Brotherhood of the Gemstone: Chapter II: The Shadow Across the Sea

Second though not the last chapter

By the time that this tale takes place it had been nine long years, since the assumed death of Murchadh the fisherman. Surnamed ‘Steady-Hand’ for the surety of his hands, and for that of his spirit no matter the crisis, he had been a popular man both with the men and the women of Glasvhail. His name had evoked once, respect and admiration with his wife and him forming one of the most handsome couples in the village. Such was the force of the local affection for him that all overlooked his queer-nature and absent-mindedness. It was because of his approval all that Corin was so easily accepted into the village many years ago by the oft-suspicious locals. Yet, immediately after his death the patience that some had had towards him failed to be extended to his similar, if even more strange son. In many ways, many had looked back on him as a kind of fool, one that many had felt a certain regret to have once favoured so. Strange as he was, none had however doubted that he had perished in the terrible storm that had rocked the whole of the coast of Glasvhail. This in spite of his having fished through more than a few storms in the past, for all knew that he was the most devoted father (after Corin of course) in all of Fidach. If he could have survived, he would be by his family’s side regardless if he had been thrown to the other side of the Antillia-Straits.

“By Scota, if only Murchadh had lived,” Freygil had once upon a time been prone to saying, “He might well have mediated between Kenna and Corin, or her and her son.” Others were prone to commenting that had the man lived, and been able to pass on his trade to his son, this might have done the lad some good. Or helped to better shape him into the sort of man, who was of use to the local community rather than an eyesore and nuisance, or so they had once said. In more recent days though, they had taken to complaining at some length, on how ashamed Murchadh would be of his ‘filthy murderer of a son.’

Told and retold continuously of his failings, until he had been pushed further and further inward, Cormac had also learnt from this that there was little that interested him in the words of others. Aware of what was true, what was not, he had thus learnt long ago to pay little heed when those around him regardless if they were Corin or Wiglaf, or even Dae that his father had passed. Though he had not expected by any means, the immensity of the beard and dishevelled mane Murchadh now wore, he was little surprised to see the man alive.

“I-I must sp-speak to you Corin,” Murchadh stuttered weakly, the moment he was laid down upon his friend’s bed, his blonde hair now white and grey as the torn tunic that barely covered him, his eyes hardly saw as they quivered and gaped as widely as his mouth did.

“Rest now, rest easy Murchadh you can speak when you have rested fully-” Said Corin at his most soothing, his hand squeezing the bony shoulder of his friend.

“Nay!” The force of that one word shook the prematurely aged man, along with the three who stood before him. “This is far, far too important! Please Corin!”

“Dae, Cormac go find Wiglaf, he should still be near!” Ordered the blacksmith in a voice that all knew brooked no argument, not that either of them were prepared to offer up any.

It was in this way that Wiglaf was retrieved from near Ciaran’s oak, which he had just reached on his donkey, Hubert. Hurrying back in a great hurry, it was he who bound Murchadh’s wounds of which there were a great many; five to his sides, four to his legs and two to his arms along with a large gash on the side of his left temple. Such was the poor-condition that he was in that even the smith let slip a hiss of horrified sympathy escape from his lips.

His teeth on his lower lip, WIglaf worked as swiftly as he could be expected to with the three of them crowding him. During this time, the fisherman had slipped out of consciousness which helped a great deal to facilitate the sorcerer’s efforts.

“Can you not heal his wounds, as the druids might?” Daegan asked after some time.

“Nay, ordinarily I might however it is not any one injury or illness that assails Murchadh at present.” Stated the sorcerer as he and Cormac threaded as many of the large sword-wounds closed, bandaged what they could with Daegan’s assistance as Corin paced about behind them.

“Such wounds,” Gasped the son of their patient, his eyes filled with pain for his much loved father, “Surely he will recover, Wiglaf?”

“I am not certain,” Wiglaf retorted bluntly, pulling at his beard in frustration, “He has lost a great deal of blood, lad.”

Cormac felt his hopes drain alongside the colour from his face. From his right-hand side, Daegan took his wrist in her hands to give it a little squeeze. It was a kindly gesture, one that she was unlikely to show to any other person save for his mother or her father, yet it did little to comfort him. Behind him, Corin continued to pace.

Contrary to what one might expect, none of their hands shook as they finished the task of bandaging him, not until they had finished. It was then that they were instructed to wash their hands and faces, with the mage doing so before them, dabbing at his sweat-slickened forehead with a cloth that had been dipped in the hastily prepared bowl of water (prepared for them by the smith, who had run to get the water from his smithy).

“What are we to do now?” Daegan questioned without her typical confidence or haughtiness, so that her voice shook as she spoke.

“Wait.”

This they did for hours, with all of them keen to hear from Murchadh. Daegan sat to one side, her lips moving as though she were in the middle of speaking, only for them to quiver. Cormac for his own part, sat to her left. Both of them were seated upon the ground, to one side of Murchadh, eyes upon him. Both lost in their own thoughts, while Corin paced throughout the middle of the house. Wiglaf seated to the right of his patient studied him, hand racing up and down, from one side to the other of his beard.

Cormac was to jump a little after several moments that felt to him to stretch on for hours, when he felt a hand touch his own. It was Daegan. Eyes lowered, lips still quivering and trembling she was visibly shaken and though it was evident the return of Murchadh had shaken her when she at last did meet his gaze, there was sympathy there. Moved, Cormac silently gripped her hand tightly in his own, as he drifted back into his own thoughts, staring at his father. Grateful for the support even as his insides felt as though they were melting, such was the torrent of emotions that rattled him to his core.

Time at this time stretched on, or so it appeared to all present. The length of this great wait, went on for so long that when Murchadh awoke, they all (the sorcerer included though he later denied it) leapt in surprise.

Doing so with a groan, his head shaking and quaking from side to side, leaning over him so that his beard touched that of the fisherman’s. “Murchadh, how did you come to find yourself before your friend’s door?”

“Wi- Wiglaf, is this Glasvhail?” the wounded man asked feverishly, scanning the area immediately about him with such fear that it made all their hearts ache for him.

“Aye, you are amongst friends; therefore speak to me of what has befallen you.”

“I-I do not know where to begin-”

“The storm nine years ago is when, I would were I you,” Daegan interrupted sharply, her old confidence newly restored after hours of absence.

“Daegan!” Her father hissed at her harshly, which drew an immediate apology from her lips.

“I must confess that I agree with your daughter, Corin.” Wiglaf muttered eyes downcast and weary.

Murchadh shifted his eyes about, licked his lips and with his gaze dark and sorrowful he spake of dark things they might otherwise, not have heard him ever speak of. “I was cast adrift, from near the shore of my forefathers, to that of Antillia, the Isle of Mists. I was afraid then, and for a long time afterwards as I swam about the south-western sward of that island. Once there, I attempted to build a raft to return yet was captured and enslaved by a local Northman.

I stayed in his house for three years, during which time I was made to slave away in his kitchens. Then he made me aid in the educating of his children after he discovered my knowledge of letters taught to me, by Corin years before. He also learnt I knew something of boats, and of old legends, and had me teach them along with languages to the three of them. I must confess that though he was harsh in the beginning, his children won my affection.

