Beyond the Wall of Time (11 page)

“I am tired of being shot at with arrows,” Heredrew said. Beside him, Stella grinned.

“Go!” Noetos growled at them, and gave his attention to his adversary.

The bowmen retreated at another signal from the war leader. He came a few steps across the bridge. “Questions, then,” he said,
his level voice masking his anger. “Here is my first question. You look familiar with a sword on your hip. Why is that?”

Noetos strode to meet him, putting as much confidence in his stride as he could, and took a stance on the small central platform.
“Recognise me, do you?”

“No, but I recognise the stance. I taught it to my more able pupils.” The man drew a sword, a full two hands, and settled
into his all-too-familiar stance. “Where did you learn to stand like that?”

An assertion of his identity would not be enough: Noetos would have to prove himself. “Guess!” he said, and made his attack.

A downward blow, turned mid-strike into an upward thrust. A standard Cyclamere sequence.
I know nothing this man has not taught me
, he conceded, but he did not allow the knowledge to consume him.

The blow was parried, of course; the man opposite him had, after all, taught it to him. Supremely confident, the Khlamir did
not assay a response, though he could have. Noetos had been counting on that.
His given word holds him.

“Are they teaching the Khlamir method at Tochar now?” the war leader asked. Noetos essayed a couple of stabbing flicks, leaning
in with his upper body. His opponent danced away, untroubled.

“I have no idea,” Noetos answered. “I learned to fight like this in the grounds of the Summer Palace at Raceme, under the
tutelage of a remarkable old man.” Another downward cut, begun slowly but with a disconcerting acceleration: a Cyclamere specialty,
and hard to master. The war leader defended the blow, though with a little difficulty. “I wasn’t much of a pupil though.”

“I tutored a few noblemen in Raceme,” said the Khlamir. “They were all as old then as you are now, and none had your skill.
Who are you? I will have answers!”

“You’ll kill me for them?”

A feint to the left, then a short downward cut from the shoulder. His blade rang on the swordmaster’s, skittering across the
steel with a rasping sound.

“No. But I have no doubt I will wound you. You are surprisingly proficient, too skilled to be disarmed unhurt. Better to hand
over your sword.”

Another blow from Noetos, another block from his opponent.

“A further question occurs to me,” the man said. “You are large, if a little slow, and have obviously been well trained. Why
are you not trying to use your weight against me?”

“Because,” Noetos replied, shaping a two-handed blow from his left shoulder, “my swordmaster taught me better.”

A blow from the right, then another, both parried with ease. Time to speed things. Time to gamble.

Arathé! See my need!

The effect was much as it had been that day in Raceme’s Summer Palace. All motion around him slowed as though time had been
carved into discrete moments and then spread apart. He could act in and between the moments, while the swordmaster was confined
to normal time.

A third blow from the right, taking the man’s blade near the hilt as he drew it back. Then a smart slap to his exposed right
shoulder with the flat of Duon’s blade. A step back and pause, allowing the man to catch up.

“Not possible,” the war leader hissed, his eyes wide.

“No, it is not,” Noetos agreed, and readied himself.

“I will not be toyed with,” the man said, and launched a furious attack. Blows from high, then low, one continuous movement;
a spin, then two further strikes from left and right, one from the shoulder, the other from the hip. All delivered with main
strength, designed to drive Noetos back from the platform and onto the unstable bridge.

Even in this strange magical state, Noetos had some difficulty meeting the swordmaster’s attack. The man disguised the direction
of each stroke, giving Noetos no time to respond. Fortunately the fisherman had something other than normal time in which
to frame his response. Taking each blow on his sword, he allowed himself to smile, catching and holding his opponent’s gaze.

“You are too slow, friend,” he said. “Past your best.”

“I have been past my best for a century,” the man said, panting heavily. “Still there has been no one in Old Roudhos to match
me.”

“And still there is not,” Noetos said, lowering his sword. “I have a secret, Cyclamere.” The man blinked at his use of the
name. “You once told me I’d never make a swords-man, but I practised after you left our service. I even took your advice about
leading with my left shoulder.”

