Path of Revenge (36 page)

‘Why don’t you choose?’ Noetos stepped back beyond the fire, leaving the thoroughly unpleasant Gawl to deliberate.

‘That one,’ the miner said, pointing at the most terrified of the Neherians. The youngest, Noetos noted. Good. The young man’s face went white. Gawl bent over him. ‘Hold ‘m down, Pril. Tumar, take his legs, but be careful with ’em, I’ll be wantin’ ’em later. Dagla, come ’n’ hold his arms. Come on! You’ll learn somethin’.’

The youth moved reluctantly, but did as he was told.

‘Leave the boy alone, you barbarians,’ growled a grey-bearded man in the characteristic Neherian flat-vowelled speech. ‘The fleet is scheduled to be at Makyra today. You will never get there in time, which is the only reason I tell you this. Now, put all thought of torture aside and slay us with honour, as is our right as soldiers. I will die happy as I picture your frustration.’

‘Honour?’ Noetos felt his face heat with rage. ‘
Honour?
The sort of honour you extend to blameless villagers? Are you asking to be burned alive? What sort of honour does a
Neherian
believe himself to have?’

‘I would not expect a witless brute to understand the concept.’

The fisherman turned to Gawl. ‘Give me the knife.’

Gawl hesitated, no doubt taken aback by the sudden burst of fury.

‘
Give me the knife!
’ Noetos roared, and struck Gawl a blow with an open hand. ‘Do what I say when I say it, or throw yourself from the nearest cliff!’

The Hegeoman spoke. ‘Noetos, my friend, we don’t have the time for this—’

‘Shut your face, you coward. I—
need
this.’ He picked up the notched knife from where Gawl had dropped it, and leaned over the Neherian.

The Hegeoman felt powerless. Opuntia had often talked of Noetos’s infamous rages, but this was the first time he had seen one for himself—
well, not the first time,
he corrected himself, fingering his aching throat. The figure bending over the frightened Neherian was no longer the truculent fisherman but, if he understood correctly, a much younger man who finally had the power to strike back at his hated persecutors, half a life later.
Choose your words carefully.

‘This will not bring back your family!’ Bregor rasped, coughing as he spoke.

Noetos froze at his words.

Dare he?
He put out a hand and rested it on the Fisher’s rigid shoulders.

There was a long moment of balance: he could feel it in the twitching of muscles in Noetos’s back. Then the shoulders slumped, and a long breath came from the lungs under his palm.

‘Ah, Bregor, you are right, and so utterly wrong,’ Noetos said, turning towards him with a broken look on his face.

‘Come, friend, we have lives to save.’ Bregor tried to keep his voice level, but it resisted his control. The fisherman’s words invited a moment of revelation; the words rested on his tongue.
Neither the time nor the
place to tell him you know his secret.
He bit them back, saying instead: ‘Bind these men, leave them some water in a bowl, and let us make haste to Makyra.’

‘Aye, that would be best,’ Noetos said, bitterness thickening his voice. ‘But
he
comes with us.’ The fisherman indicated the Neherian greybeard. ‘A surety against any surprises.’

‘He will slow us down,’ Seren growled.

‘He may save our lives. He comes. Now make yourselves ready. Dawn is not far away.’

Bregor watched the miners move about with surprising efficiency, though when he thought more on it he realised such efficiency would be required in order for the men to work underground together. Noetos wandered away from the firelight, gave Gawl back his knife, then slumped forward, hands on knees. Alarmed, Bregor took a few steps towards the man, then thought better of it. Not a battle he could help with.

They headed north along the Fisher Coast Road as the sun rose behind them and to their right. The road here ran wide and straight, offering little cover should they come across another Neherian patrol. Noetos’s captive remained tight-lipped when questioned about this, no doubt believing that Noetos would not torture him.
Not a belief I would trust to,
Bregor thought with a shudder.

‘Time to leave the road,’ Noetos announced, and tried to pull his reluctant mount to his left, where rough country stretched to a foreshortened horizon. Bregor kept a smile from his face as he watched the struggle: clearly the animal enjoyed the ease of travel offered by the road. Though it wouldn’t do to have Noetos lose his temper again. Sighing, he eased forward and waited while the fisherman tugged uselessly at the reins, then slapped the mule hard on its croup. The animal jerked forwards, nearly unseating its rider.