However much I cared for them, and respected the fairness of this Jarl, for he was a great laird amongst his people who had settled upon the Misty-Isle, I longed for home. Wherefore I strove to cast away my fetters and chains, to return home. This angered him, though it was naught in comparison to the great wrath it awoke in his wife, who ordered me sold when he departed to do war with one of his neighbours. Sold to Amazons, they treated me worst though some respected my knowledge; they were in time after another year to sell me to- to… him.”

The shudder that ran through the fisherman’s body, soon spread to those gathered about him (save for the sorcerer), each of them continued to gaze at him. All of them were either incredibly impatient with Cormac for example less so, than the next person. Murchadh unaware of the effect that his words had had upon them, his eyes darted when opened, and went through long spells where they were covered by his eyelids. The weight of which evidently troubled him, so weary did he appear that Corin attempted to intervene in his favour.

“Wiglaf, surely this could wait, until Murchadh has rested,” He suggested gently, his typically soft accent thickening then, so great was his concern for his wounded friend.

“Nay, we must have the tale now,” The sorcerer persisted sharply, with a glower towards the smith he added, “If it troubles you so, mayhap you should wander off somewhere, to your forge for example, and leave us to hear the remainder of this tale.”

Taken aback by the fierceness of the old man’s words and tone, the three of them stared at him. The fisherman for his part hardly appeared to notice, so utterly lost in his dark memories was he that he continued his dread-filled tale with nary a thought for them. “He was dark, a foul creature of the abyss… such was the fury of his might all of the misty-isle trembled whensoever his rage was awakened. Such was the wickedness of his raiment and appearance none looked long upon him. How true, were the words of the song of Tuathmurdún:

“Long before the crown was rent,

Ere from unworthy fingers the Thistle was made free,

In the age when the Lairdly-Isle was still unbent

When shadows ruled, wyrms’ reign’d beyond grasping trees,

And to the black-drake all men wert bound,

All bound in lamentations to the Dark Crown,

That belongs to the Dark Laird upon his Icy-Throne,

Thus are all bound within the Unhallow’d Crown.”

The song was hardly sung, but rather they were murmured softly, so much so that all leant forward to hear them. Yet there was such fear, such evil hinted at through the song that all glanced about themselves warily. Daegan tightened her grip on Cormac’s hand, who continued to regard his father with a feverish gaze of his own. Corin cursed and glanced about himself whereas Wiglaf pressed the blacksmith to bring him wine.

Once he had drunk a little, with the sorcerer lifting his head whilst holding the bottle in the other hand, he asked of him, “Is that where you have been, all this time Murchadh?”

“A-aye, I escaped with Delauvaran’s aid, but beware! Beware his riders, for they come for me! And all those they think I may pass it on to!” Breathed Murchadh, eyes wide as the heavens were and thrice as darkened at that moment, as the stench of death that hung over him which they had all done their best to ignore worsened, and the boom of thunder echoed outside.

“Speaks sense,” Wiglaf urged as bewildered as the rest of those crowded about him were, “What do you speak of? Did you steal something from your former master?”

“Aye,” His voice nary a whisper, the man raised a trembling hand to point towards his beard. For a ridiculous moment, it crossed the mind of his son to ponder if mayhap the half-mad fisherman believed his beard to have been stolen from this tormentor of his.

A surge of foresight though penetrated his being, wherefore he reached past the thick mane of facial hair, with both hands so that he withdrew from about the neck of the prematurely aged man. Sedate for several minutes, as his son stared with confusion equal to that of his friends, there was a moment of silence before his hand awoke to grasp at the youth’s wrist with the rapidity of a serpent.

“Stop,” Hissed the fisherman, blue eyes at once wide as he took in for what appeared to be the first time, the sight of his son. “You- Cormac? For what reason are you here?”

“I have been present since before your own arrival,” Cormac corrected gently, sliding his wrist free of the grip of the other man only to clasp the aforementioned hand with his own. “What is this silver-white pendant?”

The pendant was exactly as described, a near snow-white pendant with silver gleaming here and there as though the silver sought to escape from the devouring grasp of the white. Such was the beauty of the locket that more than one eye was held within its grip.

If Daegan and Corin were distracted by it, fascinated so that they hardly noticed the horror that painted itself onto the face of Murchadh at the sight of his son, holding the necklace, which did not go unnoticed by Wiglaf, who was swift to ask of him, “What is it Murchadh?”

His breath came out in a manner akin to that of a snake, so frightened did he appear that he appeared to have shrunken even further into himself. His answer when it came, was one full of regret, “His treasure, oh what sorrow to see my son hold it!”

“What treasure?” Daegan asked intrigued.

“The gem! The Crimson-Gem!” Said Murchadh, his blue eyes brimmed with tears that spilled down into his hair and beard.

The man’s words startled all of them, with Cormac who had been caught by the beauty of the gem, and felt as though he never wished to look away from it, found his gaze at last torn away from it. If he was entirely ignorant as to the implications of those fateful words, Wiglaf one of the wisest men in all of North-Agenor and the Lairdly-Isle divined at once, what the fisherman spoke of.

“The Crimson-Gem? The same gem known as Aganippe’s Bane?”

“It does not appear crimson to me,” Daegan commented ignorantly.

“That- container,” Murchadh explained weakly, as he tapped once upon the white sphere, his eyes continued to rest upon his son. They shone as the sea oft did, Cormac noticed and with a thousand times the fervour. Though tears continued to slip from the corners of his eyes, he reached out a trembling hand to grasp his son’s shoulder, “My son… my son…!”

“The container,” Wiglaf murmured quietly to himself as he examined the gem that the fisherman’s son held tightly by the chain. The chain in question was removed from around the gaunt man’s neck by Daegan, who removed it with remarkable gentleness. “How did you come to own this gem- and to have rediscovered its container, Murchadh?”

He pressed the thinned man several more times, yet could no more pull an answer from him than he might have water from a dry sponge. By the fourth time, Murchadh was unconscious once more, and Cormac grew restless towards the sorcerer. “He is unconscious, Wiglaf! Halt!”

“But we must know more, Cormac,” Answered the old man urgently, “I must know more, for the good of all present here to-day.”

“Father must rest first, see how he rests? What good will it do to awaken him, if all we hear from him are more erratic statements that hint at shadows rather, than inform us of the whole truth of his adventures?” He countered with equal fervour to that of the elder who paused.

“Wiglaf, what is this gem?” This time it was Corin who spoke up, eyes half-lidded with consternation.

“I know not so much, as others of my order might,” Said Wiglaf uncertainly, yet seeing their curiosity he sighed. “Likely the little I know of the tale is more than what most of you know. I am only familiar with the beginning, which was told to me some forty- gods it must have been fifty years ago!” He took a swig of the wine, which he tasted fully before he swallowed, “Aganippe was the finest sorcerer and warlock of his age that is to say that of the First Wars of Darkness. To the utter horror of the Order of Auguria, which was in dire straits at the time as our founder Brunst Silverhammer had perished! Now where was I? Oh yes, Aganippe, King of the Zulvrain people, who are the ancestors of the Gallians, sought the means by which he could destroy the dragon Zomok, along with the three great Arch-Warlocks of the Svartálfar sent to lead the invasion of Zulvrain, the Svartálfar being the true name of the Dark Elves.

