Scarred Man

by Bevan McGuiness

  With much trembling and unsteadiness, the old man was helped down onto the blanket. When he was settled, a small brazier was lit and placed in front of him. The stone was laid reverently in his shaking hands.

  ‘Who is that?’ Slave asked. He found himself caught up in the tension of the moment as the whole tribe focused intently on the shaking man.

  ‘Sisu; he will decide whether it is mangase.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Shhh, just watch.’

  In spite of his uncontrolled shaking, Sisu managed to wrestle the stone into a heavy ceramic bowl and began pounding on it with a solid hammer. Even though most of his blows missed both the stone and the bowl, no one stepped up to help him. After an excruciating length of time, during which Slave felt his feet going numb and Kirri’s hand tightening on his arm, the old man put the hammer aside.

  Kirri’s grip became claw-like and Slave looked down at her again. It seemed that she had stopped breathing as she watched Sisu take up a pinch of the powder he had chipped off the stone and sprinkle it into the flame. A sigh went through the tribe as the flame turned brilliant green for a moment.

  ‘A good sign,’ Sisu called in a surprisingly strong voice. ‘Often the green flame comes first.’

  He reached down and took up a second pinch of powder. Theatrically, he sprinkled the powder into the flame. The tribe burst into shouts and cheers as the flame went distinctly yellow-green. Kirri leapt up and threw her arms around Slave exuberantly.

  ‘We will cast a shadow here and harvest,’ Kirri told him. ‘If this is a good harvest we will head to Leserlang to trade.’ Her face was close to his and their eyes met. In her eyes, Slave could see his own face reflected. The silver orb seemed to be glowing softly with its own light. Afraid of what that might presage, he pushed Kirri away and stepped back from her. She stared at him as though he had struck her before turning to begin setting camp. Slave watched her go before seeking out Vasilis to offer what help he could.

  The wind was less as they heaved the leather tent up over the wooden supports but it still caught at the shelter, sending it snapping and whipping about. It took all of Slave’s strength to hold his end steady while others laced it into place. The cague flock was herded into the lee of the tent where they continued their never-ending foraging. By the time the camp was set and everyone was safely inside, it was well after dark. Slave looked around for Kirri and saw she was deeply involved in a conversation with some other women. He was unsure what he should do. He felt that he needed to speak with her, but was not sure why. Something nagged at him, yet he did not understand what. He toyed with interrupting her, but the group of women looked closed and unwelcoming.

  A hand grasped his shoulder. Slave looked around sharply to see Vasilis offering him a handful of hardened cague milk.

  ‘You work well, Slave,’ Vasilis said. ‘Tomorrow, I will show you how to harvest the mangase — then you will know real work.’

  Slave nodded and accepted the unappetising morsel. ‘Where do I sleep?’ he asked. With Kirri leaving him alone, he realised he had no bed of his own.

  Vasilis frowned. ‘I will see to a bed roll. You can unroll it and sleep wherever you please. But,’ he added, ‘I would stay away from the edge of the natona until you get used to the cold.’

  ‘Used to the cold? Where do you think I slept before I met you?’

  Vasilis considered this. ‘Fair enough. Sleep where you want.’ He began to walk away but Slave grabbed his arm.

  ‘What manner of magic was that?’

  ‘Magic?’

  ‘The old man, Sisu. What manner of magic did he do?’

  ‘Old magic. Magic that dates back to before the Eleven Kingdoms. Wild magic that only we who live free of the kingdoms understand.’

  ‘So you don’t know, then.’

  ‘You, Slave,’ Vasilis stabbed a bony finger into his chest, ‘are too clever for your own good. I think I should either start confiding in you, or put you outside to freeze.’ He gave a lopsided grin as he spoke, as if to soften his words, but Slave was unsure what to believe — the words or the face. ‘Find a place,’ Vasilis continued. ‘I will send a blanket to you.’

