Scarred Man

by Bevan McGuiness

  Keshik listened, but beyond the normal noises of a forest, he could not hear anything.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  Slave did not answer, instead he slowly turned around, lowering his hand until it was pointing away to his left. Keshik followed the gesture but beyond the darkening jungle, he could see nothing.

  ‘What —’ Keshik started, but stopped at Slave’s glare.

  ‘Look,’ Slave whispered.

  Keshik stared again … A sudden movement caught his eye. A man, no two, no … Now that he had something, Keshik narrowed his eyes and tracked the group that waited so still ahead of them. There were at least ten, all armed, all watching him intently. He reached back over his shoulders and pulled his swords out of their scabbards. The steely slither sounded too loud. Beside him, Slave sighed and raised his Claw, as if in salute, by holding it in front of his face.

  A voice called out. The lyrical inflection of the language belied the urgency of the tone. Keshik looked at Slave and shrugged.

  ‘I didn’t understand that, did you?’ he asked.

  Slave shook his head.

  ‘Try another language,’ Keshik called back.

  The voice repeated the same words, only louder and slower.

  ‘Say it as loud as you like, we still can’t understand you,’ Keshik shouted.

  ‘Put down your weapons,’ a different voice said, very close behind them.

  Keshik spun around, only to see the Claw seemingly sprout from the man’s forehead. Slave was off his horse and crouched beside the dead man, wrenching the Claw out before Keshik could react.

  The first arrow hissed through the air. Keshik’s sword sliced it in two, as he looked away from Slave to the origin of the shot. Sure enough, the sound of several arrows quickly followed the first. In the dark, Keshik could not be sure of getting them all by sound alone, so he gave his horse a quick goodbye and rolled off, falling behind it. The arrows all went high, but the archers had seen him fall, so they lowered their aim for the next volley.

  In heartbeats, the poor horse was stuck by at least ten arrows and screamed in agony. It tried to bolt away, but the next volley of arrows brought it down, and Keshik used the distraction to slide out of the line of fire. He had seen them, and knew where they were, so he started to squirm along the ground, trying to outflank them; take them one at a time.

  By the time he was halfway there, the screams started.

  On reflection, he had seen Slave, fought him, felt his Claw. He should not have bothered. The man was fighting in the dark, his native habitat. The bandits, or whatever they were, never stood a chance. Keshik kept still and listened until the screams stopped, then stood up.

  ‘Slave?’ he called.

  ‘Done,’ Slave answered from the darkness.

  A blade rested on the exposed skin of his throat and a voice hissed in his ear, ‘Not quite done, traveller. Drop the blades.’

  Keshik hesitated, seeking to test the nerve of the one who held the blade at his throat. The razor-sharp blade slid a little, drawing blood, but it was not an unintentional movement. This was an experienced bladesman. Keshik dropped his swords, making sure they clattered together, hopefully enough to alert Slave.

  ‘Clumsy,’ the voice spat. ‘Now, move.’ Another blade was shoved hard against his back and Keshik started walking.

  The two blades hardly wavered as Keshik was driven through the jungle. He quickly realised he was on a path — narrow and disguised, but there nonetheless. These people had been here for some time; this was probably their home. The nature of the path — winding, hidden and narrow — suggested a defensive setting. Were they bandits or fugitives? Outcasts or freebooters?

  He heard the sounds of other watchers sending signals ahead of them as they walked, and was impressed. These people were organised and disciplined. The creak of bows being drawn reminded him not to try anything yet, so he allowed himself to be directed.

  Finally, he was forced into a clearing. The bladesman pulled the blade away from his back and gave him a hard shove, making him stumble over and fall on his face in the mud. A soft chuckle of laughter ran around the clearing.

  Very disciplined, Keshik noted. Even so, he was able to get a rough location on at least three who laughed. He began to rise to his feet but a boot was shoved once more into his back, forcing him down again.

  ‘Intruder!’ the bladesman’s voice called out.

  Ice and wind, a woman! Keshik realised.

