Path of Revenge

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  Her numbers screamed at her.

  She grabbed Torve’s hand. ‘It’s not right. Look! The hole in the world hovers above us!’

  From behind them came another rumble, and the earth cracked and heaved. A fifty-foot-high ridge reared up like a wave of the sea right across the path they had taken, rocks breaking like foam from its crest. The ground dropped away beneath them; for a moment Lenares thought they were about to be swallowed, but the whole valley floor fell sharply, perhaps one pace, possibly two, and the travellers landed together in a tangle of limbs.

  Lenares dusted herself off, and reached again for Torve’s hand. He might not be truth, he might not even be her centre, with his lies and deception, but he offered her comfort.

  Around them boulders rattled as they rolled down uneasy slopes. The mist closed in; they could hear rather than see the rocks come to rest. Silence spread over Nomansland.

  ‘The hole in the world is here,’ Lenares said. Something to focus on.

  ‘I rather think we had worked that out,’ Duon said stiffly. Dryman grunted, stifling a laugh.

  ‘Press on,’ the soldier said, but his next words were lost in a groan from somewhere in front of them. The valley floor jerked upwards twice as far as it had recently fallen. Lenares bit her tongue hard; the taste of blood blossomed in her mouth. She was sure she must have bruised Torve’s fingers, but he did not let her go.

  They entered a world of insanity. In Nomansland, with the hole in the world hovering directly above them, tracking them, all natural rules seemed to have been suspended. The land around them and the earth beneath their feet was in constant motion, and they made their way through it as though navigating across a choppy sea. They might enter a valley only to see it close behind them, might search for a way out and watch, bemused, as a wall collapsed, revealing an opening to another canyon.

  Eventually it became clear to them that they were being shepherded. Some vast power opened and shut the valleys of Nomansland, forcing them to go where they were directed. Dryman resisted the unseen power at work. He turned them around, forced them to climb unstable mounds of rubble in an effort to retrace their steps. It did them no good. Within a short time all four of them were bruised, and fortunate not to have broken limbs. The soldier became more and more angry, enraged at powers beyond his control.

  ‘It was not like this the last time I passed through,’ Duon said.

  ‘Oh? Don’t you think you would have mentioned it to the Emperor if it had been?’ Dryman roared. ‘Find me a path, explorer! Or you, cosmographer! What use are your numbers to me now?’

  A new noise emerged from the general rumbles and groans. A moment later a hundred or more gazelles burst through a misty gap in the left-hand wall of the canyon and bore down upon them. The animals’ eyes were orbs of pure fear; they leapt high in the air as though afraid to alight on the ground, willing themselves instead to fly.

  The travellers threw themselves to the ground; it was all they could do. Even before they hit the dirt yet another jolt shook the canyon, accompanied by a growing roar. A wave of dust hissed over them. When Lenares raised her head, she saw the gap in the valley wall was filled in by an enormous landslip.

  They could find no trace of the gazelles.

  Night came, hours before Lenares expected it. She could not determine whether it was an unnatural darkness or her misjudgment of time; her numbers told her it was midafternoon, but she mistrusted the numbers. What did the truth matter? If it was dark, it might as well be night.

  Dryman called a halt.

  ‘We are trapped,’ he said in an angry voice. ‘We have been boxed in by this maze. Who is doing this? Why are they doing this?’

  No one answered him. Lenares knew he wasn’t really asking them. She suspected he knew the answers, or could at least guess at them. She, on the other hand, wanted to know who he was. Not a common soldier, for certain. She still could not discern his features clearly, as if he wore a disguise. A sorcerer? Lenares had never met a sorcerer. Did they have two faces? And why would a sorcerer pretend to be a soldier? She had almost worked it out some time back, but those thoughts were lost to her now.

  The night that followed was far worse than the day. At least they were on their feet during the day, moving, ready to avoid whatever disaster rolled their way. The darkness hid the constant shifting and tossing of the land around them. Sleep was, of course, beyond them. They endured the darkness in a half-awake stupor, waiting for the next shake. Lenares found herself clinging to the ground as though she were about to be ripped away from it at any moment.

