Rumours of it floated round every dockside tavern, traded and sold and - worst of all - believed. Older than any record in the Kingdom, the sea-wall was a legend. It was immense, nearly three times the height of the masthead, and behind it the northern lords had flourished, protected from Islander raids and the storms of winter. The sea-wall was a giant breakwater of basalt - black, slick, and featureless - that lay across a gap in the cliffs, closing off access to the shallow bay and the estuary beyond it. No-one sailed this close to the sea-wall, not unless they wanted their ship dashed to pieces, funnelled in by currents that ran treacherously quick around the cliff walls. The ship lifted with the swell of the ocean and fell as the wave subsided under it. There was violence, and smoke, and shadow.
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