Scarred Man

by Bevan McGuiness

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Mangase,’ she replied. ‘It is a metal that we find just below the surface of the ice. We gather these lumps wherever we set our natona.’

  ‘Mangase?’ Slave struggled to sit up. He had read of the metal and its use in the making of the most expensive weaponry. Normal iron mixed with mangase became harder, held its edge better and was less susceptible to rust. Even this modest amount of the metal would be worth a small fortune to the right swordmaker. He held out his hand to the dull grey lump. Kirri hesitated so long before offering him the metal, he realised he had committed some social error.

  ‘I do not know your traditions,’ he said slowly. ‘Did I just give offence?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘You just offered to marry me. To carry my first mangase find is to hold my virginity.’ She blushed and looked down. ‘I guess that was not your meaning.’

  ‘No,’ Slave said quickly. ‘Of course not.’

  Kirri’s blush deepened and she tucked the metal back inside her yok. As she busied herself with refastening the garment, she rose to her feet.

  ‘Rub more of that onto your chest,’ she said, indicating the remaining paste in its leather bowl. She did not look at him as she turned and walked quickly away.

  Slave watched her go, aware of the stares of other women and their small children. Only the nursing mothers, the infirm and the very young stayed inside during the daylight. Everyone else was outside harvesting, as Slave now realised, the priceless mangase.

  A small child — a girl, Slave thought — tottered across the rug-covered ground towards him. A woman, presumably her mother, watched her progress intently. The child came close and reached out a tiny hand to touch Slave’s face. He held still as the small, yet perfectly formed hand touched his skin and traced the scars that ran across his face.

  ‘What did this?’ the child asked.

  ‘A monster,’ Slave said softly.

  ‘Why?’

  Slave frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered.

  ‘What’s a monster?’ the child said.

  ‘Something that does things like this,’ Slave replied.

  ‘Are you going to fight it again?’

  Slave did not hesitate this time. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Will it do this to you again?’

  Slave traced the scars across his face before answering. ‘Probably.’

  ‘You are very brave.’

  ‘Brave? No, not really,’ Slave said with a smile. He was about to add that he was terrified almost all of the time when the child’s mother came and gathered her up.

  ‘Leave him to rest now, Skeve,’ the woman said with her eyes on Slave. There was fear in her look, and distrust, but mostly there was anger.

  Why anger? Slave wondered. What did I do?

  9

  ‘Make camp here,’ Itxtli called. He held his hand up, fist clenched, and the Agents reined in around him. Myrrhini sighed and lowered her head to rest on Chicahua’s mane. Her whole body ached from the day’s ride, but every day it ached less. She was surprised at how quickly she became accustomed to riding. The ache in her lower back and thighs faded after a few days and the warm clothes, plentiful food and comfortable sleep at night gave her body the opportunity to recover from its recent battering. She even found Itxtli to be good company after the first day. During that day she had been too wrapped up in her pain and misery to pay much attention to the Agents around her, but after a good night’s sleep in the tent she felt ready to face her new situation. They rode fast, heading south, but not towards Leserlang.

  The campsites were also becoming better since leaving the barren tundra behind. This one had trees for shelter and what looked like a spring of clear water bubbling up from the ground. Myrrhini eased her leg over the saddle and slid down onto the earth. It was no longer frozen underfoot and the sky was mostly clear blue. The trees now broke the wind up so that it was not a constant biting companion carrying the taste of ancient ice.

  Myrrhini started to pull her tent off the back of a pack horse, but stopped at the sounds of an altercation. It was not uncommon for words to be exchanged, even small scuffles from time to time. This one seemed to be about the placement of a tent. One Agent wanted his by a tree and another wanted the same spot. Myrrhini sighed and shook her head. Some of these Agents were like little boys at times.

  The tone of the argument changed abruptly and the sound of a fist striking flesh replaced words. Itxtli barked an order and the whole camp fell silent.

  ‘Youxinatl!’ he shouted. ‘Stand firm!’

