by William Morris
in Issue 161, June 2025
“I did what you said, now gimme the money!”
“You’ve had your cash, bitch, now scram!”
The first voice was Tery. It had to be. A shrill, scrawny wildcat of a thing, giving out her dubious favours for a few silver talens, or a neck of grain liquor. The second voice was a student, if that stupid slang was anything to go by. Herezan was bad enough as a port city, rife with whores, merchants, wizards and rogues of all races, but it was the colleges that made it worse than most. Every year brought a fresh batch of spoiled thugs with rich fathers, and with it a rise in crime of every type. Murder, brigandage and public brawls were a right of passage for any young gentleman with social ambitions. Get it out of their system, the wise old men said.
Watchwoman Iona had arrested enough old men to know that was a lie. She sighed, sat back on the bench with a thump, and hoped that they’d settle up before she had to get involved. Her beat had been wonderfully quiet. There hadn’t been a gangfight since the day before, and the last brawl had been at the midnight bell. She had even had the chance to do some morning exercises. Stretch, pull, strike, bend. Thieftakers had to keep in shape, after all.
Not that she really needed it. Her left eye was an empty socket, but she was still a Galclydian, taller and stronger than any southern weakling, with the blood of Ogres in her veins and iron in her flame-red hair. On a good day, she could manhandle even the biggest tavern thug.
Today was not a good day though, and good days were getting fewer and fewer. Her left leg hurt, pain threading its way up through the muscle and down to the knee-joint. Cold always made it worse. It had been torn by a cart-wheel, and never quite healed. Her gambeson kept some of the chill off, and so did her boots. They stank of old sweat, but at least they were warm. Her helmet and breastplate were another matter. Both were edged with morning frost, and they drew the heat from her body like an ice bath. She glanced down at the brazier that served as a fireplace, and snorted. No wood left. The night-shift, the selfish bastards, had used every last chunk there was.
Even after nine years, she still hated Herezan. She hated the pig-pen streets, the spice-smoke that burned her eyes, and the bawls of the crowd. Galclydia had clean air, good food, and comely men. Herezan was dirty, unhealthy, and a former slave market. And as for the men?
“Fucking bitch!”
Damnit. Just I needed to piss, too.
She craned out to look at the confrontation, just ten paces away. It was Tery alright, straw-haired and foul tempered. Iona didn’t recognise the youth, but she recognised the blue Collegiate robes he wore. He was tall, jug eared, bolt eyed. Twitchy. Rich too, if the olive tan of his skin was anything to go by. Only wealthy men could afford that. With a heavy sigh, she got up and stomped over to them.
She worked her jaw to form a semblance of Herezanian. “Problem here?”
Both turned, and froze. Iona towered a full head over both of them, her broad armoured shoulders casting a long shadow. She looked from one to the other, her one good eye narrowing.
Tery grinned nervously, showing yellowed teeth in a face wasted by bad food and poor sunlight. Herezanians really were pathetic creatures.
“Ello, Eye. Didn’t know it was your shift.”
The youth smirked triumphantly. ‘Ah, Watcher. I was just making my way, when this street trash accosted me and—”
Iona cut him dead. “Bylaw forty-three. Lewd business on public thoroughfare.”
The youth’s face coloured. The more she got a look at him, the less she liked him. Probably a fencer—that fancy belt dagger of his was almost a short-sword.
“I’ve done no such thing! I assure you, Watcher, that I am the respected son of Messir Ilter, and—”
“You gave her coin,” Iona said, her voice as cold as the grave. “Ten pfennik fine, or two-days in the jailhouse.”
A crafty look came over the youth’s eyes, the kind a rich man gets when he thinks he has the measure of a lesser being.
“Would a donation of, er, five pfenniks to the Watcher Benevolent Fund go amiss?”
His smile faded away under the glare of her one, blue eye.
“Article Five. Attempted bribery of warranted Watcher.”