Cyclamere brought the point of his sword up, then lowered it as his eyes narrowed. “Noetos?” he said, his voice rough, as
though he had just woken from a deep sleep. “But you died along with your family.”

“So everyone was told.”

The man licked ashen lips. “You have been in hiding ever since?”

“Aye,” Noetos said.

“I looked for you,” Cyclamere told him after a pause. The man’s eyes had begun to water. “A year I searched, and found no
evidence you were alive.”

“I hid well.”

His old arms tutor puffed out his cheeks. “As I live, it is you. You have Noetos’s lip as well as his build. Or the build
he would likely have grown into.”

“I learned to like vegetables,” Noetos said.

“Aye, I can see. I am… glad you live. And angry that your family died.”

“I am pleased to hear you searched for me,” Noetos offered in exchange.

An awkward silence fell between two men unused to unmasking their emotions.

“I will tell you this, Cyclamere,” Noetos said eventually. “I am travelling north to make the Lord of Bhrudwo account for
his crimes.” He was aware of how vainglorious this must sound. “I have been joined by others. We are opposed by the gods themselves,
or, at least, two of the three. We have been drawn into the conflict of the age, and it seems the Neherian destruction of
Old Roudhos is only a part of it.”

“Do you intend to make the Neherians answer for what they did to your family?”

Just as Noetos had hoped, the venerable swordmaster had been drawn in despite himself.

“I already have,” he said. “I long to tell you how the nobles of Neherius were struck down. How this sword avenged the cruel
deaths of my family. Come with me and I will explain everything.”

Cyclamere sighed, a sound of genuine regret. “Unfortunately, young Noetos, I cannot. As much as I loved your family, my loyalty
is to the Canopy of Patina Padouk. I do not blame you for what has happened here today,” he swept his hand across the grisly
scene, “but I can hardly leave Patina Padouk in this condition.”

“And my loyalty is to my companions, who have chosen to stand in the path of gods determined to break the world.”

“I will not stand against the gods.”

“Against Keppia, you mean.”

“That is exactly what I mean. And would you sacrifice a life hundreds, if not thousands, of years long, leaving your friends
and family behind, to serve a man you believed dead?”

“If it would lead to saving Roudhos, then yes, I would,” Noetos answered fiercely. “And who said anything about serving? Or
sacrificing? You’d lend your sword arm and your knowledge when and where you chose, and I doubt there would be anyone who
could seriously threaten your life.”

“You’re forgetting magicians. A good sword is no proof against a magician.”

“If a good sword is no use, why are you so revered among the Padouki?”

“Because our magicians are not strong,” Cyclamere answered, rather frankly in Noetos’s opinion. “The little power at our disposal
comes from the gift that Keppia gave us. We think of it as a small side-stream, only a fraction of the raging flood Keppia
used to keep us alive.”

“You’re afraid to offend him.” Noetos did not ask this as a question.

“For myself, no. He is ignorant, rude and without honour or depth of spirit. Why would I bow to the likes of him? However,
I am fearful of what would happen to my people if he withdraws his patronage.”

“They would die?”

“Aye. I am ready to die, though I would miss this world. Who would not want to wake up for one more morning and breathe in
the forest scent? Or listen to his grandchildren at play? But my children and grandchildren are not ready for death. You fight
for your family and your country, Lord of Roudhos. Would you not give me leave to fight for mine?”

Another explosion shook the trees, sending leaves quaking and branches rattling. Over Cyclamere’s shoulder black smoke began
to billow. The warrior did not turn his head at the sound, not even a fraction.

“We can’t stay here,” Noetos said. “We must fight each other, or combine to rescue those in trouble, or agree to separate.
If we fight, you will die, as I have a source of magic you cannot counter. If we separate, I believe the best we can hope
for is that one of us will successfully protect his family. One, or probably both, of us will lose everything. But if we combine
our efforts against the gods, we can prevent them breaking the world.”

