Skirmish by the Sea.
A glint of morning seeped through a crack in the tent, and I silently thanked the gods that dawn was finally breaking.
I’d hardly slept a wink since Yuletide—spending the first few days of the new year utterly exhausted.
When I did eventually collapse onto my bedstead, my body felt too weak to move while my mind raced uncontrollably.
The incantation I’d repeated hundreds of times echoed in my ears, making sleep impossible.
Dragging myself from the bedstead, I braced for the arrival of the men, who would soon stumble drearily into the smithy for another day of grinding, sharpening, and welding.
My hands throbbed as I laced up my boots—I couldn’t tell if the ache was from relentless spellcasting or the ceaseless tasks at the forge.
I slid on my gloves, put on my long coat, and stepped outside to savor a moment of fresh air.
The crisp morning alleviated some discomfort in my chest. Hours spent confined inside that smoky tent meant that most mornings, I hacked up mouthfuls of bitter black bile.
The planks beneath my feet were slick with dew, and beads of moisture rolled steadily down the canvas tents.
For one fleeting moment, the encampment lay as quiet as I imagined Lyonesse was on the first day of everything—before the gods placed man in the kingdom to fill it with noise and destruction.
Suddenly, something darted between two tents—a dark mass creeping through the camp with the stealth of a predator stalking its prey.
I tracked its movements like a hawk as it flitted between the canvas.
For a moment, it froze, then sprang straight toward me.
Fear jolted through my chest, and I stumbled backward.
As the figure approached, I caught a glimpse of the familiar face hidden inside the hood.
Emma grabbed my shoulders. “Something wicked is coming this way,” she whispered, her voice low and urgent.
I frantically ushered her into the smithy, as she continued, “I was awoken by a prophecy. It was as clear as the sky on a summer’s day.”
My heart fluttered faster than a surrendering white flag. “What did it say?”
Emma closed her eyes, like the words were written on the inside of her lids, then softly intoned:
“They shed their skin on dry land.
Do not be fooled, this is no man.
The seal folk feed on human meat.
If you hear their song, retreat, retreat.”
When Emma opened her eyes, her brow furrowed with impending dread. She raised her hands toward me, beginning an incantation.
“Hedan pis wicca, ordain a weal—” Protect this wizard, create a wall.
A blaring trumpet interrupted Emma mid-incantation, shattering the quiet and sending my heart into a frantic thud.
“I must go,” she breathed, eyes widening. “I’ll see you once the hurly-burly’s over.”
Wrapping herself in her long, dark cloak, Emma slipped out of the smithy. I watched her through a crack in the tent flap as she walked briskly through the encampment, heading for the safety of the woodland.
“A woman on the beach!” a man shouted from outside the tent. “A woman’s washed up on the shore!”
“Perhaps the gods favor us after all,” another added.
Peering outside further, I saw soldiers gathering weapons from the armory while others marched unarmed toward the shore, seemingly unperturbed by the woman’s arrival. As they departed with swords I’d strengthened with protective spells, I wondered how the enchanted blades would fare.
Emma’s prophecy circled around me as I tried to grasp its meaning.
“Don’t be fooled, this is no man…” I mumbled beneath my breath.
But as I struggled to understand, more and more men made their way toward an unknown fate.
“Stop!” I called out, not knowing what else to do. “You don’t know what you may face down there.”
Some of the soldiers chuckled at my hysteria; others scowled at my blatant fear.
“Scared of a woman?” a voice piped up from within the crowd. “She ain’t gonna bite!”
“What if I ask her nicely?” another man retorted, earning himself a cascade of laughter that trickled throughout the camp.
It felt impossible to convince my comrades to stay away from the shoreline when I couldn’t reveal the prophecy—I was choosing between my life and theirs.
Among the horde heading for the beach was Finn. I waved him over, beckoning him toward the smithy.
“I need to talk to you,” I whispered, dragging him inside.
I moved over to a bucket of freshly mended swords, picked out a well-forged blade, and placed it in his hands. “Take this—just in case.”
In the wake of Emma’s prophecy about human-eating seal folk, all our past disagreements seemed juvenile. I didn’t care if Finn took credit for my work or hurled harsh words—I just wanted him to be safe.
“It’s only a woman on the beach.” Finn tutted. “I don’t need a sword.”
Ignoring him, I lifted my straw mattress and retrieved the parchment Margaret had given me. My fingers flicked hurriedly through the pages, searching for a protective incantation.
“What’s that?” Finn asked.
“Quiet,” I demanded, spotting the spell I needed. I slipped off my gloves and raised my purple palms toward him.
