Scarred Man (7 page)

By the end of the next day, Slave was delirious with hunger, thirst and pain. He had somehow struggled against the wind and the cold, forcing his battered body on, unaware any more of direction or reason, only the need to keep moving, to work against the memories, to maintain the exhaustion so that he could not think. He could not afford to think, to
remember
.

At least six times during those days, he had pulled out the hated Claw to cast it away, to lose it in this swirling chaos of snow and wind, but each time he had held the exquisite weapon in his hand, its beauty, its simplicity of form, its purity of purpose, had defeated him. Each time he considered letting it drop to the frozen ground at his feet, his hand had betrayed him, and he tucked it back inside his filthy, stolen clothes. Until the next time.

A swirl, a shift in the incessant, hateful wind brought a scent to Slave. He hesitated. The smell was one he did not know. It was most likely animal, but no animal he had smelt before. The wind shifted again, taking the scent away, but he had it
now, and knew where it was. An animal meant food. From the strength of the scent, he guessed it was more than one animal. That might mean people herding. And that might mean shelter. His mind made up, Slave turned and faced the scent. He pulled his Claw out and stood with it in his hand.

A smudge on the scoured, barren ground ahead showed the presence of people and a herd. Slave tucked his Claw away. Another shift in the wind brought sounds as well as smells — the sounds of conversation, of normal life.

How could anyone live a normal life out here?

What is a normal life?

The sounds of conversation died as they approached, to be replaced by the sounds of weapons being readied. Slave heard the rattle of arrows being nocked, the slither of knives being drawn and the slap of cudgels into palms as the people ahead readied themselves. The wind shifted again, bringing to Slave once more the smells of people and their animals. He swallowed as the stench filled his nostrils.

If this is normal life, I want nothing like it.

He did not move as the people neared him. He raised his head to stare at them. Whispers, stares, scowls, a tightening of hand on weapon greeted him. All the usual. He remained still, waiting for the comments to die down and someone to step forward, someone braver than the rest who could face the stranger with the disturbing face. After a brief pause, a man did so.

‘Traveller,' the man said. ‘Do you walk with peace in your shadow?'

It had the sound of a ritual greeting, and Slave became tense. These people lived in harsh conditions, most likely eking out a miserable existence. Strangers made them nervous and they were no doubt quick to act in violence. Slave cast an eye over the group. There were sixteen men, twenty women and several children, all standing motionless, watching the scene play out. One wrong move and they would probably attack him. He did not want to kill them all as a result of an ill-chosen word.

Slave nodded, raising both hands to show that he held no weapon.

‘I do not know your traditions,' he said slowly. ‘But I mean you no harm. I am lost in this barren land and seek shelter and food.'

The lead man — a wiry, hard-looking man wrapped against the wind and cold in furs — stepped back to confer with the others, without once taking his eyes off Slave. After a few moments' conversation, he approached confidently.

‘We have little to spare, but we offer you warmth and sanctuary against the wind.' This, too, had the sound of ritual.

Slave slowly let out the breath he realised he had been holding. ‘My thanks,' he said.

The other man grunted and gestured for him to come closer, to come within their circle. He was aware of every eye maintaining a watchful distrust, closely observing his every move, yet hands had slipped off weapons and arrows were returned to quivers. Slave looked around, seeing horses heavily burdened, small animals being tended by young
men, mothers holding bundles that were likely babes and the men watching over it all. The man who had spoken approached him and held his left hand out, palm downward.

‘Lend us the peace that rests in your shadow,' he said.

Slave had no idea how to respond, but the other man grinned, as sudden a sign as it was unexpected. ‘You slap the top of my hand and then offer me yours to hit,' he explained. His grin broadened when Slave complied. ‘Come,' he said, ‘share our walk.'

As Slave had been wandering without direction, any way seemed equally good to him, so he shared their walk. Amid the slowly moving group with their horses and animals around, the desolate plain felt less vast, even the wind felt less brutal. Slave relaxed slightly.

‘My name is Vasilis.'