  The ‘blanket’ was a large fur-lined bag, stitched on three sides. Slave unrolled it and slid into it. Inside, he felt warmer than he had in many days. So warm, in fact, that after a while he removed some of his outer layers of clothing. Sleep came slowly, but was deep and comfortable when it arrived.

  He was awakened by the noise of people starting their day. Now that he was away from Kirri, he was more aware of the others — their sounds, their smells, their looks and their hushed words. There was no anger in their eyes now, but still there was distrust. He clambered out of his bag and pulled on his yok before joining the slow movement towards the door that would take them out into the brutal cold.

  The sun shone weakly in a pale blue sky. The wind had almost died, leaving the morning crisp and clear. Slave’s breath steamed out, white and billowing. Ahead was a large cauldron hanging over a fire. Jaan, the cook, was ladling out food into everyone’s leather bowls. When it was Slave’s turn Jaan gave him a spare bowl. Slave took the steaming meal and walked away to eat alone. The soup was thick, rich with meat and fat. Warmth spread throughout his body as he ate.

  ‘Ready to earn that meal?’ Vasilis asked.

  Slave finished the soup and held Vasilis’s eye. ‘Show me how.’

  Vasilis handed Slave a short-handled, heavy pick. The handle was wood, the head some kind of dark metal. Slave hefted it, his mind going instinctively to its effectiveness as a weapon. Close-quarters, obviously. Too heavy, too short for subtle work. Body blows mainly. This in the right hand, the Claw in the left, close grappling. Nice. Claw over the top, this thing coming in from underneath. Very nice. How about this coming over the top, using its weight on the skull with the Claw slashing up through the gut? He practised wielding it, using his wrist and shoulder to control its naturally clumsy feel.

  ‘It’s not a weapon, Slave.’

  Slave gave Vasilis a steely gaze. ‘Everything is a weapon, Vasilis.’

  Vasilis shuddered and stepped back. ‘Let me show you how to use it properly first.’

  ‘You have never fought with it?’

  ‘Out here, you run first.’

  ‘Why?’

  Vasilis shook his head. ‘Talk later. Daylight is short and we need every moment.’

  The work was easy enough, if tedious and back-breaking. Vasilis’s instructions were similarly simple. Mangase lumps were to be found under the ice layer, so the pick was used to break the ice then lever the sheet up. The heavy metal head was used like a spike, shoved into the hard earth and stirred around until it hit something else metallic. At this point, digging took over and the object was harvested. Any mangase was stored in a sack that dangled from a hook sewed into every yok. Now that the tribe had set camp, just about every man, woman and child was out scouring the ground for the elusive little rocks. Even those who did not carry the picks sat on heavy blankets in the sun and scrabbled in the dirt.

  Slave walked away from the natona and selected a patch of ground that was not near where anyone else was working. At first, he randomly attacked the ice at his feet, but he quickly saw how the others worked systematically around the natona. He recognised the efficiency in the method and adopted the same approach.

  By the time the sun reached its peak, he had explored an area about twice his height by roughly half that. He had found a patch of tough lichen and several brown rocks, but no mangase. The cague had apparently smelt the lichen and he was buffeted by several of the hardy beasts as they devoured the morsels he had uncovered for them. Slave straightened up and stretched his complaining back. He looked towards where the rest of the tribe were working around the natona. A number of them caught his eye and nodded a greeting. He returned the gesture, unsure what it meant after the way he had been regarded earlier.

  There was no break in the day’s toil until the sun slid down towar
ds the horizon. Mercifully, the wind had been light all day, barely rising above a breeze. Slave stood stiffly and patted the pouch at his side. He had found three lumps of what he thought was mangase during the day. By the entrance to the natona, a child held out a larger leather bowl into which every likely find was dumped, to be examined later by Sisu.

  Slave dropped his three finds and walked on past, following his nose to the evening meal. It was another rich soup and he ate with hunger and enjoyment. His body ached from the day’s labours, muscles protesting at the unaccustomed exertions.

  ‘Good day?’ a voice asked.