It was at this time, he resorted to the same means by which they had attained power; that is to say through convening with dark spirits. These spirits taught Aganippe- who was by this time a formidable sorcerer, terrible secrets which he utilised to imprison a great many of them, along with the dragon Zomok and the Arch-Warlocks. Sealing their power within his Blood-Gem, this gem was the mightiest of all the relics created at the time of those dark wars. Such was the evil of the Blood-Gem, which had imprisoned those malicious spirits and souls rather than destroy them as the foolish Aganippe initially believed that, he was driven nigh mad with terror towards his own creation. He consulted with the dragon Arndryck the Elder, father of the mighty Arndryck the Younger or the Golden as some know him. The wise-dragon advised that he craft a container for the gem, to keep the malice of its victims from escaping, and while this container succeeded in its appointed task, it was for a time lost so that the evil contained in the Blood-Gem escaped, until such a time as the gemstone was placed in a temple, somewhere in Gallia.”

The youths listened raptly where the Gallian though as attentive to the sorcerer’s words, had nonetheless not lost himself in the tale or in his horror at the knowledge that Aganippe had turned to black-magic. “We know now where the gem came from, now the question remains if it was in a temple for several centuries or even for millennia how did Murchadh find it and its container on Antillia?”

“I do not know, I am not familiar with the gemstone, only the beginning of the tale from the time when I was an apprentice to Master Charles who was, a Gallian born sorcerer. He felt it important to learn of it, due in no small part to his participation in the Gargath Wars led by Otton of Volkholant, and his ‘Companions de Tivérie’.” Clarified Wiglaf quietly, hand in his beard once more.

“What do we do, in regards to this gemstone, now that we know what it is and where it came from?” Cormac asked the first of them all to turn his mind, to what was to be done, desperate to shield his father from further harm.

“I do not know.” The Cymran admitted honestly.

“We must inform Kenna of what has happened; Murchadh is after-all her husband.” Corin insisted marriage as ever, near and dear to his heart.

“Nay!” This time the cry came not from either Cormac or Wiglaf, but rather the fisherman himself, who awoke with a start. His sudden reaction caused Daegan to let slip a shriek, the lad next to her was nearly knocked over by her, if he had not leapt to his own feet. The elder for his part truly did fall over with a cry, hitting his head against the house-wall with a series of curses escaping his chapped lips. Corin for his part merely froze where he stood gaping at the scraggly man before him. “Kenna must not know,” the gaunt one whimpered, “please, you must not inform her! Less danger shall stalk her wherever she wanders… as- swear to me, to take away the gem…”

The lot of them exchanged glances, with each of them necessitating a moment to calm themselves with Daegan the first to swear the oath, “But of course uncle Murchadh! We swear to not tell her, or to let the gem remain here if it be truly cursed.”

For their own part, the men remained quiet, with Corin reluctantly swearing the oath though he did so with visible unwillingness, whereas the sorcerer shrugged helplessly. “I will not speak to her nor would she believe me, given her hatred of me. As to the stone, I could no more move it than I could the mountains or the sea.”

None paid attention to Cormac’s reticent silence, as he studied his father and the Blood-Gem with an anxious light in his bright blue eyes. Only his father noticed him then, though his thoughts were to move away from the cursed gem. “My son… beware! Beware!”

“Beware what father?” The eagerness of the lad to please and soothe his sire was noticed at once by all, who gazed upon him with much admiration for his filial nature.

“Beware the Riders! The Riders!” Murchadh whispered, his voice softer than a whisper as he pulled his son towards him weakly, with Cormac allowing himself to be pulled over so that his ear rested near the older man’s lips.

The desire for secrecy on the part of the fisherman made all quake, as he succumbed once more to slumber. This time, he would not awaken from it, as he expired some time later with each of those present with him pondered just what was to be done next.

*****

“It is evident,” Daegan pontificated a little pompously as was her wont much of the time, “That something must be done, if we wish to keep this gem from these riders, that uncle Murchadh spoke of with such terror.”

“Aye, his corpse must be hidden until it can be cremated and buried in his grave, as custom demands.” Wiglaf said before he moved to the more important matter of the gem. “We must see to also hiding away his last possession, less some unfortunate soul happen upon it, and is met with as sorry a fate as that of poor Murchadh.”

“No tears!” Corin commanded of the fisherman’s son, noticing how his head had begun to bend a little and his lower lip trembled. “This is a time for manly resolve from you Cormac, not childish tears. You have wits, therefore use them man! Use them! Once we have determined what is to be done, then there will be time for weeping and mourning.”

Harsh as his tone was, by the time he spoke of weeping his own voice had cracked a little, with the sorcerer and the pompous lass giving the two men sympathetic looks. Resentful as he was, at being told that he could not yet mourn for the father. The father who had once carried him upon his shoulders, who had taught him to fish, love the sea and to always seek out all the hiding places and secret locations of Glasvhail, Cormac swallowed his bitterness, as one might bile. With it, he swallowed the hot-words that came naturally as they did to all Caleds.

“Very well, what are we to do? We cannot possibly hide this forever from mother,” Said the seamstress’s son hoarsely, as Daegan touched his arm once more, pity in her eyes.

“What of these riders whom Murchadh spoke of? Who are they?” Corin asked now of Wiglaf, who cast a helpless glance to either of them.

“I do not know, I have no knowledge or recollection of any ‘riders’ of any import beyond the knights of Gallia or of the rest of the world. Mayhap the masters of the Order will know something regarding the gem and them.” He declared quietly, steeling his resolve once more, he climbed up to his feet, dusted himself and made to leave. “I must away at once if I am to discover anything with regards to the matters of which we spoke.”

He was at the door in a heartbeat, so serious did he take the situation that he very nearly forgot his hat along with the questions that continued to be peppered after him.

“I’faith, what of the corpse man? The corpse!” Complained Corin.

“Are these riders dangerous? Are they the ones responsible for Inga’s murder?” This time it was Daegan who cried out with equal frustration.

“What are we to do about this gem? Do we open the container?” Asked Cormac.

It was this last query that was responsible for panicking the old man, who let slip a rather peculiar expletive, “By the bones of Lugh! NAY! NAY! NAY! You must never open it, less just as when the box was opened by Pandora, all evil may escape!”

“What sort of evil?”

“The worst kind, I imagine therefore you must hide it somewhere until I have researched its nature,” Here the sorcerer harrumphed as he pinched the lad’s ear sternly, doing a fair imitation the youngster noted irritably of Kenna.

Wincing in pain, he nodded sulkily wishing at that moment that Wiglaf and Kenna would simply cease behaving as though he were an imbecile. Grumbling beneath his breath, he swore to not speak of what had transpired to anyone and to not open the locket that contained the Blood-Gem. It was as he did so that Corin found a jug of wine that was at present empty, which he moved so that it stood the second-most to the right on a table which stood to the rear of the house.

