Scarred Man

by Bevan McGuiness

  ‘Done what thing?’ he said.

  ‘Released the Revenant,’ Enst said.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The great Revenant, the ancient evil that drove the Scarens to insanity, is abroad again. Can’t you feel it? The earth beneath its feet groans in pain. Someone has stolen into its prison and released it upon us once more. Without the Mertians, without the Varuun — curse its black name — we will all fall beneath its chaos.’

  A chill that went deeper than the wind shook Keshik.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  Enst threw back his head and howled again. His screams went on and on, ringing out across the vast plains. At first Keshik thought he was screaming in incoherent madness, but he soon realised there were words buried in the screams.

  ‘… arise from the madness … bringing chaos … the Scarred Man will come before … the Eye … she must have the Eye … the Eye … the Eye …’ He went on screaming for the Eye until darkness covered the plains.

  With the dark came Enst’s silence and Yatil rising in the east. The Big Sister cast an eerie light over the plains. Under her glow the flying dust vanished, to be replaced with writhing wind seemingly made visible. The air danced crazily as it surged across the open land, intent on bringing the cold wastes with it. Keshik stared at the wind, watching as impossible shapes formed within its dance. He saw monsters from legend, people he had killed, women he had loved before Maida, fellow Swordmasters of Tulugma, then Maida and a strangely familiar feline beast. They wheeled and spun, whirling across the barren wastes of the north, carrying with them their own stories. Each shape seemed to bear a tale, a history that had to be told but would no longer be spoken. A flash of light drew Keshik’s eyes up to where he saw, towering above them, a massive dark shape. Red eyes glowed deep within the shape, staring down at … Enst. Keshik twisted around to face the dying man. Enst stirred, as if sensing the monstrous attention, and screamed.

  A huge taloned hand reached towards Enst. It seemed to pass through the bars and drag out the hapless man’s soul. The translucent image of Enst struggled and cried out as he was lifted into the sky, level with the creature’s eyes. A low mumble carried over the wind, as if the looming shape was speaking to Enst. The man stopped screaming and hung limp. The muttered speech continued for a long time. Keshik could not make out any words, but the sound carried malevolence that he had never before known. His skin tingled and crawled as the foul speech washed over him. He clamped his eyes shut and whispered his dofain, but the words felt weak in the face of this ancient malice.

  With his eyes shut, the images he had seen in the wind burst into life in his imagination. He relived so many battles, so much blood; so many men and women dead by his blades; his own shameful exile. Maida, so cruelly taken from her family, stared out at him from the darkness, her eyes black and unfathomable. Keshik jerked back, slamming his head into the bars of his cage as the scarred face of the fiend who had killed her leered out of the darkness.

  He opened his eyes to stare at the ghostly figure of the Scarred Man who had fought with the enchanted weapon and a berserk fury Keshik had only heard of. The spinning, three-bladed Claw hung beside the dark face. Keshik considered the face for the first time. He had never seen that colouring or those eyes on any living man. He decided the silver orb was not natural and concentrated on the other eye. In a moment of clarity he remembered where he had read about that colouring.

  The shock was enough to send his tortured mind over the edge of control into screaming. Images from his past replaced those of his present while he spiralled ever closer into madness. Only his lifelong training and mental discipline kept him from losing his mind entirely.

  SO, KESHIK, IT IS YOU AGAIN, a voice exploded into his mind.

  Keshik opened his eyes and looked up, against his will, into the leering eyes that bored down into his. They were huge and red, and behind them danced three tiny motes of blue light. He had seen those lights before.

  YOU NEED HAVE NO FEAR OF ME, SWORDMASTER.

  Who, what, are you? Keshik barely thought the words, but they seemed to float out from him, hanging visible in the swirling air before him.

  I? I AM WHAT YOU FREED. YOU GAVE ME TO THAT WEAKLING SONDELLE. HE SOUGHT TO TEST HIS STRENGTH AGAINST MINE. A sound like a surge of malevolent laughter swept over Keshik. HE FAILED AND DIED, OF COURSE. There was a pause. Keshik, lost in the vast eyes, the inhuman presence, had no idea how long it was, but eventually, the voice erupted in his mind again.

