Keshik suddenly realised he did care what Slave thought. For some incomprehensible reason, he — Keshik, Tulugma Swordmaster, known, respected, feared, by warriors throughout the world, cast out by his own as kabutat — wanted this man’s approval.
The thought rocked him to his core. He had not sought another’s approval since the day he had presented himself at the Tulugma Kuriltai, yet he was seeking it from an unnamed vagabond who stank of rotting blood.
How could this be?
The reason, when it came, was as galling as it was unavoidable: this stinking vagabond with a stolen horse and borrowed clothes had fought him, and lived. He had killed Maida, and he lived. And more, he bore neither wounds nor memory of the event. Slave had beaten him. He had something, something that gave him victory, and that earned him Keshik’s respect.
‘Ice and wind!’ Keshik muttered. He did not want to respect this man. He wanted to kill him for what he had done. Yet he had given his bond that he would not, and now he owed him his life for rescuing him from the cage. A surge of frustrated anger swept through him and he pounded his thigh with his fist.
Slave glanced around, looked at Keshik’s thigh, his eyebrows curved quizzically, and then he looked back at the grey walls of Leserlang. They continued in silence to the gates, but before they reached them, Keshik saw signs that all was not as it should be.
The slow-moving gathering of people seeking entrance was gone, for one thing. Slave led the horse unhindered up to the gate along a deserted road. The gate stood open, unguarded, while soldiers lay dead nearby. Beyond, the street was littered with debris: broken household items; tatters of clothes; a child’s toy. The wind swept along the deserted street, picking up and turning over bits and pieces like a customer at a market stall. Birds fluttered, also picking over the remnants, while here and there, small rodents scurried about.
‘Is it always like this?’ Slave asked.
Keshik stared, unable to comprehend the sight before him. He numbly shook his head. ‘It should be busy, people moving about,’ he said.
They passed through the open gateway and on into the deserted street. The sound of the horse’s hooves echoed back from the walls. Every door was closed, every window was either shuttered or had curtains pulled tight across them. Narrow tendrils of smoke rose uncertainly from several chimneys, before being snatched away by the wind.
Somewhere, a child cried. The sound was quickly silenced.
‘Not deserted,’ Slave observed.
‘No — locked down.’
Slave did not respond, just undid the front of his stinking coat and pulled out his Warrior’s Claw. He did it without looking or, apparently, thinking about it. The whole movement seemed as though he was unaware he had done it. Keshik shuddered as he remembered the feral insanity, the berserk fury with which this man had killed Maida, Tristan and everyone else that night back in Vogel. He had battled two Tulugma Swordmasters and prevailed. Keshik’s hand gripped the hilt of the sorcerous blade Sondelle had given him as he whispered his dofain.
They continued farther into the eerily silent city, seeing everywhere the signs of either hurried flight or fearful hiding behind closed doors. There were a couple of places where dead soldiers or guards lay in the street. Out of the corner of his eye, Keshik saw faces, peering out from curtains quickly pulled back again when he turned to look. Not one person shared the streets with them as they made their cautious way to the Ruthia. Keshik kept alert for any indication of where he and Maida had been taken, any sign of an opening into the underground lair of Alberrich.
A waft of smoke caught in his throat. Something was burning, something that was not wood. He drew the scent in deeply, coughing as the smoke entered his lungs. Slave, also sniffing the air, looked around sharply.
‘Human,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
Slave simply nodded and pointed ahead. ‘More than one. As well as something else.’
Keshik sniffed again, but beyond the smell of burning flesh, he could not identify what Slave had noticed. He swung his leg over the saddle and slid down onto the ground. With both his swords in his hands and his feet firmly planted, he felt better.
Slave waited until Keshik was ready before continuing. Around them, the blank walls of closed houses and places of business loomed high, enclosing them, leaving only a thin strip of grey sky visible overhead.
Around another corner, they came across a smoking pile of bodies. The fire had long since burned out, leaving behind little more than bones. Keshik hissed in surprise and went to approach, but Slave grabbed his arm and wrenched him back. He was about to complain when Slave gestured with his Claw beyond the pyre to where a small group of men stood waiting with bows drawn.
The armed men were mainly civilians with one or two who wore what looked like the torn remains of uniforms. They stood motionless, watching Slave and Keshik. A shift in the wind brought a new scent to Keshik.
‘Trap!’ he cried as the first arrows sliced through the air from above them.
Slave dived forward. Several arrows shattered into the road where he had stood. Keshik slipped easily into battle focus, concentrating on the arrows aimed at him. His swords scythed the air, destroying shaft after shaft, sending splinters tumbling harmlessly to the ground. So intense was his concentration, he barely heard the sudden shouts, followed by screams from behind the pyre.
The rain of arrows stopped as suddenly as it began. Keshik slowly lowered his blades. He could not see any movement in the windows or on the roofs above.
‘Slave,’ he called without taking his eyes off the windows. There was no response. ‘Slave,’ he repeated. He risked a glance along the street to see what had happened.