“Why not bury the gem?” Daegan inquired confused, from where she stood next to Cormac, tending him support if only by the touch of her hand to his.

“Likely if it is as cursed as Wiglaf says,” Grunted the blacksmith wearily, the whole of the night’s suffering and day’s toil showing itself on his typically kindly disposition. “It shall only darken the land here, and lay some dark, malevolent curse upon all who live here. Remember where it is, until the morrow. Then we shall move it elsewhere, where none may find it.”

“Aye father,” Daegan assented at once, with an anxious glance to Murchadh’s corpse, “What of uncle Murchadh?”

“At ease fille,” Corin said soothingly as he reflexively turned now to his native tongue if temporarily, “None are likely to visit on the morrow, therefore if we hide him in here and wait until night-fall, we should be able to cremate him and bury him properly in secret.” At their nods he waved them away, “Now off with you Cormac, less Kenna should grow all the more suspicious and come sniffing about this place in search of you.”

It was on the tip of Cormac’s tongue to point that his mother was hardly liable to do any such thing, given her hostility towards him. However fatigue got the better of him, wherefore he let his wounded feelings depart, desperate as he was for sleep he simply nodded several times. He left for home with nary a thought to his mother, whom he discovered already asleep by his return if her snoring, was anything to judge by. It was as the darkness of sleep overwhelmed him that he finally gave in, to the urge to weep for his father. To weep for the man he had never properly known, and had desperately wished to know with all his heart and soul. His tears were to cease, only when he long last fell asleep. His dreams for their part were clouded by dark-riders, and darker words so that the next morn’ he awoke, feeling as though he had hardly slept and in a cold sweat that remained with him throughout the whole of the following day.

*****

The nature of truth is one that oft-eludes men, and often it eludes women far, far more. This was something that her father often grumbled. Though she knew that her own lies exasperated him, she could not help it. Thrice to four times a week she had the habit of recounting lies, or boasting to the other lasses that lived throughout Rothien. She knew herself to be gifted, to be fierce in arms, freer than they and that her natural exuberance was hardly a trait that appealed to the other girls her age. Where some fancied themselves as fierce as men, or as cunning as the old High-King, Mael-Martin II, who had been dubbed the ‘Destroyer’, for the many deaths he had wrought amongst his own kinsmen. In his terrible thirst to weed out the other royal lines, this terrible desire for his own line to be all that remained of the blood royal, had turned him into a figure of fear throughout all the lands of the Caleds. It was said that something of his spirit remained; that he sought the deaths of all those who had contravened or he imagined wished to contradict his final testament.

Such tales frightened most, even Daegan. Though in her case it oft-amused her to see others faint shrivel up and squirm. The discomfort she caused everywhere, with her ghost-stories, with her many a jests and the exasperation many felt at her boasts, were all what she enjoyed most in life. She loved to assist her father in his forge, or to aid Kenna, who believed her every word but the most enjoyable part of her days was whenever and wherever she had the chance to take on tests of courage.

When young- or mayhaps one should say when she and Cormac, and all those their age were six years younger than they were now, it was Daegan who had boasted she was unafraid of the Dyrkwoods to the south-west of Rothien. A sinister place, with a formidable reputation and legends of fairies living in it, it is said that it was there that the warrior Ciaran had fallen. From the spot that he had been struck by a pixie-dart, which had caused a wound that had not healed it is said, for nigh on twenty-years. Such was the force of their spite for his foolish, hot-tempered words against them, at one of their feasts when he spurned their Queen.

The spot where he had fallen, it was said that the largest of all the oaks of Rothien had grown from, one that all the children and elders of the land tended to remark was destined to never fall. Though the local druid Conn had always spoken out against the oak, he had on many occasions refused to draw a single hatchet or allow others to do so, against this great oak.

Most preferred to never go near the oak, with Daegan herself having never had the courage until she found Cormac there once, ten years prior asleep with his back against it. Inspired by this, she had six years prior to when this tale takes place, begun to dance about the tree, only to later boast of it. This had sparked much consternation amongst several of the parents and lasses, with the lads for their own part amazed and pleased by this act of bravery on her part. Corin upon learning of her deed of daring became suddenly stern, so that he had scolded her at some length for quite some time.

Though she had sworn to Kenna, to never go there again, she could not resist it as the feeling and knowledge of being courageous was one that never failed to make her giddy. What was more was that it allowed her, to share something with Cormac. Though he visited there often to the knowledge of all, was still regarded as too foolish to truly be aware of the legends of Ciaran’s Oak (he was aware of them). It was their place, their secret location where she had him to herself and need not share him, with the likes of Ida and her sisters, or Helga the daughter of Conn, or any of the other local lasses. Many of whom fancied Cormac for his fair-locks, though they oft grew frustrated with his absent-minded disposition (much as Kenna and even Daegan did).

It was in this spirit that the flame-haired daughter of Corin of Forlarin raced whither to Ciaran, three days after Wiglaf’s departure. Her spirit as dark as that of the Dark Queen who opposed the Golden-Goddess, Scota, Daegan felt certain that just as the suns were upon the horizon in the east, in the midst of the beginning of their great ascent and the land was green, the sea deep-blue that her friend lay in wait for her by Ciaran.

“I have thrice the courage of all the men of Rothien,” She often told the rest of the lasses and lads of the land, regardless how angry it made her father to hear her boast in such a manner, or how it made the local household warriors of Bádrach.

“Aye, none may deny the great valour of Daegan the Bold, victor of the battle of the Smith’s forge or the joust of the seamstress’s hall.” Indulf had said in a voice without any inclination towards seriousness, not that this was noticed at the time by the smith’s daughter.

“But of course,” She had sniffed in response, full of her own importance though Daegan could hardly recall quite where or when this conversation had taken place. Only that there had been exchanges similar to that one so very many a times that she had lost count of the times Indulf mocked her or (falsely) praised her.

Not that this incident and conversation are in any way important, or ought to be mentioned save to further clarify the nature of Dae. For she truly in some ways at this time, was brimful with pride and convinced that the day began the moment ‘Dae’ arose from her slumber. She was the most pompous of all the people of Rothien, and though he was a timid man by nature, Indulf and his brother Trygve both preferred to mock her, than to revere her. For which they were oft thanked by those around them, as there were many who felt that the lass could use some humbling. This was originally the case, before the death of Inga, with the two since then preferring to, just as the rest of Inga and Freygil’s families had, keep to themselves.

The red-haired lass had an ego, one that was incomparable in all of Rothien, and was something of a local jest and legend amongst the children equal to her in age, and those lesser. Many of whom were wont to say; ‘there was never a finer lady than Daegan’, others tended to proclaim ‘Caledonia was as the darkest night before the birth of the Dae.’ Some spoke these little proverbs mockingly, as her ego had made her without realizing it the butt of many a jests, whereas others truly meant it. For there was no one as charismatic, as charming and as grandiose as she, when and wherever she applied herself to. The young ‘lady’ currently applied herself to the task of tracking down her friend, whom she knew to either be by the quay where the fishermen tied their boats in the evenings. Or he had to be by Ciaran’s oak, just near the Dyrkwoods, as unmindful as she was of the ‘fairies’ that lived nearby and that could threaten any and all who happened too near their homes.

