‘Time to leave the road,’ Noetos announced, and tried to pull his reluctant mount to his left, where rough country stretched to a foreshortened horizon. Bregor kept a smile from his face as he watched the struggle: clearly the animal enjoyed the ease of travel offered by the road. Though it wouldn’t do to have Noetos lose his temper again. Sighing, he eased forward and waited while the fisherman tugged uselessly at the reins, then slapped the mule hard on its croup. The animal jerked forwards, nearly unseating its rider.
‘Oh my, can anyone else smell smoke?’ the alchemist asked in his irritating voice.
Noetos answered with a cry of anger, and dug his heels into his mount’s flanks. ‘Come on, you foolish animal!’ he yelled. The mule laid its ears flat and trotted forward a few paces. The fisherman looked around wildly.
‘Seren! Take your men and ride north! Stay off the road. Omiy has the map; you must warn the villages. We will deal with Makyra. Go!’
‘Just so’s you know, we ain’t happy about this,’ Seren said. ‘You marchin’ off to the Neherians with th’ huanu stone in your pocket. Anything could happen. Nothin’ worse than the salties gettin’ hold of it.’
Bregor had been wondering when it might come to this. He was surprised the miners had left it this late to express their concerns. ‘They might already have their own supply,’ Noetos said. ‘After all, they fish in and around The Rhoos.’
‘Oh my, there’s no call to take the stone into battle,’ the alchemist said. ‘You could—’
‘Don’t even think of suggesting I leave the stone with any of you,’ Noetos said. ‘I’m taking my sworn men to help the people of Makyra Bay. You are riding north to warn the coastal villages of what is coming. No further arguments! Off with you!’
Still they hesitated, then Seren echoed the command and the miners trotted off across the Palestra Country, disappearing from sight beyond a ridge.
No further commands were needed. Bregor gave Noetos’s mule another slap of encouragement, and the seven men were off across The Champleve at what passed for a gallop, heading for the Neherian fleet.
The sure-footed beasts took them across the grassy ground with a surprising economy of effort. Even Noetos’s mule gave no further trouble. Inquisitive animals; perhaps they want to investigate the source of the smoke? No telling with mules. Bregor was more worried about their companions: the captive Neherian, head jerking from side to side as he rode with Gawl, less dangerous than Noetos’s sworn men. Should the miners decide to oppose the fisherman they would surely overwhelm him. They would have no mercy on his companion, Bregor knew. His bowels rumbled at the thought of being cast from the sea-cliff.
Which suddenly opened wide before them. Makyra Bay described a wide curve in the Fisher Coast, island-studded, sun-caressed, hemmed in by The Rhoos. The Neherian fleet lay at anchor off the bay, sails furled. Something looked odd about one or two of the ships…
‘Damaged rigging, hah!’ Noetos crowed. ‘Caught up in last night’s storm, praise Alkuon!’
Bregor watched the man’s gaze move to Makyra’s wide beach, his pleasure evaporating as he saw the flames. The same pattern as at Kymos: longboats drawn up, villagers in a large group on the beach, being led to the boats, while a smaller group were held apart at sword-point. Flames, not long set to houses, crackled and spat, their burning sending increasingly tall columns of smoke into the sky.
‘Find the nearest path,’ Noetos said urgently.
‘No need,’ the Hegeoman replied. ‘These mounts will pick their way down all but the steepest cliff. This way might be best.’ He indicated a narrow gut to their right, hidden from the beach by bushes.
‘Follow Bregor!’ Noetos commanded his sworn men, and just like that the Hegeoman rode at the head of an invading army.
Of seven—no, six—men, he reminded himself. The utter absurdity of it finally penetrated his brain. Noetos seems careless of his own life, with some reason. His sworn men are dead should they refuse to fight. What is my excuse for this suicide?
Too cowardly to stand up and be a coward, he decided, and giggled to himself at his own crowning foolishness.
Amid a clattering of stones they reached level ground, still some distance from the beach. The strip of coast was much wider than it had seemed from the cliff-top.
Now what?
