Brotherhood of the Gemstone Chapter III: A Sword in the Dark

And a house in flames

Ere the winter was in its final days, betwixt the height of a great freeze and the start of the final thaw that was to forecast the dawn of spring, things began to change. Change had long been in the air, as day by day new rumours and tales of dark riders travelled from mouth to mouth. What added to the sense of wrongness, of growing alarm that circulated throughout the locality of Glasvhail, was the rumour from Denkuld that the hereditary abbot and Mormaer Crinen, who was the Mormaer of Athfhotla had begun to conspire against the High-King. This combined with the rumours of MacDuibh’s own malcontent only worsened the tide of fear and anxiousness that ran through the very veins of the village.

“The seasons have been green, since the fall of Donnchad the Foul, therefore what is there to object to or to revolt for?” This was the question upon many young lips, notably those with little knowledge of the terrible feud that existed between Crinen and the High-King.

“It has its roots in High-King Mael Bethad’s slaying of his predecessor,” Explained Corin one day on a rare occasion when he joined several of the other villagers, for a drink in the Scarlet-Wyrm. Seated at a table with Cormac, Daegan and Indulf who had joined them rather publically to the shock of a great many. Not least of which, was Salmon who left with a small snarl.

“How so?” Asked one youngster, the youngest of Simidh’s daughters as the youngest sister of Inga she had long since come to consider Indulf all but kin, regardless what her grandfather claimed. For this reason alone, she was prepared to ignore the harsh words of her parents and grandfather (her parents preferring not to leave, until they had finished their meals), and as in the case of a great many others, had come to heed Corin’s words. Widely renowned throughout all of Glasvhail for his wisdom, many preferred to defer to him than to the foolish Conn.

The aforementioned druid was present, though deep in his mug with his chin resting upon his fist, hiccups and muttered remarks about the folly of the blacksmith. Corin though, took his time as always to answer, selecting his words with his atypical caution, “Because his Grace, slew the unjust Donnchad in battle near the northern fields of Daertean, doing so to defend his lands against the greedy betrayer. Under whom, we had not a single green season.”

The reminder of how poor things were, of how impoverished the realm had become during the reign of Donnchad, who had never cared to husband his resources or treated his people or land as anything other than disposable cattle. It was in part this abuse of the Caleds that had led to Mael Bethad’s rebellion, alongside the threat posed against his wife, Gruach.

“The previous king was a snake,” One man muttered.

“Ugh, Donnchad ought not to be buried upon Rona amongst the other kings of previous generations,” Slurred Conn miserably if loudly enough to be heard by all.

His words were met with approval in all quarters in the pub.

Corin nodded in approval to them also, his only words of warning being ones that all took to heart, “Mark my words, there will be a great deal of sorrow for all involved, should Crinen and MacDuibh have their way.”

Indulf’s presence by his side, accompanied by the speech Corin gave that night in the tavern, went some distance towards healing the breach, though it did not wholly convince those around them to fully accept Cormac once again. The youth was to the next day spend more time than he had ever before, working before his mother’s loom to better avoid a great many of those who despised him. If she was at all of a mind that her neighbours were right she did not show it, nor was she entirely keen to share her thoughts. No, she was more interested in working him and Indulf as much as possible, in preparation for reasons that escaped him.

His friend did not object at all to her orders, keen as he was to work himself to the bone. Anything to avoid having to think at all, such was the force of his grief at Inga’s passing.

It was a few weeks prior to the end of winter that she announced rather loudly, her intent to depart for Sgain’s annual spring-festival. It was a festival intended to celebrate the goddess Scota, who was the supreme-most deity of the pantheon of deities worshipped by the Temple. The festival also honoured Fufluns and Turan, due in no small part to their connection to spring, a season that was held in high regards by the Caleds.

“It is high time that we attempt to improve our lot in life,” Kenna stated early in the morn to her assistants, both of whom exchanged a sceptical glance.

Indulf, still dressed in the black of mourning was first to voice his discontent, “And how will Sgain aid thee, Kenna?”

“Simple, it is said that the High-King and his Queen will be in attendance, before they hurry back to their home in Dunorcnog. We will impress the two of them with our fine needle-work, is that clear?” She persisted refusing to be beaten down by their lack of faith in her plan. “Come now, the only way to improve one’s lot in life, is to commit to it heart, body and soul therefore get to work the both of you.”

They had their misgivings yet did naught to resist her commands, preferring to do as directed. With all of them hard at work sewing and knitting all that they could, over the course of the winter with even Daegan worked to the bone, much to the impatience of her father.

Complaining at some length, if uncharacteristically when Cormac visited him after a full day of work, “It is not enough that she complains infinitely about my person, and influence over you and Dae, she now seeks to deny me any assistance, with my own work?”

“I am aware,” He replied meekly, all too aware of his mother’s failings, yet pity twisted his heart and made him squirm. “But I still feel a great deal of pity for her, mayhap we could inform her of the truth about father-”

“Nay! She would only believe it to be my fault that I had persuaded you, to say so,” Corin grumbled stubbornly with a roll of his eyes, only to ask, “Do you intend to stay for dinner? I am preparing stew, the sort you and Dae like so much.”

His mouth watering, the youth nodded vigorously moving hastily to assist his friend with the cooking of the stew that was put together in a pot over the chimney in the back of the house. In spite of his recent dour mood at the loss of his father, his hunger for Corin’s stew or any of the deer meat he tended to hunt in the Dyrkwoods (in secret of course).

Desirous to change the subject, Cormac addressed now the matter of Wulfnoth, “What of Wulfnoth, has he sent another messenger?”

