The Scarred God Page 4

  Vedic rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands in the basin of water he kept for when he needed to get clean. It was going to be a long night.

  … I am in a city, and it burns. The smoke from the fire wraps around me like some kind of enchanted wraith, pawing at my mouth, smothering my nose and clawing at my eyes as I move through the ruinous heat. I am Anya, but I am not Anya in this place. I don’t know who I am, let alone where I am, although I am familiar with this place in some way – an echo I can’t quite make out.

  The sounds of the dying and the wounded hail my slow journey through the ransacked metropolis. I continue to walk. I don’t appear to be able to stop myself or control my actions as my path takes me, inexorably, towards the centre of the city, where a large towered fortress waits with smoke billowing from one corner. I notice the heavy weight in my hand and look down to see one of the largest swords I have ever set eyes on. This one reminds me of another weapon, but I can’t remember its name. It’s a two-handed affair like the Kurah used to carry, and I have the sword held ready to strike. I can’t help but notice the strange patterns on the blade that make it look, in the firelight, like it is made of water.

  Shaanti men and women run from me as if I am the Morrigan come to take them down to the underworld.

  What is this? It’s clear I am in a dream of some sort. I have no control. I can only make out what the person I am in the dream can actually see. All around me is carnage. It’s worse than the village. The sheer scale of ruin. Bodies line the street, and the smell is of smoke and blood and piss and shit and fear.

  Kurah turn to talk to me in their language, and I can only understand a smattering of words, and little of it makes any sense. They do not address me by name. They are as scared of me as the Shaanti, only they either can’t or won’t run. I respond in words I do not understand. We are at a crossroads: the road ahead leads straight to the castle, and the road bisecting it leads out around the city in what looks like a circle. There is a pile of bodies marking the spot where the Kurah have attempted to keep the path clear for their troops.

  I have placed my sword in the crook of my arm as if nursing the weapon, and I am listening to a nervous, sweaty warrior of around twenty years reporting to me. The man’s attention shifts from me and moves to someone behind me.

  I turn.

  The king is on horseback, his purple cloak floating out behind him, dust-covered but the colour still clear, and his armour reflects the fire all around him. He is old and grey-bearded. This is all wrong. He pulls on the horse’s reins to bring the animal under control and stop it cantering on.

  The king speaks in tones that suggest he is happy with what he sees, but his eyes never move from me. He is testing me: the king wants to see if I brag and posture. I reply in an obedient tone, gesturing to the victory the men are delivering for him, the sole ruler of the Kurah, and I convince even myself.

  The king mutters. I have enough understanding of their language to make out the word for ‘god’, but I do not hear my host reply, though I feel my shoulders tense. There is a cry.

  I spin and see a boy break from the pile of bodies where he must have been hidden until the Kurah approached with flames. There is no threat to us, but I bark a command and follow with my sword. I have no need to run. He never disappears from sight, and I have long strides in this nightmare.

  As the boy runs into the palace, I know it is a trap, and whoever I am in the dream knows too. The person whose head I occupy here chuckles to himself. The bass sound vibrates deep inside. I move through the doorway with my sword in the guard position, but the trap is not sprung. Instead, I can see the boy running up the stairs to the western tower. There will be no escape.

  I try to will myself not to follow. I want the Shaanti boy to get away and live a long life far from here, but I can’t control my host. I prowl up the spiral staircase like a tiger on the hunt.

  I get the occasional glimpse of the boy ahead of me, but I do not rush. Both I and my host know if I run after the boy, up the stairs, it will be very easy to get me off my feet and tumbling back down again. I emerge into the light of the top of the tower with my heart pounding, and there is no sign of the boy.

  There is a girl in his place, wearing armour at least one size too big. She has a sword pointed at me.

  I speak in Kurah-inflected Shaanti. ‘You have already lost. Give up, and thy life will be spared.’