  The small circle of Agents took a step back, isolating the young man who stood in their midst, his chest heaving, his fists clenched and a bruise already forming beneath his right eye.

  ‘What is this?’ Itxtli demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ Youxinatl muttered.

  ‘That’s an impressive nothing on your face,’ Itxtli observed.

  ‘Walked into a tree.’

  A low murmur of a chuckle ran around the Agents, instantly fading at Itxtli’s glare.

  ‘You are a liar, Youxinatl. I will not be lied to.’

  Youxinatl looked up, startled.

  ‘Who hit you? You did not walk into a tree.’

  Youxinatl was clearly not going to answer, so Itxtli stepped towards him quickly and struck him across the face.

  ‘Answer me,’ he shouted.

  The rest of the men muttered among themselves, but no one stepped forward.

  ‘Six lashes,’ Itxtli said, turning away. ‘I will not be lied to by mayehqueh.’

  Myrrhini could not watch as they removed Youxinatl’s tunic and bound him to a tree. She walked away to where another Agent was erecting her tent. When she reached the tent, the first of the blows struck the man’s bare flesh. The sound was sickeningly wet, followed by a cry of pain. With each blow she winced and Youxinatl cried louder until he was screaming. The Agent who had set up Myrrhini’s tent scowled and shook his head with every cry that went up.

  ‘Coward,’ he muttered.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Six is nothing, but he cries like a baby.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘For lying to his achulti, it could have been twenty or thirty, but Itxtli’s a good one. He never uses it unjust. That mayehqueh is lucky, but doesn’t know it.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘He should be in with his own kind, but we were short when we were sent out. So we got one of them. They think they curry mercy from their achultis by whimpering, but not among free men.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of that,’ Myrrhini said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ the Agent grunted. He stepped away from her tent. ‘Your tent is ready, Lady.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She paused, indicating that she did not know the Agent’s name.

  ‘Necalli, Lady,’ the Agent said. ‘My name is Necalli.’

  ‘Thank you, Necalli.’

  ‘Xahnatl yatl,’ Necalli said.

  ‘I don’t know what that means, either,’ Myrrhini said.

  ‘In the old tongue it means something like: “you’re welcome” or “it’s nothing”.’ Necalli walked away, leaving her alone again.

  Myrrhini felt useless as she watched the efficient way the Agents went about setting camp, ignoring the whimpering Youxinatl who sat by the spring. Once he had been flogged and then cut down, it was as if the whole incident had never happened. The other tents were set up, a cooking fire was made and the horses were seen to. Every man had a role which he did without apparent instruction.

  The sun sank, taking the warmth with it, and the temperature plummeted. Myrrhini wrapped herself in a blanket and sat near the fire. Slowly the rest of the Agents gathered about its warmth and the evening meal was handed around. She had noted that there were three men who tended to do most of the cooking, although there was no dedicated cook as such. A bowl and spoon were given to her and she accepted them with thanks. The Agent who had handed them to her acknowled
ged her thanks with a grunt, which was more than she usually got from him.

  The food was hot and tasty. She ate mechanically, watching and listening. As normal, the conversation was quiet and subdued with little animation. They talked about their homes and families, the people they had met since leaving and places they had seen. There was little boasting or outrageous story-telling as she expected there might be.

  I’ve read too many romances, she thought. Certainly she wished, not for the first time, that she had spent more time reading about the world outside the Place of the Acolytes. Every day, it seemed, she discovered something new she had never known about. She felt she must seem very ignorant to the worldly Agents around her.

  Overhead, the stars were starting to glimmer. It would be bitter tonight, now that most of the clouds had drifted away. Grada and Yatil were close — kissing in fact. Another Crossing was coming soon. Myrrhini wondered how old this one would make her. She had never known how old she was and no one had ever bothered to tell her such things. She was old enough to bear children, that much she knew, and old enough to make men look at her breasts. Or maybe they are just looking to see if there are any, she mused.

  ‘… we found you?’