  As dawn suffused the mist surrounding them, Torve surprised them by speaking. ‘If we are being treated like cattlebeasts,’ he said, ‘we are hardly likely to be slain before we have reached our destination.’

  The others thought about that for a moment.

  ‘But how will we know when we reach wherever we are being taken to?’ Lenares asked.

  ‘When we are slaughtered,’ said Duon.

  ‘And on such bravery and clear thinking is the Elamaq Empire founded,’ Dryman mocked.

  ‘They are certainly not fattening their cattle before the slaughter,’ Torve said. ‘I lost the last of our food some time last night.’

  ‘I still have a little,’ Duon said. ‘Some figs, a few berries and a piece of melon from the last oasis.’

  ‘I’m sick of melon,’ Lenares said. Though they had given her stomach cramps, she’d eaten berries and figs throughout their journey over the Had Hills. She would eat them still, had there been any left, in preference to melons.

  Dryman bared his teeth. ‘We have not been slaughtered yet,’ he said. ‘The gods make their mistake by not slaying us now. The cattle may yet escape their intended stockyard.’

  The days following rapidly disintegrated into surrealism. Along with the constant earthquakes and the ever-present mist came storms, floods, fires and plagues of animals and insects. At any time a storm might descend upon them, drenching them in torrential rain; the canyon would fill up, water would pour towards them, only to be swallowed by a trench opening propitiously at their feet. Or a cloud of hornets would materialise behind them when they sought to rest, forcing them to their feet, herding them on. Sheets of flame arose from fiercely hot rents in the earth, the heat pouring over them like a furnace, and were suddenly drowned by another flood, sending steam hundreds of feet into the air. And at all times they were hedged about by the mist, save a perfect circle above their heads, within which could be seen the faint outlines of another place entirely.

  Lenares lost count of it all. She lost count.

  And it didn’t matter.

  ‘Lenares, are you awake?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘I don’t think we have much time left.’ Torve took a deep breath. ‘I need to explain something to you.’

  She waited, the darkness obscuring his face and all the clues her numbers required. She didn’t need them: his face was visible to her mind’s eye.

  ‘I am Omeran,’ he began unnecessarily. ‘We have survived because we are no threat to the Amaqi. Do you know why they tolerate us?’

  Lenares preferred to receive information directly, not in this roundabout, rhetorical fashion. But it was Torve and he clearly thought what he was saying to be important. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Because we cannot disobey our masters. Lenares, this is difficult. I am trying to tell you something, but I cannot tell you directly. I have been commanded not to tell you. That on its own might be clue enough.’

  ‘Why can’t you disobey? Is there a magic spell at work?’ She didn’t believe in magic spells, but then she didn’t believe in land that wouldn’t stay still. The world was not as she had thought it.

  ‘No. Omerans were bred for obedience. Over thousands of years, Lenares, those who disobeyed were culled. The Amaqi word. Killed, rather. Those who remained—the obedient, the pliable—taught their sons and daughters to behave in kind in order to survive. It became a reflex, as impo
rtant and as unconscious as breathing. Eventually we found we simply could not entertain the notion of disobedience. Could not even talk about it.’

  ‘But you can,’ she said.

  ‘Yes; I am unusual, which is why I was given to the Emperor. Other Omerans have to give their obedience to anyone who demands it, while I am the Emperor’s pet.’

  She bit her lip thoughtfully as they waited for the sound of a distant rockfall to fade away. ‘That is why you didn’t become the slave of any expedition member who commanded you. It is why the Emperor could send you on this journey while he remained in his Palace.’

  Torve said nothing. She could hear his breathing, even and strong, close to her ear. Stones rattled somewhere in the darkness behind her. She could feel Torve’s heat, and longed for him to take her in his arms.

  But only if he is true.

  Still Torve said nothing, as though encouraging Lenares to think about what he’d just told her. No, about what she’d just said.

  ‘Did the Emperor send you on this expedition?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Did he…did he remain behind?’

