Scarred Man (6 page)

Her link.

The tussle of minds was as short as it was bitter, and the shapeshifter stood no chance against the trained, strong, vicious mind of the Key Wielder. In moments, her defences lay in tatters before him, her fears spread out naked before his questing mind. She saw again the awful moment when the human had put her in thrall.

The moment when her own identity lay at risk of utter subjugation to another.

The moment every shapeshifter feared above all — the forging of the link.

‘Is there any way we can help Tatya?'
the woman had asked.

‘If we give her the talisman after Cort pays us, she will be free.'

Stupid human — instead of freeing her, she had bound her more tightly than any talisman ever could. The talisman that held Tatya captive to the ignorant human in Mollnde was destroyed, long gone, but by saving her and then freeing her, the hateful woman had doomed the shapeshifter to a lifetime of utter servitude. Until one of them was dead, Tatya was bound beyond any hope to worshipping the human.

Unless she could flee and hide, far from the grasping tendrils of destined purpose.

Unless she could find the Revenant that, according to legend, dwelt in the frozen wastes.

Only it, with its limitless power over anachronisms like her, could break the ancient betrayal.

Only it could overturn the treachery of the Scarens.

Desperation gave her strength. She tore at the binding ropes, sensing for the first time a hint of weakness. A fibre broke. Tatya yowled and doubled her efforts. Another fibre gave way under her furious assault, then another — and suddenly the magic failed.

She sprang to her feet and went to slash at the old human, but he raised his hands in defence. Instead of the feeble fingers, Tatya's claws met a magical shield stronger than metal. Sparks flew where claw met magic. Pain shot along Tatya's forelegs, sending her sprawling backwards, whimpering and trembling from the shock. Before she could recover her wits, the human gestured again and a hot wave of magical energy swept over her, sending her teetering to the edge of unconsciousness.

There, on the dark precipice, Tatya relived every hateful moment from the time she saw the red-headed woman climb through the window to when the Scarred Man released her and outlined the plan. What he did not know was that already the evil, insidious link was being forged. Tatya followed the plan, even to snatching the bag of useless clothes from the woman she had pretended to hurt, even though it caused her actual physical pain to pretend such an abhorrence.

With every passing heartbeat, the strength of the link grew. Unless she could tear herself away from this intimate revisiting of the events, she would be lost, without even the will to run.

Joukahainen released her.

‘The Scarred Man,' he mused. ‘Who is he, I wonder? Return to him.' Once again, the powerful
mind invaded her own, driving her back to the man with the scars down his face. She relived every instant she had spent in his presence, scenting him, feeling his touch, even tasting his flesh again. Her breath came in short, sharp pants as the link took on strength, building the cage that would hold her forever under the thrall of …

NO!

The silent scream tore through her mind, jolting the human, sending his mind out of hers. Her last great act of defiance amounted to little more than a whimper of regret as …

Maida!

The wonder of her presence.

The joy of her smile.

The need for her, the ache to be with her.

The deep-rooted terror that something might happen to her.

She might be in pain!

Tatya realised she was free from Joukahainen's mind. With a snarl of feral hatred and a single swipe of her forepaw, she laid his face open to the bone before she took flight.

Out into the snow.

South.

To find her.

Maida.

The cell was dark, stinking and featureless. Keshik slumped against a wall and stared at the door. There were no windows and he had lost track of how long he had been here. Food and water, just enough to keep him alive, were shoved through a narrow slit under the door occasionally. At first, he had taken one smell and recoiled, but as hunger started to bite, he put aside his revulsion and ate. In the darkness between meals, he sat with his back to the damp wall, thinking.

For all his bluster at Alberrich, he knew his chances of carrying out his threats were gone now. No simple power of will would get him out of this. He had acted without thought and killed, again. He would face his accusers and pay for his actions. He would die here in this stinking ugly city and never again feel the cleansing scour of the north winds nor smell the biting tang of ice. The simple joys of life were gone. Maida was gone. His swords were gone.

Despair threatened to overwhelm him, to unman him, leaving him hollow and weak. He slowly slid
further away from himself, towards what he had always feared — unworthiness. Time passed in a blur, punctuated only by the arrival of food. He crawled across the floor whenever it came. Food meant life, and life meant Maida.

Maida — she was the only thing that kept him from utter despair. It was not love, not this time; it was bitter, roiling anger that kept the remnants of a fire burning in his belly. He had failed her. He had not protected her and she had been taken. They would die, these weak men who preyed on women. His anger had two targets: the men and himself. In the darkness, his anger grew and changed, becoming hatred, before sliding into vicious need. Were it not for his certainty that she loved him still, he would have surely become a worthy bearer of his exile. The knowledge of her love was a tiny flickering flame of peace amid the tumult of his pain, keeping him away from the hate. Without it, he would have embraced his new title: kabutat, night guard of the Tulugma. Cast aside, exiled, shunned forever.