  Myrrhini looked up suddenly as she realised Itxtli had been speaking to her.

  ‘What was that?’ she asked.

  ‘I was asking where you were heading when we found you,’ Itxtli said.

  ‘Found me? You didn’t find me, you captured me and took me prisoner,’ she snapped, suddenly angry. ‘And as your prisoner, I don’t think I have to tell you anything.’

  Itxtli gave a grunt that sounded halfway between exasperation and resignation as he turned his attention back to his meal. Myrrhini stared at the fire.

  ‘Itxtli!’ a voice called. ‘It has been too long since we celebrated the Ahuitl.’

  A mutter went around the campfire.

  ‘It is too long, I agree,’ Itxtli said. ‘Xipli, prepare the ceremony.’ He looked back at Myrrhini. ‘Do not interrupt the ceremony. Just watch.’

  Xipli rose from his position by the fire and disappeared into the darkness. Myrrhini sensed an easing in the mood of the gathered men: it seemed they looked forward to this ceremony. Myrrhini wondered if it brought them something good, something worthwhile. She recalled the hateful ceremonies she had had to endure as the Eye of Varuun, how they demeaned and humiliated her, and shuddered.

  The night was still for once and the stars glinted in the black sky around Grada and Yatil. Myrrhini shivered. A new smell of burning reached her, making her turn, but Itxtli held her arm, stopping her.

  A red glow appeared, quickly becoming a burning torch, carried by Xipli. He walked slowly, holding the torch at arm’s length in front of his face. It burned fiercely atop a thick pole, casting dancing shadows. As Xipli stepped into the circle, every Agent started to chant, soft and low at first, but gradually increasing in volume and intensity. Myrrhini tried to pick out words from the chant, but the language was one she had never heard.

  Xipli joined the chant, then raised his voice in song as the others lowered theirs into a harmony supporting his song. The two songs wove together in complex rhythms that rose and fell like the wind as it crossed the great Northern Waste. Itxtli stood from his position and advanced towards Xipli, singing a different tune. This latter was harsh and atonal, jarring to the exquisite harmonies. He reached out and grabbed the torch which, to Myrrhini’s astonishment, split into two. When separated the two torches suddenly burned different colours — Xipli’s became orange while Itxtli’s went bright yellow. Itxtli turned his back on Xipli and held his torch high, still singing the discordant, unpleasant song. Behind him, Xipli lowered his torch until its end rested on the ground. It guttered and went out. Itxtli turned back to Xipli and together they walked to the very edge of the circle and plunged both torches into a bucket that had been placed there at some stage. It must have contained an oil or something similar because it immediately burst into red flame, consuming both torches. When the torches were burned away, the fire extinguished itself. All the time Itxtli had been singing his discordant song while the rest had been singing their complex harmonies, but as the flames vanished completely, both songs died, leaving a moment of silence before Youxinatl rose and sang a simple melody. It was just a short song, in a pure high voice that was quite at odds with his uncouth appearance and previous behaviour. When he was done, he sat down.

  ‘The Eye has Seen what the Queen has glimpsed, and all the world trembles,’ Itxtli intoned.

  ‘Let the Eye be opened and the Queen be freed,’ the rest said in response.

  In the dark and silence that followed, Myrrhini trembled, but not from the chill night air. This ceremony held great meaning and although she did not understand most of it, the symbolism and the closing words were not lost on her. She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugged them to her chest and tried to push out of her mind what she now knew must happen.

  10

  ‘He is strong enough now,’ Kirri said, looking at Slave. ‘He can harvest, earn his care.’

  Slave stood beside Kirri, silently watching the exchange. He had known it would come to this soon. His strength had returned and he was becoming restless here in this dark tent where silent eyes watched him all day and rowdy men plotted their challenges to him at night. Had he been asked, he could not have said how he knew the men of the tribe planned to do him harm, but their violence was only a heartbeat away.