His throat bobbed. Iona glanced from one, to the other. The jailhouse was half a mile away, and uphill to boot.
“…I may grant a caution. A single caution. Don’t make me regret it. Now get out of here.”
The youth nodded rapidly, and made his way off as fast as his legs could carry him. Tary gave Iona a sour look. Her eyes flitted to the mark of indenture on Iona’s neck.
“Your lot will come a cropper one day, One Eye.”
Her voice was thick with bitter poison.
“Master Vangelt speaks the truth. I heard him speaking at the Market Hall. This place really has gone to shite since you lot was manumitted. There was a time when I could’ve become a madame, with a bordello of my own. But no, those fucking doo-gooder snowies came along and—”
Iona cut her short with an icy glare. “You liked bein’ on top. Now you’re on the bottom. Begone.”
Fire burned in the wretched woman’s eyes. Then, just like that, she slunk off. To the nearest drinking den, probably. Iona stomped her way back to the guard hut, and took the chance to relieve herself in the solitary bucket. There was a time when she would have been too mortified to even dare, but those days were long gone. Her leg still hurt. She hauled herself up one handed, pulling her trousers up with the other, and stretched out the throbbing limb.
Sailors and tradesfolk walked by, while one or two of Tery’s colleagues plied their trade in thick woollen skirts and fur-lined shawls. Several cast her wary looks, but no one looked her in the eye.
Good. Trouble is all I’d need.
A pair of merchants strolled past bedecked in fine hose beneath fur-lined jerkins, imitating the studied disinterest of the nobility while trying to hide the excitement in their hushed tones. They were fat and wealthy men, and had the sense to walk with two hulking bodyguards in tow. She caught snatches of their conversation as they passed her by, both merchants huddling together like naughty schoolboys.
“A visit from one of the Bokkal?” The older man whispered. “That’s wonderful!”
The younger man hissed. “Hush you fool, I promised my brother I’d keep mum…”
Iona paid it no heed. Rumours like that were always flying about, and nothing ever came of them. The Bokkal, the “snowies” as Terry had called them, were either loved or loathed. Iona had never met one, but she had seen them from afar, and remembered their blue skin, their white hair, and their soft voices. Her nan had told her how they lived to be a thousand years old.
She heard the Captain before she saw him. No one could mistake the sound of jangling spurs for anyone else, or the admiring giggles that accompanied them. She was already standing when he rounded the corner, black leather boots striding towards her with immaculate disdain echoing in every step. Captain Ryvers was slim and broad shouldered, and carried himself with the air of a noble, a faint scar on his forehead marring his handsome countenance. He halted next to her, lips peeling back in a faint smirk.
“I see you’ve decided to stand today,” he said airily, slipping into the smooth drawl of Upper Feresian. She flushed, but said nothing. Ryvers didn’t like finding Watchmen sitting down. He believed it gave off a bad impression on the public.
It’ll make an even worse one if I’m too stiff to catch a thief.
“Aye, sir,” she said curtly. “Been standing since dawn, sir.”
His eyebrow arched coolly. “Since daybreak, you say? My word. And not even a brief sit-down to ease that knee of yours?”
Iona gripped her billhook and stared straight ahead, her cheeks burning.
Smarmy bastard.
He leaned in until she smelled the perfume on his collar. Alcflower, sweet and smoky, and worth more than a week’s wages. His voice fell to a gentle murmur, almost intimate.
“Ease up, woman. I’m not here to flay you alive for a minor infraction. There’s business afoot today, and I need you.”
“Sir?” She arched a brow, feigning ignorance. Ryvers only used that voice when he wanted something. He grinned, chest swelling like a bull in season.
Here it comes.
“Today, Iona, we have a special guest coming.”
Iona frowned quizzically, but her mood rose.
Time to have some fun.
“Y’mean the bokkal really are coming, this time?” she said, tilting her head in innocent curiosity.
His toothy smile twisted into a horrified scowl.