Bregor prayed fervently for Noetos to have an attack of cowardice, or even common sense, but his prayers were wasted.
‘We can do nothing for the villagers being herded into the longboats,’ Noetos said. ‘Not yet. But we might be able to prevent any burnings today. Bregor, stay here with our mules and the Neherian. Take Gawl’s knife and hack the prisoner to death if he moves or makes a sound. The rest of us will sneak our way into the village. If the Neherians repeat the pattern we saw at Kymos, we will be ideally placed to rescue the village leaders.’
The Hegeoman wanted to protest. Two pleas formulated themselves in his mind: one begging to be taken with Noetos and his sworn men, to avoid the shame of being thought craven; the other not wanting to be left alone with this trained soldier. Hack him to death? He even entertained momentarily the idea of leaving the Neherian and simply fleeing. In the end his mouth remained closed and he nodded what he hoped was the appearance of brave agreement, while closing his hand tightly on the knife.
He withdrew a little way up the narrow culvert, giving him a wide view of the bay. By the time he had secured the mules and his prisoner, he could see Noetos and his men running between buildings, drawing close to the smaller, more heavily guarded group of villagers. He found it difficult not to shout instructions to them, especially as he could see men walking purposefully through the village, going in and out of homes, most likely searching for villagers who had hidden themselves. They must be forcing someone to give them a complete list of all who live in the village; Bregor wondered what form the ‘forcing’ would take.
He adjusted his position for a better view, and heard a rustling sound from close behind. He barely had time to turn before a black shape landed on him, driving the wind from his chest. He tried to voice a cry for help, but could not summon the air he needed. The shape drew back. A man—no, a woman. Did women sail with the Neherians? Her freckled face was screwed up with fierce hatred.
‘Scum!’ she hissed, and raised a weapon. ‘You’ll not take me prisoner!’
‘No, lady, you are mistaken—’
Down came the weapon, cracking against the side of his head, and Bregor’s world dissolved into rising white light followed by descending darkness.
One of Noetos’s men lay stretched on the ground, writhing in pain, and they had not yet confronted a single Neherian. The lad Dagla had twisted his ankle on a loose cobble, crashing to the ground with such a noise Noetos had been sure the Neherians would be drawn to the spot. Cursing the boy’s carelessness, while knowing he was being unfair, Noetos carried him to one of the houses, with help from Gawl.
‘You’ll have to take your chances here,’ he said to the boy, who bit his lip in an attempt to make no noise. ‘For Alkuon’s sake, stay out of sight.’
Noetos set no store by omens, but this was not a promising beginning. Though perhaps they might do better without Dagla; the lad did seem to deserve the scorn Gawl heaped on him.
‘Swords out,’ he said as they came to a cobbled road. ‘We will get as close as we can to the villagers. If we are seen by Neherians, we are to run. That is a command. If you get caught, there will be no rescue. If events fall out badly, make your death mean something.’
‘I’m here t’ kill, not t’ die.’ Gawl smirked evilly as he fingered his Neherian sword, which undoubtedly he would use as a club. Nevertheless, his miner’s strength and unpredictability would make him a difficult opponent.
A shout from behind. Noetos spun around to see a Neherian staring at them, twenty paces away. Just one. With a curse he sprinted towards the man, ignoring the startled cries from his men. If I can just get this one before he warns his fellows, nothing will be lost�
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His quarry ducked into an alley. A moment later Noetos swung around the corner into the sandy lane and crashed unseeing into a group of Neherians, knocking them to the ground. The advantage of surprise saw him up on his feet a fraction before his enemies.
No chance to run.
No desire to run.
He held his sword tip-high, waiting for the trigger. They were Neherians, they would provide him with one. Six of them; one at least was bound to be a fool.
‘Well, finally something of interest in this puerile village. A man who can hold a sword.’ This from a bony man with a pencil-thin moustache.
‘But behold, brothers, how he grips it! Does he look to club us with it, or has he just returned from beating his wife’s washing?’ General laughter.
‘Perhaps his wife was one of those we had earlier. Most of them were ugly enough to be married to this fellow.’
Trigger enough.