  Vasilis nodded. ‘Sssa,’ he hissed finally. ‘We move today. Prepare to leave.’ At his words the tension in the natona faded. Kirri laid her right hand, palm upwards, in her left and bowed. Slave followed suit.

  The whole tribe started moving, each one attending to their allocated task. In moments, the whole natona was a hive of activity. Slave stood as the people moved around him. The chaos swirled.

  A slap on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. He looked quickly around to see Kirri glaring at him.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ she snapped. ‘You owe the tribe now. Make yourself useful.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Her eyes tightened. ‘Just come with me,’ she said after a short pause.

  Kirri’s job was to pack up the various powders and herbs she used for healing, get them loaded onto a horse and then help with the taking down and rolling up of the natona. Slave followed her lead, taking care not to spill any of the rare supplies as he stored them in the leather bags cleverly made with pockets for each container. Sondelle had instructed him in more than rudimentary healing, but he did not recognise most of what Kirri had accumulated.

  The natona was made of many heavy pieces of leather stitched together and stretched over the support poles. There were dozens of ropes holding the poles in place and it was immediately clear that erecting and dismantling it was a job requiring the total cooperation of everyone in the tribe. Vasilis was in command, shouting instructions and gesticulating, ensuring that every time the big tent looked like getting out of control in the howling winds, someone was on hand to help. The sun was nearly at its peak by the time everything was packed onto horses and ready to leave. The cague flock was marshalled into the middle of the tribe and, like a cumbersome beast, the tribe started to move.

  They walked for days, sleeping huddled together under simple leather shelters, foraging whatever grew in their path. The cague nibbled incessantly at the frozen ground to get at the hardy plants that somehow survived beneath the ice. Every man carried a heavy pick with which he chipped at the ground in search of the elusive mangase. The wind was worse than Slave had ever imagined possible. It screamed around them like a living thing: tearing at their clothes, freezing any part that was exposed. At one stage, Kirri was lifted completely off the ground. Slave was lost in his thoughts — mostly cursing such a wretched place while disbelieving that anyone would possibly choose to live in it — when she cannoned heavily into him. He was taken entirely by surprise and staggered under the impact. Ins
tinctively, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight while he tried to regain his balance.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Slave shouted over the wind.

  ‘I am fine,’ Kirri yelled. ‘Put me down!’

  Slave lowered her to the ground. Even with her bulky layers of clothes, she was slight, but Slave could not feel anything of her body beneath them. Her eyes, the only part of her face that was visible, glared at him with an expression he could not hope to read. She tugged at her yok with mittened hands before taking two struggling steps away from him. Slave watched her as she continued to strive, leaning into the wind, walking south-east with the tribe. He shook his head and tried not to think about Waarde standing naked beneath the sheltering trees, and then lying torn and bloody on the frozen ground. His hand sought the outline of the Claw where it lay, safely tucked beneath his own layers of clothes. Something like hatred stirred before he took his hand away and focused on fighting against the wind.

  Just before the sun gave up its battle against the clouds, a cry cut across the wind. Everyone stopped and several men made their way to where a man was waving his pick in the air excitedly. A crowd gathered around him quickly. Vasilis joined them and was admitted into the middle of the crowd.

  ‘What is that all about?’ Slave asked Kirri.

  ‘Jalmar might have found mangase,’ Kirri said.

  ‘And if he has?’

  ‘We set camp here. Mangase is always found in patches.’

  Vasilis strode back towards the circle of horses, holding something above his head.

  ‘Now we see,’ Kirri said quietly. In her excitement, she had moved close and was gripping his arm. Slave looked down at her, but she was too focused on the unfolding events to notice. Vasilis carried the stone to where the oldest man in the tribe was sitting on a horse — the only person to be riding. When Vasilis stood beside the horse, brandishing the stone, the old man slowly dismounted. He shook uncontrollably; his hands, legs and head all seemed to be wobbling of their own accord. Vasilis had to help him down from the horse and then support the old man as he guided him to a large, thick blanket laid on the frozen ground.