Scotland's Fellowship of the Ring/Lord of the Rings - Brotherhood of the Gemstone: Chapters I to IX: A Long Await'd Update

Chapter I:

A Long-Await’d Festival

When a date for the autumn festival of the Paragon Muireall, was at last set, there was considerable relief. The date in question was that of the fourteenth of the ninth month of An t-Sultain. Years prior, it had been set a day prior which had not ended badly, with the date always moving forward by one year and a day. The difficulty lay in the druid’s frequent inability to remember to forego the unlucky number as a date, for the favourite festival of his flock.

They had learnt to dread more than any other date, the thirteenth of the ninth month. For ‘twas upon that date that the worst storm they had ever borne witness to, struck the local coast. Glasvhail was ordinarily a peaceful place. ‘Dull’ some dubbed it ungenerously. However, for those who lived there, tending to the land and the local sheep or liked to fish nearby, so that it was as paradise to those who preferred a quieter sort of life. Not for seventy years had a single man been slain or been suffered to join in the once many wars of the lairds and kings of Caledonia. Therefore it was a place, of supreme quiet, joy and rich food. For this reason, the loss of Murchadh the fisherman, during a great storm nine years ago had quite naturally shocked a great many locals.

None more so than Kenna the seamstress, who had been wife to the unfortunate fisherman. Such was her horror that she had been bedridden at the time, so intense was her grief. In time, she had awoken from her bed, if only to care for her son, whom she swore to make a finer man than his father. She had sworn to forge him, not into the sort of lackadaisical, easily distracted man that her husband had been but into a better man: Sadly for her, her efforts had long since been deemed a failure in the eyes of her neighbours. For Cormac was not only absent-minded, but where his father had appeared wise and genial, the son was so utterly absent in mind and in body when most had need of him that, he was believed to be empty-headed. Still, somehow he managed to figure into many more conversations than most other local lads had a tendency of doing, as was the case for those of the house of Conn, the local druid of Glasvhail.

*****

When Rothien was in the midst of spring, the whole of the hamlet of Glasvhail tended to rouse itself, from the stupor left behind by winter. Not simply because, it meant life was renewed, but because of the great ‘Spring-Solstice’ festival that all of the locals celebrated with an almost, manic glee. All save one man of course. This one was of course, the fifty-five year old druid of the village, and its surrounding farms, as he had the very difficult and wearisome task of organising the festival. Whereupon the whole of the land became frantic with activity as all sought to bring in as much agriculture and fish in preparation for the coming winter. In the year when this story begins, Conn, the druid in question was in particularly dire straits as he faced the coming of age of his second to youngest daughter, Helga. His favourite, he struggled to reconcile himself with the notion that he must marry her off. Sworn to Scota, the great goddess of the Caleds, he had as his father before him, managed the wooden shrine, dedicated to her, all his life since his predecessor had passed away. The expectation was that without a son, to succeed him he must either move to secure some other man to succeed him, or find himself a good-son or grandson to do so. His two eldest daughters had married well with one marrying a fisherman, a man of some means and gentility, who had inherited the finest boat in Glasvhail. As to the eldest daughter of the druid, she had wed a local laird, the laird of Bjørndun, by the name of Lauchlan’s third son, Mungo. The laird of Bjørndun had taken her into his house with the son she had married, succeeding his childless uncle as chief huscarl of the house of Bjørndun. Therefore, it fell upon Helga to bring him a proper heir into his house. The trouble was as he was soon to discover, the lad whom she adored was the worst possible lad in the village in his eyes. For Conn respected hard-work, persistence and intelligence. All of which when he called her hither was to come out, doing so late one evening with beer made from local barley wheat flowing easily. With his wife Ainsley, his second eldest and two younger daughters all at hand, his good-son Bhàtair, and three of his wife’s friends, whom were all wealthy merchants’ wives that had grown up with Ainsley at hand to feast with him. Their table which stood proud in the midst of the small mead-hall was gay and full of laughter, with none more full of joy that day than Conn himself. There was to his mind, good, respectable company at hand, the harvest had been good, his sheep (for even a well-to do druid had to do sheepherding in those days) were fat this year and the preparations for the festival were coming along nicely.

“Yes papa,” His dearest daughter responded as she took up a seat by his side, between him and his wife with a happy look in her eyes that pleased him.

The fire was well-lit some way down from them, to the center of the building just below the chimney hole in the center of the large domicile next to the temple where he did much of his work. Bathed in the warmth and in the light of the fire, he almost dozed off only to rouse himself, as he questioned the young woman, regarding a subject he both dreaded and awaited anxiously.

“I must ask you, though I am at some pains to do so, given the nature of this particular subject,” He prevaricated for some time, which inspired Ainsley to grow impatient with him where their daughter grew incredibly bemused herself with his discomfort.

“Aye, father I do have a man in mind, though I am not so certain, you will take to him half so well as mother has,” Helga said stoutly, with a roll of her eyes in the direction of her sister, Doada who being the elder by eight years and having gone through the exact same conversation nigh on a decade prior, well-understood her exasperation. The slow-witted man was often the butt of jests however he was rarely if ever aware of it, in spite of this he was well-beloved in the locality. “What say you of Cormac, son of Murchadh the Fisherman?”

At her words a tremendous choking sound resonated throughout the domicile, along with a series of chortles and snorts. The terrible gagging noise originated from Conn himself, whereas the chortle stemmed from his second eldest Doada and the snort her husband who appeared every bit as incredulously as his good-father. For several long minutes all that could be heard, were the patriarch’s attempts to swallow his beer, whilst his daughter stared askance and wife gave him a reproving look.

“C-C-Cormac?!” He bellowed when he could speak again, his voice hoarse and hardly above a whisper. “Surely you jest!”

His disgust towards the lad in question, who was fortunately absent to hear the man speak so poorly of him, was hardly welcomed by the lass of sixteen seasons. Her countenance changed from one of expectant yet that of a decidedly feminine joyous manner of a young maid in the full bloom of young love, to one of shocked outrage. She was quick to be enveloped in her mother’s arms, as she sunk into tears to his horror and her younger sister Eillidh’s great peals of laughter, as she hooted at the thought of the fisherman’s son.

“Really father, you should not speak so of Cormac- and do stop Eillidh!” the eldest of Conn’s daughters present in Glasvhail objected, ever quick to protect her sister as though, she were her own rather than but a younger sibling, one that she had once detested, ten years prior.

It was however to her husband, she reserved her most piercing look. Her husband adopted the abashed expression of a well-nagged man, who knew his final hour had come upon him were he to continue, his present behaviour, whereupon he mumbled a swift apology. Still, his shoulders shook the moment her head and back were once more to him, as she turned her wroth upon the youngest of her sisters.

“Really Conn, you asked her to name who she most desired, and Cormac is a respectable lad.” Ainsley defended with the sort of scowl that might otherwise have properly subdued, her fat boisterous husband, who so filled with contempt for the lad in question could not repress a snort.

“Oh aye, aye if by respectable you mean layabout,” Grunted the druid who did not much like the fisherman’s son. “His is possibly the laziest youth in all of Glasvhail- nay let alone all of Rothien, nary has there ever been a more unsuitable man for my office.” He paused to take a sip before continuing. “All he does most days, is stare out at sea, or run about near the fairy-woods and avoid the sort of toil a lad his age, ought to be occupied with.”

The woods he referred to were the Dyrkwoods, an infamous place to the south-west of the village, which was notable principally for the great big oak that appeared to stand guard just outside it. The oak was one that had been ancient, one that was said to stretched back into Conn’s great-grandfather’s time. It was a majestic thing that was a short distance from the woods. 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. 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. The reason for this, if he was ever honest was entirely due to his own fear, of the fey-folk whom he was convinced lived in the nearby woods.

Cormac was along with the blacksmith’s daughter, the only one willing to approach the oak and the woods. This might well have seemed brave, were it not for the fact that he did so simply to snooze with his back against the tree, something that not only horrified many of the locals but disgusted the older members of the locality. For they felt this to be a wildly disrespectful deed, with these same members of the region likely to have preferred it, had he avoided the spot too with many prone to whispering that there was something very queer about the lad.

However, when Conn brought up this very issue or more specifically the queer nature of the lad and some of the other peculiarities that haunted him, the women in his family objected. What was worse that wherever he wandered he was confronted by Helga’s passion which further bewildered him. “How can you love such a man, who is a layabout, who knows naught but to stare at woods, water and stars? He has accomplished so little, so that in this way he is no different from his father.” This led to Conn muttering without any real prompting, “His father Murchadh was mighty queer too. Had a tendency to take his boat out farther than others, to return either with no fish, other times with more salmon than any of us had ever seen. He also loved that accursed oak, and I could never quite tell what Kenna the weaver was thinking, when she accepted to be his. Or quite why, he insisted upon setting out to sea in the midst of a storm…” His words drifted off, as he became lost for a few moments in his own thoughts, quite what they were only he could have known.

No sooner had he finished his grumbling, did Helga object in defence of the subject of her adoration, “Cormac is no fool, he is kind!”

“And funny! He knows all sorts of funny jests, and tells the strangest fairy stories!” Eillidh piped up at last, seeing a chance to leap into the midst of the conversation between the adults that surrounded her.

“He is more than that, he is peculiar, why Bhàtair, you have spoken to him in the past, and knew his father did you not?” Conn inquired sharply of his good-son, who in the midst of draining his drinking horn, was startled before he hurriedly confirmed that yes, he knew Cormac.

“Why he is the son of mad old Murchadh!” Bhàtair called ignoring the sharp look his wife gave him.

“Mad? Why do you call him that?” Helga queried irritably.

“Because he was lass, he was the only man mad enough to embark on his fishing-boat in the midst of a storm, in spite of how all could see it was a fool’s errand.” Conn snorted disdainfully, utterly convinced of the rectitude of his own wisdom and that those of whom he spake lacked all semblance of it.

“Regardless his madness, you asked who I would take for a husband, and I answered father,” His favourite daughter answered stiffly, much to his displeasure. He never liked to make her, or any others in his family wholly miserable.

The insolence of his daughters persisted, were he but a little wiser, the druid might well have noticed that they were too united in their efforts. Yet he was not so, he fancied himself wise and cunning beyond comparison. With Bhàtair likewise falling into the trap for which the three ladies had prepared for the head of the family, “Bah, you are pretty enough Helga, and may have any other man, why request Murchadh’s son?”

“Because, there is no other like him in the village,” said Helga persistently to the dismay of the men and bemusement of her younger sister.

“What of Daegan, the blacksmith’s daughter?” This time the question drew more than a scowl, with a flush flying across her fair cheeks up to her small ears.

“Daegan’s funny also,” Eillidh hooted only to be shushed by her mother.

The mention of the daughter of Corin, the smith was one that Conn had meant to bring up, if slightly more delicately. The difficulty lay in just how sensitive she could be, in marked contrast to the woman of whom they spoke. The suit presented by his child, was unlikely to proceed in his view, as the lass mentioned by his good-son was inseparable from Cormac. For reasons that escaped him, just as Kenna the seamstress’s union with Murchadh had been the subject of confusion nigh on a generation ago also.

Conn’s next attempt some time later, to make her rethink her choice in partner was to end only in the young woman persisting, “Cormac or no one at all.”

Her words served only to exacerbate, the heated atmosphere in the small mead-hall. Helga wept for a time, and entreated her mother to aid her, with the older woman and Doada scolding him all evening. Still he would not bend. He had made his decision. Why the thought of Cormac, inheriting his position was enough to send him into an apoplexy of shock and horror. Something that he was at great pains to inform, everyone he spoke to over the next several hours.

It was the next morn’ when he conceded defeat, as they all knew he would; this in spite of his great dislike for the lad in question.

*****

An-t-Sultain in the year, of 719 of the Saviour was a magnificent time, crisp and not at all as cool as the previous year when all shuffled along, shivering up and down the unpaved road of the sea-side landscape. A week after the discussion with Helga, the rain that had haunted that night abated to the gratitude of all those who lived nearby. During which time, many of the local fishermen, who were responsible for feeding the vast majority of the locals took ever more to the sea. Keen as they were to gather enough fish, in preparation of the autumn festival of Fufluns, the god of the harvest.

Days passed with every house bustling with activity and every boat perpetually out at sea. None were more preoccupied than Kenna the seamstress, due to the popularity of this particular festival with the local lasses. Each one of them, along with also those who were older with little time for weaving or knitting, and in possession of spare coin or food were keen to turn to her for assistance. Her only aid in this trying time was her assistant Indulf and her goddaughter Daegan. Daegan was the daughter of her deceased friend Olith, and the local blacksmith Corin. From dawn to dusk, the former where he could ordinarily be found not only aiding his mother Ida, or his fiancée Inga, he was instead found bent over his loom in his teacher’s shop. Shy, more so than the rest of those who lived nearby, which included his younger brother the rather loud Trygve or his excitable love, Inga. So that a great many of those who lived in the local area, preferred to leave him be, attempted to prompt him into chattering with them, if unsuccessfully (this being whensoever they saw him).

Kenna was of a completely different nature. Loud by nature, she was an argumentative woman of middling height and years, one whom had a tendency to either be greatly loved or despised. Notably by the family, that lived nearest to her for they had long hungered for the land she had inherited from her teacher, Eachann who had taught her the art and business of weaving. He had also taught her to dye cloth, with his knowledge of such things rare even in those days. Long since deceased by a fair amount of years he had been respected, and even admired by most. Her complaints regarding this year were far worst and more strident than any others, in the vicinity of Glasvhail, so that even those who hated her such as Frang and his wife Lucrais felt irritated by her son’s absence.

“He ought to be herewith Indulf and I! How dare he scamper off, to who knows where to do who knows what!” Screeched brown-haired Kenna, who had in a matter of days developed the habit (more than usual) of chewing the ears of any and all who visited her at some length, on the topic of her son; whom she felt had let her down more than at any other time. Still considered pretty by some if she were to only cease scowling and yelling so often at present none dared correct her. Ida, her closest friend, Indulf and Daegan were amongst the only ones who ever did.

Where was Cormac during such a time of chaos, you may ask? He was off visiting, with his missing father’s finest friend, Corin. Born abroad, the blacksmith had appeared nigh on twenty years prior after a storm had tore apart the coasts of the kingdom of Caledonia, whereupon he was found at sea by Murchadh. Wounded he was not expected to survive at the time, he was nursed back to proper health by the lady Olith, whom he married only to succeed her father as the blacksmith of Glasvhail. A skilled artisan, one whom was the only man in the locality outside of Freygil to speak highly of the lad’s father, it was for this reason he was prone to visiting his home.

“They are both queer if you ask me,” Grumbled the Salmon, the dour-natured grandfather of Inga who was grey-bearded and with few hairs still left upon the top of his round head. Like with Kenna, his face was at almost all times twisted into the form of a scowl. Salmon’s actual name was Muirdach the Fisher for his immense success as a fisherman, a trade and art-form he held above all others. His was a pessimistic nature, so that he had never truly taken to either Corin or Cormac. “Hardly any good has ever come out of anything they have ever done.”

“But what of Daegan? Without uncle Murchadh rescuing Corin, she would not be alive to-day,” Inga objected at once, the young seventeen year old woman was pretty, blonde and a great admirer of the smith’s fifteen year old daughter. This in spite of her being the other lass’ senior by twenty-five months, not that this bothered the romantic girl who was promised to Indulf.

“Bah, as though she or her father, have truly done much good, for our village,” Complained Salmon harshly with a slight grunt of indifference. “In any case the lass could stand to also be humbled as she is by far the most arrogant wench I have ever beheld.”

His words drew many an eye-rolls and long-suffering remarks from all those about him, for they all thought him far in a way the most arrogant person of any sort in the locality.

What was more, to call this a village, was something of an exaggeration, what with how it was simply a series of farms, smithies and shops, aligned along the near-eternally unpaved road.

The Erlbaryn Mountains loomed in the distance, to the south, the Narthern River before them to the north. Rothien was very plentiful as far as farming communities went. With many travelers visiting it throughout the year, most especially, when there was a festival near ‘Castle-Fidach’, where the Mormaer of Fidach resided. A man descended from the Duibh blood-line, one that traced its lineage back to the illegitimately born High-King of the Caleds, Duibh himself. With the man’s son Giric having forsworn his place in the line of succession to the thistle-crown, the MacDuibh family had become trusted advisors of the royal line whom they were cousins to. Their lands bordered those of Strawthern in the south, and were originally a well-positioned check upon the power and growing influence of that southron line. In more recent times, the MacDuibh line had come to favour with the split in the royal line into two, the elder which was that of Donnchad the Mad. Whereas the Strawtherns under the headship of the young Mormaer Raghnall the Red or the ‘Lion’ as some had come to know him by this time, was a close personal friend and pupil of Mael Bethad the King.

The few that stopped, on by had to push through the Dyrkwoods to reach it. Or they arrived by boat, from the northern tip of the inner sea, known as the Firth of the Thern, to the north-east of the village. The port was not a sizeable one, as all towns and cities and hamlets in Caledonia were always considerably smaller in size to those in Brittia or even on the Continent. Save for mayhaps Sgain, the largest of the cities of the Caleds, for which they often called it the ‘jewel of the promontory’ for the promontory facing the sea that, it stood upon.

*****

Merchants poured in from all throughout the south, in small numbers for the hamlet of Glasvhail were after-all hardly of any great importance. Being out of the way, with only a slim route around the Dyrkwoods which covered much of the south of this part of Rothien, Glasvhail was however popular amongst the wine-traders of Strawthern (where most of the finest grapes of Caledonia grew along with the best barley-wheat). Some of the cloth merchants arrived from as far as Norençia, the northernmost lands of Gallia that great continental state that loomed over all the west of North-Agenor, with the Norençians renowned for their fine wool.

Many of those who arrived did so slowly, over the course of weeks from the end of the eighth month of Dàmhar and well into the ninth one. Most of those who arrived from abroad were amongst those who had been in attendance during the previous year’s festival. Several others had been present during the spring-festival of Turan, which was to follow the Fufluns autumn festival when the winter was at an end.

The most noteworthy of the newcomers was none other than Wiglaf the sorcerer. A Cymran of some renown, he cut a fine figure with his waist-length beard, great pointed grey hat and blue robes that shone in the sunlight of the twin suns that were high in the heavens when he arrived. Grey-eyed, with a twinkle in his gaze, he reached Glasvhail riding his well-saddled horse, which trotted slowly under the weight of a great baggage drawn behind the small horse. By no means a war-horse, the steed appeared where its rider was cheerful, utterly disheartened to the brink of grouchy unhappiness.

His arrival was a terrible shock to a great many of the locals, with the quiet old man seeking out the small home of Corin of Forlarin. A one-story building made of local ash-wood with a small amount of stone near the foundations, taken from a local quarry thirty leagues west of the village. The red-roof made from local red-bark had been carefully put together, and shone brilliantly in the light of the twin suns’. With the roofed stone-building next to the house where most of Corin’s great labour was undertaken, with it having its own chimney, large collection of wood and was where he could most commonly be found. The house exterior was also reddened in the descending light of the suns, with none more startled by the arrival of the Cymran than the Gallian himself.

Long-since familiar with the sorcerer, who had been present at Murchadh’s funeral years prior, where he had delivered a magnificent eulogy and death-song in the custom of the old way of the Cymru and the Caleds’. Corin had been amongst the chief-mourners for the funeral. Ordinarily it would have included the cremation of the body of the man in question, but as he drowned at sea and there were but a few wood-planks of his boat discovered; they had instead filled his ash-container with little private possessions. Such as earrings, a favourite scarf, several clay-rings and a wooden lion he had once carved for his son. This last possession was placed inside the coffin, by the lad, who had said that he wished the lion to offer some comfort and memory of him wherever he was headed.

Where the elders and those of middle-age had never much cared for the old sorcerer, using the term ‘wizard’ and ‘heretic’ in scorn of him. If ever you run into a magii there are few things that are as likely to outrage them so much, as the term ‘wizard’. A term which they have never much cared for, and which is a counterpart to that of ‘witch’ a people infamous for their many dealings with demons.

“Let us hope he keeps away, from Cormac,” Muttered Kenna to Indulf, in a foul mood from the moment she learnt of the sorcerer’s arrival into the area. Though he had been unfailing in his kindness to her, Wiglaf had won hardly any gratitude from her. Her antipathy had its roots in his sudden departure shortly after Murchadh’s funeral nigh on ten years previous to the current date.

She hardly noticed the expression of frustration that painted itself unto the youthful face, of the eighteen summers-old son of her great friend Ida. He bit his lower lip to keep from speaking, too timid to speak out against her, even if in defence of his friend Cormac. It being no great secret that he loved her son as one might a younger brother, in many ways he preferred him to the company of a great many of his five brothers and three sisters.

Where Indulf was soft-hearted by nature towards his young friend, was like her mistrustful of the sorcerer, his fiancé he discovered had considerable interest in the old man. Keen to meet him (as she had not yet done so) and even keener, to see magic-tricks which she was disappointed after she was introduced to him by Trygve that he preferred to demure from. Saying as he did so, “Nay, magic- true magic is not for simple show, if you wish I could sing a good tune?”

Inga accepted this latter offer, she did not stay over-long as she was soon called away by the Salmon, who had just run back to shore in the hopes of food. Having forgotten to carry some of the bread and cheese she had offered earlier along with him in his boat, it was at present up to his granddaughter to fetch some for him. With her future good-brother in turn staying to mock and banter with the old magii.

Latterly he was to report to his brother, with considerable confusion when the day and the many labours that it had carried with it were at an end. “It is an odd thing.”

“What is?” Indulf asked him, as they walked home, his brother having not worked out at sea as a fisherman’s apprentice for the day, to aid their mother and Inga in various other tasks.

“The black bolt of cloth that had been dragged along by his horse was upon the table in the smithy.” Noted the younger of the two men, stroking his chin thoughtfully as though it had a beard already, this was a habit he had learnt since his earliest years from their father, who had a thick beard. “The metal beneath it was onyx, in coloration when I pressed him to know from whence it came, Wiglaf grew angry with me. ‘Never you mind the black rock and pray you never need know from whence it came or whithersoever it is headed,’ he said to me, quite why is beyond me.”

Indulf agreed that it was strange, especially given how typically free with knowledge the Cymran was on most occasions when he happened to visit Glasvhail. They both thought this strange, and had in their curiosity towards the black-stone in common. They knew only that it had been brought north with the foreigner, neither evinced much desire to further test the fury of the sorcerer. It was akin in their eyes, to angering one’s grandfather as they were both familiar with him and disliked the notion of disappointing him a great deal more, than they expressed that evening.

It was not Inga, or the two men who took the greatest interest in the return of Wiglaf to the locality of Glasvhail, but Conn the druid. The moment he heard of the man’s return, he might well have been expected to squawk, and to leap to his feet to march out to Corin’s home to demand the man’s immediate departure. To the great displeasure of all who hated the sorcerer (and the vast amusement of a great many others), he in place of this possible action preferred to hide in his home beneath his bed-covers, whilst praying for the man’s departure.

Unaware of this initially, the sorcerer was to in the days just before the festival have to the relief of a great many, little to do with his host’s neighbours. Corin and him, were to all but barricade themselves inside the man’s home for the better part of the day. Quite why, was a mystery to most, with the two when they emerged going straight to the smithy whereupon Corin had his daughter who was about ready to depart, to aid Kenna fetch him Cormac. This likely was one of the principal reasons, for her fury towards the sorcerer, for she had long hated the smith for his bond with her son, not that either man paid her much mind in that regard.

Daegan, did as bidden, racing from her father’s home, keen as ever to see Cormac though she did not inform anyone quite why. A boastful lass by nature, one whom had been dubbed a number of years prior when she had become infamous throughout the locality for her braggart ways, as the ‘She-Paladin’. This title had been given to her by that eternal jester Trygve, who full of mockery for her had bestowed it upon her, without her realizing it, was done in the spirit of mischief. She fancied herself a ‘She-Paladin’, and the finest woman in the whole of the lairddom of Thernkirk, possibly even Fidach and Rothien, so great was her self-belief (or conceit).

*****

In truth Kenna was by this time more preoccupied than any other, people in the whole of Glasvhail. For she was the only seamstress for a hundred leagues, of the village and the one tasked with almost three dozen dresses of varying sizes to sew. Doing so for a great variety of women and lasses, of the hamlet, as this was the busiest time of the year, for her, it was also the time when she made, the majority of her wealth.

The ever-pessimistic Kenna was a handsome woman, usually easily approached. Save, during this time of the year, or when her eternally distracted son, fled his tasks to go stare at the boats, or the fish they brought in. He also had a tendency to sneak away when he forgot to return from his errands, to visit with the ‘Forlarin’ household as all the residents of Rothien tended to call, the home and kinsmen of Corin. Forlarin as he was known to some was a strange man, by the standards of the small farm-laden road-Thorpe, as he was foreign-born after all, one whom precious little, was known about.

Said to be born, from a family of minor barons, in the direct service of the High-King of Gallia, the fifth son, some supposed. Quite why, they decided upon the fifth son, and not the second or third, or even first remained something of a joke, amongst all those who lived near his home. With none laughing louder, than the man himself, save perhaps the Tigruns of the locality, for the cat-men and women often regarded him with a certain amusement. All that the locals knew was that he was from the land of Forlarin, where the current lord was the son of a mercenary-captain who had done well, in the service of Agustin the Great. The mighty Duke of Norencia and Gallusia, who had defied more than one king, and paved the way for Juste and Guillaume, his grandsons to claim the crown. Corin was the son of the Prince of the Crown’s own tutor, was another rumour, yet all who knew the blacksmith, knew he loathed violence. Instead, he had favoured the art of languages, so that all that the locals knew, he had agreed to what was a tantamount to exile, in order to serve as a translator for a representative to Mael-Martin II’s court, from Gallia.

Regardless of his past, the brown-haired man then fell in love with the original blacksmith’s daughter, Olith and over quarter-score years, became accustomed to village life. The Gallian of course, learnt her family’s trade, and inherited her father’s business and home, upon the man’s death. So skilled had he become, by the time of this tale, he oft left for Sgain, or Inverdùnis to sell his spare-wares, which were in high demand in those parts of the kingdom.

Olith for her part, despite being dead since fifteen years ago, continued to linger on in the spirits of those who had once known her. None sought to honour her memory more than those who had seen her grow into the woman who wed Corin, than Kenna. It was the anniversary of the red-haired woman’s passing three weeks ago could only ponder her present troubles in the form of Cormac.

What am I going to do with that lad? He has all the wits of an ass, Kenna frequently thought to herself, in frustration her fingers at work upon the lady Malvina’s dress which was in the midst of being put together upon her loom.

The lady Malvina was the wife of the local laird Badrách, and there was a difference in rank between them, they were friendly. Given the lady’s bumbling nature, she was something of a figure of mockery, throughout Rothien. Some such as Kenna, found her more exasperating or pitiful, than humorous. The clumsy kindness on the part of the lady had long since endeared her to the seamstress, who found the woman’s incompetent husband, far less endearing. Broken from her thoughts, whilst she was in the midst of cursing her son to the depths of the icy-realm of the Dark Queen, Kenna looked up just as the smith’s daughter burst into the shop. This was always her way, as she could not help but always burst in place of slipping inside.

“I am terribly sorry, auntie, it was my idea for Cormac to help us, with this last project before Wiglaf arrives.” Daegan said, face turning scarlet as she averted her eyes shyly.

She is lying; she always reddens and averts her gaze, whenever she lies. Kenna guessed irritably, yet with a small amount of fondness, she truly did love the lass in spite of her dislike for Corin. It had to have something to do, with how the lass was the spitting image, of her mother Olith, who had been her greatest girlhood friend. The two had been all but sisters, with Kenna having sworn as Olith lay dying, to always care for Daegan.

“Oh aright, I know you Dae, you could never undercut anyone, so do not try to trick me, into believing that you convinced Cormac to leave, his duties half-finished.” The lad’s mother said to the sheepish young lass, who gave her a wide-eyed stare. One of pure surprise and embarrassment at how, easily she had been seen through her.

Kenna did not give the matter much more thought, too distracted by the work that was all-important to her. Life was a matter to be grappled with, and toil the only answer to all of its troubles and sorrows, with the greatest horror in the world to her mind was indolence. So that her son was something of a monster to her mind, one whom she had to exorcise of his worst habits.

Arriving hours after the apprentices had departed for their own homes, which left Cormac to suffer the wroth of his mother. This he did, his hair and cloths soaked entirely through much to the disgust of his mother, who was to scream herself hoarse that day.

“Quite what I did, to deserve a son as unfilial, indolent and worthless as you, is a mystery!” She had at last yelled in the end, shortly after she had put an end to her complaints and the throwing of several nearby light possessions of theirs.

Her son did not answer any of her cries, only shrugged and evaded what clay-plates, mugs and tools he could, before he hunkered down to sleep in the shop. As a rule, he slept there whereas she slept in the kitchen of their small home, to-night he hung his head and appeared as sullen towards her, as she was in return.

The next day, with the scent of pine and oak-wood along with that of the sea, was everywhere, in that part of the land. Scents that always served to remind Kenna, of her late husband, Murchadh; a man whom she had adored and who unlike her, was friendly with all around him. As she awoke, she asked of herself what she was to do with her son, who resisted her best efforts, to be included in the slightest work.

A question that haunted more than one soul the next day, from the druid Conn who faced what he felt to be certain, to be a kind of doom when the time came to declare his daughter and the lad wedded, an act he already dreaded. Where they awoke in a cold sweat, full of mortal terror of a possible or real connection to Murchadh’s son, others as in the case of Daegan, Corin and Helga awoke of a different mind in regards, to the youth.

The festival of the Paragon Muireall, a Paragon who was canonised by the Temple for her great service and martyrdom centuries prior, in the name of Fufluns the lord of fertility, was but a day away. All had been put in place by this time, with the skies clear of any possible rain and sleet for the moment. Something that Caledonia lived under the constant expectation of in marked contrast to their southron neighbours.

Busy at work still in the smithy, Wiglaf was to complain at some length about the process, with many inquisitive souls desirous to peek inside or listen in, upon him and his host as they worked. The difficulty lay in just how perceptive the two of them were, with neither man the sort to miss the slightest snap of a twig with their ears or the sound of anyone’s breath upon the door so intently did they guard the secret of that which they toiled upon. The only ones invited inside, into the know being Daegan and Cormac.

One might think they would speak of what it was the sorcerer and the smith were hard at work upon, ere long they concluded their weeks-long toil, come the dawn of the festival-day. Hard at work upon the bellows, Cormac who had but rarely been seen outside of the smithy, much to his mother’s displeasure and the consternation of the likes of Helga and her younger sister Eillidh.

“Go, lad,” Said Corin to the son of his greatest friend, “I have no further work for you, and require no further aid with the bellows.”

Heeding his words, the son of Murchadh the fisherman departed forthwith, for Ciaran’s oak whereupon he fell into a deep-sleep as he was oft prone to. This was sure to garner more of his mother’s wrath yet he thought not of this. All who stepped on past him, shook their heads in response, in disgust, with few of their children venturing over to speak to him distracted as they were with their games.

Full of fury, switch in hand Kenna departed from her home in search of her son, she had herself completed her duties to her many customers desired to put her son to work regardless of this fact. She searched through all of Glasvhail only to realize that her son must have gone to visit with Corin.

Every inch of Kenna trembled with fury, such that when she arrived she bewildered both men, and the smith-daughter who were seated at his ash-wood brown table. The men were in the midst of drinking wine brought north by the Cymran. For her part, the lass with the flame-tresses stared halting in the act of refilling the goblet of the sorcerer.

“Where is he? Where is my son?” Asked the widow of Murchadh to the wonder of those seated, who gaped at her in confusion at her words.

“We do not know,” Answered Corin earnest as always she perceived his words to be spoken in jest, quite why she did so was to remain a mystery for them for some time.

“Do not jest, please,” She grunted under her breath, just before, she took his daughter by the arm to start to guide her away. “If I shan’t find him, then I shall tear thy daughter from you to prepare her for the festival and see to her fitting for a new dress? Heaven knows, how swiftly they grow.”

Where Kenna might well have objected, had it been her child, the men simply shrugged for they saw no reason to answer any further. It was true that Daegan had grown taller as of late, and was in dire need of a new dress. Agreeing to leave with her, with a quick swig of wine, and a bright smile eager to be gifted a new dress.

Disappointed as she was by Corin’s lack of interest in the matter, a sentiment worsened by the knowledge that her son was somewhere else (heaven only knew where). Kenna departed with a flounce, the young lass scowled to herself before she hurried to inform her, “I shall go find Cormac for you if you so wish auntie.”

In truth, she wished to prevaricate in regards to her visit, due entirely to the rage that still seemed to colour every millimetre of the seamstress’s being.

“Very well, but mayhap it might be better if Cormac were to join the other men for the remainder of the festival,” Kenna concluded with a reluctant sigh, letting slip forth from her much of the anger that still simmered below the surface. After-all, she told herself, she did have a dress to complete for the lass by her side.

It was not her intent to make the younger woman uncomfortable; however she could not resist a certain scorn for her son. Why by all the gods, could she not have had a daughter? One akin to Daegan in nature, who had drive, confidence and whom was a good conversationalist?

Their differences stemmed from the fact that he had no great dreams, or desires to do much more than idle away, his time. Resolute by nature, Kenna had far greater dreams than her son, Daegan; or even her own father, who had thrived on the battlefield if nowhere else. Nor did she intend to beg she had as a child before she had been all but sold, to the local weaver. He had treated Kenna well, after she had attempted to rob him, and later left her his shop, upon his death just before her marriage to Murchadh. The shop was well-off enough, but she intended to still sell it to young Indulf, her former teacher’s nephew, who was but three years older than her son.

In a contemplative mood, she thought at some length about her hopes to move her shop, from Glasvhail to Sgain where she hoped to gain in wealth enough to possibly move along in rank. There were tales of artisans if skilled enough, succeeding in gaining the attention of the High-King and being taken with him, to his private keep of Dunsfathaigh, or Inverdùnis.

Inside her home, they found the looms, just as she had left them with Indulf, who was still bent over his loom, a warm yet shy smile gracing his handsome face when he saw them. A kindly if easily daunted youth, Indulf was in a unique position as his brothers were certain to inherit a large herd of sheep, enough wealth saved up over the years, to set all at ease for a number of years. With little left over for the three youngest sons, little choice open to him other than to pursue his own trade, and fortune outside of his kin-group. As a third-son he was remarkably unfortunate, in spite of the great affection his family held for him.

Dismissing him, Kenna turned her attention in its entirety to the lass with her, beckoning her to the kitchen after she had locked the doors. Her earlier anger towards her son forgotten, she saw to fetching a dress she had hidden some time ago, for this very day.

Her hope was to do a kindness for she whom she hoped to take in as her good-daughter, since she was of a mind that the red-haired lass deserved far better a man than her slothful son.

The vivid green dress she had secretly woven flew about, with her duo of assistants awe-struck by the beauty of the dress. It was long, with a flowery pattern embroidered into the hem of the skirt and sleeves, with many an Érian symbols interwoven where mentioned, with fine, gold embroidery. The symbols were all identical with Daegan recognising them at once, for being the ‘Bowen’s Knot’, an ancient symbol that was sacred to the goddess Turan. The goddess of love herself, is said to have given it to the women of Ériu millennia ago, as part of the sacred pact between herself and the daughters of Lyr. Turan being one of the three goddesses said to have formed the first pact of gods and men, in regards to both the Emerald and Lairdly-Isle. The other two being; Meret the goddess of music, whom some believed to have sung alongside Scota and Turan the isles into being.

Such was the force of the passion for which the Caleds, Érians and Cymrans felt for the trio of goddesses that they built more temples to them, than all the other gods. They were also noteworthy for having to their names, three festivals a year apiece, where the rest of the gods had but one, or two in the case of Orcus (white god of the dead and renewal) and Ziu, the red god of war.

The dress as Daegan soon discovered was a silken thing of the highest quality she had ever felt or seen in all her life. It matched her eyes perfectly, being every bit as green as the rolling fields that stretched west and northwards with the hem both at the top, bottom and along the sleeves as said; filled with golden patterns. What was more was the girdle that was used to synch together the waist, this was tied together in the most recent Continental style, notably in the kingdom of Gallia, and was a golden and emerald thing also trimmed with ‘Bowen’s Knot’. So that the knot itself was what kept the dress in place, and had been woven around the solar-haired maiden.

The mirror that lay to the right-hand side of the room was oft-used for those ladies who came to wear for themselves the work of Kenna, and wished to see themselves dressed in it. In this way they oft paid homage to the work of her nimble fingers in this way, not all knew this. Daegan, was cut from altogether different clothe and knew well, what it was that she did the moment she turned to face her reflection, when she donned the dress which as she was shocked to learn was made of silk.

It truly was a magnificent dress, the likes of which made her appear all the more beautiful than even she had imagined in her vainest dreams. Awed by the lady who gazed back upon her, from deep within her reflection that which had a dress greener and more majestic, than her eyes and which complimented her red-mane so magnificently that all men were sure to ask themselves if this was not Turan made flesh.

“Do not simply stand there lass, do try it on!” Kenna urged her with such excitement that Daegan felt suddenly timid. Not at all a sentiment she was accustomed to, she stumbled for words at that moment.

“A-aye but-” She stammered weakly, overwhelmed by the beauty of the gold-trimmed dress which felt just as it appeared, richer than any other thing she had ever seen before.

Kenna was visibly pleased with the result she saw, only to hem and haw over this detail or that, such as the stance of her charge. “Do raise your chin lass, oh and do also raise your hand- ah yes, I should mayhaps lend you one of the few rings I have, it was a memento of Murchadh and would go nicely with your dress and hair!”

“You do not have to,” Daegan demurred moved and humbled by the richness of her dress and unsure if she should continue, to take advantage of her friend’s generosity.

“Nonsense, nonsense what am I to do with it? It is not as though I wear it most days,” Kenna insisted before she hurried up the stairs to fetch the possession of which she spoke so highly of.

It was a prized possession as the lass well knew, being a gift from Murchadh and was a bronze ring of mediocre make with a small sliver of a ruby embedded into it. Quite how the fisherman had succeeded in the buying of it was a mystery, with Daegan suspicious that he had borrowed some of the expenses necessary from her own father though she said nothing of this. Still, it was forced upon her left middle-finger (for her others save her thumb were too slender for it), and she was also to have the pleasure of seeing her hair done up in an intricate braid. This was done in the same manner that many of the local women oft did their own hair, during festivals and special occasions. This form of braid being favoured amongst the ladies of the High-King’s court it was said, with the braid being a pair of tails of hair that were draped over either side of the woman’s shoulders. In Daegan’s case her hair came down to almost her stomach, with both tails being braided multiple times in delicate yellow cloth.

This practice pleased her and was entirely new to her, with Kenna arranging all very carefully for her so very gently that one might well have mistaken her for a nobleman’s daughter. A rank that had never truly attracted her, for being a lady might well have meant that she was out of reach from Cormac something that was intolerable to her mind. After-all they entered the world within the same month, and had nigh-well grown to adulthood together with the young woman determined that they would live in it and depart from it together one day. A part of her hoped he might outlive her, if only so that she would never be made to endure his absence.

“I look like a proper lady!” She breathed sincerely moved, by the kindness of the seamstress she felt certain then, was to one day be her good-mother.

Kenna beamed in response, as pleased by her joy as she was by her own appearance. The woman’s proud mien the sort she well-imagined her own mother might have worn, had she lived to see her standing there in silk, her hairs braided in the manner of a noblewoman.

They swiftly undid all the work if only to keep it a secret, after-all Kenna had no great desire to flaunt the silk dress she had bought the cloth for, nigh on two years prior from a group of travelling Brittian merchants. Daegan wished to go find Cormac, to ensure that he did not forget about the festival, as he had two years previous.

Pleased by her promise to return, and to return with her son, Kenna turned away from her to concentrate her attention upon the final touches for the dress. The dress was a tad long, and the last thing she needed was for the excitable daughter of Olith to do as her mother had done dozens of times; trip over herself. It had been the source of enough tears, for the poor lass so that her friend was determined to spare the daughter from such a humiliating fate.

In the end, Daegan found no trace of her friend, not near the quay though she did find Indulf’s younger brother. From there she had inspected Ciaran’s oak, only to find no trace of her friend, much to her disappointment. She might well have complained at some length; however she was reminded of the descent of the suns, by Trygve rather abrasively.

Many a grumbles and complaints were torn from her lips, on the route back to Kenna’s home, who at her return, set to work at once. Determined to ensure that she appear as comely as possible, Kenna was to once her work completed push her out the door, with a frenzied, “Hurry! Hurry, we must appear before some of the men arrive from the swimming-contest!”

*****

The customs involved in the Autumn Festival of Fufluns were long though not particularly complex. They involved a series of games ranging from spear-throwing, boxing, races, great leaping contests, archery, wrestling and of course, swimming. Women were not forbidden from the races or the swimming contests, they were however kept away from participating in the others, not that this greatly worried Daegan. She had no interest in them to begin with, with only swimming as with all people in that region of Rothien being a great passion.

After the physical contests, came the singing and poetry and story-telling demonstrations around the great-fire. The fire was to be lit, shortly after the last sheaf of wheat was cut to be cooked, with there being much dancing amongst the local people. All of whom celebrated the end of the harvest season with a splendid feast involving a great deal of mutton, corn, bread, oyster, other fishes and pork along with many fruits such as apples, bananas and grapes. Much wine and mead was drunk during all parts of the festivities, with the last of the barley wheat used to make the beer for the festival. All while the local carpenters set to work carving an effigy of Scota. Some years the effigy used was Scota in her form as the crone, with this image utilised in lean times, which was to be placed upon the altar in the local temple of the Golden Goddess. Whereas the maiden-effigy was utilised to represent her in good times, and placed in the temple in question. The festival also included a couple being selected to be wed, of course in more heathen times they were considered ‘temporarily’ married. A practice the Temple had frowned upon and had ordered that it either be dismissed entirely from the festival, or that it be modified into a proper marriage of sorts. Of course, many were the couple wed under such circumstances who came to regret the decision, with others such as Daegan’s own parents enjoying several years of bliss together. Often it was said that parents of the couple, offered a private bribe or offering for their son to be selected with so and so or such and such’s daughter. More often, the couple were selected based in how close the local druid had observed them to be, with four witnesses unrelated to them, called hither to inform him of how close the couple were.

The more sceptical of the two, was Indulf’s younger brother, who was but two months younger than Cormac and her, was of a far more practical disposition, commenting as he did so. “Bah, a marriage is a marriage. What difference when it is held so long as it is not convened during some tragedy it makes no difference, now does it?”

He spoke after hearing of the concerns the seamstress expressed, regarding what the auguries that were to be undertaken by Conn might presage for the coming year. The augurs were taken just before the feast; they involved a reading of oracle-stones decorated with the symbols of the twelve gods. Depending on how they fell, in what positions and which seemed the most dominant, much of the future could be told, or so it was said.

Daegan was not alone, in having her doubts about the veracity of Conn’s ability to read the stones, as Trygve complained, “Ah yes, we must now read stones- which the good brother of the faith likely could not discern the difference from blades of grass, or his own fingers!”

“Tush, some respect Trygve,” Kenna scolded sharply, just as the druid cast the stones upon his plate, which he bent over to read.

The announcement was a positive one, with the druid proclaiming that the gods had promised another fertile year. This winter was to be one of moderate length, with the next harvest likely to be long, fruitful and to last as long as the last four had. In all it was the same prediction that had been uttered since the fall of the wicked king Donnchad, at the hands of good king Mael Bethad.

Pleased by this prophecy, a great many of those gathered about them cheered, applauded and shouted great cries of ‘hurray, hurray for Conn!’ wherefore they began the feast. All were invited to the great feast regardless of how poor or rich they were. It was said that at one time, the laird of Thernkirk, the father of the present one was in the habit of joining the festivals. However, since his death twenty-five years ago, his heir Badrách had refused to participate in it. Not that it removed from the festivities or from the people’s enjoyment of their meals. Meals that consisted of meats, vegetables and fruits, with the meats consisting primarily of salmon, trout sunfish, bass and catfish, there was also mutton, pork, or beef. There was that famous recipe of the Caleds of course, the haggis made from derived from sheep’s liver, heart and lungs. There was also some lynx and deer meat, courtesy of Corin with many suspicious of how he had gotten them. The local laird had forbidden the hunt they preferred to turn a blind eye. Thinking it his own fault for not paying closer attention, to his forests, as to the fruits there were apples, peaches and pomegranates. The last of the trio of fruits having been taken from Salmon’s daughter’s garden, this left the vegetables, which consisted of carrots, tomatoes, onions, turnips, beans, peas and broccoli. This last one was not particularly popular among some of the children as you can imagine, though when mixed with trout there were those who enjoyed it. In all, there was food a-plenty for all, which was more in that time, than one could say for most villages on Bretwealda. With even the village of Glasvhail having suffered a lack of plenty in prior years, notably during the reign of Donnchad the Foul, yet since the rise of High-King Mael Bethad, the harvests had become incomparable.

As they ate, Indulf picked up once more the discussion of marriage, to add his own voice to the arguments in support of Dae and Kenna. The women picking at their food with considerable care, with the bowl of water that sat upon the lower table that they sat before, to the left of the principal one reserved for Conn and his family, where the two men to the right of the seamstress being less careful. They were dressed in the same cloth they had worn to work that day, rather than the silk dress of the crimson-haired lass, or the fine brown wool one the dark-haired weaver wore.

“Aye, though Inga claims the spring is the most auspicious time, whereas the autumn festival presages a poor union.” Indulf said offering a middle-ground between the two of them, evidently hoping to mollify his younger brother, whilst still placating Dae.

