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 father 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.
He would not choose.
“Put them down, please,” came a voice from behind him.
The killing strength went out of Noetos. He turned to face the warrior leader.
“What’s to stop me dropping these young ones over the edge of the platform?” Noetos asked, breathing heavily. The youngsters squirmed in his grasp. He thought perhaps he might have broken one of the lads’ ribs.
The man took a pace onto the platform. “We both know you will not,” he said. “It is your grace and failing,