She was endlessly worried for him and had fretted about him all day, so that she had proven herself useless to all those around her and had won herself a number of reprimands by her father and Kenna. The return of Murchardh had shaken her, with the young woman full of sorrow at his passing. In her earliest girlhood she still remembered how he had cooked acorns and fish for her, and how he had taken her aboard his ship even though her father and Kenna had forbidden it. It was this same sweetness, if she was ever to be honest that she adored most about him and that she also saw in Cormac. It was for this reason she was resolved that it would be she who comforted him, and not Helga or any of the other lasses in the village, she told herself. It was her duty, she told herself as Cormac’s future wife.

The oak of Ciaran though, upon her arrival was barren of all people, regardless how much she had hoped to see Cormac. The disappointment she felt was immeasurable, though she soon compensated for it by circling about it three times, before offering up a prayer, as was believed to be the popular method of warding off any evil spirits that inhabited an object or location. Quite why people had to circle a thing thrice before offering a prayer was a mystery to her. She knew only that this was the way of things with the Érian branch of the Quirinan faith, as the traditional Quirinian had its own way of going about things, or so her father had taught her. Being from Gallia, where they followed the Quirinian faith, just as almost the whole of the rest of North-Agenor did, she was as familiar with the Quirinian branch of the faith as she was the Érian one.

Daegan raced about in search of her friend, who had taken more than ever to hiding away from the rest of Glasvhail, whom had more than once been chased away from the Scarlet-Wyrm tavern or the temple. The former was visited by him the day prior, whereas the temple he oft went to every week to pray for his father. In the past he had sought to pray for the fisherman’s safe return, now though he prayed for him to rest in peace, as any pious son ought to for their fathers. Though he had not spoken of what had happened, she knew him to be upset to have been chased away from the temple by Conn and the Salmon’s family. Discovering this only after, she had recalled that it was the first day of the week, Didomhnaich and therefore, the day upon which he always prayed and joined in the psalms of the golden-goddess. Angered by this she very near denounced Salmon in public, were it not for the timely intervention of Ida who still had the sense to regard the temple as a holy place, where all squabbles were to be left outside of.

She found him, in her father’s smithy, aiding the older male with caring for the sword this after she had been sent to find him. Frustrated as she was, Daegan complained at some length over his having inadvertently avoided her. “Shan’t believe you had me run about, as though I were some fool lass like Helga.”

“Sorry Dae,” Cormac apologised at once, if in a weary tone which made her lower her gaze guiltily.

“Nay, I am sorry Cormac, I meant only that with the death of Uncle Murchadh that-” She began only to be interrupted by her father.

“Enough of your complaining Dae now help me in the cleaning of this weapon, as we must soon slide complete the pommel.” Ordered her father tensely, anxious to complete the process of putting together the sword that was to be his magnum opus.

This they did, with the pommel a slighter corner of the blade with it also far less sharpened than the rest of the weapon, having been prepared days before for just such an occasion. This done, the time soon came to clean the blade and for them to pray over it, as instructed by Wiglaf. He had stressed at some length the foul nature of the metals used in the forging of the blade, and the black nature of the original ‘owner’ of these metals (the word ‘owner’ having been used rather quizzically by the Cymran).

It was then that the marks, the maker’s ones were engraved into the blade and into the hilt before the silk and Lyonessian cloth-hilt was wrapped about the ‘hilt’ proper. These marks were imprinted into the blade using the tools lent to them by Wiglaf, for they were the only things that could help in the shaping and forging of this blade.

The maker’s mark set in was in the shape of a simple little flower. A lily to be exact, a flower which ended in a thistle, so that it looked as though the lily were sprouting from the thistle as both symbols were very dear to Olith. This was Corin’s mark ever since her passing. As to the other marks, there were Caled marks such as the Tree of Life along with that of Triquetra. These represented respectively a tree reaching for the heavens, with the said tree representative of wisdom and strength, and the roots of all Érian-Caled peoples. The Triquetra for its part was representative of family, divinity and eternity.

It was always important to Corin to set his mark into his every piece of work, from the smallest of pikes or shovels, or horseshoes to the most glimmering of armours or gleaming blades. It was what had garnered him a reputation that had spread from the fields of Triqueletarias, to the lands of Fidach, to the high mountains of the Highlands, to the distant lands of Norwend and even the Emerald-Isle across the south-western waves. All who were familiar with arms and armours, knew the worth of his works, with the maker’s seal also important to the smith at that moment as he knew that were this sword to be mixed with a similar one, that all be able to distinguish his from the rival weapon.

The pride with which his eyes shone with, at the sight of the finished blade when he at last shaped the pommel and burnished it and the cross-guard with the emerald gemstones Wiglaf had provided, proved itself infectious. Her own face radiating with pride, Daegan felt a small smile make its way to her face, this being her first real smile she thought, since Inga and Murchadh had perished.

“This is the finest work, I have ever done,” Breathed Corin in an awed voice, unable to keep his eyes from shimmering with unshed tears. “I doubt I shall ever craft her equal, ever again.”

The blade gleamed it seemed to the green eyes of the curly-haired lass, so that it shone with what appeared to her to be a purple shimmer. She was awed, by this sight and all of a sudden wished that it was she who was to be given this weapon, rather than some distant laird or king. It was his finest work, his pride and joy, and it united them in the work that they had both along with Cormac poured into its forging. For that reason, she longed for it as a man dying of drought in a desert might crave water.

“It is the finest work I have ever borne witness to,” Dae murmured in the same breathless tone that he had utilised.

“It is not wholly completed; we must still have it sanctified by brother Wulfnoth upon his arrival just before Yule.” Corin decided announcing for the first time to her knowledge, of his expectation to see the most popular holy-man in all of Caledonia’s arrival in their locality.

Trusted by the High-King, Wulfnoth was originally as his name demonstrated a born Brittian, though from the Norlion region, he had learnt both the Caled tongue and that of the Brittian kingdom in his youth. Shortly after his thirteenth season, he had ventured first south then north, and become a druid famous for his knowledge of scripture, of law and great friendship with a number of figures of high-standing in both realms. From Wulfric, to the Cymran prince Colwyn, to that of the High-King to also it was said some laird, over in the lands of Carreyrn. Where he had lived for the previous dozen years, and performed it was said many a holy-deeds.

Aware of him only by dint of his reputation, Daegan hoped he was indeed en route for the local tavern, in the hopes to meet someone who could acknowledge her father’s work. Maybe once he did, he would bring word of it back to the High-King and other great men of the realm, and her father could enrich himself further.

Mayhaps once he does, he could take Cormac on as an apprentice, after all this sorry gemstone business is done with, and Kenna will give her blessings. It was a fantasy that she remained determined to maintain for as long as possible, where her father adopted a grimmer mien.

