The common room was uncommonly warm that day, to Mòrag’s mind. A large Minotaur-matron who had long ago established her inn near the shore in the village of Firthbarrow, the inn’s name Shore-Kyng was the largest and the most popular for leagues.

  Many in the village had reported strange sights, with the local druid brother Dunkil the Wolfram, having reported drunkenly that he had seen visions of dark-riders.

  This was something that at first Mòrag had snorted when she heard his and others’ talk of the dark-riders. That was the case, until another figure arrived in the locality almost a week ago; the cloaked figure of Marculf.

  The moment she saw him, Mòrag’s daughter Mòr hissed into her ear after he had requested a room and departed up the stairs to rest. “He was robed, yet did not carry any pendant or symbols of the faith.”

  “What of it?” Mòrag asked with a sinking stomach, too old to leap to such conclusions as her twenty-four year old daughter at times did.

  “He looks to be a wizard.”

  Indignant, her mother tweaked her ear and sent her back on her way to the kitchen of the inn, which lay past the left-hand door of the common-room. “That is quite enough out of your mouth lass, I do not want to hear another slur of that sort.”

  After this conversation, it soon became difficult for the middle-aged Minotaur to reject the notion that there was something peculiar about her new guest. This guest was as she soon discovered indeed a sorcerer, and prone to coming out of his room at night, a trait that most did not much care for. They had heard too many tales of that sort, regarding the Dark Elves from the Wars of Darkness.

  What was more was that almost a day or two after his arrival in the village, the hooded figure descended down the stairs whereupon he took to drinking for a time with the Ratvians. There were several of them who worked some of the local farms, all day ere they came to the inn to drink every night. In all honesty, they were among the most superstitious men imaginable though for some reason they took to the hooded figure.

  It was as she brought them drinks that Mòrag learnt that the sorcerer was named ‘Marculf the Sorcerer’. Quite where one had to go to get a name like Marculf, was a mystery to the inn-keeper. She was also startled and disgusted to discover that Marculf had green hands when he extended one to grasp the filled goblet on his table.

  “Them shadows, come out every eve’ ‘fter dark especially on moonlit ‘ights ereupon they ha’e taken to shriekin’ at the sea.” One of the drunken farmers recounted to the interested sorcerer who nodded his head with keen interest.

  It was as he listened to the rats that he offered a small satchel to them, and urged them to go on about these ‘shadows’. Mòrag was of a mind that the recent storms and shrieking wind was just that; the wind, rather than shrieking shadows, not that Nestor the Ratvian, the tallest and eldest of the trio would listen to her.

  It was not long after this that the hooded figure of Marculf rose to his feet, to leave just as the daily storm that had struck the village every night, since nigh on a week ago. He did this in spite of everyone in the common-room warning him of the force of the tempest, at which time he sneered and paid to the amazement of Mòrag for his room.

  “For my room, rather than your opinion Mòrag,” Marculf growled in a thickly accented voice, one that was the deepest she had ever heard. It was deeper than any human or even Minotaur voice could ever prove to be.

  When Mòrag looked into the satchel she was shocked to discover a satchel full of silver-thistle coins, there had to be thirty of them! A small fortune that was larger than she had ever held in all her life. Raising her eyes to inform the Ogre that he had over-paid for his room and that for that amount, he could buy the Shore-Kyng from under her, however he was already gone by the time she had raised her gaze.

  That night the storm was worst than any other night, with some farmers and fishermen amazed to find when they emerged from their homes, to discover that near where the boats lay on the shoreline pulled up from the raging sea was pock-marked with dark spots.

  Where they theorized lightning and thunder had struck, with others claiming that some spots appeared to have been burnt by fire rather than thunder. The explanation still others determined was that a short-lived fire had been started by the lightning, ere it was put out by the rain.

  There was just one problem as Mòrag concluded, “But it did not rain that night…”

  What was worst, was the shadow-figures who came into the inn that night, made Mòrag’s bones shiver and her flesh almost peel away so frightened was she of him. His hissing voice and terrible height that loomed over even her (and she was near to six-foot-four).

  Feeling ill, she would be glad to see the back of him, when he asked of her, “Marculf the wizard, how long did he stay here?”

  His voice was as iron grinding against steel to her ears, a sound she had heard but a handful of times, with the Minotaur stuttering out her reply even as she felt her stomach shrivel up within her. “Er, I mean um one night and not a night longer, my laird.”

  This pleased him, or so he said ere he asked which room the sorcerer had stayed in. Feeling faint, and much as she would have preferred to lie to him, to her shame Mòrag found herself stuttering out the answer before she could stop herself, “T-t-t-the first room near the t-t-top of-of the stairs.”

  Once again he hissed in satisfaction, which made her stomach tumble down to her feet and her heart squeezed with mortal terror. Praying as she did so that he would leave, she clutched at the pendant of the goddess Turan that hung around her neck.

  Mòrag soon had her wish, when he did as she pleaded with the gods that he would. The laugh that escaped from his hooded-head as he departed was the most terrible thing that she had ever heard, and made her regret her wish if briefly so.

  Once her terror had subsided though, and the snickering of the shadow had died down, outside just before the storm began, she wondered where such a figure could possibly have appeared from? And where did Marculf go?

  *****

  Old Sister Marian met them by the Great Mound of Griogair a few hours from the forest, an upwardly quirked toothy smile on her lips. “I heard the horn, seems Daegan could not resist now could she?”