“That is precisely the issue I have, we should not speak of such nonsense as ‘auspicious’,” Trygve complained loudly, far more so than any of them might well have liked.

His older sibling glanced about them in distress, embarrassed by all the glowers the younger lad had drawn from a great contingent of women, elders and the odd young man present. Most of the men were preoccupied elsewhere, with either their meals, or a great number of them had yet to arrive, due to their participation in the spear-throwing contest, which as always was held nearer to the forest out of certainty that the sound of men throwing javelins, and exerting themselves might frighten away the fey. What few people, wondered was how tossing the weapons away from the forest might well terrify the local woodland fairies, with Daegan only pondering it due to Cormac having once pointed out this absurdity. The only time she had asked him if he was willing to participate alongside the other men, he had remarked that he would prefer to meet a fairy than to frighten it away, if only out of curiosity.

They were not to wait overlong before the swimming contest had begun; this caused her to bite her lower lip for she wished she could have participated. The seas was to her a friend and joy itself, where it was little more than a source of misery for Trygve, who grumbled a little for he could barely swim (this in spite of his work as a fisherman).

This caused much teasing, by his brother as the two departed to join those wrestling nearer to the home of the Salmon. The most ancient man in the locality, who had presided for the past twenty eight years, over all such events he it was who decided the rules and victors. With the previous several years won by Freygil, father of the two men with whom, Daegan presently ate next to.

This left the women to prepare the feast, to see to the races and to see who could leap the highest and the farthest, though in the case of Daegan who typically participated in such events yet was hardly dressed for such things, could only grumble. This she did with considerable vigour, until Kenna scolded her, advising she cease her continuous stream of mumbling and murmuring. “-‘Tis your own fault Dae, for it was you who forgot about those contests and came to my door, therefore you have none to blame save thyself.”

Daegan would well have liked to snap back, in some grand fashion however, she preferred to preserve her own dignity by grumbling beneath her breath, for a moment longer before she fell into a sullen silence. All too aware that the truth of the matter, was that she had indeed proven herself to be at fault that day, the young lass waited out the contest in question, which ended near to the end of the feast. Wherefore the vast majority of those who had participated in the yearly contest joined those already seated together for the feast which lasted for another several hours.

To the surprise of a great many, it had not been Simidh father of Inga, or Solamh the eldest brother of Indulf and Trygve who had won the competition as all had expected. But rather, it was Corin who had won the day. According to Solamh, who was a muscular twenty-three year old youth with the same curly blonde hair of Indulf and the large frame that all those of the house of Freygil possessed, this victory was in part Cormac’s fault.

Hearing this Kenna cast an exasperated glance towards her son, who ignored it from where he sat to the right of the third of the sons of Freygil. The tale as it was told by Freygil (who sat to the left hand side of the seamstress), involved the blonde son of Murchadh gaining an early advantage. Only for him to be distracted, and to swim off in some other direction which served to distract several of the men in turn, thereupon Corin swam past them one and all, reaching the shore from the boat he had dived from ahead of the rest of those about him. This had earned for a great many of the men a small amount of resentment towards the lad in question. Others, such as Salmon grumbled about how the lad was far, in a way worse than his sire, who had won year after year at one time, every contest of swimming and spear-throwing.

The comparisons between father and son hardly appeared to touch Cormac, whom Daegan noticed was more interested in discussing quietly with Wiglaf, who had arrived with him. As fond of the old man, as her friend was she nonetheless suddenly wished him gone at that moment. For it appeared to her that she was in contest with him for the youth’s attention.

Where Wiglaf was old, bent and leant towards plumpness, Cormac was the opposite of the sorcerer. Healthy though not strong as Trygve was, he was however much akin to the Freygilsons blonde though his hair was brighter, and far more curled. Teal-eyed, he had the strong jaw that Murchadh had had, with a similar tall physique that he had not yet grown into. He stood a little lankily, with the lad in possession of a mole just below to the left of his left eye, along the corner of his jaw. It was not in appearance that Cormac stood out from all those about him, but in spirit. Absent-minded, eternally distracted, he was in possession of the finest memory Daegan had ever observed in all her life, a virtue she earnestly admired.

That was the nature of their relationship. He was as the sea to her mind; at first glance shallow yet at his core in possession of greater depth than any other living man.

This caused frustrated tears to spring to her eyes. A sensation that she despised with all her heart and soul, due to how unused she was to feeling such weakness. Her heart had sunk to far below her feet whereupon the lady Ainsley, Conn’s wife declared that it was time now, for song, dance and poetry.

A great cheer swept through the crowd, with the Salmon crying out, “Here, here! Thank the fertile-god that we shall not have to hear, Conn’s endless speeches!”

Conn’s words though, were delivered in the most pompous manner the man could summon much to the bemused exasperation of his listeners: “It is with considerable joy that I stand here before you to officiate over yet another Samhain festival. This festival of plenty that has offered us so very, very much since the accession of our right and proper High-King Mael Bethad,” There were a few ‘here, heres’ and a kick from the man’s wife ere he added hurriedly. “And his good Queen Gruach! Though never let us forget that the plenty we enjoy hereon earth, is but a temporary thing in comparison to the greater glory of the gods and Father Temple.” It was at this time that most began to become drowsy. Conn may have had a gift for choosing his words well at times, and may have been an infinitely loyal headman of the village, but he had the sort of sonorous voice that served only to put folks to sleep. As it was, even Salmon’s dogs Siomon and Artuir were beginning to yawn. It was at this time the speech continued, “We should also remember that greater treasure than food and material wealth, um which can be found in people. I have found it in my dear wife Ainsley,” Here he paused to collect his accolades, which were few. “Just as my noble father Dand the Auburn found it with my mother, Deirdre, and his father, my esteemed grandfather Dubghall discovered this truth in Donella, my dearest grandmother.” He continued on for some time about his ancestors, with a great snore heard from the crowd, and some unknown person (Salmon) shouted at him to get on with it. Irritated and unable to locate the person, he went on, “In turn though, my daughters and their men-folk have discovered this truth; that greatest joy comes from those around you, in sharing it with he or she you love most. I have been pleased to note the same bond growing between my daughter Helga, the apple of my eye and easily the fairest of the newly blossomed flowers these past few years.” Here he gave a defiant look to his people, many of whom either went on snoring, or snorted (as in the case of Corin and Salmon, both proud fathers and grandfather respectively). “She has discovered this in the eyes I am told of a golden-youth, one who has always been er- humble in his desires, and respectable in his ancestry, and of the goodliest of intentions. Or so I am told, with this youth I imagine finding the same love and hope for good, and joy in her dark eyes.” This caught the attention of some, as this sounded so utterly vague as to get a great many lads hopeful, and their parents curious. Helga was indeed the most eligible maiden in Glasvhail, by virtue of her dowry being the headmanship and temple of Fufluns. “I am told that this youth, Cormac MacMurchadh MacWaltigon, is of the noblest sort of character, with the noblest sort of ancestry. His own bond, his ancient friendship with my daughters is one I have long treasured,” Here he lied with some seeing through it, and sniggering, “and long encouraged. I have long held him in the highest esteem, and hoped that he might flourish as a man, as surely as his ancestors have, and he has not disappointed.” Here there were a few polite coughs and snort heard this latter one from the lad’s own mother, with a few looking doubtful. Still Conn went on, “He has long upheld that most sacred of virtues passed down by the Temple; piety, and it is for this reason I hold him up as worthy to stand by my daughter Helga, who has never disappointed, never failed and could never fail me, so long as she draws breath.” Here there were some who had tears speckle their gaze, and others who clapped politely, moved by the bond not of man and woman, but of father and daughter. The lass herself gripped her mother’s hand, a mother who beamed at her husband, pleased by his words. “I pray she finds the same joy that my Ainsley, has brought me every day since I have known her.” Here Ainsley and him embraced, and thus ended his long speech to the immense relief of all his listeners.

*****

It was just as Conn was finishing his long-winded speech praising Helga, her supposed bond with Cormac that people first began to notice the lad’s disappearance. At first most simply shrugged, and either muttered about how the druid had it wrong once again, due to their view that the lad already spent far too much time with Daegan for their bond to be an innocent one. Others took the view that the lad had simply taken to momentary shyness, not that a great many were too troubled by what he was up to at that moment. They were distracted as it was, by other complaints and issues; namely the disappearance of Wiglaf, accompanied by the over-long length of the druid’s pompous speech.

“Finish for the love, of the harvest-god and his paragon!” Salmon growled from somewhere to the back of the crowd of people gathered, about the courtyard of the temple.

“Aye, I want to eat more,” Another man added.

“And I wish to dance more,” Supported none other than Ida with a fond glance to her husband Freygil, who flushed red with pleasure at her enthusiasm.

“Hmph,” Harrumphed the old druid irritably, though not terribly fond of the union he had just attempted to propose if only for the festival, he was noteworthy for his pompous and despised interruptions. With a quick cough he sought out some more dignity, in some distant place within himself standing taller and more rigidly than before (if such a thing was possible), as he repeated in his most sonorous voice. “As the representative of Muireall, the sweet paragon’s husband will Cormac MacMurchadh please step hither, and consent to lay his hand over that of my daughter, Helga nic Conn?”

A long silence followed.

People glanced at one another in confusion slowly a great deal of murmuring went up and down throughout the crowd. Such was the bewilderments when not only did the proposed youth not materialise, but he was discovered to no longer be by Daegan’s side. Jealousy overcame her, along with anger at the blow to her pride which had its roots in her view that none were closest to Cormac than her. The glower she sent the other lass who appeared as lost as all those about her were.

The only satisfaction that she drew from that moment lay in the tears that sprang to Helga’s eyes. A sentiment that she was irritated to discover was hardly shared by Kenna and Indulf, who gazed upon the young lass with considerable pity. Only Trygve appeared to possess an unreadable expression, one which none who glanced his way, properly grasped.

“Where is he?” Some asked.

“I do not know.”

“Find him!”

“Why must he always do this?”

“Better question would be; how dare he do this on such a day?” This last query came from Kenna’s own lips, as she as always demonstrated so little comprehension towards her own child.

This was the first time in living memory that the call for representatives to play at the wedding of Muireall and her husband Marcas, before the temple of Fufluns had had an absentee. This thus produced considerable fury amongst those present and considerable unease even amongst those who were present.

None more so than the druidic family, who pondered and consulted with one another at length, and complained all the more as to what to do, whereupon Conn declared to the people, “If not Cormac the Imbecilic, who else shall come hither to embody the paragon’s noble husband?”

Helga was hardly pleased by this, to which Daegan felt now a great swell of pity come over her, when she wondered what might have happened had it been she who stood by the door of the temple. The volunteer was to prove to be Trygve who all but shoved his way through the crowd, to the bemusement of a great many. His enthusiasm marked him out in the minds of many, in combination with his diligent disposition, as someone worthy of approval.

Wherefore he was ‘wed’ in a ceremony which required the druid to bind the wrists of the two volunteers together with a garland of flowers which were green, red and yellow. Once bound to one another, they were to embrace, exchange a kiss and beg for the god Fufluns to bless the next harvest. The unhappiness of Helga soon proved infectious, when the very apparently smitten youngest son of Freygil and Ida noticed her misery.

In all, the rite which ought to have been the merriest of all festivals (after Yule of course), proved itself a melancholic affair, one that drew forth a great many complaints from all peoples, none more vocal than Kenna, “Poor Helga.”

“Poor Trygve,” Said her great friend Ida, rather archly.

“Bah, they are children, what do they know of love?” Freygil retorted to them both, exasperated.

The feasts and dancing along with the recitation and singing of poetry continued, though not with the same easy atmosphere. The sense of disharmony in the world worried all presents thereupon the hill by the temple.

There they might have remained were it not for the fatigue that came over a great many of those present for the festival. It was Indulf who was first to desire to leave. Swept away by concern for Inga he informed his kinsmen, “I am worried about Inga, she wandered off to return the Salmon’s extra clogs home. This was some time ago, and I wonder if she has not had an accident or other.”

“I shall accompany you,” Daegan volunteered at once, amongst those whom he confided in.

As her desire to remain had waned, with the departure of Cormac she thus became weary. This fused with the knowledge that her father was likely to require her aid tomorrow in the smithy, with his newest project. The two departed forthwith, neither spake to one another both still filled with pity for Trygve who had wandered away after Helga had rebuffed his request to dance with her. Nor did they speak of the great hope that rested in Indulf’s breast, to marry Inga in the spring when the snows melted.

It was naught until they reached the proximity of her home that they uttered their first word to one another, whereupon they took notice of the sounds that drifted from the smithy, those of Corin’s hammer upon the iron he was in the midst of beating into shape. Certain that Cormac had returned home, Daegan turned to her friend to bid him a good night. He returned the favour, and without further ado they went their separate ways.

“Father,” Greeted the red-haired lass, once inside the smithy only to repeat herself, thrice more before he took notice of her presence behind him.

Where Kenna might well have expressed dismay to hear of either child she all but considered her own, to spend time with Corin, the sentiment was far from returned. A kindly if tough man by nature, the Gallian hardly returned her rancour. To the contrary, he actively encouraged her to spend as much time with the seamstress, whensoever his daughter was not preoccupied with assisting him with household tasks and his work.

Therefore it gave her no small amount of joy, to see the surprise and warmth that set his dark gaze so unlike her own ablaze the moment he set eyes upon her new dress. “Kenna gave you that dress?”

“Aye, it was a gift, father,” Murmured his daughter, with a bright smile that reminded him of his long departed wife.

“A gift,” Corin’s brows knitted together in an expression of consternation, as gifts was never things he had much love for. Quite why, was never something, she had succeeded in piecing together; she knew only that it never failed to displease him. “I shall have to see to repay Kenna for the dress.”

Daegan opened her mouth to object to this, when at that moment a great cry arose that cut through the night as a scythe through the wheat in the fields. At once the blood of all throughout Glasvhail who heard the scream was chilled.

For it was in the very words that rebounded throughout the land, from house to house- from the great oak of Ciaran to the high hill upon which the temple of the paragon Muireall and her lord Fufluns that all soon knew what had befallen some unfortunate soul.

“Murder! Murder! To me people of Glasvhail, Inga- Inga has- murder!” It was a credit to Indulf that he had managed to cry out as he had, most especially because of the depth of his feelings for the lass in question.

*****

As one, father and daughter were to disregard and forget the subject of their conversation they raced thither into the night at the sound of their friend’s cry. They crossed the distance between the two houses in minutes where it might have ordinarily taken a full score of them. Corin arrived first, due in no small part to his greater vigour and his daughter still being dressed in her silken dress, which she had all but forgotten she still wore.

They were however second upon the scene of the foul crime that had just been committed. First after Indulf were Cormac followed by the elderly Wiglaf who by the time the smith and his daughter reached the home of Freygil, was still red-faced from his own rushed pace to the home of the fisherman.

“What has happened?” Shouted Daegan whereon her advent to the entrance of her friend’s home.

They all surrounded the corpse of Inga, who stared up at the heavens with her honey-coloured eyes wide, never to again truly see the heavens that lay above all of them. Still dressed in her green dress sewn by Cormac’s own hand, with nary a mark on her flesh which disturbed all who gazed upon her. Wiglaf included. Kneeling, Indulf held her close to him as he swallowed, wept, wailed and cried out ‘murder!’ still, regardless of how they now stood before him. It was as though, he was no more capable of awareness of their presence than the unseeing Inga was.

Grief untold was engraved into the very fabric of the man’s face. There was not a man or woman, who did not feel pity for him. Holding the fallen woman to him, with his head bent over her breast, shoulders quaking as a terrible wail of anguish tore through him. By his side, Corin searched about the area in pursuit of the murderer or the cause of it, Cormac knelt by the side of his friend to place a hand full of compassion on his shoulder.

It was Wiglaf though who did the most good, where they were full of bewilderment and grief, sobbing in lesser or greater measure. His left-hand fingers were pressed to Inga’s throat to inspect for a pulse, wherefore he inspected the contents of her mouth with a keen eye.

“What could have done this?” Asked the blacksmith, utterly confused by what had taken place. A well-traveled man, he had however never seen such a peculiar case that involved no visible wounds, nor any footprints or hoof-prints of a mount in the immediate area near the home of Freygil, where she had been very apparently awaiting Indulf’s arrival.

“I do not know,” The sorcerer answered tartly, before he withdrew into himself with a shudder, the same hand that had touched Inga’s throat now stroked his beard.

The kinsmen of the deceased lass and of her intended arrived in due course, as someone had heard Indulf’s scream for aid, and brought it to the attention of the revellers. Shaken, the lad’s family were to either brood or take him into their arms, pawing and claiming to be concerned with him. The family of Inga at once attempted to seize her from he who had loved her most, as was the case of the lass’s mother, only to be pulled away herself by her husband, who wept bitter tears himself. The victim’s sisters were taken up and escorted home by Kenna, who acted with admirable poise despite being shaken herself, as she began to bark out orders for someone to alert Conn, to begin funerary proceedings and for the gathered crowd to disperse.

When she departed whither with the sisters of the deceased, to put them to bed, the Salmon rounded upon Cormac with such fury that all not otherwise distracted by grief gaped at him. Jabbing a finger through the air as the ancient Romalian Centurions might have their ferocious gladiuses, he accused the lad with a bellow, “You! This was your doing! You were the only one not within sight of any of us, at the moment of her death!”

“You cannot be serious!” Daegan objected at once, shocked by the accusation as much by the accusatory gazes that befell her equally startled friend, who gaped. Evidently stunned into silence, at the swiftness with which his neighbours and once-friends had turned upon him. Even loyal Indulf, who had just that morn’ considered the other youth his closest friend, turned a suspicious gaze upon him, so that their friend was uncertain if she were trying to mollify his or the old man’s suspicions. “Cormac could never commit such a crime!”

“But he was the only person along with your father, who was absent!” Countered Raonull heatedly, the paternal-uncle of Inga.

“Silence!” Interrupted Wiglaf in a loud voice, as he rose to his full-height from where he had previously been bent. Though not a particularly tall man, at that moment though he appeared to be of a far greater stature than all those present, from the Salmon, to Corin to even Cormac. Red-faced, beneath his thick beard and brows, his grey-eyes flashed with fury himself. “Cormac was with me, the whole of the time Inga had hurried home for.”

“And where were you sorcerer?” Demanded the father of Inga, Simidh the Salmon’s good-son in a strained voice, the accusation in his eyes just as it was in his father’s.

“By the seashore,” The sorcerer retorted evenly, though not without compassion only for him to command the seamstress’s son, “Now as to the children they must be getting home, as all must still work on the morrow. Now away with a great many of you, whilst Corin and I attempt to see if we can discern who committed this heinous crime.”

Most appeared as though they might argue, not least of which was Dae herself, due to her desire to know what had become of her friend. However, a warning glare from her father put paid to that thought; therefore she departed though not without one last sob and glance towards her friend. She might have liked Cormac to guide her home, if only for him to offer comfort, yet shaken he did little more than grasp her hand briefly before he left for his own home.

*****

There was little that Wiglaf reported to those who were kith and kin to Inga or Indulf. After that night, he appeared more stooped than before, with some such as Ida hurrying to apologise to him, for all knew he had borne a special fondness for the lass. For it was known by everyone, that she had long been fascinated by magic, and his many tales of the wonders that existed outside of Rothien.

All had adored the lass with the bright smile, eyes aglow with eternal enthusiasm for love, joy and all about her. It was with considerable rancour that old Widow Dolag, who lived on the very edge of the locality, declared the murder a most foul misdeed and complained about, “-Her murderer being allowed to prance about as he pleased still!”

Her sentiments directed against Cormac were as he was to discover, were shared by a great deal of those who lived there. A number of whom the day prior had rolled their eyes and muttered good-naturedly at his quirks now growled and spoke in anger, of his suspicious ways. Much as they now despised him though, they could not quite bring themselves to suspect his mother, as she was one of their own in their eyes.

“But there is just something unnatural about Cormac, and wee Dae’s father also,” Grumbled a great many men and women down at the Trouncing Salmon, the local pub to the south of the seamstress’s home. It sat by the sea and was owned by old Seumas who was an old friend of Salmon.

If most had abandoned Cormac at this time, Daegan certainly had not and had taken to growling at all those she crossed whom spoke poorly of him, or she suspected had. “Bah, what would you know of Cormac? Why should I not suspect you of the crime?”

Affronted by her accusations, most had taken to shunning her also, much to Kenna’s distress. Pulling her aside part of the way through the day, she hissed at her, “Have some sense lass, I’faith why turn all against you?”

“They are the ones who are in the wrong,” Said Olith’s daughter at her most heated, this hardly served to appease the older woman.

“Aye,” Sighed the seamstress a great deal of sorrow in her voice, “Though, it does none any good to make enemies where there previously were none.”

The exchange changed little between mother and son, as the former clung to her unhappiness with his attachment to the sorcerer. Whom Kenna firmly believed, to have committed the murder of which her son had been accused, with Cormac’s mother likely to have preferred if he were to simply avoid everything to do with Wiglaf. Her frustration was such that she was hardly, to forget in the days to come, the fact that Olith’s daughter had disagreed with her.

Daegan had no argument to counter her words with at that moment, nor was she alone in her sentiments vis-à-vis the condemnation of Cormac. In this matter, she was to discover that her father had received his share of foul looks, for loudly stating that he was of a mind that the lad was innocent. In this he was countered by Conn, and his kin who felt very evidently relieved to have not linked their fate during the festival in any manner to the lad in question. The sole exception much to Daegan’s displeasure was to be Helga who still sought out the lad as she discovered three days after her disagreement with Kenna.

In the midst on that day of wandering about, in search of the lad she bore so much affection for on behalf of her father. “Go find Cormac, I shall have need of him and yourself in the forge, Dae,” He had ordered shortly after he had awoken that morn’ to prepare food for the two of them and their guest. This took place shortly after she had dressed for the day, her silken dress safely tucked away in a box her father had gifted her long ago. That day she wore a worn crimson wool dress with a simple grey girdle, and her hair free.

Trygve informed her at which time she stopped by the quay that Cormac had not been sighted there, whereupon he informed her the moment she grumbled about the tart looks she drew, for asking them after her friend. With a glance to the other fishermen who had yet, to pull out their boats to sea to begin the long hours of fishing, “Nay he has not been by, I might recommend over yonder by his oak, and never mind these fellows, they as we all do miss Inga.”

His melancholy made her swallow her hot-words, offered up clumsy condolences and fighting back her own tears hurried away to where she was directed. The oak loomed high as always, its leaves orange, red and even yellow in some cases. Such was the eye-catching beauty of the contents of the branches that she could not but halt briefly, to eye them rather more thoroughly than she might otherwise have.

It was this temporary halt that allowed her the opportunity to listen in upon the discussion that Cormac and Helga were in the midst of, on the other side of the oak. Or to be more exact, the young woman spake and the lad simply listened from where he sat by the side of Ciaran’s tree.

“-I shan’t believe you could do such a thing to me, all simply because some cracked wizard had called you out for some discussion-“ Said she just before he interrupted with rather more impatience than even Daegan might have otherwise predicted him capable of.

“Wizard is rather strong language, Helga,” He snapped testily, with all the vigour and heat that all Caleds possessed somewhere deep within their blood and souls.

All too aware of her lapse with her slur against the wizened sorcerer who was absent, the daughter of the local druid hesitated before she spoke once more. She had many a false-starts, evidently distressed that she had somehow upset the lad on whom she held the same sort of affection. For her own part, Dae was full of joy at this error not because of any hard feelings, but due to her sense of possessiveness towards Cormac.

This she felt at the same moment that she debated with herself over what to do, if briefly so. At that moment, she longed to hide and hear more of what was to pass between them.

And yet, that same sense of self-importance, of herself as the finest woman in all of Thernkirk after Kenna filled the young woman with the view she should not hide. This being the first real moment of arrogance since the death of her friend Inga to overtake her, she was thus wholly unprepared to resist it.

“Cormac, you still ought to have thought of my feelings over the matter, of your departure with Wiglaf,” Helga persisted never one to lose sight of what it was that she desired.

Quite what the soft-spoken youth might have otherwise thought was immaterial at that moment, as it was then that his friend strode forth a tune upon her lips, and a gleam in her eyes.

“This be Cormac’s tale,

Quiet in birth in that far vale,

Black shores welcom’d Elves,

Dark wore the foul ones,

Slack found they the Lairdly-Isle,

Hark sayeth they the most vile,

Years uncount’d pass’d whilst war ruled,

Corpses untold heap’d wither they annex’d,

Flowers withered in all fields,

Amongst both the corps and the reeds,

Paint’d all scarlet didst they with steel,

Vale to vale was red seen,

Wails wert shed by clean and unclean,

Short ran the plenty until famish’d,

More cry’d all who bled,

Vast travel’d was Neithan Oak-manstle,

Father to he who never didst rankle,”

The moment she heard Daegan’s voice and the crack of her deer-skin boots strike the earth, raven-haired Helga leapt what must have been no less than a hundred leagues into the air. The thought that she had frightened her sent a thrill, to the scarlet-haired lass’ belly. The feeling tripled, when she saw the annoyed glance that Conn’s daughter threw in her direction. Her gloating words died upon her lips in the next second though, when she saw to her own profound irritation the wearily tense glance from Cormac. A frown climbed up to her full-lips.

“Daegan Fire-Mane, why did you follow us here?” Demanded the shorter lass, a knowing if angry glitter in her dark eyes. She had, her rival noticed at once, dressed rather more properly than she for the day, by donning a bright blue wool dress of finer quality than her own, and wore a silver girdle, with her hair properly braided into two braids that reached her breasts. “Cormac and I were in the middle of a discussion.”

“Dae,” Cormac greeted politely with visible relief, if the lasses had put some thought into their dresses, he had hardly considered the matter, as he still wore the same wool-grey tunic and trousers that he had worn yesterday. “Is mother in need of assistance again?”

“Nay, it is father and Wiglaf who desire your aid,” Replied Daegan with rather more disdain for the other lass than anyone else might otherwise have at that moment.

A reprimand behind his gaze, Cormac nonetheless clambered up to his feet with a sigh; his displeasure with his oldest friend confused her. Too proud to see why the other lass’ feelings, was of the slightest concern. A part of her at once thought of turning about to march whither to the Salmon’s home, to complain at some length about Cormac’s thoughtlessness into Inga’s ear. Only for her to remember rather bleakly that her friend had passed recently, so that she felt tears mar her green eyes.

Above them there was a clatter of noise, much to the consternation of the blonde youth, who pressed them to return home before the skies which had slowly darkened above them even more. Just before their departure, he turned to speak to Helga; Cormac stopped eyes upon the forest which pulled Corin’s daughter to a sudden stop herself.

“Cormac, hurry,” She pressed which pulled him from his staring at the Dyrkwoods and after her.

Helga departed with a harrumph, displeased by his snubbing of her a second time. Daegan for her own part, felt little to no pleasure the reminder of Inga’s death though it was by her own mind, had removed all joy from her life that day. The two returned to her home in silence, both entrapped by their own respective gloomy thoughts.

Wiglaf welcomed them there, morbidly so, “Hail to the both of you, hurry lest I leave for Brunstheilm before either of you reach the smithy.”

At the sight of him, Cormac who had walked a short distance behind Daegan with his head bowed in thought, spoke up suddenly, “Wiglaf, I have something I must speak to you about, before your departure.”

“I am sure it is important if you deem it so, Cormac however I must be away to report the matter of Inga’s death.” Interrupted Wiglaf rather more distractedly than either of the two new arrivals might have expected, when prompted on the matter, he explained. “It is the manner in which she died that bedevils me therefore as I have failed to divine the slightest truth on the matter, I must consult with other magii.”

“I shall pray for your safe departure and return, old friend,” Corin bade from where he stood a short distance behind the sorcerer who stood in the doorway to the house.

“You understand what must be done, on how to care for the sword?” The sorcerer asked worriedly of the blacksmith who gave him a quiet nod.

Without further ado, though Cormac was very clearly keen to speak with the magii, he allowed the old man to depart from the smith’s home, in the direction of the south. Unmindful of the darkening skies above his head, Wiglaf had it appeared none of the wisdom of other men, who might well have worried about the dark clouds above his head. His hat swayed from side to side as he walked staff well in hand and head bowed with sorrow, until he was out of sight.

Reluctantly Corin, hurried them into the smithy, where he set them to work cleaning the black hunk of metal that lay upon the table. Daegan halted, her shock could hardly be faulted, for last she saw it, it had been a large chunk of black metal, the size of a man.
“Father is that-” She began amazed by the sight of the long piece of black-steel, with it now her turn to leap several leagues into the air. “Who is that at the door? Wiglaf?”

“Likely he forgot some handkerchief or ring of his,” Guessed Corin with a snort, determined to ignore the desperate knock that broke the silence of the smithy. He might well have done so, were it not for the second, third and fourth knocks. “Oh blast it, if it is Salmon or Kenna here again to shriek at me over Inga’s death, they will hear of it themselves.”

The mention of Inga’s name darkened the mood in the smithy considerably, with neither youth glancing at one another. The wound dealt by her death, was still fresh in their minds and hearts. The greatest shock was yet to come; neither of them could have predicted quite what it was about. Not if they had had a thousand, thousand years of preparation or been told some time before that day what it was that awaited them.

Corin gasped, only to exclaim in a yelping high-voice that was completely unlike him, with both the children by his side as quick as thunder itself, due to the name he shouted and the haggard man who had fallen panting weakly into his arms. “Murchadh!”

Chapter II:

The Shadow Across the Sea

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.”

Chapter III:
A Sword in the Dark

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.

Chapter IV:

Alette Petal-Queen

Flames and smoke beat down upon the two of them. Seeking with all the fury of a berserker to choke out the twin souls that lay frozen in cold dread inside of Corin’s home, with the two unable to summon the courage necessary to stand before the phantom-rider. He laughed then, and so scornful was his jubilant snort that Daegan felt as small as a mouse at that moment. She desired naught else but for her father to hurry home, to take her into his arms and to reassure her that all would be well. At the same time that that laugh, was filled with a dark-mirth, it denied all that was good, all that was sunny and all that the gods had brought into being thousands of eons ago.

There they may have remained, as scared as mice of a tomcat were it not for the sudden bellow from just past the dark one. “BACK! GET BACK, YOU FOUL BEAST!”

The roar might well have burst forth from the lungs of a great lion, so majestic and powerful was the command. The stench of flesh burning and a shriek of pain filled the air far more than the smoke, the ash and flames did. Yet as Daegan and Cormac stared the phantom-rider’s cloak dripped with what appeared to be ale.

“Hoc dea sanctificet et confirmet ale!” Shouted Wulfnoth with such a fury, such majesty that he could well have been mistaken for a king at that moment.

“Dae!” Cormac called, in the same instant that the dark-figure turned away from them to face their rescuer. “We have to get out!”

He shook her, wherefore the smith’s daughter regained her wits, and filled with a kind of wild, hysterical rage against this man who had set her father’s home ablaze she leapt to her feet. Pushing Cormac out of her way, as he attempted to pull her away to freedom she made for the only weapon she could reach.

Removing Cosantóir from his scabbard, she heard what appeared to be a great hymn then. It was one that enchanted her ears and brought to mind the sound of the wind whistling and caressing the peaks of the Highlands Mountains of Caledonia. Of the spray of the sea, as it struck in great waves the promontory of the Lairdly-Isle, and of the greatest of Caled choruses that Cormac loved to listen to and join in on when he thought none others would notice him doing so whilst the temple was in session. This sword-song filled the whole of her being, so that Daegan knew this thing that she held within her grasp better than she had ever known aught else. This great defender, from the tip of its silver-white point down the gold-gleaming blade to the emerald-bejeweled cross-guard to the unicorn head shaped pommel was every bit as alive as she.

Wrath filled her and for the first time in many a weeks, she felt the terrible influence of the Blood-Gem fall as scales from her eyes. This was her home, sang the song, this was her father’s abode and she would defend it.

Daegan did not notice until she felt the sword make contact with the back of the hauberk of the phantom-rider her sword-arm (her right one) move.

Swift as Ziu the war-god upon his great red-steed did she move then, and swifter did the dark-figure of nightmares shout before he vanished from all mortal-sight within Glasvhail.

For a moment Daegan breathed heavily, heart beating faster than the great wind that tore through the land and more fiercely than she possibly could have struck he who had set her home aflame. Such was the exhilaration and the shock of her own deed that when she realized what it was that she had just done, she felt her head lose all semblance of thoughts.

“Dae, move!” Choked out Cormac, as he brought her attention back to the here and the now, reminding her that she could hardly breathe also, what with all the smoke that had clouded out the air within the house.

Daegan was thrown out in a daze, landing hard upon the ground her grip upon Cosantóir the White’s unicorn-pommel slackened so that it fell a short distance away in the snow. Helped up to her feet by the panting and wheezing Wulfnoth, “Are you alright?”

“A-aye,” She whimpered feeling all of a sudden as cold and small again as a moment ago, when the phantom-rider loomed above her. “What of Cormac?”

“He is still inside.” He answered only to catch her with a great yell as she sought to dive back inside, “Nay! Fool lass, what will you do? See how the entrance is already blocked by flames? Stay here!”

“But Cormac could-”

“Stay here and aid me with throwing some snow upon the entrance. There may still be a chance,” Wulfnoth commanded with another cough as he breathed in, a tad too much smoke so that his whole fat body shook a little as a drum might when struck.

Daegan simply nodded, too afraid to resist and too grateful to give over command of the situation to him as he appeared to know what it was that he was up to. This desperate attempt though foolhardy and peculiar in the way that all such hysterical plans tended to be, yielded few results, as the flames appeared to only grow worse and hotter, as if in defiance of their best efforts.

Wulfnoth cursed, Daegan wept and the house burnt. A great cry arose though, from field to field as Glasvhail arose to the danger of fire that cut through the midnight air as a blade through innocent flesh. The alarm was raised, with the knowledge that Corin’s house was aflame; there was nary a single soul who remained in the safety of their own homes.

Countryside folks by nature, they thus had a kind of courage, a vigor all their own that came from living so closely to the savage wild. Fire could be devastating to all, they knew. Flames though, could hardly dampen their spirits or cow even the youngest of souls, or the eldest of folk. Even the most cowardly, such as Tasgall the fisherman or Drest the farm-hand were quick to answer the call for aid.

“Water! Water! Someone fetch some water!” Salmon shouted as he burst into the fields.

“I have buckets, all fetch some water!” Conn uttered, normally one of those who slept the most heavily, he had been awakened by his frightened wife and had burst forth and down the hill to lend his aid also.

Much as this might have otherwise provided hope for Daegan, it hardly moved her. Her heart in her throat, and her only prayers were not for material things, or the potential danger of the flames spreading, but with Cormac. He was trapped inside, and she was outside, she thought. What a fool she had been! So angry with him that she had never told him what she thought and felt, what it was that she had wished to tell him what she had always felt, since so long ago!

“Oh gods he shan’t die to-night! No god can be so cruel to allow such a thing!” She whimpered hating the weakness in her own voice, as Wulfnoth held her tightly, quivering with fear himself.

“Nay lass, I am certain he has made it, take heart!” He urged so fervently she almost believed him. She knew from bitter experience though, with her mother and with Murchadh that fate and life could be that cruel.

As though in defiance of the great flames that arose what appeared to her eyes to be a league above the small house and of the great torrents of water carried over and tossed unto the all-devouring flames by the local villagers a great bellow was heard.

It burst out from the door by which Daegan and Wulfnoth stood, with all the ferocity of a griffon taking flight from atop the mountains of the north, and with all the might of a war-horse. Such was the force of the leap that Cormac undertook that he barreled straight into the plump old cleric, knocking him over and sending them both sprawling to the ground.

Thrown aside if accidentally so, Daegan was fortunate in that she succeeded in maintaining her balance. Wrapped up in a cloth, that he swiftly cast aside, Cormac held against his chest a roll of cloth, with which he rolled about in the snow with. Etched onto his face was an expression of stunned relief, the moment he at last halted in this panicked motion.

“Cormac!” Daegan cried out as she threw herself against him, knocking him over and the wind from his unprepared lungs, as he blinked in surprise.

So utter and complete was her relief that she very nearly kissed him then, with the instinct multiplying a thousand-folds the moment she noticed the bundle of cloth in his arms; it was her silk-dress, given to her by Kenna.

Just behind him a dozen of the men stomped on the large fur-drape that Corin had opted to sleep under days ago, when Wulfnoth first came hither to Glasvhail. With Daegan having left it bundled up in a corner of the main-room of the house, too indolent to think to put it away.

“What has happened?” Indulf shouted loudly as he appeared from just behind Salmon.

“What difference does it make, lad? We must put this fire out!” Salmon roared as he forced a bucket into his hands, and urged him to toss its contents against the enflamed house.

For some time, the locals worked to put an end to the flames, all of them filled with shock and courage as they worked together. Wulfnoth though, wearily proclaimed that he would escort Cormac and Daegan to the house of the seamstress where the three of them would stay.

“They have undergone a great shock,” He proclaimed to all present, many of whom proceeded to eye the blue-eyed youth suspiciously or in other cases such as Ida, gazed upon him with pity.

“Trygve, go fetch some stew from home, the poor dears must be so hungry after this travesty!” She called out, ever the mother and ever the she-bear of Glasvhail, swift to pick up new cubs regardless if they were hers or not.

Trygve hurried away, to do as told his face twisted with fatigue as he dropped the bucket he had been given by Freygil.

Following after Cormac, though not before Indulf called out to her to hold up for her the sheathed sword Cosantóir to her, “Daegan you appear to have forgotten one of your father’s blades.” He gazed upon her with a shred of pity as he placed it into her arms, “Sadly it appears to be the last of his work present herein Glasvhail to have survived the flames.”

Once inside Kenna’s home, Daegan was to take up the family matriarch’s room at Cormac’s insistence, whereas Wulfnoth was to be given his own room. As to the youth himself, he was to rest in the shop itself, under a bundle of furs by the chimney, in which he lit a small fire. The last thought Daegan had ere she fell asleep bundled up in Kenna’s warm bed, was to thank heavens for Wulfnoth and Cormac’s timely actions. Her last sight being her father’s sword leaning against the wall by the said bed.

*****

The next day was to see a great many of the villagers too weary at first to stoke their anger against Cormac. Wearied and distressed by the loss of the only forge in the locality though, by high-noon there were several of them that were about as frantic as they were the night Inga passed. This though, was hardly the first thought that came into Daegan’s mind when she arose for the day. Her only thought was to determine what she should do now. As things stood, she had lost all semblance of wealth or any means to survive as the family forge had gone up in flames. Her father would likely be heartbroken as it would take him some time to rebuild what they had; with all the wealth he was to gain in Sgain likely to all be spent on rebuilding upon his return.

Lost in her own brooding thoughts, her chin against her chest as she stumbled down the stairs her father’s sword in one hand, since she felt it needed to be close at hand at all times. It was strange, because days prior she had wondered why her father had not brought it with him, and had avoided it and the blood-gem. Yet she had the sense that it was in part thanks to it that she had slept so well.

Dressed in the same dress as the previous day, since Cormac had only succeeded in saving her one silk dress (which she decided to leave on the table, in a bundle in Kenna’s room), she arrived just as the door closed with a quit ‘clack’. Stumbling upon Wulfnoth in the midst of cutting some cheese for her, and an onion, she cleared her voice, this surprised him.

“By the great bones of the Paragon Muireall, what are you lass, a cat to sneak up on me so?” The druid demanded sharply, of the still half-asleep lass.

“Apologies, where is Cormac?” She said without the slightest trace of guilt in her voice.

“He left, to go speak with Trygve and Indulf, his friends.”

“I see, he ought to have waited for me,” She complained loudly.

At this remark Wulfnoth gave her a look full of pity before he turned away to pick up her breakfast and place it onto a plate. Insisting that she eat, he would not take a single bite himself until such a time that she had finished at least her hunk of cheese. This she did primly, if somewhat reluctantly given her continued desire to speak with Cormac. A part of her having already opined to leave for Sgain to inform her father of what had taken place yesterday, another part of her had the irrational notion that mayhap this could simply accelerate her hopes to marry Cormac and she could remain in his home forever. This thought was banished as swiftly as it came into her spirit, for she knew it to be a childish hope.

The question of what she could do until the return of Kenna was chief-most place in Wulfnoth’s thoughts, who spoke only after he himself had eaten. Her father’s sword was propped up against the wall next to her, where every few seconds the cleric’s dark eyes hovered over it with a thoughtful expression climbing up onto his face when he did so. The two of them quiet for some time, so that it appeared to her ears that his voice echoed a little in the nigh on empty house. “Daegan, it is far from my place to speak out on such matters, however if you are not entirely daft as Wiglaf or young Cormac can tend to be, I had thought it best if you stayed here until the lady Kenna’s return.”

Startled that he had been thinking much the same as she, “You think so? I had thought you would prefer that I stay in the temple.”

“I am not certain that Conn can be the wisest of men nor am I blind to how deep the vicissitudes between women can run to.” He informed her with a weak grin that made his moustache move similarly to the wings of a thrush. “I know not all the reasons for why Helga and her sister are not over-fond of you, however I have a good idea as to why, after your and Cormac’s comportment the night prior.”

Daegan could feel her face reddening, and she might well have agreed, when a thought came into her mind. “You speak as though you intend to go somewhere far, far away.”

The flash of surprise that flew over his face before he stumbled for words in the next few seconds told her far more, than what he had wished to.

Egged on by her suspicions, the ‘She-Paladin of Glasvhail’ went on to ask him, “Where is it you intend to leave for? Sgain?”

“I- er, well no though I must-” He stuttered uneasily, his ordinarily smooth manner utterly forgotten as he revealed himself to be an easily bewildered man, and something of a poor liar she realized.

Just as she felt certain that he was on the verge of revealing to her the whole of the truth, of what he had intended to do in response to the attack by the phantom-rider, the door burst open. In strode Ida who took in the sight of the quailing druid and the red-haired lass on her feet index finger pointed in his face in a single glance. The first response of the matronly, blonde-haired woman was to speak out against the blacksmith’s daughter. “Now I hope you are not bullying poor old Wulfnoth, Daegan!”

“Of course not,” Daegan scoffed at once, with a warning glance to the old man who sighed in defeat, with a grimace on his face.

“What brings you here, milady?” The druid wondered politely, keen to change the subject.

It was now that Ida took up a very somber appearance, anxiously glancing about the small house with visible worry. A bright, cheery woman with a skill for making friends with almost everyone, whilst at the same time disapproving of nigh on all that they did, she was rarely if ever truly upset. Unflappable by nature, for her to show any kind of hint of nervousness was distressing to say the least, and positively alarmed Corin’s only child. “I- well, I had hoped to see Cormac here, has he simply gone upstairs to his chambers for a moment?”

“No, lass he left to go find his friends Indulf and Trygve, to consult on the matter of what happened yesterday, would you like me to transmit a message to him on your behalf?” Wulfnoth offered genially.

At this the flaxen-haired matron chewed on her lower lip, grey-eyes round with anxiousness as she visibly warred with herself over the importance of what she wished to tell Cormac. At last she asked if distractedly, “Do you know where the lads left for?” Her question was answered in the negative, so that she at last conceded if reluctantly so. “It happens- or it may happen that there are those who live near here-”

“Ida speak sense already, what is it that everyone has in mind?” Daegan interrupted sharply, exasperated by her muddling about.

“Now be careful how you speak to me lass,” Ida warned with equal firmness, only relenting when the younger woman subsided into fuming silence. Pleased by this the stormy-eyed wife of Freygil at last concluded after some prompting from Wulfnoth. “It appears that there are those, who blame Cormac and wish him gone.”

“What? How could they wish him gone? He has done nothing wrong!” Objected Daegan at once, almost trembling with fury at the thought of the injustice being discussed somewhere, in the village. “Tell me where they are meeting, and I shall-”

“You will do what little girl?” Wulfnoth snapped impatiently, “Charge whither they have hidden themselves, to give them a tongue-lashing? To run them through with your father’s untainted sword? And what will all this accomplish, other than to taint the purity of Cosantóir and your own soul?”

The vehemence in his voice made her squirm, so that it was now no longer the smith’s daughter who appeared to loom over the druid but the reverse. Though he did not rise to his feet, and preferred to remain seated where he was, the effect his words had on her were visible to behold. Crumbling inwardly the ‘She-Paladin’ tucked her chin against her chest only to thrust it out in defiance a moment later, as her resolve rebuilt itself. She well-knew that there was little that she could accomplish by violence, in fact the thought had never occurred to her.

“He is right lass,” Ida added laying a sorry-hand upon her shoulder.

“Then what do you recommend that we do? Simply hide, whilst- now that I think on it, who is at this meeting?”

At this question Ida squirmed once more, with Wulfnoth moved by her plight hurrying to her defence, “There is no reason to answer this question, lass.”

“Nay, nay it is a good and worthy question; Freygil is there, Tavish, Drest and also Ualan.” She revealed, among the names she was to list the woman’s own husband, Conn’s good-son, one of the most notable local fishermen and of course, Torquill the tavern-keeper. “Alongside fifteen others, I discovered their meeting quite by accident, when I left to go enjoy a touch of ale after the fright of last-night.”

Blabbering on, she let at last slip if indirectly so knowledge of where to find the conspiracy against Cormac. It had to be, Daegan guessed in Torquill’s tavern, which almost once again made up her mind to go hunt down the men in question to give them a piece of her mind.

She was saved from another quarrel, by the sudden return of Cormac, who opened the door only to gape a little at the sight of Ida there. Dressed in a dark grey tunic of rough wool with hose the same colour and made of the same material covering his legs, he was accompanied by his two favourite friends. Both of whom were dressed in dark tunics, and trousers, though Trygve’s was slightly greener than the black of Indulf all of them wore about their shoulders long traveling cloaks. Their clothes was evidently chosen to aid in the battle against the cold of winter, not that any of the trio appeared at all prepared for the sight of Freygil’s beloved wife of more than twenty-five years. They all froze where they stood, just as she did at the sight of her sons dressed for travel. “Aunt Ida why are you here?”

