Scarred Man by Bevan McGuiness Page B

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.
    â€˜The Scarred Man,’ he mused. ‘Who is he, I wonder? Return to him.’ Once again, the powerfulmind 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.

7
    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 slidfurther 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