  Slave put down his bowl and regarded the speaker. It was a man, so weather-beaten and wind-blown his age was impossible to tell, but the hardness in his face and steel in his eyes suggested a mature harvester.

  ‘Three,’ Slave said, guessing at the man’s inquiry.

  ‘Amatios,’ the man said, offering his hand. Slave slapped it and offered his own to be slapped in return. ‘Three is good.’

  ‘You?’

  Amatios shook his head. ‘Only one, and I’m not sure about it.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Tomorrow’s harvest will be better.’

  ‘How long will we stay here?’

  ‘As long as the harvest continues. Then we shift our shadow.’ Amatios gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘It’s how it is.’

  ‘How far is Leserlang?’

  Amatios looked up into the darkening sky and pointed to the south. ‘Twenty days’ travel, that way.’

  ‘On a horse?’

  ‘Ten.’

  The first gust of a strengthening wind stirred their clothes and brought the smell of ice. Amatios wrapped his yok tighter and grunted as he walked away. Slave followed him back inside the natona and sought out his bed. Kirri was sitting cross-legged beside it. She looked up at him with an unreadable expression as he approached.

  ‘Good harvest?’ she asked.

  ‘Three.’

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘A good harvest.’

  ‘Is it? I don’t know about such things.’

  Kirri rose to her feet. ‘Are you still well?’

  Slave nodded. ‘I’m a little stiff after the day, but my wounds are healed. Thank you.’

  Kirri opened her mouth as if to say something before snapping it closed again and walking away. Slave watched her weave her way through the tribe without looking back. Like all of the tribe, she was dark-skinned with dark brown hair and deep, almost black eyes. Yet even when nearly to the other side, past all the others, she was easily visible due to the unusual streak of pale hair that hung from the crown of her head to below her shoulders.

  ‘Bad case,’ a woman said. ‘Worst I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘What?’ Slave asked, startled by both the words and the voice.

  ‘Virginity. She’s had it a long time and it needs to be treated soon or it will be with her all her life.’

  Slave frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I noticed that.’ The woman shifted her gaze up to regard Slave. ‘You don’t understand much, do you?’

  Slave felt anger prickle at the insult. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Kirri is not subtle, but you! You make a cague look quick.’

  Stupid woman! Leave me alone.

  Slave grunted as if he accepted the gibe and understood what it was about. He looked away from her and prepared for sleep. She sniffed and walked away, muttering under her breath. He could only make out a few words over the low rumble of people preparing for sleep: ‘… deserve each other …’

  11

  The Arch of the Shamed was an ancient structure, left behind from an earlier people, long since disappeared from the world. Before the Eleven Kingdoms, many such peoples roamed the world. Only scattered remnants were left, such as the Arch of the Shamed. Its true purpose was long forgotten, but the Readers had turned the simple structure into something dark.

  It consisted of three huge stones, one lying across two that stood as high as three men. When someone angered the Readers, a new metal cage was built and hung from the top stone with the condemned person sealed inside, left to die. There was no lock, no opening; each cage was a coffin from which there was no hope of escape.

  The icy wind cut through him like a sword, shocking him into wakefulness.

  Keshik jerked sharply, his arm jamming hard against one of the heavy bars of his cage. He grunted in pain, but the harsh reality of his situation washed the momentary injury from his mind. His cage swung slightly, two or three paces above the ground. He gripped the bars and shook with all his strength, but they did not budge. All he accomplished was to increase his swing.

  ‘That’s it, use up your strength,’ croaked a voice. Keshik looked around quickly.

  At the far end of the horizontal top stone hung another cage containing a man obviously close to death. He was shrivelled, hunched over as far as the cage would allow him. One arm dangled limply through the iron bars.

  ‘The more you use now, the shorter your time will be,’ the voice went on.

  ‘Who are you?’ Keshik asked.

  ‘I am dead, like you. But unlike you, I die with less adornment.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The limp arm gestured towards a point below Keshik’s cage. Keshik strained to look down. Hanging by chains so that they just touched the ground, were his swords. Hope appeared. If he could somehow reach them! The magical blade might even be effective against the bars.