So he stayed, hovering between despair and hope, anger and love, life and death until the day his chance would come. He knew it would come — these people, these
Readers
would want vengeance dressed up as justice. They would want him publicly humiliated, and there would lie his only hope.

 

The sound of the key in the lock woke him from futile dreams. As the door creaked open, he struggled to his feet, to stand and face his jailer.

‘Come on, visitor,' the filthy man grunted. ‘Time to die.' He stepped back and three guards surged into the cell. They quickly subdued Keshik and dragged him out. He stumbled often as they forced him through passages and up stairs. In moments he lost track of where he was or where he was going. His whole focus was on marshalling his remaining reserves of mental and physical strength so that he would be ready when that one moment, that one chance came.

Massive double doors were opened and Keshik was urged inside. The doors slammed behind them and he was hurried across a large, featureless room to another guarded door, which was opened without a word. Beyond was a meeting room ringed with ascending rows of seats filled with robed figures. At his appearance, the room fell silent.

He was forced inside and pushed down onto the floor.

‘I bring to the Tribunal the man responsible for the murder of seventeen members of this Tribunal,' the lead soldier declared.

A sound not unlike a collective sigh filled the chamber. Keshik tried to regain his feet, but a booted foot shoved him back down.

‘Face to the floor, murderer,' a voice instructed. ‘You may leave us now, with our thanks, Servants of the Readers.' The boot was removed from his back and Keshik heard the soldiers march away.

‘Fellow Readers,' the same voice went on in a loud, ringing tone, ‘we have the one who slaughtered so many of our colleagues.'

Other voices cried out, their words lost in the general uproar.

‘Silence!' the first voice bellowed. ‘We will have none of this unseemly babble.' The sound of a metal object striking stone rang out. ‘Silence, I say!'

The cries of anger subsided. Keshik attempted to look up, but was struck a powerful blow on the back of his head. ‘You have no right to raise your head in this august company, murderer.'

‘I will speak,' Keshik said.

The blow was repeated. ‘You will not speak.'

‘Readers, this man's guilt is beyond question. He has been vouched for by three of our Servants and no less than six individual Divining Readers and brought here for judgement. Once again, the skills of the Readers of Leserlang are paramount. Only the manner of his dying is to be decided.'

As before, general uproar broke out, but this time the noise was allowed to continue for longer before the man with the floor again pounded with his staff.

‘If I read the intent of the Tribunal right, he is to die in the Arch of the Shamed.' The roar that followed this declaration was incoherent, an animal snarl of base hunger. ‘Now you may stand and face your judgement.'

Keshik scrambled to his feet and stared out at the angry Tribunal. There were at least two hundred of them, all on their feet, roaring, shaking their fists at him. Men and women, faces filled with hate, standing in robes of different hues of red, all shouted at him, screaming for his blood. Even armed, he could not take so many.

‘I will overcome,' he whispered. ‘I will
overcome!' he shouted. ‘This is not justice. This is murder! You accuse me of murder, but commit it yourselves! And to do it, you deal with Alberrich. You sell women to the Agents of the Blindfolded Queen and ignore the actions of the real criminals!'

His words were hollow, shouted in vain, seeking only to delay, to confuse, to buy time. His words served only to enrage them, to goad them on to further hate. The first missile struck him on the shoulder. The second, a book, caught him in the chest. In moments, he was being pelted with dozens of hurled objects. Books, trinkets, all manner of objects rained down on him as the Readers threw whatever came to hand. Blood trickled down his face from innumerable small wounds. He tried to duck, but there were too many to avoid.

The staff struck the floor again.

‘Cease this vulgar display! Cease, I say!'

Keshik turned to face the man with the staff. He was young, his face hard, his eyes intelligent, his robe blood red.

‘Your words are insulting, murderer,' he said when the missiles had stopped. ‘Your punishment is as just as your guilt is inescapable. Do not forget you face the Readers. We know by the use of our arts what you did.'

‘Do you also know what was done to us?' Keshik demanded.

‘You came here with malicious intent. You suffered what you deserved.'

‘What is your name?' Keshik asked.

‘I no longer bear a name — I lead the Readers, I am the Pall. Not that it matters to you any more.'
He turned away from Keshik and walked to the door. It opened as he approached. Outside stood six of the biggest men Keshik had ever seen. They were clad in metal armour and bore huge axes. Their heads were completely encased in helmets with large spikes like horns rising from the top. Narrow eye slits, like sword cuts, ran across the front.

‘Executioners,' the Pall said, ‘take the murderer to the Arch of the Shamed and hang him there to die for all to see. Let others know of his fate and tremble.'

 

Keshik was dragged out of the Tribunal and he was taken to another room where he was chained to the wall. The room was below ground, lit by a fire burning orange in a pit. Hanging on the walls were dozens of weapons, shields, suits of armour and other, less identifiable devices. Despite the heat, Keshik was chilled as he considered what some of these devices might be.

