City of Hope & Despair

by Ian Whates

  As if to confirm this, Gayla said to him at one point as they sat in a contented circle around the glowing embers of a fire, "The goddess has been good to us. We have wonderful weather, our homes sit beside waters that teem with fish and attract deer and animals to drink. Every year the waters swell and cover our land, depositing fresh, rich soil which they have brought to us from the mountains so that when they withdraw again our crops grow good and strong in the sun." She shrugged. "Life is to be celebrated, and the arrival of pilgrims such as you three grants us yet another reason to do so."

  The gentle light from the fire brought out in the headwoman's features a grace and softness that had only been hinted at in the full glare of day. Tom had no idea how old she was, but from things she had said and the weight of knowledge her words often carried, he guessed her to be on the far side of middle age, yet you would never have known as much to look at her. Flawless skin, unmarked by wrinkle or blemish, and she seemed to glow with an inner beauty that went far deeper than mere physical appearance. His gaze slid from Gayla to Mildra, who sat on the headwoman's other side, and the breath caught in his throat. She looked stunning. Her freshly washed hair was pulled back within a headscarf similar to Gayla's, revealing more of her face, which seemed to shine in the gold-red light of the fire, matching Gayla and more.

  Tom looked away quickly, not wanting her to catch him staring, only to find Gayla watching him with a knowing twinkle in her eyes and a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  He was grateful then of the fire's subdued light; hopefully no one could see him blush.

  FOURTEEN

  Dewar was finding it hard to accept that a community like this could still exist anywhere in the world. Reconciling the complete openness, naivety, and plain niceness of Gayla and her folk with everything else he'd encountered during his life to date was proving something of a challenge. These people seemed too good to be true and he couldn't escape the thought that by rights they should have been conquered and ground into the dust centuries ago, their joy and optimism clawed down and suffocated in the drudgery and misery that the rest of the human race routinely had to contend with. Yet here they were, laughing, fishing, growing crops, basking in the sun, and laughing again, just for good measure. Mighty armies had swept across the continent, conquering, raping and pillaging, thousands upon thousands had perished in wars and plague, and all the while these gentle folk had gone about their lives untouched, oblivious to events that shook the very foundations of civilisation. Incredible. Maybe there was a goddess after all.

  Perhaps he shouldn't have been so surprised; after all, the Jeeraiy seemed to exist outside of the normal rules. Dewar had always prided himself on being pragmatic, on dealing with reality as the world presented it rather than as he might have wished it to be. Yet this place had found a way of reaching under his skin. Everything here moved to its own rhythm and pace, as if time itself paused in the Jeeraiy to take a breather before deciding to move on, as slow and loose as the people who dwelt here. Dewar could feel the easing of tension, as the drive and urgency seeped from his body, the inclination to relax settling in as ready replacement. Which was precisely why they had to leave here as soon as possible. This place was dangerous, in a seductively innocent way. If they were to hang around much longer the prospect of staying, just for another day or two, might become too tempting to resist.

  The others weren't up yet, but he decided to wait a little longer before rousing them. The sun had barely risen and it seemed harsh to wake them this early after the previous night's merriment, which had lingered long into the hours of darkness. Besides, he was rather enjoying the absence of their company and intended to make the most of it.

  The assassin sat with his back against the hull of a fishing boat, doing nothing for once, simply soaking up what was happening around him: the essence of the Jeeraiy. Despite the early hour, some of the village's fishermen were already out. He watched as one bronze-skinned youth – naked above the waist – stood tall in his boat, balancing with apparent ease as he threw out his right arm in a wide arc and cast his net. It broke the surface in multiple tiny splashes, like a brief outburst of rain. Nearby, sickle-winged birds, their snow-white plumage catching the sun to glisten like new fallen snow, dive-bombed the water, bobbing back to the surface moments later, some with wriggling fish clutched in their bills, others with only a disdainful ruffle of their feathers as if to say that they hadn't really been going after a fish in any case. Movement caught his eye, and he looked across to see a large grey-green mottled spill dragon, or something closely related, emerge from a bank of tall reeds to his left and slide into the water, barely making a ripple.

  Gayla walked over to sit beside him. Normally, he might have bristled at such assumed companionship, but here it didn't seem to matter.

  "You're up early," he commented.

  "Could say the same to you," she replied.

  "I didn't really drink that much last night."

  "Yes, I noticed you were holding back, not totally involving yourself in things. My excuse is that I'm used to it." And she smiled.

  "Experience has taught me the value of a clear head, even when you least expect to need one; especially when you don't."

  She nodded. "Sensible, very sensible. It also gives me the perfect opportunity to raise something with you. For the sake of everyone, I think you and your friends should be on your way sooner rather than later."

  He stared at her in, surprise. This seemed totally at odds with the warm and welcoming character she'd displayed previously.

  "Under normal circumstances you'd be welcome here as long as you please, but there's trouble coming," the woman continued. "Don't know what or when exactly, but it's close."

  Dewar snorted. "Is this some message from your goddess? Sounds a bit vague if so, don't you think?"