  Silence; then, ‘I cannot say,’ he whispered. His voice left his mouth on a wave of warm air, arriving at her ear with reluctance.

  ‘You cannot say more because your master commands you not to?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fainter, as though forced through a rebellious throat.

  ‘Well, Torve, you have set me a puzzle,’ she said briskly. ‘Did the Emperor command you before we left not to say whether he has stayed behind, or has he told you since? If so, how? Or can someone who stands in the place of the Emperor, someone like Captain Duon or Dryman, command you?’

  ‘I take orders only from the Emperor himself,’ Torve said, then swallowed audibly.

  ‘What would happen if you knowingly disobeyed your master?’ she asked, a new realisation dawning on her.

  ‘I don’t know, Lenares,’ he said. ‘But if I told you what I want you to know, it would destroy me as a person. I don’t think I could make my mouth say the words.’

  She reached out in the darkness and took his hand. ‘So that’s why you said nothing to me. I thought you were keeping a secret. I thought you were no different to anyone else.’ She drew a deep, dust-laden breath. ‘Oh, Torve, I am sorry I doubted you. I truly did not understand. And please don’t worry. When I solve your puzzle I will say nothing, and you will not have to find out what happens if you disobey your master. No matter that the Emperor is many weeks’ journey from here; I respect your need to obey him.’

  ‘I am…you astonish me,’ he said.

  She sensed him lean forward; she pulled him closer.

  Seemingly without agreement or volition, and before either of them could find a reason to object, their mouths met in a kiss.

  The next day was their last. Lenares sensed it, and from what the others said, they sensed it too.

  The four travellers had learned to walk at a steady pace, and to ignore the unnatural phenomena around, over and under them. Their knees ached with tension. Lenares found it impossible to relax completely when the earth boomed and shook and fire and water were likely to appear without warning.

  Under a delicate overhanging arch they walked, between the gaping jaws of another valley. The arch collapsed behind them. A tremor shook the travellers from side to side. Down came a fall of rocks, shepherding them towards a small side canyon, the boulders halting short of the travellers, held back by an invisible barrier. They chose to try another canyon, which narrowed behind them, forcing them to run. Faster. The walls drew closer; Lenares brushed both sides of the canyon with her outstretched hands. A new urgency had possessed Nomansland. They emerged from the far end of the canyon like pips squeezed out of fruit.

  ‘Oh no,’ Lenares moaned. ‘This is it. This is where we are being taken.’ The slaughterhouse.

  This canyon was smooth-walled and perfectly circular, with a sandy floor: the heart of Nomansland. Behind them their entry sealed itself with a click. Above them hung the hole in the world, a perfect reflection of the canyon in which they stood. In the centre of the canyon lay a small, jewel-like lake, perfectly still despite the roaring continuing in the canyons beyond.

  Lenares’ heart began to burn.

  Around the lake stood three large rocks. Even before she drew closer, she knew what they were. The other three came up behind her.

  ‘Stop!’ she cried, in a voice so imperious the others halted in their tracks.

  There is only one question to be answered. Is this the same room or is it merely a replica?

  The answer was simple to find. Her own footprints in the sand, leading to one of the three seats.

  No, there is another question. Can the Daughter rescue us from the Son? Can we do anything about the hole in the world?

  ‘Lenares! This is the house of the gods!’

  Yes, Torve, I know.

  ‘How did we get here? How could we have travelled from Nomansland back to the Marasmos so quickly? Lenares?’

  ‘I don’t know, but nothing is stable here. Physical distance is distorted. And how do you know that the house of the gods was by the Marasmos valley? Might it not be somewhere else entirely, with many doors giving access?’

  She scrambled up onto one of the other two seats, sat down and looked expectantly at the lake. The others were calling out to her, but she didn’t bother with them. Couldn’t. She had to know.

  The seat of the missing god. The Father. The giant who became a god, the first of the Three. Surely if anyone could be granted absolute truth from an all-seeing perspective, it would be from this seat.

  She waited, but the lake did not change, and the seat itself seemed dead.

  A moment later Lenares realised the enormity of her mistake.

