to face Keshik. ‘Now, let’s measure you up for a cage.’
The measurements were rudimentary at best and done quickly. The blacksmith used a knotted string to estimate Keshik’s height, the width of his shoulders, his hips and chest. When he was done, he gave Keshik a nod.
‘This won’t take too long.’
Keshik sighed as the blacksmith went back to his forge and started selecting lengths of steel. The manacles on his wrists were solid and tight fitting. No chance of escape there. His only hope was when he was released. He had to stay alert and ready for the opportunity when it came. And come it had to. Keshik repeated his dofain and started planning.
Time passed as the blacksmith pounded the metal into a cage. Keshik started to feel faint with hunger and thirst. It had been a long time since he had tasted either.
‘Water?’ he croaked.
‘I don’t think so,’ the blacksmith said. He put down his hammer and turned to face Keshik. ‘The better shape you are in before I hang you in this,’ he gestured at the cage taking shape, ‘the longer you live out there. And I don’t think you want to live long out there.’
‘Water,’ Keshik repeated.
‘You think you have a chance of escape, don’t you?’
Keshik held the blacksmith’s gaze.
‘Idiot. No one escapes from the Arch of the Shamed. No one.’ He did, however, fill a mug of water and allow Keshik to drink. ‘Idiot,’ he muttered darkly as Keshik finished the mug. ‘You will regret this later. You’ve just bought yourself another day’s suffering out there.’
More time passed. Another mug of water and the cage was finished. It was a simple cylinder, narrow at the base, widening, coffin-like, at the shoulders and narrowing again. There were only six lengths of steel, but the gaps between them were narrow enough to ensure Keshik could not possibly squeeze out. The base was a round sheet of steel and there was no top plate.
‘Right, let’s get you in here,’ the blacksmith said. He lifted the solid cage with one hand and carried it across the room. Keshik tensed as the smith approached. This was the only opportunity he would get.
The big blacksmith stopped short. He put down the cage and scratched at his stubbled cheek.
‘You are a dangerous man,’ he mused. ‘And I am guessing that you are planning something.’ He stepped back and stared, as if pondering Keshik’s possible actions. Finally he shook his head and sighed. ‘Too dangerous, I think.’
He turned away again and walked to the opposite side of the room, returning with a small black metal pot.
‘Sorry about this, but I fear you are planning something that does not bode well for me,’ he said, placing the pot at Keshik’s feet. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand, flicked off the lid and stepped back quickly. Almost immediately, Keshik felt dizzy as pungent fumes wafted upwards. He tried to move out of the way, throwing himself from side to side, but the chains gave him only limited movement. He held his breath, but the gas stung his eyes and made him gasp with pain, drawing in more of the pernicious stuff. The room spun before his streaming eyes, dizziness swept over him and darkness stole in.
He was dimly aware of the manacles being removed, but his mind and body felt disconnected. His wrists, rubbed bloody by the harsh metal, lay limp as he regarded them with blurry vision. He slumped to the ground when he was released, only to be picked up by a powerful arm and shoved unceremoniously into the cage. When it was heaved upright, he slid down until his knees pressed hard against the bars. The pain sparked a flickering response, but not enough to overcome the dulling effect of the gas. Keshik looked up, bemused, to watch the blacksmith working on the bars, doing something to them until they nearly closed over his head.
A part of his mind that still worked tried to tell him something, to warn him, but it was muffled, dimmed by the narcotic. Keshik smiled up at the blacksmith.
‘What’s your name?’ he slurred, but the big man was rude and ignored him.
No matter, we can talk later. When I wake up.
8
By the end of the next day, Slave was delirious with hunger, thirst and pain. He had somehow struggled against the wind and the cold, forcing his battered body on, unaware any more of direction or reason, only the need to keep moving, to work against the memories, to maintain the exhaustion so that he could not think. He could not afford to think, to remember.
At least six times during those days, he had pulled out the hated Claw to cast it away, to lose it in this swirling chaos of snow and wind, but each time he had held the exquisite weapon in his hand, its beauty, its simplicity of form, its purity of purpose, had defeated him. Each time he considered letting it drop to the frozen ground at his feet, his hand had betrayed him, and he tucked it back inside his filthy, stolen clothes. Until the next time.
A swirl, a shift in the incessant, hateful wind brought a scent to Slave. He hesitated. The smell was one he did not know. It was most likely animal, but no animal he had smelt before. The wind shifted again, taking the scent away, but he had it now, and knew where it was. An animal meant food. From the strength of the scent, he guessed it was more than one animal. That might mean people herding. And that might mean shelter. His mind made up, Slave turned and faced the scent. He pulled his Claw out and stood with it in his hand.
