Scarred Man by Bevan McGuiness

bag and pulled on his yok before joining the slow movement towards the door that would take them out into the brutal cold.
    The sun shone weakly in a pale blue sky. The wind had almost died, leaving the morning crisp and clear. Slave’s breath steamed out, white and billowing. Ahead was a large cauldron hanging over a fire. Jaan, the cook, was ladling out food into everyone’s leather bowls. When it was Slave’s turn Jaan gave him a spare bowl. Slave took the steaming meal and walked away to eat alone. The soup was thick, rich with meat and fat. Warmth spread throughout his body as he ate.
    â€˜Ready to earn that meal?’ Vasilis asked.
    Slave finished the soup and held Vasilis’s eye. ‘Show me how.’
    Vasilis handed Slave a short-handled, heavy pick. The handle was wood, the head some kind of dark metal. Slave hefted it, his mind going instinctively to its effectiveness as a weapon. Close-quarters, obviously. Too heavy, too short for subtle work. Body blows mainly. This in the right hand, the Claw in the left, close grappling. Nice. Claw over the top, this thing coming in from underneath. Very nice. How about this coming over the top, using its weight on the skull with the Claw slashing up through the gut? He practised wielding it, using his wrist and shoulder to control its naturally clumsy feel.
    â€˜It’s not a weapon, Slave.’
    Slave gave Vasilis a steely gaze. ‘Everything is a weapon, Vasilis.’
    Vasilis shuddered and stepped back. ‘Let me show you how to use it properly first.’
    â€˜You have never fought with it?’
    â€˜Out here, you run first.’
    â€˜Why?’
    Vasilis shook his head. ‘Talk later. Daylight is short and we need every moment.’
    The work was easy enough, if tedious and back-breaking. Vasilis’s instructions were similarly simple. Mangase lumps were to be found under the ice layer, so the pick was used to break the ice then lever the sheet up. The heavy metal head was used like a spike, shoved into the hard earth and stirred around until it hit something else metallic. At this point, digging took over and the object was harvested. Any mangase was stored in a sack that dangled from a hook sewed into every yok. Now that the tribe had set camp, just about every man, woman and child was out scouring the ground for the elusive little rocks. Even those who did not carry the picks sat on heavy blankets in the sun and scrabbled in the dirt.
    Slave walked away from the natona and selected a patch of ground that was not near where anyone else was working. At first, he randomly attacked the ice at his feet, but he quickly saw how the others worked systematically around the natona. He recognised the efficiency in the method and adopted the same approach.
    By the time the sun reached its peak, he had explored an area about twice his height by roughly half that. He had found a patch of tough lichen and several brown rocks, but no mangase. The caguehad apparently smelt the lichen and he was buffeted by several of the hardy beasts as they devoured the morsels he had uncovered for them. Slave straightened up and stretched his complaining back. He looked towards where the rest of the tribe were working around the natona. A number of them caught his eye and nodded a greeting. He returned the gesture, unsure what it meant after the way he had been regarded earlier.
    There was no break in the day’s toil until the sun slid down towards the horizon. Mercifully, the wind had been light all day, barely rising above a breeze. Slave stood stiffly and patted the pouch at his side. He had found three lumps of what he thought was mangase during the day. By the entrance to the natona, a child held out a larger leather bowl into which every likely find was dumped, to be examined later by Sisu.
    Slave dropped his three finds and walked on past, following his nose to the evening meal. It was another rich soup and he ate with hunger and enjoyment.