“Non, that is another matter for consternation; he is likely still in the Carreyrn lands and is unlikely to come to bless the blade.” Stated Corin exasperated, a hint of worry underlining his tone and words.
They ate that night in silence, yet it was not to be the last of Corin’s complaints about the still absent Wulfnoth. Whilst all others worried about matters such as the continued problem of dark-riders, possible civil-war and trips to Sgain, he had but eyes for his black gold-lined sword.

*****

Four days after he had voiced his concerns though, his prayers were answered, late one night when the weather had begun to storm terribly once more. The shore battered by the sea, boats overturned and thunder sending a great volley of noise all throughout the land.

Appearing in the dark of night, the holy-man arrived shortly after Cormac had gone to sleep, only for Daegan to arrive to fetch the youth for her father. Announcing that Wulfnoth was at hand, she informed him, “Father has need of you, it is the sword… it is behaving most strangely since Wulfnoth’s arrival!” She said all of this so swiftly that it took him a few minutes to properly put together what it was that she had uttered, and to formulate a proper thought in response, due to his still being drowsy with sleep. “Well do hurry up! I’faith, now is hardly the time for slow wits Cormac!”

Grumbling, he heard his mother sleepily called down, having heard the savage knocks of the lass upon their doors, even if she was slower to leap from her room to respond than he was. “Who is it?”

“Dae, Ma,” He called back, only to add hastily, “Her Da needs help, do not trouble yourself about it now hurry back to sleep.”

She answered drowsily before doing as instructed, too sleepy to rebuke him or to complain about Corin, beyond a muttered profanity that he heartily agreed with at that moment. Good sleep was so difficult to find these days, he thought to himself as he raced into the night after his friend who appeared, as wide awake at that moment as though it were the middle of the day.

Her long green wool dress, clung to her in the rain he noticed from the corner of his eye, an observation that might well have embarrassed him under other circumstances. Yet at that moment, he hardly paid this sense of timidity any mind, caught up as he was with his frustrations towards the thunder that boomed in the distance.

Putting an arm around Daegan, whilst pulling up his cloak that he had hastily grabbed upon their departure, to cover the both of them, won him a swift, if warm smile from her. One that made his cheeks and neck turn red. Looking away as he did so to hide his now crimson features, he could not resist a certain gratitude now for the storm. As Corin did not live far away, they were to arrive within the hour to find Wulfnoth having changed into an orange woollen tunic and cloak, cinched together so as to properly cover his person.

A plump old man of at least sixty years, he had a fine moustache, dark eyes and grey hair, with a purposeful bald patch on the summit of his head in the style of a Scotian monk. Judging by the dark colour of his habit which Corin was in the midst of throwing over a nearby chair, he likely belonged to the order of the Grey-Monks. Those monks who followed the strictest variant of the Rule of the Paragon Henri de Léorène, a Gallian reformer Archdruid of the mentioned city who had sought to enforce ever stricter and more vigorous rules upon the monks almost a century prior to the present day.

“Welcome, welcome young Cormac, how are you my lad?” Wulfnoth received the soaking wet youth, before he turned his warm gaze to the scarlet-haired lass by his side. “Ah Daegan, you have done most excellently.”

“Thank you, O Brother,” She replied in a voice that was unusually humble. Evidently, every bit as awed by him, as Cormac felt at that moment.

“Now, now no need to be shy, either of you especially as I will have need of both of your assistance with the matter at hand.” Said the clergyman, who proceeded to fuss over them and to encourage them to go stand by the fire, and warm themselves. Wherefore Corin brought out the black-sword, from his bedchambers, to unroll it from the containing cloth onto the ash-wood table in the middle of the room. Once he beheld the gold-gleaming blade, the druid leaped what had to have been thirty- nay fifty feet into the air with a great cry. “I’faith! What a terrible, unholy sight to behold! I had thought I had seen the last of those scales!”

“Scales?” Now it was Corin’s turn to be bewildered, “Whatever do you mean?”

“Er-hem, yes well that there is without a doubt one of Razenth the Foul’s scales,” Wulfnoth blurted out pointing at the blade with a trembling hand. “However did you come by such a material? I had thought most of those bones and scales had been left in his nest to be burnt to ash, by his cousin Donata.”

“It was Wiglaf,” Explained Daegan in the same quiet voice as before, “He said that it was some rider from laird Badrách’s keep, who brought the black-bone to him; with the request, to make a mighty long-sword for our laird and Mormaer MacDuibh.”

This news was met with stunned silence, from the druid. He gaped at her, with open shock apparently struck dumb by this revelation, he was not to remain silent for long though.

“I’faith,” Cormac cried out, calling out the familiar curse that was always quick to fall from any Caled’s lips, “The black-sword appears to be trembling! It is quaking, how is such a thing possible?”

“It is the influence of Razenth the Foul!” Wulfnoth revealed only to pull from his pouch, which lay upon a chair near his side of the table that separated him from the youths and Corin. The gourd he pulled out was held aloft in his left-hand as he sanctified it with the symbol of the flower, the great symbol of the goddess Scota or Marianne, as Corin was wont to call her. “O holy goddess, bless this ale in the name of thee and thy kith and kin, who rule over us all and guard us against all darkness.”

He proceeded to pour the contents of the jug which was to say wine, upon the shimmering quaking blade, only to curse when some of the wine hit the cloth rather than the blade itself. “You lot, hold the sword! See how the whole of the table quakes and shakes with it, so great is its trembling? It is because Razenth the Black’s spirit lives on in the blade, and is aware of what it is we are up to.”

The trio who had hung back in dumb shock, moved as one. Each of them was careful not to touch the blade itself, as they pushed it back down. Cormac being near the point, had to in particular be careful, yet still he ended up cutting the side of his thumb so that he gasped in pain.