“I have come to warn you, dear lad!” Ida exclaimed before she promptly closed the door behind him whereupon she told him with great solemnity of how he had been declared a criminal by most of the village.

At first Cormac listened with mute shock, but then his face tore itself up into an expression of utter anguish and misery. Such was the force of his grief at the rejection by his neighbours that he might well have wept, had others not been present therewith him. Proud in his own way, he would never break into tears in front of others, no matter how terrible his pain, how deeply the words and actions of others stabbed through his very soul. At the sight of his sorrow, Daegan wished to do nothing more than to take him up, in her arms and comfort him.

It was her feminine instincts, feelings that she had never been one to repress though some such as Indulf or Trygve might well have been surprised. As contrary to what they might claim, she took pride in her femaleness especially, when it pertained to Cormac. It was just that as a right and proper Caled woman, she had her own pride.

“What will you do?” She inquired worriedly, with a glance to Ida, who appeared to share her apprehension.

“I’faith, I do not know,” He confessed a hint of stunned pain still in his voice, before he ran a hand over his face. “I suppose, it has simply decided the matter for me.”

Bewildered by these words, Daegan and Ida could only gape at him; the latter was the first to ask what lay in both of their minds. “What do you mean by ‘decided the matter’? You cannot be thinking of leaving Glasvhail!”

“Aye, it is precisely what he has in mind,” Wulfnoth affirmed for the hesitant Cormac when he failed to immediately answer properly.

“But why?” This time it was Daegan who asked this question, only to explode a little in a burst of fury, “Are you a complete fool Cormac?”

At this question, pain flashed through his expressive blue eyes before it was replaced by a cold fury, the likes of which she had seen but a handful of times. “Fool? Nay and I cannot believe you could say such a thing to me Dae, especially given how well you know me! It is one thing for mother or the Salmon to utter such a thing, but for you it is unimaginable.”

“But where will you go? You have no great skill for survival without others!” Daegan pointed out sharply, forgetting for a moment that he knew every bit about hunting, trapping, fishing and cooking as she did thanks as much to her father.

“Calm yourselves, the both of you!” Wulfnoth bellowed only to add somewhat more weakly when they both turned furtive, angry gazes upon him, “Please?” This they did only out of respect for the innate sweetness that lay within the druid, who was very keen to move the conversation away from name-calling and needless insults. “Ida has lent us a great service, by giving us this warning, but it changes little; we must still depart soon. The phantom-rider will return, especially now that he suspects us of having some sort of link to whatever it is that he longs for.”

“Wait, the phantom-rider? So it is true?” Ida gasped disbelief in her eyes, her hand coming up to cover her mouth in horror.

“Aye, he is no mere superstition, though I had thought it so until yesterday, as I had no inkling that such things existed.” Wulfnoth confessed his dark-grey brows knitting together in consternation and pensive thought. “If these phantoms from legend and myth, of a bygone age do indeed exist what else exists? There is a great deal more at play here, than any of us are possibly aware of, or so I believe.”

“Does that not give us even more cause to stand and fight these things?” This time it was Daegan who thundered out this response, as though she were some sort of great warrior-king preparing his legions for war.

“Be careful with what you wish for lass, as war is too often in my experience initiated and far less lightly restrained once the arrow has been released so to speak.” The druid counselled sternly, he was interrupted by Trygve.

“Aye, but do we not have a duty to those who have passed at the hands of this creature of the night, and to those it has threatened to attempt to fight it?”

“What are you on about? I feel as though I have only been told half, of what has transpired and as though you all stand on the cusp, of some great decision.” Ida cried out her eyes going to her sons, who exchanged a sheepish look, neither of them particularly keen to inform her of what they had decided upon.

Cormac and the rest of the lads squirmed helplessly, before he glanced to either of them and with an exchange of nods he hurried over to the kitchen, which was attached to the shop. Wherefore he extricated from a darkened corner, just a few meters from both of the two who had slept in his home in the two other rooms. His eyes slightly darkened by little circles beneath his eyes, he removed from within the jug the small white-locket that had been entrusted to him, by his father.

“This is the Blood-Gem of Aganippe,” He revealed to the two elders in the room, with a voice full of significance. The name meant nothing to Ida who was visibly confused, however Wulfnoth’s breath hitched a little at the mention of the name. He did the symbol of the flower, placing his right hand over his brow only to lower it then over his left-shoulder then lowered it, then over his right-shoulder and lowered his hand very overtly. A sorry expression on his face, Cormac went on at some length. “According to Wiglaf, this is a cursed gemstone that has existed for nigh on two millennia, with the locket that contains the crimson-gem having been lost for a time, before father discovered it.”

“What? What are you talking about? How could Murchadh, have discovered such a thing?” Ida gasped unable to believe her ears.

At this response, the whole of those already in the know about the Blood-Gem, of the ancient Sorcerer-King exchanged a nervous series of glances. Each one of them full of concern and unsure if they should continue to maintain the secret that they had been sworn to by Corin and Wiglaf, only Cormac appeared confident in his decision.

This image was somewhat dispelled when he swallowed audibly a moment later, his gaze though did not tremble as he admitted. “Father was not slain in that storm, but swept away to the misty-isle, it was thereon that he was enslaved before he was seized by some dark figure and stole this gem from that man.”

Though she had already heard this tale before this moment, Daegan could not help but shiver. Her emerald gaze lowered in momentary defeat, her teeth sinking into her lower lip in frustration at her own sense of helplessness.

Ida wrung her hands, “But how do you know all this? Does Kenna know, Cormac?”

“Nay,” He admitted with visible regret, “We did not tell her, because father did not wish her to know. He- he was hardly himself when he passed.”

“Oh how terrible!”

“Wait, your father discovered this gemstone only to perish? Did he say anything about those dark-riders?” Wulfnoth queried flabbergasted while he all but bounced upon the chair he had taken up whilst eating, with the legs of the chair creaking ominously.

None took this warning to heart, so intent were they upon the white-locket and the chain it dangled upon, with Trygve eyeing it anxious, Indulf with heated distrust and Cormac avoided looking directly at it. For her own part, Daegan felt the old revulsion and attraction towards the gemstone warring for dominance inside of her. She might well have liked to turn away completely from it but she could not bring herself to look away from it.

Now that she looked more closely at it, it was truly a marvel to behold. A fine work of art, it shone in the light of the suns and the small fire in the shop’s chimney, it amazed her then how she could ever have felt repulsed by it. A moment later, she noticed the glint of crimson shining through a crack in the white locket, for some reason she felt it best left unsaid. It might only alarm them, she told herself.

“Only that he had to investigate them and the gem,” Cormac said answering the druid’s question, with the old man humming and hawing and rocking back and forth, to his chair’s vibrant displeasure as it creaked even more audibly than before.

“It appears to me that the three of you, have already made up your minds on the matter of this horrid gem.” Wulfnoth grumbled with a frown in the direction of all three lads, at last making mention of the fact that they were all dressed for travel. The three of them exchanged a worried glance, one that did not go unnoticed by the cleric. “Drat it all! I suppose that if I were to expect any of you three to await my return, from say Sgain or Auldchester where there are certainly records of some sort about these riders or this gem, I would but return to find each of you missing!”

The accusation hidden behind his words won him an even more guilty reaction from each of them, as they hung their heads and lowered their gazes to stare at their feet. Only Indulf appeared somewhat petulant, pouting and grinding his teeth as he with his straight long blonde hair and tall figure, appeared all of a sudden the very image of his father and mother all at once. He had his father’s height and muscular build, though and dark-eyes and his mother’s obstinacy.

He said little of what he thought, not that there was any need of it Daegan mused with a great deal of approval. Inga would have without a doubt cheered and boasted, of the manly nature of her fiancé. At once, her own mood soured into one of utter grief and pain, as she thought of her friend’s passing and the hole she had left behind.

“I really shan’t understand the youths of to-day!” Wulfnoth complained plaintively, as he shook his head tugging at his moustache as though he were trying to tear it off. He suddenly reminded the red-haired lass of an over-sized badger with a moustache in a monk’s habit, so ridiculous did he appear to her eyes then. “Do ye think this is some sort of game or trading-trip down the hill or past the Dyrkwoods over into Dyrranthrol to trade some wool or fish?”

“We understand your point brother, yet we are prepared to do what is necessary for those we loved.” Indulf said stoutly, eyes filled with a masculine thunder that no storm could have outmatched so fierce did he gaze upon him. “To you, Murchadh and Inga were liable to be naught but names, yet to us they were kith and kin. Or in my situation, a lover as Inga was far more than kith or kin.”

His voice at last broke, as he choked down a sob that drew a supportive gesture from his mother, who began to stroke his back with a look full of pity in her kindly eyes. It was very clear that if she could have eased her son’s plight or brought back to life, the lass he had loved so passionately, she might well have given over her own life or soul in exchange.

It also did not escape Daegan’s gaze that Cormac appeared rather a little envious of this demonstration of motherly love even as he extended a sympathetic squeeze of his friend’s arm. A gesture that drew a grateful glance from Indulf, who allowed himself a moment to regain his composure as he squeezed his mother’s hand in a gesture he had only ever used for his mother and Inga.

“You three are quite the group, I daresay you have taken the matter out of my hands and then there is the matter of that there conspiracy against you and the fact that this shadow-rider desires the gem.” The cleric groaned rocking back in forth as always, and rubbing his hands together in an anxious gesture. “Very well, if you intend to leave after this rider, I shall accompany you in the pursuit of him. The road ahead shall be so treacherous, so vile that I have no doubt that we will likely require more than one luncheon packed for the road.”

“We are not afraid and have rarely spoken since last night of aught else but the journey ahead,” Cormac revealed with the same resolution that his friend had demonstrated a moment before.

“There is a good and manly speech, let us hope you can keep up that strong spirit,” Wulfnoth said earnestly, his chair let slip a miserable sigh beneath him.

“Wait, you two intend to accompany Cormac?” Ida asked distressed, as the realisation of what her sons planned to do suddenly struck, her between the eyes.

For a moment Daegan feared she might swoon, a reaction she herself had tremendous difficulty in fending off at the thought of the three of them venturing wither danger lay, and evil roamed freely. The thought that they might perish haunted her, with her instinctive fear for the safety of Trygve and Indulf surprising her. Rarely had they ever uttered any remark not in mockery of her, and yet they had always been all but siblings to her, doting upon her, playing with her in their childhood and otherwise defending her when some such as Helga complained at length about her. This along with the notion of life in Glasvhail without Cormac appeared completely devoid of all worth and meaning. The more she considered the future days that yawned ahead of her, wherein she would not awaken in the morn’ to discover him down the village from her, eager to race her to the oak, or to weave crookedly in comparison to her smooth needlework and otherwise playing at word-games with her.

On her feet in an instant, a great song torn from her lips she let slip forth a song that she recalled her father once singing to her about the Paladin Norbert of Norddard. A great warrior and hero who fought off a dragon once upon a time and whom had fought for decades in the service of the great Neustrian Emperor Aemiliemagne (or Aymon the Great).

“Norbert was the most loyal knight,

All the minstrels sing of his might,

Paladin was he and the most right,

Son of valorous Zackarie Ziusson friend of the King,

His sword was sharp and his laugh did loudly ring,

Thus did all love him, but none more than Saraï,

To whom he exchanged his arm-ring,

Ere the bone of Norençia stole her away,

The seas were wide, the fields green,

The suns shone bright and red,

O’er the hills the scarlet wyrm was seen,

Above the glens and the trees he fled,

All trembled at his bellow and did keen,

Norbert was waiting in the north,

The light of the suns was in his eyes,

His hauberk black as a storm,

There Zackarie came from forests warm,

Together they journey’d under trees,

And where the drake-river swarm,

They came alone the father grieving,

He gazed up at the heavens seas,

Zackarie by his love could not but be torn,

His heart was dark with foreboding,

Determination harden’d the son’s weary spirit,

That duty doom’d him to death,

This he knew, he hasten’d ere the land did erupt,

Sword grasp’d Norbert swung its full-length,

The steel glisten’d and hew’d,

Light danced along its edge,

Both men stood upon the mountains edge,

Norbert saw there the wyrm oft-fly,

Scarlet rubies scales glimmer’d as the suns,

Emerald leaves fell from on high,

Zackarie’s blade blue as cerulean gems,

Light glimmer’d along the sky,

Now burnt lay the fields quavering,

One by one the red droplets did the earth dye,

Booming flames from Zomok did spew,

Hollow leaves fell as rain,

Norbert bellow’d thrice never flinching,

Lo! He swung his blade that cut a claw in twain,

His helm shone from afar in spite of rain,

O! How the maid and their son wept!

To see him fell’d by the wyrm’s claw,

Was truly the very worse of sorrows!

Long would wee Zias grieve, and let tears fall as rain,

Saraï mourn’d and Zackarie strove in vain,

This the minstrels sing with much pain,

Into shadow fell Norbert’s flame,

Short was Zomok’s triumph for he was made lame,

For in both hands Zackarie Ziusson swung star-shining blades,

This last he did ere his left-hand was unmade,

Thus did death to him dance near,

Still he throve!

Lo! Did Zias avenge his father,

His blade was most true,

This to the delight of his mother,

Thus did Zomok receive his due,

Valour loving Norbert thusly fell,

And to the regret of all was he reduced in that dell,

On the peak of Roumont shine the stars,

Long was the homeward journey,

O’er the mountains and through the valleys,

Lo! They rang the horn for the Paladin most worthy,

And so all were fill’d with agony,

Long were the days that follow’d,

For the king’s squire was most dear,

And all were to sing of his courage with many more than one tear!”

At the conclusion of this great song which she sang in the Gallian tongue, and which for this reason floated through the air without the majority of those present understanding a lick of what it was that she had spoke of. Only Cormac who had been taught some Gallian by Corin, and Wulfnoth understood what it was that she had chanted in response to the courage of the lads.

“Amazing,” Ida gasped moved by the song.

“Aye, you sing Norbert’s shortened song well lass,” Wulfnoth praised warmly, leaning back a little in his chair, his badger-like appearance once more pronounced. “It is kind of you to encourage the lads upon their departure.”

“Oh it is not simple encouragement brother, but my oath to them! For where Cormac wanders, I shall follow!” Daegan swore then, with all the heat and passion of a true Caled-woman to the amazement and shock of all assembled.

“Never!” Cormac objected at once, his voice alarmed.

“Think a little, fool-lass!” Indulf added.

“I expected no less from the ‘She-Paladin’,” Trygve grunted beneath his breath.

“Trygve! Quiet!”

“But ma!”

“No buts you fool,” Ida growled once more, before she turned once more to confront the red-haired lass, “Think a little Daegan, this quest is to be a terrible one and could be horribly dangerous and unsettling for all involved!”

“Aye, I may have the flesh of a woman, but I have all the stomach and spirit of a man,” Daegan countered immediately, “As I said where Cormac goes, I follow.”

“Never!” He repeated once more.

“You never let me do as I please,” She accused hurt by his refusal, feeling as though he had rejected her once more.

“When have I ever denied you anything, Dae?”

“Countless times!”

“Name them!” Cormac challenged with equal mounting fury to her own, as swept up by his own rectitude as she.

“Enough the both of you,” Ida complained.

“Why do you take their side, when your sons intend to also set out for certain doom?” Complained the red-faced smith’s daughter, full of fury and prepared to squabble with each and every one of them, until she had her own way.

“I take no sides, nor have I given my permission to my sons to leave, for which I would most heartily remind them that they require it.” This last part was added sternly, the moment Ida caught sight of the mutinous gleam that entered Indulf’s eyes. Though they were but quarter-northern in blood, there was at that moment very little else that they appeared to possess in appearance, at that moment. “I would prefer that the two of you, do not go as I refuse to bury any of my children, should this journey be truly as perilous as what brother Wulfnoth says.” At this time Ida, turned now to the man in question who froze upon his chair, “This is the reason for why he will agree with me that the wisest course of action, may in fact be to entrust the gemstone to him and let him sort it out alongside old Wiglaf.”

“What never! I will never do any such thing!” Wulfnoth shouted at once, to the surprise of all present herewith him, “I cannot- nay I simply must never handle that gemstone, for it is the work of a heathen, of evil itself. For this simple reason, and given the many tales of how it has corrupted men, even clerics which the abbot who raised me passed down to me, in my youth, I dare not! I dare not lady Ida!”

“You would in place of doing your manly duty, place it upon the shoulders of those younger than yourself?” Now the rare of the matron began to mix with the indignation of a she-bear fearful for her sons.

“Well it is one thing for Cormac to go, or even Daegan but my sons-”

“Ma, we are leaving, we shan’t leave Cormac and brother Wulfnoth to pursue this quest without any assistance.” Trygve now spoke up, with a small smile. “Besides, Indulf swore to avenge Inga; you would not begrudge him this last duty, especially as it might be his last chance for closure.”

Only Daegan remembered at that moment, how Trygve had dismissed her offer of assistance, and she promised herself that she would not forget it. Haughty once more, she thereafter would strive she told herself to remind him, of how much fiercer she was than he.

At these words Ida succumbed reluctantly, quiet tears leaking from her eyes. Wulfnoth might have offered her comforting words however; it was in that instant that a great expletive escaped his lips as his chair at last gave out with a thunderous crash.

*****

It took little time for the men to prepare themselves, and when they did, their cloaks about their shoulders still, lunch packed in small pouches that they intended to carry in hand with traveling-staves in their own hands. They were the very image of courage itself, so that Ida was now almost convinced that they might truly accomplish something wondrous. She also ordered them to one day return and to recall their duty to her, their mother and to the rest of their kinsmen. Daegan for her part was to grab her own cloak, fasten it about her shoulders in a hurry (she took one of Kenna’s which she at once noticed, was a little small on her own frame) and grabbing the last staff hurried after them before they could all leave the house.

Cormac for his own part let out a groan at the sight of her, “Nay Dae you are not coming along.”

“Mayhap, but I have something that you will have need of.” She countered having thought about it all the way up and down the stairs, and this time she was prepared for his refusal.

Eyeing her warily, he asked her from between his tightly clenched teeth, “What is that?”

“Cosantóir,” She reminded him, as she took up the sword and girded it, with a proud smile, thinking she must have appeared regal at that moment with the dark-scabbard upon her waist and the shimmering green gems, and white pommel. A second later the sword that was not properly girded to her girdle fell with a small clank to the ground, to her utter frustration. “I’faith!”

“See, how magnificent a figure she cuts? I truly feel safe with her by my side,” Trygve muttered with apparent sarcasm, yet it brightened her mood as she thought him as always sincere.

“Truly? Well, wait until you see it properly girded,” She told him haughtily with a hint of warmth beneath her voice.

He rolled his eyes alongside Indulf, who grumbled beneath his breath, “I do think it might be better, to confront those phantom-riders empty-handed.”

“Do not speak so hastily, Indulf,” Wulfnoth countered still rubbing his rump, as he came to the assistance of the lass. “She is correct in that the only thing that appeared to harm the shadow-rider other than the light of the gods was the sword Cosantóir.”

Pleased by this support on his part, for her along with his assistance with properly girding now the sword properly and aiding her in tightening the sash, so that it could better maintain the weight of the sword.

Once satisfied he moved away, to encourage the trio of lads out the door, “Out you three, we have a long quest and it must begin now… lest we never depart.”

Sullen, Cormac assented whereupon he followed the sons of Ida out the door, with the two older lads’ mother following after them with a worried expression on her face.

It was then that the question of how she would manage the local villagers, who wished to banish Cormac at last entered into Indulf’s spirit, as he turned to face her. “Mother, what will you say to father and the rest who come to banish Cormac?”

“You leave that to me, dear,” She said tearfully still heartbroken at his departure, “You worry about yourself and your brother.”

At this he nodded dutifully, with his younger brother promising her at once, “Fear not ma, I shall ensure that Indulf returns safe and sound, along with Cormac and Daegan!”

“You worry also about yourself please!”

“Hurry the lot of you, less we shall never depart!” Daegan called impatiently, though she did not keep herself from sharing a swift hug with Ida before she hurried after Wulfnoth and the rest of them.

“Turan keep you,” Ida whispered fervently into each of their ears as she hugged them close to her, before she let them all go, this included the sullen Cormac, the morose Indulf and fiery Daegan. In the case of the druid she simply said so gently without laying a hand upon him, wherefore he pressed his thumb a few centimeters from her temple and performed the symbol of the flower for her. Pleased by this, she smiled brilliantly at him, asking as she did, “Will you protect them?”

“With all that I have in me, lass,” Wulfnoth promised earnestly.

*****

They walked as far as the Dyrkwoods, where they came to a halt on Wulfnoth’s orders. It was there that taking notice of the apprehension of his friends, he asked of them with an exasperated expression upon his face. “Why the reticence, the swiftest route south lies through these woods.”

“This is the Dyrkwoods,” Trygve informed him fearfully, being one of those who had never much liked the woods.

“What of it?” Asked the druid ignorantly, unfamiliar with the local fairy-stories and the dread with which the people of Glasvhail felt in regards to these very woods.

“It is said that a man by the name of Ciaran, once rejected a fairy-queen who slew him for spurning her and that the spot where he fell was where a great oak grew- that one to be exact.” He pointed to the tree in question, which was to the right of them, “Due to the fairy-magic imbued inside of the dagger she stabbed him with.”

“What nonsense,” Wulfnoth exclaimed before he was shushed by all of them, anxious as they were to avoid being noticed by those departing from the tavern that was within sight of where they stood now. “How can you believe such nonsense? Does no one approach this forest?”

“I do,” Cormac said stoutly, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Because you’re more fool than man,” Trygve grumbled beneath his breath.

“Hardly, the oak of Ciaran has never appeared to me to be full of evil,” The youngest of the lads said. “Quite to the contrary, it always appeared peaceful to me.”

“And to myself as well, some of us lasses once danced about the tree singing,” Daegan added keenly, sucking in a breath to begin singing she was halted from doing so by the druid.

“Careful lass, we must tread lightly and there may be another time for song,” Wulfnoth reminded her gently, before he appeared to recall something of some distinct importance. “Ah yes, who has the gemstone now that I think of it?”

“I have it,” Cormac answered startled, pulling the locket from where it was hidden by his tunic.

Staring at it for a long time, Wulfnoth appeared to be drawn in by the sight of it, just as Daegan always felt herself to be. With a shudder, the druid tore his gaze away from it forcefully, telling him as he did so, “Hand it to another- Trygve you are to take it up.”

“Me? But why?”

“Because, we will need to move it between each of us, I am not familiar with the heretical stone however I do know that I can already feel drawn to it. Cormac seems to be of a mightier mind than even myself, therefore we shall have need of it further along the road we are bound for.” The wise old man’s moustache twitched and waved up and down.

Taking his words to heart, there was an instant when Cormac appeared reluctant to give over the Blood-Gem. Daegan for her own part eyed the gem as it switched hands, shuddering just as Indulf and the druid also did. It took all that she had to tear away her gaze, just as the gem was at last seized by Trygve who went to put it about his neck wherefore he was stopped by Indulf.

“Wait! Trygve, maybe it ought to be put in your spare satchel, where you keep your flint,” Recommended his elder brother.

“Stout counsel as always, I can see that you are a reliable fellow Indulf, in spite of that there righteous fury I oft see in your eyes,” Wulfnoth approved at once as he waved for them to follow him.

Indulf reddened, his brother snickered as Cormac gave a great striking clap to the blonder of the two sons of Ida’s back. This gesture drew a short-lived smile from Kenna’s pupil, who followed if reluctantly thither into the Dyrkwoods. Still angry with one another Daegan and Cormac did not walk side to side, preferring in his case to walk by the druid’s left-side, whereas she favored walking between him and the two brothers.

Though she had long been fond of the great oak of Ciaran, for the songs and dances that had been carried about it in her youth, and the good times she had passed near it with Cormac. Daegan could not repress a certain shiver at the memory of all the horrid tales, Ida and Kenna had once told her, when she was still little more than five seasons.

“You must never enter the woods, for within its foliage lives terrible fairies and beasts who predate our own age of men and for whom the flesh of lasses and lads, is the sweetest of meals.” Ida had warned many of the lasses and some lads, a decade prior after she had caught them in the midst of singing the ‘fairy-song’ as they had often termed it.

It was a song that Murchadh had passed down to them, and that he had claimed that Olith loved to sing wherever she went, in particular when it was just her and Corin by Ciaran’s oak. The song was one Daegan had always loved. It was one that she had occasionally heard Cormac singing also. Inga had likewise loved it, and had in their youth pulled Indulf over to sing it with her by the tree. The memory of which brought tears to her eyes, if only she told herself as she walked through the dark-woods, Inga had lived. She had had her whole life ahead of her!

The woods which had long appeared dark from the outside, especially to those to the north of it, however now that she was walking through the woods for the first time in her life Daegan could not help but notice just how much grimmer the forest was from inside of it. The trees that she had never truly paid much mind to, in her childhood and even in the days before their departure from Glasvhail, appeared all of a sudden to her eyes, to be twisting and twining all about her. A great lover of trees, Daegan had never thought consciously of how frightful, they could be. The great oak was grey with a great deal of warmth to it that had always drawn her to it and Cormac also. These trees though were of a dark-green colour that appeared more foul, more darkened than even the phantom-rider had appeared the night prior.

Not a sound was heard for several hours, with Cormac’s head turned away from Wulfnoth, evidently losing himself in his own thoughts, once their whispered conversation came to an end. Trygve fidgeted and scratched at his left arm nervously as his brother kept his gaze firmly on either side of them. Following his example, as she fell back between him and his brother, the two of them did not exchange a single word as they strained their gazes and glanced from side to side.

In time Wulfnoth fussed at his pack which he had brought with him from Carreyrn, to pull out of it several slices of cheese they had stuffed into it, just before they had left Kenna’s home behind them. Passing the hunks to each of them, not a single one of them refusing as they chewed on the cheese hungrily if anxiously, the only one who attacked his meal with relish being the druid himself.

“I always feel better, after I eat,” He said in a conspiratorial voice. It was evident that the silence had made him nervous also, and that he wished for some sort of noise.

“Aye,” Indulf agreed quietly, but did not say anymore.

A gusty sigh was torn from the plump cleric’s chest as he sagged enormously in disappointment. Observing this with her mouth full of cheese, Daegan could barely choke it down as she continued to also glance about them. Their small break over, the lot of them continued onwards as though naught had changed.

Annoyed, Wulfnoth in time complained, “For the love of all the gods, what sort of trees are these to block out the twin-suns?”

When all they did was shrug, without any enthusiasm with it being Cormac who replied his own mouth half-full with the last bit of his hunk of cheese, “Fairy-woods.”

“Then why was it named ‘Dyrkwoods’?”

“Because, Ciaran the warrior was slain by a fairy’s dirk.” Answered the blue-eyed youth with another shrug of his shoulders, only to ponder, “I wonder if the dirk was crafted from iron or steel.”

“Hmmm,” Wulfnoth murmured tugging as always at his moustache, “A question for any other man, save myself, for I care not which it was only that it be kept away from me.”

“Do you not have the protection of the gods?” Trygve asked peevishly.

“Do be quiet Trygve,” Daegan snapped.

He opened his mouth to argue back, the Brittian was swifter though, “Aye but it is no true protection from iron and steel, only against evil.”

“How is that different?” Cormac wondered confused, speaking for all of them at that moment as they stared at the old man, who bit at his lower-lip.

“Steel and iron are the providence of men my faith shields me from that which is not the providence of mere mortals.” Was the simple explanation uttered by Wulfnoth, as he swallowed the last of his cheese (that which was not in his pack or satchels), his clarification though satisfactory for the red-haired lass and the brothers was apparently not enough for Kenna’s son.

“Why is that? Is it because sorcery is what protects against those things?” He persisted only to add a further question with a small grunt, “What of dragons? Do their claws and swords made from their flesh and bones count towards being the providence of mortals, or those of mystics and gods?”

“I-I’faith,” For a moment Wulfnoth sounded almost akin to a Caled, as he spluttered out in exasperation, “How am I supposed to answer one question, if you conjure forth another three? As to each of them, I do not know. Reserve it either for one of the wise or the Grand Divan, rather than torture me with this endless hailstorm of questions!”

Cormac subsided into an irritated silence. Good, thought Daegan a little meanly, of a mind that his continuous need to know everything and impatience, had grown irritating. Still angry with him over his not having wished to bring her on this quest, especially since it was apparent to her that all her traveling companions would be lost without her.

Shivering a little, much of her anger bled out from her, due in no small part to the cold of winter. The snow crunching beneath her deer-skin boots as she drew her cloak more tightly, just as Trygve did much the same next to her.

“It is just too cold,” He grumbled miserably.

Daegan nodded her head a little, eyes ferreting throughout the forest to either side of them, as they stumbled on the road. The only one that cut through the Dyrkwoods, this road was one that she had never known anyone to have traveled upon, nor heard of anyone doing so. An idle question drifted into her thoughts, about which had come first; the forest or the unpaved road?

All about her, she noted with a frown to herself the little light shed by the suns began to fade from the forest. This left all cast in darkness, with those who walked next to her and ahead of her became barely visible.

For a time this did not appear to be noticed by Cormac who was lost in his own thoughts, irritated by this, she prayed to Scota for him or for the druid to take notice of just how cold the weather was. It was Wulfnoth who at last declared, “I think this is far enough, let us find some tree-branches to start a fire.”

Organizing themselves quickly, with the druid setting Cormac to the task of starting the fire (not trusting him to wander off to gather tree branches and roots), the gathering of wood was left to Daegan and Indulf. Trygve was set to clearing the snow with a large tree branch that had fallen from a nearby tree some time before. Wulfnoth himself aided with his feet in sweeping away the snow, to make a small clearing on the road.

This done, with the wood that had been gathered, Cormac wasted little time in the striking of two pieces of flint and making of a fire. Once it grew large enough to cook a bit of salted meat they had carried with them, they ate a swift supper.

“We should take turns with to-night’s watch,” the druid declared wearily, “I shall take the first third of the night, and then it shall be left to-”

“Me,” Daegan volunteered at once.

“I think not, you hardly slept the previous night,” He objected at once, only to pat her on the hand in a fatherly manner.

“But, I wish to stand watch,” She said stiffly, aggravated by his refusal to permit her stand watch.

“Stand down Dae, you could do so tomorrow night,” Suggested Indulf genially, before he offered, “I will take up the next watch then Trygve will.”

This agreed amongst them, with each of them nodding to one another they burrowed closer to the fire. Reluctantly Daegan did the same, outvoted she would have liked to object once more to their not permitting her to stand watch. All too aware that they would not listen to her, and of her own fatigue though she claimed she was not so wearied she knew in truth that she was. Muttering beneath her breath, she promised herself she would stay awake as long as possible.

No sooner had this thought crossed her mind, than she found herself drifting away to sleep.

*****

Her dreams were filled with the strangest of visions. For a time, there was the sound of water, of a boat rocking and quaking. The blue of the sea carrying her away for a time, before it was replaced by a vision of teeth grinding together, the screams of thousands of voices crying out all around the terrible snowy mountain-peak, she found herself upon. From there her dreams were filled with fluttering wings, and claws and glittering, shining eyes.

“Daegan! Daegan! Wake up!” Someone cried out from some great distance far away. The voice quieted down before it spake up once more, “Wake up!”

Blinking awake, without truly seeing anything due to still being mostly asleep, Daegan mumbled without thinking, “Yes, yes papa, I know.”

“‘Papa’? What are you muttering on about?” Indulf demanded shaking her awake, a frown on his lips as he stared down at her.

Still bundled up in her wolf-furred cloak, Daegan glanced about herself only to leap a little when she discovered that the fire now little more than smoldering embers and worst of all the rest of their traveling companions were missing.

A cry escaped her lips then, as she leapt onto feet casting aside her cloak, her next thought to glance down to make certain that Cosantóir was still girded. Pleased to discover it still present, a part of her breathed a little more easily even as she panicked, for the safety of her friends, her previous anger against Cormac largely forgotten. “Where are Cormac, Wulfnoth and that fool of a brother of yours?!”

“Gone,” He said at once, a hint of iron beneath his words, “I woke up to find these glittering fireflies- or what appears to have been fireflies glowing and floating about all around us, where they once were- see there are more!”

Pointing past her, to a short distance from her, on the other side of the fire where she stood, Daegan followed his index finger with her eyes to discover that yes, indeed there appeared to be small golden fireflies and shimmering green ones dancing about near the roots of a large ash-wood tree. The sight was one that bewildered and confused her for several minutes, just as the shimmering lights over near a great green birch-tree to her right by the road, soon caught her attention.

“Where did they go?” She stammered once more.

“I do not know,” Indulf repeated sharply, “There are only these strange lights!”

“No need to take such a tone with me,” Daegan snapped at once, which drew another furtive glance from him, as she asked aloud frightened by the lights and the disappearance of their friends. “What are we to do?”

“I do not know,” He answered as he took a step back, only for his voice to quaver once more, when he noticed the fireflies drawing nearer. “There! You see there! They draw nearer, have we any torches to fight them off with?”

Searching about for some sort of torch, Daegan found none. It was with sudden illumination from within that she recalled the defender at her sword, unsheathing the white-blade forged by her father, in one smooth motion. The weapon almost flew out of her hand, so smoothly did it come free, fitting perfectly into the palm of her hand.

“We- we have something finer than any torch!” She called out in a trembling voice, daunted despite her brave front.

What followed after this action was the most peculiar squeak that ever her ears had heard resonated throughout their corner of the Dyrkwoods, as the fireflies bounced up and down in a panic. “Waaaaiiiitttttt! Not the white-torch!”

Shock struck both Daegan and Indulf, neither of whom could quite guess what it was that they had just heard, or where it had originated from. Searching about they could not discern who it was that had just addressed them.

Unsure of the meaning of those words, neither was quite prepared for the most melodious sound either of them had ever heard, as the lights grew, grew and grew. The larger they grew, the less they appeared to gleam so that in place of fireflies there fluttered all about the two of them little figures, with the most unusual of appearances that they had ever seen.

So strange was this sight that both of them pinched themselves, alarmed and fascinated all at once as the figures that stared up and down upon them, from all around them. They gleamed and glittered with blue, golden and green fluorescent kind of light that could have enchanted even vile King Donnchad. Miniscule, these figures were hardly larger than Indulf’s fists pressed together their wing-span could not have measured longer than three inches in length.

Some were truly worthy of the name ‘fair-folk’, others were hideous as only the most ungodly of creatures could have been. They had ears that cut upwards as knives, were armed with claws and canines that jutted out past their upper lips. Their flesh was white as the snow that surrounded the feet of the pair they had encircled, with their hair shaped in similar manner to tulips, peonies and other marvelous flowers and were all the colours that these flowers often assumed. Blue, green, yellow, red, purple and white were all visible and aglow all around them.

Though she took notice of these peculiarities in their appearance, and of how the wings on their backs appeared akin to flower-petals of similar colouration as those atop their heads, what Daegan found captured her eye the most were the eyes of these ‘fair-folk’. They glowed and gleamed the same colour as their petals, never appearing to dim even when they blinked their large eyes, the pupils of which reminded her of those of a cat.

All at once, they began to sing and the song was of such beauty that for a moment, Daegan could hardly resist joining them a heart-beat after they began to sing. To the left of her Indulf, appeared to dance a little, singing also though she hardly took notice of this peculiar comportment on his part, due in no small part to the loveliness of the fairy-song.

“Ho! Alette Rose-Wing! Alette Petal-Queen!

She of wind, willow and petals,

She of song, poetry and faith, harkens you to hear her song,

Alette was a very merry Queen,

Deep crimson were her cheeks and her slippers green,

As was her dress for her hope was to wed,

Ciaran was her love and joy, he with his hair most red,

Long they loved dance after they first met,

Hey ho! Lo! Dance all ye sweet wee ones,

For Ciaran the Oak has been stabbed by they of the green vale,

Long did we dance and he call for the nuns,

They did deny him and dance as he turn’d less hale,

Away, away went Alette’s joy,

All she may now do is dance and sing,

Lest she should weep for her lost king!

Ho! Alette Wind-Dancer calls ye to dance! Dance!”

The song was short, which served only to further encourage the dozens of fairies for that was what they were, guessed Corin’s daughter, to start the song over. Their breathy, high voices filled with a wonder and a magic that no mortal voice could possibly have imitated. So entranced were they by the sound of this music that neither of them noticed, how Daegan had re-sheathed Cosantóir, or how she had seized the right-edge of her dress to allow her better movement so as to dance with the fairies. Next to her, Indulf had likewise danced along belting out the song with equal joy, much to the bemusement of the fairies.

What they noticed next as they awoke with a start was that the little campfire they had arranged the night before, had long since disappeared. The two of them searched about all around themselves, in search of their camp, only to realize with a start that they were now lost in the woods, the road no longer in sight.

“Where have they taken us?” Daegan howled full of fright, her voice the very definition in that instant of a feminine screech.

“Why the fright, when all is aright?” Mocked one of the taller fairies, his laughter loud and piercing, he fluttered about before them, to stand next to the trunk of a nearby ash-tree, his eyes aglow with a crimson light, a snicker escaping his small, thin lips. “Now do let us sing, since all white-torches do sting.”

“Aye, verily now is time to sing all merrily!” Chorused all the other fairies with the same sort of maddened glee that the red-eyed fairy laughed with, thereon he took up flight once again, fluttering about in a dreamy, hypnotic manner which very nearly enchanted Daegan once again.

“Ho! Alette Rose-Wing! Alette Petal-Queen!

She of wind, willow and petals,

She of song, poetry and faith, harkens you to hear her song,

Alette was a very merry Queen,

Deep crimson were her cheeks and her slippers green,

As was her dress for her hope was to wed,

Ciaran was her love and joy, he with his hair most red,

Long they loved dance after they first met,

Hey ho! Lo! Dance all ye sweet wee ones,

For Ciaran the Oak has been stabbed by they of the green vale,

Long did we dance and he call for the nuns,

They did deny him and dance as he turn’d less hale,

Away, away went Alette’s joy,

All she may now do is dance and sing,

Lest she should weep for her lost king!

Ho! Alette Wind-Dancer calls ye to dance! Dance!”

The song very near overcame the two of them once more, as they near danced about as foppishly as before.

The great fearful bellow from some distant place interrupted the song as it drew to an end. So deep, so mortified was the shrill shout that all were shaken from their music induced stupor. “Nay! Stay back, o demons! May the good lord of war punish you one and all!”

He shouted this once more, then a third time, then a fourth.

“What rage, how very strange,” Exclaimed one fairy, with another bobbing his head at her words, not a one certain of what to do.

“Daegan! We must flee now, for they are distracted at this moment!” Pressed Indulf in a hoarse voice, demonstrating that the magic of the fairies had had an apparent effect upon him.

“Aye, though that voice sounded rather like Wulfnoth to me,” Daegan whispered back to him, “We shan’t leave without him, therefore let us be away to his rescue!”

“But, we have no knowledge of how to assist him,” The timid weaver complained.

Shrugging her shoulders, she paid him no mind her chin thrust out rather akin to the bulldog she had been compared to a number of times in the past. Though Indulf may have claimed that they knew not where to find the druid, his continued cries of mortal terror echoing throughout the woods served to attract attention even more than the light of the fair-folk did. Though darkness continued to dominate the whole of the Dyrkwoods, the echo of the druid’s cries served as another kind of light to that of the fairies.

Unable to see the stars, or any hint of the twin-suns of the world, neither Daegan nor Indulf could have told anyone whether they ran north, east, south or westwards. Hopeful now for the first time since they had awoken, Olith’s daughter barreled between one tree after another, pushing and shoving interfering tree-branches from before them. It was not long, before the grey-eyed weaver surmounted her upon the ‘path’ they cut due in no small part to his longer legs, and how hers were entrapped by her dress.

What they discovered somewhere in the endless darkness that stretched out forever, within the Dyrkwoods was the figure of Wulfnoth. He stood as alone as a great oak might, cast out from the forest as though it were unclean. Alone in a wilderness of bark, ramrod straight with the small ash-wood carved red pendant of Scota that he had worn beneath his robes, since shortly after his arrival in Glasvhail. The necklace though she had not seen it throughout his stay, so private was he with his wearing of it. It was a small statuette of a woman in a dress, with a thistle in her right hand and pendulum in her left one.

“Back! Back!” He shrieked.

The more he thrust out the statue about his neck, the more he prayed the louder the fairies that shone about him chortled.

Both of the haggard youths called out to him, drawing his attention from his own distress, whereupon he gave a glad cry. One that was every bit as afraid as his previous cries had been, and hysterical with relief to see friendly faces near at hand. “Oh, children! Children, praise be to the twelve gods, for this good fortune! Wherever did the two of you disappear to?”

“It was not we, who disappeared but you,” Daegan declared at her most irritable, “Why did you flee into the night, when there were fairies lying in wait all about us?”

“Flee? What are you blathering about lass? I did not flee, I woke up Trygve for his turn as watch as I felt that Indulf could use a bit more sleep, only to fall asleep and wake up here!” He exclaimed only to then add, “They sang some sort of demonic song, swept me away and away, until I recalled the good grace of the gods and attempted to call down their fury, upon these heretical demons!”

“Mayhap, we shall all do so together now,” Daegan supported at once.

A pleased if weary smile came up onto Wulfnoth’s thin lips, as he attempted once more to thrust into the face of one less than impressed fairy, the symbol of Scota. “See this? This is the good goddess, the golden one who laid down the earth upon the sea and called us men hither from the ether to live here. It was she who proclaimed this place, to be the property of all those who love the good Temple and her most faithful servants, Dagobert and Armand!”

The two paragons of whom he spoke were Dagobert the Saviour who had centuries prior during the Atenian period first begun to preach against the Empire of Atenia. It was said that through his good grace, the lame could walk, the blind could see and the deaf could hear. What was also said was that he was the first in North-Agenor to have spoken of the twelve gods of the Temple. He had done so for three years. This took place some forty years before the rise of Atenia, back when Roma still ruled and had not fallen to the madness of the sun god Aten. It was after the fall of Roma, just as the shattering of the city of Atenia (which had once been known as Roma) at the hands of the gods took place that Dagobert was seized, and hung from the top of a statue of the Emperor of Atenia. As to Armand, it was he who had preserved the holy sayings and teachings of Dagobert, he who had passed them down, copying them and handing the moral lessons of his stories and the teachings of the gods, which was all compiled into the twelve books of the Canticle. Seized by surviving Atenian supporters, Armand was slain upon the isle which now lay at the center of the kingdom of Gallia. The city, to which he had passed down his name, was now the largest in that kingdom though it was but a little under a hundred years old. Nicknamed one of the seven ‘Jewels of Gallia’, alongside the cities of Lynette, Roven, Guilladon, Rʉðkêr and Vaugrimé, with only the latter two and Roven not under the High-Kings of Gallia’s control, or so Corin had once told her.

The faith of the twelve gods, was divided itself into two branches; that of Ériu, to which Daegan and the rest of the Caledonian people belonged to, and that of Quirinas to which Corin belonged (alongside the rest of North-Agenor and the people of Brittia).

“Why wave thy statue?” Cried the blue-peony haired and winged fairy that fluttered from left to right; doing so with an aggravated gleam to his blue eyes, having grown annoyed by the druid’s comportment towards him. “Little have I done, less have I done!”

“Thy goddess be no pixie-foe,” Squeaked another fairy, this one the same colour as a yellow lilac in terms of its hair, wings and eyes, chortling as she shook in mid-air full of mirth. “Thy goddess be a doe.”

“Wh-what? H-how dare you, you blasphemous beast!” Now Wulfnoth’s face turned purple, so great was his rage, however if he had hoped to frighten the fairies with his rage he was disappointed. They only giggled louder.

“Silence, pixie!” Daegan added her own voice and anger to his, a pious lass she could not believe how blasphemous the fairy had just comported itself.

“Why silence the children of Lugh so? Why quiet those of us born of Lugh so?” Said the fluttering fairies, each of them gleaming a great deal redder than before, such was the indignation of all the fairies each of whom, had apparently at last grown weary of their thrusting statues at them.

“We silence you, because you speak blasphemously,” Accused Wulfnoth at once, without a second thought.

“If you will not listen, why do you screech as though we are an apparition?”

“Because- because-” It now appeared that the druid was truly unsure of how to respond.

“Because, you have taken our friends from us,” Daegan responded in his place, doing so, so grandly that she sounded almost akin to a queen.

At this accusation the fairies calmed themselves, with a few chortling still and others muttering and whispering to one another before they spoke once more in the Caled tongue. The Érian tongue was a lyrical language, one though that was quite crude and crass in comparison to that of the fair-folk, who offered impatiently, “If we restore thy kith to thee, will thou cease thy din against we?”

“Aye, though not a one of you, will or could ever do such a thing!” Accused Daegan her red-hair flashing over her shoulder where she tossed it, her emerald eyes gleaming almost as brightly as some of their own, with barely repressed anger.

The fairies did not answer all at once, preferring to intone and chirp out their lyrical song once more.

Far into the Dyrkwood did it drift, long did it last this time as to the surprise of all involved and much to the amusement of Indulf, and scorn of Daegan, Trygve entered into their field of vision. Singing from some distance past the fey, if brokenly he was guided by a new group of the winged floral folk who shone now with a distressed light, some even shrunk as though they wished to disappear into nothingness. So terrible was Trygve’s singing voice that Wulfnoth gaped, Indulf laughed loudly and Daegan pressed her hands upon her ears in horror.