“Watchwoman, you will tell me where you heard that immediately!”
She shrugged indifferently, revelling in his dismay. “Couple of fops walked by chatting about it. One of ‘em was nattering about a cousin.”
His whole face slumped like a cut sail.
“Is there anyone in the administration who understands security?”
He spun to the docks before she could answer, clasping his hands behind his back and striking a stern posture. His whole body seemed stiff with restrained energy, stress radiating from every pore.
“A Bokkal is coming. A wizard, no less. There is a Staat delegation to meet him, even the Archimandrake himself. The Staatwards are supposed to be his escort, but I want someone with me who can actually fight.”
Iona frowned, remembering Tery’s words.
“You think someone might try something?”
“Hmm?” he looked back, then waved a hand. “Oh, no. At least, nothing extreme. Vangelt would never be so foolish as to stir something up, not when an election is in the offing. We just need to escort him to the Staathouse, and then you can—oh sea save me, there they are!”
Cutting through the grey waters of the bay was one of the most beautiful ships she had ever seen. It sat low in the water, long and slender like a polished speartip, and every inch of it was a dazzling ice white. A single mast thrust upwards, holding a blue, square rigged sail etched with a white dragon that danced in the billowing wind.
Fancy. Seems even the Bokkal like a bit of flash.
Slender figures flitted up the rigging to take in the mainsail with a speed that would have left human sailors blushing. Lines of oars sprouted from the sides of the ship like a hundred legs and took up the strain, slowing the pace to a stately glide.
Captain Ryvers already had his best boot-licking face on, grinning from ear to ear as he strode towards the quay. A group of figures were huddled at the quayside, dressed in rich silks and furs against the winter bite, accompanied by ten armed guards in matching liveries, each clad in the red brigandines of the Staatwards. The Harbour Master was there, and so was the Headminter and the Archimandrake of the Temple, each accompanied by a gaggle of fawning courtiers and hangers-on.
“Look scary,” Ryvers muttered. “Show those overdressed idiots what a real fighter looks like.”
With pleasure.
Introductions were short and curt. Captain of the Watch though he was, Ryvers barely merited a greeting amongst the elevated men and women of the Staathold. He was a common soldier, while they were scions of the highest families. The Headminter regarded Iona with a jaundiced eye, looking at her stained gambeson and blackened plate. His face reminded her of a pig her nan had once kept, and the impression was reinforced when he snorted and spat out a wad of chewing leaves onto the quay.
“Best you could do, Ryvers?”
The Captain shrugged. “None of the Watch are especially polished, Menir Kolck. I thought it better to go with someone imposing.”
“Hmmm?”
Pigface looked her up and down again.
“Well, certainly ugly enough.”
Iona thought this was rather rich, but said nothing. She vented her anger by looking over the men of the Staatwards, noting every slack hand and disinterested gaze. None of them older than twenty, with the soft skin of boys who had never spent a night under a canvas. They were pretty, she had to admit, but hardly the veteran soldiers of legend. She was a better fighter than any one of them, and she knew it.
And look where it’s got me.
Shame bit at her gut. At least no one back home knew how she’d ended up. That would be the last straw.
The blare of a horn broke her thoughts. The ship was almost at the quay, gliding through the waves with barely a sound. The sailors were Bokkal alright, blue-skinned and stern featured, with dazzling hair in shades of blonde, white and jet. They were short and slender, and wore bright tunics and fur lined jerkins against the cold. The dockers hurled mooring lines up to them, but they simply laughed and tossed them back, shaking their heads and jumping down with pale, thin cords grasped in their hands.
Again the horn blew, and the whole group gasped as a thin crack opened up in the pristine exterior of the hull. Slowly it traced around until it formed an oval, six feet in height and four feet across. The section of hull sank inwards with a sharp crack, and then slid down, leaving behind an empty void. Iona hid a smirk.
Seems our guest likes to make an entrance.
