by Ian Whates
Without conscious thought, the assassin drew his kairuken and levelled the weapon at Scarface. However, other raiders were now catching up as the killer paused to free his lance, and Dewar was denied a clear shot. Rather than delay, he fired, taking out the nearest rider.
The attackers had bows of their own, and arrows trailing fire and smoke thudded into the nearest huts, catching swiftly in the dry timber.
He went to reload, only to find Gayla's restraining hand on his arm. "No! You have to go, now."
"But what about you?"
"We'll survive," she replied, interpreting his query as collective rather than personal. "Some of us will die while others live, as the goddess decrees, but the village will go on. Those who survive will rebuild. This is not the first time we've been attacked." So, perhaps these people were more fatalistic and worldly-wise than he had supposed.
Still Dewar hovered, torn by indecision, which surprised him no end. The sensible, logical course was obvious, and it wasn't like him to play at being a hero, or even to be tempted to, but something about these people had touched him at a fundamental level. He wanted to walk away from here knowing that this community went on, that it had a future, as if simply by doing so it made the world a better, more palatable place. The woman chivvied him with growing frustration. "Without you to protect them, what will happen to those two? They are mere babes in the world, vulnerable to every mishap. They need you. Now go!"
He knew she was right, so, with an effort of will, put aside his reluctance and set off towards the waiting boat, where the same young fisherman he had sat and watched casting his nets earlier that morning stood ready to spirit him to safety.
Was it the sound of thundering hooves that alerted him or did somebody shout a warning? Hard to tell in the heat of the moment. Either way, he turned to find the point of a lance hurtling towards him. He threw himself to one side and twisted. Too late to avoid the lance completely. Searing pain in his left arm as the tip punched through. He stared for a split second, not quite believing this was his arm the shaft had punctured, entering at the front with the point emerged behind. Yet even as that horror flashed across his thoughts he was falling, and knew instinctively that he had to keep the lance falling with him if he didn't want it to rip his arm open. He gripped the shaft as firmly as he could with both hands. The left still worked despite the wound, thank the gods, so presumably he'd been lucky and there was no major damage. Even so, his efforts sent the searing pain a few notches higher. The lance tip came free, his arm seeming to slide off it as he fell, without taking half the limb with it. He tried to hold and twist the weapon, but it was difficult, his grip slick with blood, and the shaft wrenched from his hands.
He landed heavily and lay there for a second waiting for his startled wits to regroup, seeing flying hooves and falling men from a somewhat novel perspective. He must have fallen more heavily than he realised, or perhaps the angle was misleading, because it seemed to him for the split second he lay there that the ground at the village's heart had turned to quicksand. Panicked horses and falling raiders appeared to be sinking and disappearing, swallowed by the ground itself. Then one particular man fell alarmingly close, without showing any signs of going any further. The assassin realised his efforts with the lance had not been in vain after all. He'd evidently done enough to unseat the rider, causing him to fall from the saddle, lance abandoned as the man raised both arms to soften his landing.
Dewar was on him in an instant; all thought of pain and blooded arm swept aside in a rush of adrenalin and necessity. He drew a knife as he clambered to his feet and drove the blade into the raider's side as he threw himself on top of him, striking once, twice. The man screamed, a roar of pain and anger, and punched Dewar in the face, clubbing him away.
The assassin rolled off, nose and cheek throbbing and hot, the salty taste of blood on his lips as it flowed freely now from nose and arm alike. His opponent rose unsteadily to his feet, hand feeling the two gashes in his side and coming away glistening with blood. Dewar registered for the first time that the man facing him was Scarface, the presumed leader of the raid. They were even now, both on foot and both wounded, though Dewar wasn't groggy from taking a tumble off a horse, so perhaps not so even after all. Scarface started to reach for his sword, but the assassin had no intention of letting him draw it, charging the man and barrelling into him. The impact jolted his wound into fresh complaint. He ignored it and brought the knife in quickly, but Scarface blocked the blow with his arm, latching onto Dewar's wrist in the resulting tangle and squeezing, trying to force him to drop the knife. Keen to protect his injured left arm, Dewar headbutted the bigger man, his forehead smashing against lip and chin. The grip on his wrist loosened and he was able to wrench it free, stabbing immediately, driving the blade into Scarface's throat and upward.
The raiders' leader vented a choked gargle and then collapsed as Dewar drew his knife free, the sticky warmth of blood now coating both of his arms. He knew he had to get something on his left one to staunch the wound or risk bleeding to death, but time to worry about that once he was clear of the battle. There was no sign of Gayla, and he just hoped she'd reached safety. It was definitely past time for him to get out of here in any case.
The boy still waited in the boat, standing up, beckoning and yelling at him to hurry. Dewar ran, but even as he drew closer, a figure rose out of the water behind the boy and struck him down. To the assassin's adrenalin fuelled senses the whole thing happened in slow motion. The figure emerging as if from nowhere, the blow, the lad falling forward out of the boat, water streaming from the unexpected assailant's form and more sheeting upwards as the boy landed face-down in the shallows. An arc of ruby red droplets seemed to hang in the air behind his collapsing form.
