Free Scarred Man by Bevan McGuiness

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 itnow, 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 youngmen, 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.
    â€˜Lend us the peace that rests in your shadow,’ he said.
    Slave had no idea how to respond,