Corin who held down the center was the most cautious, and was quick to grab the scabbard which he had forged with Wiglaf’s assistance, to press down upon it. Daegan for her own part, held down at their insistence the hilt and pommel. Her gaze diverted to that of her friend, the moment she heard him hiss in pain.

Such was the strength contained within the sword that each of them struggled to hold down the weapon. Their struggle was not to last for long, as Wulfnoth with all the urgent speed of a man stricken with worry, poured the holy ale over the sword and hilt, with steady hands.

The gourd once emptied was put aside, with it being Cormac who gasped first as the prayer ended and he beheld the purity of the white blade that lay upon the table, no longer quaking and shaking. The coarse midnight darkness of the blade fell off as though little more than scales, the golden gleam that occasionally ran along the sword remained though, rather than appearing ugly to the eye it was now a magnificent sheen. The perfect balance this gold light that dance along the white blade, so that neither Cormac nor Daegan could tear their eyes from it. The first to do so was the former, who glanced over to the latter who continued to gaze upon the blade with eyes full of longing.

“Magic!” Daegan gasped amazed as she hurried to, as her friend and father did, performed the sign of the holy flower of Scota.

“Nay, a ‘miracle’ lass though the two are brother arts,” Wulfnoth clarified with a cough, before he took a swig from another gourd of his, of non-sanctified ale. “My arts are not to manifest the essence of the divine, but rather to purify and clarify for the divine that exists in all things about me, hence, the shift of the blackness of this blade to white.”

“Wait, so sorcery is simply the physical manifestation of the divine such as Scota?” Cormac asked now, amazed by this rather heretical outlook on the nature of magic.

“Indeed, though I know not all the particulars, yet for those of us in the know there is little difference between the two.”

“Incredible.” Daegan murmured, as she performed the symbol once more.

“Aye it indeed is,” the cleric said approvingly before he turned now to Corin, once more, “Now it is time to properly name this blade.”

“Name it?” Cormac inquired amazed at the important tone to the druid’s voice.

“Name it indeed, for there is a power in names and it shall be but the first step towards filling this weapon with a more pleasant spirit than that which once occupied it.” Wulfnoth said knowingly, eyes upon the blade, “Or so I have been told by many a sorcerers who made similar objects as this one.”

Corin eyes the blade. He studied it at length before he turned to his daughter, to ask of her with a small smile, “Daughter, what name would you give unto it?”

“You would ask me?”

“Aye, I have a sense that though I have forged it, Cormac hammered it and Wiglaf welded it with his great flames, and Wulfnoth sanctified it. It is for you to decide the path this blade should take.” Corin said earnestly, his grey eyes meeting her green one with such warmth that it made Cormac ache. He wished he could have such a bond, with his own mother.

Daegan hesitated. Wulfnoth a more quiet-natured man than boisterous Wiglaf, tugged at his moustache, eyes studying her keenly, with Cormac finding this terribly distracting for some reason that escaped him then.

At last, the daughter of Olith the Suns-Blessed as she had once been known, and Corin Steel-Forger uttered a single word as she gazed upon the blade whiter than her own snow-white flesh. A smile on her lips as she spoke, she suddenly exploded with a fairness that awed Cormac. The word she uttered was ‘Defender’ in the Caled tongue. “Cosantóir.”

*****

“Is that all that you needed assistance with?” the blonde lad inquired, hopeful that there was to be more amazing sights to behold that night.

He was destined for disappointment though, as Wulfnoth laughed and nodded if wearily so. “Aye, I apologise for the late arrival, I was busy assisting with the Queen, whom was quite worried about her most recent pregnancy.”

“You met the Queen?!” Now it was both Daegan and Cormac who grew excited.

This was met with another laugh, though this one rapidly turned into a yawn, “Mayhap I will say more at length on the morrow. Would any of you mind terribly, were I to impose myself upon you to-night? I must confess to being wearied from that bit of sanctifying as it does take the wind out of one’s guts if you will.”

“Not at all, brother Wulfnoth, we would be honoured to have so esteemed a guest stay with us, even if it is for but a single night.” Corin said in as dignified a voice as possible, as he added, “You may take my bed, I will sleep herein the main part of the house, Dae will show you to the room.”

Dismissed, Cormac was to depart not long afterwards. He was however worried, when he went to leave, by how quickly the storm had calmed itself, almost as though the sword had lain at the center of it.

“Cormac,” Daegan called just as he set foot outside, she hurried over to him, whilst her father was in the midst of preparing some fur-coverlets upon the ground by the table. “Do hurry home.” She said rather clumsily, only to add when she saw the surprise on his face, “I shall speak to you on the morrow, as there is something of great import I wish to speak to you of.”

“What is it, Dae?”

“Just find me here, and we will have to take a walk by the shore, after you have finished with assisting your mother.”

Cormac’s heart began to race, at the important note in her voice and the sight of her freckled cheeks reddening until they were the same colour as her tresses. Excited, he wondered as he made his way home, if it was her hope to confess her love to him.

It was something that plagued his thoughts for a short time, hardly paying the route to his home any mind. This proved to be a mistake, as he felt a great chill suddenly come over him, one that he would remember for the rest of his days. The wind had picked up, much to his chagrin with the skies still darkened. No starry heavens lay above him due to the clouds having covered them, this blotted out even the light of the moon. If he had had a torch, it could well be that Cormac might have died that night, for it was at that moment as he stumbled blindly through the darkness that he felt something large and fierce brush past him.

The beast, or monster whatever it may have been was easily his height if not more so, and moved so rapidly that he had nary a second to blink before he was thrown forcefully off his feet, and onto his side. Thankfully the snow cushioned his fall, thereupon he lay in a ridiculous pose, his shoulder screaming in agony as he failed to grasp what it was that, had just happened to him.