A long, thin gangplank extended out, like a honey-bird’s tongue. Onto it, emerging silently from the darkness, stepped a single figure. Iona stared.
Sweet Seas.
The man—at least, she guessed it was a man—was clad in a flowing white robe trimmed with fur, matched by long white hair that hung in loose tresses. He was built like an acrobat, slender but broad shouldered, and with a face like a well-forged knife. His skin was a pale shade of blue and his eyes were sea grey, glinting above a pair of half-moon spectacles. He alighted onto the quay without a sound, then gave a courtly bow.
“I am Eiliv Gliskild, emissary of the Bokkal.”
His voice was gentle and light, almost boyish.
Iona glanced off to the side. The group—councillors and Staat Wards alike—were doing their best impression of dead gussep fish, staring at the newcomer in gormless awe. For once, she sympathised.
He’s prettier than all the whores in Herezan.
The Archimandrake was the first to snap out of it. He threw himself on his knees, pressing his forehead against the hard stone.
“Oh, great Seas! We give thanks to you for delivering this noble traveller to our humble shores! He who brings us great-”
Pigface shoved ahead of him, bowing so rapidly his hat tipped over his brow.
“Master Gliskild, my lord! On behalf of the Staathold, please allow me to extend my most humble—”
“Staatwards, attention!” Ryvers cried out. Iona snapped in place, allowing herself a brief smirk as the Staatwards followed a split second later. What followed was five minutes of jabbered conversation, each notable fighting to get a word in edgeways. He bore it all with serene dignity, an indulgent smile on his thin lips.
Iona ignored the conversation, her head moving on a slow swivel. She took in the onlookers and the dockers, rolling over each one in turn for anything unusual. It was her job, after all.
Always pays to watch your back.
“—and this is one of your City Watch?”
She froze. Eiliv was looking straight at her, eyes shining with polite interest.
“A veteran, I perceive?”
Oh gods, please no.
Her throat bobbed. “I…”
“Watchwoman Iona is one of our most distinguished servants,” Ryvers beamed, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “She was one of the Galclydians who came over in 89 with the Pretender’s army. Her lord was slain, but she was taken alive. A sword is the only thing she knows, so we took her on.”
Iona flushed with relief.
Ryvers, I take back every time I’ve wished you ill.
“Impressive,” the Bokkal nodded slowly. “I’ve heard tell of Galclydea, and its clans. Perhaps you will tell me more of it, when there is time?”
OH NO.
“I’m sure there’ll be time for many things, sire,” pigface said hastily, scrambling for attention like a parlour dog. “But come! Your conveyance awaits.”
The “conveyance” turned out to be an open topped carriage, drawn by four jet black horses. The bodywork was pure pomp and splendour, varnished hardwood studded with white enamel in the shape of a unicorn. The back of the carriage raised up into an ornamental ironwork backing, the centrepiece formed by a pair of crossed greatswords.
“My word,” Gliskild said. “Quite the… vehicle.”
Iona’s heart ached. The greatswords were Galclydian, broad and straight, made for battle on the open plains and glens. Like her, they were trophies of Herezan’s victory. And like her, the city had mutilated them. The blades had been stripped of their blackening and coated with garish pewter, while the crossguards had been adorned with frilly red tassels. Worst of all were the grips.
Bastards.
Galclydian sword-grips were supposed to tell a story, each one embroidered with the deeds of the family that owned it. Whoever pewtered the swords had ripped the old grips off and replaced them with studded leather. She hid her rage beneath a fixed stare, gripping the shaft of her billhook until it hurt.
“Come, sire,” Pigface beamed, ushering him forward. “The Staatward will escort you to the State House, as shall I—”
“And I,” The Archimandrake interrupted. “The populace must see the Temple and Bokkal, side by side.”
“The populace,” Pigface muttered, “—will be hard pressed to see anything at all behind that robe of yours.”
