Path of Revenge (31 page)

Any time in the previous four days since they had left Fossa, Noetos would have welcomed the resulting silence. The man had spouted a constant flow of babble, as though he was fuelled by words. Politicians worked with speech, but fishermen understood the need for silence. Out on the dangerous, inscrutable water every sense had to be focused on the task and, until the catch was made, talk was kept to a minimum. Today, however, the silence resulting from the Hegeoman’s injury meant Noetos had no relief from his spiralling thoughts.

He had always been a deep thinker. His mother said it whenever visitors came to the estate, mostly to explain his tendency as a child to answer every query with a monosyllable. But it was true: as a youngster he seldom indulged in what his father called ‘chitchat’. Saw no point in it. Who benefited from his dutiful rendition of the expected answer? As a sort of rebellion against his family’s expectations he went through a phase of answering every question honestly, until his father beat him for responding to a simple query about his health by describing in lurid detail the effects of a recent bout of chickenpox. He understood why his father punished him, knew just how insolent his inappropriate honesty had been, but judged the
problem to be with the flippant question, not the detailed, overlong answer.
If they don’t want to know, they shouldn’t ask.

His tendency to contemplation and solitude had led him to the written word. Recognising this, his father, despairing for a time of imparting more important skills such as swordplay and accountancy, gave the young boy access to the family library.
Noetos is a third son,
his father said to his mother:
let him be a scholar.
There, once the huge oaken doors were closed, sealing his world away from that of others, his self-imposed studies absorbed him completely. He had never been happier than during the summers spent in the library, lying on the floor with maps and scrolls spread out all around him. A musty smell, the sound of a fly buzzing against a shutter, a discreet whisper as someone sought not to interrupt him: all could cause his heart to turn over in sweet memory. Alone with his thoughts, he could travel around the world and back in time to when…

Such a deep thinker, so everyone said. But now, when he most needed his thinking skills, nothing came to him.
Slow and composed, no need to panic,
he repeated to himself, but these words circled each other in his head, making their own distracting noise. He had no better idea than to leave the road and strike inland, hoping to pass the Neherians, though he knew travel would be much slower in the hills. Better than thrusting himself into Neherian jaws.

The two men made good time along the northern road, much better time than before they discovered the Neherian fleet, confirming Noetos’s belief that Bregor had been deliberately holding him back. The first path they came to, an hour or so after they set out, looked promising, but the Hegeoman shook his head vigorously and seemed to be indicating that the track bent to the south, taking them away from where they needed to go. A second path petered out a few
hundred paces from the road, forcing them to turn back. Noetos cursed his memory: years looking at maps and charts, yet not one useful fragment remained. Then, before they could find either a third path or a better solution, they came across the Neherian watchers.

Cleverly, the Neherians had positioned themselves atop a rise in the road, giving them a long view to the south. Only the prudence of keeping to the edge of the road when approaching the crest of a hill kept Noetos and his captive from being seen. At least, he hoped they had not been seen. The fisherman observed the sentries for a minute or so: they kept a desultory watch, but there was no likelihood of overcoming them with a surprise attack. Though as he continued to examine them, he did notice they paid little or no attention to the road north of them. Would it be as simple as sneaking past them, then rejoining the road? Noetos thought not. Why would they not watch the north, unless another group lay in wait, watching the northern approaches? It seemed much more likely that the Neherians would position multiple watchers on the Fisher Coast Road, as their raids depended so heavily on surprise. Any inquisitive traveller, shepherd or farmer would be taken, questioned and likely thrown from the nearby cliff.

‘Come on, you feckless dissolute,’ Noetos said with false cheer as he hauled the Hegeoman, who had puffed and blown his way up the last three hills, away from the road and over a low stone fence. ‘Time to get some exercise.’

Bregor beckoned him close. ‘Slow…across…fields,’ he got out of his throat in barely more than a whisper. Observation or complaint? Probably the latter, the fisherman decided.

‘This is our only way forward,’ he replied as he walked determinedly across the grassy field.

