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Authors: Russell Kirkpatrick
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wearily. ‘Yet these things are connected to Andratan and the Undying Man, I’m sure of it. He is the arch-magician of Bhrudwo, after all. It is he who must account for what has happened here, and elsewhere.’
‘So you say. But before this night is over, you and your family need to answer some hard questions. Your willing and not-so-willing followers ought to know what might be in store for them.’
‘We may well have a talk together, all of those part of my group,’ Noetos said, sighing in a combination of pain and relief. ‘But first we need to tend the injured, bury the dead and provide for the homeless. Do you not agree?’
‘’M’not goin’ back down there,’ one of the bystanders said. ‘Not if them whirlin’ fingers might come back.’
‘I’d rather sleep in the Shambles,’ said another. ‘The Neherians could still be hiding in our city.’
‘Aye, the Summer Palace is largely intact,’ a grey-haired man added. ‘I saw soldiers heading that way before the fingers came. There may be a force just waiting to sweep down on top of anyone gullible enough to return. Seen enough, anyway, for a story to tell m’grandchildren.’
No storyteller ever told a story like this one, Noetos reflected. He’d not been offered a single word of thanks. Citizens of cities rescued from the wrath of the gods were grateful to their saviours in the stories he’d been told. Not curmudgeonly complainers. But the grey-haired man, the last to speak, did have a point, however cowardly the motive for presenting it. Noetos had no doubt some of the Neherians had escaped Raceme—they were most likely scattered among the refugees up on the hill behind the city—but surely the majority of the attackers remained within the city walls.
He cast a wary eye over what remained of Raceme. The Merchants District appeared largely untouched, but large sections of the Artisans, Warehouse, Oligarchs and Justice Districts had been reduced to dust-covered debris. He wondered briefly about the dust, given the torrents of rain that had fallen before the whirlwinds ravaged the city, but of course the interiors of buildings that had then been smashed open, or even drawn up into the sky, had been dry when they were destroyed by the storm. The dust must surely have come from inside the damaged buildings, of which there was a vast number.
His gaze was drawn to people emerging from some of the ruins, walking with an eerie calm in the direction of Suggate. Noetos grimaced. No doubt they too would express their dissatisfaction with the state of affairs and upbraid their rescuer.
‘Fisher, do you not think we ought to see to those on the hill?’ Bregor’s voice sounded hesitant, as though the insensitive fool actually realised his words were provocative.
Noetos did nothing to hold his anger in check. This was one saviour who would bite back.
Spinning around, he grabbed at the Hegeoman’s tunic. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I do not. Hundreds of people are likely trapped in the wreckage, but that seems to be of no account to you. Or to these people. What is the matter with everyone?’
‘They are afraid,’ Bregor said simply. ‘Afraid of the fingers, afraid of the power directing them. Afraid to return in case the power comes back.’ He took a settling breath. ‘Afraid to get too close to those at the centre of the gods’ anger. Do you blame them?’
Yes. Yes, for you have brought this upon us; you, not I.
‘No,’ Noetos said wearily. ‘No. But I will aid anyone who requires it.’
He turned to the crowd gathered around him—a crowd already bolstered, he suspected, by many returning from the hill south of the city. ‘Those who have it in them to render assistance to those searching for friends and family, make yourself known. We will go down together into the city and save anyone who can be saved.’
‘I give your “no” back to you, sir,’ said the grey-haired man. ‘We will go down to the city, those of us who can, but you
‘So you say. But before this night is over, you and your family need to answer some hard questions. Your willing and not-so-willing followers ought to know what might be in store for them.’
‘We may well have a talk together, all of those part of my group,’ Noetos said, sighing in a combination of pain and relief. ‘But first we need to tend the injured, bury the dead and provide for the homeless. Do you not agree?’
‘’M’not goin’ back down there,’ one of the bystanders said. ‘Not if them whirlin’ fingers might come back.’
‘I’d rather sleep in the Shambles,’ said another. ‘The Neherians could still be hiding in our city.’
‘Aye, the Summer Palace is largely intact,’ a grey-haired man added. ‘I saw soldiers heading that way before the fingers came. There may be a force just waiting to sweep down on top of anyone gullible enough to return. Seen enough, anyway, for a story to tell m’grandchildren.’
No storyteller ever told a story like this one, Noetos reflected. He’d not been offered a single word of thanks. Citizens of cities rescued from the wrath of the gods were grateful to their saviours in the stories he’d been told. Not curmudgeonly complainers. But the grey-haired man, the last to speak, did have a point, however cowardly the motive for presenting it. Noetos had no doubt some of the Neherians had escaped Raceme—they were most likely scattered among the refugees up on the hill behind the city—but surely the majority of the attackers remained within the city walls.
He cast a wary eye over what remained of Raceme. The Merchants District appeared largely untouched, but large sections of the Artisans, Warehouse, Oligarchs and Justice Districts had been reduced to dust-covered debris. He wondered briefly about the dust, given the torrents of rain that had fallen before the whirlwinds ravaged the city, but of course the interiors of buildings that had then been smashed open, or even drawn up into the sky, had been dry when they were destroyed by the storm. The dust must surely have come from inside the damaged buildings, of which there was a vast number.
His gaze was drawn to people emerging from some of the ruins, walking with an eerie calm in the direction of Suggate. Noetos grimaced. No doubt they too would express their dissatisfaction with the state of affairs and upbraid their rescuer.
‘Fisher, do you not think we ought to see to those on the hill?’ Bregor’s voice sounded hesitant, as though the insensitive fool actually realised his words were provocative.
Noetos did nothing to hold his anger in check. This was one saviour who would bite back.
Spinning around, he grabbed at the Hegeoman’s tunic. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I do not. Hundreds of people are likely trapped in the wreckage, but that seems to be of no account to you. Or to these people. What is the matter with everyone?’
‘They are afraid,’ Bregor said simply. ‘Afraid of the fingers, afraid of the power directing them. Afraid to return in case the power comes back.’ He took a settling breath. ‘Afraid to get too close to those at the centre of the gods’ anger. Do you blame them?’
Yes. Yes, for you have brought this upon us; you, not I.
‘No,’ Noetos said wearily. ‘No. But I will aid anyone who requires it.’
He turned to the crowd gathered around him—a crowd already bolstered, he suspected, by many returning from the hill south of the city. ‘Those who have it in them to render assistance to those searching for friends and family, make yourself known. We will go down together into the city and save anyone who can be saved.’
‘I give your “no” back to you, sir,’ said the grey-haired man. ‘We will go down to the city, those of us who can, but you
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