“Trygve, do you have any notion of how foolish you sound?” She demanded aghast by his terrible flailing and horrid singing.

“Leave him be, I beg of you as this may do him a world of good,” Indulf pleaded with such glee that she gaped at him.

“If at our own expense,” Wulfnoth muttered, still fingering the small statue that hung from his neck up in the air, he commanded the fairies, “Release him.”

Several of the fey, who had until then been divided into two groups; one which cringed away from Trygve and the other group continued to snigger at the ridiculousness with which he moved and behaved.

The moment the song ended, Trygve blinked and for a moment he continued to flail and screech as though mad until he blinked once more. Visibly flabbergasted, he stared at them for a time puzzled by the laughter that ensued from all about him.

“What- how did I get here? Where is our fire?” He asked.

“Trygve you buffoon, you fell asleep on watch!” Daegan guessed scandalized, having had this suspicion in the back of her mind for some time.

To his credit the younger son of Freygil and Ida, adopted an expression of utter contriteness. To the left of her, his brother glowered at him.

“Trygve, if you shan’t stay awake for watch-duty, the least you should have done, was to wake someone else up!” He fumed at the sandy-blonde haired youth who hung his head in shame.

“My apologies, though I would so very much like to know how we came to be here, or where these winged things came from,” Trygve replied at once, eyeing the fairies with visibly disconcerted by their presence.

“Very well, we still must find Cormac,” Decided Indulf with a warning glance to the lass next to him, who nodded her head if with one last glower to his younger sibling.

Still sheepish about his having been enchanted, Trygve hurried over to stand by them. Whereupon he asked with a glance all about the small clearing that they stood within, “Where is Cormac?”

“Likely he is in the woods, flailing about and screeching as you did previously,” Wulfnoth grumbled with a shake of his head.

“Flail? Screech? All I recall doing is singing, now that I think of it, and I do not think it was half so poor as you claim it to have been.” Trygve objected indignantly with self-righteous fury.

“Now see here, Cormac can sing far better than Trygve.” Daegan defended, though still furious with him, she felt it to be her duty to protect his reputation.

“Screech madly did he of storm-eyes, howling shrilly therefore silence we advise,” The fairies screeched at the same time as her, each one of them glaring down upon Trygve.

“Aye, Dae though Cormac cannot dance.” Indulf remarked.

“Enough return the lad or feel the full fury of Ziu and Scota, fairies,” Wulfnoth menaced once more.

Evidently the fey-folk had grown weary of their company. Their song recommenced though it was along a similar tune to that they had sung to summon Trygve, from deep within the Dyrkwoods. The tune carried throughout the forest, to the deepest recesses of it, and appeared to carry itself into all of the trees, the mushrooms, and almost every blade of grass. This time the song reached a higher crescendo, though in this case when the fey fell silent there was no blonde-youth who danced along towards them, singing shrilly.

There was silence.

Impatient, Daegan demanded of them, “Well?”

“Patience,” One of the fairies from just behind her whispered in its sing-song voice, “He is tenacious.”

“How so?” Trygve asked.

“He has always been of that sort of disposition,” Indulf murmured with some of the old hero-worship in his voice.

Still there was no Cormac who danced along over to them. The fairies attempted their song once more, wherefore naught was achieved once more.

“What sort of game do you play at, fey-folk?” Daegan queried a hint of menace in her voice.

“We know not, we shan’t reach his spot!” One of the fairies confessed a hint of hysteria in her squeaky voice, from where she fluttered up and down to the left of them.

Bewildered by this admission, as it took her a moment to grasp quite what it was that they were attempting to say. No matter how she attempted to untangle it in her mind, her understanding of the sing-song, rhyming speech of the fey appeared to her mind to be inadequate to piece together what was said.

Trygve groaned, as confused as she, “Why must they rhyme? They speak so elusively, can someone help to translate their babble into proper speech?”

“They have admitted that they do not know where to find Cormac,” Wulfnoth clarified which won him several nods and cheers from the diminutive winged-people all around them.

“Aye, aye!” Chanted they, before they also chanted, “Hidden is he from song and dance, gladden he is not by song and dance!”

They all spoke as one, once more which served only to exacerbate Daegan’s nervous irritation towards them.

A hint of panic began to slip into her thoughts at the thought that she might never see Cormac again. This led to her stumbling out, “Does that mean Cormac is in some danger?”

The fairies cocked their heads at them, in mystification until one of their numbers argued in response if uneasily so, “None are in danger in Feywood, save those in anger within this wood.”

“Why is that?” Indulf asked now.

“Because only jest, fey-friends and fey live here,” Was the simple if shrugged response from another fairy.

“Surely one of you must know where Cormac, has gone to!” Trygve complained now.

At this the fairies took to muttering amongst themselves, until one spake at last; a small green-peony fairy who glowed with an emerald light, “She of purple without a crown, she of greatest fey-renown!”

“Take us to her!” Daegan pleaded, forgetting for the first time in her entire life, her long-beloved pride.

The fairies bobbed up and down before they all took flight past the troupe, in direction of the right of them.

“After them!” Wulfnoth called out, a hint of surprise in his voice due to the speed with which the fey flew.

Their wings beat against the air with all the speed that humming-birds were prone to showing. The principal difference between those birds and fairies lay in that the latter were of fleeter wings.

The four of them raced after them as best they could as they ran they strove to keep the fey within sight, though this soon proved an almost impossible task. The only aid they received in this endeavor was via the bright glow of the shimmering wings of their guides.

It was not long though, before each of their lungs was burning as the travelers became increasingly red-faced. Notably Wulfnoth appeared to struggle, unused as he was to this sort of strenuous activity.

The clearing left firmly behind them, as they circled about trees, until at last they reached a cluster of them that appeared as though they had by consent embraced one another. Seated at the base of a large ash-tree that far outstripped the great oak of Ciaran in size and girth, Cormac sat with his head bowed eyes upon one of his knees which he had raised almost to eye-level. Seated upon the summit of his knee, sat the most remarkable fairy that had ever captured Daegan’s eye. Crimson in colour, with scarlet rose-petals for hair, wings, with a very visibly feminine shape to her, her eyes aglow pinkly and with every shade of red imaginable so that she was the prettiest of all the fey.

In the midst of giggling, she was explaining something in a soft voice to Cormac, who looked as though he were almost shaking with barely restrained questions.

“Cormac!” Cried his friends the loudest of all of them though, was Daegan despite her lungs burning almost as horribly as Wulfnoth’s did, with the druid next to her hacking, coughing and panting as he leant against a nearby birch-tree.

“Oh, there you all are! Wherever did all of you go?” He asked as though the thought had just occurred to him.

This angered the entirety of his friends, who were one and all disenchanted by his inattention and seeming lack of concern for them.

“Do you mean to say that you have been here, the whole time listening, to this fairy trollop sing to you?” Daegan growled.

“Why have you not asked after us, your friends?” Indulf complained also.

“Because Alette of the house of Arendtheth assured me that none of you were in danger,” He said in a surprised voice, aware of the depths of their anger he added hurriedly. “She was in the midst of recounting to me, about the dark-riders who have plagued Glasvhail.”

“How so?” Trygve panted, face still crimson from racing on over as he bent over.

It was now that Alette took flight, a soft light appeared to trail after her, as she flew almost a meter above all of their heads. A small giggle escaped her as she answered, whilst all of her people landed upon the branches of the great multitude of trees, bowing in respect to her.

“Long have the dark ones ridden, their faces always hidden,” Intoned Alette in the most beautiful voice that any of them had ever heard. “Wisdom has Arendtheth’s heiress passed on, at an end be her jest and tale-passing so his heart be gladden.”

“What means this speech of wisdom, and of gladness?” Daegan asked bewildered.

Cormac remained silent, his chin lowered and pressed upon his chest, as she glanced between him and the fairy who lowered herself so that she no longer loomed over them. It was Wulfnoth though who having ceased panting as though, he might perish any minute now, hand pressed against the great trunk of the tree next to him.

As she neared them, the trees shone it appeared with a light all their own now, some were red, others green and still more grey. Squirrels, mice and foxes and many other small animals, poked their heads from their holes, the snow that had gathered throughout the forest fading, thawing and disappearing away. Such was the marvel of her voice, of the sight of her that even Wulfnoth appeared utterly entranced by her.

“Dark is the road that stretches far wither ye wander, to the lord of dark-wings and they of foul-steeds without honour,” Warned Alette darkly, “Danger lies above, behind, ahead and to either side, never ceasing in their desire to divide, therefore you shan’t in Feywood reside.”

No one spoke out against her now. Not a single squirrel, no matter how petulant they could be would have dared. Nor did a single fox ponder aught else but her dark-warnings. Her voice though filled with a lovely lilting sound to it, was so grave and sad as to reduce the mightiest of wolves to tears. There! Just a short distance past Cormac, were a small pack of them that had come out, and who proceeded to do just that.

Those of the race of men took her warning words to heart though they showed their worry differently. Daegan followed Wulfnoth’s example by doing the symbol of the flower, Trygve stared at the queen as one entranced and Indulf covered his tear-stricken eyes with one large hand. Cormac for his own part, pulled down his hood to hide his own features, shoulders slumped.

“What pray-tell may be done to stop these demons? And what do you know of our quest, oh fairy-queen?” Wulfnoth asked of her, his tone strangely respectful where before he had spoken with impatience and mistrust, to the ‘heretical beasts’.

Alette cocked her head to one side, before she alighted upon his outstretched palm, which he had agitated as he spoke. Her words were now kindlier than ever and full of utter sorrow, such that had not been seen in the whole of all the forests and mountains of the land of the isle of Bretwealda. “Such be but Oðin’s realm of knowing, great light be needed in their undoing. Tasked with the gem-quest are those in the midst of wandering.”

“What of aid? Can you provide any?” This time it was Indulf who asked this question of her.

Alette gave to him a look of pity now, before she said, “Receive all and more will those of Rig’s line, as surely as the tree-wrought vine.”

Her words appeared to be a signal of some sort, to the rest of her kindred, those of the house of Arendtheth who had inhabited the great Feywoods that had dominated this part of the lands for untold fairy-generations. Which for those of you familiar with the nature of fairies, you understand that this was such a long time as to dwarf all human understanding. The light of the fairies dimmed, as five returned with a garland of flowers which they deposited into Wulfnoth’s other hand.

“To thee of old Roma’s faith, the flowers of the dryath, a buckler it is against fey-blades. To weave peace where there was hate, and love to unite our fate.” Chanted the fairies who were tasked with carrying the purple garland, before they flew off, to rejoin the crowd of fair-folk, who continued to remain seated upon the high birch, ash and oak-trees of their ancestors.

This was not the last gift that the Rose-Queen had in mind for them, she now moved to one of the higher branches, where sat a number of the greener fairies. She returned just as the wanderers craned their necks and strained their eyes to catch sight of what it was that she intended to offer to them.

Upon her return, just as Wulfnoth had finished stuffing the garlands (which strangely lost not one petal), into his pack which had suddenly appeared at his side she carried with her arms all around it, a single thistle. This she offered to Cormac with the assistance of several her kindred piercing the cloth of his cloak so that the thistle served as a kind of brooch.

“To the Caled’s son, we offer his emblem to act as a sun,” Chanted her people as one, as always.

“Whatever is it for?” He asked dumbly.

“To guide,” Answered one fey simply, a particularly ugly yellow one who smiled with nail-long teeth.

“To guide where?”

“On dark roads,” Alette answered before she turned away to inquire of them, “We hope our gifts have been sufficient, pray-tell if more would be beneficent?”

“To escape this dreadful place, would certainly be ‘beneficent’,” Daegan muttered to herself, only to suffer an elbow to her side from Trygve.

Enchanted by the small, fists-sized fairy the son of Freygil stepped forth from where he had hitherto stood between his brother and the smith’s daughter. An expression of longing upon his face, as he requested with a raised hand, “Oh do bless me with one small gift!”

At this a number of fairies tittered, though the fairy-queen bade them be silent, “Mock not what thou knowest not, flock not to demean what thou shan’t grasp!” Now she turned back to him, once quiet had been restored her face aglow once more, with her strange light, no longer as dim as it has been. “What pray-tell would the North’s son bid of Overon’s petal? What prithee might the sand-tress’d one bid that she may be instrumental? For aid thee and cease with jest to show her mettle, if only to at last cast away the suffering man’s medal.”

Once again Trygve turned scarlet. The same enchanted expression returned to grace his face as he blurted out, “A petal! I would ask for but a petal from you, oh Queen Alette! To show to Helga, and to all the world that I have seen the fairest of roses alive!”

His words were so stout, so noble that Wulfnoth gaped at him and Daegan could hardly blame him. For she could hardly believe her ears, and at once might have mocked him for his peculiar request were it not for Indulf and Cormac interfering first.

“What a strange query, have you lost the last of your wits Trygve?” Asked Indulf of his younger brother, who refused to meet his gaze, such was the weight of his embarrassment.

“I think it an incredible thing, oh do honour Trygve so Alette!” Cormac pleaded, adding his own sincere voice, drawing an incredulous glance from the red-haired lass.

If anyone was to ask her, Trygve deserved no such gift. But as it is likely evidently to anyone reading this text, Alette was hardly at all interested in asking her, for her view of the son of Freygil.

Such was the warmth, the pity and the fondness in her all-red eyes which tore up with silent tears, as she flew over to him to kiss his forehead. When she pulled away, she gazed deep into his eyes, saying as she did so, “Many have been the requests for Alette’s petals; some such as Ciaran gave up the last of life’s fetters, all to attain her love that she gave but once. Asked but once with all of thy pulse, such is Alette’s joy that gift ye not once, but twain will she reward ye with petals.”

And so it was that she carefully gave unto him four of her tresses, or what we may dub petals. They at first glance were not dissimilar from ordinary rose-petals. However, whenever one touched them or gazed upon them, they almost appeared to radiate with warmth.

Moved by her gift, Trygve held it against his chest tears in his eyes. Tears that Alette brushed away with a gentle touch, a tender expression in her eyes which soon turned to a sorrowful one as she added, “Sorrow dogs they who hold the sorrowful man’s gem.”

These were her last words, before she erupted into a crooning melody. One that filled the air with a purple gleam, a strange aroma that made many of the foxes and wolves sneeze, and that made every single head spin.

The hymn of the house of Arendtheth grew in volume and magnitude.

“Ho! Alette Rose-Wing! Alette Petal-Queen!

She of wind, willow and petals,

She of song, poetry and faith, harkens you to hear her song,

Alette was a very merry Queen,

Deep crimson were her cheeks and her slippers green,

As was her dress for her hope was to wed,

Ciaran was her love and joy, he with his hair most red,

Long they loved dance after they first met,

Hey ho! Lo! Dance all ye sweet wee ones,

For Ciaran the Oak has been stabbed by they of the green vale,

Long did we dance and he call for the nuns,

They did deny him and dance as he turn’d less hale,

Away, away went Alette’s joy,

All she may now do is dance and sing,

Lest she should weep for her lost king!

Ho! Alette Wind-Dancer calls ye to dance! Dance!”

This song did not sweep away their concerns all at once, as all stared at the shimmering flowers that encircled, flew and were cast all about the air, around the branches and past every person. Sweeping as they did, the skirts of Wulfnoth and Daegan’s robe and dress, along with the long hair of Daegan and Indulf, yet none paid any of this any mind. Tenderness filled every one of them, from timid Indulf, to sardonic Trygve, proud Daegan, pious Wulfnoth, and absent-minded Cormac.

*****

It was to be sung to them for many of the days that followed. Though, they knew their quest to be an urgent one, it was difficult to press themselves onwards, or to keep from dancing, singing, eating and otherwise being merry as the fey were. Especially when they picked up a tune or other times began to croon. They neither slept it seemed, nor did they require nourishment in the same way as mortal men might. They were jolly and mischievous but their Flower-Queen knew more of the world than any others that they had ever met.

Alette herself was warm, and loving and all things motherly. She did indeed love them all, but most especially Cormac and Trygve. The former loved to simply sit with his back against a tree, typically an old oak and listen to her sing ancient tales, tragedies and of course of her love. The latter favoured yes the love-songs, but he simply at times loved to sit in her presence to bask in her warmth. The fourth son, he was oft-forgotten by his kin yet to Alette it was Indulf who may as well have never existed. Or so it at times appeared to him.

Only Indulf remained impatient to go, him and Wulfnoth for they keenly felt the need to continue their journey. Yet when-so-ever they felt this need, a greater desire to stay overcame them so that they simply forgot it after a hearty lunch of cooked deer-venison, strawberries and onions. All prepared for them by Alette’s command.

It happened though, by the seventh day since their arrival that Cormac asked of her, to explain to him, “How did the Dark Laird come to be?”

This question had been bothering him for some time, and had nagged in the back of his mind whenever he recalled their quest or his father. He wished to know more of the man, who had arranged for his father to be murdered.

“Lo! You ask that which, nags and nags as might a wish,” Alette remarked and though her tone was light, her eyes gleamed with sorrow. “Since you have spoken of the ‘Long-Shadow’, thus you must depart in sorrow.”

“But why?” Trygve asked of her dumbfounded by this response.

“See how the trees do so wither, and how the wind so shivers?” She queried fluttering all about the nearby trees, “His wroth-ruby does so glitter, so that my trees begin to wither.”

Though the lads wished to object, and though Daegan and Indulf both made impatient noises all were sorry to go. Even Wulfnoth was filled with sadness, though he hid it better. Her words though, were but a prelude to her repeating her old song alongside the rest of her subjects. Though they could not but help to notice that this time, the tune was far more mournful than before that moment. All stood to attention reluctantly, packs exploding with supplies and faces long with grief at being forced out from the forest. None were more grief-stricken though, than Alette they noticed.

When they blinked their eyes, they were to find themselves no longer surrounded by trees, but with trees to the left, right and behind them certainly but what lay before them was the road that led out from the Dyrkwoods.

Chapter V:

The City of Green-Thistles

Sgain was a magnificent city. The grandeur of the city walls dwarfed all other cities throughout the north of the isle of Bretwealda. Not only did they dwarf most others in size however it was the eldest of holy-sites in the whole of the Lairdly-Isle. Centuries before Auldchester had arisen to the far south in Brittia, or Cryffard in Cymru, Sgain had loomed as the principal site dedicated to the gods.

Forty-meters high and ten meters thick, the great lion-walls of Sgain were the stuff of legends, built in the age of the Pechs long before the Caleds had overtaken the region. The high-walls had towers every five meters and arose two meters higher than the average walls were. They were made from fine marble, though they had long been painted over with dark-green paint that had never departed. They had carved into them the knots of Dara, given to men it was said in days of yore long since passed, by the good goddesses Saga, the recorder of all history and Scota. It was said that the first stone that had served as a foundation for the walls of the city, had been laid down by the thistle-goddess herself. The knot decorated every stone, every tower and even the gates, with the knots upon closer inspection revealed to be emeralds that had been engraved into the stone and walls, so that they shone in the light of the twin-suns.

The city did not begin within those walls but from without. It began in truth with thatch, wooden and stone houses dotting the landscape that led up to the hill upon which the great city dominated. There were other shrines and small mansion-houses here and there, some made of stones, some of wood, all were more opulent and amazing than the small two-floor house that her master had had built, a number of decades ago.

Nobody knew when the city had truly been founded; for one thing it was highly unlikely that it predated the conquest of the south of the Lairdly-Isle by the Principate of Roma. Yet for centuries it had stood there, dominating the whole of the realm. The houses of the peasants were small things, yet the great number of them amazed Kenna who had never been there before.

Accustomed as she was to the small village of Glasvhail, which housed no more than a few hundred souls to see thousands of people living so closely together, was a shock.

She had known somewhere deep within her soul that there had to be thousands upon thousands of people, alive behind the great Lion-Gates of Sgain. However, to bear witness to so many alive and thriving outside of those walls was a shock.

Most tended to sheep, pigs and cows, traded in wool, meat and in goat or cow-milk, or cheese outside the walls. All attempted to push their goods, behind them, as they revealed themselves to be every bit as pushy as Kenna herself could prove herself to be.

Dressed in a brown dress with a loose grey girdle about her waist, a traveling cloak about her person with the hood raised, in case of the threat of rain. Something that was an ever-looming menace for all the residents of the far-north of the Lairdly-Isle, and something that Kenna in this instant did dread greatly.

“How often do you journey up the path, to the interior of the city?” Kenna asked of her guide, who was though she was loathe to admit; it her only protection from the darker elements of those who may reside near or within the high-walls of the greatest city of the Caleds.

Having been silent for days (it was a two week long journey), her sudden question surprised Corin. His dark-blonde haired head having been bowed in thought since some time ago, he lifted it in order to study her with his grey-gaze, “Not very often.”

His accent as always was hardly one that she much liked, one that Olith had delighted in. As she did all things that Corin had done and accomplished in his life, which to Kenna’s mind was not very much. She did however have to concede that if there was one thing he had not done on this trip, it was to abuse her or deny her food and wine when she was hungry or thirsty.

Walking next to the carriage, which Corin had guided all along the thistle-road as he had explained it was called on their third day of travel. Pointing it out, when he noticed her amazement at the sight of it, he had explained that it was the pious Causantín II the Great, who had had it established throughout the north. According to Wiglaf who had recounted this knowledge to him twenty-years prior, this road had been expanded upon by Causantín’s son Sìomon the ‘Thistle-King’ as he was known by many. After his death though, the thistle-road which connected a great deal of the center of the realm and east of it, had fallen into such disarray and had never been rebuilt.

While she had certainly appreciated the tale and knowledge demonstrated by her traveling companion, Kenna had had little desire to hear him tell her more. So great was the disdain she held him in that she had after a time told him to be silent and to let her think.

“And why is that? Is it that the monks have no need of hammers, horseshoes and the like, or is it that smiths such as yourself have preoccupied yourselves for too long with the crafting of swords and forgotten how to craft proper tools?” She challenged mockingly of him.

Corin eyed her coldly, “You have a wicked tongue Kenna.”

“This is hardly something you did not already know.”

“Still, it is said in my country that a ‘wicked tongue comes from a wicked heart’, and I have done you a kindness by bringing you here. A little gratitude I think is in order,” He reprimanded her.

Her cheeks grew hot with humiliation that he should scold her so. The nerve of the blacksmith she thought to herself, disgusted by how he could treat her as though she were no better than a petulant child! Infuriated, she preferred to remain quiet and to ignore him than to speak any further with him.

He however was not done, though his eyes rarely wavered from the path that stretched out before them, “Stay close to the cart less you wish to be carried away by the crowd.”

Annoyed, and feeling condescended the seamstress nonetheless did as bidden, just as the crowd of people who were bustling about all around her came as a tidal wave might, quite close to carrying her away. By no means the most statuesque woman alive Kenna was nevertheless a woman who prided herself upon being quite fit for her age and yet the number of woman, men and children who appeared to be everywhere continued to swarm endlessly. Until she felt she had no other choice than to climb back aboard the cart.

The worst part of this, she complained shrilly from somewhere deep within her soul, was how she had yet to come within a hundred meters of the gates.

“There are so very many people,” She said in awe.

“Aye, almost thirty thousand here in Sgain alone, or mayhap more,” Corin said to her surprise for she had not known he could quite hear her above the din, of the crowd. “We shall first see to your entrance into the city proper, and then I shall depart for the festival.”

Despite herself, Kenna felt a flash of gratitude to him, for choosing to aid her in her self-appointed mission before he saw to his business. Her lips pressed together, when she saw the great swarm of people, and tried to keep her ears from buzzing with the din, due to all the merchants sought to press their goods under the nose of all passers-by.

They were not alone in favouring a cart, with Kenna all of a sudden all too aware of the troubles involved in traveling in such a manner herein Sgain. For there were so many people that they could barely do more than inch forward, rather than trot with Romulus the horse snuffing and grumbling. Sensing his growing frustration and anxiety, Corin leant over to pat him on the back.

“There, there old lad,” He murmured softly along with a few quick words in his native Gallian, “Il n’y’a rien de t’inquiéter de.”

Though she did not understand his words, the notion behind them was still apparent to her, in how he handled the nervous beast of burden. Inch for inch they traveled, until they at last reached the summit of the hill upon which the monastery had been founded, nigh on six centuries ago.

As they rode forth though, some of the locals had called out to Corin, that is to say those who recognised him from previous festivals.

“Corin! How are you?”

“Corin are you here to sell your wares again?”

“Who is that with you? A new wife?”

This last question was asked by an older Tigrun lady, plump and dressed in a beige dress with a bonnet upon her head she had large brown eyes that would remind anyone of a warm-hearted kitten. Tigruns if you must know are a sort of cat-folk who had long since trod across the whole of the world of Miðgarðr. They came in all varieties just as humans do, from those with dark-fur, to orange, red, yellow, some even had stripped or spotted fur, still others had leonine manes. This woman though, had the white underbelly, with spotted dark-yellow fur, feline-shaped pupils’ sharp incisors and hands that were slightly longer and plumper than Kenna’s own.

If one were to observe carefully, some might notice the hint of a tail to the rear of the skirt of her dress, one that moved every few seconds as a cat’s might naturally.

Her suggestion though made Kenna’s face come close to turning green with disgust, at the mere thought of being wed to her surrogate sister’s widow. There was however a warmth to the old feline so that she could hardly bring herself, to respond quite as harshly as she might otherwise have done with anyone else.

“Absolutely not!” Corin objected at once, a look of utter disdain on his face, she imagined was mirror on her own. “This is Kenna, the widow of my old friend Murchadh, and who wished to enter into Sgain to go pray at the monastery.”

“Oh I see, my apologies Corin, my mistake,” The old lady murmured with a small giggle before she held up a small hunk of bronze, “May I interest you though, in my husband’s bronze? I am sure it could prove useful for when you return home to your forge.”

“Not to-day Lidaith,” He refused politely.

“Will you be in attendance for the festival?” She asked of him genially.

“I shall think on it.”

At this answer Kenna frowned to herself. She did not much like that he was genuinely pondering it, as she felt at that moment the pull to return to Glasvhail. It was not that she felt the need to return immediately, but the sense that once she had delivered the habits of the monks, and maybe attempted to impress the Queen with a dress or three that she had a duty to return home at once. The goal would be to her mind, to wait a number of days to be requested to return to Sgain or to Dunorcnog, where she hoped to become a member of the Queen’s court.

Of course, this was chief in her thoughts right alongside how she might best explain her layabout son, Cormac to the royal-court. Kenna knew little of royal courts, outside of tales her master Eachann or her father had told her in her youth, yet she had faith in her own ability to manoeuvre her way into a position of usefulness. Her trade was a common one certainly; however she had a better understanding of needlework than most, and knew how to be discrete.

It was when they arrived before the gates which glittered greenly, to her awe and Corin’s weariness that he rounded upon her, “Kenna if I may offer counsel.”

“I would prefer not,” She muttered honestly, “When do the gates open?”

It was high-noon therefore they ought to have already been opened, she thought grudgingly, as she studied them imperiously after her moment of awe had left her.

“Likely the monks are in the middle of noon-temple and shall soon open them once they have finished, in order to celebrate, the gods outside of their gates as they always do.” Corin said wisely, familiar with all the inner-workings of the city, so much so that as he spoke the gates began to slowly swing inwards. Such was the din and the boom, along with the noise of iron raking against iron that Kenna guessed at once, after a brief second of bewilderment that a chain was connected to the top of the gates.

“Who built all of this?” She asked amazed, coming from a village without walls, to see such a wonder was a little daunting.

“I am not so certain, though the walls are hardly as impressive as those on the Continent,” He boasted a hint of pride in his voice.

Kenna rolled her eyes, wherefore she hopped down from the cart onto the muddy ground of the thistle-road. The monks were all dressed as Wulfnoth had been, with the same bald patch at the summit of their heads, with some bearded and others not. Though, where Wulfnoth was all human, many of the monks present in Sgain were composed of Tigruns, the rat-like Ratvians, the dog and wolf-like Wolframs, gentle Minotaurs and wild Centaurs.

Once the gates open, the monks coming out to mill amongst the crowds, who had gathered all around the caravan of Corin, she rounded upon him, as prayers went up all around their cart. The sound of the bells the monks carried punctuated the voices of the monks who engaged in the loud hymns of the golden goddess. “We must find the abbot to speak with him.”

A sigh followed, a resigned one as he admitted, “I know not which one he is, if I am quite honest Kenna. I have not entered past the walls, in nigh on twenty years and have spent but a little time at the festivals since Olith passed.”

“How am I supposed to find him?” She panicked a little.

At this question Corin let slip another sigh, before he rounded upon a nearby Minotaur who stood to the right of them, in trousers, a large tunic and with well-polished horns a short brown beard and long hair the same colour. The ox-man had arrived a few minutes after they had, and had no great cart, only a simple pendant made of wood of the goddess Meret with her lyre, and was in the midst of doing the symbol of the flower. He leapt a few feet, as his children who were all gathered behind him alongside him and his wife who was similar in build if evidently female in her slighter appearance, and in that she wore a pink woollen dress that made every inch of Kenna want to scream in horror at the poor quality of the needlework.

“Do you know where the abbot can be found?” Corin asked of the small family.

They shook their heads, though the next Minotaur family, which stood just a little past them, pointed now to one monk who had not departed to preach amongst the crowd or to deliver some alms to some of the poorer folk assembled before them. The monk in question was a wizened old Ratvian, with grey almost white fur, who leant heavily on a birch-wood staff and who had small wispy white hair that was balding. His snout appeared to be continuously sniffing about, as though searching for something that his milky black eyes could not quite perceive. Dressed in a grey habit, with small grey boots, his long-finger left-hand searched about until at last, it landed upon the nearby edge of the opened gates.

“By Marianne, it is old Kerr,” Said the blacksmith of Glasvhail, gaping a little at the stout old mouse that stood near the summit of the hill.

Without any further exchanges with those around them, he attempted to negotiate their advance up the hill. This was complicated by how several of the monks called for them to stop, a resentful and even suspicious gleam in their eyes.

A select few though were to relax when they saw Corin. When they did, they were profoundly surprised and greeted him as though he were an old friend. One monk, who appeared to be several years Kenna’s senior, hurried over to him to ask if how Olith was.

“She has passed, her friend Kenna here has agreed to accompany me on my journey here, it is her wish to speak to the abbot.” He explained with forced cheer, though there was a certain unease that belied his warmth.

Her attention captured by the uncertainty that had rooted itself, beneath his voice, Kenna eyed him quietly from within the wagon, which was filled almost to its brim with weapons and cloth, with a large coverlet thrown over all of the merchandise they had brought with them. While she might otherwise have been curious enough to attempt to solve the mystery, behind his peculiar reaction towards the sandy-haired human monk, with dark eyes and a thick beard down to his chin, she pushed it aside.

It was neither her concern, nor her task in life to sort out the manifold mysteries that surrounded Corin. Her first duty was towards her son, and his daughter, and improving their lot in life. Nothing less than that, and nothing more or so she told herself.

The monks after a few minutes permitted them to advance, if a little reluctantly so, with few people permitted to advance. The monks preferring to have people not approach their temple, if to avoid overwhelming they claimed the interior of the courtyard as it was holy land.

The courtyard was hardly anything akin to Kenna’s most grand imaginings, or her most majestic day-dreams or regular dreams. To the contrary, it was in some ways far, far grander than anything her imagination could have conjured forth.

The houses were all mansions that had between two and three floors, all made of simple stones, with four large houses that were almost palatial in nature. Larger than the other mansions they were made of finer stone than the other dozen mansions, and were considerably larger. Twenty-meters high, and circular in nature as classic Pechish keeps were once built, these mansions had but one entrance and possessed several floors to them. Two of these estates were to the right of the courtyard; the nearest to it was remarkable also for how to the center of its roofing there jutted an iron pole with the High-King’s banner fluttering in the wind. The monarch’s banner was different from those of his immediate two predecessors. The banner in question was a deep scarlet with a bright white unicorn facing the right-hand side with its hooves reared up in defiance.

The largest and most kingly building shielded by the great walls though was the stone monastery of the goddess Scota, the Queen of the gods. The abbey was rectangular in nature, with a courtyard to the rear of it, separated from the other buildings thanks to its four separate side-buildings that served as housing, as a kitchen and as a secondary temple for the great shrine of the goddess. The temple was thirty-three meters high, almost as long and had a pointed roof, which the very tip of was shaped into that of a thistle. The thistle was the holiest and most royal symbol of the realm of Caledonia. With this thistle at the summit of the marble-carved temple gleaming with emeralds far finer and smoother, than those upon the walls that guarded the temple, with the temple and all its secondary buildings utterly devoid of windows.

Performing the symbol of the flower, it was all Kenna could do to keep from falling to her knees, and singing one of the psalms of the Golden-Goddess, or maybe the goddess Meret, the lady of music.

“It is so beautiful,” She murmured moved to the very depths of her soul.

“Oui, though the summit of the hill over yonder, past the other buildings is where the coronation of Mael Bethad took place four years ago.” Corin explained genially, pointing to the rear of the large courtyard past the buildings, to a slightly higher ‘hill’ upon the top of the hill itself. The ‘double-hill’ of Sgain was something that she had heard murmurings of years prior, and yet it still took her by surprise. This second hill sat above the rest of the buildings (save for the temple’s summit of course), and had a series of stairs that led up to it, carved from the actual hill itself. A part of her, a part that sounded remarkably akin to her son, wondered just how exactly it had been carved. Her next question was if there were builders or masons who could properly explain the process to her, so enraptured by this sight was she.

“The Stone of Sgain is kept within the temple.” He said.

“Is it true that it is shaped akin to a heart, that which the Romalians carved out from the body of the golem to whom the mountain owes its name?” Kenna asked him, remembering this small bit of legend from one of the tales her father had once told her, in her youth.

“Non, it is shaped like any other stone, is smooth and engraved with ancient runes and symbols of your people.” Corin explained, having been present as might be evident to you dear reader, during the coronation of the High-King Mael-Bethad. “Quiet now, for we near now the great abbot himself.”

The abbot turned his head at once, as they neared despite the bustle and noise that trailed after the caravan that the two rode upon. The mouse sniffed at the ear in what was almost a blind gesture, before he remarked in a mischievous voice. “Ah, if it is not Corin, I could recognise your scent quite easily.”

“How can you smell me, in the stench of this city?” Asked the blacksmith genuinely amazed.

“You have a distinctive stench, just as surely as you did four years ago.” Iomhar commented airily, before he turned his head towards the seamstress who snickered a little, “And who is this? She smells of cloth and goats.”

“This is Kenna, Olith’s friend who came to offer up her services to you as a seamstress,” Corin stated bluntly.

Iomhar hesitated before he murmured wearily, waving for them to follow him. “Do come closer to the temple, I am wearied now and would feel this cloth for myself.”

Corin complied with his request at once, with Kenna hardly able to repress her excitement at the prospect of tempting him with the fine linen, wool and silk that she had assembled over the years for just such an occasion.

A swift prayer to the goddess Scota, along with one to the lord of merchants, smiths and weavers, Khnum departed from her lips silently as they drew up before the temple. The stench of the inner-city and the outer one still hung in the air, much to her disgust. Yet she found that her excitement for this opportunity easily washed that away.

Iomhar waited patiently leaning against the wall of the temple with a tiny hand, his beardless mouse-snout trembling a tad. This drew a look of concern from Corin, who studied him closely, hardly paying her any mind as she leapt from the back of the wagon to start pulling off all the rolled up monk-habits she had sown in preparation for this meeting.

Irritated though she felt beneath her impatience to showcase her talents, for his remaining seated there rather than helping her, in any further way, such as speaking out for her talents, she hurried over to Iomhar’s side. Habit in hand, Kenna hardly paid the rest of the world all about them any mind, as a great many people who wished to enter the grand-shrine of Sgain hissed in annoyance at having to step-around the wagon and Romulus the horse. Who huffed and let slip a horse-like groan in response to some of the new-arrivals.

A few monks and other folk, eyed her and the contents of the wagon with mild curiosity, as she all but thrust the first habit below the abbot’s nose. “You see, this is the finest wool of Norençia, brought to Glasvhail from Norlion itself! I also have some silk from Lyonesse, if you prefer richer fabric.”

Part of Kenna cursed her own nervousness then, as she realized just how much she had stumbled over her words the moment they fell from her lips.

Waiting with bated breath, she attempted to keep from speaking out or saying anything further, so as to avoid appearing as foolish as Cormac might have, were he present. With a twinge, she realized then how much she missed her son, only to repress the thought. There would be time enough to think of him, upon her return to Glasvhail, when she doubtlessly was made to deal with his most recent bout of indolence or folly.

“It is quite fine,” Complimented Iomhar earnestly, as he sniffed at it and felt it between his fingers with his eyes hardly looking down at it.

It was with a start that Kenna noticed he was blind. This knowledge was one that escaped her lips before she could keep herself from speaking out so rudely, “You are blind, brother!”

“Oh really? I was not aware of this sudden change, thank you ever so much for enlightening me Kenna,” the Ratvian replied with a barely restrained giggle that hardly seemed to her derisive.

“My apologies, I merely meant that I did not immediately realize it.”

“No need for apologies my child,” Iomhar assured her genially, he continued to examine the cloth closely, with an air of intrigued patience. “It is well-done, far better woven than our current habits; doubtlessly the convent at the foot of the mountain would be better capable of appreciating this sort of fine-work, than I could.”

A small sliver of dismay wove its way into her heart, yet Kenna soldiered one and biting her lower-lip. She waited for him to examine the next proffered habit.

This one was a silk one, and upon examining it he reared back with a hiss, “This is much too rich! It is silk!”

“Aye.”

“Put that away, I have enough trouble with the greed of certain of my monks, I have no need for you to tempt them so with such beautiful cloth.” He sniffed at her.

Frightened that she had made some sort of irreparable error in judgement, Kenna did as bidden at once, hurriedly throwing it into the wagon only to pull a slightly less finely-woven habit. Another swift prayer and she presented this piece of cloth to the monk.

“Calm yourself Kenna, I mean no harm therefore there is no need for so many prayers,” He informed her with a small smile.

“You heard me?”

“Aye, my eyes may no longer be of any assistance; however my ears still work quite well, thank you.” He said in his quiet voice before he concluded with a sniff, “This new habit is much better, I do think this and the first one you gave to me to examine are more in line, with what is proper. If you will excuse me, I must send one of the novices to find the sub-abbot, and he will see that you are properly compensated for these remarkable habits.”

“Oh thank you, Brother Iomhar!” Thanked Kenna enthused by his words of approval.

“Not at all, now Corin if I may inquire as to what has become of the lands of Rothien in the past several years, I would very much appreciate anything you may have to tell me.” Brother Iomhar replied to her before he moved his attention much to her disconcertment to her traveling companion.

Corin had for his part remained silent until then, preferring to wait upon the wagon with an expression of indifference, so that he now stiffened with visible nervousness. Biting his lower-lip he did not hesitate much to her disapproval to reject the abbot’s politely worded request. “I am afraid I shan’t stay to discuss such matters with you, not when I have yet to sell my own wares.”

Kenna could well have kicked him then. The monk though offered no resistance, looking neither surprised nor offended, as he wished them well before turning away to greet the next people in line.

Once she had sold a number of the monastic-garb to the sub-abbot, who was a large man with sneering dark eyes, a large beard and the sort of figure that belied a man who enjoyed all that life had to offer. In all, she was ill-impressed by him, as well as by the lack of sound-judgement that Iomhar had demonstrated in his appointment of the sub-prior to his post. The only thing that he did to win over her approval was when he haggled over the cost of the habits. His business-sense was one trait that Kenna could approve of, as she always did whenever she encountered someone adept in such things.

Most of her cloth sold, and much of it removed by a small clutch of monks who hurried to take it inside away from prying eyes, she was commended for her piety (for the weaving of these cloths) and thanked. Whereupon Iomhar went to depart to preside over a Session of Temple, the seamstress summoned up her will, just before she asked of him with a surreptitious glance all around her, as people milled into the temple impatient to listen to the monks.

“High-Brother Iomhar, I must ask- no rather implore a favour of you,” She said halting him, with the monk showing the first signs of weariness towards her.

“What is it?”

“Would you, nay rather could you do me the honour of presenting several of my dresses to her Grace the Queen? It has long been a dream of mine since girlhood, for one of my dresses to be worn by a member of royalty.” Kenna stammered out almost all in one breath.

“Kenna, I thought you were going to wait until after we had sold some of my wares, before you attempted to cozen the abbot into your little scheme.” Corin called out impatiently, from a short distance behind her.

Kenna did not answer him, for she did not trust her own voice or her temper to keep from flaring, but rather she preferred to fix her attention upon the mouse before her. Praying as she did if only in her spirit that he might acquiesce to her request, holding her breath as she did.

“Oh very well,” the abbot conceded after some thought, “I do not see why not, if you would like I might recommend you place the dresses in my home, it is just next to the monastery.”

They did as bidden, with the house one of the two-storey ones that appeared to be positively humble in comparison to those that surrounded it. It was cozy with the same stone-roofing of its neighbours, though its own roof was rust-coloured. Whereas the actual walls were a slightly less colourful grey, much to the distress of Kenna who had always imagined that with higher-rank better taste had to subsequently follow.

This was not the case though, and as she discovered once inside, it was sparsely filled out with only a few tables, chairs all of birch-wood rust-coloured and upon the second floor where they were instructed to lay the dresses down in the abbot’s room. There was a small elevated bed, which had nothing in common with the sort of hay-filled mattress bed that Kenna was herself accustomed to sleeping upon. The bedroom also had a small shelf with the Canticle upon it, one which was well-used and dusty, looking as though it had not been picked up in months. Doubtlessly due to Iomhar’s blindness which prevented him from reading what was likely, to have been his favourite reading-material.

The stairs that led up and down between the two floors were made of wood and were about the shabbiest part of the building, which seemed in undeniable need of some reparation. This thought crossed her mind as she descended back down the stairs, her heart torn between relief to be leaving the manor-house and pity for its owner.

“What a sad little house,” Kenna murmured full of pity for the abbot.

“Is that what you think?” Corin rejoined with a shake of his head, “It seems peaceful to me.”

“Mayhap, you failed to notice the condition into which his home had fallen into,” Kenna accused, “What is more, how is a man of the gods supposed to survive no longer able to read their words?”

Corin did not answer immediately, yet when he did it was with quite a bit of sensibility, “By living them.”

*****

The spring-festival of Orcus was one that celebrated his death and return to the world of the living, with the lord of light and death said to have perished thousands of years ago. He had it was said, descended into the realm of the death with his bride Venus following after him, in the hopes to restore him to the realm of the living. Legend had it that in the winter he descended into the underworld where he was to judge the souls of the deceased, only for him to return in the spring.

The festival for this reason was a popular one for weddings, with some such as Kenna and her husband Murchadh having celebrated their own upon the formal celebration of spring, in Glasvhail. That memory, when she had sewn a lovely yellow dress for herself of fine wool bought from Norlion. Murchadh had had his hair combed his beard trimmed and had worn a green-tunic and trousers, colours that had gone well with his blue-eyes.

As to this festival, it was celebrated in a rather different manner than how Glasvhail enjoyed the festival. In Sgain, the festival comprised yes of a large feast, though this was to last for a week, with the monks paying for the finest food to be served to all the people present in Sgain. At other times the monarch and his bride came, to pay for and join in the feast. Once this done, prayers were offered in every camp outside of the walls, in the outer-city, with the statue of Orcus, his wife Venus and the goddess Scota were removed from their place of residence inside of the monastery-walls. Wherefore they are place in the middle of the city, with twelve maidens selected to dance all around Orcus, twelve male youths to do the same for Venus’s statue and Scota’s was to be twelve elders. Before all of the dancers were to intermingle, lilies in their hair and a powerful hymn upon their lips, in celebration of the spring and of the three gods in question.

“As a sun was the light of Orcus Snow-Hair’d,

Venus first beheld the Light-Laird,

Isles arose and the earth shone,

Awed as a maid before the moon,

The isles were green, high did they loom,

In the day as in the night he shone,

Jewels she sent him, long did he gaze at them,

With a hey and a ho he toss’d them,

Red as the fire were her cheeks,

Wherefore she had Ares throw him down the peaks,

With a hey and a ho he leapt away,

In sorrow did Venus weep when he flew away,

Sword-glancing in his eyes and flowers in hand

Did he return!

Eyes as starlight, hair sun-bright,

Smile as snowfall, thus she clung to her shawl,

O how they danced hand in hand!

Across all the green lands,

Until dark-eyed Ares did arrive hither,

Blade in hand to send Orcus whither,

With a hey and a ho did Scota sing this tale,

As a matron did Venus teach it in a vale,

Thus is how all loves,

May they grow!

All hemlocks and leaves do so tumble,

Summer lilies in the vast fields,

As the winter-plums do so grow in the valleys!”

This along with the hymn of Cormac was the most beloved of all the songs of the Caled. The song of Cormac was that which recounted how Cormac the Hero had discovered the Golem, Sgain’s heart in a cavern near where the monastery lay hundred and fifty years prior, and given it over to Causantín II. So that it was he who sat first upon it, at his coronation with Cormac the Hero having been the one who slew the usurper Geric who had slain Causantín’s father, and seized his throne for a time.

This Cormac had his own statue that was placed just behind that of Causantín, with the two along with Causantín’s heir Siomon the Thistle-King, were placed at the summit of the coronation-hill. The statue of the old man was notable for his long beard and hair, and severe expression while the other bore an uncanny resemblance to Kenna’s son. Alarmed by how he had the same high-cheekbones, the same tall figure and smiling lips there was, however a certain strength about his figure and eyes that served as the sole difference from him.

It was then that the three Paragons were worshiped and offered up green apples, thistles and carvings of lions and in recent years, unicorns in honour of the current rulers of Caledonia.