  The girl does not reply, but she adopts the guard position for an Shaanti. Her blade is shaking but she stands her ground. A formal challenge, and my host knows that.

  He replies, ‘Very well. I will pray for you.’

  The girl screams a war cry and attacks.

  She is good. I am impressed even if the warrior I am in this dream blocks with almost indifferent ease, and I am unable to look away, even if I could, when he disarms her. I … he … I am losing my sense of self … sends her sword clattering over the edge of the parapet. She is at sword-point, pressed against the wall. I could let her go. I hear myself begin the Kurah prayer for the fallen as I press the sword into her belly. She gasps in pain, eyes wide, but she does not cry out. She doesn’t scream even when I lift her on the blade and tip her over the edge to the ground below. I mutter the Kurah saying that I know from somewhere – ‘Kinah Filah, Shanelle Itai.’ In pain, set free.

  The boy screams as he bursts from his hiding place and loses his head with one swing. I do not look back as I walk past his body, feet slick with blood, and descend back into the palace, repeating the prayer as I clean my blade.

  I am screaming silently as this awful creature I am imprisoned in goes back into the city, and the fading of this nightmare is a mercy that I would have welcomed the minute I saw the Shaanti running for their lives. My fear as I slip into the dark is that this is happening right now, rather than a muddled nightmare from the ransacking of my village. Am I too late?

  It was dark when Anya woke. The sky had been replaced by worn wood, and the grass had become a stiff bed with little padding. For a moment, she thought she had died and that they had placed her in a coffin, like the people across the ocean who followed the engineer. The notion was dispelled by the sound of rain on the roof of whatever building she had been placed in. Still, she struggled to move, as the sheets had been tucked in so tight they were almost a restraint. There were dressings on her arm, hand and leg, but she couldn’t feel any clothes. That caused her to sit up fast, and immediately she regretted it – her head felt like it was about to roll off. There was no one else in the room.

  Somewhere nearby a wolf howled.

  The building smelt of tobacco smoke and mud and burnt meat. There was a copper tang to the air that put Anya in mind of blood. For the briefest of moments, looking round the dark room with only a bed and an old wardrobe, she thought she saw Fin in the corner nearest the window. He sported the ugly wound that had killed him and the faintly accusing look that demanded to know why she had stood her ground instead of listening to him. He’d be alive now if she’d only run.

  Anya blinked and the ghost was gone.

  Anya got out of the bed. She looked at the dressing on her arm: a leaf had been pressed closest to the wound before the bandage had been applied, and what looked like mud had been smeared between the makeshift dressing and her arm. Her instinct was to remove the dressing and clean the injury. Yet why go to the trouble of killing her by triggering an infection? She had been unconscious. Anything could have been done to her, and she was relieved that dressing her wounds was the only thing that seemed to have taken place. They itched. Her other injuries all felt the same.

  Anya wrapped herself in the bed sheet and made her way over to the wardrobe in search of clothes and anything that could be a weapon. The door opened with a creak. She paused to see if anyone had come to check on the noise. Her heart was an angry fist in her ribcage, demanding to escape.

  Inside the wardrobe, there was a selection of jerkins and leggings that were an amount bigger than anything that would help Anya.
She tried not to think about the size of the person they belonged to. The bed sheet offered even less protection. She took one of the jerkins down and used it as a short dress that she tied at the waist with a torn strip from a pair of leggings. She wouldn’t ordinarily be seen in a skirt for love nor money, but there was nothing to be done.

  Anya took the other clothes out of the wardrobe and discarded them on the bed. She lifted the piece of wood that they had been hanging from out of the wardrobe and felt its weight. There wasn’t as much heft as she would like, but – like the tunic – it was better than nothing. Armed, she listened at the door’s edge.

  Silence.

  Anya opened the door a crack and peered through. A wolf howled again. She ignored it.