  YOU ARE NOT TULUGMA, BUT YOU FIGHT LIKE HIM.

  Even though he had no desire to speak with this thing, Keshik could not prevent himself thinking the question. Tulugma? You know him?

  I DID. BUT HE SHOULD BE LONG DEAD BY YOUR FEEBLE LIVES.

  Keshik felt tendrils of consciousness reach into his memories, rummaging around as one might in a box of clothes. Snatches of his past, thrown violently aside by the questing fingers, flashed once more by him until the prying stopped at the gates of the Tulugma Kuriltai, the great training hall where all swordsmen were instructed in the great warrior’s ways.

  Keshik was dragged back to the day when, as a boy, he presented himself, brash and arrogant, at the black iron gates demanding entrance.

  The young man at the gate looked down on the small ragged boy with what Keshik later realised was good-humoured friendliness, but at the time he had believed it to be patronising disdain.

  ‘I will learn to be a great fighter,’ Keshik proclaimed.

  ‘Why?’ the guard asked.

  Instead of answering, Keshik drew his stolen sword and attacked the young man, garnering his first lesson in swordsmanship and his first scar. By the time the embarrassing lesson was done, Keshik had realised two things: never underestimate an opponent, and his desire to be a great warrior.

  The brutal tendrils invading his mind continued their intrusions into his past, barely pausing as they took Keshik through the long days, so many long days of harsh discipline, training and final achievement of the status of Swordmaster. Even after he left the Kuriltai to seek his own way in the world, as most did, his forced recollection skipped over the fights, the victories, the killings until he stopped at the day he met Maida. Long buried images tore again at him, bringing with them the anguish, the delicious agony of love.

  The icy wind raging down from the Sixth Waste over the tundra … his sturdy horse … the unexpected scream that somehow cut across the wind … the decision to rise in his saddle, draw his swords and attack … the swirling yet rigidly controlled chaos that was a jagun — a standard Tulugma attack pattern … his cry of challenge as he plunged into the melee … the flash of red hair … savagery as he cut down the attackers … so much blood, so many dead … Maida clinging to his blood-soaked jerkin as he rode her away from the wreckage of her old life, her hysterical tears washing the blood away …

  … standing before the Kuriltai Tumen to answer the unanswerable — killing fellow Tulugma warriors — he offered no defence save that the jagun was deployed against a peaceful family group.

  Of course it was to no avail. While it was common for Tulugma warriors to face each other in battle when they were employed by opposing sides fighting their own war, to kill a fellow warrior without being engaged to do so was unforgivable. The only possible outcome was exile, expulsion from the order, a life spent away from the Kuriltai, never again welcome behind the iron gates. Condemned to a life as a kabutat — a night guard. Alone, without his home, Keshik was left to wander the Eleven Kingdoms, a rootless vagabond with only his dofain and his skills.

  And Maida.

  TULUGMA TAUGHT YOU WELL, SWORDMASTER KESHIK. KIELEVINENROHKIMAINEN WILL NOT FEED FROM YOU. I HAVE OTHERS WHO NEED MY ATTENTION.

  And the other consciousness was gone, leaving Keshik alone in the utter black of night, staring into the wind, breathing in the scent of the Sixth Waste.

  12

  It was a good patch of mangase and the Kuvnos harvested for six days. Slave was given the fi
rst piece he found in a simple ritual on the second morning. Vasilis had kept it aside from the sorting, drilled a hole in it and threaded a leather thong through. That it was worth a great deal of money as well as signifying his membership of the Kuvnos gave Slave a lot to think about. He put it from his mind as he worked at harvesting the little pieces of rock that would bring him closer to Leserlang.

  ‘Slave,’ a voice grunted.

  ‘Tynos,’ Slave replied.

  ‘You harvest well,’ the older man observed.

  Slave said nothing.

  ‘We are close to having enough to sell in Leserlang.’

  Slave continued to wait for this man to say something that might need a response.