No backswing, no warning, just pure strength, he pushed the blade down and to the left, and threw himself after it. He struck the bony man just above his knee-guard, felt the reassuring pull of the sword biting into the flesh of the man’s thigh. He jerked the blade after him, rolled once and fetched up against the side of the lane. The bony man had only just begun to wail when Noetos let out a roar and charged them all from their right.
The first rule of effective swordplay is to take your opponent’s space away from him. The calm, measured voice of Cycalamere, the best of his arms tutors. With his manoeuvre he now owned the lane; his enemies were backed against the opposite wall. No space to swing their blades unless he backed away. Which he was not going to do.
Madness, one part of his mind cried, but the fear was drowned in twenty years of exaltation. He brought to bear every scrap of knowledge, every remembered trick, and all of his physical presence. High cut to the right, a stab-and-twist, then a flurry of defence as three swords drove at him. Two blows he parried; the third found a way through and sliced a flap of skin from his forearm.
The blow drew something up from where it lurked, buried deep within him. He screamed with rage, then began to beat at the dumbfounded Neherians with his blade, in precisely the fashion they had mocked him about. But they had no inkling of his strength, and the years of guilt that stiffened his arm.
Blow after blow, a dervish dance of carnage, careless of his own defence. A blade, lifted in a futile attempt to block the madman’s blows, was driven down into its owner’s helm. The fisherman’s next stroke took the helm and the head inside from the man’s shoulders. One man tried to crawl away; Noetos kicked out at him, his boot taking the man in the ribs with a loud crunch. He felt a prick in his right shoulder, swung blindly and took the fingers from another man.
Time to run.
He spun, leaped over a body and ran for the entrance to the lane.
‘Y’ didn’t run,’ said a voice. Noetos wiped the sweat and blood from his eyes, and acknowledged the accusing glare on Gawl’s face.
‘Neither did you,’ he replied. ‘But we run now!’
‘No need,’ said the gap-toothed man. ‘Not bein’ chased.’ They ran nonetheless.
‘Then we run a little slower, but we still run. The Neherians know we’re here.’
‘Best y’ tell that to Pril and Tumar. They saw you was occupyin’ them Neherians, so they went after the villagers.’
Noetos groaned, but he had, after all, set the example. ‘The small group?’ Even as he asked, he knew what the answer would be.
‘Nope. They went to set free the wimmin’ ’n’ babes.’
‘Oh, Alkuon,’ Noetos breathed. Dead men indeed, they’d chosen to take only one part of his instructions seriously. The wrong part.
‘Come on then, Gawl. Let us go and bleed for Makyra.’
‘You’re doin’ that already, my lord. Nasty gash, that.’ The fellow managed to sound glad to be witnessing it.
Don’t look at it. Don’t give yourself an excuse.
‘Why didn’t you go with the others, Gawl?’
‘Someone had to look after you, my lord. Seein’ as you attacked when you was suppos’t to run.’
There was logic buried somewhere in that, Noetos guessed, but he was too tired to look for it. ‘Lead on, Gawl,’ he said, and settled into a steady run.
Bregor awoke to double vision and stabbing pains in his forehead. A youngish woman in a low-cut black dress bent over him, mopping his brow. He felt too ill to react with either surprise or anger, though he knew he ought to be angry that this woman had hit him and surprised that she now tended his wounds. Instead he felt a mild curiosity that she should be attired as though going to a ball.
‘I’m not going to ask if you are all right,’ she said, her voice a staccato salvo of words. ‘Clearly you are not. Now, how many fingers am I holding up?’
Bregor tried to see her hand, or hands. ‘Some,’ he said eventually.
‘That is not a good sign. Oh dear, I hit you too hard, and I ought not to have hit you at all. You are a Palestran, are you not?’
‘I am. The Hegeoman of Fossa village, actually.’
‘Oh! I have a sister there—never mind that. I thought you were one of those Neherians and you had one of ours captive. It wasn’t until after I freed him that I realised my mistake. He laughed at me. I thought he would make me his prisoner, but he left.’
‘Something more urgent to do, m’lady. Like warn the Neherians that a mission had arrived to attempt a rescue.’