“Until his arrival, we shall have to keep the sword here, letting none touch it until then.” He stated gravely, a rough-callused hand combed through his thick mane of hair, “Not a word until that time, about the sword, is that understood?”

“Aye,” They both said, with Cormac the first to question inquisitively, “What of the stone? Will we speak to this brother Wulfnoth, whoever he is of it?”

“How is it you attend temple-sessions once a week, yet know nothing of the great paragons of our own age?” Daegan asked him exasperated by his ignorance.

“Because I attend temple to pray, not to be seen in prayer,” Snapped the fair-haired lad with more bite than she had otherwise expected of him.

Wounded by his words, her temper flared and she might well have abused him in turn, were it not for the timely intervention of her father who explained who Wulfnoth was. “He is a notable clergyman, who has attended upon kings and is wise in the ways of the gods. None alive hereon the Lairdly-Isle is closer to the divine than he.”

“Save for Wiglaf,” Corrected Cormac sharply.

“More than he, for he is a sorcerer, fool and not a holy-man.”

“Do they both not worship gods and perform miracles?” He inquired naïvely.

This appeared to her a foolish statement, due in no small part to the nature of the difference between sorcery and the holiness of holy Father-Temple, as explained in the Canticle. Or so Conn had always said, with a voice in the back of her mind whispering that if Conn said that scripture said one thing, then the truth had to be the opposite. However, other holy figures had happened by Glasvhail to speak out against the nature of sorcery.

This confusion between the two different schools of thought remained for entire days, with Wulfnoth sending hither a messenger from Carreyrn stating, that he was delayed by the Queen’s pregnancy. She had requested he join her and her husband near Thernkirk, to check her condition before he came south to inspect and consecrate the sword, as Wiglaf had requested. News that the messenger was in no way silent about, when he visited the Scarlet-Wyrm, with this drawing considerable joy from the people of Glasvhail, with Conn (who was a frequent patron there) swift to the next day pray for another prince. The Queen had already from her first marriage delivered Lulech, and with the High-King had two more sons, with many feeling the throne more secured than in previous generations, though another prince could only help, said the elders of the locality.

“Old King Cináed III had six children, as did Sìomon before him, yet it availed them little,” Grumbled old Salmon bitterly, “Just as it appears to have availed many of us little.”

None spake back against him, as all knew that his recent loss had deeply affected him. Only the messenger wondered about his ill-mood for which he was swiftly pulled aside, to be informed of the recent tragedy that had befallen the Salmon and his kinsmen. The messenger properly chastened did not stay long, though he did enjoy the local beer before his departure.

Present towards the back, having enjoyed a full day of work with Kenna, Cormac and Indulf. The last of the aforementioned folk, remained silent. Moreso than any of them might otherwise have predicted, given his timid nature. One that had never precluded on his part, any witty commentary or criticism of those he was closest to.

As he was not of a wealthy family, his mourning period had to be spent working regardless of the visible exhaustion and grief that had overtaken him. His eyes were haunted, with dark rings beneath them that made each of their hearts ache with pity for him.

“I must work,” Was all that he had said when Kenna had attempted to convince him to return home and accept payment.

“Indulf, you must be wearied from the loss you have endured!” She attempted to insist.

“I am not wealthy, therefore let me work,” He retorted none too gently.

A sigh followed, one that was as much an admission of defeat as any act could have been. Taking his usual seat, to throw himself into the work that he had performed for more than a decade, after he had exchanged a silent glance with Cormac, who for his own part remained every bit as melancholic as he. Due in no small part, Daegan suspected, to the loss of Murchadh, who now haunted the son of Kenna, so that he bore a similarly saddened mien to that of Indulf.

Sharp as ever, with her son the middle-aged woman snarled at her son to hurry with his work, and to; “-cease loafing about!”

Biting his lip as always, the eternally patient youth nodded his head, ignoring the blow she delivered to his leg by virtue of her own foot. Seeing this, Daegan threw a sympathetic glance in his direction, from where she sat a short distance away.

The work-day passed slowly that day, with the maiden heading to the pub on her father’s orders to find him mead, as they had none left. Full of sorrow for Inga’s passing, she grumbled beneath her breath at the Salmon, and might well have thrown a mug at him had Eanraig; the tavern-keep not cast a warning glance in her direction. A friend of her father’s, he knew of her terrible temper and had no desire to see it flare to life.

*****

“It is strange that Wulfnoth has not visited yet,” Daegan complained three weeks after the messenger had visited, full of self-righteous fury over this perceived slight. Dressed in an orange dress which reached down to her ankles, and which left her arms bare. Hammer in hand, with every complaint she made she struck the steel they were forging together, with all her might.

“Calm yourself Dae,” Grunted her father indifferent as ever, towards all, that she took to heart needlessly in his dark eyes which were the same colour as his tunic and hose.

“But, he ought to have arrived already.”

“Unless the Queen’s condition is still in an early stage,” Corin rejoined from as he hurled down a mighty blow of his hammer upon the sword for the local laird, Bádrach that they were in the midst of forging. The two were hard at work, forging a large collection of blades for the laird of Thernkirk, the two of them having finished the forging of his requested hatchets.

That day Cormac had not come to assist them, as Kenna had no intention of allowing him out of her sight. Her demands of her son had only grown, in the days since the death of Murchadh so that many wondered if the lad’s mother suspected him of the crimes of which he had been accused, regardless what Corin or Wiglaf claimed.

“Really, quite why we have to forge so many swords in so little time is beyond me.” She huffed much to her father’s exasperation.

“It is work, and winter has arrived, therefore some gratitude lass for this chance to earn some extra coin,” He snapped at her, every bit as ill-tempered then as she was.

She could not deny this fact; they had also already been paid more than six hundred bronze-thistles (coins stamped with the royal thistle), which was a veritable fortune for peasants from the village of Glasvhail. They were to be, she surmised the envy of all the locals with this great fortune within their grasp. Her father had already buried the small fortune, alongside the rest of the coin he had long since saved beneath the ground where his bed lay in his room. Though unaware of how much he had previously saved, she knew that this practice of his was one that few in Thernkirk practiced with Corin claiming that it was one he had learnt over in Gallia.

It was later that day that separated this day from the previous or succeeding one, for it was shortly after sun-down that Trygve arrived in search of Cormac. The fisherman’s apprentice having arrived from the lake early, with a set of darkened circles beneath each of his eyes so that he appeared several years his senior. Having noticed in the past weeks just how miserable he was she had savagely enjoyed this knowledge due in no small part to her resentment of his prior mockery of her, and his passion for Helga whom she still despised.

“Where is Cormac, O She-Paladin of Rothien?” Asked the son of the half-Northman, his tone arched yet wearied.

Pleased that he had addressed her with due respect, as he had failed to do so in some time, Daegan failed to as always when he spoke thus, take note of the sarcasm or sardonic wit in his voice, she therefore answered in earnest. “I know not, why?”

“That is between my brother and me, and him.” Trygve countered irritably, his words drawing a frown from her.

“In that case, I refuse to assist you.”

