The seas hissed. From where they retreated into the cliff caves of Linos, they couldn’t see how the waters below behaved through the thick scrim of fog, or was it steam, or ash, but they could hear the waves seethe. Someone had the foresight to stock these caves with amphorae of water and preserves, bedding and salves, oil for lamps. Some stood over the shallow puddle where the prophetess Lamitira attempted to scry what remained of the outside world, while others nursed their burns, shivering in the shadows out of sight. He sat to return to his task, prying with the tip of his dagger the twelve stones from the bronze crown which bound them. Twelve stones for twelve disciples.

  “Larinium lies under the waves,” said Lamitira, voice dull from the tone of her trance, or perhaps the force of the explosion had muted her hearing. It was as if tiny little bells chimed in his own ears. “All else is ash. In the dead fields of Coromo the slaves burn their masters and hang the priests. The temples have all fallen.”

  “Superstitious fools,” someone said. Others grumbled in agreement.

  “Can you blame them?” said another voice from the shadows of the cave. “We brought this doom upon us all. We set out to break the old temple foundations of our realm, and we did, just not in a manner we could control.”

  “Dar was weak,” one muttered. “He was a fool to think he could harness the power of the god.”

  He looked up from his work on the crown to see who was arguing. As a stone clattered free, everyone turned to stare in his direction, reddened eyes glittering in ash-blackened faces. He couldn’t discern one face from another in the shadows, nor their voices hoarse from smoke. Their true names would not avail them anything besides a noose or pyre if they survived to return. It was best to forget them. He collected the stray stone. In the flickering light of the oil lamp, the green jewel winked in his hand, but he could feel its power utterly spent, as was his own.

  “No,” he corrected, as he set to work on the next stone. “Dar was right. But the time was not. We all misread the mountain.”

  “Imagine if we had waited a generation, prepared more rigorously, read the signs more clearly,” someone added. “Now the holy mountain is gone.”

  “We’ll now need twelve generations, or twenty, for the mountain to rebuild. This opportunity may never come again,” a voice coughed from the shadows. “All this work for naught.”

  “Not for naught. We will return to our strongholds and rebuild. When the mountain is ready, we will be too.” He pulled the last stone from the bronze. “Lamitira, behind whose banner will the free peoples rally?”

  The prophetess smeared a streak of ash across her face as she looked up from her scrying pool. “There’s a tall Larin man who swings a broken shackle from a long chain. They chant ‘Jonas!’ from the fields as the old leaders flee before him.”

  The bronze felt cold and heavy in his tired hands. “He’s going to need a crown, then.”

  An old swordswoman’s work is never done, or at least not done enough to retire comfortably on. Shellah Skyfast bent to rub her sore knee for a moment as she walked on the fog-slicked cobbled street to the guild hall to see if any new work was posted, feeling every last bit of her 55 years. Spring became wet early this year, making the roads in and out of the seaside town of Northport muddy and slow. Many of the overland caravans requiring guard assistance had already departed across the High Fells before the spring melt made the mountain road impassable, but the summer sea routes should be hiring soon. Pirates and brigands abounded, so even an older mercenary like herself would find a gig, and she hoped some of her regular sea merchant clients would be returning to Northport soon. Shellah liked the sea, much less walking. One last season, and she could retire to a small croft back home in the Shielings. Shellah felt the slow ache in her lower back. Riding and horses were fairly terrible, too. One last good sea gig.

  On the northeast shoreline of Corom, the unimaginatively named Northport was the northmost outpost of the kingdom, and was the sea connection to the northwest isles of the Shielings, the Ice Peoples of the boreal forests, and any of the sea trade routes to the south. The High Fells formed a tall, rocky spine between Northport and the capital city, and were unpassible in the later spring where the deep mud and blackflies made overland travel unbearable. What Northport lacked in glamor, culture, architecture or cuisine it made up for in robust trade activity. There was always plenty of work, each guild had an active chapter in town, and lodgings were reliably cheap.

