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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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 and 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.

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.

"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 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.

Did the man never shut up? No wonder he'd made such a good inn keeper. Instinctively 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.

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.

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.

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.