Goddess, I did not see anything moving in the darkness, yet I am fairly certain that a horse just passed me by, he mused stunned by the pain in his left shoulder which was where he had been ‘brushed’ by the ‘horse’.

The trouble lay in that the more he squinted his eyes, struggling to distinguish what it was that had hit him, the less certain he was of what he saw. Sitting up with a groan, he saw what appeared to be a shadow in the darkness, galloping away towards the druid’s temple. The horse’s hooves hardly made a sound by virtue of the snow.

Frightened and not wishing for this ‘shadow’ to turn about to strike him down, especially as he had heard quite enough about these dark-riders who had haunted Glasvhail for months now. Scurrying back upon his feet, his head dizzy and his stomach nauseous with fear, Cormac could feel his breath hitching in his throat as he hurried home.

Once his home loomed into view, he had the distinct impression that he heard off in the distance, horse hooves turning about to begin coming hither towards him.

His stomach leaping into his throat, he made for the door as quickly as he could, ignoring as he did so the pain in his shoulder whereupon he threw the door open with all his might, dove inside and threw it closed behind him.

Cormac knew not what to expect, only that once the door was shut firmly behind him, he could have sworn that he heard then the sound of a disappointed hiss followed by a huff of outrage. So utterly terrible was this rage that he felt his heart begin to quaver in his breast. It took him some time before he managed, to pull himself back together enough to scurry up the stairs to the second floor, where his and his mother’s rooms lay. Pausing briefly out of curiosity, he felt grateful to hear his mother’s soft snores echoing down the hallway.

This went a long way towards comforting him, and for a moment he wished to wake her up as he was wont to in his childhood, and was frightened by a nightmare. ‘Mama, I’m scared!’ he would cry out, convinced that his bear-like mother could protect him from all the dangers of the world.

You are now a man, you shan’t be running to your ma, for protection now… not with your pa truly dead now, He reminded himself sharply with a shake of his head. Resolutely, he forced himself to hurry to his own bedchambers, where he lay awake for some time before he at last dozed off to sleep.

*****

It was almost a full-day before he could convince himself to venture forth after dark, and even then he trembled with fright. Anxious after this terrible fright, he could well-understand now some of the villagers, who had begun to grow nervous after sunset. The feeling of always being watched, of shadows looming about everywhere, was shared by his friends. Who for their own part, were not at all blind to his sudden fear, especially after he confided what had happened to them.

“A dark-rider hunted after you?” Trygve asked in incredulous shock, the moment he got the full story out of him.

The two were seated inside of the seamstress’s home, where a small fire had been lit in the chimney, built many years prior by the skilful Corin, as a favour to Murchadh. The two of them and Indulf sat huddled about the fire, in a desperate attempt to fight off the cold.

“Not entirely, I have the feeling that he was keen to hunt me only after I ran into his horse.” Cormac corrected rather sheepishly, face red with embarrassment at how foppish he had acted the other night, and that morning. As so great was his fear that he had hardly wished to step out, with Daegan having yet to arrive to speak to him, of whatever it was that she wished to speak of. Deep within his heart, he could not help but pray that it was to be a confession of love. Though she was entirely ignorant of it, he had long held a secret flame of passion for her, since they were young. He felt certain that she had desired him as of late, yet something had stopped him. This hesitancy had filled him with timidity, leaving him weak in the knees and faint-hearted though he knew this to be folly, for a true man was not one who hesitated on such matters. Not if he knew his lady fair, longed for him as surely as he did her.

“Did you hurt yourself, when you fell?” Indulf queried worriedly, as quiet as ever up until this moment, he studied his friend with such keenness that his already crimson face, turned almost purple so scarlet was he.

“Nay, nay though my shoulder still aches, ‘tis nothing to worry about,” He replied feeling discomfited by the notion of admitting weakness at this moment. He had already admitted to too much of that, and besides as Dae might have said; ‘a man ought to be tough’, he had thus no right to complain and differ about.

The butterflies in his stomach were however to pop out of existence, when he heard the door knocked upon just before it was thrown open. Stomping on inside, Kenna cursed once, then twice and then thrice much to the surprise of each of the lads. The first to hurry over to her side to aid her in the removal of her shawl was her son, who asked of her, “Are you aright ma?”

“Nay I am not, fool lad!” She hissed at him, only to calm down a little the moment she saw him flinch back. At this sight Kenna appeared to regret her sharp tone and worked visibly to contain her exasperation. “Never you mind, it is that stubborn mule Lauchlan! He has refused to sell his ox, Mairy.”

“Whatever for?” Trygve asked.

“Says that ‘I will not sell her to the mother of a murderer, you know what yer son has done so why do you continue to house him?’ As if Cormac could have done something so atrocious as to slay either poor Inga or old Graeme,” Kenna bellowed so furiously that the dark-blonde haired lad took a step back, as surprised by the vehemence of her words as his brother and friend were. Her words instantly warmed the lad’s heart. It had been after all some time, since he had begun to doubt her feelings of maternal warmth for him so that this revelation that she had never suspected him of murder came as a welcome surprise. He might well have embraced her then, and uttered his thanks were it not for the words that followed, which put paid to that idea. “I’faith, it would require the lad to actually get up in the morn’ to do something other than eat, wander about his head in the clouds and to play about near those darned Dyrkwoods!”

Those last words felt as a dagger in his heart, a sentiment that was worsened by the knowledge that she had so little faith in him. It is said that only a loved one can truly wound you, and this proverb was most certainly true in the case of Cormac in regards to his mother. Though she held him in such scorn, he had never once ceased adoring her.

“Do you truly have so little regard for me?” He asked after a heartbreaking silence, as he deposited her shawl upon a nearby hook to the left of the door, which was built for just such a purpose.