A heavy-set blacksmith wearing the leather apron of his craft presided over a forge, pounding at a glowing hot length of steel. He was sweating as he worked over the fire, and the sweat flowed down his unshaven face, leaving clean trails through the dirt. His head was shaved and shone in the flickering firelight. When the executioners brought Keshik in, he barely looked up, simply grunted and gestured with his hammer towards the far wall. Chains, ending in manacles, dangled from the wall. Keshik was locked by the wrists and the executioners left. Not a word had been spoken. He hung, watching
the blacksmith working at his forge, hammering heavy strips of steel. After a while, he dropped the glowing metal into a large tub of water and turned to face Keshik.

‘Managed to irritate the Readers, did we?' the blacksmith rumbled.

Keshik nodded.

The blacksmith looked Keshik up and down. ‘Don't look like much, but with those wrists, I'd say you could do some damage. Kill any?'

‘Seventeen, apparently.'

‘That's a goodly sum,' the blacksmith said with a low whistle.

‘It seemed reasonable at the time.'

‘Ha! I like a man with a sense of humour.'

‘I don't have a sense of humour,' Keshik muttered.

This just urged the big man on to laughter. ‘Good man,' he said. ‘It's always good to face Fate with a smile. Spit in the old bitch's face, that's what I always say.' He put down his hammer and strode over to face Keshik. ‘Now, let's measure you up for a cage.'

The measurements were rudimentary at best and done quickly. The blacksmith used a knotted string to estimate Keshik's height, the width of his shoulders, his hips and chest. When he was done, he gave Keshik a nod.

‘This won't take too long.'

Keshik sighed as the blacksmith went back to his forge and started selecting lengths of steel. The manacles on his wrists were solid and tight fitting. No chance of escape there. His only hope was
when he was released. He had to stay alert and ready for the opportunity when it came. And come it had to. Keshik repeated his dofain and started planning.

Time passed as the blacksmith pounded the metal into a cage. Keshik started to feel faint with hunger and thirst. It had been a long time since he had tasted either.

‘Water?' he croaked.

‘I don't think so,' the blacksmith said. He put down his hammer and turned to face Keshik. ‘The better shape you are in before I hang you in this,' he gestured at the cage taking shape, ‘the longer you live out there. And I don't think you want to live long out there.'

‘Water,' Keshik repeated.

‘You think you have a chance of escape, don't you?'

Keshik held the blacksmith's gaze.

‘Idiot. No one escapes from the Arch of the Shamed. No one.' He did, however, fill a mug of water and allow Keshik to drink. ‘Idiot,' he muttered darkly as Keshik finished the mug. ‘You will regret this later. You've just bought yourself another day's suffering out there.'

More time passed. Another mug of water and the cage was finished. It was a simple cylinder, narrow at the base, widening, coffin-like, at the shoulders and narrowing again. There were only six lengths of steel, but the gaps between them were narrow enough to ensure Keshik could not possibly squeeze out. The base was a round sheet of steel and there was no top plate.

‘Right, let's get you in here,' the blacksmith said. He lifted the solid cage with one hand and carried it across the room. Keshik tensed as the smith approached. This was the only opportunity he would get.

The big blacksmith stopped short. He put down the cage and scratched at his stubbled cheek.

‘You are a dangerous man,' he mused. ‘And I am guessing that you are planning something.' He stepped back and stared, as if pondering Keshik's possible actions. Finally he shook his head and sighed. ‘Too dangerous, I think.'

He turned away again and walked to the opposite side of the room, returning with a small black metal pot.

‘Sorry about this, but I fear you are planning something that does not bode well for me,' he said, placing the pot at Keshik's feet. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand, flicked off the lid and stepped back quickly. Almost immediately, Keshik felt dizzy as pungent fumes wafted upwards. He tried to move out of the way, throwing himself from side to side, but the chains gave him only limited movement. He held his breath, but the gas stung his eyes and made him gasp with pain, drawing in more of the pernicious stuff. The room spun before his streaming eyes, dizziness swept over him and darkness stole in.

He was dimly aware of the manacles being removed, but his mind and body felt disconnected. His wrists, rubbed bloody by the harsh metal, lay limp as he regarded them with blurry vision. He slumped to the ground when he was released, only
to be picked up by a powerful arm and shoved unceremoniously into the cage. When it was heaved upright, he slid down until his knees pressed hard against the bars. The pain sparked a flickering response, but not enough to overcome the dulling effect of the gas. Keshik looked up, bemused, to watch the blacksmith working on the bars, doing something to them until they nearly closed over his head.

A part of his mind that still worked tried to tell him something, to warn him, but it was muffled, dimmed by the narcotic. Keshik smiled up at the blacksmith.

‘What's your name?' he slurred, but the big man was rude and ignored him.

No matter, we can talk later. When I wake up.