Path of Revenge

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  Sorcery.

  ‘Heavy, your blades are heavy.’

  Six swordtips wavered; their owners grunted, struggling to keep them aloft. Noetos pulled himself up short of the miners.

  Then his son, still crooning his words of beguilement, danced among them. If I am a bludgeoner, this boy is an artist. With his blade he drew a complex picture of death in the air, the lines of his sketch intersecting with tendons, muscles, flesh and bone. Not a wasted movement, not an errant brush-stroke; beautiful, horrifying perfection that ended when Anomer skewered Papunas through the throat, driving his blade into the door frame.

  The miner spat blood over Anomer, then died.

  Questions to be asked, but not yet.

  Noetos checked each of the bodies for signs of life. Finding none, he took his son by the shoulder. ‘Retrieve your sword. We know nothing of the miners that remain. They might come for the stone as well.’

  Anomer made no move to take his sword, so Noetos pulled it from the door frame, letting the overseer’s body slide down the blade and off the tip. His son was trying to wipe blood from his eyes. Not his own.

  No, one of the miners was alive, the one whose face Noetos had slashed. His laborious breathing sucked through the hole in his cheek, through which teeth, bone and blood were visible. His eyes were clouded with pain.

  ‘Answers,’ Noetos said to his son, looking to distract him from Papunas’ blood.

  He led Anomer over to where the suffering miner lay.

  ‘We’ll get help for you if you talk to us. Whose plan was this?’

  A hiss of pain escaped the man’s compressed lips, but no answer was forthcoming.

  ‘I can make your death extremely painful,’ Noetos said. ‘Did Papunas put you up to this?’

  ‘Answer the question,’ Anomer said in the shattered-crystal Voice. Though merely brushed with the edge of the compulsion, Noetos could feel the power in the words.

  ‘No, not Papunas,’ the man said, his mouth springing open. The words were wet with blood. ‘Was Frina firs’ suggested it. We worked on Papunas all the way north. Didn’t agree until day before yesterday.’ More sucking sounds as the miner sought breath.

  ‘Was Omiy part of your plan? Seren? Gawl? My sworn men? Bregor?’

  The lips clamped shut. Anomer repeated the question. Icy daggers pricked at Noetos’s soul. Such power. Without the huanu stone he would not be able to resist it.

  ‘No, none a them. Had ta keep it secret from Seren and from the Seal. Gawl laughed at us, told us you’d kill us all. Omiy was in for a while.’ The man stopped, panting, sucking. ‘Pulled out at the last minute. Wanted the stone for hisself. Promised not to tell you.’

  Damn. But at least his men had remained faithful. Even Gawl.

  ‘What have you done with the others?’ Anomer asked.

  ‘Trussed ‘em up. Couldn’t have ‘em tryin’ t’ warn you. Woulda used ’em as servants after. Frina’s idea. Stupid.’ The man swallowed, then leaned forward and vomited clots of blood onto the floor. ‘Am I dying?’ he asked them.

  ‘No, you’re dead,’ Noetos replied, and rammed his sword through the man’s throat. His hands were shaking with anger; he could barely grip the sword’s hilt to pull it free.

  ‘He would have lived had he answered without compulsion,’ the fisherman explained to his son.

  ‘All this death over a stone,’ Anomer said, his voice rough with shock and anguish. ‘The Recruiters told me of its value.’

  Noetos made to show him the huanu stone, then thought better of it. ‘Then they told you of its properties? How it negates magic? Anomer, for pity’s sake, promise me you’ll never touch it.’

  His son shuddered. ‘I don’t want to see it as long as I live.’

  They found Omiy trying to loosen the rope binding Bregor and Noetos’s sworn men. The alchemist squealed when he saw them and tried to run away. A word from Anomer slowed his progress, allowing Noetos—himself moving slower now because of his wound—to clap a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘You sold us out.’

  ‘No, yes, yes, but I was wrong, I decided not to take the huanu stone after all.’

  ‘You decided not to share it with the others.’

  ‘Yes, no, yes, yes, you’re hurting me. I’d rather you kept it than see it broken up amongst thugs, yes. They forced me to help them, they did.’