The woman swore, a vile oath Bregor had heard only on the lips of Cadere Row men, and that only when they didn’t think he was listening. ‘I have made a mess, haven’t I.’
‘How long since he made off?’
‘No more than a few minutes, sir. Time enough to warn the others. If you have superior numbers, perhaps it will not matter,’ she ended hopefully.
‘How many Neherians are down on the beach?’ Bregor asked, trying to stand.
She put out a pale-skinned arm to support him. ‘At least fifty, perhaps more. Though some have gone back to their ship with the first of the longboats.’
Bregor took a deep, settling breath. He really did feel unwell, but there had to be something he could do to retrieve the situation. ‘No, we most definitely do not have superior numbers,’ he said. ‘Did any of your leaders escape?’
‘Only one,’ the woman said, with a peculiar emphasis on the latter word.
‘Where is he? Take me to him!’ He took a closer look at her: his right eye was still fuzzy, lending her a strangely incomplete image, but she had stiffened at his words, her face a mask. He thought carefully about what he had said.
‘Or her.’ He closed his eyes and cursed his slowness of mind. ‘Don’t bother; I deduce she is not far away.’
‘Permit me to introduce myself,’ she said, and sat down beside him. ‘I am Consina, the Hegeoma of Makyra Bay. A number of my friends are in deep trouble because I have eluded the Neherians. They do not want anyone escaping their net; if I were to warn the villages north of here, their raid would be at an end. Their anxiety to have me in their custody might soon cost my friends their lives. When I came across you I thought you might be a bargaining piece. I struck you before I thought. I apologise.’
‘It’s all right. Well, that is, it isn’t, but…’ His words tailed off and a horrible thought entered his mind.
‘Did they offer you bribes to betray your village?’ he asked before he could rein in his words.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Of course not! This was a complete surprise, otherwise…Bribes? They offered you bribes? You knew this was coming?’
‘Ah, it can all be explained,’ he said hastily, his words now coming as fast as hers, despite his sore throat. ‘But not now. I don’t like the idea of the Neherians killing people. That’s what they did at Kymos; we saw them burn the village leaders alive.’ Again he snapped his mouth shut, far too late.
She moaned, and tears leaked from her eyes. ‘I knew it,’ she said, her voice aquiver. ‘They took us by
surprise, gathered us all on the beach and divided us into two groups, leaders and the rest. I knocked down a guard and ran, hoping others would follow. When I looked back two guards were in pursuit, but none of my people had tried to escape. They didn’t catch me; I’m the fastest in the village, man or woman. I thought the division into two groups spoke of something sinister.’
He patted her on the arm, glad he had diverted her attention from his inadvertent confession. ‘I feel well enough to take a look at the beach. There might yet be something we can do.’
He stood, then pulled her to her feet, and they began to pick their way down the narrow valley towards the village.
‘What happened at Fossa? Were the leaders killed there also? How did you escape? What did they do with the other villagers?’ Her questions tumbled over one another like anxious kittens at meal time.
‘Later, later. The Neherians place the villagers in longboats and paddle them out to the ships waiting in the bay. Noetos, our leader, thinks they might be taken south for slaves.’
‘Oh, oh, the children! This cannot be allowed to happen!’ She tugged on his arm, urging him to walk faster.
His head hurt, he felt the beginnings of nausea, but also an odd pride that, at the least, he was not running away.
Noetos peered around the corner of the last house before the beach, then fingered the impromptu bandage on his arm. His vantage point gave him a wide view: the houses fronting the beach swept around in a semicircle, mimicking the curve of the shore. He studied the disposition of the invaders, who had now split into three groups. Nearest were those guarding the massed group of villagers, perhaps thirty men armed with swords and pikes. Fifty paces to their left as he saw it was a smaller group, half a dozen Neherians with drawn swords pointing at two men lying face down in the sand. His two sworn men. Not dead; they would not be guarded if they were dead. He couldn’t even remember their names. The third group, ten or so Neherians surrounding as many villagers, stood much further away, near the far end of the row of houses.
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