They may well have continued to bicker, were it not for Indulf. He came with little clamour, eyes encircled by a great dark duo of spheres, haired slightly longer and misery carved into every inch of his face as always, but there was a resoluteness to his gaze that disturbed her. For she did not yet know, what he thought of the murder of his beloved Inga, if he was of a mind that such a crime was Cormac’s fault or not.

Unsurprised to discover that his brother had accosted her, in search of the son of the local seamstress, he spake then with the most serious and confident of voices he had ever used to utter a single phrase. “Dae, I image Trygve has already informed you that, we seek Cormac. We wish to speak to him, yet as he took flight from his home, the first chance he had once again, we had hoped to find him here.”

“Oh, whatever are the two of you doing here?” Asked Corin the moment he poked his head out of the smithy.

“We seek Cormac.”

“He should be by the temple I believe, he said he wished to visit his father’s grave.”

“I’faith father, have you lost all semblance of reason?” Daegan hissed her harsh words merited her little more than a glower from her sire.

“Do not ever question me again, in that tone lass,” He scolded just as she gave chase after the brothers.

She arrived just as they did, wherefore the three almost raced without wishing to seem to, before the cemetery. A miserable place full of grass, flowers and a number of wooden grave-markers, which had carved into them the names of those who had passed on to one of the realms of the dead. There were probably nigh on two hundred graves, within the enclosed area, with the fence carved from local ash and oak-wood. The duty of digging graves was one that was a voluntary one on the part of those who were closest to the deceased. Those selected for Murchadh’s first funeral, were Corin, Wiglaf and Freydis whereas the second one after they had cremated his corpse in the forge had required the three to dig in the dark, without a single torch. That night was cold, she recalled with a shiver with neither Cormac nor her father having given any indication that they felt the icy wind that had reduced her to trembling in the dark.

They arrived just as Kenna’s son, was headed away from the cemetery in their direction, his head clouded with thoughts of his father, or so she guessed. Unaware of their presence until they stood before him, he all but leapt as he always did whenever he took notice of others when lost in his own thoughts, after of course Trygve had cleared his throat.

“There you see that he is occupied, and must not be bothered by your petty concerns Trygve,” Daegan said as always the most pompous of them all.

“Really She-Paladin, it is a wonder to behold the depths of your wisdom, of your knowledge of the humours that plague Cormac.” Replied Trygve in a voice that was filled with such sarcasm that any other person might well have felt insulted, yet the smith’s daughter as ever failed to realize she had but a moment ago been insulted.

“But of course it is,” She boasted as always.

“Cormac, may I speak with you?” Queried Indulf, playing at deafness where his brother and friend were concerned, where he would ordinarily add his own sardonic wit to teasing the unwitting lass.

Doubtlessly he had Inga weighing upon his conscience, or so Daegan divined. Cormac was of a similar mind it appeared, and was to demonstrate the same sort of reluctance that he had, all throughout the previous months since Inga’s passing, “Aye.”

“Wait Cormac!”

“I would prefer if we were to speak somewhere more private,” Indulf requested urgently.

“We could go back to the shop, if you wish as mother intends to visit with Ida.” Cormac proposed politely, leading them away from the cemetery with a profoundly mournful air to his every step.

Grumbling beneath her breath, Daegan turned to move follow them in the direction of the home of the seamstress’s son. Thereupon he opened the door for each of them, ignoring as he did the glower several passing folk directed towards him. A glare she might well have returned with considerable interest, just before the door was closed behind Trygve. Bread was handed out to all the guests, alongside wine by Daegan who took considerable delight in doing so before any of the lads had thought to request food. It was Cormac who was in the middle of asking if either of the two sons of Freygil were hungry, only to blink in surprise at her. His surprise swiftly transformed into a pleased look, one that sent a thrill straight to her stomach alongside the butterflies that always appeared the moment she saw him smile.

“Are either of you hungry? Oh it appears that Dae has our bread and wine ready,” He remarked with a start.

“But of course,” She said at once, taking a long sip of wine from her own clay-goblet after she had filled those of the three men.

“I must speak with you Cormac, regarding the matter of my dear Inga and her death,” Growled Indulf zealously, to the visible consternation of both Trygve and Daegan.

Cormac for his part though, already seated with his dark tunic and dark-green trousers he cut a fine figure, though a shorter and slighter one than either of the two seated before him (they had moved the chairs from behind the looms, to sit and eat together). He frowned in response, soon lost in his own worried thoughts as Daegan bristled a little.

“Surely you do not suspect Cormac!” She hissed at him.

“But of course Indulf does not; it is simply that he-” Trygve began in a voice meant to placate them; his hands in the air in a gesture intended to also appease.

“Quiet Trygve,” His brother interrupted him sternly.

To the surprise of Daegan, the younger of the two siblings did exactly as ordered. A reproving glance later, and she felt mildly better though the lad returned her glance with an irritated one of his own. This left her pleased with herself, as it was a rare occurrence to have annoyed Trygve.

Cormac appeared as unsure of himself, as his friends were with the ordinarily timid Indulf eyeing him warily. “Cormac, were you truly with Wiglaf that night?”

Cormac nodded at once, “Aye, he wished to speak to me.”

“What about?”

“He wished to discuss matters of my leaving with him, for the land of Carreyrn,” Cormac admitted with a touch of reluctance.

“Why Carreryn?” This time it was Daegan who piped up, bewildered and horrified by the admission that Wiglaf wished to convince him to leave Glasvhail.

“He said that I was a good lad and could be a good influence, upon several of the laird’s great-great-grandchildren.” Cormac revealed to the surprise of those who sat about him.

His words filled Daegan to her shame with considerable doubt towards him, due in no small part to how ridiculous the notion of him as a tutor to noble-children.

To her shock, if there was one person who forgot all semblance of doubt towards the youngest of the lads present in Kenna’s home, it was Indulf. A nod and a relieved smile followed, “I knew you had had naught to do with Inga’s death. You are too honourable, and charitable a soul to have wrought such a thing upon another.”

The gratitude with which Cormac responded to this praise, was apparent, “Thank you Indulf, I am grateful for your kind words.”

“You believe him?” This time it was Trygve who spoke up.

“But of course.”

“Truly?” Daegan queried.

“Certainly, especially with how my brother and I were en route to visit you days after her death, wherefore we saw your father welcome into his home Uncle Murchadh.” Indulf said with a piercing look in both their directions.

Trygve squirmed where he sat, adding to his brother’s revelation, speaking at some length with his brother’s approval and occasional nod. “We knew it was him for I had a torch on hand, and had been sent to the quay to ensure that all the boats were secured. For it was a stormy night, with the Salmon unsure if he had properly seen to it, Indulf had followed me because mother had no desire for any of us to go anywhere alone. It was there that I beheld Uncle Murchadh’s arrival onto the quay.

We did not at once recognise him, and shrunk back preferring to flee to hide yet curiosity drew us near when we saw him leave the quay for Corin’s home. As he moved we recognised him more by ear, than by sight. We were very curious; however given how he had hurried thither to the smithy rather than his own home, we decided to return home unsure if what we had seen and heard was real.”

