The Far Shores of Cambas.
The soldiers and I approached the far shores as daylight chased the darkness out of the sky.
Morale was high at the outset of our journey, but the merriment burned out faster than a candlestick in winter. The chanting quickly faded, leaving the heavy thud of footsteps as our solitary sound.
The amber hue of dawn sparked a flicker of hope in my heart. It reminded me that no matter how dark the days ahead might be, the sun would rise. Light always followed the dark.
Bash, Fletcher, Arthur, and I marched on, our silence broken only by the occasional grunt.
“Camp’s ahead,” a knight bellowed. “Food and ale for all on arrival.” His voice carried the relief we all felt.
Bash let out a weary sigh. “I’m going to fill my belly until I’m sick, then sleep till sunrise,” he mumbled, his words tumbling over each other with exhaustion.
As we neared the camp, the growing cacophony initially sounded like idle chatter. But as we drew closer, it became clear—the noise came from men in agony.
I wasn’t accustomed to the sight of death.
My mother had often shared tales from her youth of plague, poppy pox, and sweating fever that ravaged Lyonesse.
I’d been fortunate; for many years, the Wetlands had basked in the gods’ good favor, sparing me from witnessing such devastation—until this moment.
On the outskirts of the encampment, men dug mass graves for the fallen soldiers.
Even those maimed beyond repair were discarded with the dead, left to rot like last month’s harvest. Cries for help intertwined with desperate prayers to the gods, yet no amount of supplication could grant them another sunrise.
I noticed Fletcher eyeing the dying men, but I couldn’t tell whether he was distressed by their suffering or planning how to scavenge their corpses for loot.
The knight scanned the horror-struck faces of Cambas’s newest residents before clearing his throat, demanding our attention. “Rest assured, a priest comes once a week to bless the fallen,” he said, though his words didn’t bring me any comfort.
While he discussed the religious ritual, I watched a man heave bodies onto a cart and wheel them to their final resting place.
He tossed the lifeless shapes into the grave as though they’d never lived—sons, fathers, and husbands.
Farmers and noblemen, vagrants and clergy. All left to perish together.
The knight climbed onto a wooden stump to address the recruits. Spreading his metal-clad arms wide, he chuckled. “Welcome to Cambas.”
The first thing that struck me about the encampment was the mud. Relentless rainfall and constant footfall had churned the grass into thick, boot-stealing slush.
“This is where you’ll sleep,” the knight continued.
“It’s a tad overcrowded—some of you will have to rest under the stars.
” He gestured toward a makeshift village of wedge-shaped tents.
“The latrine is over there.” He pointed at a shallow trench where men openly squatted over a communal toilet.
“And there’s a river nearby for bathing and washing your garments. ”
The soldiers’ camp was far from a morale-boosting sight.
Mud-splattered tents huddled close to the mass graves; the stench of decaying flesh mingled with the reek of the overflowing latrines.
Hundreds of men lingered around a fading bonfire, fighting over scraps of food.
I sighed, realizing that war wasn’t my only challenge—enduring life in this encampment would test me as well.
“Men trained in combat—swordsmen, archers, crossbowmen—report to the grand officer,” the knight instructed, gesturing toward a temporary armory.
“See you,” Fletcher said with a tip of his hat as he left with the other archers.
“Foot soldiers, your promised pottage and ale await in the camp,” the knight continued.
After a shaky sigh, Arthur turned and left, departing with nearly all the remaining men toward the bonfire where the food and drink were being served.
“Tradesmen, follow me,” the knight commanded, motioning for us to proceed.
Since I was pretending to be Finn, I guessed that included me.
Bash, a few others, and I fell in line, following the knight across precariously placed wooden planks that served as bridges over the waterlogged grass.
As we ventured deeper into the encampment, the living quarters became increasingly impressive.
The knights resided in sturdier pavilion-style tents made from woven linen.
Their bonfire, well-fed with fresh logs, crackled loudly, and the delicious aroma of food cooking over the flames remained untainted by the stench of sewage.
At the heart of the camp, guarded by patrolling knights, stood four grand tents—far more luxurious than the humble cottage my family and I called home.
Servants bustled about, hauling campaign-style furniture into the enormous structures, which were covered in what appeared to be leather sheathing.
I peered inside, catching a glimpse of carpets being laid across the wooden planks and intricate tapestries being hung on the walls.
The bedstead, large enough for two, was piled high with feather-stuffed coverlets, pillows, and an abundance of woolen blankets.
