Scarred Man

by Bevan McGuiness

  Slave had allowed his horse to slow to a stop and they faced each other squarely.

  ‘Armies work by command because most soldiers need to be ordered to do what they should,’ Keshik explained. ‘I think you just need to be told what is needed, and you would do it. I don’t think you need to be ordered. If you want to do what this Misabeq wants you to do, there are no orders involved. You just get paid for doing it.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘This village is under threat from something out there,’ Keshik said. ‘I think we both know what it is, or what it might be. These villagers need warning if it comes. We just have to take our turn walking a post to give that warning.’

  ‘If it comes, you know we are all dead, if we are lucky.’

  ‘True. But can’t you pretend to make a difference for a couple of days?’

  ‘No.’ Slave put his heels to the flanks of his horse and galloped away. He did not even hesitate as he swept past the gate, into the howling wasteland beyond.

  Keshik watched him leave, torn. He was tired, hungry, filthy and cold. Walking a post for a few days was a small price to pay for the food and shelter of an army barracks. On the other hand …

  ‘Ice and wind!’ he shouted as he drove his horse in pursuit.

  He thundered past the startled guards, ignoring their cries of protest, putting the welcoming lights of the village behind him as he followed Slave’s rapidly fading figure into the darkness.

  They rode south-east through the night. Slave drove his horse on as if in anger. The beast was straining hard and Keshik could hear it blowing over the pounding of hooves. Even in the dark, he could tell it was in danger.

  ‘Ease off!’ he called to Slave. ‘You will kill the horse at this pace!’

  Slave did not answer. Keshik bellowed again, sensing that his own mount was beginning to struggle under the forced gallop. This had to stop soon, but how? If he let the maniac get too far ahead out here, there was no telling where he might end up, but if he didn’t slow down soon, there would be two more dead horses on this unforgiving wasteland.

  In the end, it was taken out of his hands — Slave’s horse gave an agonised squeal and collapsed as its heart gave out. Slave cried out as he was catapulted from his saddle and over the dead horse’s head to … Keshik could barely believe his eyes as, in the near total dark of a Grada night, he watched Slave execute a perfect tumbling roll and land on his feet, Claw out as if to face an enemy. He hit the ground running and kept going.

  Slave on a galloping horse was fast, but Slave running was little more than a canter for Keshik’s struggling horse. He reined him in and allowed him to slow to a walk for a while. Slave ran on. Before he vanished into the darkness, he started to flag slightly, slowing to a jog, then a walk. Keshik caught him up just as he started to stagger slightly with exhaustion. He dismounted and grabbed Slave by the shoulder.

  ‘Ease up, Slave,’ he said. ‘What’s …?’ Keshik’s voice faded as he saw the glow of silver. He stepped back, his hands going instinctively to his swords. Slave spun around with a feral snarl. The Claw glinted dangerously in the gleam from his glowing eye. There was no mistaking Slave’s murderous intent as he advanced on Keshik.

  Keshik drew his swords and prepared to meet the attack. Slave continued to snarl, to growl, to approach. With a spit, he sprang at Keshik, Claw high and slashing down while his right hand drove forward like a dagger. Keshik weaved aside, avoiding the hand, parrying the Claw with his swords. He was about to initiate his own thrust under the slashing Claw when a flying kick caught him unexpectedly under the ribs. The blow drove the wind out of him, sending him staggering back. Slave followed up, slashing diagonally downwards with the Claw while simultaneously driving in with his right hand. Keshik parried the Claw with one blade, but his own slashing counterattack was parried by Slave’s hand slamming into the flat of the blade. The sorcerous, softly glowing weapon rang with the impact and Slave brought the Claw back across at Keshik’s face. In a heartbeat, Keshik was being driven back by a flurry of blows and slashing thrusts. It was like fighting several opponents as every part of Slave’s body became a weapon. His feet, hands, head, all moved in a complex series of attacking and defensive moves that whirled around Keshik’s blades, dodging, striking — fluidly, inexorably battering away his energy. The Warrior’s Claw with its three glinting blades was a blur, requiring most of Keshik’s focus to keep it away from his flesh. Every blow that he parried with the steel blade sent a shock through his arm, while each time his own glowing blade met the Claw, an eerie cascade of sparks flickered in the air, accompanied by a sound not unlike a sigh.