The answer he received worsened his emotional agony, “How can I have regard for you, if you have accomplished so little in thy life, my son?”

At that moment he wished the ground could have swallowed him whole, so great was his pain. So consumed by misery and pain was he. And yet he did not know which was worst; the pitying glances his friends threw his way or the total scorn in her voice as she continued to maintain her back to him.

He wished he could have said that he fled then, his heart shattered. However, he did no such thing. Instead, he stood there mind lost in his own musings, and recollections of the many failures of passivity that he had committed over the course of his truly short life. Cormac knew himself to be passive, knew he was more inclined to dream, to fantasize about the reason behind the crashing of the waves of the sea, or the breeze of the wind and the deeds of all those who had come before him, than to great feats of weaving or swordsmanship as others might be. Oh, he knew something of the way of arms; he had learnt a little from Corin, more due to his own innate inquisitive spirit however, he had no great love for the spilling of blood or the sound of clashing steel. Rather his fascination lay with the honour one may achieve in penetrating the mysteries of life, and in the defence of what one loved.

“Verily aunt Kenna, that appears to me to be rather too harsh,” Trygve said in a placating gesture.

“Bah, no matter how harsh I am with him, it is not as though he will go out to make something of himself.” She growled exasperatedly, “His father was a man amongst men, though passive and timid he was deep down of sterner stuff than any other man. He was never afraid, to make his mark or to leave it upon all he did; be it in boat-making, stone-carving or fishing.”

Though she tended to be harsh towards Murchadh, she still reserved considerable praise for him, this they knew because she had never truly ceased to love him.

I wish she had a tenth of that love, or a hundredth of it set aside, for myself also, Cormac mused somewhere in the back of his mind.

She made to leave, when she heard a knock upon the door, with a curse she threw the door open with an impatient, “What? Oh, it is you Dae, and looking quite fetching to-day, are you here to see Cormac?”

The lass in question had frozen where she stood. Dressed in a red woollen dress, and with her hair braided into twin braids as it had been the night of the festival, the sight of her was not enough to make Cormac’s heart beat fast this time.

“Woah, Daegan She-Paladin can take up the appearance of a proper lady?” Teased Trygve just before he added, “Oh wait, she has shod her feet in proper winter-clogs.”

His forced attempt to change the subject, won him a roll of Indulf’s eyes and the grateful if watery smile from Cormac, who still felt as though he had been stomped upon by the dark-rider’s horse. Daegan for her part remained standing where she was. She was it seemed frozen at the awareness that Cormac was not alone.

“Well speak up lass,” Kenna asked oblivious to the discomfort of the young lass, and that of her son, “If it is Cormac you have come to see, you had best wait until tomorrow.”

“Whatever for?” The younger lass objected so strongly that it won her a sharp glower from her ‘auntie’.

“Because, he has chores lass! Chores, therefore if you are not here to assist, bugger off to that daft father of yours.” Kenna growled, her unexpected anger towards even the lass she ordinarily doted upon, made them all blink in surprise at her.

Trygve glanced from one person to another, his great wit failing him then. Cormac for the first time in his life looked on at his mother in visible disapproval. “Ma, Dae is simply here to visit with me, and there is no reason to treat her so poorly.”

Kenna blinked at him. Surprise etching itself into her face, as she seemed to at last realize what it was that she had done, with all of them expecting an even worst tongue-lashing than before, in store for her son. Therefore, when she gave instead a shallow nod many a jaws came near to hitting the ground, “Aye, you are quite right, my apologies Dae.”

“Think nothing of it.” Daegan muttered with her typical dignity, as always keen to appear the epitome of the perfect lady, when she was not running about hair aloft and wild behind her.

Thus it was that he was put to work, with nary any permission to object on either of their parts. Only Trygve was allowed to leave, which he did rather enthusiastically.

It was as she grumbled about her lot in life, specifically about her inability to make it to Sgain that an idea came into the spirit of Indulf, who proposed quite suddenly. “Daegan, is your pa, not planning a trip in a few days to Sgain, himself?”

“Aye, why?”

There was a moment during which all of them stared at him, with Cormac giving a slow if serious nod of approval. All desire to please his mother having temporarily left him, as to Kenna herself she stared blankly for some time before it occurred to her what it was that he was implying.

At which time, she reacted with utter horror, “Oh nay, by the Golden Goddess nay! Travel with that cad, never- not on the bones of the Paragon Muireall!”

*****

Kenna conceded the next day. The reason for this was the offer on the part of Wulfnoth to send with the two of them, a letter of recommendation for her to the Queen and to the monks of the local monastery of Sgain. A monastery that had a history that stretched back three hundred years, to the reign of Galam who had founded the order when he had been usurped by his younger half-brother whereupon he had decided to take the tonsure and swear himself to the goddess Scota. So holy and full of faith to the thistle-goddess did he become that his wary sibling, in time came to trust him and after twelve years made him abbot of the monks of Sgain. The abbot in question later became a canonised paragon, with the abbey in more recent years having become a monastery of the Grey Monks. The monks in question believed in a much more rigorous application, of the rules of the Temple which had won them considerable popularity throughout the lands of North-Agenor.

The present abbot was a man by the name of Amhlaidh, a ruddy-faced man according to Wulfnoth who had once served as almoner for the High-King.

“If you wish to become the Queen’s personal seamstress and in charge of her dress, and make no mistake I think this a mighty ambition on your part.” Wulfnoth went on, sitting with her in Corin’s home after she had been convinced to meet with the druid there, at the insistence of Indulf. “I oft fear such ambitions, on the part of a great many people.”

“Why is that?” Kenna queried resentfully.