‘Oh my, can anyone else smell smoke?’ the alchemist asked in his irritating voice.

Noetos answered with a cry of anger, and dug his heels into his mount’s flanks. ‘Come on, you foolish animal!’ he yelled. The mule laid its ears flat and trotted forward a few paces. The fisherman looked around wildly.

‘Seren! Take your men and ride north! Stay off the road. Omiy has the map; you must warn the villages. We will deal with Makyra. Go!’

‘Just so’s you know, we ain’t happy about this,’ Seren said. ‘You marchin’ off to the Neherians with th’ huanu stone in your pocket. Anything could happen. Nothin’ worse than the salties gettin’ hold of it.’

Bregor had been wondering when it might come to this. He was surprised the miners had left it this late to express their concerns. ‘They might already have their own supply,’ Noetos said. ‘After all, they fish in and around The Rhoos.’

‘Oh my, there’s no call to take the stone into battle,’ the alchemist said. ‘You could—’

‘Don’t even think of suggesting I leave the stone with any of you,’ Noetos said. ‘I’m taking my sworn men to help the people of Makyra Bay. You are riding north to warn the coastal villages of what is coming. No further arguments! Off with you!’

Still they hesitated, then Seren echoed the command and the miners trotted off across the Palestra Country, disappearing from sight beyond a ridge.

No further commands were needed. Bregor gave Noetos’s mule another slap of encouragement, and the seven men were off across The Champleve at what passed for a gallop, heading for the Neherian fleet.

The sure-footed beasts took them across the grassy ground with a surprising economy of effort. Even Noetos’s mule gave no further trouble.
Inquisitive
animals; perhaps they want to investigate the source of the smoke? No telling with mules.
Bregor was more worried about their companions: the captive Neherian, head jerking from side to side as he rode with Gawl, less dangerous than Noetos’s sworn men. Should the miners decide to oppose the fisherman they would surely overwhelm him. They would have no mercy on his companion, Bregor knew. His bowels rumbled at the thought of being cast from the sea-cliff.

Which suddenly opened wide before them. Makyra Bay described a wide curve in the Fisher Coast, island-studded, sun-caressed, hemmed in by The Rhoos. The Neherian fleet lay at anchor off the bay, sails furled. Something looked odd about one or two of the ships…

‘Damaged rigging, hah!’ Noetos crowed. ‘Caught up in last night’s storm, praise Alkuon!’

Bregor watched the man’s gaze move to Makyra’s wide beach, his pleasure evaporating as he saw the flames. The same pattern as at Kymos: longboats drawn up, villagers in a large group on the beach, being led to the boats, while a smaller group were held apart at sword-point. Flames, not long set to houses, crackled and spat, their burning sending increasingly tall columns of smoke into the sky.

‘Find the nearest path,’ Noetos said urgently.

‘No need,’ the Hegeoman replied. ‘These mounts will pick their way down all but the steepest cliff. This way might be best.’ He indicated a narrow gut to their right, hidden from the beach by bushes.

‘Follow Bregor!’ Noetos commanded his sworn men, and just like that the Hegeoman rode at the head of an invading army.

Of seven
—
no, six
—
men,
he reminded himself. The utter absurdity of it finally penetrated his brain.
Noetos seems careless of his own life, with some reason. His sworn men are dead should they refuse to fight. What is my excuse for this suicide?

Too cowardly to stand up and be a coward,
he decided, and giggled to himself at his own crowning foolishness.

Amid a clattering of stones they reached level ground, still some distance from the beach. The strip of coast was much wider than it had seemed from the cliff-top.

Now what?

Bregor prayed fervently for Noetos to have an attack of cowardice, or even common sense, but his prayers were wasted.

‘We can do nothing for the villagers being herded into the longboats,’ Noetos said. ‘Not yet. But we might be able to prevent any burnings today. Bregor, stay here with our mules and the Neherian. Take Gawl’s knife and hack the prisoner to death if he moves or makes a sound. The rest of us will sneak our way into the village. If the Neherians repeat the pattern we saw at Kymos, we will be ideally placed to rescue the village leaders.’