  ‘And the explosion? Was that part of the plan?’

  Omiy cowered at the menace in the fisherman’s voice.

  ‘Yes, yes it was, part of a plan, but not part of my plan. I never intended the explosion to be so large, no, most certainly not. Someone tampered with the pipe, I’m certain of it, packed more chemicals in; there was less remaining in my pack than there ought to have been, I tell you the truth. Fools, they could have blown themselves up or poisoned themselves at the very least, yes; chenaile is a dangerous chemical. Perhaps they have poisoned themselves, ha! Dead now, they’ll never know, oh my. They wanted to bring the hillside down on top of you, standing there as bait, and on the Recruiters, while we hid out of the way. Find the stone in the rubble afterwards.’

  ‘But how did they know of my father’s plan?’ Anomer said.

  ‘Ow, the boy’s voice, it nips at me. Unnecessary, tell him to stop.’ The alchemist pulled his head turtle-like into his neck. ‘I told them, silly, of course I did. When they suggested making the explosion larger I broke with them, yes I did. I want no interference with my craft, oh no. But I did not anticipate they would interfere anyway, woe to them. Someone could have been killed!’

  ‘Someone was killed,’ Noetos said, and drew his sword. Omiy squeaked again.

  Anomer reached out and placed a finger near the tip of the blade, steadying it. ‘No more slaughter,’ he said. ‘You had no good reason to kill the last of the miners in the chandlery, and none to kill this man either. Put your anger away and think of your remaining men.’

  Noetos grunted. Much as he didn’t want to admit it, his son’s words were wise. The tip of his blade made short work of the ropes.

  ‘Did you know about this, Gawl?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeh, but I thought they wouldn’t have the guts to go ahead with it. Didn’t realise Papunas was involved, or I’d a spilled to you.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll leave this place of death and travel north to Raceme. From there a boat can be hired to take Bregor back to Fossa. The Fossan folk—if any remain—need to know what has happened here. Anomer and I will go on, with any of my sworn men who wish to accompany us. There are questions I wish to ask the Keeper of Andratan.’

  ‘I’ll come with ya,’ Dagla said eagerly. ‘I was sorry to’ve been caught. We c’d hear ’em plannin’ to do you with their swords. I woulda helped, honest.’

  ‘I believe you would have, Dagla, and yes, you’re welcome to accompany me. As are all of you, barring Omiy. The alchemist I bid return to Eisarn Pit. He should consider himself fortunate to retain his life.’

  Bregor dusted himself off. ‘And me? What if I have questions for the leader of Bhrudwo?’

  ‘But…your wife. You can’t abandon her, surely?’

  ‘If I go back now, I’ll never leave again. Whoever remains will want me to help rebuild, and how could I say no? But some things are more important than people. I believe she’d want to know the answers, too, especially since Opuntia lost her life. We both loved her, you know.’

  ‘Both? You mean…Hegeoman, I cannot believe this!’ Noetos searched his heart for the rage that ought to have been there, but found nothing. An emptiness, maybe, and a great deal of shame. More shame than would be attached to Bregor’s behaviour.

  ‘The world is a larger place than you allow for,’ Bregor said. ‘I go north to find answers for all three of us.’

  ‘Our immediate destination has not changed,’ the fisherman decided. ‘We need to purchase supplies. Horses, too, if we can afford them. And one more unpleasant task remains. We must despoil the dead miners and take everything of value. We will not reach And
ratan otherwise.’

  In the end, only Pril of Noetos’s sworn men decided to accompany Omiy back to Eisarn Pit. The pull of family, he said, was stronger than any desire to get answers. Besides, he added with a shrug of his shoulders, he didn’t really have any questions.

  Seren agreed to stay with Noetos and the others. He was ashamed, he said, of how Papunas and his fellow miners had acted. He felt he owed Noetos something. For his part, Noetos was glad the man had made this decision.

  The two men returning to Eisarn left that afternoon. Omiy asked for a mule, but Noetos refused. As an afterthought the fisherman confiscated Omiy’s bagged and cloth-wrapped chemicals, with the view to selling them at the Raceme market.

