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,

  Lu?ia’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 R?dwald, 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.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  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.”

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