The Legend of Smokin' Sally

“You want to hear the story of Smokin’ Sally?” the woman asked across the table.

The brute opposite was unimpressed. His heavy jaw twisted into a gurn. The knife brandished in his hand shook with frustration.

She was unphased by the weapon and leant back in her chair, showing she carried neither blade nor gun. The only fire and smoke brandished by this woman came from the pipe that illuminated her dark eyes. Tendrils of wispy smoke curled about her face as she drew on it, they caressed her smooth cheeks like the claws of a demon.

“You can tell me any story you want, princess,” the man grunted. “You aren’t going anywhere. And I’ll still get my money.”

“Good,” she said, her voice relaxed as she exhaled. “I hope you’re ready?”

***

“You aren’t leaving us alone with him, are you?” Sally said, her Tarwassian accent blazoning across the bay. She had to crane her neck back to stare Narry in the eye, but he shrivelled under her authority.

“GarBoswin knows what he’s doing. For Saviour’s sake, you of all people should appreciate that.”

Sally’s nostrils flared. “Don’t you dare give me that nonsense. You know my husband was no coward. Carwen GarBoswin is a liar and a fraud.”

“Aye, that he might be. But he’s the only one of us who can shoot straight.”

Lunging to her right, Sally blocked Narry’s attempt to break past. She jabbed a strong finger into his woollen jerkin. Her red hair flickered like flames from the motion.

“It’s the man who shoots, not the gun. Having a flintlock doesn’t mean he’s a marksman; GarBoswin can’t even see straight, let alone shoot straight.”

“It doesn’t matter, lass. He certainly isn’t coming fishing.”

Narry barged her aside. Sally was tempted to swipe back at him but knew it would only land her in more trouble. She watched as he skipped frightfully down the ramp to the pebble beach where Herv CamHelm waited with the other men by the fishing boats.

Sally watched as they pushed the small boats into the surf and hoisted the small lateen sails. Till they returned the following morning, Carwen GarBosin would be the only man on Skry.

“Saviour give me strength,” Sally grumbled before turning and heading up the track to the village. She kicked one of the thousands of pebbles that formed the beach, her sealskin shoe provided little protection for her toes. “Son of the Lord!” she cursed.

The high cliffs bounced the crashing of the waves back at her, Sally looked up to the top of the cliff, where the crane arm swung out over the drop, and saw the other women waving their brightly coloured ribbons. Childish fools, she thought, hoping they hadn’t heard her.

Hoisting her skirt, she stepped onto the hacked-out track that twisted up the cliff face. Sally had to keep her eyes down to avoid tripping as she climbed. Seeing small rocks sliding down from above, she looked up just in time to see a boy charging towards her.

“Watch yourself, wee lad!” Sally shouted. “There isn’t enough room to—”

The boy didn’t slow, and Sally was forced to press her stomach into the sandy rocks to avoid spilling him over the edge. His shrieks of joy rang in her ears before he dropped onto the beach and out of view.

Sally made a mental note to take it up with Mard CamHelm, the boy’s mother. It wasn’t fair that the other children had to work, while that Lordspawn ran around like a maniac. She tutted and tried to brush the grit from the front of her woollen dress, the dirt had soaked in to add to the patchwork of other stains.

Although fit, she laboured for breath by the time she reached the top. Sweat glazed her forehead, running streaks through the caked dust. The other women had turned back from their customary send off and were sauntering back towards the village. The gaggle eyed Sally with disgust and whispered to one another.

She pretended she didn’t care and charged straight through their ranks to march at their head. Their protests following in her wake.

“Filthy rat catcher,” one of them said to her back.

Sally wheeled. The fury in her eyes cut the women down like a scythe. “You best watch what you say. Aye, we’re rat catchers, you witches gave us no choice. But my Berrart taught me well; if it wasn’t for us, you’d all be up to your silken arses in the bastard vermin. Maybe I should leave you to their mercy, Saviour knows you deserve no better.”

Before they could answer, she walked off. Refusing to let them see the tears in her eyes at referring to her husband as if he were still alive.

Skry hardly supported its claim as a village. There were less than forty people who lived there and nine of those were children, if you counted Adelace who would soon become an adult.

Although the women called Skry the most pristine village in all of Skry. Their houses were all tightly clad and perfectly whitewashed, the slate shingles all hung in unison. They even had The Hook and Anchor, what they called the village tavern. Sally wasn’t welcome there either, which she didn’t mind as it was really only the outhouse of CamHelm’s which they used to entertain the villagers.

She approached their large home, it was square to the street of lesser houses that led up to it. To its left ran the path up to the Stormhold, where they were expected to wait out any raids, and the well. A track the opposite direction led to Sally’s hovel, which clung to the rocky hillocks that climbed to the islands summit. Every day she was forced to walk past the CamHelm manor house on her way home.

“Lord take them all,” she cursed, not caring who heard her.

She walked through the opening between the CamHelm house and the Sanders on her right.

“The Lord will take you, Sally Vanclaret.” The voice was gravelly, like the Lord of Death himself. It came from behind her in the shadows of the Sanders woodshed. “But not if I take you first.”

She leapt forwards, almost into a sprint down the path and to the safety of her home. Resisting the urge, she turned to face her assailant. “Mind your tongue, GarBoswin. Or I might cut it out and feed it to the pigs.”

“You’re a nasty wee squid, lassy.” GarBoswin stumbled from the darkness. His greasy long hair hung over his face, but through the tendrils his eyes were redder than the faded jacket he wore.

“You’re drunk. Keep your distance.”

GarBoswin staggered closer towards her. His unkempt cheeks lifted to reveal yellowed teeth. Another step brought him close enough for Sally to be able to smell the embersnap brandy on his breath.

“Only a coward like you would drink that continental piss. Your rotten stories have turned everyone, including Narry, against us.”

A low groan issued from the drunk as he took another step. His arm whipped forward. “I’ll teach you, I’ll tan your bloody arse!”

Sally dodged the hand that grabbed for her dress with nimble speed. GarBoswin was thrown by his own momentum and his legs kicked wildly behind him as the dirt collided with his face. She took the opportunity to put her boot on his neck and pressed.

She leant down to whisper to him. “If you ever try to touch me again, I’ll cut your balls off and make a purse out of them.”

Without further concern, she turned back to her path and hoisted her skirt up.

“You’ll regret that, you bitch,” GarBoswin called after her, spitting onto the mud. “I’ll make you suffer. Just like your bastard husband suffered!”

