Scarred Man by Bevan McGuiness Page B

cage. He grunted in pain, but the harsh reality of his situation washed the momentary injury from his mind. His cageswung slightly, two or three paces above the ground. He gripped the bars and shook with all his strength, but they did not budge. All he accomplished was to increase his swing.
    â€˜That’s it, use up your strength,’ croaked a voice. Keshik looked around quickly.
    At the far end of the horizontal top stone hung another cage containing a man obviously close to death. He was shrivelled, hunched over as far as the cage would allow him. One arm dangled limply through the iron bars.
    â€˜The more you use now, the shorter your time will be,’ the voice went on.
    â€˜Who are you?’ Keshik asked.
    â€˜I am dead, like you. But unlike you, I die with less adornment.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    The limp arm gestured towards a point below Keshik’s cage. Keshik strained to look down. Hanging by chains so that they just touched the ground, were his swords. Hope appeared. If he could somehow reach them! The magical blade might even be effective against the bars.
    â€˜Forget it,’ the other man said. ‘You cannot even move in that thing, let alone reach down and drag them up.’
    But Keshik had to try.
    He tried to kneel, but there was not enough space around his knees. He tried to lean over, but his torso could not move. He thrust his arm out between the bars, but could not reach down far enough. The frustration of his swords being so close, yet utterly unreachable, was so strong as to be almost a physicalsensation. His struggles set his cage swinging again. The cage was not quite high enough for him to stand upright. It left him half crouching with his knees pressed against the bars and his head bowed, resting on the cage. Already he was uncomfortable — in time this position would be agonising.
    â€˜Good, exhaustion is faster and so much better than thirst,’ the other man said.
    â€˜You fool,’ Keshik snapped. ‘When did you give up on life?’
    â€˜About two days ago,’ he replied.
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜That is a long story.’
    Keshik needed to plan. If this old idiot prattled on it would give him time to think. ‘I’m not going anywhere at the moment,’ Keshik said. ‘Tell me.’
    The other man coughed, a dry rasping sound that ended with a gurgling sigh.
    â€˜Varuun,’ the man muttered. ‘Mighty Varuun, rescue me from this torment.’
    Keshik grunted as he systematically applied whatever force he could to the joins at each end of the cage.
    â€˜You know the name, I see,’ the other man said. ‘In that case I shall tell you more. My name is Enst. I was a Reader’s assistant. Very keen I was, very dedicated. I helped my Reader in his research into ancient texts. He studied the old languages, especially the ones from before the Time of the Wastes. There were seven of them, did you know? Before the Eleven Kingdoms there were the Seven Wastes presided over by the great Powers and their families — races enslaved by them to do their bidding and carry on theirinternecine battles. The two greatest families were the Scarens and the Mertians. Over time, they and their Powers threw down all the others, leaving only them in the world.’ He howled. Like a wolf with a broken back, he yowled and screamed. Banging his head against the iron bars he gave voice to his despair. He pounded at the unyielding cage until the blood flowed freely down his face.
    Abruptly, he stopped, leaving his head pressed against the cage. Something like a bubbling sigh escaped his bloodied lips. For a while he remained motionless and silent, his blood dripping slowly onto the cold ground where it joined the other stains. Keshik continued working his way around the joins of his cage, ignoring the dying man.
    â€˜My daughter,’ Enst suddenly cried out.
    Keshik looked up, hoping to see a woman approaching, but he