Path of Revenge (29 page)

It was only later, as the afternoon sea-clouds lowered and a faint drizzle dampened the two travellers, that Noetos had another thought.
I asked Bregor twice, but he did not answer my question.
But by then he was too tired and heartsore to repeat it.

Over the next few days the fisherman forced the pace, his gnawing anxiety driving him on, but his captive could muster nothing more than a walk, no matter how he was chivvied. By the afternoon of the fourth day since he had left Fossa, Noetos was willing to concede he had made a mistake.

‘Face it, you took me with you out of anger,’ the Hegeoman said equably as they took a late lunch amid the clods and mud of a freshly turned field, hidden from the road by a small rise. ‘What use was I ever going to be?’

Noetos set aside the cheese he was eating and scowled at the man. ‘I can think of a dozen uses,’ he said. ‘An exchange of hostages, an admittedly poor packhorse, a glib tongue should we get into trouble, a guide on the road north…’ The fisherman paused, trying to think of more items to add to his list.

The Hegeoman counted them off as they were listed. ‘Four uses,’ he summarised, holding four fingers in the air. ‘As for a guide, should we go past Kymos, which we most certainly will this afternoon if you insist on keeping up this ridiculous pace, we will be beyond my knowledge. Time to let me go home.’

‘I’m right about the glib tongue, though.’

‘And I’m right about your anger,’ the Hegeoman returned. ‘You think with your fists.’

‘I hit with them too,’ Noetos rumbled. ‘You’re here and that is that. The Recruiters have my family, and you are partly responsible. So you can help get them back.’

‘How?’

Not the question he wanted asked; not one he had an answer to. Yet the infuriating man asked it a dozen or more times a day. How indeed? Two men—no, realistically
one
man with a sword against four magicians.
Sounds like the plot of a bard’s tale.
An ambush might work, if he ever caught up to his quarry. He was no tracker, and had no idea whether the Recruiters had even come this way. It was the direction they had taken when they left Fossa, but there were inland villages they might have gone to. Every time he came to a crossroad he would stand there, sick at heart, until the Hegeoman made some sarcastic comment.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, as he always did. ‘But I must try. You cannot imagine what it was like, seeing your beloved daughter ruined by those men.’

‘Forgive me, Fisher, but that is the part I fail to understand,’ the Hegeoman said, obviously choosing his words with care. ‘Why would Andratan hurt its servants? We have been sending our sons and daughters north for generations, and this is the first we have heard of it. Surely if evil of the kind this woman—’

‘My daughter,’ Noetos growled.

‘—this
woman
described, whoever she was, actually happened, we would have learned of it, and the, er, trade would have been compromised throughout the Fisher country. They can’t risk it, therefore they don’t do it. It didn’t happen. The girl was not your daughter. She was someone playing a trick on you; or perhaps, in your grief, you tricked yourself.’

Reasonable, so reasonable. And so wrong. ‘You were there in Nadoce Square when the Recruiter attacked me,’ Noetos said stubbornly. ‘You cast me out of the village. You must have seen their magic at work.’

‘The blue snakes you insist they used against you? I’ve told you, I saw nothing. They exchanged words
with you, that is all; and they were much more reasonable than you were.’ The man sighed, and patted his greasy hands on his shirt with some delicacy. ‘Fisher, I have to say this. Ever since you sent your daughter north and claimed Fisher House, you have been an unhappy man. A sour old bear shambling about the village looking for something to sink his teeth into. People avoid you, my friend. Surely you know this? Did you really expect Old Fossa to love you for climbing the despised cliffs and living above them? Even if you hadn’t become unbearable company?’

Noetos struggled with and overcame the urge to shut the man up.
Face the truth, however unpleasant.

‘So now the Recruiters return, and your sensible wife wants to send Anomer north. Most families would see this as an honour, but no, all you can see is your loss. Why, Fisher? You always said you did not intend Anomer to inherit your boats. You never took him fishing, not once. What other life did you have planned for him? None of us in The Circle can understand your thinking. We were proud of your son, the way he sparred with Pantella, the courage he showed when answering Ataphaxus’ question, rash though that answer was. He could have been trained to be a diplomat, a governor, perhaps even served in Andratan itself. But instead, the next thing we know you are threatening villagers and our guests, and objecting when the Recruiters take your family into safe custody. Noetos, most people think you have gone mad. Have you?’