  Above her, the hole in the world began to lower, rotating as it came down. A faint but shrill sound, like a keening coming from a far distance, emerged from the rapidly spinning hole. A lorn sound, the sound of a soul in torment, forever separated from life and love.

  ‘Get out of the seat!’ Torve cried. ‘Come down!’

  Lenares could not move. The trap had been sprung. Megalomania was the bait, and she had taken it.

  The sound began to rise in pitch and volume. Lenares wanted to clap her hands over her ears, but could not make her body obey her. The air around the canyon pulsed with power.

  Down came the hole, until it touched the top of the circular canyon wall. The house of the gods now had a roof of sorts, a portal into another world, a world of anguish.

  A hand touched her leg. Torve was trying to climb the seat, but the sheer intensity of the sound drove down on him, making it difficult for him to hold his position below her. Behind him Duon pushed, holding him up, while Dryman stood aside with his arms folded, as though observing an interesting experiment.

  The canyon began to rotate. They were at the centre of a giant canister, spinning faster and faster. The centrifugal force knocked Dryman off his feet. He spun towards the wall, but one of the chairs got in his way. He smashed into it like a rag doll.

  Then the hand of the god came for her.

  She shrieked. The god did not have a body like that of a human; all Lenares could see of it were clawed fingers and, somewhere behind them, in the centre of the hole, two eyes filled with loathing.

  The claws closed around her. The moment they touched her skin the spinning stopped. The hand pulled her, as well as all three chairs, those clinging to them and part of the valley floor, up into the hole.

  Right into it.

  Lenares felt herself enter the hole in the world, the destructive tear that had been devouring nodes and threads in the patterns of her numbers. She felt a ripple change her somehow as she was drawn into it. Her last terrified thought was that she had been swallowed by a giant. She waited to die.

  All sound and vision vanished, replaced by a sense of falling. A moment later she thumped into something—a floor, the ground—and detritus from the room in
the house of the gods crashed to earth all around her. As though an afterthought, after everything else had landed and the last sound ceased, something metallic smashed into her, driving all the breath out of her body.

  She tried to breathe, tried, but nothing happened. Swirling lights exploded behind her eyes. She decided to stop fighting: immediately everything drained away, leaving a peaceful blackness like the tapestry velvet on the wall of the Emperor’s Palace. She floated there a while, then that, too, passed and her awareness came to an end.

  FISHERMAN

  CHAPTER 22

  SAROS RAKE

  ‘TIME TO DO OUR SUMS.’ Noetos spoke with a degree of satisfaction. ‘Myself and the Seal—’

  ‘Stop calling me that,’ Bregor said, to general laughter. Though the man’s words were terse, the fisherman could see he enjoyed his newly achieved status as hero.

  ‘Sorry, Bregor. Myself, the Hegeoman of Fossa…’ He made swimming motions with his hands, prompting another burst of chuckling. ‘My sworn army…’ Here he pointed at his miners, Dagla, Pril, Tumar and Gawl. ‘And these men and women from Makyra Bay.’

  The last named were a group of twelve, the most that Consina, the Hegeoma of Makyra Bay, could spare as payment for the debt she owed Noetos and his men. It had been more than he’d hoped for. More than he’d asked for, in fact, given the degree to which the fishing village would need to be rebuilt, and the threat of the Neherians returning with revenge on their minds.

  ‘As for the first, the people I’ll send north with you are no better with swords than they are with hammers,’ Consina had told him the day they’d left Makyra Bay. ‘And as for the second, we’ll take our chances. Nothing an extra dozen hands could do to help us should the Neherians come back. At least this time we’ll be ready,’ she finished, referring to the watch she’d ordered set on the cliff-top above the village.

  She had been right with her first comment, Noetos reflected; not that he’d seen them with hammers in their hands. Cyclamere would have said they used their swords like blunt instruments. Noetos had spent an hour drilling his army before the day’s march, and another hour after they stopped for the night, and had learned that there was a limit to how much a person could achieve without natural talent. At the end of a week the best he could say about most of them was that they were less likely to hurt themselves wielding their weapons.