“Here are our reasons,” Noetos snapped, tired of the manipulation. “First, your man Siy gave us leave. This was after he filled our companion, the god Keppia, with arrows.”
“He kill Keppia?” the woman said, her mouth stretching wide, whether in surprise or in a smile, Noetos could not tell. “Keppia dead?”
“No, even the andali did not hurt him,” the man Siy said. “This man is correct. I granted them leave because there was no other choice; they were in the company of the god. We have not seen him for many years, and all Padouk remembers what happened when last we resisted him.”
“Ai, he slaughter Fumi Canopy,” the woman said, and the women on either side of her pulled their lips back, exposing their teeth in an expression of grief. “All who live there die when mother tell Keppia not to take daughter. He kill Canopy and take daughter anyway.”
“You are angry at Keppia,” Heredrew said. “So are we.”
“You his friends. You still-awake ones maybe gods too, little gods. Now he not here to protect, we likely end you quick.”
Noetos took a step forward. “You told us we were to be judged because we went into your heartland. You lie. You want to kill us because you think we are Keppia’s friends. But we are no friends of Keppia. We want him dead, him and his sister Umu both. In the House of the Gods we slew his body, but he has escaped us. The body may have come back to life. Please give us leave to pursue the body and end it forever. If you have any ability to sense the truth, believe me when I say we have devoted ourselves to destroy the gods.”
One of the old women eased herself to her feet and began shouting in a language full of consonants.
The spokeswoman nodded. “Ai, Ashana is right. We not want Keppia dead. He die, we lose our gift. We want him to leave us alone. Go away, not come back.”
“What gift?” Heredrew asked.
“Too many question,” said the woman. “We end you.”
“NO!” Lenares strode forward. “You are afraid Keppia’s death will mean you die too. I can see your numbers: you are very old, and these, your aunts, are even older. Many hundreds of years old. You are afraid that the gods will take your long lives from you. But if you listen to your selfish fear, the gods will win.” Another pace towards the elders and now she was shouting. “You must not kill us! We are the only ones who know what is happening in the world! Do you know about the hole in the Wall of Time? Have you sensed the forest behaving strangely? Are the trees falling without explanation? Are the rivers overflowing out of season?
“I have held Umu captive. There are powerful magicians among us. We are trying to prevent the gods breaking into the world from beyond the Wall of Time. We have to keep them out. If we can close the hole, we can stop the gods destroying the world and you can keep your long lives.”
The five elders stared at her, mouths open. Two of them rocked back and forth, hands on their heads.
“You are dangerous as gods,” said the woman. “We end you and Keppia will be grateful. Padouk become great once again, Bhrudwo die, we are content. Siy, take them to place of ending.”
She waved an arm and the warriors moved in over the captives’ protests.
“Make end of them,” said the beautiful voice as Noetos and the others were dragged from the hut.
CHAPTER 3
SWORDMASTER
ARATHÉ! ARATHÉ! NOETOS DIRECTED his mind-cry outwards. Please, speak to me!
No reply came: whether because his daughter could not hear him or chose not to respond, he could not say.
The big fisherman despised feeling helpless. His family sword remained on Captain Kidson’s ship, along with the huanu stone, but even that powerful artefact would not have been able to protect him here. It was effective only against magic, and it did not, after all, take magic to throw someone from the top of a tree. The death that followed would be an entirely natural one.
Why had the Padouki split him from the rest of the captives? He tried to ask, but none would—or could—answer him. Were he with his children he was sure he could have devised some way to escape. Perhaps the warriors had sensed that, and this was the reason they had separated him from the others.
He allowed himself to be led across one of the swing bridges. Such a dangerous method of moving from one place to another; each fragile, wind-tossed bridge less than a pace in width, making it difficult for people to pass if travelling in opposite directions. Perhaps there was some well-understood collection of routes around this tree-city that kept people from getting in each other’s way. However it was done, Noetos and his three captors met no one coming the other way.
All the while Noetos looked left and right to see where they had taken his children. He could not see them. They might be anywhere. Arathé has magic, he reassured himself. So does her brother. They will take care of themselves. For now it was himself he needed to think about; himself and the others left in the physic hut, vulnerable without magic to protect themselves.
He hated feeling vulnerable. But if Arathé refused to mind-speak with him, then vulnerable he was. He would have to rely on natural means.
The natural means left to him were few, but they might be sufficient. Could he do this? His old weapons tutor had spent time instructing him in unarmed combat, but he had not practised it in years. And this was his enemies’ natural environment.
There are three rules to combat without weapons, Cyclamere had said. Get in close. When you are there, fight without honour. And use your weight.
Simple enough.
He feigned a stumble and grabbed at a warrior’s arm. Beneath him the narrow bridge swung in the opposite direction to his movement, as he had anticipated and allowed for. The man managed a cry of alarm, but did not react quickly enough to save himself. Noetos lowered his shoulder, got under the man’s chest and stood. Momentum did the rest.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Noetos said feebly as the man tumbled down into the shadows. There would be a moment when the other two guards would not believe their fellow had fallen, and a moment longer when they would not realise it had been deliberate. His apology would make them uncertain of what they had seen, slowing them further. He moved before realisation hit them.