‘I am called Slave.'

‘Parents didn't like you?' Vasilis said with a smile.

Slave shrugged. ‘I don't know if I even had parents.'

Vasilis's smile vanished like he had been struck. ‘Everyone has parents, traveller.'

‘So I hear.'

‘You're a strange one, Slave.'

‘I've heard that, too.'

A woman appeared at Slave's shoulder, offering him something.

‘Ah,' said Vasilis. ‘Food. Take it, Slave. From the look of you, you could use it.'

Slave accepted the hard, red-brown lump. He raised it to his lips. The pungent smell made him recoil.

‘Delicious! I agree,' Vasilis said, apparently misunderstanding Slave's reaction. ‘Nothing like curdled cague milk.'

‘Cague?'

Vasilis roared with laughter. He pointed at the small dirty animals that wandered along with them. ‘Cague,' he said. ‘Our little flock that keeps us alive and prospering.'

Slave stared at the short-legged, light brown animals. They looked tough and hardy, with their tightly coiled wool and sturdy legs. There were about forty of them being driven along by the young men, each of whom carried a long stick taller than themselves which they flicked at the cagues to keep them in a tight formation.

Prospering? He calls this prospering?
With a sigh, Slave opened his mouth and bit into the morsel of food.
It's better than I have, at least.
He'd eaten worse, but not much. Still, it was surprisingly filling and he managed to keep it down. Vasilis opened the first layer of his clothes and offered him a waterskin. Slave accepted it and pulled open the stopper. The water was bitterly cold, barely liquid, despite being carried near Vasilis's skin. He gasped and spluttered as he felt the freezing water seep down into his belly.

‘My thanks,' he gasped.

‘How long is it since you last ate?'

Slave shrugged. ‘Days.'

Vasilis raised his arm. ‘We make shadow here,' he called. ‘The sun will move over us while our new
friend recovers his strength. I claim this place for the Kuvnos. May our harvest be rich.'

The small tribe started to make camp. The horses were unloaded while the flock of cagues were urged into the centre. It seemed that everyone, from the oldest to the smallest child capable of walking, had a task. All except Slave. The strains of the previous days suddenly hit him and he felt himself slide into unconsciousness.

 

He awoke warm and comfortable, if ravenously hungry. His eyes flickered open to look around, and saw a woman staring down at him. As he struggled to sit up, her hand pressed on his chest gently, but with strength, forcing him back down.

‘Be still, Slave,' she said. ‘It is too soon yet to cast a shadow. Your injuries are great and will take time to heal.'

‘Where …?' he started, but the woman shook her head.

‘You are safe within our number. The natona spreads its shadow over you and the Kuvnos surround you. Our solpon has offered you sanctuary. You are one of us now.'

Slave did not understand many of the words she spoke, but her tone was soothing and her face seemed calm. He allowed his eyes to close again. The sleep that followed was more relaxed, less troubled by anguished visions, than any he had enjoyed since fleeing his master.

 

He drifted in and out of consciousness for uncounted days as his body and mind recovered. Most of his
waking time was spent eating the simple fare of the Kuvnos. The food was mostly derived from the hardy cague flock. It seemed that everything about the Kuvnos people derived in some way from the tough little animals. The normal meal was some of the curdled milk mixed with its blood, usually served in a cague leather bowl made waterproof by smearing it with fat. The thick mixture went solid after a day or so and was shaped into travelling food that was carried next to the skin to keep it from freezing solid. The cague bred prolifically, and one in every three males was set aside for slaughter.

The woman who first greeted Slave maintained her vigil by him. After a few days, he regained enough energy to engage her in conversation, halting at first, but slowly becoming comfortable. He started to enjoy seeing her face whenever he awoke.

Her name was Kirri and she had seen thirty-three Crossings. This made her old to be unmarried among the Kuvnos. She mixed the blood of the cague with plants and rare, coloured earths to make poultices and tonics.

‘Why are you called Slave?' she asked one morning. She spoke as she rolled him over and started applying a thick orange mud to his back.