The dancing, singing and celebration that was to follow was to last for two nights, before one of the High-King’s court-poets was to mount the coronation-hill and sing the epic-song of Causantín and Cormac the Hero.

This Cormac was the namesake of Kenna’s own son. The name having come to her in a dream, wherein she was drifting away at sea, the sound of the ocean and the scent of the salt-water still remained in her ears and nostrils even nigh on fifteen years after that day. The birth-dream was one of the few details about her son’s birth that she had only ever told Murchadh and Olith, preferring to keep it as private as ever before. The thought of which, now filled her with an ache of grief and sorrow even years after the death of the two whom she had always, loved more than life itself.

In the days that led up to the festival could properly begin though, was the great mercantile festival which involved all goods being sold in the week before the feasts, due to the Temple forbidding the sale of goods outside of food, and tools during religious celebrations.

For this reason, Corin’s eagerness to sell all the tools and weapons he could, before the celebration could begin in earnest could well be understood. Though she had little love for him, Kenna was not unsympathetic towards his desperation, to hurry through the sales in question.

They stayed for one night, with Kenna staying in a small inn by the sea, as the promontory of Sgain loomed over the Firth of the Thern, with there being a port that often welcomed trade and goods from farther south, and the Continent. The inn had a cozy bed, of far better quality than her own in Glasvhail, so that the next morn’ she had little desire to actually leave her room.

Responsibility ruled supreme over her as always, so that she left to join Corin who had preferred to sleep under his wagon out of worry that someone may rob him of his iron and steel goods.

Unfortunately for Corin though, as great as his goods were in terms of quality, he did not sell quite as much as she and by the end of the day was ready to leave to return home to Glasvhail. Pleased that they were to leave rather than staying for the festival, due in no small part to her desire to return home to toil upon new dresses and tunics, to sell later in the year should the Queen not call for her.

This thought nearly made her heart stop due to despair, so that she suppressed it to the best of her ability. Kenna therefore was prepared, for their return trip, with a bought-lunch that consisted of fish, beef and cheese along with a fresh barrel of wine for the return-trip to Glasvhail.

“Curse my ill-fortune and curse this year,” Corin was heard to say as they whipped down the road for the village they had come from.

“If you did so poorly, why not stay several more days?” Kenna asked him from where she sat in the back of the wagon, grumbling beneath her breath as they appeared to hit every stone and bump on the thistle-road. “Surely you might, sell more tools under such circumstances?”

“Mayhap though I had a sense whilst watching your growing impatience that you might do something impulsive, such as return to Glasvhail on foot,” He replied to her sharply with a dark glance in her direction.

Indignant at his casting blame upon her, Kenna snapped back at him, “Why cast blame unto me, when it was your own decision to return home?”

Corin did not answer her, not at once. This annoyed her for some time, and though they were to fall back into the silence that had haunted their journey north-east, this return trip’s silence of a distinctly different nature. Before, they had passed their time ignoring one another, whereas this silence was one that stung both of them. With the coldness exhibited as they refused to so much as glance at once another, even when they ate together.

It was so bad that when Kenna attempted to sing one extract of the hymn of Orcus, Corin snarled at her to be quiet. Indignant she fulminated, and came near to shrieking back at him before deciding to do otherwise.

Their trip was therefore a moody, stormy affair with much bitterness passing between the two of them with Kenna swearing to herself with every passing day to take Daegan away with Cormac and her. This, along with a great many other muttered gripes, complaints and small character flaws were noted and exacerbated, so that neither of them had a moment’s peace.

The week and a half that it took for them to return hither to Glasvhail was a long one, by the end of which they had fallen to stiffly ignoring one another once again after a few icy words in the morn’.

It was shortly after lunch (eaten as they travelled); Kenna for her own part was in the midst of staring up at the skies dreamily. The memory of the sea-dream she had had during the whole of the week that led up to the birth of and during the birth itself of Cormac, once more arose in her mind. For some reason she could no more chase it away, or ignore it in recent days. Not that she tried all that hard, to do either of those things as they brought with them a feeling of warmth. Just as surely, as star-gazing with Murchadh once had, she remembered once doing so by the quay, with Cormac in her arms and her husband by her side, whilst Corin and Olith took the boat out to sea to star-gaze out there. At the time Kenna had been worried, however Daegan’s mother (who was pregnant then) had persisted that it was what she had wished for, and that she needed to see the stars from the boat, so Murchadh had given in to her and Corin’s pleas. It was then that… With a start Corin shook her with a hand to her mouth and the other index finger pressed against his own lips.

“Tush Kenna,” He warned her, as she resisted a feeling of outrage at him for grabbing her so suddenly. Her indignation though was swiftly forgotten though, a moment later when he opted to take them off the road.

“What are you doing?” Kenna demanded of him, sharply.

“It is just that whilst you were drifting away, I thought I had heard horse-hooves.”

“What of it?”

Corin did not answer her at once, as he took them off the main road. Curious now that she could see how stiff with fear and anxiety he was, she soon had her own answer to why he had reacted so. There was a sudden sensation of dread, of horrid nausea that pervaded her being several heartbeats later. Such was the feeling of terror, of wrongness in the world that Kenna could no more help herself from breaking into a cold sweat than she could from vomiting over the side of the wagon once they were off the road.

It was as they hid, with their small wagon being pulled deeper into the foliage by Corin and Romulus who had decided at that moment to pull with all they had. Apparently seized by the same shock of terror that had just gripped the seamstress, his jolt thither into the forest they were traveling through sent her rolling back before she could help herself.

“Quiet Romulus!” Corin hissed at the panicked animal, at last pulling on the reins hard enough to re-introduce reason to the poor, frightened pony. With the beast of burden calm once more, he turned about where he was seated to the front, of the wagon to face her and whispered, “Stay here.”

Nodding fearfully, Kenna did as she was told, the thought of refusing never once crossed Kenna’s mind. For his own part, Corin leaped down and climbing up a little ways to the edge of the forest that was to the right-hand side of the road, to stare out at it, with nary a thought to his own safety.

It was some time, before Kenna understood what had happened, her head throbbing from where she had struck it in the back of the caravan. She froze when a strange hissing sound was heard to pierce throughout the area. This happened just after the horse-hooves that Corin had sworn he had seen, slowed to a complete halt.

To the seamstress’s horror there atop a great black steed, sat a terrible shadow of some sort, dressed in a black hauberk with a dark helm which appeared to devour all the light that touched it. The strange shadow snuffled and hissed as it sucked in a breath, then another only for a sound somewhere between steel scraping against steel and another hiss escaped from it and its mount.

Transfixed, Kenna could no more move than she could scream, so gripped was she by fear and horror at the sight of the shadow that loomed over them.

Corin she could see was likewise frozen, pressed against the ground underneath the upraised root of a nearby ash-tree, she could see him trembling as he stared up at the monster.

Her heart beat against her chest with all the force of a sword-blow or from that of a horse’s kick, the seamstress attempted to restrain her own breathing.

The shadow though leaned ever nearer, from atop its horse only for a breeze to flow, one that made Kenna’s skin shiver, as surely as it drew a sob of some sort from poor Romulus. The sound awoke in the seamstress the fear that they would soon be discovered, however in the next moment the shadow grew less distinctive.

Blown away by the winds that swept it back to the south from whence it had come, the shadow passed just as the clouds in the heavens ceased covering the twin-suns.

For a time neither Corin nor Kenna moved, both were too afraid to do so.

It was Romulus’s sneeze that broke them from the fog which had settled upon both of their spirits. With a start, the blacksmith pulled himself up to his feet, shaking and gasping from the fright induced by the terrible shadow. Pulling himself up onto the road he stared first in one direction the in the other, whilst biting his lower lip.

The moment they were back upon the road, Kenna spoke at last still trembling as she did so, regardless how it had been more than an hour since the encounter. “What in the name of Ziu’s flaming sword was that creature?”

“I am not certain,” Corin answered her.

“It was so horrible, how could such a thing ever come to be?” She whimpered clutching at her dark chocolate brown tresses in a fit of fear, “Why o gods does such a beast wander our fair, green lands?”

“Kenna!” Corin yelled pulling the pony to a sudden, miserable stop in order to look at her over his shoulder, after he had slammed his fist upon the wood of the wagon, the sound of his flesh striking the wood made her leap.

“What?” She stammered with uncharacteristic hesitancy.

“Calm yourself!” He hissed at her, “You appear to be losing your wits, and I need to think!”

Kenna subsided into stunned silence for a moment. Chastened she did not know how to answer him, nor did she know how to respond.

Especially after a new thought entered into her mind, so that she all but leapt to her knees, to crawl over, covering the distance between them to say to him in a tremulous voice. “Corin! That rider came from the south!”

“O-oui…”

“Do you think it came from the village?” She asked fearfully.

Corin turned to regard her with open-mouthed horror, as all colour left his face so that even his dark-blonde hair which was sweat-slicked against his face and which had long since begun to turn grey, appeared to whiten more than it had ever hitherto then.

He turned about to whip the reins attached to poor Romulus so hurriedly that the pony took a moment to jump a little before he threw himself forward, as though his very life depend upon his moving. It may have, Kenna for her part was once again thrown back, with a terrible curse for which she apologised to the gods for her impious behaviour.

“Wait darn you, wait not so fast!” She shrieked as she very near tumbled out of the back of the wagon.

Corin for his part was heedless of her concerns. Seized as he was by panic he hardly registered her complaints until they were well within the village. Whereupon a great many of those who lived there, and who tended their flocks or fields raised their heads to stare in amazed fascination at the ridiculous sight of Romulus bouncing down the main road. The sound of Kenna being thrown all about on the wagon, cursing and shrieking discernible all along the tumbling road.

Some of the children hurried over, whether out of concern for the poor seamstress who ordinarily doted upon them, or to point and giggle, were hardly of any interest to her then. Her ears ringing, her skull and rear-end aching with pain, her cries of anger and anguish intermingling so that not even she knew whether, she was more filled with pain or frustration.

“Wait,” She all but whimpered once they had pulled to a sudden stop, rubbing at her head and rear with her hands. “Stop this caravan, less I really get mad you fool!”

Corin paid her little mind, not that it mattered to her for some time, she thought as she held her head between her hands until it had ceased throbbing. When she at last looked up, it was to find that a great many people were in the midst of racing on over, to join her. Kenna though paid them little mind, distracted as she was by her horror at the sight of what had befallen Corin’s home. Built decades ago, by his master Fearchar, the father of Olith it had been rebuilt sixteen years or so before by Corin himself, shortly before the birth of Daegan. Though she had never felt much love, for the blacksmith Kenna could not count any moment when she had seriously thought that she wished for this house to burn to the ground.

The sight of the smouldering ruins was enough to make her knees shaky. Her mouth gaping open as memories of girlhood playing with Ida and Olith poured through her mind. The original house had collapsed years prior yet there had remained a fondness on her part towards the rebuilt building.

“What happened here?” Kenna demanded dumbly, unable to believe that the house in which her friend had passed days after the birth of Deagan, and where old man Faerchar had died four years before that event. There was such history in the small house, and all of that had been lost forever!

Appearing by her side, Elspet the wife of one of the fishermen explained to her, “Cormac burnt the house down alongside that old man Wulfnoth, just before they kidnapped a number of the youths.”

Her explanation struck the seamstress with the force of a club. Ripping her gaze at once away from the ruins of the once magnificent forge, she could hardly believe her ears. “What?”

She stared at the thin, beak-nosed young woman who had the sort of puritanical temperament that had made her unpopular, throughout the whole of Glasvhail.

For this reason Kenna should not have been surprised by the younger woman’s accusation against Cormac, as she had never much liked him. Notably after he had disappeared, from the sight of the temple at the time of Inga’s death (not that Elspet had much love for the Salmon’s granddaughter).

“It is true, I was there,” Elspet insisted as she always did whenever she wished to condemn one person or another.

This instantly served to feed into Kenna’s scepticism. “What do you mean that Cormac and Wulfnoth kidnapped several youths?”

“They stole away Daegan, Indulf and Trygve.”

“How are an old man too plump to properly cross a room properly, and a lazy lad almost half the weight of one of the lads in question, supposed to have stolen them away?” Kenna asked genuinely stunned by the folly of the accusation. The other woman glowered back at her with a stony expression upon her long-face, with a sigh of exasperation the seamstress rounded upon the rest of the ground, “Are there any others who might know of what happened?”

“A fire began,” Said one voice from the rear of the small crowd of muttering farmers and shepherds. It was Helga; she spoke a little shyly as her face reddened when Cormac’s mother frowned at her. “Cormac was there, along with Daegan and Wulfnoth there was a fire, but then they moved to your home before they disappeared the day after.”

“When was this?”

“Nigh on a fortnight ago.”

The shock that washed over Kenna was not near as fierce as the previous blow that had been delivered by the sight of the ruined smith’s home. It was nonetheless one that made the woman who had by then descended from the wagon lean against it to keep from falling, so terrible was the trembling of her legs. “Wh-what? Cormac is missing?”

There was a time she might well have wished for such an event, likely during one of her harsher moments of anger and yet now all she could feel was a sense of loss, of pain and guilt, such that she had not felt in all her years.

The force of her misery was evident to all who beheld her expression then, so that one of the men; Callum was quick to hurry to her side. A fisherman of some fifty-eight years, he had once been friendly with her master and was a shepherd renowned for his geniality, especially towards the children though he was often gullible with the children prone to playing tricks on him.

“There, there Kenna, Cormac has that wise old paragon by his side alongside Ida’s lads Indulf and Trygve, no harm shall come to him.” He said in a gentle voice that she wished so very ardently to believe.

Looking away from him helplessly, Kenna found that her gaze fell upon Corin, who was in the midst of kneeling in the doorway where his home had once been. Rocking himself back and forth, though his shoulders failed to shake there was visible anguish carved into the stone of his back and head.

Hardly a friend to him, she nonetheless knew him well if only by association. Save for during the time that followed Olith’s death, he had never appeared so lost, so full of grief and pain, such was the depth of his grief that Kenna was moved to pity.

It was this pity that surprised her as surely as it moved her to think at last of him, rather than her own feelings and fears though they remained as present and horrible as upon her arrival. The very fact that Corin refused to move, since his arrival told her far, far more about how shaken he was, than any physical movement or posture could have.

Murchadh might well have approached him to lay a comforting hand upon his shoulder, where Cormac might have spoken to him with utter sympathy. Kenna was entirely unlike her men-folk in that she had very little familiarity with supplying comfort or any sort of gesture of pity for others.

“Kenna! You have indeed returned!” Ida exclaimed bursting forth from the crowd, her round red face panting from the exertion of racing on over from her own home and farm.

Kenna paid her scant attention, distracted as she was by her pity for Corin and fear for the children who had left home.

“Where did the children go?” She asked wearily of her friend.

“They have left, for the south I know not where, only that it involved the phantom-riders who have haunted our lands for weeks.” Ida explained just before a number of people began muttering amongst themselves, with Kenna understanding why they reacted so.

There was a great deal of doubt towards the existence of the phantoms, though a great many others found it a simple matter to believe in them. Between Conn who had expressed uncertainty at the time of Kenna’s departure for Sgain, and many of the locals swearing to have seen them, if only later when they were alone with her.

The knowledge that Cormac had left for the south struck with all the force of a battering-ram, little reason could she see in the reasoning behind his decision to head south, with his friends. The decision was so impulsive, so strange that Kenna could not grasp it.

“Why head south?” She asked of Ida.

“To pursue the phantom-riders,” Repeated her friend grasping her by the hand, her hand was warm and she pinched the skin of the back of it between two nails which awoke the seamstress from her stupor. “They did it to give chase after the phantom-rider and to take away some sort of cursed gem.”

“Cursed gem? Of what nonsense do you speak, Ida?” The brown-haired woman asked, afraid that her voice had begun to sound shrill.

“It is the cursed ‘Blood-Gem of Aganippe’,” Said Corin grimly, appearing at that moment behind Kenna who had not heard him move. At the sight of the confusion of those amassed before him, he added with eyes that appeared to almost cast lightning, so furious was he then. “The cursed gem was brought hither, by a dying man whom entrusted it to me. It was then that the phantom-riders appeared for they, desired the power of the Blood-Gem for themselves, it was for this reason that Wiglaf also left all those months ago.”

Silence ensued.

Then Helga asked curiously, “Who was this man?”

“Murchadh the fisherman,” He revealed.

There was a collection of snorts, scoffs and muttered comments about his failing wits. Some cautioned him to speak sense with concerned glances in Kenna’s direction.

Corin though remained resolute, meeting every stare with a stern gleam in his eyes, as he huffed out, “I shall give chase after my daughter and her friends. Murchadh entrusted the gem to me, before he passed away therefore it is my burden to bear rather than that of the children.”

“Then why did you leave it behind?” Someone asked scornfully.

At this query he jumped a little, thought at some length only to become grimmer than before.

There was something there in that grimace and the troubled downturn of his gaze, convinced Kenna who had frozen until that moment, of the veracity of his words. Having not expected Murchadh’s name to come up, she could hardly bring herself to believe it, however all thoughts soon left her.

“How could Murchadh survive the storm?” At first she was under the impression that she had thought this question, but it was when she noticed from the corner of her gaze several nodded heads all around her.

“He drifted ashore to the Misty-Isle,” Corin answered sorrowfully. “He was enslaved for a time before he fled with the gem, arriving here mortally wounded.”

It was too much for Kenna, who came close to falling into a swoon. No silly weakling in matters of the mind, she caught herself though ignoring as she did the doubt and uncertainty of those around her. There was the question of what had become of the man’s body. To which Corin explained that they cremated it in the forge, before they had buried the ashes in the man’s proper resting place.

“Blasphemy!” Someone called, but he was shouted down by Corin.

“Non! We had Wulfnoth bless the spot anew therefore there was no blasphemy save that which led to his unnatural and premature death.”

This quieted some, and it was an immense comfort to Kenna, for she could not have imagined what she might well have done had Murchadh, not received the proper funerary rites.

It was with a start at that moment that she realized that she did indeed believe the blacksmith. Licking her lips she whispered more to herself, “I must sit down. I shan’t believe he was alive, all these years.”

“Poor dear, what a shock!” Ida said with some feeling, before she turned to her newly arrived husband, “Freygil do not just stand there, like a fool! Get a move on, Kenna must return to her home.”

“Aye Ida,” Freygil murmured before he moved to help her, in the guiding of the seamstress across he fields that separated Corin’s home from that of Kenna’s.

“Corin, you come along also, you will have to sleep in Cormac’s room as the suns do appear to be descending,” Ida added fiercely before she barked out to all those still gathered about them, “Off with the rest of you! You still have much to do, and no time to be dawdling about staring at Corin or Kenna as though ye have all lost your wits.”

They reached her home a few minutes later, with the house bereft of food so Freygil had to race back to his own home, to fetch some fish and ham for her and Corin. Both of whom ate quietly, it was not long though before Kenna, her mind abuzz with questions felt the last of her strength begin to drain from her.

It was as though the fear of just how much her husband had suffered, all those years had been stolen from her. As though in her sudden surge of grief and pain at how the truth had been hidden from her by all those she knew that after she ate she felt a sudden fatigue.

The thought that she might see Murchadh in her dreams, was to encourage to go to bed early, long before the suns had fully descended in the west. For his own part Corin left for Cormac’s room, long before she had retired for the night. That night Ida stayed with her, seating herself in a nearby chair by her bed, where she was heard to snore loudly just before Kenna’s eyelids at last shuttered closed for the last time that night.

*****

In the morn’ the two ladies descended early, just before dawn. They failed to find the blacksmith, and together resolved to get the last of this wretched story about Murchadh. What neither of them expected, was to find Cormac’s hay-bed empty and the blacksmith nowhere to be found.

Chapter VI:

A Failed Marriage

The road out of the Feywoods as they now knew them to be truly called, was a long one that stretched on for leagues without any seeming end, or so thought Indulf. Neglected as all roads in Caledonia had become, since the reign of Siomon, who had endeavoured to ensure that though the roads were not as impressive as Romalian ones, they were still functional. Or so Wulfnoth told them, as they walked along the road leaving the forest behind them, a touch of admiration in his voice as he spoke of the greatest of the MacCináed kings.

“There was a time, before the great wars that splintered our nation for nigh on a century when all of Caledonia was rich, was green and when the whole of the realm was united.” He had recounted to them with considerable cheer.

Cormac appeared fascinated, whereas Daegan took visible pride in this knowledge as though it were her own accomplishment rather than that of one of their ancestors’ kings. Trygve for his own part was sceptical.

Indulf did not doubt the accomplishment, what he did doubt was how golden the age might well have been. Indulf was of the view that the deed ought to be credited to the people, to the Caleds rather than that of the High-King, if only because the effort had necessitated thousands of labourers.

“Are you not a Brittian? Why take pride in the accomplishments of those who were your foes?” Indulf asked after a few minutes of gathering his courage.

“For centuries Norlion was caught between the fangs of the lion and the leopard,” Informed the cleric with a small if sad smile, “Some are more Caled than Brittian, and others more Brittian than Caled. My mother came from Norlion, though my father was a Jorvik-man, a carpenter of some renowned if I may say so. I had four elder brothers, and so was given over to the monastery, it was there that the abbot who was a Caled by the name of Lachlan. It was he who taught me much, of the ways of the Caleds and of we Brittians, and who imparted to me a desire to see the lands of those born in the lands of Caledonia.”

“This Lachlan sounds like a lovely man,” Daegan said with unusual femininity, a white-toothed smile on her lips.

Walking a short distance behind her and Cormac, who trailed to either side of the cleric, Indulf was not blind to the manner in which Cormac reddened at the sight of her smile.

Bemused, if he had had half as much boldness as his brother, he might well have let slip a teasing comment at Cormac’s expense.

“He indeed was, he has long since passed away,” Wulfnoth murmured sorrowfully, “He was as a father to me and passed to the same sweating plague that took away my two brothers and my parents. ‘Twas a sad year, though I take relief in the knowledge that they are with the Saviour in the realm of light of holy Orcus.”

“Likely growing fat now, so that he is not so lovely now,” Trygve said irreverently.

Cormac stifled a snort, and Daegan frowned with displeasure. She was never one to take matters of religion lightly. Indulf’s own feelings were somewhere between the blonder lad and the scarlet-haired lass, as he felt a small amount of disapproval tinged with wry amusement erupt within him.

Inga might well have snickered and chortled at Trygve’s jest, for all her faith she could be every bit as irreverent as the fisherman was.

The memory of the woman who ought to have been his wife, filled him with such grief that he had to repress the tears that came unbidden to his eyes. This had become such a regular occurrence that the son of Freygil had become accustomed to either wiping his eyes or forcing himself to snort and not think about his loss.

What he was also accustomed to, was a deep well of anger that at times tinted his vision with red and black at the thought of the phantom-riders. Such was the force of this desire for justice for the murder of his beloved that he oft trembled and shook. He would give anything to punish those monsters, for taking away the only person he had ever loved, so passionately.

Where once upon a time Indulf had prayed solely to Khnum and Turan, the former to aid with his needlework and to the latter for a happy marriage to Inga, and for her continued good-health, he now prayed to Ziu the war-god for courage and revenge.

*****

Two days after they had left the forest, it entered into Cormac’s spirit to ask in his eternally inquisitive manner (which both Inga and Indulf had always admired so), “Wulfnoth do you know of any songs, about our good High-King; he who first laid down this long road?”

“Aye I do, though my voice is nary so beautiful as those of others I have heard,” The cleric admitted in a rather sheepish voice.

“Bah, say the words and I shall sing them,” Daegan offered confident in her undeniably lovely voice.

“Very well,” Conceded the druid rather reluctantly.

“Twenty-three High-Kings hath ruled in Sgain’s wide keeps,

Each lived through sad-tales, for each fell to another’s hands,

Save for two they were men of advanced years yet youths in spirit,

Six were depos’d, Eight sword’d in the fields,

Eight more haunt’d by ghosts they hath slain,

All murder’d for the Thistle-Crown,

First came sword-bearing Causantín,

As a comet was pious Causantín,

Seven sons did he begat,

Bright was his sword, blue as the sea,

Seven times did he war in the south,

Upon Dún Brunde’s vast plains he left three of his suns,

Máel-Martin followed, wholly unlike the Wise,

None did wonder at him,

North he ventur’d to war, Lo! His light did thus dim,

Domnall III arose as a flame in westerly Luthain,

His brother Ringean Longstride arose,

Terror wert all fill’d by, and upon terror he throve,

As a flame the wolf-moon laird tore the Caleds apart,

Silver-steel upraised the three princes hew’d his wicked heart!

Twelve blood-moons more arrived hither,

They then left as the usurper and his slayers did,

Chief of the thrice men Achaius II with the heavy lid,

The heir of Máel-Martin did soon fall,

Next crowned was Duibh MacRingean of three score victories,

Unfilial the third-born of the Black-Mane hew’d in the Elvish halls,

Thirdly did the second of Ringean’s sons he of many miseries,

Domnall IV sweet-mien’d arose in fury,

Wintry snows dyed red pour’d upon all lands,

Silver-steel rain’d down west to east across all clans,

The third of Domnall III’s slayers swept the throne in glory,

Ketil Tyrant-Slayer arrayed in silver was thus crown’d,

Steel-girded, strong of arm as the oak that did so defy him,

Four-fold sons did he slay and two did unbound,

Dour Pàdraig grew weary of the good king’s smile,

Sword’d in Domnall’s halls thus he lay in his bile,

Of Pàdraig, from victory to defeat he did so choose,

And with it a son and crown did he lose,

Achaius III MacKetil king most foul,

Ere his fall from the northern haunted spire howl’d,

Baltair his brother hither came next his psalms well-sung,

fell from pious lips as leaves from ash-wood,

Strawthern hewed him, and the book to which he clung,

From high-Sgain arose Amlaib the Fat,

Lover of minstrels and bards, ne’er shy of combat,

Meret he did love, and her ballads he always sung,

His brother did hath him undone,

Amlaib three-Queen did run from glade to glade,

Ruddy cheeked he swore to never fade,

Envious Cináed II storm’d the sobbing man’s palace,

Many had been the balls that the queens enjoy’d,

Nary a one tittered then,

All did so dye his cloth scarlet,

Revelry return’d accompanied by three score famines,

Misty Highland peaks to Lowland lands wert filled with groans,

By Eirrik’s Highland-spire did he expire,

Blood-soaked and proudly did all sing by Dúntyre,

Bold-hearts and nodding Thistles wave o’er bloody corpses,

Deep-eyed in gore is the green Thistle rooted,

Triumphant in battle was Siomon the Bold,

Hark down through the glen,

There amidst hills gleaming bright as gold,

King of high endeavour,

King of shining rivers,

King of all hearts forever,

Alas drooping Thistles and lilies wave o’er his bloody tomb!

Away, away whither goes the Caleds again,

Shivering is the sea of steel in the field of swans,

For once more Máel-Martin sits the throne.”

“What a sad hymn, why sing of the kings when what we asked for was a road-song?” Trygve complained.

“You asked me to sing of Causantín, which I did,” Wulfnoth retorted petulantly, with a glower over his shoulder to the younger man who eyed him back with a hint of anger.

“What all of us wished to hear of was the road built by Causantín, not of the old man himself.”

“If all you wish to know about is the road beneath our feet, I recommend young man that you stop walking, drop to the ground and begin to press your nose upon it.” The druid instructed coldly, his patience running thin.

“Would you care for some ale, Brother Wulfnoth?” Indulf queried with a sigh, having noticed over the past several days of travel that the cleric always felt better with a bit of wine or ale in his belly.

“No, I should think not.”

“It will better your mood.”

This was how the argument always went, with Cormac occasionally attempting to underscore some wise point about the dangers of too much liquor. “A sober man is said, according to the Canticle to create a sober mind.”

“Aye, what is your point lad?” The druid inquired not guessing at the point that the youth was trying to hint at, as always. Wulfnoth could be at times dreadfully slow.

“Only that you ought to restrain your thirst for wine, from time to time,” Cormac advised.

The druid though hardly paid him any mind, preferring to drain the last of their ale, brought along from Glasvhail.

This won Indulf an exasperated glance from the younger lad, as though he were attempting to communicate that it was somehow his fault, rather than the druid’s own doing. The more timid of the two simply shrugged his shoulders in response, a touch of amusement entering his spirit at the thought that at that moment, the resemblance between Kenna and him was uncanny.

I do hope Kenna is alright, and is not too worried, Indulf thought to himself with a touch of pity for the poor seamstress. She was gruff and never very good at showing her true feelings, especially towards her easily distracted son but she did care. Or so he had observed over the years, having seen times when she had praised Cormac’s ability to set all their clients at ease, his ability to dream up new cloth-patterns where neither she nor her apprentice could have imagined them and even his kindliness. The difficulty was that after Murchadh had disappeared, she had become trapped between a strange desire to embody in herself, both the role of the mother and that of the father.

“Well I thought, it was a lovely song if rather sad,” Daegan said stoutly, before she added pompously to the bemusement of all the lads. “I think all men ought, to know songs that glorify our past kings.”

“Except this song was more about their shedding of one another’s blood,” Cormac muttered dryly.

“Aye, this hardly removes from the majesty of the deeds of Causantín and his son, the Thistle-King,” Daegan replied stoutly, “My father’s kin are related to kings, did you know?”

At this question there were several groans, notably from Cormac and Indulf, who for his own part noticed at once how his younger sibling did not join in. Trygve’s face appeared black with anger, he noticed when he glanced over to his left, stunned by this peculiar response to Daegan’s words he whispered to him.

“Trygve, is something the matter?”

“Nay,” Trygve grunted his eyes on the distant horizon, to the left of them which in the distance shined as the suns’ light bounced off of the Nurvrian Sea that separated the Misty-Isle from that of Bretwealda. “I was merely lost in my own thoughts.”

“Very well,” Indulf replied uncertainly.

“Dae, your father is not related to kings,” Cormac argued with a swift glance towards Trygve who would under other circumstances, at other times in the past be responsible for making this argument. Though a dreamer by nature, he was by no means a believer in Daegan’s far-flung theories regarding her royal connections.

“He is! He told me so, when I was but eight! He said that his mother, just before she passed was the cousin once removed of his Grace the High-King of Gallia.” Daegan boasted proudly, though it began with her arguing against him, by the time she finished speaking it became a boast as much in tone as in fact.

“I daresay lass, what you have there, is quite the impressive pedigree, where did you say your father came from?” Wulfnoth asked absent-mindedly, eyes on a different horizon from that of Trygve.

Daegan all but shone with glee at this remark. She stuck her tongue out at her friend, who turned away, “Forlarin.”

“Hmmm,” muttered the cleric hardly paying attention before he asked with a start a moment later, tearing his gaze from the distant dark clouds. “Forlarin? Do you mean Château-Forlarin?”

“You have heard of it?” The hope in Daegan’s voice was such that Indulf had never heard before.

In a way, it was the first she heard of the lands of her forefathers. It was a sentiment that Indulf could not possibly understand. His own grandfather had been a man who was a Northman, a former slave to be exact most believed. He had escaped when taken on a terrible raid, from the island of Antillia, whereupon he had fallen into hopeless love with a local woman, who was Indulf’s grandmother, Mairi. The old granny had told countless stories before her death thirteen years prior, to her grandchildren of the goodness of her husband Thorvain, who had fathered Freygil and his brothers upon her, many years ago. The only regret that she had mentioned the old man to have had, was how he had been forced to abandon his brother, Thurangil who had failed to escape.

He had spoken often of his regrets according to her and had on his death-bed claimed that their families would be reunited, and rightness would be restored. Or so Indulf had always been told by Salmon, Mairi and even his father Freygil, all of whom had been present when the old man perished to the terrible sweat-illness that had traversed the whole of the lands of Rothien at that time.

In the eyes of Indulf, there was thus little mystery to his own lineage. He was the grandson of a slave, and a corn-haired farmer’s daughter, Daegan though had no true family history. She was but a lass that had high ideas of what it meant to be great, and who loved songs of long lineages full of great deeds. Yet her past was a rootless one. One that on her mother’s side was a foggy thing comprised of ancestors who were all blacksmiths and fishermen. Whereas for the romantic lass, her father’s people represented a mystery, a romantic one which could give her, a similar claim to the glory that she knew the ancestors of the line of Achaius to have possessed.

Wulfnoth eyed her from the corner of his eyes, before he sighed, “I have trodden through the fields of the lands south of Vordréan, in the lands of Ouestria which lies in the western-most part of Gallia. It was in my youth, when I served the royal court of Brittia; I was tasked with the task of accompanying a royal embassy at first to Roven. From there, as the Duke of Norléans had left for the south, we embarked after him, the goal being to discuss with him the possibility of marrying King Eadgar II’s sister, Eadswith to the Duke.

However, he chose to snub us, with a marriage to another lass wherefore Eadswith fell in hopeless love with a man of the line of the Fordéron. The neighbours of this baronial family were the ones who hurried to the aid of the baronial family. The hero who fought to shield Eadswith and her lover, from the wrath of the royals and Duke; Maximilien de Forlarin known amongst those people as the ‘Indomitable’ or ‘Indomptable’ for having defied the Duke and even unhorsing the Duke himself.”

By the time that Wulfnoth took a long drought from the tankard, his companions were listening raptly. All filled with awe and amazement at what the man in question had observed.

“Was it glorious?” Daegan asked breathlessly.

“Have you been listening to nothing I have tried, to teach you?” Wulfnoth growled at her after he had wiped his mouth and fine moustache. “There is nothing glorious to be found in violence or battle!”

“Fool lass,” Trygve added venomously.

This last comment drew a disapproving glance from Indulf, “Now that was a tad uncalled for Trygve.”

The younger lad blew a bit of air out of the corner of his mouth, a malcontent gesture that he had not done since his early infancy. Indulf continued to eye him.

“This Maximilien, was he a laird or a Mormaer?” Daegan asked captivated by this talk, of her possible ancestors.

Her friend could already see how the wheels inside of her head were in the middle of turning. Where her friends continued to maintain a certain healthy amount of scepticism, about any possible link between her and Maximilien she was already utterly convinced that he was her forefather.

“I must caution you lass,” Wulfnoth warned once again, “The city of Forlarin was the largest in the county of that piece of land, where the ‘comte’ as the lord of the region is called, had somewhere between six and nine thousand souls. It is doubtful that he might misplace an heir or heiress of his.”

Daegan hardly appeared convinced by his words of caution. Confident of her place, in this mighty lineage there was no room for doubt in her soul.

Cormac for his own part cast his friend a thoughtful look. This last glance was the sort of gaze that as always, reminded Indulf of a thousand times in their childhood, when Daegan would boast, and Cormac would consider her words with the utmost seriousness. It was only ever the fisherman’s son who took her pretensions to nobility, quite seriously in spite of his doubt.

It was ridiculous to Indulf’s mind, though he said nothing wtih regards to this matter.

For a time, not a word more was uttered about Daegan’s possible ancestry or non-ancestry. Cormac lapsed back into his day-dreams, Indulf into his dreams of avenging Inga, Daegan of nobility and Trygve… who truly knew his mind as of late?

*****

“Mayhap,” Said Wulfnoth that night as they sat around a fire, in the middle of a long-field with the sea long since behind them. Seated atop a small hill that was half a kilometre high, with the great mound according to the cleric, a place of safety; one that had been a place of peace for centuries. “We may speak of what it was that Alette spoke to you of Cormac.”

The lad in question was in the middle of arranging some of the last fish that they had brought with them upon some sticks picked up just outside the Feywoods.

Startled, he looked up to study Wulfnoth, before he smiled genially. “Certainly, what is it exactly do you wish to hear of her?”

“Mayhap we would like to hear all that she told you,” Trygve said with a touch of peevishness.

Cormac stared him, just as Daegan and Indulf did. Swallowing a little, he smiled in his most disarming manner, “Very well, she told me mostly of how her people had settled into the woods thousands of years ago. That her father, was Roserius the Rose-King, who forged a strong friendship of sorts with Agrivolan the Battler, one of the chief Romalian generals who pushed as far north as Sgain. It was his forces if you recall who slew Sgain the Golem-Guardian of the Pech-tribes. Roserius forged a friendship with him after he agreed to leave the fey in peace in return for tribute. Centuries later, Alette was to fall in love with one of the last legionaires of Roma; Ciaran.”

“Of course, she sang it more than said so bluntly,” Wulfnoth guessed with a small chuckle.

“It appeared to me that they sang all that they uttered,” Indulf said pointedly.

“Very true,” Cormac conceded with a small shy smile, before he added, “I do not remember all the words of all her songs, for she sang such a great number of them to me.”

“Sing at least one of them,” Begged Daegan keen as always to hear him sing.

The lad demurred at first, whereupon Indulf added his own voice to her own, “Come now Cormac, there has been little joy in the past day.”

Cormac sighed, giving in when Wulfnoth prompted him also. Sucking in a breath, he sang in a clear voice if a shaking one a lovely song that none of them had ever heard before.

““Ho! Alette Rose-Wing! Alette Petal-Queen!

She of wind, willow and petals,

She of song, poetry and faith, harkens you to hear her song,

Alette was a very merry Queen,

Deep crimson were her cheeks and her slippers green,

As was her dress for her hope was to wed,

Ciaran was her love and joy, he with his hair most red,

Long they loved dance after they first met,

Hey ho! Lo! Dance all ye sweet wee ones,

For Ciaran the Oak has been stabbed by they of the green vale,

Long did we dance and he call for the nuns,

They did deny him and dance as he turn’d less hale,

Away, away went Alette’s joy,

All she may now do is dance and sing,

Lest she should weep for her lost king!

Ho! Alette Wind-Dancer calls ye to dance! Dance!”

When he had finished the song, all of his friends gazed at him for some time. The song was a lovely one, as was the tale.

“I have never heard this version of the tale of the fairy-Queen and Ciaran,” Said Indulf stunned, by the knowledge that the tale they were told in their childhood, had little truth to it.

“Neither did I though, there was truth in Alette’s eyes,” Cormac said soberly, his head bowed a little. “If only we could have asked Ciaran, his thoughts.”

“Bah, we have her word to stand against garbled words passed down and argued over, between the locals and Conn’s forefathers.” Wulfnoth said with a loud yawn, his moustache quivering as he spoke before he added. “If it had been written down, as all southern tales and those from Gallia have been as of late, we would be closer to the truth.”

Cormac said nothing, as an obstinate air settled about him. Daegan eyes gleaming greenly let loose a long breath before she pulled her cloak over her head. Trygve followed her example; the difference between the two Indulf noticed was that where her breathing was smooth the younger son of Ida’s breathing came out haltingly.

This worried him so that throughout his watch, he maintained an eye upon his brother. Once his turn as watch ended, he was awakened not Cormac but the druid to inform him of his concerns.

Wulfnoth heard his tale with weary eyes, and a stiffened expression. “Go rest now lad,” He advised before he tugged at his moustache between a large finger and thumb. “Put your mind at ease, and let me worry about your brother.”

*****

The journey southwards took them past a number of fields that were very apparently being cultivated. Indulf studied some of those who worked and toiled tirelessly with dull, weary eyes. They had been walking for so long thought the shy youth that his legs felt as though they were afire.

The song that Daegan sang that day was one about the hero Cormac, the hero who saved Caledonia during one of her darkest ages.

“This be Cormac’s tale,

Quiet in birth in that far vale,

Black shores welcom’d Elves,

Dark wore the foul ones,

Slack found they the Lairdly-Isle,

Hark sayeth they the most vile,

Years uncount’d pass’d whilst war ruled,

Corpses untold heap’d wither they annex’d,

Flowers withered in all fields,

Amongst both the corps and the reeds,

Paint’d all scarlet didst they with steel,

Vale to vale was red seen,

Wails wert shed by clean and unclean,

Short ran the plenty until famish’d,

More cry’d all who bled,

Vast travel’d was Neithan Oak-manstle,

Father to he who never didst rankle.”

To the end of her song, Trygve grumbled beneath his breath. By now accustomed to his increasingly poor mood, Indulf ignored him. Eyes on their surroundings, as people worked the fields or leading their sheep, pigs and cows all throughout the region which had veered away from the sea.

Where the people of Glasvhail had fenced in their lands, being a guarded folk who while friendly had firm views regarding property. The land they were currently traveling through had the one great road that cut through it, with the wheat, tomato, corn and barley fields to either side of it. It was one of the most idyllic visions he had ever seen as each field was a blend of green, gold and brown. With the smell of tree-sap and vegetables wafted over that it appeared almost as though they had left, the lands of the Caleds behind them, for those of the gods. The trees that also populated the land were grey, green and all grew high, tall though none were older than thirty or forty years of age. This was surely a sign of the difficult times that had predated the reign of even Mael-Martin, the grandfather of the current and previous monarchs. Though winter had dogged the land at their departure from Glasvhail, by now green had begun its inevitable advance. It had been a short winter, Indulf noticed and the signs were that it was to be yet another plentiful harvest this year. As the previous one had been, save this one may yet yield more than the previous year. The birch, ash and oak trees glimmered with sap, with the squirrels, chipmunks and other critters hurrying and between them, nuts in paws and tails held high as their heads.

Doubtlessly, as they observed the passing travelers they thought them might queer to be traveling in the direction of the south, given that none of them were from the local region. This was perhaps one reason they and all the cattle of the land of Ardrannaig as it was known, preferred to avoid them. The fact that they journeyed with a druid, only attracted even more curiosity and confusion. It was not simply the animals that inhabited many of the fields, or those fey that hid deep within every birch, ash, oak and cedar tree who stared curiously after them, but the people also.

The people who were in some cases tall, some stouter, all though were open-faced, in the case of the men bearded and wore rough-woollen tunics, trousers and were long of hair. The women for their part were dressed in rough dresses, which as in the case of the tunics of the men were green, brown, grey and red. Their hair was likewise long, and like many of the men who were thin, and tired, thus giving the newcomers the impression that not all was well in that locality.

What caught the attention of and held the attention of Cormac, was the sound of the well-fed dogs that raced about between the fields, chased the squirrels and chipmunks. Running free with their tails wagging, the canines coming in all sorts of colours from white, blonde, black and grey, all bright-eyed with the animals serving to irritate some of the locals though most were grateful for their presence, ere they might not have contained the rodents’ population or kept the cattle in line. Barking at the wanderers, they alone welcomed them to the locality, with genuine warmth something that brought a smile to the fisherman’s son. He might have wandered away, to pass amongst the dogs if it was not for Wulfnoth clearing his throat at him, irritably. Embarrassed the youth gave his friends a frustrated look that brought a small smile to Indulf’s face.

For many a years, the jest had circulated throughout Glasvhail that the reason Cormac was so beloved by dogs and he was so free with warmth, and curious by nature was due entirely to him being a dog in the shape of a man. A jest that even Indulf had uttered at times, with only Daegan frowning and disliking this jab at the lad she fancied so openly.

This place had no fences, so that it was not all idyllic according to the druid who informed them rather quietly. “This is the land known as Ardrannaig; the laird here is one of those lairds who serves’ MacDuibh most leally.”

“Is he violent?” Daegan asked curiously.

“He is a laird, so of course he is,” Trygve retorted shortly, as though it were the most apparent thing in the world.

“I would not be so quick to judge Trygve,” Cormac replied wisely, “You forget that even lairds are men, and just as all men may have a hint of avarice, and meanness in them. There is also a wisdom given unto men, by the gods especially by Tenjin the laird of wisdom.”

“Aye, but this is one of the MacDuibh’s men, and he stands against our good King,” Indulf countered staunchly, of a mind as most were in the lands of Glasvhail that the plentiful harvests, the peace that had ensued and the lack of plagues were reason enough to praise the High-King.

“Aye, but can men not agree and yet still both prove themselves to be good men? What if he dislikes him, out of loyalty to MacDuibh?” Cormac reasoned with an arched golden brow that was more an inquisitive gesture than any other.

This question bothered Indulf, so completely that he lapsed once more into his typical silence. Frightened that he might seem foolish once again, a part of him felt annoyed by how he had likely been made to appear a fool in Wulfnoth’s eyes. As the youth had come to begin to admire the cleric a great deal, so that he did not wish to seem less than his friend, in his eyes.

“Any who fail to support their proper laird, are hardly worthy of our respect,” Daegan sneered sharply.

“I would not judge so quickly,” Wulfnoth cautioned, before he added, “I have seen many a great evil men served by those of good and good men served by wicked ones. One could say as the Elves are wont to do; judge not a man by his liege, but by his own wits and deeds.”

“Elves? You have met Elves?” The awe in Indulf’s voice was now so apparent and patent that Trygve sent him an embarrassed, glance as though he were a credulous, idiotic child.

“Why yes,” Now it was that Wulfnoth grew a touch red at the edges, a reaction that had only ever been seen when he had drunk too much. His eyes shone with joy at the memory.

“Did you see their homes?” This time it was Cormac who asked, the question that was burning upon the lips of him and his mother’s pupil.

“Nay, not if by that you mean their distant kingdoms, however I have seen several of their ranks and conversed with several of their scholars, clerics and astronomers,” Admitted the cleric.

“Were they magnificent?”

“Aye, aye and beautiful also! So very, very beautiful so that the fey of the Feywoods were as hideous Ogres in comparison to them.” The druid whispered, as he pulled at his moustache only to twirl the left-most edge of it around his fingers distractedly. “Alas, there remain precious few left in the lands of North-Agenor, or on the isles of Bretwealda.”

There was a long mournful silence that followed. Ere long they mourned and wept in their hearts for this terrible travesty. For the Elves was the elder-race, the old folk who had built great states and resisted long before the age of men, the forces of darkness and evil.

The suns were in the sky though, shining down upon them with such brimful intensity that it was difficult to stay morose and miserable. This along with the barking and howling of the dogs, the sight of the friendly if timid waves that the locals signalled towards them helped to further awaken the good humour of the travelers.