Sally had to resist the urge to go back and finish the job. She knew her husband was no coward, something had never sat right with her about GarBoswin’s tale of his death. There was no chance in the depths that the drunken cretin had saved her Berrart.

There was something odd about that whole day, when GarBoswin and Narry stepped onto the pebbled shore and the Marinian Navy frigate turned its stern on him.

Narry had only given her Berrart’s bloodied crimsonjacket, his empty haversack, ammunition pouch, and his flintlock musket with its nineteen-inch bayonet. His duskdial amulet and ivory razor blade were missing. Narry said he’d found Carwen and Berrart next to each other when the regiments had rolled in to relieve the ambushed trade convoy. Carwen was the only survivor, having dragged the two of them into the woods, although too late for Berrart.

***

“It’s alright,” Adelace said.

“No,” Sally replied from her threadbare chair beside the collapsed hearth. “You shouldn’t have to go hungry, lass. This isn’t right.”

“It’s fine, honestly. Let’s share?”

Sally’s glistening eyes reflected the dwindling light of the fire. It was hard to afford enough wood to cook their meals, let alone to heat them through the night. Sally hated having to put Adelace through such misery, it was no life for a young girl.

“Here, sis, take half at least.” Adelace used her long fingers to tear the hard loaf into two. She beamed like a princess when she tossed it through the dank room into Sally’s lap. “And its too cold not to have any of this broth, I’ll ladle you a bowl.”

“Its hardly a broth,” Sally said, struggling to keep her voice from breaking. “Its hot water and mackerel bones. Tomorrow, I shall go and find us some real food. You will feast like the queen you are, my dear. Even if I have to rob CamHelm’s larder for it.”

“Why do you hate them so much?”

“Who?”

Adelace giggled. “I could say all of them, but I mean the CamHelms.”

“Don’t get me started, lass,” Sally said, although she started anyway. “Herv and Mard are the ones that got us into this mess. Those two look down on the world and see me at the bottom of it.” She ripped a chunk from the bread with her teeth and chewed with her mouth open. “It was them that decided Berrart was only good enough to hunt rats, even after I swore to the Lord of Death his Dusking days were over.”

“I forget Arty used to be a Dusker,” Adelace spoke with a soft smile. She had been too young to be involved with her family’s lucrative smuggling operation.

“There’s a lot about our Berrart that you don’t know.” Sally laughed and nearly choked on the bread. The malty flavour dried her mouth and she sipped from a clay cup. “He became the best damned rat catcher this side of the Kintamba, just to show those silken arsed fools up. How I miss him.”

The whole room became darker for a split second, as the wind gushed down the crooked chimney stack to strangle the fire.

“I miss him too,” Adelace said, her gaze dropping between her raggedy shoes.

“Which is why tomorrow I’m gonna get us a meal worthy of the Dusker princess you are.”

“That’s the spirit, sis.” Adelace lit up, bringing a bitter sweetness to Sally’s heart. “Come and pull yourself closer to the fire, we can wrap up and watch it dance.”

Sally dropped the musket into the corner, Berrart had carved her initials into its stock and she oiled it every night in remembrance. She grabbed an extra blanket from the shelf, then wrapped it around them both as she plonked onto the creaky cot. Putting an arm around the girl, she pulled the young Dusker’s head to rest on her shoulder. So that they could both watch the light and shadow play across the walls and listen to the wind whistle through the cracks as they drifted off to sleep.

***

The oars sliced through the waves like a sharp knife through skin. The blood-red sail was furled, and the spar rested at the foot of the mast. It was only small boat, even by Thyorn standards, but it was packed with fired up warriors.

The mist covered their approach through the night, their seerstone allowed them to find the moon through the thick clouds.

Hersker Sidjernsköld leaned on the tiller arm. His body absorbed the force of the sea, he let it guide him through the deep troughs. Hersker had ridden the waves for over a decade, since he was a small boy on his father’s lap. He lived for this feeling.

They approached a small cove on an outrider of the Soft Isles, they had already raided the northern shores of the Greenlanders on the continent, Skry would make a good place to fill the rest of their hold.

They would sleep in the shelter of the high cliffs and wait for the break of dawn. Then Hersker would unleash his raiders in a storm of fire.

***

During the night, Sally had wrapped her portion of the blankets around Adelace to keep her from the encroaching cold, so she woke with aches in her arms and legs. But she brushed the numbness off and made straight for the door. When she opened it the sun blinded her, it burnt away the nights fog with ease to paint the sky gold.

“What are you doing?” Adelace grumbled and the pile of rags on the chair shifted.

“Like I said last night, I’m going to go find us something decent to eat.”

“Wait, I will come with you.”

Sally bolted through the doorway and slammed it behind her, fearing the crashing wood and clanging latch would be followed by the sound of the entire hovel collapsing. She did not want Adelace seeing what she was about to do.

As she walked along the crooked path the wind plucked at her hair, as if it were trying to pull her over the cliff edge and into the sea. The peat wafted down on the breeze and covered the stench of her clothes.

It was far too early for the village to have stirred, Sally didn’t want to be seen by anyone. The dawn gave just enough light for her to see, although her lids were heavy from the lack of sleep.

She stifled a yawn as she approached the rear of CamHelm’s house. There was barely a noise, the distant sound of a gatepost rattling was all that accompanied the gull’s early cries. She crouched low and stepped up off the track and vaulted the fence that marked out what the CamHelm’s had deemed their personal turf, her dress snagged on a knot and Sally nearly plummeted onto her hands. “Cursed thing,” she grumbled as she stomped forward to regain balance.

Fearing the noise was too loud, she froze. She gazed into each window, marvelling at the pristine glass, and waited to see if any complaints would issue from them. None came.

There was no time to count her luck. She walked past the poppies and daisies in their neat rows and to the back porch that strutted forward form the rest of the house like a growth. Sally raised her knuckles up to the thin glass to take aim. She pulled her arm back and took a deep breath, fear caused her empty stomach to feel nauseous.

“Come on, lass, this isn’t about you. This is for Lacey.”

The words steadied her, and she clapped her knuckles against the glass. Knocking lightly and standing back to wait for an answer.

***

“Up,” Hersker whispered. He nudged the nearest man as he crawled up the boat. He gave three sharp knocks to the rorswood helmet of another warrior. “You wanted to raid. Gradiged, you can be the first one I cast into the sea. The sun will show soon. Up, lazy dogs.”