Dewar found a familiar figure confronting him. "Hello, King Slayer," said Ulbrax, the naked triumph in his voice bringing a snarl of rage to the assassin's lips. "Time to pay for your sins."
Dewar couldn't understand the proclivity this man seemed to have for talking before and during a fight. Who was he trying to impress – himself? As soon as the assassin had seen someone emerging from behind the boat he reached for a throwing knife. He drew and flung the weapon in one movement, an underarm throw which was nonetheless strong and accurate. Of course Ulbrax dodged it, but he was still knee deep in water, which hampered him, and Dewar had already sent a second blade flying in the wake of the first.
Dismissing his own injuries, Dewar followed up the daggers by charging. The second knife seemed to catch Ulbrax by surprise, and, though he again threw himself out of its path, the blade snagged his arm in passing. Nothing more than a flesh wound but it was something, and the need to evade left him unbalanced as the assassin slammed into him. They went down into the water, with Dewar on top, his face above the surface. He tried to hold Ulbrax's head down, while fending off the hand holding the blade with his own left hand, but that was weakened due to the wound and it soon became clear he wouldn't be able to do both for long. Beneath him, Ulbrax thrashed and kicked and twisted, his free hand stretching towards Dewar's face and trying to claw at his eyes. The assassin leant away, doing his best to stay out of reach, and felt fingernails rake his cheek and neck.
In leaning away he shifted his centre of balance slightly, enough that Ulbrax was able to throw him off with a particularly violent buck of hips and twist of body. He landed almost out of the water but on his injured arm, which triggered fresh spears of agony. Yet even as he was being thrown off, Dewar brought his knee up, feeling it connect with the other man's inner thigh and then slide up to grind into his groin. Ulbrax came out the water spluttering and screaming, and, somewhere in the struggle and the roll, appeared to have lost hold of his sword.
The assassin pushed the other man away with his good arm and scrambled to his feet, but immediately felt hands fasten around his throat.
"Not so smug now, hey, King Slayer?"
Did the man never shut up? No wonder he'd made such a good inn keeper. Instinct
ively Dewar pulled both his arms together, forced them between the other's and then threw them apart, before Ulbrax could crush his windpipe. He put every scrap of strength into the move, ignoring the pain and the weakness in the left. The grip around his throat disappeared before it could bring any real pressure to bear.
They never quite left the water, and the fight degenerated into a blur of grapples, kicks, punches, attempted trips, throws and headbutts. The two of them were well matched, but Dewar knew he'd lost. The wound continually drained his strength and he was tiring far more quickly than his opponent. They both sensed it, and Ulbrax redoubled his efforts, landing a solid punch to the side of Dewar's face which all but finished the assassin, leaving him clinging to the edge of consciousness.
His legs went, and he only remained upright because Ulbrax held him there with hands gripping his shirt front. Dewar's arms were two lead weights dangling by his side, his body a mass of bruise and hurt, and he didn't seem able to breathe fast enough to feed his lungs the air they craved, while every ragged breath brought a fresh parcel of pain. He knew he'd given a good account of himself and the other man couldn't be much better off than he was, but that brought small consolation. Not even the sneer on the victor's face, as he brought it close to Dewar's, was enough to rouse him. He was finished.
"So, King Slayer, this is it: treachery's final reward."
Talking, talking, always brecking talking; was the man trying to goad a response out of him?
Oddly, now that they'd both stopped struggling, Dewar had more time and opportunity to hurt his opponent than at any point during the actual fight. His left eye was starting to puff up and wouldn't fully open, and he felt more than half dead already, but knew that he'd soon be the rest of the way there if he couldn't muster the strength for one last effort.
So he did, though it was nothing glorious or noble. As Ulbrax's gloating face hovered close before him, he spat; but this was not simply a coarse act of defiance. He very deliberately spat into the other man's eyes.
Ulbrax instinctively flinched and jerked his head away.
Dewar seized on this sliver of a chance. With his opponent distracted, he forced spent muscles to move his right arm. The whole thing seemed ludicrously slow and he felt certain that Ulbrax would react at any second and stop him, but somehow he managed to pull a knife from his belt and plunge it into the other man's side. It wasn't the most clinical or powerful knife stroke of his life, and he could only hope it would prove enough, because he didn't have strength to try this again.
Ulbrax froze. He stared at Dewar in shock, and voiced a peculiar sound somewhere between a croak and a groan. His grip slackened and then slid off completely, as he collapsed into the water.
Dewar's feet and legs were being asked to earn their keep again. He stood where he was, swaying, and knew his limbs couldn't support him for much longer. That final effort had taken all he had. He started to turn, realising that if he fell over here there was a good chance he'd drown, but the effort proved one ambition too far. The world spun and his leaden legs refused to respond. Instead, they buckled. Suddenly the Jeeraiy came rushing up to meet him as he toppled forwards, racing towards the waiting water and into oblivion.