  ‘A Swordmaster,’ another voice said. ‘You did well, Aclla. Let him up.’

  The boot was removed from his back and Keshik rose swiftly to his feet. Standing before him was a lithe man who was a little taller than Keshik, armed with a heavy war axe. Around him stood probably fifty people. That they had moved so quickly without making a sound impressed him again. There were men and women pressing in, all armed, all focused on him. They were dark-skinned with tangled black hair and dirty faces, but their weapons were all in good condition. The bare-chested men were well muscled and though the women were all demurely covered, their arms showed strength. Keshik was puzzled. At first sight, this was a poverty-stricken village of desperate peasants, but they moved like an army and were too fit to be very poor.

  The answer came to him suddenly.

  ‘You’re a Tusemon scouting party,’ he said.

  The axe man gave a small smile that vanished as fast as it had appeared.

  ‘You are quick, Swordsman,’ he said. He raised his hand and a man stepped forward to give him Keshik’s swords. He took them both in one hand and examined them. ‘Fine blades,’ he said after a moment. ‘But where would one like you get a sorcerous blade like this?’

  Keshik did not answer.

  ‘What is your name, traveller?’

  Keshik simply stared at the man and sneered.

  ‘I am Guaman, leader of this band. Your life is mine. And after you killed so many of us, I should claim it.’ Guaman waited for Keshik to reply, but when nothing came, he went on. ‘I want some answers first, though.’ He turned away and gave a series of rapid signs to the men at his left. Without a word, they swarmed forward and overpowered Keshik. In moments, he was bound securely, lifted off the ground and carried away to be thrown into a muddy hole. A heavy grid of bound boughs was dropped on top of the hole and Keshik was left alone.

  When the soft footsteps had gone, he struggled, testing the knots that held him, but they were well tied.

  ‘Ice and wind,’ he muttered.

  ‘Stop complaining,’ Slave hissed.

  Keshik looked up to see Slave’s silhouette peering down at him from beyond the grid. In the dark of the night, the silver eye glowed softly.

  ‘Get me out of here,’ Keshik whispered.

  ‘Not yet. There’s something about these people that worries me.’

  ‘They’re a Tusemon scouting party. There’s nothing interesting about that,’ Keshik protested, but Slave had vanished before he even finished the sentence.

  Keshik sighed in frustration. Slave would do whatever he wanted to do; Keshik just hoped rescuing him would be a part of that at some stage. He wriggled around until his back was resting against the side of the hole and tried to relax in the mud.

  The cramps started in his hands, then shifted up his arms, and soon his feet were cramping, too. By the time he was gasping at the pain in his upper arms, his calves were tight knots of agony. He started to spasm just before dawn and a cry of anguish was forced through his clenched teeth when the sunlight first filtered down into his dank cell.

  A face looked down at him.

  ‘Comfortable?’ it asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Keshik grated.

  ‘Good.’ The man disappeared, only to reappear a few moments later with a knife. He heaved the heavy grate off the hole and dropped in. The mud splashed as he landed, sending a thick spray over Keshik. He spat and coughed as some of the muck found its way into his mouth. His captor laughed briefly before rolling Keshik over and cutting at his bonds. Any though
t Keshik might have entertained of overpowering the man as soon as he was free vanished like morning mist at the agony of circulation flooding his limbs when the ropes fell away. Despite his discipline, he cried out with the pain. By the time he regained his composure, the man had leapt from the hole, taking the knife with him. Keshik forced himself to his feet and clambered up the muddy side of the hole and out, to lie for a moment, still gasping in pain.

  ‘On your feet,’ the man ordered.

  Keshik stilled the pain and forced himself up.

  The man standing before him was strongly muscled and lithe, with dark eyes staring evenly from beneath unkempt hair. He stood with the easy confidence of the warrior, holding the knife competently in his right hand. Any doubt about Keshik’s belief that this was a war party of some sort faded completely as he regarded the fighting man before him.

