Yos-shiel had been a Black River trader for more than two hundred and seventy years, and remembered with great regret the ending of all that was beautiful in Yur-vale. He had been celebrating his twenty fourth birthday when the first mountain had erupted, spewing molten lava down the hillside, destroying the vineyards and the corn-fields.
It had been a bitter summer. First the war, and then the natural upheavals which hid the sun from the sky. Year by year it had grown steadily worse. Yos-shiel pushed his thin fingers through his thick white hair, and stared out of the window at the quay, where men were loading supplies on to one of the three barges he would send down to Zir-vak after dusk. Smoked fish and timber: the only two items of any worth in Yur-vale. Yos-shiel sold them for gold and water, in the vain hope that one day gold would be a viable currency once more.
The old man rose and stretched. From his window he saw a single ray of sunshine to the south and his heart swelled. How long since there had been a break in the clouds? A year? Two? several of the loaders saw it also, and all ceased their work.
A young man, seeing Yos-shiel at the window, called out, ‘Is it a sign, master? Is the sun returning?’
The pillar of light vanished. ‘I do not look for signs any more,’ he said softly.
Stepping out into the dull light, he counted the barrels of fish. ‘There should be fifty,’ he said.
A huge man wearing a red shirt embroidered with gold moved into sight. ‘Two were spoiled,’ he said, his voice low, rumbling like distant thunder. Yos-shiel looked into the man’s small, round eyes. He knew Cris-yen was lying, but the man was a thug and, he suspected, a killer. The two guards Yos-shiel had appointed to supervise the loads had mysteriously disappeared. He feared them dead.
‘Very well, Cris-yen, carry on.’ With a contemptuous smile the big man swung away.
‘I never should have employed him,’ thought Yos-shiel. ‘He and his brothers will strip me of all I have. I will be lucky to escape with my life.’ Glancing up at the iron sky, he suddenly smiled. What is life worth now, he wondered? Would I miss it?
Soldiers manned the ramparts of the stockade and Yos-shiel considered asking them for help in dealing with Cris-yen. The supplies he sent were vital to the city, and his plea deserved to be heard. But then deserve has nothing to do with it, he realized. Cris-yen had made friends with the officers, giving them presents. If I go to them and they turn against me my death will come all the sooner, he thought.
Strolling to the edge of the quay, he stared down into the inky depths of the river. No fish swam there now. The fleets were forced to put out far to sea in order to make their catches.
The barge from the city came into sight, its cargo of barrels lashed to the deck. Fresh drinking water, cleaned in the charcoal filters of Zir-vak, and fresh meat for the soldiers.
Yos-shiel wandered back to his small office and continued working on his ledgers.
Just before noon he heard a commotion from outside, and saw his workers moving towards the stockade gates. Yos-shiel closed the books, cleaned the quill pen, and followed them. The gates were open and three people had entered the stockade, two men and a woman. The woman was silver-haired and strikingly beautiful. Beside her was a giant in an ill-fitting green tunic, tied at the waist with what looked like an old bow-string; he too was silver-haired. The last of the trio was a young man, dressed in green troos and a shirt too small for him.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Cris-yen, pushing to the front of the crowd and standing before the woman, his hands on his hips.
‘South,’ she said. ‘We’re looking for passage into the city.’
‘And how will you pay me?’
The woman produced a small gold coin and Cris-yen laughed. ‘That’s no good here, my pretty; it doesn’t put food in mouths any longer. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, you and me will go to the warehouse and we’ll arrange something.’