  "You may mock, but consider this: if I'm right, then you avoid potential danger by leaving, and if I'm wrong, you're on your way again, which is what you've been itching to do since you first arrived."

  He smiled. "You might have a point there."

  "You know I do."

  "My impatience is not a reflection on your hospitality…"

  "Oh, I realise that. But you have a job to do, and then of course there's always the fear that if you stayed too long you might actually get to like it here." She said the last with a twinkle in her eye.

  The old woman was perceptive, no question. She was also right about the wisdom in not taking risks. With a word of farewell he stood up, intending to wake Tom and Mildra.

  Gayla hadn't moved, but remained gazing out at the water, watching the fishermen. "Oh, they're already up," she told him without looking round. "I sent word before coming to see you."

  Even as she spoke, Tom appeared, emerging from the hut the three of them had shared for the night. He paused in the doorway for a second, perhaps to savour the morning and the Jeeraiy, then waved to Dewar and came towards him. Normally, this was the point where the assassin would insist on another sword lesson, but frankly he was growing bored of them, and at least the boy now knew enough to put up some sort of defence. It wouldn't do any harm to give his sword arm a rest for one day, particularly if time was as pressing as the headwoman suggested.

  "Breakfast should be ready by now," Gayla said, grunting with the effort of standing up. She was looking towards the embers of the large fire pit, where a woman squatted, stirring the contents of a big black saucepan.

  "We can eat on the move," Dewar told her.

  She raised her eyebrows, as if the very thought of sending guests on their way without feeding them was unthinkable, never mind the danger, but she nodded and said, "As you wish." Gayla then cupped a hand to her mouth and shouted across the water to the fishermen, who acknowledged and, as one, started to haul in their nets.

  "What's going on?" a bleary-eyed Tom asked as he joined them.

  "We're leaving," Dewar supplied.

  "What?"

  "Already?" Mildra asked, coming up
behind Tom. She looked a lot more awake than the boy.

  "Yes." He wasn't in the mood to explain himself.

  Looking around, Dewar noted that it wasn't just the Thaistess and the boy but the whole village that seemed to be stirring. He didn't know whether word of their imminent departure had spread, or getting up this early was simply part of the normal routine around here.

  "Gayla's advice," he added charitably, perhaps influenced by the bright chatter and sunny smiles that now surrounded him. "She senses trouble coming."

  Villagers were approaching the woman by the fire pit, not in a crowd or a queue, but simply drifting over in ones and twos to accept a generous bowl of what looked to be soup thickened with rice. The squatting woman shared a few words or a joke with each, as she steadily ladled the broth into waiting bowls. No fuss, no apparent system, but there was always somebody there collecting breakfast, and before long almost everyone seemed to have a bowl of steaming soup in hand. Dewar couldn't recall ever witnessing a more impressive and understated demonstration of community in harmony.

  The fishermen were starting to arrive – those who had been closest – and were pulling their boats ashore. No grumbles or complaints about being called back when they'd only just gone out, no fuss at all. They simply landed whatever fish had already been caught and got on with things.

  Gayla waved to one of the fishermen before turning back to the three travellers. "Ullel here will take you in his boat, clear across the Jeeraiy if necessary."

  "That's very kind, thank you," Mildra said, smiling at the fisherman, who smiled back. He looked to be older than any of them, including Dewar, but as fit and healthy as all his people were.

  "He knows the Jeeraiy better than anyone," Gayla continued, "her moods and rhythms flow through his veins. Ullel will see you safe."

  Villagers were beginning to come over now to say their goodbyes; people they had only met the previous day but who were already considered friends following the previous night's revelries. There were hugs for Mildra and Tom – the boy looking embarrassed as a young woman embraced him and even more uncomfortable when the man beside her did the same – though none for Dewar, which suited him just fine.

  More welcome were the leaf-wrapped food parcels and sealed drinking flasks which several insisted on pressing into their hands.

  It seemed the whole village had turned out to see them off. Mildra and Tom boarded the indicated boat, one of the largest in the small fleet, and took their seats. Dewar was about to do the same when an eerie noise floated across the watery plain. A horn, sounding like the forlorn baying of some bereft beast.

  The villagers froze, and in an instant everything changed. Where there had been smiles there were now looks of concern, while relaxed idleness was supplanted by bustle and movement. Not panic, Dewar doubted these people were ever capable of that, but there was definite purpose in the way the crowd of well-wishers dispersed.

  He looked at Gayla. "Raiders," the headwoman said. "You must go, quickly."

  The fishermen were already working with quiet efficiency, tossing aside for the moment fish and nets not already dealt with and preparing their boats to take people. The first of whom – scampering children who came racing up to them, all gangly limbs and laughter – were already arriving. They thought this a game, Dewar realised grimly, already picturing how the laughter might turn to tears and screams as these same children were trampled beneath hooves or cut down by blades and arrows if they failed to reach safety.