  The room beyond was a living area almost as sparse as the bedchamber, with nothing but a couple of armchairs that had seen better days and a series of tools and basic weapons adorning the wall. The fire gave off the only light. There was no sign of her saviour.

  Anya stepped into the room, not looking for any further evidence, because all she was focused on was the doorway ahead of her and the sound of the storm beyond. She could be up and away before anyone could stop her. She reached for the handle.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  Anya froze. When she recovered, she gripped her club harder and turned.

  The man stood in the other doorway, which led to a kitchen, judging from the smell and the light. A pipe was wedged between the man’s teeth, and the smoke billowing from it made her want to cough, but she suppressed the reflex. Any coughing would give the man an opening in which he could attack.

  ‘You can’t hold me here.’

  The man took the pipe from his lips with his right hand and gestured towards the door.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said. ‘But that storm will end lives tonight, and that will include yours if you go out in it wearing nothing but my best tunic.’

  Anya looked out of the window at the back of the room. The storm flashed lightning that briefly showed off the wet and swaying trees beyond.

  ‘I have to help them,’ she said, feeling her head spin. ‘They need me to get to Vikrain.’

  The man laughed. ‘You aren’t even going to make it to the Tream border.’

  Anya lifted the club and pointed the makeshift weapon at the man.

  ‘Tream are myths,’ she said. ‘You will help me.’

  The man put the pipe back between his teeth and muttered, ‘Put the wood down, child. You are only making yourself look silly. I couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to, and you can’t help anyone if you’re dead.’

  Anya thought on this.

  The wood was really heavy. She dropped it. If the man had wanted her dead, then he could have killed her a hundred times by now. In her mind’s eye, she saw the axe strike the Kurah warrior’s skull.

  ‘You killed them?’

  The man’s expression changed to one that approached regret.

  ‘They left me no choice. They know they are not allowed in here. I had to protect the forest.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Vedic, Anya,’ said the woodsman. ‘I am the forestal of the Rift Forest. I guard the last of the ancient trees on behalf of the gods.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘You talk in your sleep.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Anya. She felt sick. Her head was still thumping. She sat down on one of the arms of the nearest chair.

  ‘Someone is looking after you,’ said the man, coming into the room and sitting on the other chair. ‘I don’t suppose you know who.’

  Anya shook her head. ‘No one is protecting me. If you knew what was going on beyond this forest …’

  Vedic tilted his head and took his pipe from his lips again. He began tapping out the tobacco into the fire and stuffing the bowl with a fresh supply.

  ‘I do know,’ said Vedic. ‘You talked a lot while you were out. Besides, your story is hardly unique – lots of villages get sacked by the Kurah. Someone within the forest has your back. I would not be protecting you unless they did.’

  Anya frowned. ‘I am grateful for your generosity.’

  ‘It’s wasted,’ said Vedic, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t want to help, and wouldn’t be if I had not had the misfortune to be cursed by whichever god has granted you favour, to help you.’

  Anya stared at him. ‘You are honest. There’s that at least.’

  ‘I wasn’t always a forestal. I am not a nice man,’ said Vedic, folding his arms. ‘Do not forget that, and we will get along fine.’

  A wolf howled.

  Vedic lifted his head.

  Another wolf answered.

  ‘They are getting a little close,’ he said.

  Anya did not respond: she had no idea what was normal, and she felt nauseous. She felt her skin moving and stitching and coming together over her wounds.

  The woodsman put his pipe down on the crude wooden mantelpiece over the fire and took his bow from the wall. He paused at the door to the forest.

  ‘Your clothes are repaired and on the kitchen table. There’s stew in the pot over the fire. I will be back soon.’

  The clothes were where he said they would be. Crudely stitched but bound secure, her tunic and leggings were on a makeshift hanger next to the fire. The table was pretty close by. At that moment, Anya had an urge to try and run, but she pushed the feeling away. Anya had shelter, and she’d be foolish to ignore that and die before the message could ever get there. She put the clothes to one side.

