Path of Revenge (35 page)

He drew close to Noetos. ‘Watch that Gawl,’ he whispered. ‘He’s mean and full of tricks. He’ll have you soon as look.’

Noetos acknowledged the advice, then accepted dubious promises from four of the men. The fifth, still unconscious, could be of no use and so would likely not escape the rim.

‘Starting…an army,’ Bregor said approvingly in his hoarse whisper. ‘Use them…after.’

‘If I can.’

The thin, ear-haired miner led a white-muzzled mule towards him. Noetos eyed it more warily than he did his newly sworn men; he had last sat astride any kind of mount over twenty years ago. No chance for practice, however. A series of whistles and shouts were followed by a few frustrating minutes watching one of the miners trying to get his mule to stand still so he could mount it. The embarrassed miner finally asked for help, while all around him the others laughed.

Finally they were on their way. Though these mules were docile, unlike the highly strung thoroughbreds Noetos had become familiar with in his youth, his poise and deftness were slow to come back. The pain associated with sitting on a moving beast returned quickly, however: before they reached the rim his legs were beginning to spasm, attributable to his clenching his mount’s sides with his thighs, a useless added protection against falling into the mine. At the rim he took a last glance down into Eisarn Pit, wondering as he did so how long it would take to reach the bottom if he were thrown from the rim, and what thoughts would occupy his mind before he reached it.

Noetos and Bregor were accompanied by ten miners, five from each shift, as well as the alchemist, a wrangler carrying extra mule shoes and tack, and his four sworn men. Seren, the night-shift overseer, commanded the miners, each of whom rode a mule. Noetos’s sworn men shared two mules, all that could be spared; riders had been sent to Altima and Tochar, taking mounts Noetos now begrudged. The animals moved painfully slowly, not much faster than walking pace, but they were remarkably sure-footed, negotiating open country without the stumbling and backtracking he and Bregor had encountered when on their own. The miners all seemed experienced with mules: perhaps they took turns driving the carts along the Palestran Line. Even the Hegeoman coped with the animal he rode.

As dawn broke in a riot of red they passed Ossern Hill well off to their right, then turned further left, heading north away from the rising sun, and wound their way through a series of limestone bluffs, old rock-bones draped in soft grass. This was familiar country; not that the fisherman had travelled this road before, but he had spent many hours riding among similar hills in the land of his birth. Though the hills stirred unwelcome memories, Noetos found himself comforted by their velvety ruggedness, as if he were returning home after a long absence. He would probably be comforted by anything other than the stark bleakness of the cliffs around Fossa, he acknowledged wryly.

By midafternoon they had covered ten leagues, but it was apparent to everyone that they would not make the coast before nightfall.

‘We c’n ride some in the darkness,’ Seren said, ‘but the moon’ll be shy agin tonight, and we don’t want t’ ride into them Neherian patrols. Best we go on a little way ’n’ make camp well short o’ the road.’

They walked their mounts for three or four hours after the sun went down, the exercise allowing Noetos the chance to work some feeling back into his legs. ‘Hungry?’ a husky voice asked from beside him. Bregor’s recovery continued, thankfully. The man was a fool, no doubt, a misguided fool, but his intentions had been honest. He had believed he was doing the best for Fossa, and perhaps he hadn’t deserved the treatment Noetos had given him. ‘Thank you,’ the fisherman said, and smiled as he took the piece of leathery salted beef his fellow Fossan offered.

Camp turned out to be three canvas lean-tos put together by Noetos’s men, whom the other miners had already begun treating as little more than slaves. Following a word from Seren they sited the openings to the west, as the night mist came from the sea; but some time during the night a stiff breeze from the east blew up and woke the entire camp. Two of the lean-tos were blown over, their stick-frames scattered. The miners hastily took the third down before it could collapse. There seemed no point in trying to get any more sleep.

Unusual to get seaward winds before midsummer,
Noetos thought as he helped the others clear up what they could of their hapless camp.
That is, if by unusual I mean never.
As a fisherman he’d become familiar with the rhythms of the land and the sea, the different ways they behaved. The land did not cool down enough to produce seaward night winds until late in the autumn, when the land cooled much faster than the sea.
And this breeze is warm, not cold.