  All around him boats were being pushed back into the water. He watched mothers emerge from huts, babes clutched in their arms, elders at their side, all hurrying towards the sanctuary of the fishing fleet. Others – those men not manning boats – were loping towards the western edge of the village bearing weapons. He saw long knives, spears and bows.

  "Please, leave!" Gayla demanded.

  She was right. His job was to safeguard the boy and the Thaistess. Only by doing that could he guarantee his own future in Thaiburley. And there was no point in seeking out trouble, especially when at least one of the Twelve was on his trail. No question, the sooner he left the better. So why was he hesitating? Was that really his voice saying to Mildra, "You two go on, I'll follow later in another boat"? It must have been, since he emphasised the point with a gesture to Ullel. The man nodded and pushed his boat away from shore, standing tall at its bow and propelling the vessel by means of a long pole, as Dewar had seen others do before.

  "This isn't your fight," Gayla said, still beside him.

  "I know. I'm just… curious."

  She shook her head, then called out to Ullel, who was lifting himself into his boat, "Take them to the Mud Skipper." The man nodded.

  "What's the Mud Skipper?" Dewar wanted to know.

  "You'll see when you join them."

  Gayla then led him away from the water's edge and the tall reeds which were blocking their view of whatever lay beyond the cluster of stilt-based huts. In a land which was wetter than some baths he'd had, Dewar would have expected raiders to come in boats, but apparently not, at least to judge by the preparations being made.

  Then he saw them; a party of horsemen riding hard in their direction. Villagers were shouting, gesturing, getting agitated at last. Men took position on the steps and in the doorways of the outermost huts, bows at the ready with arrows cocked.

  "This is the only direction an attack could come from, unless they resort to boats," Gayla explained, her voice calm as if she were pointing out local attractions to a sightseer. "Water to our right, the high grasses to our left – impossible for a body of men to move through quickly or silently – and behind us more grasses with open water beyond. So they have to come this way."

  "And how does that help you?"

  "It means we can prepare. Watch."

  The raiders had almost reached the outskirts of the village. The first of them charged across the narrow stretch of shallow water that lay across their path like a broad puddle. The raiders rode powerful mounts, short for a horse but tall for a pony, and all were a uniform ginger brown, with slightly darker manes.

  "Könichs," Gayla murmured, as if reading his thoughts. "The fen ponies. There are still a few wild herds to be found in the depths of the Jeeraiy, though most have been domesticated now. Magnificent, aren't they?"

  Dewar had to agree. Despite the riders on their backs there was something wild and untamed about these compact, powerful horses, with their blazing eyes and streaming manes, but the assassin was more concerned with the villagers' response, or lack of one. The raiders were almost upon them and he was finding Gayla's unfailingly casual manner increasingly difficult to understand.

  Without warning, chaos erupted from the silt and sand beneath the lead horses' hooves. At first it wasn't clear what was happening; horses were whinnying their distress as they stumbled or were brought crashing down, sending riders skidding through the shallows, men's shouts of shock and anger only adding to the confusion.

  As the edges began to lift clear of the water, Dewar realised what he was watching. A net. A vast expanse of thick-stranded mesh that had been buried beneath the water and under the sand below; a trap biding its time, waiting until it was needed. He couldn't help but smile; such a simple and elegantly appropriate defence. He wasn't sure how the net was secured or triggered, the ends being concealed within tall rushes to one side and even taller grasses on the other, but there was no doubting its strength or effectiveness. The charge had been halted, the leading seven or eight raiders – perhaps a third of their total number – were now tangled in the mesh and floundering, while the rest of them were blocked from the village by their enmeshed comrades.

  Now the villagers let fly with bow and spear. Had there been a division of archers firing in unison, they could have wreaked havoc among the trapped men and those stalled behind, but as it was there were a mere handful of huntsmen, shooting independently. Several of the villagers ran closer in order to cast their spears, which plunged into the hide of horse an
d man alike. Shrieks of agony and shock joined those of anger and frustration in a chorus all too familiar to the assassin. Battle proper had been joined. The water was a churning mass of struggling limbs as those trapped tried to find purchase, and a red froth of blood began to spread across it as arrow and spear took their toll.

  The far end of the net seemed to wilt and give as a rider appeared – one of those from behind, having either cut or jumped the supporting cords. He snarled orders to two of his fellows who followed more slowly behind, goading them on, waving a heavy spear or lance above his head. His horse was larger than the others and of a darker brown, while the man himself looked to be big by any standards. His face was marred by a long vertical scar slashed from top to bottom, giving him a demeanour as fierce as his snarl. The leader of the raid, Dewar felt certain.

  Scarface levelled his lance and charged at those villagers still retreating after casting their spears. He bore down on one runner in an instant, somebody Dewar remembered from the previous night's feast – Myel or Mayel? – skewering him through the back, the lance punching out through the man's stomach. For an instant, as the lance tip struck, Mayel instinctively drew his body forward as if to escape, in the process pushing his shoulders and head back, arms raised in a parody of surrender, face lifting to the sky. Fleetingly, Dewar could see the smiling face from last night – happy, laughing, without a care in the world – superimposed on the grimace of agony as the villager died.