“Because, it so oft leads to naught but sorrow for all involved,” Murmured the old man, stroking his long moustache worriedly, “I would be more than happy to assist you, as any friend of my good friend Wiglaf is my friend, in spite of these misgivings.”

“Ambition can also aid a man, can aid him to climb up life’s many mounts for his children’s sakes,” Kenna countered.

Wulfnoth had little more to say, on the matter of her departure for Sgain. Convinced to write her a letter to introduce her to the abbot in question, along with Queen Gruach, he demurred from a further clash.

Corin looked ready to object as she had when she had learnt he was her only choice to accompany her to Sgain, yet said nothing on the matter. It was evident that he was displeased with the notion of traveling alone with her.

“This shan’t end well, mark my words,” He grumbled to no one in particular.

*****

Upon their departure the next day, Kenna was to have second-thoughts the following day for it was then that she learnt to her own horror that Wulfnoth had no wish to go with her. Though aware that he had no wish to return to Sgain with her and Corin, she had been utterly convinced that she could dissuade him.

However, the druid dressed in his grey-robes, refused at once with a smile every bit as white as the majority of his hairs were, “Nay, I shan’t do that.” He turned serious once more, “It has come to my attention that there are dark spirits that come out in these parts, after dark. For this reason, I have decided to investigate the matter at the request of brother Conn.”

This hardly pleased her or Corin, however neither would argue any further all too aware that his was a noble quest. As yet unaware of the terrible blood-gem that lay hidden in the house of Corin, there was a great unease about him that Cormac guessed to be the influence of the gem. It was an effect he had noticed in Daegan also, for she was far, far more anxious than she was ordinarily. Not that she was speaking to him at present, given her fury at his having been made to snub her against his will. Something that he took worst than the relentless criticism his mother, had reserved for him in the past several days, criticism that had worsened as of late.

The farewells were thus chilly, with Kenna as stiff as ever, hugging her reluctant. With the youth jealously noticing (and failing to hide his envy) just how warm the embrace of father and daughter was a few feet away, with Corin patting his daughter as always upon the head, wherefore she grumbled good-naturedly.

Turning away from him, when the parents and children pulled away from one another, with her gaze firmly set upon the exterior wood and stone wall of her home, and decidedly not on him, wherefore she offered a warm farewell to Kenna. Saying as she embraced her, “May Scota protect you auntie.”

“And may she keep you my dearest,” the seamstress replied at once.

This done, she stepped onto the wagon that Corin had had prepared, with the assistance an hour prior with the aid of Trygve, Indulf and Cormac. The other two stood aside though with the elder of the two visibly keen to pull Wulfnoth aside to speak with him in private. Likely, Cormac suspected, about Inga and her possible murderer. Whereas Trygve appeared simply tired and keen to see the back of Kenna whom he had never been as fond of, as his brother or Daegan were.

“Now that we have finished with our farewells, we must be away, for Sgain, Kenna,” Corin declared reluctantly offering to aid the seamstress onto the cart past his horse, Romulus.

She simply gave a loud ‘hmph’ noise in response, moved past him to climb up into the small wagon attached to the horse, who observed her with an unhappy eye. Grumbling beneath his breath, the blacksmith shot Cormac a helpless glance before he offered him his hand.

Pleased that at least one person who was practically kin to him, was willing to treat him as such, he heartily took up his hand and shook it vigorously. Corin in turn though, took the opportunity to pull him to his chest and into a tight embrace. “Stay strong lad, and take heart; Dae shall forgive you.”
“Thank you, Corin,” Cormac said sincerely moved by his friend’s kindly words.

“Upon my return, I shall tell you more of your father and…” Now his voice became conspiratorial, as he glanced about the two of them notably to Kenna and Wulfnoth who was in the midst of chattering eagerly with Trygve. “In regards, to the matter of that gemstone, for I swear to you lad, we shall discover the truth behind his mysterious disappearance and return, together.”

The emphasis on this last word warmed Cormac’s heart. A small smile found its way onto his face, as he nodded his head in response.

Without another word the smith climbed up onto the wagon, whereupon he shook the reins attached to his pony, who grunted just before he began to trample his way northwards. En route for Sgain, there was a sense in the pit of the youth’s stomach that he was not going to see his mother and Corin for a long time. All of a sudden, he had the urge to run down the road to shout after them, not to go, it was the same sentiment he had felt the night his father had disappeared nine years prior.

The moment passed, and he suppressed his instinct when he glanced to the right, to find Daegan flouncing off into her home, with the words. “Now that they have departed, mayhap you lot will leave me alone, to sew myself a new bonnet.”

“A bonnet you will likely never wear,” Trygve commented under his breath.

The glower she sent in his direction drew a shrug from him, and a puzzled glance from Wulfnoth. Shrugging his own large shoulders a few minutes later, the Brittian born cleric announced his intent to go pray at the temple.

“Will you begin your hunt for the shadow-riders?” Cormac asked curiously, a hint of worry in his voice.

“Aye, though it will take hours to prepare,” Wulfnoth said with nary any concern, his thoughts evidently elsewhere, he then pulled and tugged at his moustache adding as he did so, “Never you three mind though, for it is a worry for another hour and until then, I suggest you all go home, rest and eat a very merry lunch, as who knows what will befall us come night-fall.”

*****

Though he had been encouraged to go rest, Cormac waited only a short time for the others to leave for their own homes, a sliver of irritation towards his friends for their knowing glances, when they realized he intended to try to speak with Daegan.

His thoughts on her, he knocked and was rebuffed, with her only words being “Go away!” he knocked once more, was rebuffed again uttering a fumbling apology through the door. This was met with silence, at which time he left for his home in defeat.