The six men grudgingly obeyed their prince. They crawled out of their fur cloaks like dragons from eggs. They were the prince’s personal entourage so could afford full suits of rorswood and all had at least one obsidiron weapon by their side. The volcanic wood was resistant to heat and as hard as rock, it made lightweight armour that could stop a bullet. All of them slept in their rorswood, in case they were caught unawares by the Soft Isles’s navy. Nobody wanted to be woken by a musket ball in the night.

Hersker had known them all since childhood. Mod and Grine were roughly his age, the three of them had been on many adventures back in Yderstjørn. Learning the arts of sea and war from Gammel, the oldest man in their raiding party. The white haired warrior had warned them against the raid, stating that the King wouldn’t approve. However, the nags and taunts of the younger men had been too much for Hersker to refuse.

“Man the oars, Uklokt can steer us in.”

“Not Uklokt,” Gradiged growled as he barrelled his way to the forward oars. “He will get us lost again, he’s a fool.”

“No,” Hersker said, “he is learning, just like we all are.”

“I won’t row for that pup.”

“Then you shall guide us form the prow.” Hersker glared through the obsidiron guards of his helmet, his eyes burnt like volcanoes.

Gradiged made no apology. But he plonked himself down on the bench and thread an oar through the rowlock.

“Good. Let’s get this done with. The whole cask of Gronbukt pipe weed goes to the first man up the beach.”

***

“What do you want?” Mard hissed through the crack in the doorway. “You almost woke the whole damned house.”

“I’m sorry,” Sally said. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

She hesitated before saying the rest, she twisted the toes of her sealskin boots into the mud and brushed back her long hair.

“I’m worried about Adelace, the poor girl is starving, though she would never admit it.”

“Adelace? This is about that charlatan?” Mard’s tone picked up more of her natural Tarwassian edge.

“She’s only a girl.” Sally ground her teeth to stop her saying more. “This isn’t about me, or Gerrart, this is about—”

“Don’t even mention that dastardly name.” Mard gave a shudder and her hands rattled the door against its hinges. She looked ready to brace in case Sally tried rushing her, clearly expecting nothing less. “That man was a good for nothing rogue.”

“He was not.” Sally took a breath, trying to calm her anger, barely managing to tether it down. “You’re only jealous because your husband is a fat boar, and Gerrart looked and acted like a real man.”

Mard hooted. “Please, he was a Dusker. A smuggler and a thief. I wouldn’t have trusted him with a bean.”

Sally grew sick of debating her husband’s qualities, knowing his past didn’t taint his character. “Look, can you just give me something to feed Adelace? Please. I know you and Herv don’t struggle for such. I’m beggin’ you.” The last words left a sour taste on Sally’s tongue.

The look in Mard’s eye gave nothing away, her lips pursed in clear enjoyment at Sally’s declaration of subordination. Her black hair was ruffled and gave the appearance of a witch debating which child to eat first. “No.”

Sally laughed disbelievingly. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not doling you out for your mistakes, Sally Vanclaret. I’d much rather see you have to scoop out the troughs in the pig’s pen, which you deserve.”

“At least give us the wages due, so that we can—"

The high-pitched cackles could be heard over the slammed door. Sally fumed.

***

Refusing to give up, Sally dragged herself through the bracken and heather that clung to the rocky interior of the island. She grumbled under her breath as she went, barely watching where she stood as she seethed over Mard’s dismissal of Adelace’s condition.

“That wee bitch,” she spat as her boot squelched into a sludgy patch of moss. The splits in the sealskin let in the moisture and she felt her toes go cold. She yanked it free of the bog and shook it drier with each step.

The wind whipped at her tattered frock like a clawing wolf, although it was a clear day and the sunlight was intense, it was cold. She was looking out for marsh samphire, or any other plants she could forage.

From the higher ground she could see down towards the village, the houses looked like children’s toys at this distance. The wooden stormhold looked crude and ugly in the foreground. Sally sniggered at the thought of Mard’s annoyance when it had been constructed. The Crimsonjackets had insisted it was built during the War, to protect them from Thyorn raiders.

She imagined the evil marauders storming Skry, it sent a chill down the parts of her back the icy breeze couldn’t reach. The tiny figures that shuffled between the buildings would be cut down with little effort, those that reached the stormhold wouldn’t be safe. Sally had seen once before the wooden tower’s succumb to their biggest flaw. The Thyorn would roast those inside alive.

The memory was too much and she pushed it form her mind. She twisted her neck away from the settlement and looked out to the blue sea that glittered in the sun. Her gaze settled where the land ended abruptly over the Northern Cliffs.

Instantly she knew how stupid she’d been to wrestle with the marshy highlands, when an abundance of saltgarlic grew on the sheep pastures below. If she was lucky she might spot some early signs of gullsroot too, then there would be a real feast for Adelace if she dared to climb down and get it.

Beaming brighter than the sun, Sally strolled downhill; finding her progress easier as the ground became firmer and the grass shorter.

***

“Sally,” the call came faintly.

Sally’s head pricked up behind the shrubs like a startled deer. Her mind took a moment to catch up and her eyes swayed as the blood rushed from her head.

The stench of garlic was released as she scrunched up the herbs and bundled them into a pocket. The smell clung to her hands and when she swept aside her dark hair form her face she nearly gagged.

She searched the barren landscape that stretched down towards the village. There was no sign of life other than three shaggy sheep.

The shout came again, clearer this time and from behind her. “Sally, where are you?”

It was Adelace, she marched over the rise to the east, where the far side of the small island rose from the crashing waves. Her arms wrapped about the blue dress she wore, the linen sleeves provided little protection from the cold sea air.

“What are you doing, lass?” Sally called up to her.

“I was going to ask you the same question.” Adelace’s cheeks tightened when she saw Sally in crouched in the grass. “Have you decided to become a rabbit?”

Sally furrowed her brow but could hardly stop herself laughing. “No. I’m gathering some herbs. Then I thought I’d see if I could get down the cliffs and find some young shoots of gullsroot.”

“Gullsroot?”

“Aye, lass. There is much for you to learn.” Sally pulled herself off the ground and her knees were covered in black mud. “You can roast the root, it’s a wee bit starchy, but tastes good.”

“And why is it called gullsroot?”

Sally was reluctant to share that knowledge if she was about to make Adelace eat some. “Now, why are you wandering the island looking for the Lord’s doorway?”

“I was looking for you. You left in such a hurry this morning, I was worried sick.”

It isn’t your job to be worrying about me, girl.”

Adelace stomped to a halt in front of Sally, she planted her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “I ain’t no girl anymore, sis. And somebody has to look after you, seen as you don’t.”