Finn gasped. “Your hands…”
“Hedan pis wicca, ordain a weal. Neil beaten scealt ordain heo feal.” Protect this wizard, create a wall, no blow shall make him fall.
As I whispered the incantation, tiny specks of light floated from my palms and clung to Finn’s frame.
He glistened faintly as the spell latched onto him, then the illumination dimmed, and he returned to his usual dull coloring.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Finn asked, mouth agape.
“No time to explain now.” I grabbed my gloves again, picked up a sword, and hesitated for a moment before walking toward the ominous shore.
As we approached, a distant wail carried through the air. Soldiers were already packed tightly on the beach, their attention fixed on the water.
First, I spotted Red, his fiery hair wavering in the breeze like flickering flames. At his side was Godwin. His scars appeared pale in the chill, as if a spider had spun an ivory web across his cheek. Both stared seaward, their gazes unwavering.
Standing on my tiptoes, I peered through the heads toward the source of the anguished cries.
There, a young woman—as naked as the day she was born—flailed her arms helplessly as the tide lapped at her ankles.
Seaweed clung to her black hair, and her skin gleamed—not with wetness, but with an eerie, frosty shimmer.
“Help,” she begged, coughing up water.
A handful of soldiers rushed down the beach to aid her while most men held back, watching skeptically from a distance.
“How’s she not frozen to death?” Finn asked, bewildered.
I shook my head, unsure.
“Why’s she here?” a commanding voice demanded.
Fitzroy, unarmored, stood between the cautious soldiers lingering far from the shoreline and the braver men clustered near the woman. His royal cloak fluttered in the breeze, embroidered with the insignia of Lyonesse—making him look like a flagpole placed as a reminder of who ruled this realm.
“She claims her skin’s been stolen,” a soldier shouted back. “She claims she cannot return home without it.”
Fitzroy’s hand lingered on the hilt of his sword as he tried to make sense of the surreal scene before him.
An armored knight clinked past me, advancing toward the woman with a linen sheet extended. She accepted it gratefully, wrapping it around her body as she thanked her saviors.
A gentle touch to my lower back distracted me.
Glancing to my side, I saw Bash and Fletcher.
Bash’s gaze drifted to my neck, and a warm smile appeared when he noticed the gold chain around it—realizing I was still wearing his gift.
The slight pucker of his lips made my belly flutter as I recalled how they’d felt pressed against mine.
“Do you think she’s hurt?” Finn asked, grounding me back in the present moment.
Fletcher tilted the brim of his cap as he observed the soldiers fussing over her. “No,” he mumbled. “I don’t think that thing’s a woman.”
Bash placed an arm in front of me, gently nudging me behind him. I liked his protective gesture, though I couldn’t help but wonder what he feared I needed shielding from. Fletcher also stepped back, retreating into the safety of Bash’s shadow.
The woman reached out and tenderly stroked the cheek of a soldier. He looked at her with smitten eyes. “My saviors,” she cooed in a melodic tone, “allow me to sing you a song to show my gratitude for helping me.”
As she began to sing, a few soldiers swayed in time to her melody.
Her voice was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard—soft, ethereal, harmonizing effortlessly with the sea breeze.
For a fleeting moment, I found myself bopping along, losing all sense of self in her song, until Emma’s earlier prophecy resurfaced in my mind.
“If you hear their song, retreat,” I murmured under my breath.
“Pardon?” Bash asked, assuming my mumbled words were meant for him.
“Have you ever heard of seal folk?”
He nodded slowly. “You mean selkies? My father once told me of a colony beyond the Bristolia Islands. Selkies live as seals in the sea and shed their skins to transform into humans on land.”
Bash glanced back at the singing woman. “You think she’s a selkie?”
I nodded. “We need to flee.”
I prayed the soldiers would follow me inland, but only Bash and Finn did. Even Fletcher remained rooted in place—his eyes glazed over while he stared longingly at the waves, as if someone familiar were calling him to the deep.
“Fletcher, no,” Bash pleaded. “Fletch, listen to me.”
But Fletcher heard nothing beyond the silky sound of her voice. I scanned the beach, noticing how some soldiers seemed unaffected by her alluring song while others moved hypnotically toward the water.
“Fletcher? Oh gods! John, can you hear me?” Bash grappled with his cousin, struggling to keep him away from the enchantress.
“Does he have any enchanted weapon or armor on him?” I asked.
“No.” Bash grunted as he wrestled with a glassy-eyed Fletcher. “Neither do I.”