  Anya filled her bowl with stew and sat at the table to eat.

  You are taking time to eat? asked the voice in Anya’s head that sounded so much like her mother. An army marches on its stomach, said her mother, continuing her theme. But you need to be tougher if you’re going to make it. Smarter. How do you know the stew is all right?

  Anya ignored the voice. It had been a long time since she had thought the voice was actually her mother and longer still since she had thought her mother might still be alive anywhere. Her grandfather had taught her that when you were at war, the two things you took whenever you could were food and sleep – you never knew when you would be without them. Seasoned warriors could sleep standing up. The woodsman could have killed her in any number of ways, and so the food would be fine.

  After eating, dressed in her own clothes once more and feeling a little sleepy again, Anya looked for clues as to who her saviour was. The kitchen was simple: a fire was set into the right-hand wall as you looked from the doorway and was the only stone in the building. The table was rough but well made, as if created from driftwood or forest debris. There was a simple cupboard in the left-hand corner, leading up to the edge of the rear window, and the shelves were filled with just a few simple plates and bowls, all wood, and a few jars of herbs, pastes and ointments that were labelled in Shaanti.

  There was no sign of any weapons here other than the bow the woodsman had taken. Now that Anya thought about it, there were no signs of any weapons at all. She returned to the main living area. The tools that hung from the wall were all related to working the woods and obtaining food. There was the gap where the bow had been; the axe he had used in the fight was just a woodsman’s tool, not an actual battle-axe; and the rest was just a collection of hooks, ropes, saws and shears. The closest thing to a sword was a machete that looked hardly used. Anya lifted the blade off the wall and felt the weapon for weight and balance.

  The door popped open and Vedic came back in. He was soaking. The forestal went to the fire and let the heat of it soak into his hands as he stood there, not speaking. Agitation was coming off him faster than the water on him was turning to steam.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Anya blinked. ‘I am Anya. You already knew that.’

  Vedic looked at her and held her in his gaze with ice-blue eyes. ‘There are a pack of wolves combing the forest for you, and they are not alone – someone is helping them. So – who are you?’


  Anya’s confusion dispelled any feeling of sleepiness. ‘I am no one. Honestly, I am just a girl from Anaheim. They ransacked my village and I escaped.’

  Vedic held her in his gaze a moment longer, looking for deception, and then looked back at the fire.

  ‘Nobodies do not escape a Kurah camp,’ said Vedic. ‘Not that I understand why they were taking prisoners in the first place.’

  ‘Many of my family were warriors,’ said Anya, unwilling to say their names until she knew this man a bit better.

  ‘But you are not – you have no tattoos.’

  Anya pushed a memory of her grandfather forbidding her from her mind. The safest lie is the one that is closest to the truth – another of his sayings.

  ‘My trials were to be in the autumn.’

  Vedic smiled. ‘The Kurah didn’t get the appointment time right. What aren’t you telling me?’

  A wolf howled. This one was very close. Vedic strode past her and looked out the window at the clearing beyond. He rested his head against the glass before letting the simple curtains drop back in place.

  ‘It can wait. We cannot stay here.’

  Anya wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly.

  The woodsman moved to the wall and began taking down every tool that could be a weapon. The machete went onto his belt first, then the axe over his shoulder, and the quiver of arrows went back on. The rope he wrapped round his waist.

  ‘You will have to make do with one of my cloaks,’ he said. ‘It won’t be perfect but will offer some protection. There is a knife in the kitchen you can use to cut the length. Be quick.’

  Anya stared at him. ‘But you said—’

  ‘That was then, this is now. Our only chance is to get out of here. If we take too long, they will surround us and we will die.’

  Anya ran to the front door and opened it. The clearing was dark, the lashing rain killing any visibility she might have had in the moonless black. As her eyes adjusted, Anya realised there were at least thirty pairs of golden eyes gleaming back at her. She slammed the door.