  Slowly, painfully, Slave drove Keshik back. Keshik lost track of time as he strove against the fiend that had so completely taken over Slave. The stars above wheeled across the sky unheeding of the bitter struggle for life happening under their cold stare. For every attack Keshik parried or dodged, three landed — a punch, a kick, a head butt, or a slash from the Claw. Pain thrummed through his body, but Slave showed no signs of slowing.

  Keshik knew he had landed good slashing blows, but Slave’s heavy clothes absorbed most of the power of the swords. Still, both men were bleeding from many wounds, most little more than nicks and cuts, but some that would take time to heal, if either of them survived. Keshik was tiring; the days of hunger and cold, the time in the cage, the long ride since leaving the village, were all beginning to take their toll, but Slave kept coming at him. There was no humanity left in his eye, and the silver globe was glowing with an ever-increasing brilliance. Keshik’s counterattacks were slowing down as his arms tired under the unflagging assault. If there had been any doubt that Slave was a berserker of uncommon brutality, this savage, unrelenting assault proved it. Grada set, taking her gentle light from the sky, leaving only the hard black of the uncaring night and Keshik in fear for his life. Never had he faced an opponent so implacable, so untiring, so fast.

  As the pink of a new day touched the horizon, Keshik stumbled. Exhaustion, blood loss and hunger had stolen his concentration and he fell to another of Slave’s low, swinging kicks. His feet went out from under him, sending him crashing onto the frozen ground. What was left of his breath was driven from him, his head hit the earth hard and consciousness wavered. With what he believed to be his dying gasp, he looked up at Slave’s bestial face.

  The scars that ripped across it were running with blood like twin rivers, the silver eye glowed, the human eye was blank and the lips were drawn back in a snarl. He raised the Claw for the killing blow. Keshik let his swords slip from numb hands and faced the blades.

  Slave hesitated in the downward swing. His face turned away from Keshik, looking at something beyond, something on the western horizon. Keshik gathered the last vestiges of his strength and scrambled away. He forced himself up onto his feet to stare at what had saved his life.

  Three points of light whirled within a region of utter black, outlined against the lightening sky. The black within black took on shape, reduced and drew closer until it was a vaguely humanoid shape, barely twice the height of a man, standing less than twenty paces away.

  Slave raised his Claw and turned to face Keshik. All traces of the bestial ferocity had vanished, leaving him looking oddly serene: a look that was made all the more bizarre by the blood splattered over his body. No words were exchanged; none seemed necessary. Keshik limped forward, picked up his swords, and stood at Slave’s side to face the thing he had released into the world.

  Unlike the last time he had faced it, Keshik heard no voice in his mind, no booming declarations, no intrusions into his memories, just a vast sense of malice, of anger. The waves of hate flowed out from the being as if to overwhelm him with simple despair, but his exhaustion and pain had left him numb. No more emotion could touch him. He stood, swords hanging limply at his sides, staring up at it.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘I NEED TO FEED. NOT SINCE I DEVOURED SONDELLE HAVE I EATEN WELL.’

  ‘We would be
poor fare for you,’ Keshik said. ‘Especially after Leserlang.’

  ‘THEY WERE LESS THAN THEIR NAME SUGGESTED.’

  ‘Go back to where you belong,’ Slave said.

  The three swirling lights within the black shape darted sharply as if to fix Slave firmly in view. Slave responded by raising his Claw to his face in salute, the three blades catching the inhuman glow from his silver eye. In the reflected light, the scars down his face glistened red with blood. A sound not unlike a sharply indrawn human breath broke the silence, followed by a vast cry that split the dawn.

  ‘THIS CANNOT BE!’

  With a howl of anguish that rang across the tundra, the dark presence of Kielevinenrohkimainen fled north.

