Path of Revenge by Russell Kirkpatrick Page B

them—were also hunting. It had to be so. Their slow walk was now revealed as a search, heads swivelling to the left and right, sticks forward. Looking for someone.
    ‘Done flipped ‘is pate,’ one of them said. ‘Killed ‘is wife and boy.’
    ‘But why?’ Noetos recognised the whiny voice as that of Domoss, the boy who had fouled lines with the Arathé last year when a week of bad weather had confined them to harbour. ‘Why? Nobody in his right mind would take a knife to his kin.’
    ‘That’s just it. Not in his right mind, see?’
    ‘Go on!’ A third voice joined in. ‘If I was hitched to that squawker, I’d take a knife to her. How could a man stand it?’
    ‘You’d take som’thin’ to her, but it wouldn’t be your knife.’ The speaker barked a laugh, and the others joined in.
    ‘Maybe that’s why his head went funny,’ Domoss speculated. ‘Driven mad by his wife!’
    A darker voice cut across the chatter. ‘Enough talk! There’s a reward, remember? Maybe large enough to afford better company than you lot, I’m hoping.’ Noetos was almost sure the voice belonged to Arnessan. A bully and a coward. Typical Cadere Rower.
    ‘Bastard thinks ’e’s smarter than us, that’s for sure, living up on the cliff like a noble. I want the reward of seeing the big fool’s arrogant face when we catch ’im.’ Thin laughter drifted back from the group, as they gradually faded into the mist.
    Improbably, in view of all that had happened to Noetos that day, it was this last exchange that finally broke through his defences and touched off his carefully guarded anger. So much of this had been his fault, he was ready to admit. He should have fought harder against the wishes of his wife and daughter, should have found some way of preventing Arathé from putting herself forward, even though it had been he who had delighted in filling her head with stories of the world beyond the claustrophobic cliffs of Fossa. Should have married the girl he loved, not the girl he desired. But he was surely not to blame for the fact that he lived in Fisher House and not in Old Fossa.
    Come now, fisherman, he told himself mockingly, placing a stress on the last word, harness your anger with the intelligence you were once so famous for. Do this right, or run away and leave your loved ones in the hands of your enemies, as you have done before. He knew he lashed himself unfairly, but he needed the sting to action.
    A huge figure materialised from nowhere and stood, arms wide, in front of the frightened Cadere Row men. Domoss cried out, and they all took a step backwards.
    ‘Not the weather for fishing tonight, lads!’ a voice boomed at them. ‘What is it you’re trying to catch?’ The words were edged with something close to madness, thearms remained spread wide, and none of them missed the fishing spear in his hand.
    Perhaps three seconds passed before the fishermen realised who addressed them. ‘Noetos! We were looking for—’ one of them began, but a swift kick to the ankle silenced him.
    ‘We were going to check out the fishing on the other side of Dog Head,’ Domoss said, craftiness in his voice. ‘Mayn’t be any fog there.’
    ‘No fish either, not tonight, boys, take my word for it.’ The big man drew closer; the Cadere Row mob took a step back. ‘I’ve been for a swim over by Dog Head, and the fish are in their beds, where all good fishermen should be. But you would know that, lads, since it’s your favourite spot, being dogs yourselves.’
    No doubt about it, the man had gone mad. Nervous eyes imagined they could see blood running down the upraised pike, and all heard the insanity in his voice. No telling what an insane man could do, especially one with this man’s size and strength.
    ‘Tell me, friends, what are you really hunting? Could it be the Recruiters want me stopped before I hack the rest of Fossa to death?’ And he laughed then, a crazed giggle that sent tendrils of fear shooting down their