  ‘Oh, my,’ the alchemist moaned. ‘You’ll get but a fraction of their value. The chenaile alone is worth more than a year’s wages, so it is. Won’t you reconsider?’

  ‘Not after that revelation,’ Noetos said. ‘Now, be off with you. Pril, make sure the fool doesn’t get into any mischief. He may have repented of his actions, but I no longer trust him.’

  ‘Aye,’ the morose lad said, and slouched off, the alchemist scuttling along beside him like a skittish spider.

  They closed the door of the chandlery on the dead miners. The task of digging graves would have delayed them a day or more, and there were very few supplies remaining. ‘Traitors don’t deserve a burial,’ Noetos said as he forced the rotted door into the frame.

  ‘No,’ agreed Bregor. ‘They do not.’ He sighed. ‘I wonder, given everything that has happened here, how Andratan will view us?’

  No one had an answer, but the question gave them something to think about.

  Though they travelled north, away from the tropics, the weather grew warmer each day. Summer, in all its intensity, had overtaken them. Cloaks were stored in panniers, sleeves were removed from tunics, and even boots were dispensed with on occasion when gentle grasses flanked the road.

  During the first two days Noetos suffered considerable discomfort. Neither of his wounds threatened his life, or even his long-term health: losing a finger was commonplace among miners, Gawl told him. He’d get used to it, adapt. His back stung whenever he swung his arms, so while it healed Noetos adopted a stiff gait.

  It was not until after they had crossed the bridge over the Saar River that Anomer began talking about his time as captive of the Recruiters. He had resisted them for a few days, he said, but much of what they endeavoured to instruct him made sense. ‘Particularly what they said about drawing on my Voice, of finding a harmony between action and intent,’ the boy said excitedly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Noetos asked. The seven of them wended their way down a narrow lane set between waist-high cornfields.

  ‘They explained about the importance of intent, which comes before action. They teach that the Voice can affect the intent of weak minds, altering or at least limiting the action that follows. I used my Voice to slow the reactions of the miners in the chandlery. They didn’t really want to be there, they doubted their ability to defeat you, so I grafted my words onto their doubts and fears. Then there is something Ataphaxus called the Wordweave. Apparently, someone strong in the Voice can say one thing but communicate another. It has the same effect as what I accomplished in the chandlery, except those affected don’t realise it has been done to them. I have not yet mastered it.’ The words carried with them the faintest regret, as though his son wished his rescue had been delayed a few more days.

  ‘You want to learn, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, of course.’

  ‘Despite the warning your sister gave her life to bring?’ Noetos hardened his voice. ‘She told us that her Voice drew on the power of others. She said it damaged them.’

  Anomer had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Yes, but father, what if the benefit to others outweighs the harm done? Wouldn’t it be immoral not to learn the skill in case such a situation arose?’

  For a blissful moment Noetos was back in Fisher House, arguing ethics with his son. ‘And who would be the judge, Anomer? Someone who stands to benefit from the use of such power?’

  ‘Why not?’ Bregor said from behind Noetos’s left shoulder, shattering the illusion. ‘You decide when to use your sword, wounding someone to benefit someone else. How is this weapon of Anomer’s any different?’

  ‘Because it is unseen, and cannot be countered,’ Noetos said. ‘If I come at you with a sword, at least you can attempt to defend yourself, or run, or even try to talk your way out of danger. But what can you do if someone draws from your strength to use magic?’

  ‘’Tis like the huanu stone,’ Seren said. ‘It draws magic from people; the fisherman’s son draws strength from people by magic.’

  Noetos turned to the overseer and frowned. ‘Surely nothing like the stone!’ As soon as he’d uttered the words he snapped his mouth shut. There was some kind of sense in what Seren had said; it would bear thinking about.

  Anomer talked about his mother, of what she had told him during the days of their captivity: her love for the Hegeoman and his wife; her sorrow at what Noetos had become. The Recruiters had asked them many questions about their lives, digging to discover as much as they could about Noetos and the huanu stone. Over a period of days Ataphaxus, the main questioner, put a number of facts together, eventually announcing he had solved the riddle posed by the talented fisherman.