The first he disabled with a short punch to the ribs. He threw himself at the doubled-over figure and pushed him into the third man, who had finally drawn a knife. That’s the problem with bows and arrows, boys, Noetos thought as he used his opponent to block the man’s attempt at a thrust. The knife-wielder hissed, then swept his weapon in a wide arc at throat height—just as his partner stood, having recovered from the blow to his chest. The tip of the blade took the man under the chin, etching a red line across his throat. His scream faded to a gurgle and he fell heavily on the slats of the bridge, his blood spraying across Noetos’s feet.
The remaining guard stood for a moment, staring wide-eyed at the knife in his hand, then dropped it and ran. “Khlamir! Khlamir!” he shouted as he disappeared. In moments he had vanished in the trees, though the fisherman could still hear him calling.
Noetos had not expected that. He would be lost if the Padouki brought numbers to bear against him, but he would not be able to keep pace with the warrior in his own environment. So he let the man go. Instead, he picked up the knife. A poor weapon, but better than none at all. Within moments there was shouting in the distance. A response to the warrior’s shouts? Or something else entirely?
Something else, it seemed. A thin column of smoke rose above the trees some distance away. Noetos considered making for it: the smoke could be coming from the physic hut. He hoped it was his children causing the trouble, but there were other magicians amongst them. Could be Heredrew, he thought as he stepped over the dead warrior and moved as quickly as he could to the end of the bridge. Whoever, at least we’re fighting back.
He ran towards the smoke, making no attempt to conceal himself. Speed, speed. The first few bridges were empty. A group of small children blocked the fourth. So much for his theory of the well-understood routes.
“Get out of the way!” he shouted.
The children laughed and pointed at him. In the distance a woman shrieked, the chilling sound followed by a detonation that shook the forest. The laughter stopped.
A shout from behind him. He turned to see the warrior leader two bridges away, sprinting towards him, sword in hand. Noetos could not believe how fast the man moved.
“Move! Please, move aside!”
The children, oblivious to the concerns of adults, ignored him, mouths wide open, eyes riveted on another rising column of smoke. “Khlamir! Khlamir!” one called, pointing to the oncoming warrior and then the distant smoke.
The fisherman charged at the children. Cries of exuberance changed to shouts of fear. He fended one little girl away, pushing her to the ground, and strode through a pair of boys. He stumbled over a fourth child, so young it was most likely barely weaned, and grabbed at the rope rail. The bridge swung alarmingly, pitching back and forth, and the children shrieked. Noetos turned; the small girl had been thrown over the rail and clung to it with one hand, her body dangling over three hundred feet of emptiness.
The other children fled towards the advancing warrior.
Cyclamere, what would you advise now?
He knew, damn his old tutor. He thrust out a hand and snatched the child by her upper arm. She squealed as he dragged her back onto the bridge, then kicked and clawed at him, spitting ferociously, her little face screwed up with hatred.
Noetos dragged himself to the far end of the bridge, the girl clinging to his leg. He kicked her in the face. She cried out and let go, then scurried away to join her friends, blood running from her nose.
The warrior leader—Siy, he remembered the man’s name—arrived at the far end of the bridge. Noetos raised the knife.
“No further!” he cried. “Or I take this knife to the children.”
The warrior laughed. “If you had it in you to slay children, you would not have rescued the girl.”
Noetos grunted. Disconcerting to hear such insight expressed in perfect Fisher Coast Bhrudwan. “I’ll cut the bridge down then.”
Another laugh. “Now you are not thinking. Again, you will do nothing that will result in the death of the children.”
“Whereas your people will happily sacrifice strangers to appease the Son.” Noetos decided to gamble. “Not you, though, Siy. You have Tocharan training. Your tutors would not have advocated such a thing. Even the Neherians would not do this.” He slipped the knife into his belt.
“The Neherians would do anything,” said the warrior. “You know nothing if you do not know that. I could tell you stories about those folk fit to freeze your blood. But you are right: this is folly, and unworthy of the Padouki.”
“Then let us go.”
“No. Surrender and I guarantee your deaths will be clean. I vow that I will personally travel to your home town and tell your relatives how bravely you died.”
“My home town is destroyed.”
Noetos found, as he said the words, a deep regret rising within him. Why he should care for a place he had hated, he could not understand. He would have sworn he could not have cared whether Fossa sat smugly in the sun or was burned to the ground, but apparently he had been wrong.
“I will ensure you are buried with honour,” the warrior persisted.
“You must let us go. The cosmographer was right, warrior. We are the only hope of defeating the gods.”
The man called something and the children made their way to his end of the bridge. “You do not understand,” he told Noetos. “The Padouki owe Keppia a great debt. In exchange for allowing him to make an entrance to the Godhouse in our sacred heartland, Keppia gifted us with the life of trees.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Padouki live very long lives,” said the warrior. “As long as the trees they tend. I told you I spent time at the Tochar academy, yes, but this was in the time before the Red Duke of Roudhos. I served the Red Duke, and was already high in his service when I saw him burn in the war against the Falthans. I marched to Instruere and watched the Undying Man’s victory and his defeat. Afterwards I assumed another name and served the Red Duke’s son. Yet this is only a short part of my life, do you understand? Would you give up such a gift to save a few people who have made enemies of your god?”
“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 f
ather 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.
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