  ‘Forget it,’ the other man said. ‘You cannot even move in that thing, let alone reach down and drag them up.’

  But Keshik had to try.

  He tried to kneel, but there was not enough space around his knees. He tried to lean over, but his torso could not move. He thrust his arm out between the bars, but could not reach down far enough. The frustration of his swords being so close, yet utterly unreachable, was so strong as to be almost a physical sensation. His struggles set his cage swinging again. The cage was not quite high enough for him to stand upright. It left him half crouching with his knees pressed against the bars and his head bowed, resting on the cage. Already he was uncomfortable — in time this position would be agonising.

  ‘Good, exhaustion is faster and so much better than thirst,’ the other man said.

  ‘You fool,’ Keshik snapped. ‘When did you give up on life?’

  ‘About two days ago,’ he replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That is a long story.’

  Keshik needed to plan. If this old idiot prattled on it would give him time to think. ‘I’m not going anywhere at the moment,’ Keshik said. ‘Tell me.’

  The other man coughed, a dry rasping sound that ended with a gurgling sigh.

  ‘Varuun,’ the man muttered. ‘Mighty Varuun, rescue me from this torment.’

  Keshik grunted as he systematically applied whatever force he could to the joins at each end of the cage.

  ‘You know the name, I see,’ the other man said. ‘In that case I shall tell you more. My name is Enst. I was a Reader’s assistant. Very keen I was, very dedicated. I helped my Reader in his research into ancient texts. He studied the old languages, especially the ones from before the Time of the Wastes. There were seven of them, did you know? Before the Eleven Kingdoms there were the Seven Wastes presided over by the great Powers and their families — races enslaved by them to do their bidding and carry on their internecine battles. The two greatest families were the Scarens and the Mertians. Over time, they and their Powers threw down all the others, leaving only them in the world.’ He howled. Like a wolf with a broken back, he yowled and screamed. Banging his head against the iron bars he gave voice to his despair. He pounded at the unyielding cage until the blood flowed freely down his face.

  Abruptly, he stopped, leaving his head pressed against the cage. Something like a bubbling sigh escaped his bloodied lips. For a while he remained motionless and silent, his blood dripping slowly onto the cold ground where it joined the other stains. Keshik continued working his way aroun
d the joins of his cage, ignoring the dying man.

  ‘My daughter,’ Enst suddenly cried out.

  Keshik looked up, hoping to see a woman approaching, but he could see no one, only the open plains, grey and windswept. He stared in the direction of the ugly walls of Leserlang, but there was no one approaching.

  ‘What do you mean, your daughter?’ Keshik demanded. ‘I see no one.’

  ‘She came to me, bringing me water only two days ago.’

  ‘And will she come again?’

  ‘No, she will not. This is why I give up hope.’

  Keshik grunted again, dismissing the old man’s ramblings. If no one was coming to help, it was, as usual, only himself he could rely upon. He went back to his examination of the cage.

  ‘Why did you do that, child?’ Enst cried out. ‘I would have died but for your kindness. I would have been spared this torment but for you! Why did you send me this pain?’ His cries faltered, weakened, stumbled once again into gurgles.

  Enst stayed silent for so long, Keshik started to believe the man had finally died, but as the sun dipped to the horizon and the chill wind brought the scent of distant ice, he jerked, spasming, gasping in pain.

  ‘Fair Lys, you wanted to help, but paid such a great price. Even the Varuun itself would not have demanded such payment.’ Enst sighed before going on. ‘Who has done this thing? Who unleashed this evil upon us all again? The Varuun is old, its powers diminished, its followers decayed and depraved. I fear even they cannot prevail.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Keshik demanded. The temperature had dropped alarmingly with the increasing wind. The sky was clouding over as the sunlight faded. A storm was building. Out here, so exposed, so vulnerable, Keshik was feeling doubt. He might not survive the night. He needed to stay alert. Perhaps conversation would help.