The Archimandrake went bright puce, but his retort was cut off by Eiliv’s gentle laugh.
“Sirs, there is room enough for all. Would you spoil our luck with a trifling quarrel? Let us be off, for it would be impolite to keep the Staatholder waiting.”
Smooth as butter.
Without thinking, Iona reached out and opened the door.
“My thanks,” he whispered as he glided past her, mounting the step with the surety of a born noble. He smelt of sweet candle smoke, and a gust of wind gave her a glimpse of his trim frame through the thin fabric.
Keep it together, She cursed. This is a job, nothing more.
Ryvers shoved past her on his way into the carriage, dragging her back to the real world.
“Follow us on foot,” he snapped over his shoulder.
Nice to have you back, captain, she thought sourly. The Staatwards, being noble sons of Herezan that they were, rode behind and on either side of the carriage on matching black horses, each one as skittish and overbred as the others, veins engorged against swollen muscle as they walked. Iona tramped between them and the carriage, breaking into a half jog now and then to keep pace. She thought wistfully back to her old horse, Rut. There was a true warhorse. Well-fleshed, thick-coated, and even tempered.
“What on earth is going on over here?”
The Archimandrake’s voice forced her to look up. The street was thickening with citizens of every stripe, all jostling forward to the gates of the inner wall. Now and then someone turned, caught sight of the carriage and its occupants, and nudged their neighbours to point. Not all the faces were friendly.
Not good.
Her grip tightened on her haft, and she broke into a jog until she was level with the carriage.
“Sir,” she murmured to Ryvers. “I don’t like the smell of this.”
“Your opinion is noted. We’ll press on and see what this is about. Be ready to use your club.”
She ground her teeth and turned to the crowd. How many were visibly armed?
Eleven. Nine belt-knives and two side-swords.
How many roofs on the street could support a grown man’s weight?
Three, two on the left and one on the right.
How many alleyways were passable for a fleeing party?
Two, both on the left.
The crowd was shoulder to shoulder, jostling forward and sideways, struggling to get as far away from the procession as they could. Ryvers stood and bellowed at them to move, but it was no good. The inner gate came into view as they rounded the bend, and with it the reason for the crush.
Two upturned carts blocked the way. A panorama of figures stood around them, one sticking out above all.
You stupid bastard.
She’d only seen Joka Vangelt once before. A handsome man (by Herezanian standards), bronze skinned and sharp featured, with a lean athletic frame clothed in orange broadcloth tunic and black britches.
Ryvers barked out “This is an unlawful assembly. Master Vangelt, you will clear the road this instant!”
Vangelt sneered, turning to the crowd.
“See, kinsmen? Even our own Watchers cannot be trusted. The last time a Bokkal came past these gates, Herezan was stripped of its wealth and barred from trade. Who here remembers the hardship when slaves demanded wages from their betters? Now we have slaves bearing arms!”
The crowd rumbled. The hair on the back of Iona’s neck prickled as eyes turned to her, taking in her red hair, her freckled skin, and her giant frame.
“Who here remembers when our streets flowed with prosperity?” He spat into the dirt. “I remember!”
The cry was taken up by more and more in the crowd, growing to a crescendo. Iona took in a deep breath and poised on the balls of her feet. Law be damned – Vangelt had the crowd, and that meant he was in charge. Iona didn’t need a scholarship to know what that meant.
He’s playing all or nothing. He wins, he’s the new Staatchief. He loses, he hangs. Either way, she scowled, we die.
The Staatwards seemed to agree. They inched away from the carriage, as if to say that they really had nothing to do with the Bokkal. Not theirs to reason why, orders were orders, and so on. She spared them a withering glance.
The Archimandrake—portly, dignified, noble—stood tall in the carriage. His mellifluous voice peeled out, silencing the crowd.