“That place looks fit for a king,” Bash remarked.
“Try a prince,” the knight called back over his metal-clad shoulder. “That’s the chamber of your commander, Prince Fitzroy Belfour.”
I rolled my eyes, certain the dashing prince wouldn’t even appreciate it.
Toward the farthest edge of the encampment, familiarity caught my eye. Oil-splattered aprons and the clamor of clanging metal stirred a sense of comfort—it felt like a little sliver of home had followed me here.
“These are the workshops,” the knight said. “Go on in, Redford’s been begging for more hands.” With a quick nod, he departed.
I ducked beneath the tent flap, nearly tripping over a bucket of charcoal propping up a splintered pole. Bash caught me by the arm, saving me from an embarrassing entrance.
Inside the makeshift smithy, around twenty men labored intently. One man, donned in a grime-streaked apron, picked up a bellows and pumped air into the fire to feed its hungry flames.
“Watch your backs!” another worker yelled, dunking a pair of tongs into a trough of water. Steam hissed as the metal met the icy liquid.
“Godwin! Don’t burn my new recruits,” snapped a fiery, redheaded man, his locks as wild as the glint in his eyes.
Godwin shot an irritated glare over his shoulder—a web of thick scars sprawled across his cheek, crawling toward his eye. I shuddered, unable to imagine what could’ve carved such thick and twisted marks into flesh.
“Redford Mason,” the redhead introduced himself, rubbing his calloused hands against a blackened rag. “But you can call me Red,” he added, tossing the filthy scrap onto a pile of soiled cloths in the corner.
Gesturing toward the workers, Red continued, “I’ve been given the honorable task of managing the craftsmen here at Cambas.” He stroked his wiry auburn beard while eyeing up the new recruits.
Eager to make a good impression, the men introduced themselves one by one.
“Sebastian Carpenter,” Bash said, extending his hand.
They shook firmly as my attention drifted to a nearby rack laden with tools—hammers, chisels, punches, and drifts, gleaming in the firelight.
“Is this a pritchel?” I asked, lifting the hardy rod and tapping my finger against its pointed tip.
Red nodded, a smug grin tugging at his lips.
“I begged my father to let me journey to the Walled City to buy one of these,” I said. “But he never agreed.”
“Why?” Bash asked.
“He feared that if I left the Wetlands, I’d never return,” I replied, knowing his worry had more weight to it than he realized.
Suddenly it dawned on me. “I believe he’s here, working as a blacksmith.”
The thought of encountering my father filled me with dread. Short-haired, clad in breeches, and pretending to be my brother—I couldn’t predict how he’d react. Would he even recognize his own daughter in disguise? Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t.
“Name?” Red requested.
“Finn Smith,” I replied, presenting my hand as the others had done.
Red sighed heavily as he shook it. “Your father’s gone.”
“Gone? Wha-what do you mean?” My legs wobbled as Bash steadied me with a gentle hand on my back.
“He left for the Wetlands just last night,” Red continued.
“Why?”
Red’s expression soured. “I’m afraid I must bear some awful news. Your sister’s gone missing after a magical beast was spotted in your village.”
The thought of my bereaved father making the long journey back to the Wetlands to search for me, while I knew I’d never return, left me hollow.
“I cannot imagine what your poor mother’s going through,” Red added, his rough voice softening. “My wife would be inconsolable if our son disappeared after an evil beast reared its head.”
My mother’s warnings rang true. While magic was feared, I had two options—hide or be tried. I drew in a shaky breath as the weight of the realization hit me. Niamh could never exist again.
Red’s gaze lingered as he awaited my response to the news.
Clearing my throat I stepped forward, moving away from Bash’s touch. “Very well. Show me what tools we have.”
Red gave us a tour of the makeshift workshop. The shift in conversation offered a much-needed reprieve, distracting the men from their pitiful stares. Though the smithy lacked the practicality of the one my father had built, I was still impressed.
“You’ll spend most of your time here, fixing weapons and armor,” Red explained. “Or out at the shipyard, repairing the vessels.”
Godwin sighed heavily, running his finger over the deep trenches on his face. “The war hasn’t been kind,” he muttered. “I’ve picked buckets of flesh from chain mail and scrubbed countless pints of blood from armor—just to prepare for the next batch of soldiers to sully.”
I watched the men at work, noting their sluggish filing and hammering. Though we’d only just arrived at Cambas, the veteran soldiers looked defeated.