A smudge on the scoured, barren ground ahead showed the presence of people and a herd. Slave tucked his Claw away. Another shi
ft in the wind brought sounds as well as smells — the sounds of conversation, of normal life.
How could anyone live a normal life out here?
What is a normal life?
The sounds of conversation died as they approached, to be replaced by the sounds of weapons being readied. Slave heard the rattle of arrows being nocked, the slither of knives being drawn and the slap of cudgels into palms as the people ahead readied themselves. The wind shifted again, bringing to Slave once more the smells of people and their animals. He swallowed as the stench filled his nostrils.
If this is normal life, I want nothing like it.
He did not move as the people neared him. He raised his head to stare at them. Whispers, stares, scowls, a tightening of hand on weapon greeted him. All the usual. He remained still, waiting for the comments to die down and someone to step forward, someone braver than the rest who could face the stranger with the disturbing face. After a brief pause, a man did so.
‘Traveller,’ the man said. ‘Do you walk with peace in your shadow?’
It had the sound of a ritual greeting, and Slave became tense. These people lived in harsh conditions, most likely eking out a miserable existence. Strangers made them nervous and they were no doubt quick to act in violence. Slave cast an eye over the group. There were sixteen men, twenty women and several children, all standing motionless, watching the scene play out. One wrong move and they would probably attack him. He did not want to kill them all as a result of an ill-chosen word.
Slave nodded, raising both hands to show that he held no weapon.
‘I do not know your traditions,’ he said slowly. ‘But I mean you no harm. I am lost in this barren land and seek shelter and food.’
The lead man — a wiry, hard-looking man wrapped against the wind and cold in furs — stepped back to confer with the others, without once taking his eyes off Slave. After a few moments’ conversation, he approached confidently.
‘We have little to spare, but we offer you warmth and sanctuary against the wind.’ This, too, had the sound of ritual.
Slave slowly let out the breath he realised he had been holding. ‘My thanks,’ he said.
The other man grunted and gestured for him to come closer, to come within their circle. He was aware of every eye maintaining a watchful distrust, closely observing his every move, yet hands had slipped off weapons and arrows were returned to quivers. Slave looked around, seeing horses heavily burdened, small animals being tended by young men, mothers holding bundles that were likely babes and the men watching over it all. The man who had spoken approached him and held his left hand out, palm downward.
‘Lend us the peace that rests in your shadow,’ he said.
Slave had no idea how to respond, but the other man grinned, as sudden a sign as it was unexpected. ‘You slap the top of my hand and then offer me yours to hit,’ he explained. His grin broadened when Slave complied. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘share our walk.’
As Slave had been wandering without direction, any way seemed equally good to him, so he shared their walk. Amid the slowly moving group with their horses and animals around, the desolate plain felt less vast, even the wind felt less brutal. Slave relaxed slightly.
‘My name is Vasilis.’
‘I am called Slave.’
‘Parents didn’t like you?’ Vasilis said with a smile.
Slave shrugged. ‘I don’t know if I even had parents.’
Vasilis’s smile vanished like he had been struck. ‘Everyone has parents, traveller.’
‘So I hear.’
‘You’re a strange one, Slave.’
‘I’ve heard that, too.’
A woman appeared at Slave’s shoulder, offering him something.
‘Ah,’ said Vasilis. ‘Food. Take it, Slave. From the look of you, you could use it.’
Slave accepted the hard, red-brown lump. He raised it to his lips. The pungent smell made him recoil.
‘Delicious! I agree,’ Vasilis said, apparently misunderstanding Slave’s reaction. ‘Nothing like curdled cague milk.’
‘Cague?’
Vasilis roared with laughter. He pointed at the small dirty animals that wandered along with them. ‘Cague,’ he said. ‘Our little flock that keeps us alive and prospering.’
Slave stared at the short-legged, light brown animals. They looked tough and hardy, with their tightly coiled wool and sturdy legs. There were about forty of them being driven along by the young men, each of whom carried a long stick taller than themselves which they flicked at the cagues to keep them in a tight formation.
Prospering? He calls this prospering? With a sigh, Slave opened his mouth and bit into the morsel of food. It’s better than I have, at least. He’d eaten worse, but not much. Still, it was surprisingly filling and he managed to keep it down. Vasilis opened the first layer of his clothes and offered him a waterskin. Slave accepted it and pulled open the stopper. The water was bitterly cold, barely liquid, despite being carried near Vasilis’s skin. He gasped and spluttered as he felt the freezing water seep down into his belly.