What he saw made him gasp. In the few moments since the arrows had started, Slave had charged the group of armed men and killed them all. He crouched in front of a scene of carnage as if badly injured. Blood was pooled around his feet, splashed up the walls and spattered all over him. Before him lay savagely hacked bodies. Keshik had never seen such mayhem caused by one man, so quickly.
No wonder they stopped firing. Seeing that, they’ve fled, if they have any sense at all. Where did Slave learn such skills?
Cold fingers of doubt touched Keshik’s soul — just how deadly was Slave? For so long, Keshik had strutted, confident that a Swordmaster of Tulugma could deal with any one warrior, and several at once if need be. But this ragged, nameless vagabond was better than he was.
Slave did not move, even when Keshik gripped his shoulder. He stayed crouching, perfectly balanced, staring down at the blood that dripped from his Claw.
‘They’re all dead, Slave,’ Keshik said. ‘Time to move on. There might be others.’
Slave shrugged. The movement was so slight Keshik was only aware of it because he was holding the shoulder as it moved.
‘They have all fled,’ Slave whispered. He raised the Claw, already gleaming clean, to his face as if examining it for the first time. ‘They saw what I did, and fled.’
Keshik grinned. ‘Wise decision.’
Slave did not respond for so long that Keshik became concerned. He shook Slave’s shoulder.
‘We should move on. Get to the Ruthia.’
‘They did not deserve this,’ Slave muttered, still looking down at the bodies at his feet. ‘I could have spared them.’
‘Would they have spared us?’
‘I don’t know. I never gave them a chance.’
‘They took that risk when they threatened someone they didn’t know. They knew what they were doing.’
Slave lapsed again into silence, apparently lost in contemplation of the violence he had wrought. Keshik sighed.
‘Where is the Ruthia?’ Slave asked.
Keshik gestured with his sword. ‘That way.’
Slave rose and walked away without another word. Keshik followed.
Leserlang was not deserted, nor were its inhabitants preparing to flee; they were all, apparently, barricaded behind their closed door
s and windows to wait out whatever had happened. Keshik had never known anything like this. He had seen towns invaded and sacked — been in the invading armies on occasion — but always the common people were victims. To have them apparently safe while the streets were cleared and soldiers killed was disconcerting.
The Ruthia, the city within a city, huddled behind its walls. Locked down, it hid itself from whatever had happened to the rest of Leserlang. Or perhaps it had shared Leserlang’s fate and sought to hide its shame. Either way, its gate was fastened securely against visitors.
Keshik pounded on the gate, to no avail. There was neither sound nor movement from within, just the pervading stench of death. He was about to pound again when Slave grasped his shoulder. Keshik turned his head and saw Slave pointing up. He followed the direction of Slave’s gesture and his face went pale.
The gate, like many, was set within the wall below a narrow room in which guards were stationed, bows at the ready aimed through murder holes at their feet. The numerous small openings afforded the guards a clear shot at anyone attempting to breach the gate by force. These murder holes, however, were blocked, sealed with what were presumably the remains of the guards who had once patrolled the room above the gate. As he looked, a single drop of blood seeped through the vile mess and fell to the ground. Keshik stepped back as he realised the colour of the ground, deep brown, was the result of the murder done overhead.
‘What did this?’ he whispered. But even as he said it, he guessed the answer. I did.
Slave walked past him and examined the gate before stripping off his outer garment and climbing up. He was up and over quicker than Keshik could believe, squeezing himself between the top of the gate and the arch. Moments later, a rattling sound preceded Slave pulling the gate open to reveal the inner courtyard Keshik had visited once before. Despite the circumstances, Keshik could not fully suppress a sense of satisfaction as he walked into this place where he had previously been carried as a prisoner.
I told them I would be back.
But was there anyone left to kill?
They walked together across the open area towards the three-storey building Keshik had been taken to last time. This time the doors were hanging, apparently having been battered open. They creaked as Slave pushed past them, sending a couple of rodents scurrying. Before following him, Keshik turned and looked over the empty square.
Its desolation was complete: grey sky overhead; wind whistling through, sending debris scudding over the stone; black birds wheeling above. The only thing missing was bodies, and this lack troubled him. With the guards so brutally dead, there had to be others. Surely the fight, such as it was, had been continued here, in the main square? What could have happened? Where was everyone?
‘Keshik,’ Slave called.
Keshik turned away from the square and made his way along the hallway to the main hall where he had been condemned. At the shattered entry doors he stood and realised his questions had been answered.
As a fighting man, he had seen brutality, death and the macabre, but the carnage that spread out before him was incomprehensible.
‘Ice and wind,’ he gasped. ‘How is this possible?’
Strewn — or perhaps smeared would be more accurate — across the large hall were hundreds of bodies. Not one appeared to be complete. Viscera, skin, blood everywhere. Huge sections of wall and floor were covered in unidentifiable gore. Even, he realised with horror, on the ceiling so far above. A sickening sound announced something losing adherence to the wall as it fell to the floor. Keshik swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure in the face of such unspeakable evil. For evil it was; nothing else could describe something that could commit such an act. There had been women in this assembly. None of them were warriors — they were scholars. For all their peculiarities and injustices, no one deserved this fate.