“I’faith, I had no notion that you had borne witness to my father’s arrival into Glasvhail,” Cormac exclaimed amazed, he shook his head before he asked, “What of before? Did you doubt me prior to seeing him?”

“Nay,” Indult said at once, only to add sheepishly after he received several sceptical stares, “Mayhap for a moment, I considered the notion that you may have some sort of involvement, however I know you Cormac. You adored Inga, and could never have harmed her.”

Moved by his words, Cormac did not answer him beyond a quiet ‘thanks’, Trygve for his own part piped up with a small laugh. “Then if such is the case brother, you are a better man than I. Because I must confess to having had my doubts, given that most evidence appeared to me to point to you, as the culprit.”

“Snake!” Daegan hissed prepared to all but leap from her chair to strangle him.

“Wait Dae!” Indult called just as Cormac did, the two of them leaping to intercede in favour of the fisherman who was on his feet in alarm, at her sudden threat of violence.

Once they had calmed her, with the two of them then shoving her back into her seat, to her immense displeasure. She continued to glower for some time, at her friend who eyed her worriedly until he was prompted to continue his speech by the ever cautious Cormac.

“Do you still believe me, capable of such a crime?”

“Well,” Now Trygve eyed Daegan a little cautiously, before he commented, “I suppose such a question is ridiculous in light of what has happened yesterday, and how if you were guilty we would not still be discussing the matter of Inga’s death.”

An awkward silence followed his words.

Indulf brooded, Cormac lost himself in his thoughts once more and Daegan chewed her lower lip. It was Trygve bold as ever, who broke the silence keen to hear more of Murchadh, “May I inquire Cormac, the reason for your father’s appearance and the secrecy regarding why you had to cremate him in the forge so disgracefully?”

Now it was the turn, of the fisherman’s son to have his face darken with grief, “I am not certain, it appears that he had been swept onto the Misty-Isle, it was there that he lived for many years before he returned, deeply wounded. He mentioned that he had been enslaved for some time, to some sort of evil master.”

Neither brother answered him; instead they appeared to receive this information with startled expressions and an exchange of startled eyes. The grimace they shared between one another was one that made them appear so alike physically that none could have mistaken them for anything other than brothers.

Curious now himself, Cormac asked of Trygve, “You spoke of something that had taken place yesterday Trygve, of what did you speak?”

Reluctantly, Trygve answered him after another exchanged glance with his brother who encouraged him with his own dark eyes, “Very well though the two of you did not hear it from us. Many of our neighbours had no wish for either of you, or Corin to hear of what has transpired out of suspicion of Cormac, and certainty that either you assisted him alongside your father Daegan.”

“Just speak man!” Daegan flared up.

“Old man Graeme, the Salmon’s good friend, the woodcutter has vanished.” Trygve stated quietly, his words drawing a gasp from both of them, before they could presuppose that the woodcutter had treaded too close to Dyrkwood, as he at times did, the son of Freygil added. “He vanished from his home late the other night.”

“How is it known that this occurred the other night?” Asked Cormac staring raptly at him with burgeoning shock, for he was very friendly with old Graeme, who had always encouraged his and Daegan’s love for the old oak by the Dyrkwoods.

“Because, Úna had gone for a visit two hours before Ruaridh left to go visit him in his home, in the hopes to convince him to take his son Amlaidh, on as an apprentice. He disappeared some time between the two visits, and that is not the worst of it.” Trygve went on, “Úna claims to have seen some sort of dark figure ride about some distance to the north, and headed thither for the home of Graeme. This possible dark-rider was later seen by Ruaridh leaving the wood-cutter’s home.”

“A dark-rider? Who? Was it laird Bádrach?” Daegan queried her words drawing a shrug from Trygve.

“I do not know, though why would he resort to secrecy to slay an old wood-cutter?” This time it was Indulf who spake sceptically, “I think it was someone else.”

“Hmm,” Was all that Cormac said in response, humming to himself for a moment with a troubled expression.

“What is it?” Trygve asked.

“Aye, what do you have in mind?” Daegan questioned.

“I do not know, but it appears strange to my mind that there should be so much happening in so short a time; Inga’s death, father’s return and death, and now old Graeme’s murder. Where was he found?” Said the most contemplative of the four of them, scratching the back of his neck.

“That is another peculiarity; he was found in the doorway to his home just as Inga was,” Informed the quarter-Northman grimly, his gaze downturned.

They brooded once more, in silence. Towards the end of this long minute Daegan fidgeted impatiently. Hers had never been a particularly patient nature, one that was content with waiting for the slightest thing, not when there was some sort of action she could be in the middle of doing.

Their moment of dark musings and shadowed words were shaken up by a great blow to the door that seemed louder than any earthquake could ever have been.

It was Kenna. Loud as all the King’s great hordes of warriors and servants could have been, she took them all to task for speaking so intently so without having lit a single candle. Trygve left at once, embarrassed by her presence with Indulf swift to volunteer to take responsibility, his face withdrawn once more before he set out with his brother, not before he requested that Cormac walk with them to as he claimed ‘commiserate over Inga’s death’.

Bewildered by this suggestion, Kenna could think of no reason to object, wherefore the youths departed for the home of Freygil and Ida. The conversation turned now to their suspicions of whom this dark-rider could possibly. Daegan was of a mind that it was some sort of phantom or fairy that had appeared from within the Dyrkwoods. Trygve for his part was sceptical of this theory, and was without his own.

“It matters little to me, who did it… only that whosoever is responsible will one day answer, for the murder of my beloved Inga,” Indulf vowed to all who walked by his side, and though there was no clergyman to stand by his side to hear and observe his oath.

None questioned him, all leant their support with the first proving himself to be Cormac, “If ever you should require assistance Indulf, you have but to ask my friend, as you said Inga was as a sister to me.”

“Thank you, Cormac,” Indulf said genuinely touched, by the sincerity in his voice.

“I also swear, to assist you,” Daegan promised also just as readily, “Between Cormac and my assistance; it should be all the aid you shall necessitate.”

“I am certain he feels utterly reassured, to have the assistance of a weaver and a blacksmith’s daughter, I know that I for one am gratified that my brother may count upon your services should danger seek him out.” Trygve mocked with a small smile on his lips, certain that Daegan would not guess at the true meaning behind his words.

“Oh do be quiet you! I have had enough of your sarcasm!” Daegan snapped at him, which drew a short-lived smile from his lips before they turned downwards.

“Inga would have sought to make peace, between us,” He remarked wistfully.

“Aye,” Cormac agreed with a down-turned expression, “Where are we to look to in sorrowful times now that golden Inga has left us?”

A quiet nod followed from all of them, before Trygve added that they were also to survive without Murchadh, which abruptly tore a sad melody from the man’s lips.

“Joyous were we of the high-mounts,

High as the skies, did our spirits abound,

Chasing the wild deer, laughing went we sons of fire,

Raise a horn, and hide thy tears, for they who left for the mire,

Down away from the mounts we went hearts torn by the fog,

Why o why did we forsake the peaks for a bog?

Joyous were we, and now we lie in the lowly-southron lands.”