His sense of hurt was overshadowed by the memory of his mother’s sharp words against him, words that had begun to haunt him and make him squirm inside. Was what she had said true? Was he truly a failure? Was he the sort of man to give up, and never try again, and who was destined to always fail to demonstrate himself a true Caled?

The doubt and conflict within himself was somewhat eased when he did as Wulfnoth had suggested, eating a small lunch of poultry, with a side of bread dipped in wine. This done, Cormac grew restless. A part of him wished to visit Ciaran’s oak, yet another part wished to go sit by the quay. However the stiff reminder that, his father had returned put an end to that habit in its entirety, and the knowledge that Helga was likely near the temple meant he could not visit Murchadh. He had no great wish to encourage her to think of him, in terms of marriage.

Mooncalf, this is no time for dawdling and day-dreaming, he told himself sharply, using one of his mother’s older insults to push himself at last to proper action.

Casting out the doubt from within himself, he glanced outside to discover the suns in the midst of their final descent. The memory of Inga and that of his father entered into his soul then. This only steeled his resolve to not only go tell Daegan, what it was that he thought and felt, as he realized just how short life truly was, and decided to his mind for him. Yes, he was still shaken by the previous encounter with the shadow-rider that he had had, but he refused to shrink and hide from a mere shadow. He was the only person, to have encountered it, face-to-face and lived to speak of the incident, most of the rest had but seen it in passing and thus had their doubts about the validity of what they had seen.

Grabbing one of his only two cloaks, Cormac made his way over the hill in the direction of the scarlet-haired lass whom had always been present, in all his memories. Especially his farthest ones, which had included Murchadh lifting the two of them upon his large beefy shoulders, or Corin showing them a newly crafted horse-shoe, there was also the memory of when he had dropped a tomato given to him by farmer Drest. Filled with pity for him, and for the tears that had come unbidden into his eyes, Daegan had torn what remained of her own in half.

He arrived short of the door when he realized that he still had no notion of what it was, he wished to say to her. The truth of it was that Cormac had sought previously to plead with her. Demanding an ‘audience’ as Trygve might well have dubbed it, would avail him nothing he suspected. All that was left to him was the thought of how she had in the past pulled from behind a door or from one of his day-dreams upon her own arrival.

Shyness though got the better of him, at the thought of singing to her as that seemed a tad too ridiculous to his mind and he had no wish to appear the fool. Especially if Wulfnoth was to return at that moment, or Indulf or heavens spare him, Trygve! In place of this act, he chose to call out to the daughter of Corin, once more. “Dae, I could not stay away!”

Once again she rebuffed him, “Go away Cormac. If you had wished to speak to me, you should have sought me out after that day when your mother put us to work and you chose to go rest instead.”

“That was a foolish thing to do on my part,” He acknowledged guiltily, remembering how weary he had been after they had worked for so long, so that he had hardly noticed Daegan’s exodus from his mother’s shop.

“Indeed it was.”

Frustrated Cormac could feel his temper begin to rise up, it was rare for him to ever feel this way towards her, due in no small part to the great fondness he had for her. However, at that moment he almost could not resist a sharp comment in return. “That said, I do think that I should be allowed to apologise without a door obstructing us, for this is no proper way to speak or to face one another. It is hiding, and you Dae are no coward, therefore you ought to open the door to confront me directly, as you have in the past when angered.”

Unsure if his words would have any sort of effect upon her, he was rewarded a minute later with the door cracking open. The glorious sound was as a full chorus of the finest singers in Rothien to his ears, so pleased was he by her acquiescence to face him.

Pleased, he hardly noticed the twin-suns’ final descent in the distance. Cormac opened his mouth to speak up, his pleasure showing itself on his face with Daegan being faster to speak up than he. “Know that I expect in full, an abject apology.”

“Would you have me grovel?” He asked in frustration, eyes flashing with blue lightning.

“Aye,” Her green gaze met his evenly.

They stood there facing one another, testing the air and daring the other to crumble and give in first. By nature, Cormac was the more likely to give in. Hardly known for his obstinate spirit or his ability to resist Daegan or her wishes it was with a start that she realized after a few seconds that he had yet to concede a single millimetre.

The wind whipped about and the heavens appeared to tremble, as the suns at last petered out in the distant west and the moon arose in their place. His dark brown wool cloak fluttered about him as wings on an eagle might, his red woollen tunic and hose hardly enough to fight off the cold air so that he shivered eventually.

Great was the cold that wandered from home to home, from person to person, hunting them as though they were naught but prey. This though was but a prelude to what was to come, as Cormac spoke up once more. “May I enter, Dae? I had hoped to discuss the hiding place of the gem and er- whatever it was that you wished to discuss that day when you came to visit me.”

Daegan hesitated visibly, her teeth ground together and for a long moment the blonde-haired lad felt fairly certain that she would say ‘no’ and close the door in his face.

At last she let slip a sigh and opened the door fully, allowing him entry at last. Once inside, she went to seat herself at the table, where he could not help but notice, she had a strand of wool that had yet to be properly sewn together. It was in disarray, this struck him as peculiar. Daegan was by no means, the sort of woman to ever leave anything such as cloth in disarray. Disorder was her enemy, as much in the forge, as it was with firewood as unused cloth was.

All anger disappeared from Cormac’s heart as he asked of her once she had seated herself, “Dae, what is wrong? Has something happened?”

“Of course something went wrong, Cormac how can you ask such a thing?” She demanded of him furiously.

“I meant- have you slept at all?”

At this question she fell silent once more. Her answer when it came was so reluctant, so quiet he almost had to strain to hear it, “What do you mean, Cormac?”

“I mean, you did not sing upon my appearance here, not even an anger-song in disapproval of me then there are the dark-rings beneath your green eyes.” Cormac told her, his heart aching with sympathy for her as he moved closer, bending down as he did so that she did not have to crane her neck to look up at him. “Tell me you wish me to go away, and I will go, but not before you have spoken of what ails you, Dae.”