Was this how he appeared to others? Had he really been so visibly unhappy? He could sense himself losing control, feel his eyes beginning to sting.
You have your proof,
he acknowledged silently to his village leader.

He did not know how long he sat there, his chin on his chest, before he felt a hand grip his shoulder.

‘Put out the fire,’ the Hegeoman said in a low voice. ‘Put it out, put it out!’

‘What?’ Noetos snapped back to reality. ‘Why?’

His companion snatched up handfuls of dirt and threw them on the low flame, splashing into the simmering soup and knocking the pot over. The fire hissed and went out.

‘What are you doing?’

In answer the Hegeoman pointed over Noetos’s shoulder, then began scrambling amongst their gear. The fisherman turned to see threads of smoke drifting towards them.

‘Field fire?’ he said. ‘The wrong time of year, surely?’

The Hegeoman shrugged. ‘Do you want to stay here and argue with the flames?’ He strapped on his pack and stood up, the now empty soup pot in his hand.

‘We will be safe in this field,’ said Noetos. ‘The fire will not burn bare earth.’

‘Spoken with all the knowledge of a fisherman. In a bad fire sparks jump right across open spaces such as this. And we have to worry about smoke as much as flame: we’ve lost farmers before, dead in a field fire without ever being touched by the flames. The smoke will smother you. Do you want to wait here and learn this for yourself?’

By the end of the explanation Noetos was on his feet, hurriedly packing away the remainder of their possessions. ‘Where do we go?’

‘Safest place is the sea. The fires don’t come down the cliffs.’

They ran across the field, clods spraying up behind them.
But it rained last night, as it has every night since we left Fossa,
Noetos found himself thinking.
How could the fields catch fire? And surely it is too early in the growing season for there to be anything much in the fields to burn?

Over the Fisher Coast Road they crossed, then through a copse of fir trees and across another bare field. They had escaped the smoke; the fire seemed to be seated somewhere to their left and ahead. Fingers of grey stretched above them, borne on some higher breeze. Ahead the ground rose sharply.

‘Slow down,’ the Hegeoman gasped, ‘we’re near the cliff…’

They crested the rise and found themselves standing at the cliff-edge, the rise commanding a wide view of the coast to north and south. Bays, promontories, wide sandy beaches, the reef in the distance, rich blue sea. Their heads turned towards the source of the smoke.

‘Oh,’ the Hegeoman said.

‘What is it?’ Noetos, confounded by the smoke, did not have the Hegeoman’s keen eyes. ‘What do you see?’

‘I, ah, nothing, the fire is further away than I thought, it looks like a few trees burning down below the cliffs. We’re safe, we can go.’

A pall of smoke drifted across them, further obscuring their vision and setting them both to coughing. Then the sea breeze gusted, clearing the smoke away.

Noetos grabbed the Hegeoman by the shirt while keeping his gaze focused on the harbour below and to their left. ‘A few trees?’ He dragged his captive around in front of him, perilously close to the crumbling cliff-edge. ‘And the entire Neherian fleet has come to watch them burn?’

Thirty or more ships there were, hove to in deep water perhaps five hundred swimming strokes offshore, all wearing the red Neherian stripe just above the waterline. An enormous tri-masted carrack, clearly the flagship, rigged in a way Noetos had never seen or heard of, surrounded by five elderly but impressive
cogs and perhaps a dozen dromonds of varying sizes. The rest were fishing boats, including a gaff-rigged ketch he recognised as one that frequented the Fossan fishing beds beyond The Rhoos.

He dragged the reluctant Hegeoman along the cliff-top until they stood directly above the source of the fire, then drew his sword. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘You are going to tell me what this means. And don’t waste your breath pretending you know nothing about it.’