“My dear sons and daughters, is this truly what you want? It may be true that slavery brought us wealth, but it was we who ended it. Were we not ashamed of mothers being torn from their children? Weeping maidens sold to brutes as chattels? As we expect mercy from the Sea, did they not have the right to expect mercy from us? We heard their cries, and we all vowed we would build a better, fairer Herezan. One where—”
A rooftile shattered against his face. He fell back with a heavy clunk, and lay still.
Oh, fuck me with a dead fish.
A wall of bodies surged forward, screaming, shoving, shouting curses. Iona barred their way, bracing her foot against the wheel of the carriage as hands clawed at her helmet.
“Keep back!”
Something banged off her helmet, leaving her ears ringing. She turned to see a skinny wretch raising his club up for another strike.
“Kill you, bitch!”
He brought it down on her helmet once, twice, trying to beat her senseless through the metal. Hands wrenched at her billhook. Pain shot through her palm where a knife stabbed into her mail gauntlet.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the rioters cutting at the harnesses keeping the horses tied to the carriage. The creatures bucked and frothed at the mouth, shrieking with terror and trying to break free.
“Captain, do something!”
“Draw swords!” Ryvers bellowed, whipping his sabre from its scabbard and through the air just above Iona’s head, striking a heroic pose with one boot resting on the rail of the carriage.
“Staatwards, to me! We will stand our ground, and fight to the last man!”
With paradeground precision, the Staatwardens turned and fled. Ryvers’ outraged howls seemed only to spur them on as they battered the crowd aside and made for the nearest exit.
“Hamstring ‘em!”
Iona felt something tugging at her britches, and glanced down to see a boy grinning up at her with a grown man’s malice in his eyes. She reached down to bat him awayr—taking a hand off her haft. The billhook was torn from her grip with a roar of triumph.
Ice shot through her veins. No one, no one, took her weapon.
If that’s the way you want it.
She booted the brat in the face with a wet crack of splintered bone, sending him sprawling. Still facing the crowd, she gripped the side of the carriage with one hand, placed her foot on the mounting step, and vaulted up over the side. Landing with a solid thump, she found herself standing in the central aisle. Ryvers had his back to her, vainly trying to keep the crowd on his side at bay.
“Watcher?”
Eiliv Gliskild stared up at her from the carriage floor. His pristine white robe was stained with deep red, hands flourished above the Archimandrake’s torn brow. Iona ignored him. She went straight for the nearest greatsword, and pulled.
Nothing happened. The sword had been welded into the latticework with pewter. She threw her strength back, pulling so hard that the rivets holding the latticework down began to creak. Her heart pounded. She felt the carriage rock, and glanced back to see hands gripping over the sides, pulling up three faces contorted with ecstatic fury.
They were going to die. They were going to be clubbed, stabbed, hacked, yanked and trodden into the mud, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Just then, Eiliv caught her eye. The Bokkal was staring at her, one hand twisting into an odd shape. A spark shot from his fingers and burst against the metal like sparks from an anvil. The sword burst free, molten pewter sloughing off like dead flesh to reveal the black steel beneath. It was light in her hand, and the blade was as sharp as the day it had first been edged.
She turned, cutting around and down as she did so. She saw the alarm in their eyes, the sudden understanding that they had made a terrible, final error, before her blade bit through flesh and bone. She carried the whole movement through to the end, keeping her grip as shock travelled up her arms. Three skull caps flew through the air, trailing grey brain-jelly in their wake.
Well, they had been warned. She spat on their remains, then surged for the carriage horses.
“Come on you fuckers! Odosin! Prepare to die!”
The crowd scattered like startled chickens, no one daring to get within swinging distance. She cut diagonally across a man who was too slow to drop his shortsword, the two halves of his body sliding in opposite directions. This was real combat, when the blood-pipes thrummed and the carrion birds circled. Wielding the sword one handed, she battered and hacked her way to beside the carriage horses. Both animals were trembling in their harnesses and bleeding from cuts across their hide, but they stood their ground. She saw the old brand of the Watch on the neck of the mare, and knew why.
