Scarred Man (19 page)

‘In the north, perhaps, my lady, but not here in the south. This plant requires the cold in order to achieve its, um, full, um, potential, shall we say.'

‘But, I …' She stopped at Itxtli's hand on her shoulder.

‘The Lady wishes the herb, merchant, not a conversation. Name your price.'

‘I can ask nothing less than twenty erden for it,' the merchant said with an apologetic shrug.

‘Very well,' Itxtli said. He looked at Myrrhini. ‘Pay the man, Lady.'

Myrrhini suddenly realised she had never purchased anything in her life and had no idea what twenty erden was. She held out the handful of coins to the merchant.

‘Here,' she said.

Itxtli sighed and snatched some coins from her hand before the merchant could. He dropped them onto the table. The merchant removed them and then tipped the contents of the jar into a leather pouch which he gave to Myrrhini.

‘Now can we go?' Itxtli asked Myrrhini.

Myrrhini was tempted to glare at him, but decided against it. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘We can go now.'

Itxtli made a sound in his throat like a growl before mounting his horse, yanking the reins around and riding into the crowd. Once again they drifted aside to allow him and the other Agents passage. Myrrhini tucked the pouch inside her dress, unsure what had made her stop to buy it, but sure she would need it. Even the thought of using it made her shudder, awakening memories of the Place and of Joukahainen.

And of Hinrik.

His name still made her recall the nights in the Place when he had lain with her, warming her, caressing her, loving her. That it was all a lie, an unpleasant experience for him —
coupling with a lizard
— still made her angry, still left her empty.

Bastard!

I hope he froze out there in the wilderness.

I hope Slave left him to die.

She rode, unseeing, out of the market, into the streets and alleys of Usterust, past the buildings that crowded in on either side, towards the harbour. It was only when they stopped that she looked up, aware finally of her surroundings. They had stopped in front of an ordinary-looking warehouse with a locked gate.

Itxtli dismounted and hammered on the gate. A small metal panel slid open to reveal two dark eyes. After a moment, the panel slammed closed and the sounds of the gate being unlocked came from within. The gate swung open and a heavy-set man in the uniform of the Agents stood blocking their way.

‘Took your sweet time, Itxtli,' he growled.

‘Get out of my way, Chimalli,' Itxtli replied.

‘I hope yours is better than Huitzilin's,' Chimalli said.

‘Huitzilin is here?'

‘Sssa, he's here. Lording it over everyone, like always. He's got one of them, too.' Chimalli stabbed a finger towards Myrrhini. ‘A fair sight better looking than yours, but less quiet. She's,' he hesitated, raising a hand to grip his upper arm, ‘dangerous.'

The fight that had nearly ended Keshik's life was never mentioned. It was as if neither man wanted to admit it had happened. That, or Slave was unaware that it had, so complete was his berserk fury. Their wounds healed well as they continued to head south-east. As they travelled, the weather grew warmer and more humid. Rain even fell on them occasionally. They moved faster after they were attacked by a small group of hungry bandits — taking their horses and scant provisions, leaving their dead bodies on the ground.

In the skies, the moons wheeled in their endless dance, tracking the passage of time, marking the days as another Crossing came and went, but still the two men rode. Mostly they rode in silence, neither having any thoughts to share with the other. As time passed they started to talk. By a fire at night, they spoke, telling stories, sharing what they knew.

Keshik came to understand what drove Slave. He saw the hate for a master, the loneliness so deep it was a part of the man; he saw the pain of guilt. His anger burned hot and cold as he listened. This man
had killed Maida and had not even known it. He had released one of the Revenants onto the world and in so doing had set up the need for him, a Swordmaster of the Tulugma, to do the same.

Shared guilt was not halved guilt. It was more: it was rage, it was anguish. It was a wound that grew into a need, then into a desperation.

And it was all Slave's doing.

Slave learnt of a life lived above ground. A life of freedom, a life where a man could look up at the sky and dream. He learnt of the love of a woman, the need for another's company. Keshik's training; different from his own, yet in many ways, so similar. The discipline, the long days spent building and then honing the skills necessary to bring swift and sure death. Yet, Keshik had shared his training with others. Spent time laughing with his fellow swordsmen, played pranks, endured harsh discipline at the hands of his masters — always he had shared this life with others. And he had come to love his masters, to look up to them with admiration.

The news that the Revenant released by Keshik — the one he himself had been trained to release — had bested and devoured Sondelle brought Slave a moment of harsh pleasure, followed by a pang of regret he did not understand. He did not speak of either his joy or his regret. For some reason, these feelings were his, not to be shared, not even with Keshik.

Slave learnt a great deal of Keshik: the life spent as a normal child living with a family, the hunger to better himself, the need to be more, the decisions that led him to the life he now led. He
saw the pain, the joy, the travails of a life lived among people.

He slowly came to realise that a man could have a friend.

 

The weather became warm, then hot as they travelled south. The open plains gave way to light forest, then to jungle filled with animal life and the evidence of other people. They rode slower, forced to by the dense growth. Slave had never felt so uncomfortable. The heat was oppressive and the humidity almost unbearable. Both of them would have stripped off as much as possible, save for the swarms of biting insects that accompanied them throughout the daylight, so they rode with light cloths draped over them, miserable and silent. Around them, the jungle sounds more than made up for their own silence. Predators roared, prey scurried, birds called and insects buzzed. Slave tried to ignore as much as he could, but his training would not let him relax: he responded to every new sound, turning in his saddle, looking for each new threat. Every night, he slept in exhaustion.

Clouds formed in the afternoon and rain fell hard. For the first time Slave saw lightning and heard thunder. His fears at the vast open sky above him had been under control for much of the journey, but the blinding flash followed by the echoing rumble that filled the sky awakened old feelings. He panted, fighting to keep control. Had he been out on the plains, he knew he would have failed, urging his horse on to a fatal gallop as he had done before, but the denseness of the surrounding jungle helped.

‘What was that?' he asked when the rumbling thunder had faded away.

Keshik looked at the jungle above and scowled. Even here, under this impenetrable canopy, the rain managed somehow to fall.

‘The superstitious say it is the Seventh Waste, stirring in discomfort at being imprisoned so long, longing to be released again. The scholars say it is the sound of the lightning, echoing among the clouds.'

‘So that was thunder and lightning,' Slave said.

‘Of course it was. What are you, stupid?'

‘No. I have read of them, but never seen or heard them.'

Keshik grunted and nudged his horse back into a walk, hoping he was still heading south and east. Unable to see the sky, it was too easy to get turned around under the unbroken canopy. Beneath the hooves of their horses, the ground was muddy where it was not covered by leaf litter, evidence of the rain and humidity that left everything damp. Even when it was not raining, the water trickled down the tree trunks and dripped off every leaf. Keshik had not been dry since the day they had entered this vast forest.

They continued through the heat, humidity and insects in the still air until the dimness of day subsided into the utter black of night. Keshik had noted a change come over Slave as the light faded. He seemed to become more alert; his whole bearing changed as if he were coming home. The man actually looked happy as night fell. It struck him that this darkness would be the closest Slave could
come to being underground again. Keshik shuddered at the thought of being trapped underground. The wet precluded them even trying to sleep on the ground, so each night they clambered up a tree and tried to sleep. At first it was impossible, but as tiredness built up, it became easier. Keshik found a tree with low, spreading branches and was about to dismount when Slave hissed at him.

‘Listen,' he said, holding a hand up.

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 thought 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.