  The Swordsmen’s Guild resided in a rough-timbered hall with well-worn steps, and never seemed to have quite enough light inside to read the postings for jobs for hire, route maps, and guild best practices, such as “Display no unsheathed long blades in town”. It smelled of old leather and sword oil. Shellah grabbed a nail and hammer from the bucket, and pinned some scraps of parchment on the “For Hire'' wall:

  Shellah Skyfast

  Sword for hire/Merchant Protection Services

  Guild licensed, references available, sea-worthy

  Inquire at Cooper’s Tavern

  “Shellah! Hey!” a familiar voice called. She could see a hand waving from the shadows in the far side of the hall. The sun on the dust motes and lamp smoke made it difficult to see who was over by the “Swords Wanted” wall.

  “Jonas? Is that you?” Shellah approached. The Swordsmens’ Guild was big, with members across the many kingdoms, but if you worked long enough, you knew everyone in the merchant protection trade. “You’re back already?”

  “Yeah.” Jonas had a weepy, half-scabbed cut across his face, running from his cheekbone into the graying strands of his beard. He was a rugged old soldier with a reputation for being smart and reliable, and was usually always on the road. “Bandits on the High Fells already. Traders made the decision to turn around once we were attacked. Outnumbered. We managed to retreat without getting seriously looted or anyone getting killed. The king’s apparently mustering forces to root them out. Looks like sea work for now. The muster isn’t going to want older blades like ours.”

  “Yeah, military work is a younger person’s game,” Sure enough, there was an enlistment poster for mercenary recruits for the royal muster already up on the wall. The king paid good coin, but had an age limit and only hired men. There was nothing for sea routes yet, or anything else for that matter, just corners of parchment where listings had been hastily torn off the wall. If there was trouble in the High Fells, none of the overland merchants would risk it. Shellah sighed and motioned to Jonas’s wound. “I can help with that.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Appreciated.”

  They settled at a nearby table where there was better light. Shellah reached into her belt pouch and drew out a packet of aromatic herbs. She sprinkled some in the palm of her hand, rubbing them into a fine powder before gently dabbing them into his cut. She whispered something softly, and a soft scent drifted from the powder. “Done.” Even in the halflight of the hall, she could see the redness of infection begin to subside.

  “I always forget the Shielings people are witches,” Jonas said, rubbing his jaw. “Handy though.”

  Shellah nodded. “Yeah, we’ve just got the small magics. Cantrips. I can heal a small infection, remove a stain, light a little flame, that kind of thing. When you’re from a barren little rock in the middle of the sea, you learn to make do with what you’ve got.”

  “Yeah, my wife tried to keep it clean, but I think some poison got in there. Or dirt. The mud’s already terrible.”

  Shellah remembered Jonas had a real home and family in town. The Swordsmen didn’t typically discuss or disclose much personal information on the road. For some, it was a reminder of being away from loved ones, or, for others, the very reason to be away. Each had their own rationale for taking the sword, and typically did not share why. There weren’t many women in the guild, either, and once Shellah had been in the trade for a number of years, people’s curiosity ceased. She was tall, solidly built, with a stern face that had never been considered particularly pretty.

  Jonas looked at her curiously. “Shel, why are you still in town? You should have been on the road already, too?”

  “Well, I was late returning from the sea routes,” she responded. “Not one but two big storms delayed and damaged the merchant fleet. We got stranded on the Palaric Islands off Larin for a while. Getting repairs enough to leave took forever, not a lot of good wood there, the merchants had to sell a lot of cargo at a loss. So, by the time I ended back here in port, the early overland routes had already hired and departed. I hope they’re getting those ships rebuilt. I don’t want to sit out a whole season here at Cooper’s.”

  “Yeah,” Jonas agreed. “And, and with the raids now and the King’s Muster in the Fells, I have a feeling any gigs that come in the meantime are going to be weird.”

  Shellah stood and thought of her other errands for the day. “Well, join me at Cooper’s for an ale if you ever need a break from the homestead. And keep that cut clean!”

  Jonas laughed. “Another scar at this point won’t make much of a difference.”

  After taking care of her guild business, Shellah returned to Cooper’s Tavern. She kept a small room upstairs which was sunny and had a pleasant view of the tavern’s kitchen garden from its window seat. She dropped her cloak on the one chair, and sat on her narrow bed to remove her boots. In her bag was her wool, spindle and some knitting. She pulled out a partially completed sock, and got comfortable on the window’s cushion in the afternoon sun. Shellah was also in the Piecers’ Guild, which traded in socks, gloves, hats, and other piecework. It was a good side job for the offseason, even if it did not pay nearly as well as guardwork. There would be plenty of time to knit once she retired. In the meantime, it paid the bills at Cooper’s. Socks didn’t require a lot of thought, and being a hedge witch from the Shielings, her socks would never bunch or cause blisters. Little magics made life better, and such socks commanded a better price from the Piecers.