“Its me who should be looking after you.” Sally lifted a hand up to Adelace to stop her from speaking, the Dusker’s expression loosened as she was overpowered by the garlic fumes. “Adelace, I appreciate your concern, and I know you’re growing up, so lets just look after one another, ey, lass?”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll start by making sure you get a wash later.”

“Very funny,” Sally said, turning to avoid showing her smirk. “come and help me look for some shoots.”

She took her sister-in-law by the arm and shepherded her towards the cliff. She felt how cold and frail Adelace was through her dress and was determined to find enough food to put some fat on her bones.

“Now, you’re looking for long, thin stalks that stick out form the crags. When you’ve found those, look to see if there are any short ones near them, these will still have chunky enough roots to make the climb worthwhile.”

The excitement on Adelace’s face at the challenge was plain to see. Her eyes scoured the rocky outcrops and ledges for the plant.

Sally found one straight away, not too far down. “You keep looking. No, those ones won’t do,” she said, following Lacey’s finger. “We need the really young ones. Have a look further round.”

She left the girl to slowly step along the cliff edge, peering down the sheer surface to the waves that smashed the rocks below into oblivion. Sally took a handful of long grass in each hand, wrapping the silky fronds around her fingers, and lowered herself over the precipice.

When she sighted Adelace in her periphery she almost heaved with laughter and lost her hold. A gormless look was on her face as she searched meticulously with her eyes.

Sally forced herself to concentrate and found a firm footing under her right boot. She tested it by pressing the sole into the foothold and was satisfied it could hold her. Letting go with her left hand, she stooped down and reached out towards the stumpy plant that was caked in seagull faeces.

It was just beyond the reach of her fingertips. She stood back up, shifted her feet a little and made to lean in for another try.

Looking along her arm she saw Adelace on the clifftop above, further along was the irregular rock face, then beyond that she expected the empty sea; but it wasn’t empty.

“Adelace!” she roared, forgetting the gullsroot and heaving herself back up. Several fronds tore loose with a creak that terrified her, but enough held firm to allow her to drag herself over the lip. “Adelace, run!”

***

Beating against the wind around the headland came a black sea dragon. Its head reared defiantly from the white spray that swept up its flanks.

Hersker rowed with all his might, expecting each of his men to do the same. Although he’d ordered his men to silence as they approached the beach, he sung A She Wolf of Fire in his head to keep pace.

Through his eye guard he saw Uklokt with his attention fixed forward. As the bow of the vessel crested another wave, the boy pulled on the tiller to guide the boat easily down into the next trough.

He could see the gulls diving down from their perches on the rocky walls to circle above.

“Not long now,” cried Gammel.

“I can see the beach.” Uklokt squatted up to look over the rowers’ bobbing heads. “I can’t see any boats, are you sure this is it?”

“I know how to navigate,” Gammel spat, his voice deepening as it boomed from within his cheek guards. “This is it; their men have likely taken the boats to sea.”

It will be easy pickings, boys.” Gradiged cackled and the gulls screeched in response and wheeled away.

Hersker sensed an edge of cruelty in the laughter. “Everyone, just make sure you stay focused on the prize.”

“This isn’t our first raid,” Gradiged said.

If he hadn’t been rowing, Hersker would have turned and cast the insolent fool overboard. “Your first raid was less than a week ago, just like the rest of us. Only Gammel knows the real dangers of these wild islanders.”

Nobody else spoke as the boat was directed around the last headland and towards the bay, they were saving their breath.

Hersker risked a glance over his shoulder, feeling his neck muscles stretch as he bent into the oar. The jagged rocks began to give way to a stretch of pebbles. It wouldn’t be long now.

***

“What do we do?” The panic was as clear in Adelace’s voice as it was in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” Sally answered, trying to hide her own fear.

She took the girl by the arm and dragged her away form the cliff edge, fearing the eyes that sat within the shadows of those dark, gnarled helmets.

Adelace began to tremble and her lip quivered, but she didn’t let herself whimper or cry. “We need to warn the others.”

“Yes,” Sally said, her mind numb. “Yes, of course. Let’s go!”

They hitched up their skirts and skipped through the long grass before reaching the flatter grazing land where they sprinted so that their hair whipped flapped behind them like the tails of horses. The ground was soft underfoot, both of them slipped at some point, almost tumbling down the slope. But they made good ground and the homes of the villager’s quickly rose up to greet them.

Adrenaline pumped through Sally’s veins: her heart beat with a strong determination, her breathing came smoothly, and her mind became as sharp as a cavalryman’s sabre. “Right, you need to get everybody to the stormhold.” Sally choked as she suggested it. She glanced over to the structure, it was about fifteen feet high and each of its four sides was no bigger than a barn door. The infamous axes of the Thyorn would make short work of its timber walls, if they decided to show mercy. “But not you, I need you to gather all the weapons you can carry and meet me by the crane.”

Adelace looked concerned at the prospect.

“Did you get that, lass?”

“Aye,” Adelace said, the word sounding strange in her Dusker accent.

“Then go.” A stab of pain struck Sally’s heart as the girl turned to go. “Adelace,” she called after her, “stay safe.”

Sally dashed between the CamAsgair and the Dubhan residences and onto the main thoroughfare.

Her intent was to race to her shack and retrieve Berrart’s musket and kit, with the intention of reaching the top of the track to the beach and holding the bottleneck as best as she could.

But when she came level with GarBoswin’s house, she stumbled to an involuntary halt.

The shouts of Adelace could already be heard behind as she beat her fist on doors and cajoled the inhabitants into the street.

Sally knew she couldn’t fight off a Thyorn raid single handed, for any of them to stand a chance she needed help.

Any reluctance she had at asking Carwen melted away under the urgency of the situation. She didn’t even knock, the wood of the door crashed against her shoulder and flew open, spilling the interior with light.

Sally thought her shack looked like a keg of gunpowder had met a candle in it, at least it was clean. “GarBoswin?” she called into the dimness. “Are you living in this shit tip?”

She stepped forward and her toe clouted into something heavy which went clinking across the floor. The brown bottle clattered into a cluster of others on the far side of the room. The noise was enough to announce her entrance.

“Carwen, where are you?” She scraped her sole across the floor and felt the layers of dust give way, she almost wretched at the stench of sour alcohol and damp that clouded the room.

Her eyes adjusted to the lack of light and her heart leapt. GarBoswin sat against the wall and looked directly at her, his flintlock aimed at her. She froze.

The seconds dragged on, her stomach tightened. Sally waited for him to either shout his demands at her, or shoot.

Nothing happened.