‘I have never, urgh,' he grunted as she started rubbing the mud vigorously into his skin, ‘had a name. My master only ever called me slave.'

‘What did your mother call you? Lie still!'

‘I never had a mother.'

‘What? Did you spring from the ice, fully formed? Everyone has a mother, someone's womb carried you.'

Slave shrugged as if uncaring. ‘So I have heard.' Now two members of this little tribe, the Kuvnos, had asked him the same question. Why did it matter?

A gust of wind shook the low, dark structure — the natona — that sheltered him. The ever-present sound of the wind had the effect of washing out conversation, blurring it, giving more privacy than he would have imagined in such a small, communal place. He looked around at the stretched hide and the sturdy stakes that were all that stood between him and freezing to death. It occurred to him that it had been a long time since he had seen a tree.

‘Where do you get the wood for the supports?' he asked.

Kirri flicked a glance towards the walls. ‘We trade for them from the southerners, or sometimes even the Acolytes.'

‘What do you have to trade?'

She smiled, a flash of colour against her wind-darkened skin. Like most of the women he had seen moving about within the natona, she kept her teeth polished and adorned with intricate hand-painted designs. He had watched the women sitting at night, with their teeth clamped together, lips wide, while another woman painted the complex patterns. He had not seen enough to be sure, but he guessed each woman's pattern was different. It seemed to be the only real adornment the women had, being wrapped permanently against the cold and wind. It was only here, beneath the natona, that anyone peeled off even the outermost covering. At first, the stench had been overpowering, but he
quickly became inured to its pungent bite. Now, he hardly noticed it.

‘Trade?' Kirri repeated. ‘We trade what we harvest from the tundra.'

‘Harvest? What is there to harvest out here? Nothing grows.'

‘Sssa,' she hissed in agreement. ‘But we do not harvest what grows.' She unhooked the first three loops that held her outer garment, her yok, fastened, and pulled out a leather thong that was tied around her neck. Hanging from it was a lump of what looked like metal.

‘What is that?'

‘Mangase,' she replied. ‘It is a metal that we find just below the surface of the ice. We gather these lumps wherever we set our natona.'

‘Mangase?' Slave struggled to sit up. He had read of the metal and its use in the making of the most expensive weaponry. Normal iron mixed with mangase became harder, held its edge better and was less susceptible to rust. Even this modest amount of the metal would be worth a small fortune to the right swordmaker. He held out his hand to the dull grey lump. Kirri hesitated so long before offering him the metal, he realised he had committed some social error.

‘I do not know your traditions,' he said slowly. ‘Did I just give offence?'

‘No,' she replied. ‘You just offered to marry me. To carry my first mangase find is to hold my virginity.' She blushed and looked down. ‘I guess that was not your meaning.'

‘No,' Slave said quickly. ‘Of course not.'

Kirri's blush deepened and she tucked the metal back inside her yok. As she busied herself with refastening the garment, she rose to her feet.

‘Rub more of that onto your chest,' she said, indicating the remaining paste in its leather bowl. She did not look at him as she turned and walked quickly away.

Slave watched her go, aware of the stares of other women and their small children. Only the nursing mothers, the infirm and the very young stayed inside during the daylight. Everyone else was outside harvesting, as Slave now realised, the priceless mangase.

A small child —
a girl
, Slave thought — tottered across the rug-covered ground towards him. A woman, presumably her mother, watched her progress intently. The child came close and reached out a tiny hand to touch Slave's face. He held still as the small, yet perfectly formed hand touched his skin and traced the scars that ran across his face.

‘What did this?' the child asked.

‘A monster,' Slave said softly.

‘Why?'

Slave frowned. ‘I don't know,' he answered.

‘What's a monster?' the child said.

‘Something that does things like this,' Slave replied.

‘Are you going to fight it again?'

Slave did not hesitate this time. ‘Yes,' he said.

‘Will it do this to you again?'

Slave traced the scars across his face before answering. ‘Probably.'