The Grey Gull Tavern was an old seafaring inn overlooking the decrepit harbor of Tormaz. Like all quayside inns, it had once thrived on the patronage of fishermen, sailmakers and travelers. Those days were now long passed, the old prosperity having been killed off by piracy on the seas and the construction of a large new port ten miles along the coast. For sixty years the Grey Gull lay derelict and forgotten, as the fisherfolk forsook Tormaz and moved away, leaving only a few rotting ships in the ancient harbor. But when the great war broke out on the distant Zerl Islands, the armies of Tilnon needed a port of embarkation for their troopships, and the generals remembered the old quays at Tormaz, so they sent their craftsmen to refurbish them. The troops brought new life to the Grey Gull Tavern, and its walls echoed again to the noise of song and revelry, for it became a favored haunt of soldiers and sailors en route to the Zerl campaign.
On one particular evening of early autumn, in the mellow weeks before the wintry seas grew too perilous for the huge slow troopships, a hundred of Tilnon's infantry were enjoying their last night on the mainland. Forty of them descended on the Grey Gull at sunset, determined to drink every drop of ale and wine in the tavern. They were a raucous crowd, most of them new recruits who came to drown their fear of battle. About a dozen were young women and girls, barely out of their teens, whose high voices shrieked and cackled above the hubbub of noise as their throats swallowed copious quantities of strong ale and dark wine. They flirted with their male comrades, kissing some and cursing others, shoving aside the optimistic hands that tried to paw their bare thighs or sneak under their short red dresses. Red, too, were the tunics of the men, but their modesty was protected by close-fitting white breeches.
In a corner, away from the lamplight and the swirling smoke, sat two women whose raiment showed that they were not part of the main group. One was small of stature, with a tumbling mane of blonde curls, wearing a short buckskin dress with a tassled hem and no sleeves. The other was taller and more athletic, her body finely-toned and smooth-skinned. Her chestnut hair was long and neatly combed, its shiny tresses falling around her tanned shoulders. Her black leather waistcoat and matching short skirt were decorated with small metal studs, as was the broad belt that encircled her slender waist. From the belt hung a sword in a black scabbard, its hilt patterned with intertwining shapes in red and gold.
The women sat on a bench with their backs propped against the tavern wall. Before them, on a table, stood two copper tankards and six empty wine-jugs. The blonde drained the last dregs from her tankard and banged the empty vessel on the tabletop.
"Somebody fetch me a drink!" she slurred.
"You've had enough for tonight, Keelam," her companion replied. "And anyway, we've run out of money."
The blonde frowned, her bleary eyes staring at the row of empty jugs. "Fear not, Sharmoon! I'll get money from these Tilnonese fools. Give me your sword!"
Sharmooon laughed. "You're drunk! You can barely stand, let alone wield a weapon. But you're forgetting that these red-clad loudmouths are our friends and allies. So sit quiet, or go to sleep!"
Keelam cursed and with a sweep of her arm knocked one of the jugs off the table. It hit the floor and smashed to pieces. The noise caught the attention of a nearby group of Tilnonese soldiers: three men wearing sergeants' insignia and two young female recruits. The tallest of the men grinned and walked over to the table, his arm around the waist of one of the girls.
"What's wrong, Kee?" the man asked, his mouth curling in a wry smile. "Too much wine, perhaps?"
Keelam glared up at him. "Get me another jug, Wixer!"
The man laughed. "It's not my task to keep you in wine, Keelam. And as for you, Sharmoon, you shouldn't let your little comrade drink so much. You know she can't take it."
Sharmoon shook her head. "You know that's not true, Wixer. Remember your drinking contest last year? It was you, not Keelam, who toppled off the bench."
Wixer grinned, before sitting on a chair on the opposite side of the table. Placing his young female companion on his knee he turned to face Sharmoon.
"I remember the contest," he said, after a long moment of silence. "I also recall that you promised me a kiss that evening, after I generously paid off your gambling debt. You still owe me that kiss, Sharmoon."
Sharmoon's keen blue eyes narrowed as she stared across the table. "The promise was forfeited when you lost both the drinking contest and your wits. I usually keep my promises, Sergeant Wixer. But I won't kiss any man who lies in a drunken stupor on the tavern floor."
Wixer shrugged, turning his attention to the girl sitting on his knee. He caressed her long auburn hair and smiled to see her yawn.
"Are you weary, little one?" he asked, his voice softening to a tone that was almost paternal. "We'll return to our bed soon, I promise. But first I'll introduce you to a pair of tough barbarian warriors: Keelam and Sharmoon, staunch allies of our king in his long and bitter war."
The girl yawned again, and Wixer turned back to Sharmoon. "This is Nimi, a fine spearmaiden who excelled in training. Don't be fooled by her prettiness, for she fights like a wildcat. She reminds me of you, Sharmoon: beautiful and charming, yet deadly in combat."
Nimi gazed drunkenly at Sharmoon, her brown eyes so dilated that they seemed almost black.
"I've heard so much about you," she murmured dreamily. "About your skill with a sword. Wixer reckons you're the greatest of warrior women, and that you've slain three thousand enemies."
"That's an exaggeration," Sharmoon muttered. "What other half-truths have you heard?"
Nimi leaned forward, parting her lips and licking her teeth. "One of the women in my regiment," she began, pausing to hiccup. "Her name is Kori: a tough corporal at the training camp. She remembers you with affection, Sharmoon. She told me that you make love like an angel."
Keelam had been listening quietly to the conversation, but this last remark made her laugh aloud, her blonde tresses jiggling as her shoulders shook with mirth. "Like an angel? That's one I've not heard before!"
Sharmoon's elbow gave her friend a sharp nudge in the ribs as she said: "Sober up, Kee-Kee! Where are your manners? Your mockery is embarrassing our pretty guest!"
Keelam chuckled merrily but Nimi ignored her and fixed a bleary gaze on Sharmoon, who in turn looked at Wixer.
"I think you should escort Nimi back to her tent," she suggested. "She's had far too much drink tonight, and tomorrow she has a long voyage to endure."
"I can hold my ale!" Nimi protested. "I'm eighteen years old, so please don't treat me like a child!"
Keelam laughed again, pointing an accusing finger at Wixer. "Cradle-dipper! She's ten years younger than you. Have you no shame, Sergeant?"
Wixer shrugged. "Nimi isn't a child. She's barely four years younger than Sharmoon and is a woman of some pedigree, a fact that several of her male comrades will happily confirm."
"You swine!" Nimi yelled, lightly slapping his nose. "You make me seem like the regimental whore!"
Wixer clasped her tightly in his arms and stuck out his tongue. Nimi buried her hands in his mop of black hair and clamped her mouth onto his. Their kiss lingered for a half minute, before Wixer pulled away to turn once again to Sharmoon.
"Now I want the same from you, my fine barbarian friend! Tonight you shall fulfill the promise that you once made. Give me your kiss, Sharmoon!"
Sharmoon shook her head. "No. I will not kiss you. Not tonight. Nor any other night."