His breathing came gently and rhythmically in the silence. The noise of panic was distant beyond the walls of this forgotten hole.

Sally stole over the floor, placing her feet with care to avoid any obstacles. As she neared it became clear his mouth was agape, with drool hanging form the corner, and his eyes were fast shut.

She lowered her face to his to check it was no mean trick.

GarBoswin shifted suddenly and Sally flinched away with a gasp. The scruffy man belched before nuzzling his head back onto his shoulder. He snored like a boar.

An acrid odour permeated through the dense air and hit Sally powerfully in the face. “GarBoswin, you waste of good powder.”

She snatched the flintlock from his grasp and expected the movement to wake him. It only caused him to slump sideways to rest his head against the corner wall.

A crash outside captured her attention, she realised there was no more time to waste on the drunkard. Sally bent down and put a reassuring hand on the shoulder of his crimson jacket. “Carwen,” she whispered, before realising he needed waking more immediately and prepared to shout at him.

The top buttons of his coat were undone and his greying chest hair fluffed out in a repulsive cascade. Something within the nest glinted and drew her eye. It was a round amulet with a triangular wing protruding from its centre towards its top. It looked like a Coranimian sundial, except Sally knew it wasn’t for measuring the time of day.

“You wee bastard,” she hissed.

Another crash outside.

“Get off me,” Adelace’s shout echoed through the door.

Sally twisted upright and shot out into the open, the musket in hand. “What’s going on?”

“I was trying to get everybody to the stormhold,” Adelace answered, “but—”

“But, we don’t take orders from criminals,” Mard interrupted. The woman had Adelace gripped by the arm and squeezed painfully. She paraded her captive in front of her manor like a lord who’d caught a pickpocket.

The other women trudged back down from the stormhold to see what the commotion was, although Sally was thankful the children were kept inside by Dianne Sanders. Sally feared the rest would be bickering when the Thyorn arrived and be easy prey. “You all need to get to the tower. Now.”

Her confidence caused a few ladies to step back, before Mard leered at them and brought them to heel.

“Why should we listen to you?” Mard said, tilting her head back to show what she thought of Sally.

“Because,” Sally answered, “a boatload of Thyorn raiders are off the north shore and I don’t think your haggard gurn will be enough to turn them away.”

“And so is the Winterwurm, I imagine?” Mard raised a wispy eyebrow and her teal bonnet fluttered with her own amusement. “There hasn’t been a Thyorn seen in these islands for nearly thirty years.”

Sally stepped forward and Mard flinched, although she stopped herself from retreating unlike the other women. But Sally wasn’t aiming for any of them. She skirted their group and started down the track to her home.

“Where are you going?” Mard called after her, releasing Adelace.

“I don’t have time for this.” Sally stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “I couldn’t give a damn if those seal fuckers brutally raped and murdered every single one of you. But I’m going to get my flintlock and make sure none come near me without me blasting their cocks off first. Adelace, you know what to do.”

Sally hoisted the ammunition pouch higher onto her back and walked on. Regretting that she had given the chance of retrieving Berrart’s duskdial to hear Mard’s attempt to lord over the island.

“Don’t listen,” Mard barked to the other women, although the conviction was lost under the high pitch. “That mad cow has been twisted by Duskers.”

Her words made no impact on the crowd. They were already scurrying back up towards the stormhold. Mard gave one last spiteful glare to Adelace, however couldn’t hide the terror that reigned at the thought of Thyorn raiders. She hurryied after her sheep.

***

Hersker laughed as the boat fought against the breaking waves to reach the shore. Its shallow draught scraped gently on the pebbles a couple of times before the grinding noise of the shore announced the vessel had beached.

His men had worked hard to propel the boat against the wind and around the headland, but they were all strong and none had broken a sweat.

“Out,” Uklokt ordered.

The raiders sprung to their feat and reached for their weapons.

Hersker planted one hand on the gunwale before launching his body over the side. Water sprayed up his armour to spot it a dark charcoal cover. His boots soaked up the cold water and sank, he found solid footing on the stones and strode out of the surf and onto the beach.

“No resistance whatsoever,” Gradiged yelled. The warrior hefted his axe in both hands, neglecting his shield for the extra power.

Hersker debated if he should order the warrior to take his shield, but when Mod threw his back into the boat, he realised it would win him no favours. “Stay with each other, I don’t want any risks.”

“We know,” Oksøye shouted. He was keen and already halfway to the foot of the cliff; no doubt thinking of the pipe leaf on offer.

Gammel held out a hand to stop Uklokt chasing after him. “Careful, gutt.”

“Leave the boy be,” Grine heckled the old man. “There is nothing to fear.”

A crack resounded from the cliffs. Hersker thought it was a landslide at first, the noise rumbled over their heads. He searched for Oksøye but with no success.

Another boom exploded across the cove. A blunt smack struck up from the stones next to them.

“Get up the beach,” Hersker growled. “Now!”

***

It hadn’t taken long for Sally to retrieve Berrart’s musket and kit. She hadn’t spent long in the shack before running back towards the town. She now had two flintlock muskets.

GarBoswin’s needed oiling but was serviceable and Berrart’s was in prime condition. They weighed heavily in her arms as she ran and by the time she trotted up the main street her muscles tore in agony.

“Sally,” Adelace called from inside the Netter’s doorway. “I’ve found some wheellocks and a rusted flintlock, but not much. Sorry.”

Sally plodded to a halt, her blouse heaved from the effort of her lungs and her eyes stung from sweat. She was alive, however, and so wouldn’t complain. “Don’t be sorry, lass. You’ve done a grand job.”

“Mard wouldn’t let me into her house.” Adelace charged from the doorway, the musket bundled in her arm awkwardly. “She locked the door and I was scared of her.”

“Don’t worry, girl. This will do.” Sally hoped her words would prove true, she propped her own hoard of weapons with the others.

Despite the rush, she took a second to look deep into her sister-in-law’s eyes and brushed a reassuring hand through her hair.

“I hope it doesn’t come to it, but if I say so you run. Got that?”

Adelace opened her mouth.

Sally lifted her other hand to the girl’s cheek. “No arguments.”

“But, you said we needed to look after each other.”

“Not this time.” Sally’s tone was firm but broken by the pain the thought caused her. “You run for dear life, lass. And not to the stormhold, you run to the Skrytop and you hide. Only come out when you see Narry return.”

Adelace said nothing.

“Understood?” Sally said.

The girl nodded.

Sally picked up the two flintlocks and one of the wheellocks. Leaving the other two wheellocks and the rusted flintlock to Adelace.