A flickering off to his right caught his eye, in the direction of the sea. A fire? No, more than one. And the light was the wrong colour. He ran hard up the ridge behind which they had set up camp, careless of his footing, knowing what he would see when he reached the summit.

There was a fire, right enough, much further away than he’d expected, a tiny flicker in the distance to his left, to the north. Not the cause of the lights he had seen. They came again, confirming his guess. Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud at the eastern edge of sight, the flickering enlivening the blackness, silhouetting the billowing edges of what Noetos knew would be huge storm-clouds. They were far too far away to hear the thunder, especially with this wind blowing towards the storm…
Ah.
Storms like this one sucked wind towards themselves; by the velocity of this breeze and the distance to the lightning flashes—almost constant flashing now—the storm must be enormous. He could imagine the swirling black rain-skirts, the giant anvil-shaped thunderheads, rearing into the sky.
A boat-killer. I hope no one is out there tonight.

A moment later he modified his thought.
I hope the entire Neherian fleet is out there tonight.

No one could tell for certain just how far away dawn might be, so they ate a cold breakfast of oat cakes and salted beef, took water from a nearby stream, tended to the mules and began a slow and careful walk northeastwards, leading the mules by their halters. Before long they crested a ridge and saw the first of the Neherian fires, much closer now. After some debate they pulled back to the near side of the ridge and made their way until they judged themselves as close to the Neherians as cover would allow them. After tethering the mules to thorn bushes and leaving them in the care of the wrangler, the party climbed the ridge and hid themselves just short of the summit.

‘I want to know what village they plan to attack today,’ Noetos said. ‘That way my sworn men can get there as early as possible. Perhaps we may not even have to fight.’

‘We’ll have to fight to gain that knowledge,’ Bregor said, rubbing his throat.

‘Not if I can help it,’ Noetos replied.

All plans should be simple,
his favourite tutor had taught him in the days when he’d had hopes the young Noetos would become a warrior. This plan certainly was. Of course, Cyclamere always followed this admonition with another:
all plans should be adaptable.
Well, he was not the warrior his tutor had hoped for. Simple would have to suffice.

His spy, the youngest of his sworn men, returned and held up first six fingers, then one. More men than he’d expected, but not so many that they need abandon their plan. He waved the miners forward.

Divested of their belt buckles, coins and anything else that might make a sound, they covered the ground quietly enough. Noetos had counselled them not to look directly at the fire. ‘Should it come to fighting, we need to preserve our night vision,’ he explained. ‘They will be blinded by their own flames.’

The men halted just out of the firelight. One guard awake, his spy had that part right, but there were seven others, not six, wrapped up in bedrolls. Sixteen against eight, seven of whom were asleep. Noetos and his friends would win this skirmish, but the fisherman wanted victory with no losses—on either side, if possible. This was not the real fight.

Noetos eased his way around the fire, staying well beyond the reach of the light, until he crouched behind the drowsy guard. One of the miners began making noises like a snuffling pig—quite a talent, really—and the guard’s head jerked up. His attention taken by the sound, he did not notice Noetos come up behind him.

The fisherman seized the guard by the throat and placed a hand over his mouth. ‘No noise,’ he whispered
in the man’s ear. A half-nod indicated the man’s wide-eyed acquiescence. Slowly and with care the fisherman undid his prisoner’s belt, eased it free and placed the scabbarded sword on the ground.

Seeing the guard secured, the miners came forward, clubs and pikes at the ready.

‘How do you wake the men in the morning?’ Noetos asked softly.

The man licked his lips. ‘I…I whistle.’

‘Do you? And how do you warn them if enemies approach?’ Noetos watched the man’s eyes, a trick his father had taught him.

‘Ah…I would call out,’ he said. His eyes, easily visible in the firelight, went up and to the right.

Liar.

‘Here’s my quandary. I do not want you all to die, but if I let you whistle, your men will wake with their hands on their swords, expecting to encounter an enemy, and my friends here will have to kill them. So tell me again, how do you wake the men?’ All this delivered in a crisp monotone, the clear diction of soldierly efficiency.
Act how you would have them believe.
Ten years of attendance to hated lessons finally rewarded.