Keshik realised Slave had stopped staring at the horror around him and was watching him intently.
‘What?’ Keshik snapped.
‘What do you know about this?’ he asked softly.
‘Me?’
Slave’s expression did not change as he continued to stare. ‘You have been here before. What has happened since then?’
Keshik was about to shake his head, deny any knowledge, but that silver eye bored into him, unblinking, demanding.
‘Something old, very old, came this way. I think.’
‘What was it?’
‘A presence, a being.’
‘Describe it.’
‘It was huge and black, more like a black cloud than a body. It had three lights that moved around inside it.’
‘Have you seen it before?’
Keshik hesitated, but again he could not stay silent in the face of that glowing silver eye. He gave a short nod.
‘Underground? In Vogel?’
Keshik’s eyes widened. ‘How could you know that?’
‘We both have much to answer for, I fear.’
‘Answer for? I did not do this!’ Keshik waved his arm to encompass the hideous display around them.
‘No, but you are responsible, as I am responsible for what happened to Vogel, and the Place of the Acolytes.’
‘You? Tell me what you did.’
‘Like you, I released an ancient evil from the labyrinth beneath that sad city. Like you, I bear the responsibility for what has come from that act and so, again like you, I came here seeking information.’
‘How do you know I came here to seek information?’
‘Why else come to Leserlang? Even I know that information is the only coin they have to trade.’
Keshik had nothing to say to this. His frustration at having killed Fraunhof, which in itself had resulted in his long imprisonment and his own near death, was still keen. That, coupled with the possibility that the Reader was the leading expert on the subject, left him seething. The stark horrors he had seen, and now, it appeared, was responsible for, made him pause. He had come into Leserlang to find Alberrich and kill him before heading after Maida, but perhaps the knowledge Slave sought might be important enough to delay his pursuit. The thought made him angrier. He stared again at the carnage around him before turning on his heel and stalking from the hall.
When back out into the main square, he stopped at a sound that broke through the heavy silence. He slowly swivelled around, trying to locate its source. When it came again, he identified it as a voice, possibly a child’s, coming from the second level of the main building. He looked up to see a woman standing in one of the windows. She wailed as if in distress before stepping back, away from the window.
Keshik made his way back into the building and ran up the stairs. As he did so, more voices sounded. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was surrounded by dozens of voices, all wailing and crying incoherently. He pushed open the first door he came to, revealing personal chambers. Huddled in the corner farthest from the door was a man.
He was curled into a tight ball with his arms wrapped over his head as if to protect himself. When Keshik stepped into the room, his wailing cry shifted up into a scream as he tried to curl even tighter. The scream faltered and became a babble of nonsensical words as Keshik advanced. He stepped back and the torrent of nonsense stopped.
He left the room and closed the door behind him. The man inside went back to wailing. Keshik guessed he would see a similar sight behind every door. He jogged the length of the corridor and heard nothing to change his opinion. At the end, he looked along each way of the junction. It seemed quieter to the left, so he turned and made his way to the first door. He pushed it open and found himself in a large library. Books lined the walls while chairs were arranged around several dark tables taking up most of the rest of the room. He was about to leave when it occurred to him that the knowledge he sought might yet be accessible.
Keshik did not hear Slave as he entered the library behind him. The first he knew of the other man being in the room was when Slave picked up a book and started to flick through it.
>
‘Can you read?’ he asked Slave.
Slave grunted, a sound that Keshik took as assent.
‘What is that book about?’
‘Poetry.’ Slave tossed the book onto the table and started looking around. Keshik watched as Slave rapidly selected book after book, tossing them either to the floor or onto the table with apparent random disregard. The moaning wails from outside the door continued while he waited and the noise was beginning to make him edgy. Were they going to keep this up all day?
‘What happened to all of them?’ he asked, more to take his mind off the noises they were making than for any real desire to know the answer.
‘It sounds like their minds have been destroyed,’ Slave said without looking up from the book he was considering.
‘Why would anyone, anything, do that?’
‘Knowledge. They probably knew something it didn’t want them to know.’
Keshik shuddered as he remembered the final words of the vast black presence as it left him: Kielevinenrohkimainen will not feed from you. I have others who need my attention.
Did it ‘feed’ from these?
‘What could they know?’
Slave lowered the book and looked at Keshik. ‘These Readers pride themselves on their knowledge. They might know what that thing is, what it wants, how it plans to get it, its weaknesses, anything.’ He tilted his head to one side, as if considering a thought that had just occurred to him. ‘It’s intelligent — planning before it acts, moving against its enemies,’ he said, as if talking to himself. ‘So why attack the Place of the Acolytes as well as here?’
‘There are two of them.’
Keshik was startled by the voice behind him. He spun around, drawing his blades to confront the man who had spoken.
‘I thought you would be back, murderer,’ the man went on. ‘It is a shame you weren’t here when it attacked.’
‘What was it?’
‘The Revenant, or at least one of them. There were two sealed beneath the ground in a vast, magical labyrinth at the end of the Mertian–Scaren wars.’
Scarred Man Page 14