Beyond the Wall of Time (10 page)

“What? You served the Red Duke’s son? Demios? But Demios—”

A noise behind him made him spin around. Three warriors stood there, bows drawn.

“You tricked me,” Noetos said with heartfelt bitterness.

“Aye. The most effective traps are baited by the prey. Shame you never went to the Tochar academy.”

No, but Cyclamere constantly told me that, using exactly those words. He was right: I never listened, and now I will pay for
it, as he warned.

Another explosion rocked the treetops. Arathé ducked as splinters showered over the Canopy. Heredrew was doing something to
the huts; expanding the air inside them so quickly that they blew apart. She had seen dozens of Padouki plummet to their deaths
as a result. She had also seen Stella walk away in disgust.

We don’t have the luxury of cherishing our enemies
, she thought.

No, you do not. It does not serve me to see you die here.

The hated voice. Arathé was minded to change her opinion simply because it agreed with her.

Then get us out
, she thought at him.

The Falthan seems to be doing a creditable job
, said the voice, half-admiringly.
But I must look after my interests. Very well. Prepare yourself.

The familiar burning took hold of her.
Curse you, curse you
, she drove at him.
I didn’t mean like this!
Then everything went white.

The Padouki had magic, it seemed, but their power was sorely limited. When Noetos finally found the source of the smoke, it
was to discover a large group of Padouki women standing together on a platform, arrayed against Heredrew, alone on a bridge.
They were doing something to the air between themselves and the Falthan sorcerer: it swirled like smoke, one moment hardening
as though frozen and then softening in the next. Their stance was purely defensive, trying to keep the man out. Losing the
battle, and they knew it. Noetos had seen a similar look of horror and resignation on other faces he had fought. He had probably
worn that look himself a time or two.

As he watched, one of them sighed and collapsed onto the platform. Their swirling mist jerked, then shrank a little. Heredrew
advanced a step across the bridge. Noetos regretted he did not have the power to lend the brave Falthan assistance. Though
he probably didn’t need it.

Another woman faltered. Her hands went to her head and it burst open like a rotten fruit dropped on the ground, spattering
those either side of her. What remained slumped to the platform.

Oh, woman, you made us do it
. Noetos felt no better at the thought.

“Have you seen Arathé and Anomer?” he called.

Without turning, the tall Falthan inclined his head towards a swing bridge to his left. “Some time ago,” came his voice.

Noetos wished he had language sufficient to stop this butchery, but tongues had never been his gift. He ran towards the bridge
the Falthan had indicated, and tried to ignore another shriek from behind him as he reached the far side.

No control. Prisoner in her own mind. She—her hands, her body—
she
was doing these terrible things. Hands rending, feet smashing, stamping. Mouth… He ensured what she did was far worse than
it needed to be, trying to soak her in blood and guilt.

She would have vomited if she could. Oh, Alkuon, she would have died, would have ended her own life in a moment, had she been
given the choice.

Anything but this.

Noetos had bidden her farewell the day the Recruiters took her north. “Don’t surrender to anyone,” he’d said. “Many people
will want to use you for their own purposes. Even if your desires coincide with theirs, promise me you’ll not let them own
you. Promise me, my girl.” He’d made her promise. Her mother had given her different, more practical advice, but her father
had been proven right.

Father! Noetos!
she screamed, but she knew her voice went no further than the confines of her head.

The Canopy was aflame, the treetops filled with acrid smoke. The haze and the many cast-down bridges defeated Noetos time
and again. Occasionally he saw one of the other captives; once he caught sight of Anomer leading Robal, Kilfor and Lenares
across a bridge perhaps fifty arm-spans distant. They could shout to each other but, even after spending many long minutes
trying, could not find a common path to connect their bridge to his. In the end they made off just before a dozen Padouki
warriors ran onto the bridge. Noetos had a few moments of danger as they loosed at least four arrows in his direction, but
the billowing smoke that had previously frustrated him now served to keep him safe.