The Hegeoman wanted to protest. Two pleas formulated themselves in his mind: one begging to be taken with Noetos and his sworn men, to avoid the shame of being thought craven; the other not wanting to be left alone with this trained soldier. Hack him to death? He even entertained momentarily the idea of leaving the Neherian and simply fleeing. In the end his mouth remained closed and he nodded what he hoped was the appearance of brave agreement, while closing his hand tightly on the knife.

He withdrew a little way up the narrow culvert, giving him a wide view of the bay. By the time he had secured the mules and his prisoner, he could see Noetos and his men running between buildings, drawing close to the smaller, more heavily guarded group of villagers. He found it difficult not to shout instructions to them, especially as he could see men walking purposefully
through the village, going in and out of homes, most likely searching for villagers who had hidden themselves.
They must be forcing someone to give them a complete list of all who live in the village;
Bregor wondered what form the ‘forcing’ would take.

He adjusted his position for a better view, and heard a rustling sound from close behind. He barely had time to turn before a black shape landed on him, driving the wind from his chest. He tried to voice a cry for help, but could not summon the air he needed. The shape drew back. A man—no, a woman. Did women sail with the Neherians? Her freckled face was screwed up with fierce hatred.

‘Scum!’ she hissed, and raised a weapon. ‘You’ll not take me prisoner!’

‘No, lady, you are mistaken—’

Down came the weapon, cracking against the side of his head, and Bregor’s world dissolved into rising white light followed by descending darkness.

One of Noetos’s men lay stretched on the ground, writhing in pain, and they had not yet confronted a single Neherian. The lad Dagla had twisted his ankle on a loose cobble, crashing to the ground with such a noise Noetos had been sure the Neherians would be drawn to the spot. Cursing the boy’s carelessness, while knowing he was being unfair, Noetos carried him to one of the houses, with help from Gawl.

‘You’ll have to take your chances here,’ he said to the boy, who bit his lip in an attempt to make no noise. ‘For Alkuon’s sake, stay out of sight.’

Noetos set no store by omens, but this was not a promising beginning. Though perhaps they might do better without Dagla; the lad did seem to deserve the scorn Gawl heaped on him.

‘Swords out,’ he said as they came to a cobbled road. ‘We will get as close as we can to the villagers. If
we are seen by Neherians, we are to run. That is a command. If you get caught, there will be no rescue. If events fall out badly, make your death mean something.’

‘I’m here t’ kill, not t’ die.’ Gawl smirked evilly as he fingered his Neherian sword, which undoubtedly he would use as a club. Nevertheless, his miner’s strength and unpredictability would make him a difficult opponent.

A shout from behind. Noetos spun around to see a Neherian staring at them, twenty paces away. Just one. With a curse he sprinted towards the man, ignoring the startled cries from his men.
If I can just get this one before he warns his fellows, nothing will be lost
…

His quarry ducked into an alley. A moment later Noetos swung around the corner into the sandy lane and crashed unseeing into a group of Neherians, knocking them to the ground. The advantage of surprise saw him up on his feet a fraction before his enemies.

No chance to run.

No desire to run.

He held his sword tip-high, waiting for the trigger. They were Neherians, they would provide him with one. Six of them; one at least was bound to be a fool.

‘Well, finally something of interest in this puerile village. A man who can hold a sword.’ This from a bony man with a pencil-thin moustache.

‘But behold, brothers, how he grips it! Does he look to club us with it, or has he just returned from beating his wife’s washing?’ General laughter.

‘Perhaps his wife was one of those we had earlier. Most of them were ugly enough to be married to this fellow.’

Trigger enough.

No backswing, no warning, just pure strength, he pushed the blade down and to the left, and threw
himself after it. He struck the bony man just above his knee-guard, felt the reassuring pull of the sword biting into the flesh of the man’s thigh. He jerked the blade after him, rolled once and fetched up against the side of the lane. The bony man had only just begun to wail when Noetos let out a roar and charged them all from their right.

The first rule of effective swordplay is to take your opponent’s space away from him.
The calm, measured voice of Cycalamere, the best of his arms tutors. With his manoeuvre he now owned the lane; his enemies were backed against the opposite wall. No space to swing their blades unless he backed away. Which he was not going to do.