The warrior frowned. “To prevent the world breaking, Padouk must pass away?”

“Perhaps not,” Noetos said, but inwardly he acknowledged the truth of Cyclamere’s words.

“Then let the world break. My people and I will watch it together.”

After Cyclamere had left him, gone to search for those who needed his help, Noetos struggled along depressingly familiar bridges
and platforms towards the smoke. As he drew closer, flames became visible, their hungry tips rising above the foliage. Not
even the beginnings of a light drizzle could quench them.

He had never been any good at puzzles. Didn’t have the patience for them. His father had insisted problem-solving be part
of his education, and had imported all sorts of intricate devices to test his son’s abilities. He solved them, all right,
with the aid of hammers and saws. He’d always been fond of the direct route. Trouble was, there was no direct route to solving
this puzzle. The harder he tried to approach the fire, the further he seemed to get from it. No hammer or saw was going to
realign the bridges to allow him direct passage, and he found himself doubling back time and again.

Arathé. Can you tell me where you are?

No answer. Of course there would be no answer: he’d probably exhausted the girl earlier, and that after whatever she’d done
to the people who had tried to take her.

Arathé?

Still no answer.

He told himself not to worry; there were many reasons why she might not wish to mind-speak him. Perhaps she was speaking to
someone else, or the damned voice in her head had her attention.
Or
, his mind whispered,
she’s unconscious, or dead.

Sighing, he carried on.

Her body sapped beyond easy recovery, Arathé groaned as she made it to another platform with pursuit close behind. Running
across the bridges hadn’t been so bad, but climbing down the rope ladders had taxed her sorely. Her knees and ankles seemed
unable to lock in position and time and again she had slipped from the rungs. She had been prevented from falling only by
her own desperate grasping and, latterly, by the captain’s strength. But now, as they took a moment to gasp in much-needed
air, she could see even his strength was coming to an end.

She and Captain Duon had become separated from the rest of the travellers at some point in the last few hectic minutes. The
others had responded to a call from what sounded like Anomer, but Duon had held her back, unsure if the shout had come from
friend or foe. He had apologised for his caution, but as a result they had lost contact with the others, and there was no
chance of retracing their steps.

Frustratingly, she could not communicate with the man. Her speech depended on the fine muscle movements of her fingers and
hands; movements severely compromised by her exhaustion. She doubted he could read her words anyway.

Time to risk it.

Duon?
she sent.
Captain Duon? Can you hear me?

A faint buzzing tickled the back of her head. At the same time Duon grabbed her arm.

“Was that you?”

Yes. You can hear me.

“I can. But so can he.”

She didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was.
He can hear us anyway if we talk out loud.

“Come on,” Duon said, taking hold of her arm. “We have to find our way down before the Padouki catch us.”

Arathé groaned again. More than anything she wanted somewhere to lie down and close her eyes, to wake up in some different
time and place with one fewer person in her head. She didn’t have to have a long life or a happy one, just one in which she
could rest peacefully and call the inside of her head her own. The chances of either happening seemed remote.

They hurried across the only available bridge, then made two random choices of direction, only to find themselves on a platform
with an upwards ladder and nothing else. Though she’d always thought of herself as a capable girl, Arathé found herself sobbing
at the thought of the climb. But she dared not think of…

Out of strength, little swan? All you had to do was ask.

“I hear him,” Duon said. “He’s spilling over into my mind.”

Once again the power of the voice seized her and she found herself a prisoner in her own mind, her body set to climbing the
ladder without her willing it.

I’ll watch over you
, Duon said in her mind.
I’ll stop him using you to do evil things.

No reaction from the voice. Had he heard Duon’s mind-voice? Could he hear when he was in possession of her? Could this somehow
be used against him?

Ah, little swan, I hear everything. But struggle away, and as you do, realise that in so doing you provide me with rich entertainment.

She reached the top of the ladder and the power drained from her limbs. There, on the platform, huddled into a ball, lay Conal
the priest.