She sprinted as fast as her weary legs would carry her along the street. When she was clear of the last house she swung to her right, away from the track to the beach. The climb stretched her thighs tight to the point they burnt. But she willed them on and made it to the shelter of the drum of the wooden crane.

Adelace dropped to her knees next to her. Their breathing was laboured and sounded like the bellows in a Paxton foundry.

Sally had glimpsed the boat approaching the beach as she ran but didn’t pay too much attention, knowing it would only encourage her fears to take hold. The images of her childhood sparked in her mind; tall, powerful monsters clambering through a dark fog, their weapons sucking in the torchlight as if they were created from darkness itself.

She had cowered under a lobster pot then, told by her mother to come out for no reason. The smoke had gotten too much for her though, and she did leave the safety. Through the flames of the burning houses she had staggered, coughing on the stench of roasted flesh, until she found the remnants of her own home.

Sally pulled herself from the memory into the present. There was no hope for her down that lane. However, if she was brave this time, there was hope for Adelace. Catching her breath, Sally looked into the Dusker’s peridot eyes: there was always hope.

“Make sure these are loaded,” she said to the girl with a final smile.

Without any more hesitation, she took up Berrart’s Paxton Pattern Flintlock Musket and crawled out from behind the drum and to the lip of the cliff.

Her heart floundered, her instinct made her shrink back. She became aware of a chattering at the back of her head and realised it was her teeth.

Down below, the Thyorn had reached the beach.

Their gnarled armour and fur cloaks made her think of the pictures of the Lord of Death in Tomas Carter’s Book of the Saviour. They looked horrifying and demonic. She detected their crude shouts carried on the wind. She mouthed a silent prayer to the saviour to make them turn around and leave.

No sooner had the thought escaped her, one of the beasts leapt from the boat and charged across the pebbles. There was no hope from the Saviour for Sally Vanclaret.

She’d expected the attack to scare the wits out of her. But a strange calmness descended on her as the cock resisted her hands and was ground backwards with a reassuring click. Berrart had taught her well: she knew how to shoot and at this distance the Thyorn looked nothing bigger than rats.

The charging raider hefted a black axe over his head as he approached the top of the beach. His head was exposed to the elements and his pale skin made it easy to line up the musket’s sights.

Sally traced ahead of the Thyorn’s path and gently squeezed the trigger.

Her heart jolted when sparks flashed by her cheek and the tongue of flame stabbed from the barrel. A thunderous noise clapped her ears. Within seconds an acrid, salty taste overwhelmed her senses, smoke billowed over her head, carried away form the sea by the morning breeze.

There would have been no chance of seeing if she’d hit anything if she’d looked, but Sally didn’t care. She had already tossed the musket to Adelace and plucked up the nearest loaded gun.

It was the rusted flintlock, and she half expected it to misfire. The mechanism worked a treat, however the flint shattered on impact and she had rushed the shot. The sharp clatter of stones below told her what she already knew.

The pack of beasts around the boat were shaken into action. Like wolves they howled and scurried up the pebbled beach towards the cliff. Sally was used to the rats running after the first shot and for a moment her calm mind became clouded.

“Pass me another, lass,” she called back, throwing the musket aside and stretching her arm back.

Adelace scraped the ramrod free from a wheellock and tossed it to Sally. The wooden stock bashed her hip as it fell.

Sally didn’t even register the pain. She manoeuvred the cumbersome object into her shoulder and levelled it towards the warband. She counted six heads, most covered by coal coloured helmets, four had large, round shields that created barricade. They advanced cautiously but already had reached the corpse of the first man.

The trigger lurched back as she was thinking. The wheel coughed inside the mechanism and the butt drove backwards into her shoulder. She caught the bullet hitting a shield and hoped it would blast through the wood. Yet, although the man stumbled from the blow, the shield deflected the bullet safely away.

“Bastard,” Sally hissed. Grabbing CamHelm’s flintlock.

She was careful with her movements and didn’t rush. But the smoothness of her actions allowed her to be fast. The cock clicked and she drew a bead on her target, aiming a little higher than the previous shot.

***

Hersker had no need to check if Oksøye was dead. His brains were splattered across the grey rocks like seaweed.

His arm ached from the impact of the bullet that hit his shield, but it had caused no damage to him or the rorswood. If a volcano couldn’t splinter the incredible material, then neither could a tiny stone.

When another shot had snatched Grine backwards, Hersker started to get angry. “Find the shooters and bring me their cocks!”

Grine’s death had opened up a hole in their wall and the men wavered in their advance to check on their brother.

Gammel stepped beside Hersker and overlapped their shields to protect his prince. The other three stooped beside Grine to watch as the man choked on the blood that welled at the wound in his gullet.

“We need to keep moving,” Hersker shouted.

As if to back up his words, a second bullet smashed into the leg of Mod, where the rorswood armour was only a slither. The wood shattered and the greave dropped to reveal a brutal wound that was a mess of splinters.

Mod fell to the ground and muted his groans, although it was clear from the whites of his eyes he was in agony. His shield rolled away, however he managed to keep his fingers tightly clamped around the handle of his shortsword.

Another shot split the air and blood fountained into the air from Mod’s head, it caught the morning sun like rubies.

***

Sally couldn’t bring herself to let the beast suffer, especially when using her husband’s weapon, she knew he shared her values on such matters. Only a small part of her believed the bullet to be a waste as she scored a precise hit on the downed man instead of one of his companions.

She shook her head at her own foolishness as the surviving attackers sprinted towards the shelter of the rocks beside the foot of the path off of the beach.

“The wee shits have gone to ground.” Sally rolled onto her back to give her aching arms a brief respite. “Load your brother’s first.”

Adelace dropped the wheellock and accepted the musket Sally handed over. “This one is loaded.”

“Aye, that’s a good lass,” Sally smiled at her. The gesture left an uncomfortable feeling in her gut, there was nothing to smile about. Four Thyorn still skulked below, threatening the lives of Sally, Adelace and the rest of the islanders.

She rolled back onto her front, bringing the musket to bear. There were no targets to be seen.

“They know the path is a bottleneck,” Sally said out of the side of her mouth. “They won’t try it: we have the advantage. Get those other guns loaded.”

A wailing sounded up from below, the noise of tears being shed from a terrified youngster. Sally would have needed to be as dumb as the Age of Darkness to think it came from a Thyorn.

She eased forward and peered over the precipice. “Saviour’s shit! It’s the wee CamHelm boy.”