A gaggle of children raced hither from one of the many hovels of thatch, mud and wood that the peasants lived in, chasing and playing with the dogs as they did so. Too young to work the fields in some cases, they were thus allowed to race along freely as only the most wilder of spirits are wont to do. Not a care in their hearts, for the many sorrows of the world.

The sight of them failed to uplift Indulf’s distracted spirits, as he thought of his old dreams of seeing an Elf, late nights staring up at the heavens with Inga by his side. They had both loved the stars so, so that they often took to star-gazing together in her family’s fields.

*****

Late one night, they stared up and traced together the images in the heavens of Cormac the Hero who fought the Erde-Wyrm (a wingless-dragon) by the name of Gralchayachus for possession of the Stone of Destiny. Achaius the Warrior-King, who rallied the divided peoples of Caledonia together along with some of those of Norwend to the north of the Caled kingdom, and brought them overseas to fight by Aemiliemagne, the Emperor’s side. The starry-image of him was of his fateful battle with the Dark Elf general Morrion the Wicked, who fell to his great-axe. These along with the image of the Thistle-King, Siomon’s marriage to Marthe of Gallia, whom he was said to have fallen in love with, from the moment she stepped down from the great-ship that had carried her to Sgain.

These were but some of the tales passed down to the children, with Salmon being the one who had passed down this knowledge, claiming as he did so at the time that the; “The stars change often, doing so according to the gods’ whims and whenever there has been a great or majestic deed done.”

Inga at the time of the night in question had remarked, to him with a wide smile, “They say that the stars are different upon the Continent!” He did not answer at once, being uncertain of how to best respond, for he had never heard of that. When she saw his uncertainty, she clarified, “I heard so from Corin, who said that the stars in his lands form the shapes of Aemiliemagne, with some of the deeds including Roland blowing into his mighty war-horn and Norbert the Intrepid battle with the dragon that took his life, and even Éluan the Golden’s defeat of the fire-wyrm Mydan.”

She had spoken at that moment of Roland and Norbert the Paladins, and of the descendant of Aemiliemagne, Éluan the Golden-King, greatest of the line of the great Emperor with such familiarity that he had chortled a little. Teasing her lightly, he had pulled her close to him, “When did you become a scholar?”

“O do not tease me so Indulf, for you know I have always been the finest scholar in Glasvhail,” She had jested only to add with a snigger, “Save perhaps Cormac.”

“Save Cormac,” He had agreed with a touch more seriousness.

This had spurred her to giggle a touch more, before she became serious once more also, it was as they stared once more upon the great star-formations that she had murmured. “If the stars form such different shapes, in Gallia what sort do you think they form in the lands of South-Agenor, or over in the Elvish lands far beyond the eastern mountains of Magyon?”

“I do not know.”

“What of the songs of old of the old hound Féavonoé and the Elf-prince? Or the songs of the Elf-bard who wed the lady of the Zulvrain,” Inga had burst out, with glittering blue eyes which were always laughing joyously and filled with love every moment they settled upon him. This had never failed to make his heart beat fast, his cheeks redden and yet it had always filled him with peace, with joy. Their shared interest in Elf-songs was something discouraged by most in Glasvhail and doubtlessly Kenna or Freygil would have frowned upon it. However, some such as Corin, the Salmon and Ida were always keen to share what they had heard or knew of, with the younger generation.

“What of the song of the love between the Elf-prince and the Rose-King’s daughter?” This was a favourite of his that Corin had sung long ago, when he was very young to Olith, Daegan’s gentle mother.

Inga had sighed, and after she had teased him for being so romantic, had lain her head upon his shoulder with a murmur,” I would like just once to meet one of the elder-folk. To wear one of their dresses, and sing amongst them alongside Dae and you.”

*****

Thus, was his dream to one day meet an Elf, it was one that neither of them had ever spoken of to anyone. It had been their secret. The love for the stars and the dream of one day meeting an Elf, to hear more of their songs and to know them better was a private thing. It was the sort of secret others might not have understood, and so it was for this reason that Indulf was so keen to hear more of Wulfnoth’s knowledge of them.

He felt that Inga would have asked, it was for this reason he cast aside his shyness, “When did you hear these songs and meet these Elves?”

Wulfnoth answered him at once, “It was in my youth, at the time of my visit to the Duke of Norléans’s court. The Elves in question were of the Valdor, the mightiest in arms of their race and amongst the wisest, there was a group of them that had agreed to aid the High-King of Gallia in negotiating between them, the Temple, the Duke and the Order of Auguria. It was a momentous occasion, though I did not stay for the whole of the negotiations at Lynette.”

“Why not? Were you not curious?” Cormac asked stunned by this admission.

“I was, however I had made the mistake of offending the Duke, and feared him so. I know now that I should have been braver, should not have accepted Archdruid Félix’s counsel to return to Brittia, and should have remained in Fordéron.” Wulfnoth murmured sorrowfully, regret brimming in his eyes.

Thoughts of the Elves faded, just as the discussion of the fey had before them. Discussion now turned towards the joy of the beautiful land to which the Caleds belonged to. The children raced amongst them just as the dogs did.

It happened that when the canines hurried over to Cormac’s side, Indulf shrunk away from them as he was uncertain of them, due to their size. He had never much liked larger dogs, as they could be fierce as wolves and he still recalled being bitten by one when he was but six. Trygve for his part was given a wide berth by the dogs, for some reason. At the moment he was hardly dark in face and mood, rather he appeared distracted by his own thoughts and appeared utterly weary.

These children, whom varied in appearance as they did in race; all the humans had fair skin, with hair that varied from flaxen, brown, black and red. Whereas the Tigrun, Minotaur, Ratvian and Wolframs were varied in fur-colours and hair most of which were the same colours as those of the human children. Only the Minotaurs uniformly, had brown fur or beige fur in some odd cases, mostly those of the lasses, not that the infants appeared to notice these differences. Caught up as they were with chasing the dogs or with halting the travelers to ask them, a great many questions; the children paid no mind to their mud-splattered appearances or the concerned glances of their protective parents.

Most gravitated towards Wulfnoth and Daegan. One or two approached Indulf, who responded a touch more freely to their manifold questions. A shy young man, he was strangely more at ease in their company than he was with people his own age or older than him.

“Where have you come from?”

“Why have you come, to Ardrannaig?”

“Where are you headed?”

These questions and more were asked of all the members of their troupe (save for Trygve). Cormac preferred to shrink away, pretending that he heard none of their questions by paying added attention to the dogs, which all licked his face, hands and even his clothes. Whilst the dogs sniffed and wagged their tails at him, the infants rapidly lost interest in him.

Why bother paying attention to one who has so little interest in you, when there was a druid and young fire-haired lass who both revelled in the attention the children gave them.

“We have come from far to the north, to the southron lands to defeat evil,” Daegan boasted ever keen to appear nobler than she truly was.

Her words though were not wholly untrue or so thought Indulf though he did tease her in regards to them. “Aye, though we have also come in order to evade questions regarding the burning of a certain forge.”

“Something that a wicked phantom did,” Wulfnoth was swift to add.

The children let slip many ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ at this clarification, which prompted the druid to beam at them. A man who deeply loved to be admired, and who adored children, he for this reason exulted in the attention he was the recipient of at that moment.

Children being children, they believed without almost any doubt, though one Wolfram child quirked a dark brow at him asking as he did so, “Who chased away the phantom, you?”

“Er-hem,” Coughed the druid who appeared a touch crestfallen at the question, aware as he was that he had had little to do, with the defeat of the dark-rider.

“It was I,” Boasted Daegan to the amazement of all the children, throwing back her cloak a little so as to show to all the pommel of the sword girded on her waist. “This I did with the assistance of my fair father, forged by many a hands it so frightened the phantom-riders that they could hardly resist us!”

“‘Riders’?” Teased Indulf almost at once, “It appears that there were far more than, I was initially led to believe, Dae, it must have been quite the battle.”

The sarcasm in his voice as always went unnoticed by the lass, in the midst of behaving herself as a true-born braggart. The tale she told involved not one phantom-rider, by now she had grown it into an unfixed number. By the morn’ her friend predicted that it might well grow thrice more, to somewhere approximating between nine and a dozen riders.

“Aye, for there were twain as many, as you may realize it Indulf,” She said carried away as always by her own rhetoric, what was more was that he divined that she likely believed this to be the case (as always).

“But wait Dae, there was but one,” Cormac said flabbergasted by her very evident lie.

“Falsehood is a sin,” Wulfnoth echoed marvelling at the profoundness of her falsehood and egotism.

“Bah, what would either of you know?” She demanded irritated by their attempts to rein in her bravado.

“Aye, what could you lot possibly know?” Indulf echoed with a small smile, and a wink to the children that caused many a giggles to ensue.

In this way, he had neutered her arguments so that no longer was she wholly believed by all. Only the most imaginative of the infants or the most obstinate might cling to Daegan’s version of what had taken place.

His brow knitted together, Cormac did not take his hint only to be elbowed in the side by his friend which drew a wounded, confused glance from the younger lad. Wherefore he chewed upon his lower lip, then a nail before he turned his attention back to the dogs that continued to whine and sniff at him.

It was Trygve though, who urged them on, gaze as always faraway. His impatience combined with the calls of the parents to play elsewhere or to return home, had the desired effect of dispersing the crowd of nigh one score children.

The dogs were slightly less easily dispersed though they did eventually hurry away (if reluctantly), with Cormac gazing after them with visible longing in his eyes.

*****

The castle of Ardrandun arose in the distance seemingly out of nowhere, with Daegan the first to notice its sudden intrusion upon the horizon. The fortress was a stone-keep built upon a large man-made hill that had a palisade that encircled it just behind a well-dug six meter deep ditch. The palisade itself was made from cedar and birch wood and was seven meters high. Ardrandun’s fort though was not only shielded by this wooden palisade, but by a second higher on the ‘mount’. This second wall was a stone one that separated the fortress itself from the temple, the guards’ house and the second temple. The stone wall was a hastily built building that shielded the wooden-fort that was itself twelve meters high. The dungeon was high and wide, with three cone roofs atop three towers directly connected to it.

The temples for their own part were both approximately five meters high and twenty long and wide. Both built of birch and cedar wood, one had the carved, white statue of Orcus with his high-crown, thick beard and long hair, dressed in royal robes and offering sprig. Where the other temple was one dedicated to the war-god Ziu. His symbol of the flaming sword, was carved into the wall just above the door just as that of Orcus loomed over his temple doors.

This imposing building was just to the right of the right they were walking upon, with a small market brimming with life at the foot of the hill’s fort, just outside the palisades. It was there that cloth merchants, cattle-traders, fruit-merchants and wine-sellers had set up their stalls. Some of the stalls they could see were empty, evidence that those responsible for the utilisation of those stalls were absent and preoccupied elsewhere with their work.

There were perhaps a dozen stalls, with twice that number of people out in force. All puzzling over, examining and bartering for goods or arguing loudly over their value.

In the open-aired Glasvhail, there were no designate places to trade, as everyone went over to the home of he, or she who had such and such good, or commodity. The laird ruled certainly, but faraway and his tithes were played by the whole of the village, with the process of gathering the said tithe overseen by Conn. A poor merchant due in no small part to his gullibility and his wife’s innate sweetness, he had time and again all knew, inadvertently several times a year cheated Badrách of his share. Hardly an attentive laird, Badrách had never truly taken much interest in the doings of his outlying villages, so long as those closer to his center of power supplied the difference.

This state of affairs was common-knowledge amongst his subjects, and some of his neighbouring lairds. It was evident at first glance that where Badrách had failed to properly maintain a steady hand upon his estates, the laird of Ardrannaig had not failed so utterly.

“Quite the market,” Wulfnoth observed quietly.

“Aye,” Daegan noted only to observe, “It appears that the guards are observing all who approach and depart.”

“Hm-hmm,” Wulfnoth mumbled with one of his usual peculiar noises that he oft did in answer when he agreed with someone. “I daresay that they are a tad too guarded.”

“A worthy pun if ever there was one,” Trygve complimented his sour mood disappearing if briefly so, due to his eternal love for such jests.

“Pardon?” The druid asked dumbly.

“Pah, guards or no, I wish to fetch a new dress and some fresh food,” Daegan decided suddenly.

“Now wait one minute, young lady we shan’t tarry for something as unimportant as a dress, not when we might trade for one slightly farther south.” Wulfnoth objected immediately, a look of startled bewilderment on his plump face.

His loud protests proved ineffectual though, as all attempts to restrain the red-haired lass tended to be. Breaking away from them, she leapt and ran over from the road before one of the stalls, of a particularly thin-looking Minotaur-woman who was offering up dresses and tunics. Her brown eyes lit up at the sight of Daegan, who began to examine one of the green dresses with yellow-trimmed spiral-knot so popular across the Gertruan straits in Ériu. The beauty of the needlework was breathtaking, so that it was difficult to believe that the large fingers of a Minotaur could have woven it.

The brown-haired cow-woman smiled widely her blunted teeth, showing as she pointed the younger woman to another dress, then to a bonnet.

“We must hurry away, I should think,” Wulfnoth persisted only to be waved away by the Corin’s daughter.

“Aye, how much coin do you have? I only have a few silver-thistles,” Daegan confessed to him, as the woman of her father’s house it was often her duty to manage the physical material wealth of the house. For this reason, the satchel with the few coins they had owned was kept in her possession.

The thistle-coins were the finest coins minted in Caledonia, with the bronze-thistle equivalent to the value of a gold-lion coin. The lion-coins were produced decades prior and had suffered from continuous devaluation, with there being less and less gold, silver and bronze put into them until they had lost almost all value. The thistle-coins invented by Siomon to regulate the problem nigh on a century ago, was minted on a smaller scale and was originally purer. Over the decades after his murder, they had been devalued however not to the same extent, with the High-King Mael Bethad keen to restore their original value.

“You have silver-thistles?” Wulfnoth gasped in amazement.

Even Indulf stared in surprise, as he had not thought to bring that much coin with him, not that he had ever had so much as five silver-thistles. Five of them were a veritable fortune, worth five-thousand gold lions or five hundred bronze-thistles. “How did you gain such a fortune?”

“I have ten silver-thistles, given to my safe-keeping by papa, and twenty bronze-thistles also,” Daegan boasted quietly to them pulling away from the stall to do so. Not being foolish enough to tempt the Minotaur’s greed with this revelation. She was still herself though, and could not resist taunting them over her self-perceived superiority, “Do not tell me that you have left all your wealth behind you?”

“Oh, I have retained mine though I am not certain that one can price wits, along with one’s talents as a labourer and workers in the same manner that others might coin.” Trygve replied to her, with Daegan snorting bemusedly convinced that he had just insulted himself.

“I have a few bronze lions,” Indulf admitted.

“I have nothing,” Cormac said airily, his gaze wandering towards the meat-vendor and the delicious scent that wafted over from his stall four meters away to the left of them. “Say Dae, do you think we could buy some mutton?”

“Nay! This wealth is for my dress, as my current one is torn and filthy,” She rejected at once.

“But you already have your silken one.”

“I left that one behind in Glasvhail, it is ridiculous to think I would bring a dress made of silk onto the road,” The blacksmith’s daughter said scornfully.

Cormac pouted, his stomach rumbling so loudly that Indulf felt a touch of irritation rise up in his own heart towards his friend. They had precious little food left, which meant that they would need to buy tools to hunt with; such as a bow and arrows, rather than wasting the coin upon already cooked mutton.

Wulfnoth maintained one eye upon the guards, who stood a short distance from the stalls. One of them soon vanished up past the open gates and up the hill, though the youths hardly paid them any mind. This matter would later prove a decisive role in this tale, though the four of them remained firmly ignorant of this fact for the moment.

“Hurry lass, pay for your dress already,” The druid urged.

“One moment,” She huffed determined to take as long as necessary, counting her coins with deliberate care. “I will offer four bronze-thistles for the green dress.”

“Four?! Outrageous! It took me six weeks to sew this dress together,” The Minotaur objected with practiced skill, her people being every bit the sort of merchants Daegan herself was. “I say fifteen.”

“Fifteen is far, far too much,” Daegan argued at once, scandalised. “If it took you six weeks, you must not be particularly talented.”

This angered the cow-woman who turned slightly redder, or at least her beige fur appeared to, to the best of its capability, “I am the finest seamstress in all of Rothien!”

“Pah, pah that is my auntie Kenna’s honour; your dress is good but nowhere near the quality of her needlework.”

“Then why not wear one of her dresses?”

This went on for some time, until most of the men began to grow impatient. Cormac wandered away a short-distance, losing what little interest he had in the conversation, Trygve glowered at the back of the lass’ head, and Indulf followed his example.

Wulfnoth at last intervened with an expression of thunderous anger, “Cease this meaningless barter at once! We have lost hours of travel all to your folly now hurry along!”

So saying, he grabbed her by the wrist pulling her after him in a huff. Daegan protested loudly at this shoddy treatment of her. As he passed Cormac, he seized the lad who had been salivating over a hunk of mutton that the butcher was tempting him with, a confident smirk on his face. His expression rapidly turned into an outraged glare towards the druid, annoyed as he was certain that the cleric had just robbed him of a certain sale.

Neither of the two whose wrists Wulfnoth had seized offered much more than protests, neither of them being particularly happy with his actions.

For their part, the sons of Freygil and Ida exchanged an exasperated glance, before they bade a hurried farewell to the Minotaur-seamstress who appeared perturbed that her own sale had not gone half as well as she had hoped, before they raced after their friends.

*****

The inn that Wulfnoth found more than three leagues away from castle Ardrandun, was one that they reached after several hours more of walking. Or in his case, stomping down the road his face scarlet with fury.

At first Daegan had suggested that they try still to find a temple to stay at, as temples and monasteries were prone to offering a single-night and morn’s meal along with a place in the principal hall to sleep in. This would have been the more economic solution to the issue of where to sleep. Ignoring her, the cleric preferred that they should stay in the stables and upon the hay which pulled Trygve and Cormac at once into the realm of dreams.

The stars twinkled high above them, the wind drifting past all the trees, blades of grass along with the flowers so that they did not feel too left out. Unable to see the stars, due to the tightness with which the wooden roof was wound together, this worsened Indulf’s mood as he loved to keep late hours.

It had not rained in some time he noted ignoring the argument between Daegan and Wulfnoth. Both of them hardly showing any care for their companions’ need for rest. Irritated by the back and forth argument, which was about dresses, hay and somehow bull-horns. Quite how they reached this last difference between one another was a mystery to him.

Weary beyond words, the last thought he had before he drifted off, was to worry about the halting breathing of Trygve. Always an energetic youth, the youngest of Ida’s sons sounded as he slept weak and elderly, with his brother determined to find a solution to what ailed him in the morn’.

His dreams though were strangely filled with the sound of steel ringing, and of the wind. The feeling of which served only to comfort him, so that Indulf felt at peace for the first time since Inga’s death. As though summoned by his thoughts, she appeared to him, in the wind. Not to scold him, nor as a memory but to take up his hand with that so sweet smile of hers.

It was then that he awoke with tears in his vision, moved.

*****

“Indulf! Indulf! Wake up you fool!” Trygve shouted in a panic, shaking him awake with such force that he struck his head upon the ground beneath him.

“I’faith, what is it Trygve?” Indulf said in a fussing voice, unhappy to have been awoken so suddenly blinking up at his brother.

“Daegan has been taken away!” The other lad all but screamed into his face.

The realisation that the sole lass of their troupe was missing woke him up in an instant. Rubbing at his face he rounded upon Cormac who was in the midst of blinking his own eyes, sleepily. Confused by the agitated air that now haunted the whole of the stable, as much by how Wulfnoth could continue to snore loudly without any awareness that trouble was afoot.

“What is it that has happened?” Cormac asked bewildered, running a hand through his blonde hair to smooth out the jagged edges of it, and remove some of the hay caught up in his locks. His eyes turned round as saucers, the moment he took notice of the absence of Daegan faster than any other person, could so much as utter a single word. “Where has Dae gone?”

“Where has the day gone indeed,” Trygve queried sardonically. His friend did not take notice of this at once, looking about he appeared on the verge of panic. “It is not the sole thing that is missing; the Blood-Gem has disappeared.”

His bare neck attracted now the attention, of the other two lads. They all exchanged worried looks, before Indulf asked of them, “Shall we awaken Wulfnoth now?”

“How?” Trygve asked, “I have tried to do so prior to you.”

“We may require his aid, should the phantom-riders appear,” Indulf attempted to insist, resolved to maintain the importance of this key point.

“Let us be away now, mayhap we could rescue Dae long before Wulfnoth awakens,” Cormac countered throwing himself out of the stable-door. Worried by the foolish comportment on the part of their friend, both of them gave chase a heartbeat later. It was only as he came to a stop outside of the inn that the youngest of the trio paused to ask them, rather thickly. “Erm, would either of you happen to know where Dae was taken to?”

“There appears to be someone carrying a torch down the road, from whence we came,” Indulf informed him pointing back down the road where they had indeed hurried down from.

The three of them raced after the torch-bearing figure. Who must have seen them hurrying after him, whereupon he raced along away. The wind was chilly Indulf noted, absently as he ran quick as thunder though this did not appear enough to diminish the distance between them and Daegan’s kidnapper.

The torch flame danced and twirled as though it were teasing the trio, with its elusiveness. It defied the ongoing frost that continued to hold some sway over the land, the crack of the thawing ice and snow beneath their boots was as loud as the boom of lightning, or the roar of a lion. A lion that might well have lent its mane to Cormac, so fierce did he appear then, so swift did he run and so scarlet was his anger.

The torch turned away from the road, towards one of the small temples that lay off the road and that stood between the inn and the fort of Ardrandun. This temple was one dedicated to the goddess Turan, so that it bore her rose-symbol above the door with the building itself ten meters high and fifteen wide and long. Somewhat more circular than other temples, it was ring-shaped and was a place of peace where marriages were celebrated. The temple had been built with cedar wood beautifully trimmed, taken from the local forest to the north of the locality, almost a century ago.

By the time that the trio neared the temple, it was to discover a number of other torches in place. The knowledge that there was more than one man present herewith Daegan’s captor stunned the three of them. All of them struck dumb, they thus had no ability to guess who in that instant in time, could have command of more than a dozen men and to have gathered them all in one place.

For a long time they stared, and for longer they caught their breaths all of them breathless as their eyes adjusted to the darkness that the torches of their friend’s kidnapper hardly seemed able to fend. So deep did the darkness appear to penetrate the land that Freygil, their father might well have complained that Balðr’s light could hardly have hounded away this miserable night.

“There appears to be a large number of them,” Trygve whispered fearfully, to his friends.

This fact did not go unnoticed by those opposite them who guarded the doors to the temple. Several of the guards were visible enough for the three of them to observe that swords and daggers had been removed from their scabbards.

Nervous, Trygve swallowed audibly at the sight of the large, muscular figures who all menaced them with sneers on their faces. The wind beat against each of their faces, with Indulf turning his gaze away from it to protect his eyes which drifted upwards noticing how the clouds had drifted together to blot out the stars.

“We shan’t fight them,” Cormac said with some heat in his voice.

“But, we cannot simply give up Daegan to him,” Indulf persisted.

“We are not going to simply give up,” The blonde youth turned away making as though to flee from the guards who hooted, laughed and cheered at the sight of them fleeing.

The trio were to move off the road from there, the moss and snow crunched under their feet as they veered away from those who had assisted in the kidnapping of Corin’s only daughter. Once well out of sight and they could no longer be heard, by the guards who were present before the door of the temple.

“What do you have in mind, Cormac?” Trygve queried worriedly, shivering he pulled his cloak more tightly around him.

Cormac thought for some time.

They waited until he was prepared to speak. Sly as Trygve’s tongue could be, and fierce as Indulf was, they both knew the dreamer to be cleverer than they.

It was as he stared over to the east that he at last made a decision, “We must examine the posterior of the temple.”

This appeared to the rest of them a wise prelude to a proper plan. Their faith in their friend, who had always led them in certain of their games, as children they approached the temple with many a furtive glances towards the front of the temple. Apprehension dogged them with every step, with Cormac the first to kneel down to examine the cedar which the snow had been pressed against but several weeks ago.

“Hurry, Cormac.” Trygve murmured urgently.

The other lad nodded, pressing his fingers against the wood. A moment passed as he pressed his hand more firmly against it once more. It was then that he pulled at the wood, with some of it coming away in his hand.

This collection of slivers he showed to his friends, whereon he removed from one of his satchels a small knife to claw at the wood. The two older lads, who stood to either side of him, exchanged a startled look uncomprehending, until they began to see a small hole growing where he stabbed.

Indulf gasped at the effect and rapidity that Cormac’s actions were already having upon the soggy, wet wood of the temple of Turan.

Throwing himself to the ground, with his own dagger which he had brought also for the purpose of skinning any animals that they caught, Indulf began to assist him in cutting at the wall. Pulling, clawing and cutting they worked laboriously, at the wall in a desperate attempt to reach the temple-hall. His knees touched some of the snow, which soaked his hose and worsened the cold that enveloped him, shooting him into him from his legs and back where the wind struck him.

“This is sacrilegious,” Trygve whispered anxiously.

“Do be quiet, and keep watch out for those brutes,” Cormac hissed back at him, with a glower over his shoulder at his darker haired friend.

Trygve grumbled under his breath, yet did as bidden.

The noise they made was miniscule, though it seemed to Indulf’s ears that his breath came in pants and hisses that were every bit as obnoxious as the crashing of the sea upon the promontory. All of a sudden he was seized by the surreal nature of what it was that he was doing; he was out upon a great quest, in the midst of knifing at soggy wood to sneak into a temple where just a week prior he was curled up in his bed, in his home.

Life certainly is strange, he noted philosophically to himself, feeling strangely detached at that moment from what was happening. Working mechanically, ignoring the slivers that slipped into his flesh, the pain that arose from suckling and pulling them out and the growing ache in his arms. The agony came upon him suddenly, not similarly from when sleep fell away as wakefulness come upon a slumbering man or dog. It arose first in his right arm, then in his left one as the former was crucial in tunnelling into the building where the latter was used to extract the wood before them.

“I have never heard of a hero digging through a temple, to save a damsel,” Complained Trygve in frustration.

“I have.”

“Really? Do tell Indulf.”

“There is that one of Wodin I think it was who bore through a mountain in the shape of a worm, to save some sort of lass and wine of some sort.” Indulf said recalling one of the tales told to him, in his childhood when Trygve was but a year old and he himself was three. It was Mairi who had told him the tale, claiming that it was one that his grandfather had told her. It was apparently her favourite.

For the first time in years, a new hole arose in his heart, as he thought of his grandmother. She had been so sweet, so genial just like Inga!

His mind was pulled from his sorrow and regrets, by his brother remarking, “Really What a peculiar story, who told you that one?”

“Mhamó,” He replied stoutly. The term meant ‘grandmother’ in the Érian tongue, from which their mother’s folk were said to have come from, and was their term for old Mairi.

Trygve fell quiet once more.

The awkward silence was not, as all those induced by his brother who had no great love for the quiet. He trembled and shook, and snorted unwillingly against the cold that assailed him mercilessly.

“I fear that I have just heard one of them moving about,” Trygve warned moving from foot to foot.

The soft wood before him, his face now pressed forward beneath a portion of the wall of the temple. Cormac with all the stubbornness of a terrier-dog or bull-dog, cared little how blunted his skinning knife became, how jagged some of the wood was becoming. Not that this seemed matter, as the wood had become soft and brittle Indulf noted in amazement.

“Then do hurry to see whether they intend to circle about, here or not.” Cormac growled back at him furiously.

Trygve let slip an angry sigh before he hurried over to stick his nose around the corner of the temple to stare out towards the front. The breeze flowed once more against them, pressing their soaked clothes against them all the more. Shivering it was with a small start that Indulf took notice of how they could now hear several voices, from within the temple.

It was apparent that there was an argument taking place (a heated one), as Daegan’s voice, an old woman and another one. They all spoke at the same time, shouting over one another with increasing heat and anger.

“We are almost there… somehow,” Indulf uttered shocked not only by their good fortune but by the question of how Cormac could have known that the wood would be brittle, near the earth when the snow had already melted from near it since at least a day or so ago.

Away did the brittle wood go, forward went the circle and to them came the profound satisfaction of victory! Obstinacy rewarded with the sight of the back of the altar and the feet of the painted wood of the foot of the statue of Turan the goddess of love. A statue that had pink slippers painted onto its feet, under the red dress that she was sometimes depicted with. As to the altar, it was a simple slab of cedar wood (a sacred material to the good goddess), which had a white satin frequently thrown over it. This one though, was a poorer temple and thus did not have satin thrown over the altar but rather a simple white woollen cloth so stained and old, as to appear grey where it had not been chewed quite thoroughly upon by local moths.

Aghast at the poor condition of the altar, as much as by the poor state of the temple, Indulf almost pulled back from the large hole they had carved into it. Recalling the importance of their self-appointed task, he was however a touch disturbed to see Cormac almost toss himself thither into the temple in a sudden burst of impatience.

It was therefore hardly any surprise to his friend that he struck his head with all the force of a battering ram, upon a castle-gate. A cry of pain erupted from his slack lips, despite his best efforts to control himself and Indulf’s whispered ‘tush Cormac!’ that went unheeded.

To one side Trygve warned him, “One of them is coming this way!”

“What?” Asked Indulf bewildered, with his head still in the hole, pressed against the back of his friend’s knee only to raise it, striking it against the brittle wood and have the annoyance of having soft threads of cedar tangle themselves into his sandy-hair.

The flaxen-haired youth before him though was pulled away just as Indulf felt something or rather someone grips him by the leg. At first he attempted to pull away, however he was swiftly disabused that he had any choice in the matter, when the grip tightened and he was pulled back whence he had come.

Tossed into the nearby snow which had all the hardness and toughness to it that all slush-water has, Indulf stared up at the high-heavens for a moment. Startled to find the suns at the start of their mighty and highly glorious ascent to the summit of the heavens, the lad from Glasvhail wondered as he tore his gaze from the pink and orange skies to focus it upon the lumbering brute above him. The man was brown-bearded, long-haired and all muscle his sword was still thankfully in its scabbard he noticed his relief short-lived as the man grabbed him roughly by his tunic.

“And who are you, lad?” Demanded the warrior pulling him onto his feet, wherefore the youth took a gander to the right of him where his brother should have been.

The spot that had been occupied by the other lad was barren. No fuller than how his brother felt at that moment, not that this sense of emptiness and horror lasted for long. Sorrow filled him, and it was almost at once replaced by a feeling of fear the longer the brutish man glowered at him.

“Who be ye?” He asked once more, his breath stinking of fish which made Indulf gag.

“I be the cloth-maker, the fey-dancer and he who has lost that which all men hold above all else in their lives save for their ancestors and infants!” Indulf hissed back at him, his hands coming to rest upon the larger ones of the man, who was a good foot and a half taller than him.

The slow wits of the man who now held firm his gaze, the fierce anger behind those eyes served only to arouse his own from its slumber.

Hardly intimidated by the younger man’s glower, the stout warrior moved his hands ever so slightly to grip him now more by the throat in a gesture intended to choke out the truth from him. “Enough of such word-play, who are you? And why are you digging into the temple?”

Indulf was saved from having to answer by the peculiar sight of his brother standing atop the flat, rounded roof of the temple. Gaping, he might almost have warned the other man, almost by instinct were it not for the sudden motion on the part of Trygve acting faster than either man could have moved or acted.

A strong youth, who had since they were young, participated more frequently in physical labour than the older one. A fisherman who adored swimming as all folks of Glasvhail did, Trygve could thus toss the discus farther than he.

The large hunk of wood struck and bounced off of the head of the guard who cried out quite mightily. His scream cut through the dawn-air with such swiftness, such brutality that many were the souls who quaked and quavered at the sound of.

Not the least of which was Indulf, who had been dropped as the man who had held him up dropped him now. Falling onto his posterior, soaking it in the snow-slush with an uncomfortable hiss that soon turned into a gasp of fear; when he saw the warrior looming above him catch himself.

Though the back of his head was soaked with blood, from where the hard wood from the top of the temple or higher on the wall, had struck the warrior remained firmly conscious. Frightened, Indulf almost froze where he sat, mouth agape. The reminder of his many boasts of how he wished to avenge Inga, of how there was no living creature who might stop him from doing so served now to entice him into action.

Courage sparked by the reminder of his own bravado and anger, Indulf eyes upon the sword girded to the other man’s waist, he grabbed it as the other man rubbed at the back of his aching skull.

The sword slid out from within the scabbard in one slick movement, the weight of the weapon contrary to the expectations of Indulf was nowhere near as heavy as he had expected. This was not to say that it was light as a sliver or skinning knife might be.

The knowledge that he had gone from captor to captive, was a light that remained undimmed by pain and anger, as a new emotion substituted them a heartbeat later; fear. As the youth arose to his feet, to threaten the taller man the tip of the blade coming to rest against his Adam’s apple the bulky warrior stepped back.

“Haaa- HELP!” He cried out loudly, pride cast away in the face of certain death at the panting weaver’s newfound weapon.

There was no answer.

This alarmed the warrior almost as much as Indulf who remained tensed for a good ten minutes before he had the peculiar experience of exchanging a glance with the warrior. Both of them disturbed by the quiet that had overtaken the front of the temple, neither of them certain of what it was that they should do.

“No one remains at the front of the temple, Trygve what is it that has happened?” Indulf inquired of his brother only to glance up to find the other lad missing.

“What by the Dark-Queen has happened to them fools?” Asked the guard every bit as bewildered at he was.

Indulf shrugged helplessly in answer.

What neither of the two men expected was for a great shriek to pierce the whole of the region. Both men leapt up a little in surprise at the shout that erupted from in front of the temple, as a shrieking, terrified man dressed in red silk with the very edge of the bottom of his hose aflame. Running about madly, this peculiar fellow gripped by the most queer possible fear imaginable threw himself into the slush-snow. Such was the force with which he threw himself into the snow that he was soon wet from head to his smallest of toes.

Indulf and the guard stared at the bumbling man, who lay but five meters away from them whimpering in a manner akin to that of a frightened child.

They met well have questioned him, over the matter of what he was doing there, however he recovered from his terror before they did, querying them with tear-slicked eyes. “Am I still afire? Well? Am I?”

Captor and captive stared for a heart-beat longer, before the latter asked of the silk-clad fool. “My laird, what are you doing out here in the snow rather than inside marrying the lass, whom Ùisdean selected for you?”

“The witch and her ‘hero’ set me aflame! They threw the candles upon the altar upon sister Ùna and I, you dolt!” Snapped the noble-born fop with all the wit and cunning of a log of wood, to the bewilderment of the two whom he glowered at just before he sneezed, a sure-sign that the cold had begun to have its effect upon him.

“Why did this Ùisdean point your laird to my friend Daegan?” Indulf queried curiously of the guard who shrugged his shoulders in response.

“Because she is the fairest lass we have beheld in some time, and it has long been laird Torcall’s desire to wed the fairest lass in the land of Ardrannaig.” His captive explained with another shrug of his massive shoulders before he was wont to ask of him, “If my answers have pleased you sirrah, may I be permitted to return hither to my wife and four children?”

“Not without the surrender of your arms.” Was the condition given, which was dully done as the two other daggers and scabbard were cast down from the other man’s belt.

The fop for his part once he realized the depth of how cold the spring was, leapt to his feet to race after his guard who hurried back the way of Ardrandun-Castle.

It was shortly after their departure that Cormac and Daegan slipped back out from inside of the temple with round eyes. The former came second with a sense of urgency that awoke his friend to the fact that there was still danger to be found in the fastness near to the temple of Turan.

“Fly Indulf! We must fly back to Wulfnoth’s side! Though a number of guards have fled there remain several of them herewith sister Ùna!” He hissed at the man just as he was in the midst of picking the belt and its arms from the ground, after he had sheathed the blade in his hand.

It was thus in this manner that Daegan was rescued from the laird Torcall of Ardrannaig.

Chapter VII:

The Fire-Fey Debacle

“The nerve of the lot of you to partake in such a foolish endeavour,” Wulfnoth complained at some length as they travelled down the road, tugging as always at his moustache when frustration gripped him. He sounded less akin to the friendly, curmudgeon druid he so often carried himself as, and appeared then the very image of a bitter, old priestly grandfather. Leading them down the road without so much as a single bite of breakfast, at the tavern for fear of reprisal from the humiliated laird, he refused to show them the slightest quarter. “What could have possessed the lot of you to behave so impulsively? Why, in my time we listened to our elders, we trusted in their wisdom and sought not to glorify ourselves at such times, but to do what was best at all times!”

Such was the force of his anger that more than one farmer or shepherd they encountered, preferred not to tarry near them or to approach. Their bewilderment at the harshness of the cleric’s tone and his puffy face was so hilarious to observe that Cormac found his attraction drawn to them. The prettiness of the day, contrasted quite nicely with Wulfnoth’s ill-temper and served to help dry their wet clothes, with the morning breeze having begun to give way to the heat of the suns.

Only Daegan appeared willing to pay the druid’s many complaints and harsh words any mind, other than Indulf that is. This last part annoyed Cormac, as a part of him felt a sense of possessiveness with regards to his friend’s admiration. It had always been he who was his mother’s pupil’s hero, yet now he had to share him with wise old Wulfnoth.

Trygve though, was the one who had undergone the greatest metamorphosis. No longer carrying the Blood-Gem, he had regained some of his good-cheer and had even begun to sing. Never a particularly talented singer (as demonstrated in the Feywoods), he was nevertheless the sort to never give up trying.

Much as he was amused and pleased to have his friend back, Cormac regardless of this sentiment felt a touch of consternation at the fact that Daegan had apparently reclaimed the gem. She had not explained quite why she had suddenly desired to have the gem nearer to her. Nor did she need to.

Drawn to the chain about her slender neck, Cormac’s gaze hardened at the thought that it was responsible for Trygve’s temper going crooked in the days since they had begun their journey.

They stopped by a stout Centaur shepherdess who agreed to for the cost of ten bronze thistles to slaughter and cook one of her lambs. This breakfast was so pleasant and warm, though it took a few hours to prepare, it served to instantly thaw the ice between them. The ice was thawed notably around Wulfnoth and Daegan, much to Cormac’s relief, with it being him who saw to bartering with the she-Centaur.

“I would have expected a druid to guard his tongue better,” She said pointedly, a blonde brow arched at the man in question.

Suppressing a smile Cormac thanked her once more, and hurried back to his companions who were on their feet in an instant, the picnic by the road at an end.

The journey went on for another number of hours, with the fields shifting from farmland to simple fields, to cedar, birch, ash and oak-tree laden forests until at last many felt certain that the lands of Ardrannaig were firmly at an end. Where the Feywoods had been a place of suffocating, terrifying darkness, this one did not possess the same sort of suffocating atmosphere. Nor did it contain the same ancientness that the Feywoods possessed. The trees were younger, fresher and sang a more joyful song. They were no less thick though, as here and there, everywhere there lay and stood countless birch and cedar trees, their fine red, white and grey bark shone with the fullness visible only in the spring. A season that signified warmth, awakening and life after the hibernation and coldness of winter, a season that only Wulfnoth out of all of them had much affection for. Due to his penchant for study, and sitting by a warm fire quill in hand or a book in hand, to read and pass the months in prolonged study or in the noting down of historical details, others might not have held as much interest in.

For this reason his misery on the road, was rather queer, yet he insisted upon it regardless of the chirping of birds in the various trees, the squeak of the chipmunks and sound of a thousand animals waking up, barking, growling and racing about once more. His younger companions raced about, slowed their pace or cracked many a jests, overtaken as they were by the sunny, warm weather they had not seen in months. Only Indulf remained firmly of a less than thrilled disposition, for his gaze often lingered upon some of the trees that almost gleamed, dark brown in the light of the suns, his thoughts likely overtaken by ones of Inga.

This change in mood was not wholly wrong as Wulfnoth informed them, as the Kirkfiodh served as a dividing line between the Ardrannaig lands and those of Rothmore, which were actually directly under the ownership of MacDuibh.

“But the clan rarely ventures here, with the actual stewardship of the lands under the supervision of my good friend Rohnald MacNeal, a cousin of the MacDuibhs.” The druid clarified as they entered the vicinity of the forest.

“Is he a friend from fifty years ago?” Cormac asked distractedly swinging a stick he had picked up and waving it at a nearby tree branch, where a nearby squirrel squealed furiously as it leapt to another, safer branch. He frowned.

“Of course not, why it was not very long ago that I had visited Rohnald,” Wulfnoth admitted loudly as he always was.

“When was this?” Indulf wondered as he studied a small hill to the left of them that rose far above their heads, was lined with hundreds of red, orange and green trees. Some had fallen since long ago a few had only recently done so where still others remained tall and strong.

Following his gaze with equal fascination, it came into the mind of Cormac that mayhap Alette might once have seen these trees. Mayhap, this forest contained some of her folk, who may have felt more timid, less willing to speak with and sing and dance with ordinary mortals.

Trygve hardly paid any of their surroundings any mind, having given over his salt-filled pack to Cormac to carry, he had hurried wither into the forest in search of a deer he claimed to have seen racing by. Though not as skilled a hunter, he had nonetheless as in the case of Cormac and Daegan spent some time in the forest hours away to the north of Glasvhail, hunting under the supervision of Corin.

Wulfnoth answered with a glance towards some blue-winged pigeons that flapped by, followed by a group of blue-jays that chirped merrily at the wanderers. “It must have been nearer to thirty-five years ago.”

This information pulled a laugh from Daegan and Cormac, with even Indulf unable to resist a small smile. Sensing their mirth at his expense, the druid frowned at them irritably, before he sought to square his shoulders, and walk with a touch more dignity. Though he appeared more than ever before akin in appearance to an overgrown weasel with a thick moustache, he succeeded beyond question in this endeavour.

“There is quite the difference between thirty-five years and fifty years,” He insisted heatedly.

Differences that were as wide and different as the colours red and greed that appeared to be everywhere, the green lay in the land as the thaw had given way to life. The suns shot out their golden rays over the land of the island of Bretwealda, with such warmth and a beauty that lit the forest up with a thousand smaller suns.

Long was the walk over the hills, past the trees, then down the hills, past the trees. There eventually came a time when the suns that had reigned over them all so brightly, began to dip. Their light gave way to darkened clouds, gave way to an ominous sense of foreboding.

It was as they walked that Indulf came to ask Cormac, as perturbed by the silence that had come between each of them as thief might in the night, penetrating the safety of their homes. Blackening the land all the more, turning the warm red and green trees into blackened monoliths that loomed over them. The once friendly squirrels and chipmunks, and other rodents were replaced by the movement of bears, of other shadow-creatures or large predators who had little love for men.

“Cormac, how is it you knew the wood of the temple, was soft and brittle?” He queried keen to at last hear of this particular subject, and to ward off the unease that had begun to settle into his stomach.

His own stomach felt strangely hollow, as did his mind at that moment as he eyed the lumbering figures that appeared to his mind to glower down at them. Trees that, were once as warm as parents, now appeared little more than glaring towers at war with the forest itself or so Cormac thought with many a nervous glances all around them.

Only Daegan appeared blind to the air of menace that surrounded them, wandering through the forest blissfully unaware of the change in the air. A tune which sounded rather akin to the hymn of the red-sword of Ziu the war-god, on her full-lips as she all but bounced forward with her long hair trailing after her. Shaking his head at this folly on her part, as the shadows lengthened over her and the rest of them, as the wind blew through each of the tree-branches which had begun to re-grow the leaves they had lost in autumn.

“There is a hole in the rear of the temple of Fufluns, in Glasvhail,” Cormac revealed with a shrug of his shoulders, “The hole was an accident, one dug by Trygve and I when I was either four or five. This was after the long-winter you remember?” Indulf nodded his head in response, “Well after that winter, it took weeks for the snow to completely melt with the water pressing against the wood of the temple whereupon it left the wood brittle and soft as what happened with that temple of Turan.”

“But how did you know the wood, in Ardrannaig would be as weakened as that from years ago?” Indulf persisted as he continued to be intrigued by how they had cut through the cedar with which the temple of Turan was built.

Pleased by this interest, as he revelled in the attention and admiration that was shown so rarely towards him over the course of his life, the past week or so included. Cormac took his time to answer his reddened face regaining its original colour as nervousness returned to the fore as they passed beneath one dark tree that appeared bent over them with its arms stretched out all around them. “Because as we passed the temple on the road, I noticed that the wood was still wet near the front of the temple and along its sides. It was a guess that the back of the temple would be much the same.”

“A worthy accomplishment, it is impressive you thought of such a thing,” Wulfnoth approved quietly.

“I had thought that you disapproved of their rescue of me?” Daegan growled back, still a little irritated by his displeasure towards their rescue of her. She maintained the belief that he might well have abandoned her, something that he had categorically over the course of hours of walking, argued vehemently against.

“Oh do give me some rest from the endless argumentativeness,” The druid groaned as he ran a hand over his forehead, only to frown when he found it slick with sweat.

He was not alone in noticing how the heat of the day had only worsened as the suns dipped above them. Darkness reigned where sun and light had once been, long would be the humid, too-warm night that followed one that already saw all of them begin to loosen their cloaks. With Wulfnoth’s sleeves soaked because of the number of times he had wiped at his balding head. Daegan for her part whined at some length about the heat now, in between her innumerable complaints about Wulfnoth and Cormac. One for wishing to abandon her, and the other for not defending her then, or during earlier arguments of the druid and against his preference to leave her to be married against her wishes to the laird of Ardrannaig.

Shaking his head, Cormac in spite of his adoration for her, could not help but feel exasperated by her delusion regarding Ardrannaig and Wulfnoth. “Daegan, could you please not speak so of Wulfnoth.”