  ‘He said you were hiding in Fossa. That all you’d told us about your own parents was lies. I didn’t believe them at first, but Mother did. She knew something about your stories didn’t make sense. She was angry, father. I do believe that if you had rescued us on the day she learned who you really were, she would have taken to you with a sword.’

  ‘That is why I never told her,’ Noetos said. ‘The constant vision of her taking ship to Aneheri, marching into the Neherian court and announcing our claim to Old Roudhos. How long do you think we would have lived after that?’

  ‘You should have told her,’ his son said. ‘It destroyed her, being shown she’d been taken for a fool all this time. Better still, with such a past you ought not to have married.’

  ‘You are right,’ Noetos said. ‘The cost, of course, would have been the non-existence of two pleasing children.’

  Anomer frowned. ‘Even so,’ he said eventually.

  ‘And it is not as though your mother didn’t have her own secrets, apparently,’ Noetos remarked. Even as he spoke he regretted the words. Self-justification.

  ‘How do you know I don’t have secrets of my own?’ Anomer said.

  ‘I know you’re more sympathetic to the Recruiters and to Andratan than you’re prepared to admit.’

  ‘That’s not true! I saw what had been done to Arathé. How can you believe I would support a system that destroyed my sister?’

  ‘Yet you see benefits in what the Recruiters bring, don’t you, boy? You may travel north to understand, to learn, to perhaps effect improvement. I go to destroy.’ To have my revenge.

  Bregor interrupted them. ‘You’re sure the servant woman was your sister?’

  ‘Without a single doubt.’ Anomer did not use his Voice, but the effect was the same.

  ‘Ah,’ the Hegeoman breathed.

  Noetos growled under his breath. Finally he believes. After all my arguments, all the time we spent debating, he delivers the crowning insult.

  Five days after crossing the bridge over the Saar River, nine days in total north of the chandlery under Saros Rake, Noetos and his companions stood at the crest of a grassy hill and looked down on Raceme. Beyond the walled city the harbour glittered, though to the east a summer storm grumbled and complained, throwing the open sea into shadow.

  ‘Big place, in’t it,’ Dagla said.

  A weight of memory settled on the fisherman’s shoulders as he gazed at the familiar walls and towers of Raceme Oldtown. His eye was drawn above the cliffs, beyond the battlements, to the old Summer Palace, where he had spent so much of his childhood. The Palace seemed smaller than he rememb
ered, a little more worn, grown old. As was the whole city; in the shadow of the approaching rain, Raceme lacked the sparkle he recalled. The town hunched over itself, as though ducking to avoid a beating.

  Noetos set his feet on the first of the six flights of stone steps he knew so well. Hundreds of years old, each step had been worn smooth, dipping in the centre where most of the people had placed careless feet, like the fisherman did now. Each step seemed to take a season off his life; he knew how many were in each set, and worked out that, if it were true, he would arrive at the Suggate, the only way through Raceme’s wall from the south, at about sixteen years of age.

  He stepped off the last set and looked back. He’d left his companions well behind; simple proximity to this place had energised him. ‘Come on!’ he called, ignoring the sharp looks this garnered from people using the stairs, and waved to Bregor and the others.

  Easy, fisherman, he told himself. Your wife died a week ago. This behaviour does not become you.

  He curled a lip. None of my behaviour becomes me.

  Raceme had grown in the last twenty years. Houses had been built outside the walls, most constructed using timber as opposed to the whitewashed stone within the city proper. Conditions looked poorer here, certainly poorer than he remembered in Raceme itself. Perhaps the city had cleansed itself of its lower classes by forcing them beyond the wall; it was the sort of thing the councillors would do, conservatives that they were. Or had been.

  A strange dualism settled on the fisherman. He had become two people: a boy, eager to explore, to seek out adventure, to learn, to whom everything was sharp-edged and filled with wonder; and at the same time a man, world-weary and with aching heart and blurry eyes. He was young and old, happy and sad, full and empty, home and in a strange place.

  ‘Are we going in?’ Anomer asked.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Noetos muttered, coming to himself. Or perhaps his two selves walked in step for a moment. ‘Bregor has the coin. The council will want payment before we can pass through Suggate and enter the city.’