  ‘I am Ozcollo,’ the man said. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

  ‘I am Keshik, Swordmaster of the Tulugma, and what I am doing here is my business.’ A low murmur ran around the watching soldiers as he said his name, and he saw two men exchange a coin. He had been recognised, even here in this jungle so far from the northern wastes.

  ‘Not any more, it isn’t,’ another voice said. Keshik recognised it as Guaman’s voice, but he did not turn to look at Guaman, preferring to stare out Ozcollo.

  ‘Keshik of the Tulugma — I have heard of you, Kabutat,’ Guaman went on. ‘A rootless vagabond, night guard, restlessly travelling the world’s wilderness selling your blade to anyone less worthy than yourself.’

  Keshik felt the anger begin to boil within him. He knew the man was deliberately goading him, but did not yet know why. He would wait to find out, before killing him.

  ‘I see your discipline has not completely deserted you, Kabutat,’ Guaman said. ‘This is good. You might need it where we are going.’

  ‘I am not going anywhere with you.’

  ‘Idiot,’ snapped Guaman. ‘Look around you. You are unarmed, alone, surrounded by thirty — all armed. And if you are expecting your silent friend to come and rescue you, forget it: he is gone. Atok here tracked him last night as he fled after you were taken.’ Keshik tore his gaze from Ozcollo as Guaman indicated a compact, wiry woman standing in the deep shadows beneath the dense canopy of leaves. She raised a dagger in front of her face in a curious salute reminiscent of Slave’s gesture with his Claw. Keshik did not return the salute, preferring instead to examine his surroundings. Now that it was daylight, he could see that this camp was well set for defence and concealment. It was a small clearing within a dense jungle, but around it the trees were so closely packed there was only one easy way in and that was cleverly concealed by bushes. In the low branches hung simple hammocks, and a small firepit gave off a little smoke. As a camp, it was as primitive as Keshik had ever seen, yet it had all the evidence of having been here for some time — and it had a prison pit.

  ‘You’re an advance party for an invasion,’ Keshik said softly.

  Guaman shook his head. ‘No, but close,’ he said. ‘And if you want to see another sunrise, you have only one choice. Join us or die where you stand.’

  Keshik shrugged. ‘I am a mercenary, a kabutat as you have said. My blades are for hire.’

  ‘No one said anything about payment, Keshik,’ Guaman corrected.

  ‘I live, that’s payment enough for me.’

  A low chuckle rippled around the watching warriors. It stopped at Guaman’s glare, once again impressing Keshik with the discipline of this troop. Guaman switched his stare from his troop to Keshik.

  ‘Join us and place yourself under my command,’ he cautioned.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I will take the word of a Tulugma Swordmaster. Even a kabutat.’ Guaman turned to one of his men. ‘Feed him and give him his blades back.’

  They told him they were an advance party from the east of Tusemo, near the foothills of the great mountains that split the world. That much they would say, but as to their aim, they would say nothing. Their food was basic forage and better than most. And plentiful. Keshik fitted in well with the hardened fighting men and women as they shared their meal with him.

  When the meal was done, Guaman rose to his feet. ‘It is time,’ he said without preamble. ‘We move tomorrow. Ispaca, you and Taraque stay here and keep our line of retreat clear if we need it. The rest of you know what to do. Sleep well. We start at dawn.’ As the troop moved off to their hammocks to sleep, Guaman caught Keshik’s eye and gestured to him. ‘Keshik, you’re with me.’

  He rose and walked away from the small fire, Keshik following, out past the camp clearing and into the jungle. No words were spoken until they were well away from listening ears. When Guaman seemed satisfied that they were far enough from the camp, he stopped and turned to face Keshik. Around them, the night was black and only the noises of the jungle were heard. Keshik could barely see the soldier who stood a scant two paces from him.

  ‘We are not a simple Tusemon raiding party. We are an infiltrating force, one of several. Our overall objective is not available for you to know, but the task of my troop is to move into the northern gate of the Wall.’

