The Scarred God Read online

  Montu nodded. He moved to put his sword away.

  ‘No,’ said the man. ‘Keep your weapon to hand. The docks are dangerous still. The Shaanti know they have nothing to lose now.’

  ‘Careful,’ said Montu. He disliked the man’s tone. ‘You work for me.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

  An arrow thumped into the wall behind Montu. He dropped and cursed even as the guard spun and hurled a knife up into the smoke. There was a scream, followed by a thud.

  ‘Damned archers,’ hissed the man.

  Montu gripped his sword tight. ‘Which one are you?’

  ‘I am Widen,’ said the man. Montu thought he detected a smirk in the way the man said it. He let it go, for now.

  ‘Have you found me my witch?’

  The guard shook his head. ‘No, sire. But she was here all right.’

  The king felt the disappointment in his gut. It was vital he find this woman before they completed their alliance with Cernubus. He forced himself not to reveal his irritation on his face and instead gestured for the man to lead on.

  ‘This way, sire,’ said Widen. ‘I believe you will want to see this in person.’

  The king forced himself to focus on what they had found. ‘What is it?’

  The guard continued to scan the rooftops for a sign of the enemy. The docks had become a stop-and-start game of attrition with the two men running between buildings and seeking to avoid the archer’s point.

  ‘We searched the docks from top to bottom, and the city, but the woman is not here. But she was, some fifteen years ago, and she left a message for someone she envisaged would be coming after her.’

  Montu frowned at the man as he led him into a warehouse that was intended for grain and had seen better days. Inside the warehouse, the stone structure was filled floor to ceiling with books, scrolls and other papers. There were desks in every corner, but Montu was led to the one placed below the window overlooking the river.

  The simple oak desk had been completed with a high degree of craftsmanship, though clearly built from driftwood. The table was covered in a thick layer of dust, a number of papers still on the desk. A small collection had been bundled together and tied with a piece of string. The king pulled the topmost note. It was written in Shaanti.

  Dearest,

  I have determined the secret of my nightmares, and it is worse than I could possibly have imagined. For all our sakes, I must see if there is another way out of this disaster that awaits all of us. I am sorry this means I have not been there for you, and I hope in time you can forgive me.

  When I was young, I thought all I had to do was stand by what I believed in and everything would work out. Now I am older, scarred and scared. I have seen more things than I thought I could bear and gone on. My strength is failing, but I must press on while I can.

  If I judge you right, you will eventually follow me, and so I know that I cannot reveal where I am going, for fear that others would follow. The answer lies beyond the sea. One day we will meet again. I do not speak of hope. I know it is true.

  Yours forever and always,

  M.

  Montu placed the note back in the bundle. He rifled his way across the desk, oblivious to the dust floating into the air, and looking for any other signs of his elusive quarry.

  ‘We moved the more sensitive papers to the cache,’ said Widen. ‘The risk was too high with the fires. The warehouse is adjacent to a burning building right now.’

  ‘Good,’ said Montu.

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘No one can know we have been here and seen this,’ said the king. ‘If the god finds out, he may judge our agreement void. He is afraid of this witch-warrior, though she appears to have run for her life.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Did you gather when she left and in what ship?’

  The guard nodded at the far wall. ‘We are fortunate that the Shaanti who ran this port considered it a matter of pride to document everything about their visitors. The witch-warrior spent the harvest and winter of 9157 here at Anara before leaving in the spring on the vessel called Perdition. Perdition has never returned to these shores.’

  The king sighed. ‘Never heard of the vessel, and that was fifteen years ago?’

  Widen nodded.

  ‘She may be outside our grasp, then,’ said the king, looking out of the window at the boats beyond. ‘Let us not waste more time. Dispatch the guards that are here to the ports of the Shaanti.’

  ‘We cannot hold all the ports and attack the capital,’ said Widen.

  Montu smiled. ‘I know that, guardsman. You and your men are not to engage in open warfare but to ingratiate yourself until you find out if that ship has been seen in recent years.’