After this seemingly simple explanation there was another long silence, and the ensuing bickering between the young woman and the miserable druid. This silence though was worsened by a series of coughs, of curses and of more wiping of their brows.

The heat was such that the thought came into Cormac’s mind as he glanced all about them that they may not have to cook their mutton, for the humid air might serve well enough for cooking it. His eyes traced the outline of the trees everywhere he looked, as his eyes studied every individual tree with growing disconcertment and interest.

It was as he studied the path behind them, after having lost interest in the cliff to the left of them, the unevenness of the two different sorts of terrains having gripped him for hours that he almost froze. Instead though, not paying any attention to the path before them, relying upon his friends to guide him Cormac gaped at the silhouette of the hundreds of trees that crowded so densely the path they had journeyed over.

They had long since left behind the road proper, as it had abruptly passed away as one’s elderly relatives were inevitably to do, and ought to do in their sleep surrounded by warmth and love. The trouble was that there was little love to be found, he mused as he studied the herd of trees that appeared to now guard the route they had cut through the forest. So thickly did the trees cling together that one could well have mistaken them, for a close-knitted family who could no more release one another than twins in the womb.

A surreptitious glance to the right of them showed that the trees there had thickened and appeared to have begun to cling together also. This detail frightened and worried him considerably it also purged him of proper thoughts to be replaced by a shiver of fear. It could not be all in his mind, he told himself utterly convinced that the convergence of the shadows that wore bark for raiment was gathering together.

“I understand that we are headed south,” Cormac began lamely, his apprehension hardly noticed by those around him.

“Aye,” Daegan replied shortly.

“We moved from the road hours ago, is that not correct?”

“What of it, Cormac?” Wulfnoth demanded with equal exasperation to the red-haired lass, wiping as always at his brow and then his chin.

“It is just that the path behind us, no longer bears any resemblance to the path I remember us taking,” Cormac warned, his sense of unease at last verbalised.

His hope to warn them, and relief to have at last uttered what it was that haunted his mind did not survive over-long as his feet caught themselves on a nearby root sending him crashing, painfully to the ground. Eyes rarely upon his feet, as he was too busy with keeping his gaze upon what was around and above him in life, this nonetheless was a surprise for Cormac who spat out every curse he knew in Gallian and Caled. It was a very lengthy list of words.

Wiglaf might well have been proud of the depths of his memory, but Wulfnoth being a druid had no great love for this form of expression. A frown upon his lips, his moustache having long dipped down over its corners not that Cormac could see this sight as he was more concerned about his bruised knees.

“Language lad! Less I should strike you, with my rod as the Saviour once said, ‘spare not the child the rod, whensoever he comport himself poorly!’” The druid growled furiously, threatening the youth with his staff, though his companion had his back to him.

“I’faith by the bones of the Saviour, did you see that root move? It crawled on over and tripped me!” Cormac cried out too outraged to truly give thought to how absurd his words appeared to anyone with a touch of reason.

This point was one that Daegan was quick to point out, “Oh do be quiet, and cease with the whining Cormac. See reason, how can a tree-root move or crawl along the earth?”

“That is precisely what they want us to think, but I have seen them! They have enclosed the route behind us, look!” Cormac shouted back, rubbing at his bruised knees with a pained expression on his face, removing his left hand from his knees to point back down the road they had traversed.

His attempt to illuminate what it was that he had noticed in the past several hours, won him little support. Doubt was the order of the day, as he was to discover as darkness had fallen not only physically between them.

The trees waved in the wind, the brush-noise appeared to his ears suddenly akin to laughter. Hardly amused by this, Cormac at last regained his feet with Indulf’s aid with a glower in his friends’ directions, grateful to the stars and the moon for the light that was so necessary to be able to see his friends. His face reddened by the humiliation of the trees’ ‘laughter’, the youth chewed on his lower lip in frustration.

“Trees moving and crawling, tell me if they should decide to speak or laugh,” Wulfnoth mocked with a small snort of laughter.

“But they just did!”

“But of course,” He and Daegan snorted as one, both rolling their eyes and trailing along on the route that they had chosen for all of them.

“Do listen to the words, which you just uttered Cormac,” Indulf advised him with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Cormac gritted his teeth in response, convinced that the tree-root had not originally been in front of his feet. Grumbling beneath his breath he hurried after his companions, who were to ignore his many complaints and repeated oaths that the trees had most definitely moved.

There were several more hours of walking involved, before Daegan began to complain of the ache in her legs. She was not the only one to complain, as Indulf added his voice to her own so that Wulfnoth sagged to the ground with visible relief.

Quick to assign the task of searching for firewood to Cormac, before he delegated the task of finding a water-source to the weary Indulf, he wasted no time in falling onto his back. From there it was an even shorter journey to the realm of dreams, with the swiftness with which he drifted off something of a surprise for Cormac. Ordinarily, the druid refused to sleep until he had eaten a hearty supper, drunken his share of their ale, wine or watered wine (as water was rarely trusted in those days, due to the fear of dysentery). Yet to-night he was utterly prepared to forego any thoughts of food and drink.

Daegan who had been in poor spirits all day, notably since she had taken up the duty of carrying the Blood-Gem, also soon fell asleep. Her breathing not at all easy, just as Trygve’s was whenever he rested, when he had carried the cursed-gem. This aroused Cormac’s curiosity in two regards; one was the nature of the cursed jewel, for he wondered if mayhap it made the bearer ill. This worried him a great deal. The second thing that he was curious about, all of a sudden was; where in the name of all that was sacred had Trygve wandered off to? He had wandered off hours ago.

This last thought was interrupted by the waving of the trees’ branches waved and the leaves fluttered, with the night sky lit up as the stars and leaves took on the appearance it almost seemed of falling pollen. It was with a start that Cormac caught himself mid-yawn, all sense of wakefulness evaporated as he sat himself down next to Daegan, who had fallen asleep with a tree-root wrapped over her.

The same he noticed if distantly, was the case with Wulfnoth. With Indulf already in the midst of falling asleep himself with a small laugh, that was weary and easy. It was a laugh that Cormac soon found poured forth from his own slack lips. It was impossible not to relax, he mused dreamily with a warm branch now wrapped over his waist, eyes upon the glittering stars. It almost appeared as though there were small dark eyes that had joined the stars, and were glittering at them, just above hungry long-fanged mouths that drooled and quaked with gluttonous desire.

*****

Since the Blood-Gem had been taken from him, Trygve had felt as though he were brought back to life. As though he were a newly planted tree-seed that had overnight grown into a mighty oak that dominated all its neighbours and the landscape all around it. Full of energy for the first time in days, and with the urge to live, sing and race about with nary a thought to the future.

Full of mirth he had danced about, and for the first time in years after picking up a branch danced about with it. Waving it here, there and everywhere playing at being one of the fierce warriors that had populated his late grandmother’s tales and those of his father. Even the Salmon had had plenty to teach in that regard, with countless songs that had filled the imaginations of many of the children with the wonders that lay beyond Rothien’s hills and forests. Though he had loved to mock his brother, Inga, Daegan and Cormac for having gotten caught up in their little daydreams time and again. Trygve had a secret.

That secret was that he fancied being a warrior also. Not just any though, he had long fantasized of winning Helga’s love away from Cormac for himself. Yes, he was fond of his friend and wished him no ill-will, however ever since he had come of age, he could not hide a certain fascination and attraction to the raven-haired beauty of Glasvhail. His dreams though involved him not displacing Cormac, but rather proving himself the other lad’s equal and possibly humiliating Daegan a little, so that she might learn a bit of humility (that was in his view direly needed!).

Therefore, it was with a bit of sheepishness that he later after hours of wandering and playing realized that he had been carried away by his own imagination, and lost track of the whereabouts of his friends.

Calling out their names hardly helped, the loudest of the group laughed a little, if nervously so. His apprehension was soothed by the sound of the river that cut through the forest like a knife. The sound of the water striking the rocks of the woods, the wind passing through the branches of the diverse trees all about him was a comfort. The cedar trees (his favourite sort of tree after his time in the Feywoods), red and white birch, grey oaks and of course red ash-wood trees surrounded him with almost merciless hostility. The thickness of their bark, and of such good health that they could have been grown yesterday, with the thickness of their trunks in many cases serving to demonstrate the venerable age of these many trees. That had likely not see any violence or armies traverse through their domain in almost a century.

Looking back over his shoulder, it appeared all of a sudden to Trygve’s eyes as though the trees that had appeared only loosely associated with one another, behind him were now densely packed together. As though they had remembered that it was only by clinging to one another that they might defend themselves, from man’s need for firewood.

What also made him think at some length was just how quiet it had become. Hours ago, the sound of birds chirping and flitting about between the trees had filled the air as thickly as the sweet aroma of flowers had the Feywoods. Pondering this sudden disappearance of all songs, of the flight of the blue-jays and pigeons, Trygve searched about the river for any animals that may have stopped by to drink there. None were near at hand, he noticed as he still had a few arrows in his quiver and a bow slung over his free arm. He would have adored the chance to prove himself by hunting and bringing back a deer to the camp of his friends to cover over his embarrassment at having lost sight of his whereabouts and time.

The stars were high up in the heavens by this time, with the Siomon and Marthe formations shining brighter than any others it seemed. The eight golden stars that were connected with Venus, bride of Orcus which formed the shape of the unicorn-crown the king had placed upon her head. This sight as always invigorated Trygve.

It brought to his mind, the song that had appeared in his mind as he looked upon the lovely Alette, who had reminded him so much of Helga, and indirectly of the song of Siomon and Marthe. It was dubbed the ‘Lily-Amrán’ or ‘Lily-Song’, and was composed it was said by the Thistle-King himself and dedicated to the ‘Lily-Queen’ as many had taken to calling her. The name being derived it was said from her family’s coat of arms; the golden lily.

“The seas deep, the waters blue,

The ship-mast tall and grand,

From atop the hoary-cliff a flame burnt most true,

As a star in the dusk,

Marthe stood upon the prow eager for land,

Noontide suns-light were trapped in her strands,

And all others ladies were as husks,

There Siomon stood enthroned upon the cliff cold,

Royal robes green as the leaves,

Last of the sons of Causantín of auld,

She journeyed homesick and sorrowing,

She peered about the drake-prow that loomed high as reeds,

And beheld in awe hoary cliffs,

His hair long as hers blazed with frost and red-gold,

Just as hers were honeyed-gold,

O’er the peaks did her lily-gold voice fly,

O’er the promontories did her voice roam,

Thither the ship hastened, mast held high,

Past crashing waves did she voyage,

Luçia’s scarlet bannered port distant as home,

Left barren surrounded by foam,

Proud as a lion mind supple as a Loch,

Encircled by gold banners as by nobles,

Firm as the Destined-rock he had withstood the shock,

Of Rædwald, Razenth, the Warlock-King and the world,

Cloak soft and billowing tresses free as a bird,

One by one with lilting voices,

Bellowing flew o’er the dusken waves,

In the airy seaside roaring,

He fought forever, struggling long,

There sea-feathers of years thickly crashed,

Through bog, glen and dusk to dawn,

Past wintry peaks fleeing,

His nephews entombed,

As snow atop the hill blood was wrung,

Caled bright swords glancing,

When winter passed he came hither,

And his crowning wrought the brimful spring,

Hark! Rising flowers bloom as a golden river,

Snow and ice thawing,

Yet still he mourn’d in spring,

As in winter unhealing,

He longed for her to sing,

With him a verse less troubling,

Once more she sang ere she set foot on land,

Prince Roux! Prince Roux!

She called him amazed anew,

There maid fast by the mast wall

Sodden boots waited he, upraised hand,

A spell lain o’er him at her call,

Gloom fled her at his command,

As it did him at her demand,

As Marthe gazed into his eyes,

Upon the sunlight of his hair,

The roaring seas calmed alongside the skies,

Hand lain o’er hand he saw she the Lily-fair,

In each eye reflected joy,

About fair shoulders he cast a cloak light as ayr,

About him he was cover’d by hair gold-gleaming,

Far was the way they went,

O’er sea, hills and past fields warm and green,

Through full score years ‘till Bhalkeld gave vent,

To scarlet volcanic fury inspir’d by envy most unclean,

The thundering swords of steel left her to lament,

Long she trod bereft until she departed in the midst of a dream,

Thus has pass’d away the Blossom-Queen,

At last the Thistle-King and Lily-Princesse once more met,

O’er the River-Styx singing their duet.”

Trygve, seated upon a large red-stone by the river pulled the petals given to him by Alette days before from the satchel, he had put them in. Holding them tightly, he sang to them softly crooning the song that had been his parents’ favourite (and his own if he was slightly honest with himself). The petals seemed to gleam to his eyes pinkly with all the light of the stars above his head. It was towards the end of the last verse of Marthe’s song that a new voice joined in the hymn that Ida had passed down to him.

Startled by the sudden sound of the feminine voices that joined in the song of the loveliest of all of Caledonia’s queens, Trygve began the song once more. Looking about himself, he discovered that the trees that he had come to dismiss with a small shrug had crowded about him without his previous awareness. What caught and held his attention though, was the sudden appearance of several soft golden and crimson lights that flew from further downstream of the river.

The small lights soon revealed themselves to be fairies with similar appearances to those discovered in the Feywoods. Dancing about around his head and shoulders, they were four in total with the eldest a yellow-lily feathered fairy who bore a lily-styled beard that went perfectly with his head. The youngest was a small maid, who blinked up at the youngest of Ida’s sons with wide innocent eyes, her red gaze holding his own as the tiny thumb-sized fey danced about in the palm of his hand when he extended it towards her.

Amazed and awed by them, since he now knew the floral-folk as he now thought of them, to not be enemies or monsters. Trygve did not rear back as others might well have thought he should, but rather welcomed them as one might the kin of one or two friends.

When he began the song once more though, he was greeted by the sing-song voice of the elder fairy who pleaded with him in the most distressed squeak that any mortal ever heard. “Please! Mercy for we the flower-sons that we may greet once more the suns!”

“How so? I was only going to continue to sing with you,” Trygve explained a touch thickly not catching at once the point, which the fairies sought to make.

“Thy voice has wrought such pain that we are at great pains, to plead for thee to desist that we may our hearing regain.” The chief-most fairy pleaded with large glowing golden eyes, hands clasped together in a gesture of supplication.

“If such was the case, why sing with me in the first place?”

“It was not to join thee that we sang with thee, but to attempt to correct ye,” Another of the fairies, a crimson lily one who glowered up at him with undisguised contempt.

“Some people know nothing of good music,” Trygve harrumphed though he knew them to be perfectly correct. His own poor singing voice was after all a point of shame and embarrassment for him. Seeing their growing redness and ire, he forestalled the disagreement by asking them pleasantly, “Why have you come out? I thought fey-folk were a typically shy or mischievous people.”

One of them bobbed his head, the red male to be exact did as he offered with no small amount of malevolence, “We may yet perform mischief, if such is the desire of thee o petal-chief.”

“It was thy possession of the Rose-Queen’s petals that drew us so, lo we were drawn from our hideaway to greet you.” Uttered the bearded fairy with a warning glance to his companion, who heeded the warning therein his gaze and flew away back to whence they came. “All know that the Queen’s kith are to be all fair-folk’s kith.”

This explanation delighted Trygve who felt a swell of pride rise up in his belly it rose from there to the deep cavity which held his full-heart. Warmth in his eyes and heart he thanked the fairies profusely, for which they demurred from his protestation of gratitude.

This did not mean that they sunk into timid silence rather the two remaining by the side of the bearded fairy began once more the song of the Lily-Queen. The question of how they knew the song was one that Trygve did not ask. Part of him knew only that he did not wish to interrupt their music.

It was the bearded-one who though he did not interrupt it, did however ask in his sing-song manner so common amongst his folks. “If indeed you are friend to we fair-ones, we hoped to ask a favour that would not weigh upon ye as might several tons.”

“Name it fair one!” Trygve said at once, only to pause and cough in embarrassment at his own zeal and predicament, “Though if it is food that you wish for, I have none. In all honesty, I am lost and have been separated from my friends who are in possession of all my sustenance.”

“Nay, nay it is not for food we wish for, but for fire that we beg thee for, to burn the forest as its appetite is such a bore.” The tiny fairy replied at once with an expression of utter desperation that chilled the youth’s heart.

“Appetite? What appetite?”

“The trees!” They hissed pointing behind him, only to begin flitting all about his head some of their light dissolving and falling all about his shoulders and head.

Turning around he found to his surprise and utter terror that the trees unlike any others he had ever beheld before in all his life now had eyes. The sheer malevolence in them made him choke, as several of the branches and roots that he had dismissed earlier had extended just shy of the stone he sat upon.

The question of when they had moved so near to him, and how they had done so with such stealth that he had not been aware of their movements was to remain in his mind for but a single heartbeat. Without hesitation, he shoved Alette’s petals back into the satchel they belonged in, and then withdrew the flint that he had been advised by Wulfnoth to carry along with him, on this journey. Striking them together with all his might, it took another four strikes before a small fire was started upon the branch he had carried with him when he had wandered off, lost for the first time in his own world.

Overjoyed by the sight of the flame, Trygve could have wept especially when he noticed the branches and roots that had begun to wrap themselves around the stone upon which he sat, pull back. Rearing back with what sounded akin to a hiss, the trees that glowered back at him did so with such heat and hatred that his soul shrivelled right alongside his stomach. The white slits that functioned for their eyes, were as pale as corpses where their bark had darkened until they blotted out the moonlight that shone if weakly, just past them.

“Fire! Fire!” The fairies chanted happily, the female gold one even went so far as to weep openly such was the vastness of her relief.

“Wave it!” The grandfatherly fey pressed, adding with a touch of viciousness that surprised Trygve, “Burn them! Burn them all!”

The passion with which the fey shrieked this chant, one that was not in the slightest in tune with their previous musical manner of speech frightened Trygve. He might well have otherwise stopped to question them, were he not seized by a sudden burst of mad terror of the monstrous trees that sought to devour him.

The grasping branches sought to seize him then, their dark bark pointed and horrible to behold, as the fairy rage was. Waving his make-shift torch, Trygve set a half a dozen ablaze, with his mad, half-blind swings a cry of terror torn from his lungs.

He almost closed his eyes from fright then, wherefore he recalled what he had once been told by Corin about a battle he had participated in: One where a man had been caught by such fright that he had closed his eyes, in the belief this might shield him from harm only for the opposite to happen and for him to perish upon the schiltron of spears. Forcing his eyes to remain open, even as his heart leaped up to his throat, and along with the contents of his stomach almost escaped so swiftly he might well have been left vulnerable, if unconsciously so.

His torch struck one, another then another, and wherever it wandered a flame followed whereupon the tree let loose a terrible shriek of agony. Fire as he discovered, was truly their greatest fear.

It was as he grew in confidence after having scared away a large cluster of them that he made one important mistake; he began to advance a tad too quickly after them. Confidence growing with each tree that fell back, dying in a slow yet steady fiery burst that began to spread out, so that the once herded together monstrous trees began to disperse. Moving after one, Trygve tore his gaze from another one, which took advantage to slip over a high-branch down between his legs.

Tripping over this branch, it was a terrible shock for Trygve to realize that he may have made a terrible blunder that may cost him one second to the next his life itself. Heart once more in his throat, the youth struck the ground hard against the hard ground with a small cry of terror.

The worst part of this blunder on his part was the realisation that his fingers had gone slack instinctively the moment that he struck the ground. The force, with which he hit the earth, broke his torch in half with it also pointed down at the ground beneath him, so that it partially set him in part on fire.

The part of him that was set afire was the left-hand side of his cloak, with the sudden blaze of fire spreading quickly all over Trygve’s cloak.

Panicking the youth leapt back from the spot as his tunic likewise caught fire, tearing at his cloak before he threw himself over to another side, rolling about in the dirt in a frenzy a dozen prayers on his lips. The fire was soon put out, as he became wet with the little slush that still lay upon the ground, as the rest of his cloak caught fire unnoticed by him for a few seconds.

“O thanks be to Tempestas, the fire is out,” Trygve whimpered, giving praise to the storm-goddess of the faith once he noticed he was no longer aflame.

It was only after his breathing had evened out, calm restored to his panicked brain. The memory of those monstrous man-eaters sent another wave of fear straight to his aching heart once more, his burning lungs finding it difficult to suck in proper air through the smoke that filled the land and air near the river.

Raising his gaze as he rolled from on his back, to his stomach, Trygve was to find that his cloak and torch’s fire had begun to spread to what grass there was near them. Scared away by this sudden explosion of fire that had spread to the tree responsible for having tripped him the other trees near it were to share also in its fate when it flailed its limbs at them, shrieking for aid. It did not do so in any language that you or I could truly understand, nor could Trygve in all honesty understand the tongue of the trees. Only the fey could, and they were hardly of a mind to translate the words and cry for help of their enemies. Caught up as they were, in the heat of the moment they screeched at Trygve to hurry.

“Wood near to thy leg, grab at it we beg!” They cried out, eyes bulging as though half mad and half apoplectic.

Only somewhat aware what it was they were shouting, as they flew all around him and mere inches from his face, the son of Freygil cast his hands about in search of the stick in question. He found it swiftly enough, just as he felt something wrap itself around his left-wrist.

Trygve’s breath hitched as he was pulled away from the piece of wood, by a warmer one. Looking up to meet the triumphant gaze of the tree he had sought to bring to ruinous flame earlier, he very near ended up in his stomach. That would have been not only the end of Trygve’s life but also this tale. Thankfully, the ordinarily sarcastic youth reacted with all the swiftness of thunder itself as he was pulled away from the stick and towards the left where the tree was. His swift reaction was in the grabbing of a nearby as yet burning corner of his former cloak, in order to pull it from the ground and throw it instinctively at the tree-branch around his left-hand with his right one. Doing so as he was pulled past the cloak to his left, only after considerable strain and after he had wrenched his shoulder and spun himself about a little if clumsily so, striking his other shoulder upon a nearby stone that sent an explosion of stars swirling before his vision. The blind strike of the cloak was intended to burn the body of the tree yet only brushed the branch around his wrist, yet it proved enough for it to panic in turn.

Freed, Trygve almost wept with relief, as he rubbed at his wrist which felt as though it had been crushed beneath the terrible grasp of his bark-covered foe.

Urged on by the fey, he rolled on over to the stick that had previously been at his feet, his shoulder still filled him with agony, as the stricken youth gripped it in bruised soot-covered fingers. Whereupon he all but tossed it into the nearby fire that had continued to grow with increasing rapidity as it spread from tree to tree, lighting up the whole of the land by the river.

Torch in hand, Trygve at last allowed himself a moment to breathe again. A cough followed, as the smoke and stench of cooked wood and burning rotten meat filled his nostrils and mouth, causing him to gag at the same time that he lost his breath.

“Gods,” He spat out in disgust.

The recollection of counsel he had once heard, from his mentor the Salmon that to avoid smoke duck down and stay close to the ground, Trygve did just that.

Calling out to the fey, he was soon rewarded with them flying lower, as they had no greater love for smoke than did he, with the female gold fairy asking him, “What is it, son of man? What is thy plan?”

“I have a mind to find my companions, now that the trees have begun to retreat, yet I know not where they are!” Trygve informed them worriedly, “Can you guide me?”

The fairies appeared to debate amongst themselves, doing so rapidly in their musical tongue in a matter of seconds. It was at that moment that they agreed to aid him, “Very well.”

“Guide me to them!”

“Because we have already aided thee, a debt is already owed by ye,” Said the bearded fairy with a cunning gleam in his gold-shining eyes. “Owed will ye another debt to we.”

This should have served as a warning for poor Trygve, who in his desperation to return to his friends sides and to get away from the evil trees, agreed at once. Forgetting what the Salmon had always warned him about fairies, and thinking them all as kindly as Alette he agreed at once.

His swearing of this oath pleased them, as the three flew away to the river where they gathered their fourth kinsman, and raced thither up the river and into the darkness of the forest.

On his feet in an instant, it was with a great cry of relief that Trygve followed after them, paying no mind to the monsters, who gave him and the fairies now a great berth.

As the trees fled in all directions, seeking to avoid if futilely the great surge of flames that lit up the night, the fey who had once fled and hid, and shivered at the sight of them flew through the air. At times fluttering about in circles, at others they cheered, bounced and whooped, pleased at their newfound freedom.

They also sang, it was a great song that wove into itself about the forest and that served to lead them forth just as it did Trygve, whom they soon left behind them. Were it not for that song and the soft glow of their wings and eyes, he might well have lost their trail and become once again lost in the middle of the woods.

“Lo! There stands the man-child,

What is he a-doing?

We little care for we be beguiled,

The wind is blowing!

Hark! La-la-la,

Hereby the river,

Lo ! He stands lost,

Little do we care he is aghast,

We loom reeking,

Teeth a-morsel thirsting,

Ha! Ha! Ha!

The forest is hungry,

O! Why are ye frozen?

Chin trembling, eyes watering,

Little we care for ye trees-chosen,

For we be hungry and ye are ripe

for slaughtering,

Ho! Ho! Ha! Ha!”

This song echoed throughout the forest, just as the screams of the trees did. Both made Trygve wish to stop to grip his head with pain, due to the piercing nature of the screams and the song. Quite why he did not like this fairy-song, he could not quite say at that moment. Only that it filled him with unease, and with a vague frisson of foreboding. Somehow, the notion that these fairies were not as friendly as Alette began to make its way into the fabric of Trygve’s thoughts, and intermingle with his recollection of their enthusiasm to see their enemies’ burn.

They dashed uphill past silent, solemn trees that could no more move, than the stones by the river could, where there were other darker, smellier ones who reared back from before them. Having evidently heard of what had happened, they were hardly in any mood to be put to the torch also. This pleased the fey who taunted these scared trees, by singing their song even louder, even to those small trees.

This might well have disturbed the highly compassionate lad, if it were not for his having difficulty in keeping pace with them. Running until his lungs burnt, and then passed such limits, until his face was not scarlet but purple with the exertion. Leaping over every branch and root and stone, bounding up with the river firmly to his right.

Up the way he went, up the unwritten, unpaved barbarous road designed more by nature in her tempestuous wroth than by man’s civilising hands. Up the dread-forest that had already menaced to devour him whole, Trygve prayed a thousand times then to Scota to protect his friends. He then prayed deep within himself, a thousand and one times to Ziu not to extinguish the torch in his hands.

He need not have worried over much, as the flame continued to burn as brightly as ever, though there were moments where it wavered. Almost as though, it was as hesitant and uncertain as its bearer.

It was as they turned away from the river though with another larger hill looming up over them all that Trygve began to feel a sense of familiarity. His burning lungs almost squeezed as his heart did, with relief at the thought that he was nearing his friends.

The thought was a comfort, as he hacked, coughed and almost pleaded with his legs and lungs to keep from collapsing on him.

“There! There!” Shouted the fairies after a few more minutes of running, to which he almost begged them to slow themselves for his sake.

Trygve could almost feel tears well up in his eyes, so relieved was he that this marathon of death was at an end. With blackness and tears in his eyes, he could hardly see before him let alone to the sides. Somehow though, he found a way to discern a collection of trees that had their ‘backs’ to him and were encircled around a group of people.

The sight caught his breath, as there were a greater number of trees present hereon than by the river so that his heart squeezed with fear. A part of Trygve felt all of a sudden a touch faint, so great was his desire to flee at the sight of them that he felt some small amount of strength return to his legs. His lungs still burnt as though it were in the grip of an all-consuming inferno that had already spread to his face.

“Burn them! Burn them!” The fairies chanted the viciousness in their eyes and voices only added to his fear so that he froze where he stood. His legs stiffened as though he had just set eyes upon gorgons rather than tree-monsters or fairies.

The gold flare of the torch, brimming with the redness of the most violent of flames lit up the small clearing into which his friends had sought to find safety in the night, did its part. As did the moon’s silver light in bringing clarity to an otherwise unclear area and situation, with a part of Trygve likely to have preferred if it were otherwise at that moment. The sight of Cormac’s leg stretched out past the crowd of trees that had only themselves arrived the sight in question along with this realization lit a small light of hope in his heart. It was this hope that spurred Trygve into action, lighting three great trees before they even took notice of his presence.

The knowledge that there was fire about them, being waved at them was to serve to annoy the trees before they rounded upon him in a fury. The first thing they did as had happened by the river, they waved their leafy branches at him, so that there was a light no different from the stars waved in his direction. Once more though, the fairies spun their light above him with the firebrand waved in response to the trees.

Fire proved mightier than bark. Gluttony weaker than fire, as it was burnt to ashes, with the monstrous trees remaining where they were. Trygve was bewildered when he noticed that they appeared reluctant to flee. This confused him, just as the knowledge that they were all encircled around one of his companions, whilst ignoring the rest.

It was for this reason that he felt a spark of shock at the sight of Daegan catching a bit of fire. So near was she to the trees, their branches having been in the midst of reaching out to her throat, likely he imagined to choke the life from her.

“Back! Back!” He shouted only to hurry to her side, to kick out and throttle the flames that had spread to her dress and cloak.

It took some time, with Trygve resorting to throwing the torch after a few of the trees, his heart in his throat as he grabbed at the nearby snow to toss it all onto the She-Paladin.

The shock of wet slush being thrown over her, awoke the young woman who spluttered angrily at him, “Trygve you imbecile! What in heaven’s name are you doing?!”

“Saving you, Daegan,” He justified desperately throwing some more snow upon her in the hopes to snuff out the last of the flames.

“Nay, what you are doing is soaking me!”

Her shriek of fury and rage awoke the rest of their companions, with Wulfnoth taking the longest to fully awaken. It was Indulf who was first to wake up fully, and to take notice that there were still trees near at hand, prepared to threaten them. Seizing the torch he took up the fight, with a fury and hatred for the trees once he realized thanks to the shouted explanation of his brother what they sought.

The courage of his brother put Trygve a little to shame, just as the cunning of Cormac did a moment later, when he sought to start several more fires and spreading them all around their encampment.

It took hours for them to fight off the monsters, with the travelers preferring to begin fleeing as they soon lost control of the flames.

“Away, we must be away, across the river,” Wulfnoth called seized by fear of the fires after he had aided Cormac in the starting of a few dozen more fires.

Tossing firebrands all over the place, with the demonic trees hissing and snarling at them before they were put to the torch one and all by Indulf and Daegan tossing the torches upon them. Trygve for his part had by then collapsed, fear and fatigue warring for dominance of him as he felt the excitement of battle drain from him.

“Aye!” Indulf agreed panting now himself.

Cormac agreed with Daegan countering them, “But we can finish them one and all! We must aid the fey in the retaking of their woods!”

“Dae! We have set nigh on half the forest aflame!” Cormac shouted back at her, as filled with fear at that moment as the eldest member of their troupe and Trygve himself.

Daegan appeared as though she may argue, yet was interrupted by the fairies singing a new song. One filled with the same thirst for fire, for the death of the monsters that she was. This song broke her own battle-focus, so that she stared up at them in bewilderment once she paused to properly listen to the fairy-song.

“Tra-la-la! Why so shaky?

Ye reek and screech,

Do not worry we the flora-folk can clean ye,

Dance, dance o wooden-folks,

Ho! Yo-ho we fey be also starved,

Why tremble so? Branch arms shaking, mouths pleading,

Less we care than ye bark-monkeys,

For we be hungry for kindling,

Hey-ho, burn and burn, less the fire gets quenched,

And do dance, dance o wooden-folks.”

“What an evil song,” Cormac gasped frightened by it.

Daegan nodded dumbly, her arguments dying upon her lips. Trygve was next to follow after her and the son of Murchadh the fisherman. The last to follow after them, were Indulf and Wulfnoth neither of whom were prepared to be the firsts to take flight.

It took them an hour to ford the river, so wide was it that by the time they reached the safety of the opposite side of the river they collapsed to the ground. The druid quick to have an encirclement of campfires begun all around their camp, the wall of flames to be tended and nurtured by Indulf, who was given the next watch whilst the rest of them once more sunk into a deep sleep. A few of them resisted the idea of sleeping, not that they did this with any real effort exhausted as they were after the battle for their very survival.

The last thing the already half-unconscious Trygve heard before he himself drifted off was his friends debating between praising him and complaining about him. Cormac for his part was the loudest, “Thank Ziu for Trygve, less we would have surely perished.”

“Bah, I might well have perished to his flames,” Daegan complained almost as loudly, a touch of plaintiveness in her voice in spite of the yawn that overtook her.

“Aye, thank the torchbearer, o gem-wearer,” Sang the fey as they encouraged them all, “Now sleep deeply.”

*****

The darkness of sleep departed with the morning smoke, as Trygve awoke to find that several of his companions already awake. Several of them such as his brother, looked over to him with consternation or with a certain amount of warmth that served to lighten his own heart.

Such was the good humour in the camp that day that they passed a few hours fishing in the river, with makeshift fishing-rods that used some of the torn cloth of Daegan’s cloak rather than any strings. Once they had a small number of fish, they cooked them and served them out amongst their numbers and ate with such gluttony that they were soon the subjects of mockery by the fey.

The fairies for their own part had slept the whole night through also, only to return with a vengeance tinkling laughter along with twinkling lights trailing them.

“If only they would be silent,” Daegan complained when they turned their acidic wit to tormenting her about her slightly shortened hair (which now stretched to her upper back rather than mid-back), having been shorn by use of her sword, as some of the strands had been burnt. Her green dress was now no longer a thing that covered the whole of her arms and down to her ankles, but was sleeveless and down to her lower knees, this in particular tore at her heart, as the dress was one that Kenna had sewn personally for her.

For some reason, the sight of her moaning and looking as though she might weep in feminine embarrassment and shame, made Trygve’s heart tighten with pity. He felt as though he were seeing one of his sisters, ravaged and thrown to the side by some barbarian from Brittia or Norwend.

Still though, the mocking song of the fey persisted.

“Ha-ha-ha! Lo! See her crying-so?

Or will you flee?

Your dress is torn, as your sun-hair this we do see,

To fly would be folly, this we say-so,

To tear more would be foppish,

And this has the all the woods sniggering,

O see how she doth cry-so?

Lo! Ha-ha-ha! To tear more would be oafish,

To not rend thy hair and dress would be a waste,

So do keep amusing

The whole of we the fair-folk with greater haste,

Lest we should burn more of thee Daegan the Oaf.”

“Do be quiet, lily-beard,” Trygve muttered, tearing into his second fish of the morning, dark eyes wandering about the area they found themselves in. They were in a small clearing, with the fire still ablaze though it had yet to cross the river with the same hill to the left of the ‘route’ they had followed through the forest. The cedar and birch-trees that surrounded them were not of the same warm, smelly nature of those that had sought to devour them.

The bright white, grey and greenness of their bark served as a comfort to all, with many of the trees rising a hundred meter or two hundred off the ground. Thick trunks a testament to the good health and hearty living of the lot of them, as they loomed protectively now over the companions who still eyed them a little uneasily. Their branches filled with new life, reminded some of the haunting, casual manner in which the man-eaters had waved their own, with the breeze still a warm one. Yet it set them all to shivers, and filled each of them with the determination to leave this place as soon as possible.

The grumbled order on the part of Ida’s son served only to set the fey tittering with scornful laughter, at her expense. This goaded to the surprise of Trygve, Cormac into action as he picked up a rock and threw it at one of them (he missed, for he had poor aim). “Enough! You leave poor Dae alone, less I shall catch you and wring your worthless necks! Such jests have no place, being made at the expense of the most incomparable lady in all the land of Caledonia!”

“Cormac enough!” Wulfnoth called in alarm, his fearful eyes going to the fairies that flew and buzzed all about in sudden anger.

“Aye, aye! Enough cry we floral-folk, less we should bring ruin to thee man-elk.” The fairies bellowed with a shared spasm of rage (save for the child, who fled then).

The druid’s attempt to calm the youth, resulted in him grabbing him by the arm only for him to shake his arm free, “Let me go! They have no right to speak to Dae so!”

“And yet they do, take great care with thy words, lad,” the old man warned, “For they who often wish harm upon others, regardless the reason may often find that such sentiments come home to roost rather than dispersing to the four winds.”

“Some folk deserve every unkindness imaginable though,” Cormac grunted heatedly under his breath, his ordinarily slow-temper once ablaze could prove difficult to extinguish.

Cursing under his breath, he returned to Daegan’s side, she gave him a small wan smile in one of her quieter moments. He was not done with doting upon her, as he took his own cloak off from his shoulders so as to wrap it about her own broaching it with the thistle that Alette gave him with a quick gesture that surprised even her.

If Trygve was to judge by the way she pulled the wolf-fur cloak tighter against her with a smile, and reddened freckled cheeks she was pleased by this act of kindness. If it had been anyone else, Daegan might well have rejected the gift of a cloak, yet because it was Cormac she comported herself no differently than a docile deer.

Cormac for his own part though, re-seated himself next to her with his back to the river, blue eyes enflamed with anger at the fey.

Hardly daunted, they had but eyes for Daegan fluttering past her, only to return to gaze more closely at her, which worsened her and Cormac’s moods. In their anger they sought to swat at them to no avail.

“Back, will you!” He cried with some heat.

“I would like some peace and distance from you lot,” Daegan fussed in frustration the chain about her neck jingling as it was tossed about.

The scarlet gazes of the fairies were fixed upon the gem, just as those of the man-eaters were the night prior Trygve noticed with something of a start. He was not alone.

“Daegan, hide that pendant!” Wulfnoth hissed at once, but it was too late.

Lily-beard flew over to hold himself before Trygve, singing to him with evident avarice in his gaze, “Thrice has thou sworn debts to we flower-kin, all debts could be paid with the gem below the hag’s dotted chin.”

This request was an alarming one that should not have surprised Trygve, half so much that it did. Indulf who had been content to eat, and glower at the fairies in annoyance swallowed now the salmon he loved so dearly.

“We cannot give you the gem, ask for something else.” He interrupted the fairy as he began to repeat his request.

“Thrice has thy brother sworn debts to we flower-kin, all debts must be repaid with the gem below the hag’s ugly chin.” The fairy repeated alongside his folks, with some minor changes to the sing-song phrase.

“Trygve, did you truly indebt yourself to these heretical creatures?” Wulfnoth queried with some apprehension, as Daegan grew furious at being called ‘ugly’ and ‘hag’, her own glare naught compared to the thunderous look that overtook Cormac’s own face.

“Silence,” He shouted with a protective arm about her shoulders as he swore then, “Dae is the prettiest of all the lasses in Rothien!”

“I owe you two debts,” Trygve replied at the same time, distracting Daegan from her gratitude towards her most ardent defender, the panic in his voice drawing down upon him the ire of the fey. “You saved me by the river, and guided me to my friends!”

“We saved you twice by the river,” They retorted heatedly.

“Liars!”

“Tread lightly,” Wulfnoth cautioned, “I have heard that fairies take poorly to such accusations.”

It was as he said; the fey took the angry accusation poorly. By this time, they had had rocks thrown at them, been accused of the meanest thing in fairy-culture for they loathed lies above all other things. The worse part in their eyes, as they bellowed (as best they could) to all in sundry was the breaking of Trygve’s oath.

Whether or not he had truly sworn any such thing, was now irrelevant for they had decided for him that he indeed had, and that he owed them the Blood-Gem. “Return to us the debt owed, less we take all that thou hold, force shall be our choice, if thou reduces our compact to void.”

It took Trygve a moment to discern what it was that they had said (as always); however Wulfnoth had no difficulty in seeing through their speech. “Wait! Wait o fair-folk! We er- would offer to thee other treasures, other baubles than the gemstone! Name any other price than the cursed-gem!”

There was a long pause in negotiations. The fairy tribe withdrew a short distance away, during this time Trygve urged his companions to finish their breakfast.

“We might have to take flight from this horrid forest,” He told them as he devoured his last fish without truly tasting it.

“Why in Ziu’s name did you swear an oath to these fairies?” Daegan asked sullenly.

“I did no such thing, I am not so free with my oaths as some people are,” Trygve countered plaintively, “I swore that I owed them ‘a debt’, and somehow they have laid claim to thrice that price.”

Daegan looked as though she might argue further, however it was Cormac who intervened in defence of Freygil’s youngest son. “Dae, if Trygve says he only swore himself to one debt, then that is what he did. He is neither an oath-breaker nor a liar therefore we should seek some way to escape from these beastly folk.”

Before they could continue their debate, lily-beard returned with the sort of oily smile and glowing yellow eyes that bode poorly for Trygve, or so he thought. The fairy said to them, “I would ask for two boons; one is knowledge of where thy journey will take thee by afternoon?”

The travelers exchanged uncertain glances, apprehensive about telling these semi-hostile fairies more than they ought to know.

At last Wulfnoth answered, “We seek the dark-riders who desire this gem-stone and our friend the sorcerer Wiglaf. Likely, we will seek to venture to whither lands’ that lie south of MacDuibh’s Rothien holdings.”

The knowledge was freely given, with Cormac the one who asked now suspiciously, “What is your second request?”

The fairies were visibly distressed at the news, for reasons that escaped them all. They fluttered amongst themselves, speaking hastily in their chirping, lilting fey-tongue at a pace that even had the humans understood they could never have followed their speech.

This filled Trygve with suspicion, and his mistrust led him to begin to seek some means by which he might extricate himself from his debt to these fairies. It was a loutish desire, however he considered the bond already broken as they had tripled the fee for their aid, had sought to rob Daegan and had generally been poor company.

I shan’t believe how horrible they are, when Queen Alette was so wonderful! He thought to himself with some heat, only to remember not only her sweetness but that of the fairies when he had first beheld her rose-petals. Or had they been? The question made him think back, past the fog of terror back to the moment by the river when they had interrupted his singing.

They had looked upon the petals certainly with some interest, but what kind was it? Their expressions could be so difficult to read, he thought with some frustration. It was as they returned to him that a light sparked from deep within his soul once more, this time not one of hope but of realisation.

This was greed. They were greedy not only for the gemstone, but for Alette’s rose-petals. This knowledge and the horror at the idea of being separated from her rose-petals awoke in him such a fury that he came near to attacking the little pests.

But the memory of what his parents and the Salmon had taught him about debts and oaths, how they had a truly terrifying power. That when one swore an oath of any kind, one’s fate was to now to be tied with the recipient halted Trygve’s actions.

“We would claim the petals of our Queen, as our reward most-clean.” Quote the fair-folk with that same intensity as by the river. “This would be payment for the first debt.”

“This seems to me a just fee,” Wulfnoth said eager to placate them, for fear of upsetting the fairies still further.

“I would rather not pay such a fee, ask something else.” Trygve said firmly with growing anger, the petals were a gift to him and he would not be separated from them.

“We insist,” They persisted.

“Trygve be reasonable, they are but petals,” Daegan grumbled.

“Nay, I will not be separated from them.”

“Then what do you propose we give them as a reward?” Indulf asked with a scowl on his face, “Tread lightly brother, as these fey appear of a different breed in spirit than those we saw in the Feywoods.”

“You owe us two debts!”

“I hate these little beasts, they never seem to offer us choices but decrees,” Daegan complained bitterly.

Her words gave rise to an idea in Trygve’s heart as he recalled now something Inga had recounted to him, along with her grandfather one day whilst the three of them and Indulf had been fishing some two years ago.

Sly Trygve said to the fairies with a perfectly solemn expression upon his face, “I have a thought for a game,” He could tell they were intrigued, “Should you all win, I shall give you the petals, the gem and Daegan’s sword! Should I claim victory though, you will escort us out from here and never come to greet us again.”

“Trygve!” All of his friends hissed at him in alarm.

“Fret not, I have never lost this sort of game,” He boasted with utter vanity in his voice, aware that half of this game’s ploy lay in the fooling of his friends as much as his foes. False confidence could be a useful tool he thought; he had after-all observed how Daegan had wielded it for years. For their own part the fairies agreed at once, wherefore his companions reluctantly did much the same. Pleased, Trygve the suns’ golden light in his eyes and that of the fey-folk, victory already certain in his heart asked of the little beasts. “Alette gave us all a gift; I ask of you what gift did she give to each of us?”

This was a trick that the equally confident fairies, could not resist they consulted amongst themselves as always, before the scarlet lily from earlier answered with utter disdain in his voice. “To he of the golden-hair she gave to him the symbol of the heir,” So saying he pointed to the thistle that served as a brooch for the cloak about Daegan’s shoulders. His words tore a gasp from Trygve’s companions, along with a worried glance shared between Cormac and Corin’s daughter. The fairy flew over to the sly one, to point at the satchel where the rose-petals lay, “There lies the boon by which Alette may known, a gift as good as down a ravine thrown.”

The near incomprehensible speech lit up in Trygve’s heart a flare of anger. He suppressed it, he was on the verge of victory, he could feel it.

Lily-beard now flew over to Wulfnoth, “Garlands for the man not from these lands.”

This drew a concerned look from the druid.

“What then did the Rose-Queen give to my brother and Daegan?” Trygve questioned, with a small twitch of his lips, a droplet of sweat beading down the side of his head. This was the moment, when all might be decided. Should the fairies guess that there was no gift, all would be over for the travelers.

“Naught to the hag,” The yellow she-fairy declared pointing at Daegan who flushed with anger at her, and chased her away with a swatting hand.

“Nor for thy sand-haired brother,” Lily-beard proclaimed triumphantly, this made Trygve’s face fall a little, as this was the correct answer.

Indulf though had a different idea though, as he contradicted the fairies quietly, “Nay, she did indeed give me a gift. The finest of all, those she ever gave anyone.”

This statement dumbfounded all of them.

The fairies reacted first with visible rage, as they all sung together as one, “Liar!”

“Not so, she sang a song more dear to me than any other saving that of the Thistle-King and his lily-bride; she reminded me of that which I treasure most. This was the finest gift one could give another.” Indulf insisted firmly.