Daegan looked away for a moment before she sagged a little, “It is that gemstone I fear,” She fidgeted a little. “I feel in recent days as though sleep is a treacherous enemy that is accompanied by naught save nightmares and coldness. There is something amiss that watches over father and I, he felt it too just before he left for Sgain. It is why I think, that he left so hastily and without too much quarrel over the matter of auntie. This gem, has begun to- I do not know, it feels as though it is ever watchful and malevolent even now.”

Cormac came close then, closer than he ever had in the past to take her into his arms, as he desired to comfort her. But she was not a child, neither was she someone who appreciated being treated as one. If only, a part of him whined that he could know her mind better in order to know what it was that she wished for from him.

“Where is it? Mayhap we should take it away to my mother’s home?” He proposed in place of any such action, though his arms itched to do so.

Daegan her eyes uncharacteristically wet looked up at him hopefully, “Would you do that? I know that we promised not to move it Cormac, however I am not certain I could endure it for one night longer… not if I wish to resist opening it and wearing it!”

“What wearing it?” Now Cormac’s voice arose to sound rather akin to his mother’s squawk, unable to imagine how she could dread the blood-gem yet desire to wear it all at once.

“I do not understand it- one moment I wish it cast away from me, the next I long to have it nearer as though it were the only thing that could offer me comfort!” Daegan said so shrilly that he found that his mouth hung open in shock, to see her so consumed by distress.

“Point me to it,” He said deciding then, to take away the Blood-Gem of Aganippe from her.

Daegan to her credit raised a trembling finger towards one of the jugs-the same he realized that Corin had placed it in many a nights ago. Cormac moved towards it, only to jump several meters in the air it appeared, when he heard a great knock upon the door.

“You did not invite Trygve or Indulf, to join us did you?” Daegan asked irritably.

“Of course not,” He answered immediately, frowning also, “You open it, I shall hide the gem elsewhere, while you send away whoever is there.”

Daegan nodded, climbing up to her feet to do as directed however the moment she opened the door a crack to send away whomsoever it was, just as he turned away for the moment. What he did not expect from her, was for her words to turn into a shrill shriek. “Hello? If you wish to have something forged, my papa is absent and- Cormac!”

Cormac leapt a little in surprise, just as dark figure threw open the door stood tall in the doorway. The shadow that stood there, wore a raiment of blackness, of leaky shadows, his feet shod in large dark boots. Upon his brow he wore a war-helm which was topped with a crown of gleaming dark-silver that ended in steely-points, with the base of the helm curving up a little at the edges. The only thing that this terrible figure held in his hands, was a large torch that was the only means by which they were able to see him. As to his other hand, it rested upon the serpent-tipped pommel of the sword that was girded upon his belt.

As shocked as Daegan by the great emptiness that stared back at the two of them, from within the war-helm, the dark-hauberk dressed shadow hissed at them with a voice deeper than the deepest of caverns yet was at the same time a more violent hiss than the most vile of serpents. There was also a jagged-edge to his horrid voice so that it was as though the very flesh, of the blonde-youth had been pierced by small steely daggers, of the coldest ice imaginable.

“You… where art the most high of all gems?” Hissed the terrible cipher that stood in the doorway, his attention fixed upon Daegan who stared back at him frozen, so utterly terrified was she.

It was slight, but when he realized she could not answer the shadow-rider who had come to haunt Glasvhail unsheathed the darkest of blades that Cormac had ever seen. So shadowy, so bleak was the colouration of this blade that it made Cosantóir’s original colour appear as bright as it presently appeared to be.

Filled with a new dread, this one not for himself as the previous wave had been at the sight of this monstrous creature, as this was a fear for his closest friend. “Dae!” With that one syllable, spilling forth from his lips he made a great leap that no man, no Elf and no creature save the ancient star-dog Féavonoé had performed. This great star-dog being known to him only thanks to one of the ancient tales Wiglaf had once told him and was said to be the inspiration for one of their greatest songs.

Tackling the scarlet-haired lass to the ground, so that a squeak that she had never before uttered in all her life escaped her throat, just as the ‘whoosh’ of the foul blade of the evil phantom sliced from side to side above their heads. It missed Cormac’s head by mere inches, cutting through his shoulder-length hair so that his tresses fell over the two of them not that either thought anything of this. Not while the sword sliced through a portion of the doorway, without the stone or the wood giving any resistance, much to their shock.

A creaking noise filled the house, as a portion of the wall began to give way. This went largely unnoticed by the two of them, as the monster glared down at them, or so it appeared to the two tangled youths, who gaped up at him afraid. Their hearts beating so rapidly that Cormac expected them to tear themselves forth from their breasts.

The phantom approached them, with the lad fully expecting him to enter the house to take another swipe at them, with his dreadful blade. However he did no such thing. The moment he sought to enter, a loud shriek was torn from somewhere deep within his helm. This only worsened the fear that froze the hearts of the two who lay on the ground, staring up at him with wide eyes.

It took him a long moment to recover enough of his calm, to growl in the worst voice that either of them had ever heard, torch aloft in his left hand, “Burn, the both of you.”

Such was the heat of his hatred that the flames might have paled in comparison. A view that he was determined to put to the test, as he cast down upon the thatch roofing of the house the torch. At once, the knowledge of what it was that he sought to do, caused Cormac’s heart shrivel with mortal fear. They could either burn to death in the house, or leap out of it to confront and perish at the shadowed-gauntlets of the phantom-rider.

Indecision twisted him, fear froze Daegan whilst the flames hammered at the stones and wood, until all that remained within it was consumed.