A boy, who didn’t appear a day over sixteen and was built like a maypole, awkwardly shuffled around with a sword in hand. The blade, dull and brittle, looked as if it would shatter from the gentlest touch. I knew from my father’s teachings that a well-made blade should bend before it breaks.
That weapon was an embarrassment to ironwork.
“Is this the standard of sword you’re giving the men to fight with?” I questioned, tutting at the shoddy job.
I waited for his reply, studying his face—mottled like an old hen’s egg, speckled with pockmarks and pimples. His thin lips parted, but no words came out.
Impatient as always, I snatched the blade from his trembling hands and carried it over to the forge.
“If you don’t know how to do something properly, ask someone who does to teach you,” I snapped.
I knew I was talking out of turn, but I didn’t care. On the battlefield, I’d be thanking my past self for speaking up when my weapon didn’t shatter mid-fight.
“Ca-can you…show me?” the boy asked timidly.
I nodded, confident in my ability to teach. After all, I’d spent many hours instructing Finn, helping him become a better blacksmith.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“To-Tom, Tom Angove,” he stammered, fiddling with the fraying cuff of his sleeve.
“All right, Tom. You need to temper the blade,” I instructed, holding the iron steady in the flames. “Wait till it glows, then quench it.”
Carefully, I carried the glowing blade to the trough, dunking it into the cold water. Thick plumes of smoke filled the tent as the metal hissed and cooled.
“Tempering the blade will improve the integrity of the sword,” I explained, withdrawing it from the water. “Next, you need to reheat it—not hotter than a poker, just warm, like a loaf of bread fresh from the oven.”
I passed him the handle, guiding his shaky hands to position the blade within the outer edges of the flame.
“See? You can do it,” I reassured him. “Take pride in your craft. It’ll give you purpose during this bleak war.”
Tom gave me a half smile. “Thanks,” he mumbled—shyness muffling his words.
As I turned, cringing at how much I sounded like my father, I realized the men had stopped working to watch my lesson.
Red marched over, his hearty cackle filling the tent as his face flushed redder than his fiery hair. He raised his hand, and I braced for a scolding—certain he was about to strike me for speaking out of turn. But instead, his open palm gently clapped my back.
“You’re just like your father,” Red said, his voice filled with fondness. “Thank the gods—we finally have some capable hands around here.”
The men returned to their labor, and Red dismissed us new recruits for the rest of the day to settle in.
Outside, the biting chill was a refreshing change from the stifling humidity inside the tent.
“I’m so sorry about your sister,” Bash said, kicking at the sticky soil. “If you need to talk to someone, I’m here. I know how it feels—”
“Thank you for your condolences,” I interrupted, feeling uneasy discussing my “missing” sister.
Bash nodded. “Shall we find the food and ale we were promised many miles ago?” he asked, offering me a kind smile.
“Please,” I replied.
* * *
I drank my first tankard quickly, the second went down as easily, and by the third a warm glow radiated from inside me.
Although the pints were flowing, I didn’t have the stomach to eat.
Sitting on the damp earth alongside hundreds of other soldiers, I found myself musing on a troubling question: Should I be fighting to further oppress magic if I was a witch?
Arthur emerged from one of the pitiful tents, the gleam off his balding head almost blinding me. Trailing close behind was Fletcher—his cap sitting low on his brow, and a packsack slung over one shoulder.
“We’ve been looking for you,” Arthur said, nodding toward one of the weathered tents. “We’ve claimed sleeping space. For all of us,” he added, giving me a quick glance.
I was grateful I wouldn’t have to sleep beneath a blanket of stars. Yet envy simmered within me as I pictured Fitzroy retiring for the night on his soft bedstead. Even amid the chaos of war, the feudal system was strictly implemented.
I sighed, resting my chin on my fist as the dull sting of my bruised cheek pulsed across my face. “I don’t have any bedding,” I muttered, the pain reminding me of yesterday’s robbery.
Fletcher smirked as he held out the packsack. “Here you go, Smith,” he said, thrusting it into my chest. “Oh, and Bash told me you needed another coat. It’s secondhand—it might still be warm, but it’s all yours.”
Fletcher swung a long, black coat before him, a glint in his eye revealing the pride he felt for what he had pilfered for me.
“Thank you,” I replied, accepting my new garment.
Guilt twisted my gut for the poor sod left shivering without it, yet relief overshadowed the remorse—I was glad it wasn’t me.