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Ayvon stood against the mist that blew in from the sea, looking out into the distance from his position on the jagged stone cliff standing at the edge of the waves. He could feel the spray on his face, cold as death’s hands, as well as see it foaming at the foot of the cliff.
He had heard the reports, had time enough to ponder them, and get ready. The pirates were sighted by their neighbouring lands with a course set for Port Maine.
The town of Illis would have to rally all its men to withstand this impending assault, only one in a series of raids that had assailed them in years past. He had only joined in recently, when he had turned 13. Now, at almost 14, it had become a routine event for him, a ‘fight of die’ situation.
They would approach in galleys under the cover of thick cobwebs of fog, armed with axes, daggers, and swords. They would sweep through their little coastal village like ants on fire with their torches ablaze, screaming obscenities as they set about burning buildings, plundering for loot, and killing whoever got in their way. Some survivors were taken, and forced to go back with them aboard their ships to be sold as slaves, or otherwise serve them on their many exploits.
Ayvon’s family had been witness to this scene for years, and had paid for it in gold and blood. Their town was once considered wealthy, by the humble standards of the neighbouring villages. They even had a lord and a small military to provide defences. But looking at it now, one would think the town of Illis was no more than another tattered fishing village, clinging to the faded banners of the past.
The lord was gone, and his men of arms with him.
All they had left were the swords of ordinary men, and the strength of their collective will, which he could feel weakening with every assault they had to endure.
There was not a flicker in the horizon as he looked out to sea.
His fingers went absentmindedly to the hilt of his sword, and he felt the tension rising in his spine. The silence was oppressive as the sea itself, and the waves that crashed against the cliffs mercilessly.
Right when he thought he should descend from his position to give his report to those waiting below, he saw it: the break in the nothingness.
The torches came like blurry fireflies, bobbing up and down behind the curtain of mist.
Ayvon turned, leaped down the path in the rock side, and onto the pebbled ground.
The other men were waiting, most of them older than him, and a few other boys his age. He saw their faces, grim with expectation, in the flickering lights of their own lit torches.
He drew his sword and faced the harbor as the invaders came into view, rowing their boats like devils with weapons gleaming in the moonlight.
_
It was past midnight when Ayvon stumbled into the alley leading up to his home.
He looked up at the darkened windows (not a candle light in sight), was relieved to see the door still intact. It would seem the pirates hadn’t made it this far.
Other buildings had not been so lucky. On his way back, he saw broken windows, ripped curtains flying in the wind like ghostly handkerchiefs. Pieces of glass littered the cobbled squares and alleys, and all seemed deadly silent in their neighbours’ houses, which were black as the night with stars and moon hidden behind clouds. Only his torch had lit his way back.
He unlocked the door, stumbled up the narrow stairs in the dark.
When he got to the top landing, he entered the room cautiously, almost afraid to talk.
He walked in slowly, past the framed portrait of their parents sitting on the table, invisible in the gloom, stepping over the wooden boards of the floor until he reached a certain secret spot.
“Mya, it’s over,” he said in a low voice. “You can come out now.”
His sister emerged not long after, from a hidden room below the floorboards. She had with her a single candle, which illuminated her dark hair and shining brown eyes.
They remained standing in the dark, with only the candle between them, until Mya noticed the bleeding and touched his arm.
“You’re hurt.”
She told him to sit down in a chair, and brought out some water and wine, and began tending to his injury, neither of them speaking a word.
Once she was nearly done wrapping him up, she asked, quietly, almost reluctantly, “How did it go?”
“We won. But not without losses. Some people were captured… none we know.”
She looked nervous.
“And Edward?”
“Wounded. Several others killed.”
He listed those who he knew for certain were dead. Mya listened somberly and said a little prayer for their fellow townsmen. Then she prepared a simple meal for them, of some stale bread and potato soup. But he couldn’t eat, even when she insisted.
When at last she went to bed, he remained a long while, sitting at the table by the window, staring out into the empty square.
Their pantry was running out of fares. They had no money. Every day spent waiting, another friend was lost.
As on many such an occasion, his mind went to the boy who had run away and joined the pirates, only to come back and be hanged for a traitor.
If they ever did such a thing, he knew there would be no turning back. At the time, he had been offended at the mere thought of it, but now he wondered if it could possibly be the only way forward… He glanced over at Mya’s sleeping face, decided it could wait until tomorrow.
Looking out the window one last time, he blew out the candle.
Rest in peace.