‘My thanks,’ he gasped.
‘How long is it since you last ate?’
Slave shrugged. ‘Days.’
Vasilis raised his arm. ‘We make shadow here,’ he called. ‘The sun will move over us while our new friend recovers his strength. I claim this place for the Kuvnos. May our harvest be rich.’
The small tribe started to make camp. The horses were unloaded while the flock of cagues were urged into the centre. It seemed that everyone, from the oldest to the smallest child capable of walking, had a task. All except Slave. The strains of the previous days suddenly hit him and he felt himself slide into unconsciousness.
He awoke warm and comfortable, if ravenously hungry. His eyes flickered open to look around, and saw a woman staring down at him. As he struggled to sit up, her hand pressed on his chest gently, but with strength, forcing him back down.
‘Be still, Slave,’ she said. ‘It is too soon yet to cast a shadow. Your injuries are great and will take time to heal.’
‘Where …?’ he started, but the woman shook her head.
‘You are safe within our number. The natona spreads its shadow over you and the Kuvnos surround you. Our solpon has offered you sanctuary. You are one of us now.’
Slave did not understand many of the words she spoke, but her tone was soothing and her face seemed calm. He allowed his eyes to close again. The sleep that followed was more relaxed, less troubled by anguished visions, than any he had enjoyed since fleeing his master.
He drifted in and out of consciousness for uncounted days as his body and mind recovered. Most of his waking time was spent eating the simple fare of the Kuvnos. The food was mostly derived from the hardy cague flock. It seemed that everything about the Kuvnos people derived in some way from the tough little animals. The normal meal was some of the curdled milk mixed with its blood, usually served in a cague leather bowl made waterproof by smearing it with fat. The thick mixture went solid after a day or so and was shaped into travelling food that was carried next to the skin to keep it from freezing solid. The cague bred prolifically, and one in every three males was set aside for slaughter.
The woman who first greeted Slave maintained her vigil by him. After a few days, he regained enough energy to engage her in conversation, halting at first, but slowly becoming comfortable. He started to enjoy seeing her face whenever he awoke.
Her name was Kirri and she had seen thirty-three Crossings. This made her old to be unmarried among the Kuvnos. She mixed the blood of the cague with plants and rare, coloured earths to make poultices and tonics.
‘Why are you called Slave?’ she asked one morning. She spoke as she rolled him over and started applying a thick orange mud to his back.
‘I have never, urgh,’ he grunted as she started rubbing the mud vigorously into his skin, ‘had a name. My master only ever called me slave.’
‘What did your mother call you? Lie still!’
‘I
never had a mother.’
‘What? Did you spring from the ice, fully formed? Everyone has a mother, someone’s womb carried you.’
Slave shrugged as if uncaring. ‘So I have heard.’ Now two members of this little tribe, the Kuvnos, had asked him the same question. Why did it matter?
A gust of wind shook the low, dark structure — the natona — that sheltered him. The ever-present sound of the wind had the effect of washing out conversation, blurring it, giving more privacy than he would have imagined in such a small, communal place. He looked around at the stretched hide and the sturdy stakes that were all that stood between him and freezing to death. It occurred to him that it had been a long time since he had seen a tree.
‘Where do you get the wood for the supports?’ he asked.
Kirri flicked a glance towards the walls. ‘We trade for them from the southerners, or sometimes even the Acolytes.’
‘What do you have to trade?’
She smiled, a flash of colour against her wind-darkened skin. Like most of the women he had seen moving about within the natona, she kept her teeth polished and adorned with intricate hand-painted designs. He had watched the women sitting at night, with their teeth clamped together, lips wide, while another woman painted the complex patterns. He had not seen enough to be sure, but he guessed each woman’s pattern was different. It seemed to be the only real adornment the women had, being wrapped permanently against the cold and wind. It was only here, beneath the natona, that anyone peeled off even the outermost covering. At first, the stench had been overpowering, but he quickly became inured to its pungent bite. Now, he hardly noticed it.
‘Trade?’ Kirri repeated. ‘We trade what we harvest from the tundra.’
‘Harvest? What is there to harvest out here? Nothing grows.’
‘Sssa,’ she hissed in agreement. ‘But we do not harvest what grows.’ She unhooked the first three loops that held her outer garment, her yok, fastened, and pulled out a leather thong that was tied around her neck. Hanging from it was a lump of what looked like metal.
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