By chance—though by this time he must surely have traversed every bridge in the whole of Patina Padauk—he discovered the Padouki
armoury, or what passed for it. One of the single-branch ladders led him to the highest of the platforms, on which a small
hut stood, guarded by two frightened young men nowhere near old enough to shave. Neither appeared to have a weapon.

“Non, non,” the larger of the two boys cried when Noetos emerged on the platform. “Khlamir!”

“Your Khlamir isn’t going to help you,” Noetos said, knowing he would not be understood, but hoping his tone of voice would
soothe them. “Just step aside and you’ll be safe.”

“Khlamir! Khlamir!” they both cried. “Khlamir!” And they rushed him.

He should have used the knife, but he couldn’t, not on children.
What is this? From the butcher of Raceme, the man who went through the Neherian ballroom with a sword?
With mingled disgust and regret he cast the knife aside and braced himself.

With a whoosh the elder boy hit him, head and shoulder, in his stomach. The other lad took him around the knees. In moments
he was on the ground, both of them working with fists and elbows, pummelling at him. He took a few painful blows before he
was able to retaliate. Freeing his arms, he took them both in a bear hug. Their arms beat ineffectually at his back as he
rose slowly to his feet. He could crush the youngsters to death if he chose.

He would not choose.

“Put them down, please,” came a voice from behind him.

The killing strength went out of Noetos. He turned to face the warrior leader.

“What’s to stop me dropping these young ones over the edge of the platform?” Noetos asked, breathing heavily. The youngsters
squirmed in his grasp. He thought perhaps he might have broken one of the lads’ ribs.

The man took a pace onto the platform. “We both know you will not,” he said. “It is your grace and failing, this foolish tender
heart you have. Otherwise you would be an effective killer.” The man assumed a stance and quoted: “When the killing starts,
all sentiment must be thrust aside.”

“I presume you left these two boys in charge of the armoury,” Noetos said. “That is not the action of a war leader. You quote
from Cyclamere as though you have read his books, yet your own tactics fall some way short of the great man.”

To his astonishment, the war leader sheathed his sword, put his hands on his hips and laughed raucously.

“Put the children down,” said the man, still spluttering. “I will not strike at you, I give you my word, this time for the
compliment. Again, life for life. Let the boys go, and I will let you leave this platform.”

Noetos released the boys. One of them had indeed been hurt: the younger boy crabbed across the platform to the war leader
holding his chest, his eyes filled with tears. The other stood beside the man and spoke rapidly, head downcast, no doubt apologising.
The incessant “Khlamir” was the only word Noetos recognised.

“Why do they call you that?” he asked, edging his way towards the low entrance to the armoury.

“If you enter that building, I will ensure you do not come out,” said the man, and drew his sword. “They call me Khlamir,
friend, because that is what I am. Their swordmaster. The one who is training them to supplement their bow-skill with the
power of steel.”

And then it hit him. A hundred small clues rearranged themselves in his head.

No.

Yes.

Siy the Khlamir. A swordmaster who had served successive generations of the Roudhos, including his own father. A man who might
fondly remember tutoring a young boy, or decide to avenge the deaths of his fellow warriors.

Oh, the danger.

“You will let me leave the platform?” Noetos said carefully.

“I will also allow you a weapon,” the man decided, “not that it will avail you much. You have earned this, at least, for your
compassion. You will find your people’s weapons in a sack just inside the armoury.”

Noetos hesitated, though he now had good reason to trust the man’s word.

“Go on! I will wait here, on the far side of the platform. But be quick. The battle is no doubt drawing to a close. I wish
you well, but fear you will try to rescue your companions. You will lose your life if you make the attempt, but perhaps it
is the most honourable course open to you. I am sorry for this, but you ought not to have entered the lands of the Padouki.”

Noetos walked to the opening, bent down and scrabbled in the darkness until he felt the coarse weave of the sack. It clanked
with the sound of steel. He found a blade, Duon’s by the feel of it, fastened the scabbard around his waist, then stood and
faced the war leader.

The man’s dark eyes narrowed, switching their gaze from the sword on the fisherman’s hip to his face, but he stood aside to
allow Noetos access to the ladder.