  The guard tipped his head in acknowledgement.

  Montu watched him leave. His eyes were unwavering points of light that bore down on the back of the guard, and he was considering killing the man. An execution always helped with loyalty. No, I will learn the lessons and remember power is a rapier, not a machete.

  ‘Do you want me to take that to the camp?’ asked the guard, looking back at the king and pointing at the documents.

  Montu shook his head. ‘No, Widen. And remember – anything you find comes straight to me. Our time is short.’

  Chapter Eight

  The horse carried the dying man across the eastern edge of the forest, never straying below its boughs. The animal’s chestnut flanks were beaded with sweat, legs straining, eyes wild-tired – still the man spurred the beast on. He held his bleeding side together with his left arm, and the reins in his right, his head lolling round every few yards to check behind for signs of pursuit.

  No one followed the rider as he stripped away the miles and passed to the exposed road, a dirt track that stretched out across the plains towards the distant city. He stopped only when the horse was about to drop with exhaustion, and even in those brief periods of rest, the rider did not sleep. Instead, he stood holding the gash in his trunk and looking back at the way he had just come, searching for an enemy that never appeared.

  Whether he wanted to see the thing he looked for, or lived in fear of it looming over the horizon, was difficult to tell, as his face was warped in pain. He paced while his horse rested, as much to keep himself lucid as to stop himself falling into a stupor that would lead to a quicker death.

  As the rider drew closer to the city, the road led to settlements, and the horse thundered through village after village. The dying man did not stop, even when some of the people recognised him and called to him by his name.

  ‘Falkirk!’ they cried out. But he did not acknowledge them.

  ‘Where is Thrace?’

  Thrace was dead and had been for three years. Falkirk tightened his grip on the reins and forced the horse on.

  He ignored all his friends, men and women he had fought with, boys he had broken bread with and those he called kin. He barely recognised that they were talking to him – there was no time. He had a duty to complete, an obligation to an old friend, and every moment meant a step closer to the edge. He believed he would see Golgotha if he closed his eyes, and so he forced them to remain open. He wasn’t afraid of the journey across the Acheron or the Fields of Asphodel. It was the thought of failure to reach Vikrain that haunted him.

  Falkirk kicked the horse on. Amongst the villagers that saw him pass through their lands or heard of his journey, the retired warriors that lived with the villagers grimly began reviving the edges of their blades. As he rode on, his name began to go before him, riding faster than him.

  ‘Falkirk came from the south, and behind him, the Kurah.’

  When Falkirk saw the city rising up from the horizon on its hill, a giant made of wood and stone, perched on a seat of earth, a vital part of him loosened, and he began to slip in and out of consciousness. The horse began to weave as the rider’s will started to leak away and fatigue took its toll. Still, the mount carried on.

  The guards were no
t standing idle on the city walls – horns cried out from the gates as the rider approached. Warriors began pouring out of the mess onto the walls of the city. In particular, the sound of metal clashing on metal rang out as the men stationed at the gatehouse rushed to see who approached the city, their haste so desperate they knocked into each other.

  Falkirk fell from his horse just shy of the gate. His horse continued a few yards before realising its rider was gone. Destroyed by his injury and the long ride, Falkirk did not have the strength to get up. He tried to push himself to his feet but fell back on his belly, barely able to hold his wound closed. He shut his eyes.

  The mare turned and walked back to where he lay sprawled in the road. She nudged the rider with her nose, trying to elicit some attention, before wandering off to the grass by the side of the track. The sound of the gates opening didn’t make Falkirk move.

  Vikrain spewed its horsemen, armed and battle-ready, to where the man lay prone. The men broke from the orderly formation with which they had approached Falkirk, and placed their mounts round him to form a defensive circle. The oldest of them slid from her horse to the wounded man’s side. She was older than Falkirk. Her hair was white and plaited in the warrior style. The woman felt for a pulse on Falkirk’s neck, and when she found one – faint but steady – she rolled him over and cursed.