  21

  A low growl of hunger stirred deep in her throat. She crouched, belly to the ground, staring through the undergrowth. Ahead, the fat rodent nibbled contentedly. It was completely unaware of its impending death.

  She slithered closer, her paws silent on the leaf litter, until she was in range. Her tail twitched, not in anticipation but to get her balance right before she pounced. When everything was just so, she drove her body forward like a spear. The big cat shot through the air, crashing through the bush towards her unsuspecting prey.

  At the sound of her approach, the rodent looked up, a momentary flicker of surprise on its face as its eyes widened and the hungry jaws crushed out its life.

  Hot blood poured from the broken body, filling Tatya’s mouth, trickling across her muzzle. She crunched contentedly, enjoying the sensations — the warmth, the taste, the tiny stabs of pain of the broken shards of bone on her tongue, the minute wriggles as the rodent’s life faded — everything was satisfying, everything was as it should be.

  She was a predator.

  She hunted, she ate her prey. Her prey knew this.

  It was the nature of things.

  It was right.

  Even humans knew this.

  Everything was better now. The hateful cold was gone, the harsh frozen ground no longer bruised her paws and food was plentiful here in these dense forests. It was good to be home again. Even the dim, filtered light that seeped through the canopy was better, offering her camouflage, allowing her to move unseen, even when she ran.

  And running was what she was doing now. Maida was far from her. The sense of her presence was fading every day, leaving Tatya on the edge of panic. She hated the feeling, but the compulsion drove her on. Maida needed her and everything else was subsumed beneath that one fact. Even now as she ate, the need to run, to keep running south, to find her, was already forcing her to move. She swallowed the last of her meal hurriedly and sprang forward.

  She ran, leaping over the precious stream that crossed her path, dodging under the dangling vines, and skirting the occasional gaps in the canopy where the sunlight streamed through and would highlight her black form.

  Deep in her mind, she knew she had to avoid being seen this close to humans. Her kind was never welcome where they ran their tame animals, and their scent was rich around her. Their bleating could be heard from time to time when the wind came from the right direction, and their spoor littered the forest floor. No matter how easy they were, she could not hunt them: the delay would be simply more time wasted as she avoided their human keepers. Normally, she would hunt, then shift form and make use of the human fascination with her other form to evade them. But that would take days — days she did not have.

  She kept running as new scents registered in her mind.

  Horses.

  Too many horses, being ridden.

  An image of a group of people travelling slowly. She slowed to a walk and lowered herself to the ground until she was slinking beneath the level of the undergrowth, advancing on the group of horses and their riders.

  They were men in uniforms, with one woman. There was shouting. The woman was shouting at one of the men and all the others were watching them. No one would see Tatya. She rose and continued running, a shadow amid shadows, black on black.

  The end of the forest came abruptly, cut by the farmers who needed a straight line for their crops. She pressed on, running low beneath the top of the waving grasses. Ahead, the stench of human habitation grew strong, but over it, coming stronger now she was out of the forest, was the bitter salt bite of the sea. This place was on the coast, and Maida was here. She had slowed and was here. A rumble of pleasure formed in Tatya’s chest.

  All the running was coming to an end.

  Maida was here, in this town!

  The first arrow sliced through the air above her, hissing angrily past her shoulder. She threw herself to one side, rolling away from the attack, instinctively shifting into her secondary form, the safe form, the hiding, scurrying form.

  The form humans did not shoot at.

  In this form, she moved quickly through the ruts and furrows of the farm, past the sentries who stood watch over the fields for anything that might threaten them. As she scurried, unseen and safe from their arrows, she heard and dismissed their cries and pounding boots. They would never find her and, even if they did, they would dismiss this form as she dismissed them. She would slip past them and reach the city walls before dark.

  22

  ‘Where are we heading, Itxtli?’ Myrrhini asked.

  ‘Usterust,’ Itxtli replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We are going to sail across the Silvered Sea. It will be quicker and safer.’

  ‘Why safer?’