  After some stitching, the sun went behind the early evening clouds, and it was time to find some supper. Shellah changed into a clean linen shift, pinned on a muted plaid overdress, then quickly rebraided her long bight of graying blond hair. She slid into her house shoes to head downstairs for dinner and any local news. Her stomach growled. She could smell bread baking and something savory cooking. She took her usual table by the fire. The barkeep served her customary light ale, and she awaited some bread and cheese.

  “It’s been Reavers!” she overheard from a nearby table. “They’re in the High Fells, and have been seen in the north seas. The king’s going to have a…”

  “Miss Shellah?” the barkeep interrupted. He waved over a cloaked figure. “This gentleman is asking for you.”

  Shellah motioned for the man to sit. She could see a corner of her guild parchment in his hand. He pulled back his hood to reveal one of those ageless faces that made men unremarkable in most situations after they reached a certain age. He settled into the chair across from her, and the barkeep brought him the same ale.

  “Shellah Skyfast, pleased to meet you,” he held out his hand, which appeared strong, but smooth and uncalloused. Shellah shook it. “I picked up your information and references from the Swordsmen’s Hall. I’m Torond Greensman, from Corom City.”

  Shellah took a sip of her ale, and motioned for him to share her bread and cheese. “Pleased to meet you. And your business, sir?”

  “My mistress is currently here in Northport, and requires traveling companions for her protection. As you have likely heard, the Reavers have been seen in the High Fells and up north. Her business will take her to the Shielings. We are looking for someone knowledgeable about the Isles.”

  “Interesting time to be traveling to the Shielings,” Shellah said. “If her business can wait a few weeks, the main merchant fleet will be back in port, and she could sail in more comfort and safety to Dun Darlow. It will be their first stop on the summer route,” she suggested. “And the King’s Muster will have suppressed any banditry or piracy ahead of the fleet.”

  “Alas, her business to Dun Darlow is more urgent,” said Torond. “And she might need to visit another of the Isles as well. We do need someone with local knowledge. And I think she would be pleased to have a swordswoman as her protection. She’s from Corom City, and expects a certain level of decorum.”

  The barkeep brought stewed game hens and spring greens to the table for the two of them, as well as more bread and cheese. He topped off their mugs with his pitcher of ale.

  Shellah thought of Jonas’s comment earlier about weird gigs, and also of her knitting upstairs in her little room. “May I meet your mistress? I’d like to get some more information about her errands in the Shielings, to see if I can help with what she’s looking to find there, and also to see if we’re compatible.” She laughed. “I’ve been on the road for a long time, and am typically merchant security, not a personal bodyguard. Even though I’d like to think I’m respectable, a fine lady of Corom City might not agree.”

  Torond Greensman pushed back his chair and stood. “Of course.” He slid her a slip of paper, on which Shellah could see a Northport address for an inn much nicer than Cooper’s. “We might need some additional protection, if you know of anyone. Can’t be too careful with the Reavers. Please meet me there at the second watch bell tomorrow morning.”

  Shellah nodded. “Tomorrow, then. Nice to meet you, Mr. Greensman.”

  “You as well, Miss Skyfast. I will look forward to tomorrow. And if you know of another swordsman who’s respected and available for hire immediately, please bring them. As our errand is pressing, our coin is very good.”

  Shellah watched Torond pull his cloak around himself. He had an economy of motion which made her wonder if her potential client already had professional protection. She returned to her meal and listened to the din of the pub around her. Talk of Reavers, bandits, trade goods piling up in the warehouses on the wharf. Talk of the merchant fleet being late to port. Talk of the King’s Muster. She finished her ale and wondered why anyone would have an urgent errand to the Shielings, especially now. She fingered the dwindling assortment of coins in her purse. There would be ample time to enlist Jonas at the Swordsman’s Guild in the morning before meeting their next boss at the second bell.