The man’s eyes widened. ‘I shake them by the shoulders,’ he said, and his own shoulders slumped.

Noetos mimed the action, and his men spread out, one to a bedroll, the others waiting beyond the firelight. Seven pairs of eyes watched him, and when he nodded they shook the shoulders of each sleeping man, while holding their weapon at the ready. Seven men jerked awake to the sight of a club, a pike or a rusty blade hovering over them; six sighed at the inevitable and lay still, but the seventh erupted to his feet with a scream, scattering blankets everywhere. His captor hesitated a moment too long: his feeble strike missed, and the Neherian was able to stumble backwards and draw his sword.

‘Good work, Dagla,’ Gawl murmured. ‘Shoulda left the boy at home with ’is ma.’

‘Take my man!’ Noetos commanded Dagla, and the boy, anxious to redeem himself, thrust forward with his pike, resting the point between the lax guard’s shoulder blades.

Noetos drew his blade and strode forward to engage the Neherian.
So much for the plan. Now for luck.

‘Why are you behaving like this?’ the man protested. ‘We’re just travellers on the road!’

Noetos breathed his relief. A confident bladesman would not stop to complain. The fisherman offered no answer to the Neherian’s question. Let the man wonder about him.

His opponent was a smaller man, as were most people he’d fought. Shorter reach, but probably fast. Had the look of a well-trained soldier. As it proved: the man led with his sword foot and launched a sequence of long-range thrusts.

Noetos had never been a scientific swordsman, despite his tutors’ best efforts. No expense had been spared in teaching him the turn of the wrist, the angle of the blade, the movements of large and small muscles, the importance of the back and neck. He knew the theory, and could spar in this fashion if it was demanded of him, had done so when teaching Anomer; but whenever it came to a fight the young Noetos had always reverted to his superior strength.

As he did now. He backed out of reach, then charged forward, as if trying to impale himself on his opponent’s blade, blocking the next thrust with a scything sweep that nearly freed the blade from the man’s hand. The Neherian grunted and responded by taking a two-handed grip. Stupidity. The man’s advantage was gone in a moment as Noetos eased in closer to exploit his strength. A series of heavy strokes had the Neherian scrambling to block him.

‘I’m looking to disarm you, not kill you,’ Noetos panted. His opponent took two steps back to give himself time to catch his breath. ‘But we are out of time.’ Noetos followed an overhand blow with a slashing left-to-right cut, angling upwards. The Neherian barely parried the second stroke. He must know he was bare moments from defeat.

But Noetos had another goal. His blows had manouevred the Neherian close to the miners waiting beyond the firelight. One more slash. His opponent was now entirely defensive. As the man readied himself for perhaps his final parry, a dark figure stepped out from the shadows and struck him on the back of the head with a club. The soldier collapsed to the ground with a groan.

‘I have no idea whether you are honourable or not,’ Noetos said to the unconscious man. ‘Involved as you are with this enterprise, I doubt it. Nevertheless, that was no way for swordplay to end and I apologise to you for it.’ He paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

‘And, Seren, I thank you.’ The overseer nodded, still holding his club at the ready should the man wake. Noetos smiled. ‘Take their swords. Even if you don’t want them, they are better out of Neherian hands. In any case, a sword is an extremely valuable item.’

‘What d’ we do with the N’herians, my lord?’ one of his sworn men asked. ‘Kinda stupid to let ‘em go so they can go blabbin’ to the other salties.’

‘Our immediate task is to persuade one of these men to tell us where the fleet is. We will decide what to do with them based on how quickly they tell us what we need to know.’

The Neherians heard this, as he’d intended. The faces he could see in the firelight closed to the same determined expression. Not what he’d hoped but, knowing their history and training, about what he had expected.

‘Gawl, bring your pig-sticker over here,’ he said.

The unsavoury miner pulled out his knife from under his jacket, a grin on his thick-lipped mouth, anticipating the next command.

‘Noetos, no, I beg of you,’ the Hegeoman cried, then succumbed to a coughing fit.

‘Which one, my lord?’ the miner asked, licking his lips. The Neherians pushed their shoulders back into their bedrolls, trying to make themselves smaller.