Think. The Recruiters have either already encountered the Neherians or they have done what we are doing.
He doubted the magicians would want to tangle with the main force of Neherius, as their policy of non-interference in local politics was well known, but they would not suffer being baulked in their desire to travel north. Perhaps they had made an agreement with the fleet? Even now they might be sailing for Andratan. Certainly when they realised a full-scale raid was taking place the Recruiters would not be stopping at the villages.

Or would they? Would they conduct their tests at a village and leave the villagers unwarned, staying just ahead of the invading fleet? Or would they abandon the idea of testing the coastal villages and perhaps travel inland? It would add a week or two to their journey, but a stop at Tochar would surely yield many young men and women willing to sell their futures. But perhaps the Recruiters had already passed through inland Palestra on their way south.

Impossible to know, yet so much depended on it. The only sensible thing to do was to find a local and ask. And for that they must travel further inland, away from the coast road.

The land about them sloped gradually upwards, higher to their left and lower to their right. Three more fields, the last one containing a bull (asleep, fortunately), led them to their first real climb, up and over a knuckled ridge. On the far side they were forced to beat through a stand of gorse, made worse by a deep but hidden stream at the bottom into which they both stumbled. Noetos fell into a gorse bush and the heavy landing somehow caused his buckle to loosen: his sword and scabbard fell into the water. For a few worrying minutes they sloshed around the stream, the fisherman sucking at his bleeding hand, until the Hegeoman stood on the hilt.

They walked downstream for a time, between weed-trammelled banks and through stagnant, fly-blown pools. Judging the gorse to have thinned, the two men scrambled up the left bank and through a narrow belt of trees, to find themselves in an olive orchard. Again, the land tried to force them to the right and north. Noetos began to lose his sense of direction. The sun, directly overhead, gave him no assistance, leaving him afraid he had been turned around. Eventually he decided to make for the highest point of land, a bare, flat-topped hill some distance to their right. From there he would see a house, a road, a village, something. Surely someone had to tend these fields.

They made better time by following winding animal tracks than by beating directly across the ridges. The sheep knew best. Though fit, Noetos felt a growing ache in his leg muscles as they pushed up the broad hill: a gut-line tightness in his left calf twinged every step. Behind him the Hegeoman panted like an old man, mouth opening and closing so like a puffer fish the fisherman almost let slip a laugh, until he considered what this effort would be costing the man and held back his mirth. He’d not done Bregor any permanent damage, had he?
Not the sort of damage the Neherians would have done him had I not taken him captive.
And he was not like the Neherians, cruel for no good reason.

The last thirty feet of the hill was an almost vertical band of rock, around the base of which the sheep trails went left and right. Following the more heavily used rightmost path—judging by the droppings, anyway—they came to a narrow, steeply-sloping gulch which cut down through the vertical rock, evidently used by the sheep as access to the summit. The Hegeoman stood bent over, hands on knees, shaking his head.

‘Come on, Bregor, not far to go,’ Noetos said, and stretched out a hand to him. The Hegeoman took it in
his own, an odd look in his eye. Slowly, with a care for their footing on the loose rock on the floor of the gulch, they manoeuvred their way towards the top of the hill.

At the summit they both fell to their knees, exhausted.

Noetos recovered first. ‘Let’s see where we are, then,’ he said, pushing himself to his feet.

A broad vista presented itself. To the east the land they had traversed that morning spread out its patchwork to the darker line of The Champleve, beyond which sparkled the ocean.

Despite knowing their search for help would be better served to the west, Noetos found himself drawn to the sea. He had never seen it from such an elevation. From left to right across the blue waters were sprinkled the islets, reefs and atolls that made up The Roudhosa—known by villagers as The Rhoos—the enormous island chain that once bracketed the lands of the Dukedom of Roudhos. At least, the lands as they were before the Neherians destroyed them nearly fifty years ago. Now the Neherians—the rump of Roudhos—held sway from the coast to the outer reefs and beyond. Palestra and Saros had footholds on the seashore, no more; and, if the Neherian raids succeeded, not even that. How long before the Neherians drove inland like a tidal wave, swamping the small countries to their north and west, until Roudhos was made anew in their cruel image?