  ‘It is Falkirk,’ said the thain, rubbing her forehead. This was her only real tell of upset, and she brought the movement to a stop the moment she realised she was doing it. ‘Are there any signs of pursuit?’

  ‘No, milady,’ said one of the other riders. ‘Nor would I expect any. That wound is not fresh.’

  ‘True,’ conceded the thain. She looked at the ugly wound that had soaked dark blood into her friend’s tunic. ‘Well, we can’t stay here all day or he will die. Get the bearers to take him into the city, and send one of the men to get the healers ready. I need to hear this man speak.’

  Falkirk, hearing a familiar voice, stirred through the fog of his fever, his bloodshot eyes rolling round as he looked at the men, his arm twitching for a weapon that wasn’t there before the thain found his hand.

  ‘It’s all right, Fal. You’re safe now,’ said the thain, her voice choked with emotion that made the other men look away.

  ‘Thrace?’ whispered Falkirk.

  ‘No, laddie. It’s your thain.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Thrace. It’s too much,’ said Falkirk, his eyes rolling back in his skull. He passed out.

  Falkirk screamed.

  Yorg, the healer, stepped out of range of the gnarled warrior’s reach and grabbed the man’s flailing arms in his own. Falkirk flopped back down on the bench, his arms withdrawing to clutch at the torn mess that was his side as he whimpered like a child.

  ‘He’s dying,’ said Yorg.

  ‘I can see that, man,’ said the thain. She felt her hand reaching for the blade she used on the field to dispatch men and women who were too far gone to save, too stubborn and fought all the way until the end. All the old warriors had helped a comrade on their way when hope was gone – but first you had to be sure.

  ‘Can you do anything?’

  The healer shook his head. ‘Maybe if he’d arrived here a couple of days ago, but his wounds are infected. Can’t you smell it?’

  The thain nodded – of course she could smell the infection. She’d known as soon as she came within two feet of Falkirk that he was dying, but you always had to hope for a miracle, didn’t you? A few of the other warriors were actually holding their cloaks over their faces, so putrescent was the odour. She’d be very surprised if Falkirk wasn’t also aware that he was dying, and yet he’d still ridden as hard as he could for Vikrain. Why?

  The thain suspected she knew the answer, but she needed proof. The council would only accept the truth from the man’s own lips. She grabbed Yorg by the shoulder and took him to the far corner of the room.

  ‘I need him conscious and coherent,’ said the thain. ‘I need to know who did this to him and … what happened to Thrace. It’s important.’

  ‘He was probably just attacked on the road,’ said Yorg. ‘It was a poor harvest last year, and that always makes the roads dangerous.’

  The thain looked the healer in the eye. ‘Then why didn’t he stop at one of the villages along the way?’

  The healer blinked. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘You do that.’

  The door cracked open, and Bene entered the room. The tall, pretty but deadly bodyguard entered the group with a scowl that could curdle milk. He eyed the other warriors with barely contained fury, and none of them met his face. The thain smiled as her bodyguard fought to force down the rebuke he had been about to lay on his men.

  ‘Milady,’ said Bene. ‘How was your trip outside the gate?’

  ‘Sad,’ said the thain, gesturing. ‘I found my friend wounded and dying. I need you to summon the council here.’

  Bene glanced to the bench and stopped, his eyes widening. ‘Is that Major …?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said the thain. ‘Falkirk. He never liked me going out without a full battalion either. And Thrace … Thrace was far worse – nearly as bad as his wife.’

  ‘Milady, your safety is my only concern.’

  ‘Lad, if I thought for a moment it wasn’t, then I’d be worried. The council need to see this first hand. Get them.’

  ‘Milady,’ said Bene, heading for the door.