“Troubled by memories, old man?” Noetos asked as he descended the ladder. “So am I, if it is any consolation. My thanks for
my life.”

Sliding the last few rungs, he saluted the downturned face, turned on his heel and ran, the sweat turning cold on his back.

The voice released Arathé with a sudden snap of withdrawal. She searched her mind for any sign of him, then—oh so reluctantly—looked
around her. Hoping it had been a nightmare.

Flesh, not her own, hanging from her fingers. A bloodied stick on the ground beside her. Her only weapon, save tooth and claw.
The red-white shapes of bodies on all sides, smeared viscera, shattered bones, blood and pulp. The taste—she spat, then bent
over and vomited. The smell.

The memories. Crystal clear.

The wail that came from her throat felt as if it had been ripped from the depths of her heart.

She raised her eyes from the bodies of her enemies. On the platform beside her stood her friends and acquaintances—and her
brother—staring at her with wide eyes and white faces.

“Kill me,” she begged them, signing shakily. As her hands moved, flesh flicked from her fingers and fell to the ground. “Please.
Kill me now.”

No one moved.

She took a step backwards at the expressions of horror on their faces. Her foot caught on something and she stumbled, her
heel grinding, then sliding, in wetness. Another step, then another.

“Arathé, don’t.” This from her brother.

Another step. Her heel balanced on the edge of the platform.

“I must,” she signalled, then closed her eyes and took another step.

He saw them standing together, his children vulnerable, exposed and unmoving. Three bridges away, and for once he could trace
a route that would take him there. Drawing Duon’s well-balanced sword he strode forward, then broke into a run as he saw what
was unfolding.

He pounded over the first bridge as she took a step back.
Arathé!
Across the second, heedless of how he set it swaying.
Anomer, do something!
He punched a hole in a slat with his foot as he leaped onto the third bridge, but barely noticed. Her heel hovered over a
hundred vertical paces of nothingness.

This bridge was longer, with a small platform in the centre. He was not going to make it.

He flung himself onwards. A few more paces. She moved her hands and stepped backwards off the platform.

He reached out, too late, as she—

—as she hovered there for a perceptible moment, before his and Anomer’s hands closed over hers, pulling her back to the platform.

Did you think I would let you go so easily?
said the voice.
You and I, Arathé, have only just begun.

A shout. Here came the war leader, followed by a dozen or more warriors armed with bows. As the man stepped onto the bridge,
Noetos released his daughter’s hand, and turned and faced him.

“I thought you were a man of honour,” he said.

“I thought you would run faster,” the man replied. “Besides, I have questions for you. I am sorry about your friends, but
our orders are specific.”

His men lifted their bows.

Noetos gestured around him at the gruesome remains. “And I am sorry about yours. I will stay to answer your questions.”

He watched the swordmaster’s face carefully and saw the exact moment when the carnage registered with the man. The tanned
face paled, his thin lips parted, his eyes widened.

“They attacked my daughter,” Noetos said.

How could he not have recognised the man before now? Yes, he was garbed as a savage, not as the urbane tutor and faithful
retainer Noetos remembered, but surely something about the voice, the man’s bearing, his perfect Tocharan accent, ought to
have alerted him. What would the war leader do now he was confronted by the violent deaths of his countrymen and women?

“Your
daughter
did this?”

“Aye. We were travelling with a mad god, friend. How could we have survived in such company without skills of our own?”

He raised the tip of his sword. To the others he said, “Find a way down to the ground. I will ensure you are not followed.”
Then he dismissed them from his mind, preparing for the conflict ahead.

“We have brought serpents into our house,” said the war leader.

The bowmen were at least fifty paces distant, with leaf and bough between, but at a signal from the swordmaster they nocked
arrows and loosed in one fluid action. Noetos had not thought they were in range. Despite having seen the power of the Falthan
magicians, the fisherman flinched as the flight whistled past. The air in front of the captives shimmered, then turned opaque,
like tree sap or glue. None of the missiles reached their targets.