***

Hersker perked up at the noise. Even Uklokt hadn’t cried like that since he was pricked with a grinwalder claw as a babe. There was a Softisler child on the beach.

Before he managed to spot the boy, Gradiged was already skirting the cliffs foot towards the noise.

“No,” Hersker shouted, “we did not come here to kill helpless children.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Gradiged called in answer. “That whelp is our driftwood off this rock.”

“You call yourself a man?” Hersker lifted himself up to chase after Gradiged, but Gammel pushed him back behind the rock.

“Stay here, my lord. I will stop Gradiged.” The old man darted from their sanctuary to be greeted by an explosion form above. Thankfully the bullet missed and Gammel reached the safety of the cliffs sheer slope next to Uklokt.

“What’s happening?” the youngster asked. Uklokt looked undeterred by the danger, but clearly felt confused at what action to take.

“Stay here, protect Hersker.”

“I thought this was supposed to be an easy raid, like the rest?”

Gammel ran on with a cascade of pebbles. His white hair fell from under his helmet and tangled into the aged fur at the collar of his cape. The old man was slower in the legs than Gradiged, but wasted no time in darting across the open to cut him off.

Hersker used the distraction to slip over to Uklokt. “This is the smallest island, Gammel said only a handful of people cling to existence on it. We should have caught them in bed and unprepared. Its all gone terribly wrong.”

Uklokt reacted with shock as Hersker dropped his chin into his chest. “Show some courage. You are the prince of the Thornrock, not some frightened rat.”

“Hold your tongue,” Hersker growled. He raised his stare to the youngster, showing the fire that blazed within. “I am not afraid, I only regret the loss of my brothers. As you should also.”

“Apologies, my lord.”

“It’s okay,” Hersker said. “Learn from folly.”

A shout caught their attention. Gammel had grabbed Gradiged from behind, barely fifteen yards from where the small boy cowered on a grey boulder. Gradiged twisted and shoved the old man backwards.

Gammel tripped on his feet and stumbled away from the cliff, a snap sounded above, and the ageing warrior was blown onto his back.

***

“The springs gone on this one,” Sally shouted. The wheellock was useless without a working mechanism. “Bastard sea air.” She stood and pulled her arm back, launching the weapon down to the beach like a javelin.

She had scored a direct hit on the raider’s chest plate and knocked him to the ground. The blow should have ripped through his heart and killed him outright. But the bullet had bounced off the armour as if Sally had merely tossed it at the target. The Thyorn lost his helmet as he writhed on the floor, winded but still breathing. He had long white hair and Sally could make out the wrinkles even from high up on the cliff.

“Quickly, pass me another.”

Adelace handed her back Berrart’s musket, she lined it up with the old man’s head but hesitated. It was enough for one of the other demon clad warriors to drag him back into the safety of the overhanging rocks. She released the trigger and looked for another target.

“Saviour help us,” Adelace gasped. “They’ve taken Derrk.”

Sally followed the girl’s finger to where the boy was been dragged from his stone tower. The largest of the brutish beasts had reached him. Sally felt her heart sink, they had lost the advantage.

A blade was held under the boys chin, the glass like edge shimmered as it cut into the fat of his neck.

“I knew that Lordspawn would be trouble.” Sally had the Thyorn in her sights, but the risk of hitting the boy was too high.

“Its not Derrk’s fault,” Adelace said with grit. “He’s just a kid.”

“Aye, you’re right. What was he doing down there anyway though?” Sally gave no chance for Adelace to answer. “Playing with fucking shells, that’s what.”

A fierce laugh vibrated from the cliff face to create a harrowing roar. The raider knew that he was safe from musket fire. As much as Sally despised the CamHelm’s she didn’t wish this on any of them.

“What do we do?” Adelace asked, the conviction falling from her voice like tender meat from the bone. “They’re taking him to their ship!”

“You do nothing. This is where you need to run.” Sally stepped away from the lip of the cliff to grab the girl by the cheeks. She looked dead into her eyes and spoke slowly. “You run now, you hear me? To the marshes, where you used to hide as a girl.”

“I’m not—”

“You bloody well are, lass.” Sally couldn’t help but smile at the Dusker’s strength. She pulled her into a quick embrace before casting her away with Berrart’s musket towards the long grass of the interior. “Take that and don’t look back.”

There were still four Thyorn raiders on the beach, Sally knew that was more than enough to turn Skry into ash. It seemed crazy but she had to try it anyway; she stooped and pulled on Berrart’s army belt with its bayonet, she used the bayonet to make quick and ruthless cuts to her dress, tearing away most of the skirt. Next she grabbed GarBoswin’s flintlock, and followed after Adelace for a few steps, smelling the flowers the girl wove into her hair. Sally stopped and turned.

Not wanting to give herself time to think, she burst into a run towards the cliff edge. The drop was too far to survive a fall. And her mind caught up with her stomach as she leapt from the tufted grass at the verge.

She only had one chance. Her free arm wind-milled in the air and she forced it forward against her instinct. The crane’s hook dangled teasingly in front of her face and she snatched for it. Her hand misjudged the distance and went too far.

The heavy hook slapped her hard in the cheek and her legs flew forward under her. She started to arc downwards, towards the pebbles underneath. She could hear the Lord whispering into her ear, death was close.

A scream escaped her lips, although she couldn’t hear it through the blood that pulsed through her ears.

Her hand came back around with her momentum and by the Saviour’s grace the hook snagged the cuff of her sleeve. The wool ripped but gave her enough time to latch her hand around the metal.

The sensation of falling stopped for a brief second, before the crane’s pulleys squealed to work. She plummeted straight down, at a steady, but still terrifying pace.

***

“The bitch can’t touch us,” Gradiged sneered, his laugh still echoing through the bay. “I told you this child was our way in.”

Hersker drive his fist forward, aiming for the stronger warrior’s jaw.

Gradiged ducked the blow with ease and sneered at his prince. He brought his helmet crashing down into Hersker’s face and sent him reeling backwards. “Jumped up prick, I don’t care who you are. Try that again and I will fillet you.”

“Gammel almost died trying to stop you.” Hersker spat out the blood that dribbled from his nose into his mouth.

“He shouldn’t have tried to stop me then.”

“Let the child go,” Hersker stabbed through the dark eye holes of Gradiged’s helmet in an attempt to break the man.

“You’re weak. You will make a terrible king.”

“Uklokt,” Gammel wheezed from where he was propped against the rocks, “go and stand with your prince.”

The youngster looked terrified at the prospect of opposing Gradiged.

A repetitive squeal from above made Herkser lift his head to the blue sky. At first he thought a Demansk had followed them from the North. He realised too late it was the defender of Skry.