  The thain peered over Yorg’s shoulder as he worked to draw out the infection from Falkirk’s side. The fever did not look to be coming under control. The original wound had scabbed over badly, tearing again and again on the journey, and now heavy with rot. There was no way to tell what kind of blade had made contact. Still, it was an odd place to be cut, unless Falkirk had been pierced by a spear or he had been unarmed, in which case there would have been easier ways to kill him. The thain did not like where this train of thought was taking her.

  The door opened and Golan entered the room.

  ‘It is true, then,’ said the merchant, looking down at the prone warrior. ‘My uncle is returned.’

  ‘Your uncle is dying,’ said the thain, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, though it stuck in her craw to do so.

  Golan looked at the healer, who nodded.

  ‘Then it is good I have brought a shaman,’ said Golan, waving the priest into the room.

  The thain let her arm drop from the merchant’s shoulder. She stepped back to Falkirk’s side, becoming a blockade between the priest and the dying man.

  ‘Milady,’ said Crees, the shaman. ‘Perhaps I can be of assistance or comfort to Major Falkirk?’

  The thain wasn’t sure. She disliked shamans, and Crees was renowned for keeping his flock from treatment that would otherwise have saved them in favour of his ‘medicine’. She looked to Yorg, who shrugged as if to say, What difference does it make? The ruler stepped to one side.

  The shaman moved closer to Falkirk. His hand went to the wounded man’s temple, and he started to chant in a low murmur. Yorg continued his treatment. The thain glanced at Golan, but the merchant was not looking at her; he just seemed to be staring at his uncle.

  Bene returned. ‘The rest of the council are beginning to arrive.’

  The bodyguard’s eyes were locked on the shaman, and his obvious contempt for the councillor’s foolish belief in charms and prayer was written all over his face. I’ll need to pull him up on his body language again, thought the thain. I need him to be more discreet if we are to outplay Golan.

  ‘I have said for some time that the road to the Barrens is dangerous and requires patrols,’ said Golan, folding his arms. ‘Will you believe me now?’

  The thain rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘So you are sure bandits did this?’

  ‘Who else would it be?’ asked Golan.

  The thain shrugged. ‘It is strange behaviour for bandits, and it would be a skilled man indeed who could disarm and wound your uncle so.’

  ‘He is old. He ma
y not have been armed.’

  The thain pointed down. Golan looked and saw his own knife pointed at his belly. Smiling, the thain flipped the dagger round and handed the weapon back to Golan.

  ‘You see,’ said the thain, ‘age brings compensations. Falkirk is … was … still in much better condition than many his age, including myself. He’s a lifer – warriors like that never cease their training and conditioning. Why, when I was in his village last, he and Thrace were drilling the young warriors as if we were on the eve of war. Much as we are now.’

  ‘War?’ mocked Golan, shaking his head. ‘Let the Kurah come. The gods stand with us. We are the descendants of the first men and women that appeared from the desert. This is the first city where humans settled, and all of the other gods came from the same forest where ours rule to this day. They will not forsake us.’

  The thain looked at him. ‘You speak so because you think the gods will always be there. You should know as well as I do that they only offer aid to those who help themselves.’

  ‘I think the Kurah king has his hands full with Delgasia, even if the Del has fallen,’ said Golan. He turned from the thain to look at his uncle once more. ‘I make no apologies for this view. He will not attack us with only a few weeks of good weather left, and if he does, he will suffer the same fate as his grandfather. No army has ever managed to invade us, let alone before the rains.’

  ‘Ah, the certainty of youth …’

  ‘He is awake,’ said Yorg.

  Falkirk clutched at his side. He moaned at the pain of his wound. His eyes popped open as if he remembered suddenly that he was alive. He searched the room and stopped when he saw the thain. He tried to sit up but was forced down gently by Golan.

  ‘Please lie down, Major,’ said Yorg. ‘The thain is aware of your pain.’

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ said the thain, sitting on the edge of the bench.

  ‘Milady,’ said Falkirk. The cords in his neck were writhing snakes. The thain could almost feel the pain in her bones. ‘I respectfully request permission to report.’