FIFTEEN
Tom felt sick at having to run away. He just knew that Dewar was going to get involved in the fighting, despite saying that he'd follow on after them. What had all those sword lessons and practice sessions been for if Tom was expected to flee at the first sign of trouble? In his heart he realised that he probably wouldn't have been much help but that didn't stop him feeling frustrated, angry, and more than a little ashamed.
Beside him, Mildra clutched his arm, gripping tightly enough that her fingers dug painfully into his skin. He wondered about saying something but didn't – glad of the contact and not wanting to disturb her thoughts or do anything that might cause her to shift and let go of his arm.
"It's for the best. We have to leave." She said this aloud, though he suspected the words were more for her own benefit than his. He glanced across to discover tears trickling down her cheeks.
"Look forward," Ullel advised, "never back. That way lies only regret and sorrow."
Tom was surprised to hear such philosophical advice from a fisherman, but then he'd been constantly surprised by these people ever since arriving in their village. Nor could he argue with what Ullel said. He turned to face the front of the boat, glad to do so as this meant he didn't have to meet the fisherman's eyes. He felt certain that he'd find only accusation there. The back of his neck tingled, as if the hairs were standing on end; he imagined he could feel Ullel's gaze boring into him and so shifted his shoulders, hunching forward slightly. Tom was acutely aware that this man had abandoned his home, his friends and family, all for his sake and Mildra's. He just hoped they were worth it.
"Where was it Gayla told you to take us?" Mildra said, the tears still audible in her voice. It was the question Tom would have asked, had he summoned up the courage to address the fisherman directly.
"To the Mud Skipper," Ullel replied. "Old Leon will see you across the Jeeraiy far quicker than I ever could."
As answers went, this was hardly the most informative Tom had ever heard, but Mildra failed to pursue the matter and he was still wary of speaking to the fisherman.
"And then…" Ullel continued, a little wistfully.
"You can return to make sure your family are all right?" Mildra finished for him.
"Yes."
Mildra lapsed into silence after this exchange, keeping Tom company – he'd been there well ahead of her. The village was already lost to sight behind a spit of land and for long moments the only sounds were the mournful keening of wading birds and the rhythmic splash of the pole entering and leaving the water, as Ullel took them ever deeper into the Jeeraiy. The scalding alarm call of a disgruntled duck disturbed by their passage brought Tom out of his self-pitying reverie, but not to the point where he was tempted to speak.
The uncomfortable silence was broken by Ullel himself, who began to name the various ducks and other birds they passed, telling them how this one was good to eat while that one had an elaborate and comical courtship display, while a third would only nest in a particular tree and a fourth produced the best eggs in the whole wide world. This casual friendliness worked to ease the knot of grief and guilt that had settled in Tom's gut and he started to relax, even asking questions when he spotted something new.
A flight of large white birds came in close above their heads, flying in a V-formation, their long necks stretched forward. Tom and Mildra both ducked instinctively, as the ghostly shapes swept over them to land amid great splashes of foam some distance ahead, honking all the while.
"Swans," Ullel said, a soft smile on his lips, "the white queens of the Jeeraiy."
Soon after, the great expanse of water seemed to shrink and contract, as they entered an area which was less open, the land evidently more solid. Trees bordered the waterways and even sprouted from within them. At one point Ullel deftly manoeuvred the boat between the trunks of two such – great towers of wood and bark thrusting out of the water, part of a cluster of perhaps a dozen trees whose bases were completely submerged. They grew uniformly straight, with branches sprouting thickly towards the crown, as if they were arrows shot into the ground by a tribe of giants from amongst the clouds, darts that had ripped down through the sky and water and the mud beneath to lodge deeply in the world's skin.
"Swamp cypress," Ullel supplied. "Very hardy, they have to be – the levels here rise and fall constantly; one day they're growing on land, the next in water."
Tom could have reached out and run his hand along the pale brown bark of the nearest, but it looked coarse and flaking, so he resisted the temptation, concerned that he'd only end up skinning his fingers and looking stupid for doing so. Their brief trespass between the trees was accompanied by raucous scolding from birds somewhere in the canopy; the irritated movement of the unseen avians still causing the foliage to rustle with m
enace long after the boat had passed through.
Beyond this small picket of trees they found the way cluttered with lilies, their broad leaves glistening as if waxed. The plants grew so densely that individual pads overlapped like the scales of a fish to form one continuous raft. White flowers burst forth at erratic intervals to decorate the verdant expanse. Ullel didn't hesitate. His pole strokes remained as measured and sure as they had been all journey. He angled the boat to cut a course across the lily field, heading towards the bank. Her prow gently pushed the lilies apart, and when Tom looked back it was to see the individual pads already drifting back towards one another. Before long there would be no sign of their passage at all.