If I keep staring at the sea, not very long,
he thought, and forced himself to turn away. He strode with purpose past the Hegeoman, still slumped on the ground, and across the hundred paces of short grass that made up the crown of the hill, until he could see to the west.

Ah. Ah, yes.
Familiar landmarks unrolled themselves in front of him like a scroll. There, that town in the
middle distance would be Altima, Palestra’s third city. Perhaps two days’ walk from where he stood, the town sat astride the Panulo River, which glinted here and there amid the fields on either side of the town wall. Down dropped his gaze, following a dark groove in the landscape which originated at Altima and aimed itself directly at the hill on which he stood: the Palestran Line, along which the ore that provided Palestra’s wealth was carted. As he stared at it he could hear his tutor’s voice:
Palestra supplies iron to much of southern Bhrudwo, and the best deposits, from the Eisarn seam, are traded across the world.
Which meant that the large pit perhaps a league away was Eisarn itself, and this knowledge supplied the name of the hill under his feet. Ossern.
The same name as the pit, just an older form,
his tutor had explained as his young charge pored over the map of northern Roudhos. Or what had once been northern Roudhos. Fragments of his suppressed past threatened to pour through his mind, history lessons, geographical facts…He clamped down hard on them.

‘There! People!’ Bregor’s outstretched arm pointed down at Eisarn Pit, his exclamation more breath than voice. He had come up beside Noetos unheard. Without a glance towards his captor, the Hegeoman turned towards the gulch and a way down, leaving the fisherman nothing to do but hurry to catch him up.

A LIGHT SHOWER OF RAIN greeted the two Fossans as they slipped and stumbled their way to the base of Ossern Hill. Within minutes the sheep track turned to mud, caking Noetos’s boots and grabbing at Bregor’s lighter shoes.

‘Put your hand on my shoulder,’ said Noetos, ‘otherwise we’ll never get there.’

The Hegeoman did as he was asked, then peered past the fisherman’s substantial frame, trying to orient himself. He felt much better since their rest on the summit. Though his throat still hurt to swallow, the weight on his shoulders seemed to have lessened and the pain in his legs had reduced to a deadened ache. Perhaps he could endure this madness after all…if not for the thought of Merle, his wife, likely in the faithless hands of the Neherians.

‘Go right,’ he said hoarsely in Noetos’ ear, the effort of speaking tugging mercilessly on his throat.

‘You sure? I thought the pit was off to the left, according to the sun.’

‘Moving,’ Bregor said, pointing to the hazy yellow glow in the swirling clouds.

‘Oh. Yes.’ To his credit the fisherman nodded, though visibly embarrassed. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
They left the sticky path and made their way through a belt of pine trees towards a grassy meadow.

Halfway across the meadow Bregor turned to look back at Ossern Hill, trying to measure their progress so he could guess how far they had to go until they reached the pit. The moment he set eyes on the hill he realised with a sinking feeling he had left his pack, containing much of the food Noetos had taken from his house, sitting on the summit.

‘Are you coming? The Neherians won’t wait forever.’ The fisherman’s voice, to Bregor’s ear at least, sounded stretched with lack of patience.

Bregor considered not telling the man. If the loss went unnoticed until they stopped to make camp, then perhaps he could pick up the pack Noetos carried and pretend he’d just taken it from his own shoulders. Confuse Noetos into thinking he had made the mistake. It would shave some of the pig-headed pride from the fisherman; maybe even convince him to abandon this futile chase after his family, and seek their return through the proper channels. Or something.

He considered it for a moment, and discarded it.
This is not a man to anger unnecessarily,
he reminded himself, fingering his throat.
Nor is he a fool.

‘Fisher,’ he said, squeezing Noetos’s shoulder. ‘Pack.’

‘Eh?’

He mimed the pack sitting on his shoulders, then pointed at the hill over his right shoulder.

Noetos needed no more hints. His face darkened and his brows lowered, creating exactly the effect dear Opuntia hated so much.