  ‘Vasilis told you we run first out here, not stand and fight?’

  ‘Yar.’

  ‘You see the sunlight in Lac’u?’ Tynos asked, surprise in his voice.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘You’re either from Lac’u or not. It’s not something to guess at.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Slave wondered again at this need people had to know where you were from, and who your ancestors were. Ancestors are dead, what do they have to do with anything?

  ‘We run because Vasilis is a coward.’

  ‘A coward, or prudent?’

  ‘A coward,’ Tynos assured him. ‘What do you know about mangase?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  ‘It’s a hard metal. When you mix it with steel in the right proportions, it makes the steel harder and stronger. It holds a better edge for longer, and rusts slower.’

  ‘Can you make this “steel” with it?’

  Slave shook his head. ‘But I have read about the process. It doesn’t seem that difficult.’

  ‘What else do you know about it?’

  ‘It’s very valuable.’

  Tynos squinted, exaggerating the peculiar half-hooded look all the Kuvnos had, presumably from Crossings of staring into the screaming winds. ‘How valuable?’

  Slave pulled his own piece from where it lay, nestled beneath his borrowed yok. ‘This is worth about a month’s wages for a skilled worker, maybe two, depending on its purity.’

  Tynos whistled. ‘That’s a lot more than we get for it. We would get maybe that much for our whole harvest.’

  ‘You need to bargain harder.’

  ‘Vasilis can’t even do that.’

  When Slave did not respond, Tynos grunted and walked away. Slave watched him go, wondering what the conversation had meant. He had no doubt the conversation was significant, but he knew he did not understand people well yet.

  Every day from then on, the older man, sometimes with other men, just happened to walk past Slave as he harvested. They always talked quietly about Vasilis, mangase, the prosperity of the Kuvnos and innocently — it seemed — they managed to steer the conversation around to Slave’s skills. Slave knew he did not understand people, and the subtleties of this kind of interaction escaped him, but he was not stupid. The men, especially Tynos, were up to something and he was central to it. He didn’t like it, but he also didn’t know what to do about it.

  By the end of the sixth day, no more mangase had been found and the area around the natona had been dug for many paces out in every direction. Even under the natona’s shelter, the ground had been explored by those who did not go out to dig during the day. The talk around the Kuvnos as he stood in line for his evening meal was that Vasilis would be calling to shift their shadow in the morning.

  Since the first night, Slave had found Kirri confusing. At some times she was friendly and close, at others she was abrupt and distant. After a day of this, Slave gave up trying to work it out and just focused on his harvest. He found ten promising pieces after his first, six of which were mangase. A total, he discovered, that was regarded as a good harvest, earning him a level of respect within the Kuvnos.

  ‘Slave.’

  The voice jarred, jolting him out of his normal reverie. He looked around to see Amatios standing beside him.

  ‘Vasilis wants to see you after you’ve eaten.’

  ‘Where?’

  Amatios jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where Vasilis stood in deep conversation with two other men. As if he sensed Slave’s gaze upon him, the solpon of the Kuvnos looked up and stared back. His expression was sombre but he nodded a greeting as he gestured for Slave to approach.

  The other men fell silent as Slave drew near. He recognised them as Tynos and Hue, both men whose words were listened to. Their expressions did not change when Slave stood in front of them.

  ‘You wanted to speak with me?’

  Vasilis scratched at his stubbled chin as he regarded Slave intently. ‘You have harvested with us, rested in our shadow and walked with us, sharing our warmth,’ he said with the intonations of ritual. ‘But you are not trusted.’

  Slave said nothing, wondering where this was heading. The silence persisted as Vasilis waited for Slave’s response. Finally, he sighed.

  ‘I forget, you don’t know our traditions. You don’t know what to say next, do you?’

  Slave shook his head slowly.

  Vasilis looked about to say more when Hue placed his hand on his solpon’s arm, silencing him.

  ‘We do not have time for this,’ Hue hissed.

  Vasilis grunted and shook Hue’s hand off. ‘We move our shadow today,’ he growled. ‘I say what we have time for.’