A fishing village lay below them. Or, more accurately, what remained of a fishing village. Blackened skeletons instead of simple wooden fishing huts; stone houses collapsed into piles of rock. Most of the fires were already dying down, though flames had but recently begun their work on half a dozen dwellings. The destruction was by no means universal, however. A number of buildings remained untouched, whether because they were scheduled for firing or were to be left alone, Noetos could not tell.

Most of the activity was focused on the beach. A dozen or so longboats had been drawn up to the south of the village, and planks had been thrown across them so one could walk from the first to the last. Figures—women and children, the Fisher realised as he looked more closely, most likely villagers—were being marched along the planks. They had filled the first three boats, and began filling the fourth as he watched.

A faint sound of shouting reached their ears. It came from the rightmost of the longboats, though it was hard to…Yes, their attention seemed to be focused on a small knot of people on the beach. Neherians and captives. The shouting came from relatives of the captives, then.

With a sinking heart Noetos knew what was to come. He had been in a war with these people; he understood their brutal capabilities, their methods.
They are pacifying the village. Their remaining captives are the hold-outs, the leaders who will not agree to serve them, even though their families are held.
That there were so many surprised him. A brave leadership.

More smoke drifted towards the two men watching from the cliff-top, momentarily blurring their view. When it cleared, the captives had been secured somehow to the walls and doors of a group of buildings, almost certainly a market of some kind. Two figures with burning sticks approached the buildings. The Neherian way: control the body by severing the head. Always by force, never by negotiation.

‘What are they doing?’ the Hegeoman asked in a small voice. His tone of voice made it clear he understood what he witnessed, knew what was going to happen. Perhaps he hoped Noetos might supply him with a plausible alternative explanation.

‘Killing,’ Noetos replied tonelessly. ‘They are good at that.’

‘But…the village leaders?’

‘Death is death. If someone has to die, better the leaders responsible for the village than some other sacrifice.’
Why does their identity bother you so much?

‘But by surrendering, they have surely saved the lives of their villagers,’ said the Hegeoman. ‘They should be rewarded, not punished. It is not fair that they should die!’

The shouting below grew louder, coming both from the captives and from the longboats. The two Neherians set flame to the buildings to the accompaniment of shrieks from the boats.

‘Never surrender to a Neherian, Bregor,’ Noetos said, his head aching with memory. ‘If you do, he will take your mother and torture her in front of your eyes. He will take your brothers and hamstring them one by one, then set his dogs on them. He will rape your sisters while shouting vileness at you, before cutting
their throats. He will take your father and behead him with his own sword, taking care to spatter you with his lifeblood. Then he will let you live, though you beg him to kill you.’ The fisherman clamped his mouth shut, too late to stop his memories spilling out.

The Hegeoman’s mouth opened wide enough for both of them.

One of the buildings was a fish-processing house, it seemed, for the fire caught at once and burned ferociously, sending thick black smoke billowing into the sky. Noetos had smelled burning fish oil before, but never mixed with the smell of charred human flesh. He found himself dry-retching, the Hegeoman’s unsteady hand on his back.

‘You’ve never seen death like this before, have you,’ Noetos said, spitting bitter saliva from his mouth. ‘It should be you throwing up.’

The white-faced man gave no answer. Noetos took a closer look at the Hegeoman’s features: his eyes did not see the desperate scene below them, but gazed inward on some dreadful private vision. Alarm bells rang inside the fisherman’s mind.

He was about to press Bregor for answers, but was distracted by the two Neherian figures throwing down their firebrands and rushing to the beach. There they signalled to their fellows, a few of whom came ashore, beaching their boats in a hurry, uncaring of keel damage. So unlike the Neherians, normally fastidious about such things. What had them so worried? The newly arrived Neherians took pails from their boats, dipped them hurriedly in the water and ran with them to the burning market.
Ah, I see.
They were worried about the black smoke, which could only mean one thing.

A further thought occurred to him. As a result, several seemingly unrelated things the Hegeoman had said came together, sending a chill through his body.

‘This is not an isolated raid.’ He turned to the man kneeling beside him.

‘No.’ A voice thinned by shock.

‘Which way are they working? North or south?’ He held his breath.

‘North.’ Little more than a whisper.

‘
What have you done?
’