The last thing he saw was the long gun swinging round and the solid butt racing towards his head.

***

Sally dropped from the hook and onto the first raider, they had been arguing over something and she’d been granted the benefit of surprise. She landed on his unconscious body like a hawk.

Towering above her was the menacing warrior who held Derrk in one arm. The Thyorn were much more terrifying up close. There charred armour appeared to smoke as they moved, and the gnarls of the wood combined with the thick fur they wore made them into real beasts.

A boot smacked into her and sent her flying onto the stones, pebbles shot out from the impact and several knocks sounded like the patter of grapeshot around her. Barely recovered, the raider swung down at her with his sword.

She parried with the musket, raising it high up in both arms, but the vicious weapon hacked into the musket and cut through wood and metal alike. Sally was only saved by the CamHelm boy biting into the exposed flesh of the raider’s arm, causing him to reel away and the blade to sing as it passed by her head to bury between the stones.

Another attacker was charging towards her from the cliff. A wispy beard fluttered from under the helmet and Sally took the halved musket and cocked it, praying to the saviour it would still work. She aimed the gun at the warrior and pulled the trigger. He disappeared in the plume of smoke, but no blade came through the powder smoke to end Sally.

The large warrior recovered, letting the boy escape to focus on the unexpected threat from the woman. Sally’s heart pounded as if wanting to escape her chest and her breathing came in haphazard bursts. In a panic she dropped the musket and scurried away on hands and knees.

***

The carefully folded material contrasted with the heap of salvaged rorswood and obsidiron in the boat’s bowels. Sally had been respectful to the dead warriors, she’d arranged them in a row on the pebbles, so that their faces looked up at the wonderful sky.

Adelace had gone straight to tend to the older man who struggled against the cliff.

“I think it was his heart,” the Dusker girl said. “There wasn’t a mark on his body. That armour is incredible.”

“You’re telling me.” Sally’s mind envisioned the last warrior who had given her the beating of a lifetime. Adelace’s shot into his back at point blank range still hadn’t penetrated his armour. The girl’s careful pierce with one of the strange obsidiron blades had though.

"You did a good thing in helping him anyway, lass." Sally turned back to the girl and brushed her cheek admiringly. "You have a good heart."

"What's this?" the shout bombarded them from the cliffside path.

"Saviour help us," Sally grumbled. "What do you want Mard?"

“Why is there still one of those brutes breathing?” Mard marched down with the herd of other women on her heels.

“You’re welcome to try and kill him if you want?” Sally answered, her thick Tarwassian projecting her voice over the gulls that were frightened up from the fallen warriors.

Sally had seen how young the Thyorn she had knocked out was when she’d removed his thorn horned helmet, he was probably younger than herself, although older than Adelace. For a reason she couldn’t explain, she hadn’t wanted to cause him any more harm, and he showed no sign of ill will towards her; although he had mourned heavily for his fallen comrades.

Mard approached the boat, ignoring the corpses and took one glance at the wild eyes of the raider.

“How did they manage to get into my house? Derrk tells me you prevented them from making it off the beach?”

“The boy has had quite the fright,” Sally answered with a sweetness to her voice that coated the sarcasm in her words. “It would be quite expected that his memory of the event is cloudy.”

“But nobody else’s house has been touched?”

“Aye, for some reason they targeted the largest house first,” Sally said. “Who’d have thought, ey? However, you will find that GarBoswin’s was also ransacked. The poor wee soldier.”

Sally suppressed a smile at the thought of the Thyorn axe buried into the timber frame of his wall as well as the treacherous swine’s skull.

She resisted the urge to check the duskdial. She realised how much of a state she must look; her skirt had been crudely shortened, up to her thigh on her right leg; the neckline of the dress was even worse, hence why she had Berrart's crimsonjacket buttoned over her upper body; and she had powered stains, dirt and blood caked across her face.

Sally imagined the horror it must have caused Mard to see and she cackled. The gaggle of women stepped nervously back.

“How did they pass you?” Mard tried again.

“I don’t know,” Sally said through the tail of her laughter. “And I can’t say I care. Come on Adelace, get in the boat.”

Adelace hoisted up her woollen dress, heavy from the sea water that had darkened the skirt, and clambered into the boat. The planks thudded under her soft shoes and the boat shifted, but Sally steadied it with a firm hand.

“Where are you going?” Mard asked. “You can’t leave. What if more of those monsters turn up?” The fear escalated as Mard talked and watched the island’s saviour heave the small boat into the surf.

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine without you’re rat catcher.” Sally twisted to give the group of women a pleased smirk before she jumped into the boat. “And again, I can’t say I care. Grab that oar, Lacey.”

“What about your life here?” Mard said. She scurried forward down the pebbles, but retreated again when a wave threatened to soak her delicate shoes. “Your wages?”

Sally manoeuvred the oar and began to propel the boat around. The Thyorn instinctively reached for the tiller and helped turn them towards the open sea.

“You can keep your measly wages,” Sally called over the stern of the ship. She let out one last laugh that was drowned by the increasing roar of the waves. She had everything she needed in the boat, enough loot to start a new life for her and Adelace. She eyed the small jewellery chest tucked under the rear bench, the initials M. C. were finely etched into the golden clasp.

Spending one last moment to look at the cliffs Skry, Sally hoped she would never have to see it again, or the vicious beasts that crowded its pebbled beach.

***

The man laughed, the point of his knife had bored a notch into the table’s top. “That isn’t the story I’ve heard.”

The girl sat forward on her chair and lifted the wooden pipe menacingly at him. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” the man answered, “it was a great story. But do you seriously expect me to believe that you’re Smokin’ Sally? Now, where’s my money?”

“Oh,” the girl swung herself back into a slouch and slapped her knee, the hood of her cloak fell back to reveal her dark hair. “I see your confusion. Do you really think my accent is Tarwassian? I’m not Smokin’ Sally.”

The man kicked his chair back with an angry screech and slammed his fist onto the table. A cup of wine spilt across the table and the fruity smell gave the girl a moment of bliss.

“Give me,” the man said slowly, “my money. Or I’ll start cutting bits off you. Starting with your cheating tongue.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” the girl laughed.

“Why?”

“Because that,” the girl gestured with her eyebrows over the man’s shoulder, “is Sally.”

The fiery hair struck forward from the darkness. Sally slapped a hand firmly over the man’s mouth from behind and rested a sharpened bayonet against his jugular. “Hello, Lacey. Have you been causing trouble again?”