  Keshik was taken aback. A move into the gate was tantamount to a full-scale invasion. To attempt it with less than fifty, no matter how good they were, was a simple suicide mission. And if it were discovered, as it had to be, it would plunge C’sobra, Midacea and Tusemo into bloody war. What idiot could have planned such a mission?

  As he pondered the lunacy that was the tale told him by Guaman, it struck him that no one had spoken Tusemon, not a word. Everyone had spoken C’sobran. Even their accents were C’sobran.

  Yet they had challenged him and Slave in a different language again, one that he did not recognise. And he spoke five languages. This was not what it seemed. Slave had been right. Keshik decided to follow Guaman and leave as soon as he had a good opportunity. He grunted in apparent acceptance, already planning his departure.

  There was no clear opportunity that night, mainly because he slept more deeply than he had thought he would. He was shaken awake at first light and a handful of dried food was thrust into his hand.

  ‘Time to move, Kabutat,’ Ispaca said.

  Keshik swung out of his hammock and strapped on his swords. Around him the rest of the party went about their departure routine in silence. They were ready to move quickly and when Guaman raised his hand after talking with the two men being left behind, they departed and glided into the jungle. Keshik found a place in the formation easily. From his studies he recognised the tactics they were employing as those first developed during the great purges, when the armies of the world hunted down the remnants of the Scaren race. There was nothing to be learnt from their use of such tactics: armies all over the world still used them to great effect. Even the hand signals were the same. Anyone watching would know what to expect.

  They moved with haste and silence through the noisome jungle until, just before sunset, there came the sound of water.

  At Guaman’s predictable signal, the troop spread out along the edge of the jungle to survey the ground ahead. It would have taken more discipline than any normal army could ever hope to achieve to prevent every eye being drawn to the stupendous structure before them.

  Keshik had only seen the great Wall once but once seen, never forgotten.

  Stretching across the vast Great River of Kings, the Wall stood hundreds of paces high, rising from foundations said to have been built by the Third Waste. It towered like a small mountain, jagged and dark, reaching across the river that spread out like a sea to the east as its flow was interrupted by the City of the Wall. Keshik had heard it said that the City of the Wall was a natural formation left behind when the mountains were driven back by the mythic battles of the Wastes. As he stared up, mouth open like a country simpleton seeing a town for the first time, Keshik could believe it. Water cascaded down its sides to pool at its base. The animals that gathered to drink from the pools w
ere barely visible as specks of black against the Wall. What seemed like small birds whirling around the peaks were battle-trained wyverns, three or four times the size of a horse. The cleared area before the base of the Wall was hundreds of paces wide but unpatrolled — there was no need. No army in the world could assault a mountain, especially one honeycombed with thousands of tunnels, and inhabited by a city’s worth of people.

  The setting sun lit the great Wall up with brilliant golden light against the slowly darkening sky before vanishing below the vast expanse of the Silvered Sea to the west. Something like a sigh passed along the troop of invaders, their paltry numbers brought into stark reality before the immensity that was their target.

  ‘Move,’ Guaman ordered, and the troop slipped out of the jungle at a run.

  24

  Myrrhini stood before the door and frowned.

  ‘Am I to be locked away like a prisoner?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Lady,’ Itxtli sighed. ‘Just housed in a secure location while we ready the ship to take us across the Silvered Sea.’

  ‘It looks locked,’ Myrrhini protested.

  ‘I believe they have another … guest, here,’ Itxtli said.

  ‘Yes, I heard. A fair sight better looking than me and more dangerous as well, I believe.’

  ‘Chimalli needs to guard his tongue better.’

  Another Agent approached the door with a key. He unlocked it and stood back to allow Myrrhini entrance.

  ‘Thank you, Patecoatl.’

  The Agent gave a short bow and stepped back.

  ‘Go in,’ Itxtli urged. ‘There will be food, a change of clothes and a bath. It has been a long journey. You could use the rest. And,’ he added, ‘you might tell us your name at some stage.’

  The memory of what had happened the last time she boldly proclaimed her name and title still gave her nightmares, so she had steadfastly refused to tell him.

  ‘“Lady” suits me fine,’ she said.