  Itxtli gave her a speculative look, as if unsure how much she knew, or perhaps wondering whether to trust her. After a brief pause, he looked away.

  ‘The faster we get you where you need to be, the safer we will all be,’ he said.

  Anger, unexpected and hot, welled up inside her. She drove her heels into the flanks of her horse and pushed right up beside Itxtli until their knees touched. He looked at her with surprise which changed to shock when she reached out and grabbed the front of his jerkin to pull him sharply towards her.

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ she shouted. ‘You have taken me against my will, kept me a prisoner, forced me across the whole of C’sobra and now it is time for you to give me some straight answers.’

  Itxtli reached up with one hand and held her fist in his. His eyes never left hers as he slowly exerted pressure on her hand. Their horses stopped moving and they stared into each other’s eyes while Myrrhini felt her hand being slowly crushed. The pain built while Itxtli’s knuckles whitened. Myrrhini felt her hand give a little crack and gasped at the sudden rush of new pain.

  ‘Don’t ever touch me again,’ Itxtli whispered, giving her hand a sharp jerk that pulled her off balance. She wavered in her saddle but grabbed the pommel with her other hand to prevent herself from falling. He kept hold of her hand while she struggled back to balance in the saddle. Her fist was throbbing and she bit her lip to keep from crying with the pain. She stared back at Itxtli with blazing eyes. After a few moments, he broke eye contact and released her hand.

  ‘What sort of man are you?’ she snapped as she snatched her hand back and cradled it against her breast. ‘Is it noble in your society to hurt women? Is that how you gain respect, by picking on women?’

  Itxtli glared back at her, but she thought there was more hurt than anger in his gaze. He grabbed his reins and wrenched his horse away. Myrrhini watched him ride off. A sudden movement flickered across the edge of her vision.

  ‘What was that?’ she said.

  Itxtli looked around, saw where she was pointing and switched his gaze. There was nothing there. He shook his head and continued riding. After a moment of staring at the shadowy undergrowth, Myrrhini shook her reins and followed. Around her, the rest of the Agents also continued, but they talked quietly among themselves, occasionally flicking glances her way, and at their achulti’s back. Every now and then, a low chuckle would sound, but it was quickly bitten off whenever Itxtli looked back.

  They set camp just before the edge of the forest, with a stretch of farmland vi
sible through the trees. The forest was too dense for tents, so after a cold meal, they lay wherever they found a comfortable place and slept.

  Myrrhini tried to make herself comfortable as she curled up against the bole of an ancient tree, but could not find any way to sleep. She turned and twisted for a long time, unable to rest. Finally, she gave up and stood. The air was chill without being cold, still and clear. Myrrhini walked towards the light that trickled in from beyond the edge of the trees. The Agent on guard gave her a companionable grunt as she passed him, which she returned. The moonlight was sufficient — even under the trees — for her to pick her way past the exposed roots and tangled undergrowth. Vines dangled from heavy boughs overhead and small creatures scuttled about at her every step. The sounds of the night crowded in, making her nervous. Despite how long she had been away from the Place, and how many nights she had spent, many of them alone, many of them huddled under scant — if any — shelter, she still did not enjoy the night outside. The memory of that black shape that had flashed past them earlier returned. She wrapped her arms around her chest and shivered.

  The fire behind her flickered as it died, its orange glow barely competing with the silver moonlight, adding colour to the trees and bushes. Her eyes were accustomed to the dim light and were able to pick out the shapes and textures of the trees. They were so different from the harsh, rough-barked trees of her home with their dark, nearly black, needles and upward-reaching branches. These were smoother, with thicker, more horizontal branches that groaned and creaked from time to time under the weight of their leaves. The leaves were large and rounded with coloured veins that ran outwards from a central rib. Everything about this forest was so different from the one that surrounded the Place. Everything this night seemed to remind her of how far away from home she was. Even her clothes, so warm and yet so coarse in weave and cut, were unlike anything she had ever worn. And warm. How often in her life had she felt so warm outside of her bed?