Seeing the truth in his eyes, as in the firmness of how he held himself, the fey shrieked once more with rage. They might well have sought to bring down some nameless doom upon all of them, were it not for Wulfnoth who declared the matter settled.

“Aye, he is right! Alette gave to him the finest gift one could give another; a warm memory. Therefore, she did indeed give Indulf something beyond the price of even that of the Blood-Gem. Thus, I must insist that you guide us out from this dreaded place at once! And no tricks!”

“No tricks you would say, and there shan’t be any yet you will pay.” These were the ominous words that the fairies chanted at them through gritted teeth, the promise of their wroth a wicked thing to see.

*****

It was only when the dread-forest long behind them that they breathed a sigh of relief, doing so almost collectively. Only Trygve continued to hold in his breath, so deep ran the mistrust he now felt for lily-beard and his kinsmen. No sight ever filled him with so much relief, as that of the rolling hills and fields that stretched farther on the horizon than the forest that lay to the backs of them.

The hills were aglow with the yellow and red sheen of the solar disks which appeared as though they had climbed up from the east, to greet the weary-footed wanderers. The emerald fields reminded Trygve of those very gemstones, so that he came close to spilling a few tears in relief at the sight of them. Though it had been for but a day and a half, the previous forest had appeared to his mind to stretch on forever, with nary any possibility of an ending in sight. Such had been the bitterness of the fairies that the already long trip had appeared to all of them to be twain as long as that of the Feywoods and Ardrannaig put together. The nameless forest from which they had only just extricated themselves from, firmly behind them (along with the angry songs of the red-faced and eyed fairies), they took a moment to appreciate the hills that lay all but at their feet.

Some such as Daegan broke down weeping at the sight of them such was the force of her relief. She hid this response behind her cloak’s sleeve. Cormac’s mouth formed a joy ‘o’. Indulf for his part was as was his wont in recent days brooding, likely over the passing of Inga.

Trygve preferred to leave him be, focusing his gaze upon the hundreds of leagues of fields, farmlands and rolling hills that stretched before them. The greenness of those lands that remained unexplored, beckoned to Trygve especially after the misery of the dread-woods they had crossed through. The memory of the man-eating trees brought to his spirit a shudder that did not soon depart from his frame, as he scratched at his left writers.

“Trygve, if I may I would ask why did the trees not eat us at once,” Wulfnoth asked of him as they stepped forth at a swift pace towards the beckoning lands.

Hearing the disquiet in his voice, Trygve knew this question to be no light thing and answered it at once, “They appeared drawn to Daegan, why do you ask.”

But Wulfnoth did not answer him. Rather, he spoke now to Indulf, considering the matter of the trees evidently at an end even as smoke continued to blaze up from the forest, “Indulf what gave you the idea to say that Alette had given you a memory of Inga, your bride?”

“Because she did,” Indulf answered morosely, “For a moment she was therewith, us in the Feywoods and I consider that a richer reward than any, any of you received from the Rose-Queen.”

The lands into which they now trod were filled not with the sort of farmers who greeted them with keen-eyed curiosity, or with shy if warm-hearted grins but with visible apprehension. The grassy road, so poorly maintained was a disgrace to behold, the druid insisted full of annoyance. The road was an unspoken one that they crossed, the farms to either side filled with people doing their utmost to eke out what life they could from the land, both for their own sake and those of the cattle they cared for. The sheep bounded about, the pigs snorted and complained everywhere they went while the donkeys, chickens and horses quietly went about their way, ignoring all around them as though they were of the most purple blood imaginable.

The timidity with which the farmers, who were of all of different sorts from tall Centaurs, muscular Minotaurs, prancing Satyrs, human-like Tigrun and dogged Wolframs studied the passing travelers with eyes that were equal parts wary as timid. Where those of Ardrannaig had given a sense of weariness yes, but also a certain warmth as though in spite of their terrible dandy of a laird they clung tightly to one another. The only ones that appeared to cling closely to each other here, appeared to Trygve’s eyes to be those who were closely related. From siblings to parents to spouses, to grandchildren, they all remained within eyesight of one another, with there being no horse-play to speak of. The slim trail that cut through the different lands, and which the travelers walked upon slowly withered and died, until they had to pick their way across farmlands and sheep-farms that lacked all fencing.

There was a downtrodden air to the fields. Worried by this, Trygve attempted to consult with Wulfnoth, yet found the druid of little use here. He was as unfamiliar with what had taken place in Rothmore as they were.

“How very queer,” He murmured to himself struck by the change in the locality, since he had visited some thirty-five years ago, “Thirty-five years prior to to-day, I had the honour and pleasure of seeing these lands with my good friend Rohnald. Though not a laird, he was the maternal cousin of Mormaer MacDuibh, and thus, a man of some commendable rank and influence throughout the realm. Though, where MacDuibh was a man with something of a ferocious temper Rohnald, was ever a man of a humbler temperament and far gentler disposition.”

“He sounds wonderful,” Daegan breathed moved by the image he had painted with his words, of the honourable noble in question.

“It does not seem to me that he rules his lands, with any sort of gentility,” Cormac commented looking about all around them, with apprehensive eyes.

“Tush Cormac, no one wishes to hear such blatant untruths,” Wulfnoth snapped sharply only to glance about at the suspicious gazes of the local people. “Or at least, it would have been untrue thirty-five years ago… what has come over this place?”

This last question was asked rhetorically more to himself, with Daegan shrugging in answer having as always not discerned the nature of the query. It amused Trygve near as much as her response was the slow-witted one of Cormac who answered with his atypical earnestness. “They appear to me, to be poorly fed and over-worked brother,” This remark led to Trygve repressing a snort with his brother.

Wulfnoth rolled his eyes at his slowness, “I spoke rhetorically lad.”

“Oh.”

“More importantly, I do not see the keep,” Indulf spoke up, hopeful to avoid any further squabbles between them.

He was thanked for his efforts with a look from his brother who searched about all around them with a distracted gaze. The youth could almost have passed for Cormac then, as he studied the white-wool covered sheep, the beige skin of the pigs, the grey donkeys that were in some cases hoisted by reins to ploughs just as their larger cousins were. There were some oxen and cows certainly, who were also attached to ploughs but they were few as it appeared that most of the farmers could hardly afford them.

Farming as a trade was uncommon in the northern Highlands, and far more common in the southern lowlands, with cattle rearing the preferred trade. It was easier to manage, easier also on the people who sought to eke out a living. The despair that Trygve found engraved upon each face, filled him with such sorrow that he could hardly find the words to speak. A rare occurrence he mused with little humour, grateful for the neglect of laird Badrách and Conn, else Glasvhail might well have transformed into the sort of existence these people had to suffer from.

They carried on in this brooding silence, until night began to creep up, upon them with Daegan the only one to insist that they not stop for the night. Her pride as always, a vice to be cursed by her companions who had long thought of this the worst blight they had suffered throughout this quest.

“We must soon stop for the night,” Wulfnoth stated in response to her, his face pale in the fading sunlight, breathe hitching a little so weary was he. “I fear I may not be able to continue for much longer.”

“You always say so, when night falls wherefore you rise on the morrow haler and happier, than the previous day.” Daegan countered bitterly.

“Dae, we are all tired,” Cormac reprimanded earning a pout from her.

“Even you, She-Paladin,” Trygve said wearily, ignoring her numerous complaints and even more numerous accusations of cowardice and weakness. Both accusations that he had hardly any true toleration for at that moment, preferring to stop one of the passing shepherds in the act of guiding his cattle past the wanderers, “Hail sirrah, I would ask but a few questions of you.”

He was ignored.

Daegan snorted in amusement, which annoyed Trygve all the more.

He almost snapped at her, yet was saved from doing so by Cormac who told her firmly, “Do be quiet Dae, now I will try to ask if there is a tavern or temple near here.” They walked for some time before he halted a passing Minotaur, “Hello horned-one, I would ask of you if there is a temple or tavern herein Rothmore?”

To their collective surprise, the Minotaur ignored him. Playing at deafness he hurried away, thither up the hill to pick up his son, fleeing into the small hut that it was a wonder the gargantuan figure could fit into.

Amazed by this response on the part of one of the gentle-folk as they were known, throughout all the lands of the Lairdly-Isle, the lot of them fell to brooding once more.

This time there was no snort of laughter, for there had never existed any kind of rivalry between Daegan and Cormac.

It was proposed a short time after his failure, by his brother that Indulf should mayhap attempt his luck with another passing Minotaur, who was in the midst of setting down her plough. He demurred though, with it being Wulfnoth who growled in exasperation.

“Enough of timidity and casting blame upon others in your minds and hearts,” He moved onto the fields, between the crops taking great care not to step upon them. “Milady,” He greeted, “I would ask of you as a servant of the gods, notably her ladyship Scota the Golden, where may my pupils and I find solace to-night?”

“How very formal,” Trygve mocked instinctively.

“Tush fool,” Wulfnoth barked back over his shoulder.

The she-Minotaur was far more reciprocal than her male counterpart had been, the sight of the pendant with the image of the thistle-bearing goddess serving to disarm her. Making the sign of the flower she answered with a bowed head, “Brother there is a temple to the lord Khnum farther down the road. Most of the monks have left though, having lost their faith in the steward of these lands.”

“What? How can this be?” Wulfnoth gasped, brows knitting together.

“It was nigh on eight years ago,” She explained with a shrug of his shoulders.

“What? Why?”

“I have answered your question, brother please do not ask me any further questions.” She said sorrow and regret carved into the rough marble of her face.

Thanking her, the druid returned with a bowed head his moustache tugged and pulled upon with such force he quickly drew a wince of pain from himself. Such was the force of his poor mood that they lapsed once more into silence.

The darkened light cast by the descending mournful suns cast a very particular sort of ambiance, one which filled Trygve with a sudden longing to be back home. Home was where his mother and father were, and where the Salmon and Helga were. Hungry, he could hear his stomach growling and suddenly resented his having joined this quest.

It had appeared the perfect chance to demonstrate his friendship and courage to his brother and Cormac, and it had begun so well in the Feywoods. Afterwards all had appeared to him to have gone awry for the worst, especially in that forest of man-eating trees which made him, shudder and cast about an anxious glance to several of the nearby oak-trees. There were a great many of them that lined the landscape between the woods behind them, and the great hills that continued to stretch on for what appeared to be an eternity.

Resentful as he was for being on the road, when he could have been at home, with a full belly of cod-fish and mutton cooked by his mother, dreams of a married life with Helga in his mind and heart, he knew that had he stayed he would have hated himself all the more. To have stayed would have signified being shown, for the coward he knew himself to be. He could not have endured Helga to have looked upon him as such, or worse endured the knowledge that his brother and Cormac may lie deceased in a field somewhere.

Pulled from his darkened thoughts, Trygve was relieved when they found themselves before the rectangular twenty-meter long temple and half as wide temple. The symbol of the hammer was carved into the birch wood just above the door, which was closed and though it hardly appeared all that welcoming, the brown building was at that moment a sight that almost made him fall to his knees in gratitude.

“Thank Khnum!” He breathed in relief, “My legs feel as though they may fall down and stay behind without me.”

“What a stupid phrasing,” Daegan sniffed.

“Oh do tell me all that you know, of cunning word-play Daegan, after all we all know how silver-tongued you have proven yourself in the past.” Trygve muttered with no small amount of sarcasm.

“I would educate you further fool, however I have no wish to waste my breath upon you,” She retorted as always blind to the true mockery behind his words.

Trygve shook his head at her, scratching at his chin he became in a burst of irritation aware of how itchy he felt there. Scratching for a few minutes at his right cheek, he might well have cut himself were it not for his brother’s intervention.

“Cease Trygve,” He whispered at him.

“Leave me be,” Trygve hissed back.

Indulf stared back with equal hostility. For a moment it occurred to the younger of the two that a brawl, might break out between them as had happened in their childhood. Thankfully, Wulfnoth intervened if indirectly by striking the door with all his might.

The sound of his flesh smashing itself against the birch-wood made all of them leap several dozen feet in the air, or so it appeared to Trygve. It was only when he sought to throw a nervously amused glance in Cormac’s direction that he realized with a start just how late it was getting on. The light of the suns had dimmed in the west, with their light replaced by the feeble one of the moon, which had yet to complete its own ascent. Caught betwixt the time when the suns gave light and the moon replaced them; the four of them were to throw careful looks in every direction at every shadow. Whether his friends searched for the monstrous trees from the night before, or the phantom-riders Trygve could not say, he knew only that he did not much like some of the trees that loomed near the temple. It was too dark to tell which sort they were, but he couldn’t imagine they were made of cedar or firm oak.

“What could possibly be taking them so long, as to answer your call?” Daegan grumbled miserably.

“I thought you were not tired Daegan,” Trygve remarked scornfully.

“I do wish you would be quiet,” She snapped back at once, and though she could not see it he stuck his tongue out at her.

An impatient sigh escaped Cormac’s lips, before he whined to Wulfnoth, “Wulfnoth, they have yet to answer, can we not simply go in and warm ourselves by the fire?”

“Nay, such rudeness would hardly endear us to the local brothers here,” The druid muttered though it sounded as though the words were forcefully torn from his reluctant lips. Another sigh escaped the youngest lad’s lips, before the two of them rapt their fists upon the door with all of their strength once more.

At last, as the moon began its steady ascent in the heavens, the stars bursting forth from wherever it was that they hid during the day, with their various constellations beginning to wink down at them, Wulfnoth made his decision.

Throwing the door open with a sour expression on his face, he barked out in a voice full of fury, “By the skirts of Scota and thunder of Tempestas what are you up to in here that you cannot hear some weary travelers knocking upon your miserable door!?”

Such was the fury of his voice and glowering dark eyes that even Daegan blinked in surprise before she shrunk back a little from him, fearful to incur his wrath. Stomping his way into the building, full of vim and his face crimson the druid was bathed in the light of a small fire that lay in the tiny chimney to the center of the room, with a small hole in the roofing meant to allow for the smoke to escape through. The fact that no one minded the hearth-fire worried Trygve, who was pleased that it had not yet escaped control and was still small.

The floor was surprisingly clean and made of the same birch wood as the exterior-walls were, with the area around the hearth-flame a sitting area of worship. To the back of the ten-meter long temple-hall stood the altar which was a stone-slab of copper (a precious metal to Khnum) without any cloth upon it, and a wooden statue of Khnum. The smith-god was depicted as a large, bald broad-shouldered and heavily bearded man hammer in hand and a flame in the other, this flame was meant to signify the fire through which he was said to have forged parts of the world.

Khnum was the favourite god of artisans, with Daegan having long treated him as one of her chief-most patrons and her father a dedicated follower of his. Carrying at times a pendant in the shape of a smith’s hammer about his neck, to honour the smith-god, Corin was not alone in his reverence for the deity, with Kenna and Indulf revering him also.

Indulf though he wore a pendant in the shape of a rose in honour of Turan the goddess of love, given to him by Inga (forged by Corin of course), had long honoured this god also. This was the reason for which he hurried to stand before the altar, to bend the knee and hold his hands in an act of receiving, this being the gesture of proper prayer in the faith of Quirinas.

Though he bent the knee to the statue, Wulfnoth hurried past the statue to the door just past the statue and to the right of it. His furious steps receded for a moment as he threw the next door open with a bellow of rage, as his companions for their own part searched the left-hand door to the statue. In search of the kitchens they soon found it, and were relieved to find it well-stocked with cheese, bread, onions and beer. The smells of which greatly pleased their nostrils and made every single one of their mouths water with hunger as they longed at once for the cheese, bread, onions and beer. All of which they were keen to enjoy, though each of them complained at some length of the lack of mutton.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing thereupon the ground?” Wulfnoth’s voice echoed from the other room, just as Trygve stepped out of the kitchens with his mouth full of cheese, and hands full with a couple of onions and a mug of sloshing beer all about him.

“It sounds rather serious,” Indulf remarked worriedly, swallowing his own hunk of cheese with an eagerness surpassed only by that of Cormac.

The youngest of the lads was so utterly reluctant to be separated from the kitchens that Daegan could be heard accusing him of being a worthless pig. An accusation he ignored, before he spoke with his mouth full, her cry of disgust resonating throughout the temple.

Ignoring their antics, the brothers waited by the fire, which they stoked a little with some wood they found to the right-hand side of the long-hall. Trygve studied the ceiling found it to be dull and poorly made with cracks in the roof in some places, before he settled upon studying the stars. His eyes as always were drawn to the constellation of the Thistle-King and Lily-Queen.

“Indulf, do you ever think these days, of home? Of ma, pa and the Salmon?”

“Nay.” Indulf said with such firmness as he laid himself down on his right side, so that Trygve had to choose the spot to the left of the fire, if he wanted to see his face.

“Why is that?” The question felt torn from his lips, as he briefly ripped away his gaze from the lovely vision of the constellations that hung far-over head.

Before Indulf could answer though, the noise of Wulfnoth’s return interrupted their conversation. Frustrated brown-haired Trygve might well have snapped at the cleric were it not for the fact that a single glance to the old man was more than hint enough to silence him, before he could utter a single word.

“That fool!” Wulfnoth shouted full of fury, causing the two brothers to sit up a little, in alarmed fright, “Do you know what he has done?” It was on the tip of the tongues of the two lads to answer ‘nay’, but this proved needless. “He has drunk himself into such a stupor I could not awaken the imbecile!”

“If such is the case, it means he shan’t guard the rest of his beer,” Trygve jested hoping to lighten the druid’s sour mood.

“Oh do shut up you loud-mouthed fool!” The cleric snarled at him, red-faced and in no mood for the youth’s sardonic humour. Pulling on his moustache as was his wont, Wulfnoth paced the length of the floor that stood before the altar to the god Khnum. “I shan’t believe such foolishness, a druid drunk as though no better than some local tavern-drunk!”

It is not as though they are wholly mutually exclusive, Mused Trygve bitterly, wise enough now to know to keep his mouth shuttered for the moment.

“Drink Wulfnoth, you will have need of it and some food in your belly,” Indulf urged with the sort of patience he always demonstrated whenever Wulfnoth worked himself into a temper.

Never able to resist the offer of a hearty meal, or Indulf’s counsel for that matter, the druid let slip a sigh before he stomped his way to the kitchens. Once there he was to squawk at the two youths still present therein, with the two of them all but thrown bodily out of the kitchen. Neither of them particularly pleased by this shabby treatment, they stomped their way over to the fire. With Daegan making a point to seat herself on the opposite side to that of Cormac, who shrugged to himself as he settled down on the side closest to the door.

A star-lover also, Cormac soon wiped his beer-soaked hands upon his tunic, before he set himself upon his back also eyes upon them.

Seeing that he had lost his opportunity to discuss the stars with his brother, Trygve closed his eyes and allowed himself, to begin to drift away. The tune sung by Alette hanging upon his lips, the memory of her and her fair-folk’s dancing lights the last thing he thought of before he drifted into an uncomfortable slumber haunted by hungry trees, with white-slits for eyes. He awoke thrice throughout the night, each time ending in whimpers or in him quivering with fear before he slunk back down to sleep.

On the third time, Wulfnoth was awoken, and expecting a tongue-lashing Trygve in place of this sort of angry response felt the old man patting his head, with a “There, there lad, sleep now… I am here, to ward any shadows off.” It was a clumsy and highly drowsy attempt to comfort him, yet it somehow helped to reassure him enough so that the remainder of the night passed dreamlessly.

*****

Dawn broke far too soon for Trygve’s taste. It found him curled up near the last few burning embers of the fire, which had been partially put out by Wulfnoth the night before. So that only a few flames were still licking away at the small amount of firewood in the heart, as he demonstrated greater wisdom than the local druid. The sound of Wulfnoth and Daegan’s snores combated in a duel that could have rattled the very foundations of a mountain. Slumbering considerably more quietly Indulf now had his back to him, while Cormac muttered something incomprehensible in his sleep.

This pleasant scene with its highly unpleasant cacophony might well have endured for some time, if it were not for the sound of someone rousing themselves with a snort and the local druid stepping on into the main-hall. A large obese man, with a barrel chest, long blonde-locks and a beard that was as loose as his hair was. His robe was beer-stained and encrusted with cheese, onion and even mutton remains.

Disgusted and amused all at once, by the filthy appearance of this robed man who hurried outside with nary a word to Trygve or the rest of them, as he was still half-asleep. Bemused by this, Trygve waited for the man to finish his toilet outside before he uttered a word to him, as he passed. “Good morning.”

“‘Ornin’,” The middle-aged drunk grunted as he passed without really paying him any mind, and hurrying off to the room from whence he came.

This exchange resulted in the brown-haired youth chortling for a time so loudly that he received an elbow to the stomach by his older brother. One that knocked the wind from his lungs, as his annoyed brother awoke reluctantly.

The rest of them were to awaken an hour later, with the five of them enjoying a hearty breakfast of onions, cheese and beer before they left. Wulfnoth was the last to leave, claiming he wished to leave a message with the other druid and urging them on down the road claiming he would hurry after them.

This they did with all of them snickering at some length, as the mood was generally light between them. The suns were high in the heavens, the wind was warm and the smell of cattle and their remains could hardly beat back the warmth of the spring-day. The thaw appeared in this corner of the kingdom to have faded overnight, thought Trygve. A smile playing itself out upon his lips, he eyed the oak, birch and ash-trees that dotted the landscape all around them with far less wariness. As the events of the night involving their struggle against the man-eating trees seemed as though they had happened years ago. What was more was that the once wary and down-turned gazes of the local farmers and shepherds that had appeared so hostile the day before, had lost some of their frost it seemed to him. Or at least, he took it far less personally than he had the previous day, with a glance Trygve noticed that his friends were in such good spirits themselves that they were of the same mind.

Only Indulf appeared to be wary of the locals still, the golden and orange rays of the suns failing to brighten his mood.

All at once, Daegan though worried still over her dress and with Cormac’s cloak still wrapped about her shoulders danced about a little, her smile bright as a white-ray as she gave a toothy grin to Cormac. Her ill-temper from the prior night already forgotten after a full meal and a night filled with rest, a song burst then from her lips.

“Fare well, fair-fellows

Your ways are for me

Wait o wait fair-fellows

Your ways are for me

Resting upon my laurels

Has left me farting and bored

Fare well, fair-ladies

Their travellers’ ways are for me

Rappin' at the chapel door

Devouring the chapel’s boar

Scalin’ the enemy’s wall,

Revelin’ in his hall

I swept up countless hills

Passed unnumbered mills

Forded all the rivers

Yet still the road glitters

Up away I ran,

Why? Because I can,

For Razenth’s gold does call,

Fare well fair-fellows

For the road refuses to wait and I am its thrall.”

By the third verse, Indulf and Trygve joined her, with the latter by the end of it told to desist from joining in the song after many glowers thrown in his direction by the locals. Heedless of their words, he insisted upon singing brokenly with them. The elder of the siblings joined in after much prompting by his brother, and had a far better voice for song, than the younger one. Only Cormac resisted any and all attempts to extricate a single verse from his lips, as he joined them if shyly in muttering the verses, smiling if ever so slightly.

Eventually just as they began to sing the song once more, Wulfnoth could be heard calling after them, racing on over with a sense of urgency on his face. Once he had reached them, panting and sweating he doubled over yet continued to press them onwards. “Hurry less the old fool should notice many of his onions and cheese, along with his beer missing.”

“You stole from him?” Trygve asked incredulously a small smile of amusement playing out on his lips. The notion of the fat druid sneaking about no differently from, the most common and base of thieves for some reason appeared worthy of laughter to his mind.

“I did not steal!” Wulfnoth objected, his words setting a number of his companions at ease, before he added rather haltingly. “I merely accepted a donation, after discussing with him the importance of our quest.”

This appeared well and good to the vast majority of them, with Daegan prepared to resume the song, Indulf nodded his head in approbation at these words and Trygve prepared himself to tease the druid. Only Cormac was not entirely convinced.

“Was he awake, for this discussion?” He inquired doubtfully.

“What is most important is that we remember the piety, and goodness of this brother of mine who in a time of need saw the greater need of road-weary travelers on a most important gods-given quest.” Wulfnoth lectured him, speaking over the blonde-youth who stared at him confused by the loud tone of the old man only to grunt when he was handed a large and rather full pack.

Daegan was made to carry the ale and beer or at least the tankards that Wulfnoth demonstrated himself willing to part with. With the priestly Brittian leading them they once again resumed their long journey. That night they slept out under a nearby tree, after a full day of travel so that it was early the next day that they found on the horizon the great keep of MacDuibh. The local keep was a tall keep, surrounded by farms, it was a twenty-five meter high stone-keep built in the old Pech manner, with high stone walls which rose twenty meters off the ground. The might of this great fort that had unquestionable command of the whole valley, its walls armed with bristling high-towers every six meters. With the dungeon a mighty keep that had four towers attached to it and which appeared prepared to defy the gods themselves awed each one of them.

“A fort unlike any other in all of Caledonia,” Trygve gasped amazed by this impressive sight, unable to imagine it being taken by anyone.

“If only,” Wulfnoth muttered sorrowfully, “This is the keep of Rothmore, under the command of my good friend Rohnald MacNeal. This fort is but seventy-years of age and has withstood more than twain-times that number, over those many years. With half those sieges having been fended off, by noble Rohnald or his father, the heroic Neal who is said to have rescued his good-father Duibh, in the battle of Madadhfearn.”

“Mayhap he should have let him perish,” Daegan grumbled harshly, taking the cleric by surprise with her lack of enthusiasm for this particular tale. “Duibh was a rotten High-King, according to the elders of Glasvhail.”

“He was no such thing,” Wulfnoth defended with some heat, “He was a loyal man, it is said that it was he who defeated the swamp-laird of Colnlach, down in Strathclarde. Why, my father used to tell me tales of good Duibh’s piety.”

“Aye, but what of the poor harvests that took place during his reign?” Trygve asked curiously, recalling how the Salmon used to speak of how his own father once complained at length of Duibh and his lack of legitimacy.

“Often you Caleds expect far too much, from your monarchs,” Wulfnoth said quietly, his eyes upon the bright blue horizon of the heavens above them, his moustache quivering with each word and breeze that passed. “I often wonder if the harvests that go poorly, are not simply sent down by the gods as a test rather than as a punishment.”

“If such is the case,” Cormac said, after some thought, “Why is it that most poor harvests occur during the reigns of poor kings who are toppled shortly thereafter? Why was there not a bad harvest during the reign of say the Thistle-King?”

“But there was,” Wulfnoth countered sharply, to the surprise of his listeners all of whom gasped in response, “There were two such incidences; one was early in his reign, in the fourth year and he reacted by husbanding for the remainder of his reign. I remember it well, for I visited during one of his last years as High-King, and there was another poor harvest. However, he had stored much of the produce and husbanded what he had with great care, so that few of those people in his lands went hungry.”

This little revelation was a shock to all of them. Cormac appeared at a loss for words, yet looked fascinated, as did Indulf.

Daegan and Trygve though were not convinced, if for different reasons, she on the grounds of faith. “But if such was the case, why would he not be punished by the gods, for what happened outside of his own lands?”

“Aye, why not offer assistance to those throughout all of Caledonia?” Trygve asked rather resentful of any doubt or aspersion cast upon the good name, of his favourite of all the previous monarchs in Caledonia’s history.

His annoyance with the topic went unnoticed by Wulfnoth, who blinked his eyes a little and studying the parapets of the castle-towers, in the distance. “But he did give it, and his enemies used what he had given them to initiate an assassination against him claiming that there had been a poor harvest and that this signified the gods had turned away from him.”

“Aye, and it was a son of Duibh who aided in the murder,” Added Trygve heatedly, demonstrating that he too knew the history of Siomon the Thistle and how he had perished. “He was welcomed into his lands as a guest, only to be cut down by MacDuibh.”

Wulfnoth blinked in surprise at the heat in the lad’s voice. Startled his expression changed to one of disapproval as he spoke in a reproving manner, “It appears you have decided for us all what is to have taken place. You have missed the entirety of my argument; that it is not through the efforts of the gods that we succeed, but through the dint of our own efforts.”
Trygve felt the sting of his words more keenly than he might otherwise have expected, his face turned a little red with barely concealed fury. He did not much appreciate the reprimand, nor did he see how he was in the wrong.

From the corner of his eye though, he could see that Cormac was staring at him in apparent amazement, which made Trygve rethink his opposition. Sullen he fell quiet, wishing at that moment that the earth would swallow the overbearing druid whole. Gods knew the pompous paragon could test the patience of anyone, even the Grand Divan.

The hills which were either utterly green in their complexion with some trees here and there, so that there were small thickets of ash-trees, birch wood and alder-trees, of the finest growth. These hills, which were in many cases covered with cattle devouring much of the grass-fields, were juxtaposed with well-harvested hills filled with apple-trees, tomato-gardens, fields of corn, and wheat.

The ocean of fields and trees, gave way as stated before to the great lumbering fortress that snuck upon them with a secrecy and deviousness that left them all breathless. The bulk of the stone ramparts, of the walls that Wulfnoth was keen to teach them about were more than ten-meters thick and the evident esteem the keep appeared to hold himself in, amazed them.

Trygve felt a touch of resentment intermingled with his awe, for he had no great love for the clan that ruled over all the lands of Rothien, for the simple fact that all knew it was from the High-King that the good harvests had stemmed from, these past four years. That the years prior to his reign had been hard years, hard ones that had forged men into either the finest of gallant farmers and fishermen, or broken them into gaunt shadows of what they once were. More than one child of Glasvhail could recall how, all their parents had taken either to fishing or to begging fishermen or the wealthier artisans such as Corin or Kenna. The former whom had forged countless weapons for the wicked Donnchad and MacDuibh, only to impoverish himself buying what little food he could, for the locals many of whom perished in the famines that followed.

Freygil for example, whom was the eldest in his family, had buried two brothers, during those years. One to the famine, as the man had refused to after illness had taken his wife and sons, preferred to pass over all his meals to Trygve, Indulf and the rest of Freygil’s children. The other was conscripted by MacDuibh and perished in battle, his corpse never recovered from the south. The loss of these uncles had shaken the whole of the family, who had learnt to mistrust and even despise their lairds and liege-lairds, and any who bore the name ‘Duibh’.

“This castle is an eyesore,” Trygve grumbled with no small amount of loathing for it, even as he quailed at the sight of it. A part of him wished for the fall of the ruling lairds of Rothien, yet he could not help but wonder how anyone could possibly topple anyone, who hid behind these gargantuan walls.

“This keep is a wonder to behold, constructed during the reign of MacDuibh; it was one of the first claimed by his son Giric, shortly after the dawn of Duibh’s reign as High-King.” Wulfnoth explained to his companions, cheerful and utterly convinced of the rectitude of his old friend, he added. “Neal held it for Giric when he moved two years later to found Deasdunmar keep north-west of here, along the Réaltamar River.”

The breadth of his knowledge of history impressed his companions, who followed politely along each of their eyes moving up and down the keep.

Though the druid insisted that all was well, not a one of them felt at ease then, for the air about the castle from the crows that squawked and flew overhead, to the way in which the castle blotted out the light of the twin-suns set them ill at ease. The words of Trygve of how the castle was an eyesore appeared to their minds to be both true, and to have somehow possibly offended the castle. The dark grey sheen of the castle along with the pointed roofs of the towers, of the dungeon and the guards that circulated beneath the pointed roofs of the walls did not lend much comfort either.

“I am not so certain, this is the same place that you recall it to have been, Wulfnoth,” Cormac warned in a hushed voice, as daunted as the rest of them were by the dark presence that held this keep in its grasp.

Wulfnoth was determined to remain blind to what was apparent to the rest of his companions. Harrumphing at their reticence, he pressed them forward urging them towards the gates of the keep walls, as a shepherd might encourage unwilling sheep back into the fenced field from whence they came. Such was the force of the dark atmosphere about the castle, with the stench of an ill-cared for city about it. Ravens and crows circling overhead and the air of menace from the gates at the gates that even Daegan were unwilling to approach the mentioned gates.

“Hurry up, why the four of you ought to feel honoured to be here,” Wulfnoth declared proudly with what he likely thought was an air of dignity, when in reality he looked like an over-dressed walrus and a fool.

“I think you should speak to those guards alone, and we will wait for your return,” Daegan proposed with a nervous glance at the two guards who stared back at them, with hostile gazes.

Seeing that he could no more persuade them to approach the guards, than he could convince them to leap from a cliff, Wulfnoth let loose a curse and a huff of exasperation. Stomping over to stand before the guards, thereupon he began to agitate his arms at them, as he attempted to convince them to open the gates and let them slip comfortably into castle Rothmore.

He might well have succeeded, were the steward any other man. The pretensions that Wulfnoth had made of the steward’s long memory, were proven false at that moment for he failed to negotiate their entry into the keep,

What was worse for the cleric was that the more worked up he became, the less welcoming the guards became. So vicious and hostile were they that when he began to shouted at them, “I am Brother Wulfnoth! A recognised paragon of the Temple, and an old friend from thirty-five years ago of steward Rohnald MacNeal, who rules here therefore you must send someone to inform him that I have come to call upon his debt to me!”

“Get back old man, we would have no further utterances exchanged between us,” One guard commanded sharply, when the old man went to protest once more he loosened his blade from its scabbard. The warrior did not remove it completely, but even half liberated from the scabbard it was menacing enough to persuade the paragon to leave.

Stunned, Wulfnoth continued to stare in open-mouthed shock at the brute that stood between him and the gates. At last he backed away, and without another word of complaint or fussing reprimand against any of them, left Castle Rothmore in favour of the south.

*****

“I shan’t understand what happened,” Wulfnoth complained for the eleventh time, seated in the Dancing Buck tavern, hours away from the castle, guzzling ale as readily as one might breath. The smoky darkened air of the pub was one that had at once attracted the liquor-loving Brittian as a flame might a moth. By then, darkness had crept up on them no differently from a thief in the night as the druid had stumbled on utterly senseless to their voices and muttered questions of stopping for the night.

It would be Cormac, who proved himself the loudest of those who complained of his fatigue, attempted to wrestle a proper response from the paragon before he had prevailed on the rest of them of the importance of establishing a camp. This decision they had submitted to a vote, with only Indulf in support of arranging an immediate camp. A vote he later withdrew, the moment that Trygve learnt from a local famer of the location of a nearby tavern. Bitter at being outvoted, Cormac preferred to sulk than to join in any further conversations, for the rest of the hours of walking that followed. The decision to continue onwards, was one that they all regretted for some time though not a one of them had spoken their innermost frustrations (outside of Daegan), for fear of being made to revote rather than reaching the tavern that night.

The moment he beheld the tavern, which stood three storeys off the ground with a large sign with the image of a buck holding up a mug of ale. The wooden sign of polished wood was a good match for the eight meter high building, which was the largest in the locality south of the castle. Fifteen meters long and wide, the building was surrounded by farmland that was every bit as wide and long as the rest that surrounded the keep. Its fields were filled with grapes and wheat, so that it was apparent that the master of the building preferred to grow his own ingredients for his pub than to buy it from others. All of this was a testament to the prosperity enjoyed by the tavern-keep with a small bridge just past it that led still farther south. The bridge was a stone one that was small as surely as the small sea-knife through the land was.

Wulfnoth entered it before Trygve could lord over Cormac this victory over him. Bewildered they followed just as the wind whipped about with increasing violence it was supported in this aggression by the rain.

Soaked, the four of them studied the shadowed interior of the Dancing Buck with weary eyes, and impatient to find a place to sleep, they only cast the swiftest of glances around them. With the left-hand side of the tavern cast in shadows, as two men stood by the wall, seated at a table distracted by a game of chance. The tables were rounded and made from alder wood, the same sort that the pub was though they were slightly more polished than the walls were. Just as there was a griminess to the muddied floors, the bar and tables were filthy with sloshed beer and wine, proof of the popularity of the tavern, though the nearest house to it was at least two almost three leagues away. By the tables to the rear of the bar were three Wolframs, all of whom were cast in shadows as there was very little light by them. Only the left-hand tables and bar itself had a small number of candles (as the master had little interesting in paying for anything else). The three of them were hunched over towards one another, whispering and muttering between themselves in their strange barking and howling language.

The stench of rot and soured milk and cheese hung pungently in the air; so that it was the worst thing each of them took notice of, about this wretched place.

Careful to cast away his gaze from them, for fear of the violence that might ensue as they did not appear to him, the sort of Wolframs they had seen in the fields, Trygve turned his gaze towards studying the rest of the patrons. There were two other than Wulfnoth seated at the bar; one was a plump Satyr who had the appearance of a farmer, his squat frame sulky as he muttered on and on to himself. The other was a human, bearded and with a muscular build, a thick blonde beard and was dressed in a grey hauberk with a cloak cast over him and pulled up over his long-haired head.

Between all of these people, and the creak in the floor wherever they stepped, the general lack of stability some of the chairs appeared to have and the creaking of the wind and rain against the exterior, they could hardly be excused for their apprehension.

“Let us simply request a room and be away,” Indulf whispered to his friends, “I would prefer not to spend any more time than is necessary, with these people.”

“Agreed,” Daegan replied a hint of nervousness in her voice.

“Aw, is the princess of Forlarin frightened?” Trygve mocked his fatigue and innate apprehension in regards, to this place replaced by his eternal need to humiliate his friend.

“Oh do be quiet Trygve, it is hardly as though you feel much more at ease here, than I,” Daegan retorted evenly.

“She is right, Trygve,” Cormac murmured worriedly, “I would prefer to avoid this place and its patrons as much as possible.”

His own boastfulness overtaking once again his better nature, Trygve shrugged and advanced towards the pub to join Wulfnoth, who already had a mug of ale on hand. There he ordered some ale for himself, in his loudest, most confident voice.

Made to wait as they were all too anxious to properly approach the bearded pub-owner whom Trygve was startled to discover was a Centaur, with a muscular figure, his bare arms looked as though they could have squeezed marble with but a flex. The tunic he wore only reached as far down as his waist, with his lower body almost hidden by the high bar.

Trygve sipped at his drink that was slammed before his face with a glare, before the Centaur filled it, only to add with a snarl. “Pay ahead of drinking lad, and pay for your friend, less I throw the lot of you outside to be fodder for them, dark-riders.”

Daunted despite himself, the fisherman called for Daegan to pay, which she did though it meant parting with a single silver-thistle. For a time Trygve sat there, by Wulfnoth’s side sipping at his ale and attempting to coax the Centaur into a conversation. This ended in the man telling him to be quiet, which he dully did. The ambient candle-light serving to quiet him, he did however succeed in persuading Cormac into joining him on Wulfnoth’s other side. The other lad’s innate curiosity about both the ale and the bearded hauberk-adorned patron getting the better of him, pleased by this victory over the other two Trygve ordered another mug of ale.

The quietness though, combined with the continued grumbling of the druid served in time to embitter his good humour. He was not alone, as Cormac once his few questions for the warrior next to him went by ignored, became rather miserable company himself, downing his ale rapidly until he very visibly became drunk. Sliding sleepily in his chair, his head almost hit the wood of the bar, an airy laugh escaping his lungs.

“I shan’t understand what happened,” Wulfnoth repeated once more, to the growing irritation of the inebriated Trygve.

“Oh do be quiet it has been thirty-five years, all men change in that time.” He snapped irritably, slurring some of his words as he spoke.

“Aye, but not typically that much,” The druid hiccupped a little, “He was honourable, he saved my life and now look at him. How could a man change so much? There are times, when I shan’t understand man’s nature.”

“Because man is inherently foolish,” Trygve grunted beneath his breath.

“Hardly,” Cormac slurred with a loud laugh that won him a glare from the man to his left whom he had his back to.

Thankfully for the youth, Indulf foresaw the danger that was imminent, and hurried over to pull him off his chair. Kenna’s son attempted to resist if futilely so, his efforts were so disjointed from his drunkenness that he was easily pulled away by the older youth and the red-haired lass next to him. This pulled a small snort of laughter from Trygve, who felt a wave of pride at how he had managed to better handle his beer. This in spite of how the room spun all about him, and how the druid’s words at times did not make it to his ears, so distant did they seem at that moment.

“Come Trygve, it is time to sleep,” Indulf attempted once more.

“Aw do not be that way, I’faith brother I have only just begun to enjoy myself.” Trygve replied with a small laugh.

“Do you have a room free?” Daegan asked pointedly with a scowl towards her friends.

“Aye, second floor, first door on the right now off with the lot of you,” The Centaur retorted rudely taking a key from below the bar and tossing it down on the surface of the alder-wood bar with a glower.

*****

Escorted roughly up the stairs by his brother, after they dragged the laughing, singing Cormac who made everyone cringe with the ridiculousness of the figure he cut. Daegan and Indulf returned a few minutes later to drag away Trygve himself, whereupon he protested at the top of his lungs that he preferred to stay where he was. “Simply because you carry the gem, or are my brother hardly gives either of ye the right to command me!”

Disgusted by his words, Daegan glowered at him rage in her eyes; though this was naught in comparison to his brother’s fury this he demonstrated when he slapped the younger man for his gaffe. Stunned by this, Trygve might well have reacted with fury, were he not paralysed with surprise by this gesture. Not a once in all their lives, outside of a few brawls had the timid Indulf ever laid hands upon him, or lorded, his status as an elder brother over him. Yet here he stood in the pub, doing just that.

“I am your brother, and you will listen to me Trygve, cease this nonsense else I shall tell ma’ all about it by our return home.” He growled at him sharply, with his brother nodding dumbly in response.

Tripping and shambling about as though they were at sea, following after them with nary a word of protest until they were in the hallway on the second floor, the filthy stairs well behind them, with the door to the right left open. They slipped into the barren room which possessed only two hay-beds, of questionable quality and a simple table with a Canticle of all things to the rear of the room. On the bed in question Cormac continued to giggle before, he slipped into a snoring sleep that won him the scorn of Daegan.

“What a worthless drunk,” She grunted sounding remarkably like Kenna at that moment.

“Bah as though you are much better,” Trygve countered with a sneering laugh that only won him the green-eyed fury of the lass.

“Do be quiet, less I shall give you a second smile,” She threatened hand going to the sword-hilt on her belt.

There was a menace in her voice that had never been there before, save once or twice in the past several days. Her eyes were hard as stones, with no mercy or pity held therein to his surprise, but drunk as he was he had no ability to temper his judgement, laughing in her face with a sneer.

Daegan almost followed through with her threat, however once again Indulf interceded as always the mediator between his friends, “Daegan go find Wulfnoth.”

“I need not listen to you!”

“Just do as you are told, Wulfnoth is defenceless and I do not much like the vast majority, of those we left him with,” Indulf persisted from between clenched teeth.

Once she had left in a huff, muttering curses and threats below her breath Trygve rounded upon his brother, “Who are you to command us?”

“Leave it be Trygve.”

“You did not need to slap me,” He grumbled his face still aching from the pain of the blow he had been dealt a few short minutes ago.

“Yes, I did Trygve, now sleep,” Indulf snapped back with equal fury, dragging him to the same bed that Cormac lay snoring upon the edge of. Laying him down on it with rather more roughness, than his brother expected so that he was sprawled along the middle of the bed, Indulf turned away to go aid Daegan.

This he did, returning with many a jeers, curses and complaints shared between him, Daegan and the druid as they walked up the stairs and into the room. With the druid laying down at the foot of the bed, more due to their not having the strength to continue dragging the tottering old man along, they soon descended between them what to do next. Closing the door, Indulf took the only chair in the room and pressed it against the alder-wood door, with the intent that none would be able to enter now (the door swung inwards you see). Placed below the doorknob, it effectively meant that none would be theoretically impenetrable without burning the door down.

Satisfied by this, along with the knowledge that his companions slept, with Daegan having presumptuously taken the other bed for herself Indulf laid himself down on the floor, between the two beds and promptly went to sleep.

Feigning sleep Trygve waited until his brother’s breath had even itself out before he pulled himself over to the other side of the bed. There were no candles to light the room, yet his eyes had long since grown accustomed to the darkness of the room.

Gleefully, the drunken young man shambled away from the bed, around his friends, removed the chair from before the door. Pulling the door open he did not bother to close it behind him, figuring that he would not be long, and what was more was that the hallway was darkened also therefore there was naught to be concerned about.

Just one more drink, He thought to himself, certain that he could handle one more and that he would not be long, he ambled down the hallway, followed by down the stairs.

Cast in shadows the stairs could hardly be discerned save for a few bottom steps, from the entrance of the Dancing Buck, with this being to Trygve’s advantage. It was as he neared the lower creaking steps that he heard the door sing open with a bang, and some great beast of a man stomp over to the pub.

“Where are they?” The figure cast in shadows, a dark-cloak about his shoulders asked of the pub-owner, his voice soft and whispering.

Seized by fear at the sound of this figure’s voice, Trygve regained his sobriety faster than he ever had previously in all his years.

“First door on the right, three of ‘em are sloshed, they should not be a problem,” The tavern’s master replied at once.

Filled with terror, the youth did not waste any time in hurrying back up the way he had come. It had to be a phantom-rider, he threw himself almost bodily into the room where his companions slept, hissing and calling out to them to awaken. “Wake up! Indulf! Daegan, wake up!”

“Trygve, be quiet it is late,” Indulf protested at once.

“What is it?” Wulfnoth grumbled in a slurred voice, a combination of sleep and exhaustion made him the most irritable of the lot of them. Cormac groaned and rolled over only to be kicked by Trygve, which resulted in a curse being almost snarled at him were it not for his friend’s hand falling upon his lips.

“Tush, wake up!” Trygve hissed at him desperately.

“What is this about? Another of your jests? I swear, if so it shall be the last one you ever inflict upon us.” Daegan hissed at him.

“It’s one of them!” He countered at once, just as Daegan muttered a threat, “A phantom-rider, he is here and the owner has already directed him to our room!”