“C’mon old girl,” she whispered. “One last charge, aye?”
She cried over her shoulder.
“Master Gliskild?”
A thin voice answered. “Yes?”
“I’m going for the barricade. Can ye drive the cart?”
“I—Yes!”
“Good! Be ready to move as soon as its cleared!”
At that moment Ryvers looked back over his shoulder.
“Iona, what the depths are you—”
She rushed on, clearing a path towards the barricade through sheer menace and brute strength. No one dared take her on blade to blade, but they had other means. Rooftiles, chunks of slate and cobblestones rained down at her, braining an unfortunate merchant as he tried to brush past. One tile shattered against her helmet and made her ears ring, while another cracked down onto her armoured shoulder.
She got to the barricade, and turned. A knot of men had followed her, gripping clubs, knives and axes in calloused fists. Iona arced her sword above her head, the blade forming a blurred circle like a falling leaf. It was an impasse. They couldn’t get to her, but she couldn’t drop her guard to shift the barricade.
Help came from an unexpected voice.
“Shoot them!” Ryvers yelled. “Give Iona cover!
Two men jerked and fell as bolts slammed into their backs. The other four bolted for the alleyways, desperate to avoid being the next target. Through the chaos Iona saw Ryvers standing tall, and beside him a gaggle of Watchers with crossbows in hand. She wouldn’t have long.
She leaned her swords against the cart, braced her palms against it, and threw her weight forward. It was like pushing against a brick wall. The cart was loaded with sacks of grain, probably commandeered from some unfortunate baker. Once, her mother had lifted a caber clean off the ground and held it above her head.
If I can’t shift this, I’ll deserve to die here.
She threw herself forward, giving everything she had. Everything burned, from the palms of her hands down to the soles of her feet. Sweat pooled in her armpits and matted her hair to her brow. Her teeth ground together, and her ligaments strained like rigging in the storm. Something snapped, and cold, white pain began to bloom its way down her left calf. She bit through it, blinking back hot tears.
The cart squealed. She took one agonising step forward, and then another. Bags of flour, barrels and piles of earth tumbled out around her like rocks as the cart tipped back.
Just one more, damn you. Just one more.
The cart crashed back onto its wheels, lifting the weight from her shoulders and sending shockwaves through her feet. The axle was broken, but it could still be drawn. She dashed over to the tongue and threw the thong over her shoulder, then threw herself forward. Her boots slid on the bloody cobbles, and pain blossomed through her leg.
“Make way!”
She looked up, and winced.
The silver carriage surged down the rode like an arrow shot from a bow, horses straining at their harnesses with mad zeal. In the driver’s seat sat Eiliv Gliskild, hands white around the reins. She dug her foot into the cobbles and heaved forward, just in time for the carriage to roar past with a clatter of hooves and iron wheels.
The carriage didn’t stop. That was too much to expect of a noble, even a nice one like Gliskild. He was an emissary, invested with status, loyalties and dependents. His loss would throw his clan into ruin. Did Bokkal have clans?
Iona staggered back to where her greatsword lay on the street, picking it up in a numbed hand. She took in deep breaths of the smoky air, moving into the ready stance with the blade braced above her head. The path left by the carriage was filling up with bodies, Watcher and rioter strigging for control amidst a flurry of clubs, knives and swords.
“After him!!” bellowed an agitated voice from the sidelines. “Stop him! Retake the gate!”
A dozen figures surged forward from the crowd, roaring slurs and brandishing weapons above their heads.
Iona spat. Outnumbered ten to one, holding a gate to permit the escape of a lord? That would be a good death. That, she could be proud of.
She swung her sword high into the sea-eagle as the gang drew near. The first man was already hesitating, trying to draw back, the bright light of steel in his eyes as the momentum of his cronies thrust him forward.
Too bad for him. Iona bellowed out her clan battlecry one last time, and aimed a cut at his hapless face.
“Odisin! Come and die!”