  Hue stepped back and lowered his head in acceptance of Vasilis’s words. Slave watched him, noting the hardness in his eye, the set of his mouth.

  You are dangerous, he realised. He had seen looks like that on the hard fighters Sondelle had sent against him during the long darkness of his training.

  ‘Slave,’ Vasilis spoke, making Slave look sharply away from Hue. ‘We are moving our shadow today, but I am still not sure about you.’

  Slave said nothing, preferring to wait for Vasilis to continue.

  ‘It is our tradition that only members of the tribe can travel with us beyond one shift of our shadow. We have already shifted once, and it is time to decide whether we accept you into the tribe or cast you out.’ Vasilis shot the glowering Hue a hard stare before going on. ‘Hue believes you are a dangerous man who does not belong with us. He would have you cast out here and now, but I am not so sure.’

  When Slave continued to stare impassively without speaking, Vasilis sighed again and went on.

  ‘What do you want, Slave?’ he asked.

  Slave simply shook his head. He did not know what to say even though he was sure this was important.

  ‘Stay with us, or leave?’ Vasilis pressed.

  ‘Stay, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I … am not sure. My path leads to Leserlang, where I need to learn about something dangerous. Our paths seem to both be heading there. It would be better for me to travel with you.’

  ‘Dangerous? How?’

  ‘Something happened at the Place of the Acolytes. I think the answer is in Leserlang.’

  ‘The Place? What do you know about that?’

  ‘What did I say, Vasilis?’ Hue burst out. ‘He is dangerous and this proves it.’

  Vasilis rounded on the man with eyes blazing. ‘Do not interfere with this! I will decide.’ He returned his gaze to Slave. ‘Tell me about what happened at the Place.’

  ‘It was attacked and destroyed by an army of Duregs.’

  ‘Duregs?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’d heard about the Place being attacked, but not about the Duregs.’

  Slave shrugged. What Vasilis did or didn’t know was not of interest to him. In fact the whole conversation had become less interesting. He was becoming impatient, bored with Vasilis’s ignorance, and started to look around at the rest of the tribe as they went about the business of preparing to leave. Obviously, despite the fact that Vasilis had not yet called for the move, everyone knew about it. He allowed his gaze to roam over the milling tribe, watching them go about their tasks.

>   ‘Don’t ignore me when I am speaking to you!’ Vasilis snapped.

  Slave sensed the swing of Vasilis’s arm a moment before the blow would have landed. His reaction was instinctive and fast. He moved his head back to avoid the swinging hand, grabbing the wrist as it went past. He jerked hard downwards, forcing Vasilis to overbalance completely. As he dropped to his knees, Slave wrenched the arm back. The combination of Vasilis’s own momentum and Slave’s savage force ripped the elbow apart. The crack of bone and ligament was drowned by Vasilis’s sudden scream of agony.

  ‘Ice and wind!’ Slave gasped. He released the ruin that was Vasilis’s right arm and backed away. ‘I didn’t mean to do that, I just reacted when you swung at me.’

  ‘He didn’t hit you,’ Hue said.

  ‘He was going to.’

  ‘Fast. I’ve never seen anyone move that fast,’ said Tynos, apparently unconcerned by the shrieking man at his feet. He stared almost dreamily at Slave. ‘I think we’ve found a new solpon,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ asked Slave.

  Tynos gestured down to where Vasilis screamed on the ground, clutching at his destroyed arm. The rest of the tribe had stopped to stare, most of them apparently unsure what to do. A number of younger men were fingering weapons, but no one was moving, no one seemed ready to act, as if waiting for a command.

  ‘Our solpon has always been chosen on strength and the ability to lead us. Vasilis obviously has neither now.’ He drew his harvesting pick and struck down hard on Vasilis’s head, cutting off the screams instantly. ‘Solpon,’ he said as he rose, addressing Slave. ‘Shall we move our shadow now?’

  Stunned, Slave could not respond, staring down at Vasilis’s dead body. His own responsibility for this senseless death weighed down on him already.

  ‘Solpon?’ Tynos repeated. ‘Do we move our shadow?’