***
Iona opened her eyes, wincing at the glare of the sun as it shone through the gossamer curtains. She could smell the sea, and outside craw-birds screeched. The room was lined with pale wood panelling, each plank perfectly aligned and varnished to a smooth finish. That, and the gentle sway she felt in her body, was enough to tell her she was aboard a ship.
That was odd. Usually, dead heroes without a clan went to Ungheren—the cold caverns where they battled the things that hungered in the darkness. She blinked, tried to sit up, then frowned. Why was her chest so tight? She looked down, noticing for the first time the soft, silken sheets that swaddled her body, the white bandages wrapped around her leg, and the bowls of poultice laying on a sideboard.
Hmph. So much for a heroic death to be written in song. But if she wasn’t dead, then why did nothing hurt?
Someone knocked on the door, and a gentle voice called. “Miss Iona? Are you awake?”
“Come in,” she said.
The door opened, and in came Eiliv. He was infuriatingly cheerful, his face brightening as he looked her over.
“I’d heard Galclydians were sturdy folk, but I have to say I’m astonished you’re up. Even the best charms leave most humans knocked out for at least five days.”
She grunted. “You took me onto your ship?”
“Naturally,” he said with a curious frown. “Why? Would a human not do the same?”
Iona didn’t bother answering that. She looked out the window, trying to guess the exact time of day.
“What happened?”
He sighed. “Ater we got clear, your captain took us to the Watch-Fortress. I bade him return for you, but it took two hours. You were… You were terrifying, when we found you. Like a rabid beast.”
Iona winced. Fragmentary images flickered through her head of terrified faces, and the tang of hot blood in her nostrils.
“How many did I…?”
He swallowed, shifting on his feet. “Thirteen, I estimated. It was not a pleasant affair.”
Thirteen. Not a bad tally, all things considered.
“And Vangelt?”
Eiliv’s features squirmed into a sneer. “He’s taken sanctuary with one of your nobles, Baron Steenhus I believe. That was two days ago.”
She stared in disbelief. “Two days?”
“I know”, he smiled. “It’s amazing, really. How do you feel?”
She threw off the covers and stood up to give herself the once over, flexing her limbs and then twisting to look down her back. Nothing seemed out of place. She rolled her neck experimentally, then crouched down on her bad knee. Again, nothing. The pain was …. Gone.
“I feel good,” she murmured. “Better than I’ve felt for years.”
She looked up, to see Eiliv looking very fixedly at the wall. His face had gone a bright shade of purple.
“Pleased to hear it. Also, Miss Iona, if you would… be a bit more modest in future…?”
Her lips split into a vulpine smirk.
Nice to know I can still get a blush. And from a Bokkal, too!
“Hard to cover up when I’ve just a sheet to cover up with,” she quipped, wrapping the cloth around her chest.
“Why’re you here, milord? No disrespect intended, but I’m just a watchwoman.”
Eiliv turned cautiously.
“You… You saved my life. And to be frank, I was hoping to offer you a position.”
She stared. “…A what?”
“A position. In my household, I mean.” He paced the room, running through what sounded like a well rehearsed speech.
“While I do not know you well, I saw your skills and commitment first hand, skills that I will need if I am to survive in my role here. You would be paid handsomely, given board and lodgings, and you would be counted as one of my household. Of course,” he sighed, “I understand if your commitment to your contract leads you to…well, refuse.”
Iona felt heat rise in her cheeks. The old shame welled up, as she remembered the last time she had been sworn to a lord’s service.
“I…”
Eiliv held her gaze. There was so much warmth in those sea grey eyes.
Oh, what the heck.
“…Aye, milord,” she smiled. “I accept those terms.”
© June 2025, William Morris
William Morris is a young writer living in Cambridge UK, with a healthy fixation for obscure military history and fantasy world building. His hobbies include rifle shooting, archive perusing, and gardening. This is his first fantasy publication and first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.
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