  How she had guessed it was Daegan hardly bothered any of those who were included in their small troupe. All that mattered was that they put as much distance behind them. Some such as Lyr took to loud songs that celebrated his many illustrious ancestors; still others took to quiet contemplations such as Corin and Ronald. Connor joined in Lyr’s songs, Colwyn, Fergus, Glarald and Bardulf had taken to the front of their group.

  While Kyrenas along with the Elf-maids lagged near the rear, all three of them miserable and sorrowful as they left the forest-nursery that had for centuries been their only home. And still others; preferred to discuss philosophy as in the case of Meallán and Wiglaf. Cormac in particular appeared to be drawn to this conversation near the middle of the troupe, urging his horse with a little clumsiness to sidle up next to the two old men.

  Observing this Daegan harrumphed though the blonde-haired lad did not notice her exasperation, wherefore she took to discussing with the Elf-maidens Lauma and Calandra. The latter whom, appeared quite taken with Daegan’s red-hair and was keen to ask her a thousand questions regarding it.

  “How is it you came by your hair? It is such a lovely colour!” Calandra praised it, enthused by the manner in which the suns struck Daegan’s mane.

  “From my mother, you see, she was the loveliest maid in all of Glasvhail; it was her mane- the only crimson one in the whole of the village, well besides that of Alpin and his children.” Daegan stated referring to one of the many fishermen, who lived at the periphery of the village. “It was her hair that drew my father to her.”

  “He certainly had fine taste, for it is a lovely shade of red,” Calandra said eagerly, her eyes alight with mirth.

  Hardly listening to this exchange, Indulf who rode some small ways ahead of them, tried not to listen to the almost drunken ribald songs that echoed from the érians’ lips. Preferring for a time the conversation between Wiglaf, Marian and Meallán, needful of this exchange on philosophy rather than losing himself in his own brooding thoughts, he in time advanced past them to join Bardulf at the head of their group.

  “There, we trot now in an empty field with Griogair’s High-Mound far behind us, I must say that it does make me wonder; why corner the children near there? Why not lure them farther away from the Longwoods?” Meallán had asked of those around him, looking primarily to Wiglaf who stroked his beard deep in thought, as he handled the reins of his horse masterfully.

  “Likely for the same reason that they failed to corner them at the Dancing Buck; they remained largely ignorant to the goings-on and doings of our friends. They are not all knowing, and are as prone to error as men are. For you see, they are men.” Wiglaf explained at some length though his words were little more than a guess, Indulf mused when he was still just behind these old men and the old woman.

  “But are they truly still men? They according to what I have seen, had precious little of men still left in them,” Argued the uncle of the High-King.

  “Ha! And are men still men, when they commit acts of savagery or spill the blood of others for self-gain or some other cause?” Marian replied to him, with a sharp bark of laughter.

  “I have heard the Salmon claim that that is why we term such men ‘scum’, and that a laird is no longer a laird once he turns upon his subjects and is little more than a criminal at his core. Is it similar you think?” Cormac asked fascinated by the particulars of this debate, with his words what truly led to Indulf losing interest in the conversation that slowly turned away from practical affairs and into the realm of philosophy.

  “Yes, I suppose that is the case,” Marian said with a pensive look on her face.

  “Still is that not us simply justifying our own position, sister?” Meallán responded tartly, “It appears to me that saying a man is no longer a man, or a Tigrun a Tigrun, or a woman a woman, from when she first commits evil removes from the notion of redemption that lies at the heart of our faith.”

  “Aye, but there are limits to even atonement, Meallán,” Wiglaf retorted quietly, adding morosely. “In my time I have observed such acts that men have committed against their kin, or women against their children that has made me question that part of the faith.”

  “But does that not mean that we ought to strive, all the harder to redeem others? Because it is not only an important act for others but for ourselves, reflecting our own desire for forgiveness the moment we wrong others?” Cormac queried with his usual simple-mindedness so that all around him contemplated his words for some time.

  “Why, that is one of the wisest things I have ever heard, lad, mayhap you should have been a druid or a monk!” Marian crowed with a laugh, one that was soon shared by Lyr’s great-uncle, and Wiglaf.

  It was praise that Cormac demurred from shyly, if hesitantly so with a glance over his shoulder in the direction of Daegan. Still angry with him she preferred to ignore him. Angry still at how he had attempted to leave her behind, she rode past him and the elders and Corin who rode a short distance ahead of them. His own head bowed in thought, eyes upon the road with a brooding expression of his own. As to Ronald, when he set eyes upon him, he discovered him not to be in the midst of brooding or deep in thought, but rather to have rested upon the neck of his horse, a large tome. One that had captured and maintained the Tigrun’s attention so that he hardly paid the world around him any mind, his lips moving as he read the dark-inked text.

  Indulf reached those at the forefront of their group; Glarald MacKyrenas, Colwyn and Bardulf. All three of whom were to his mind involved in a far more important discussion.

  “The road ended some distance behind us, near the Mound, we shall have to bear in mind that we near the frontier of what was once Strathclarde.” Bardulf remarked to the other two at the front of the troupe of horse-riding heroes.

  “Have you ever been to the village of Dumreuel?” Colwyn questioned curiously, stroking his beard.

  Bardulf nodded his head slightly, with Glarald the next to speak up; his voice was curious rather than worried as Bardulf’s own was. “What can we expect, Bardulf of the Griogair?”

  “I am not so certain, and simply call me Bardulf,” The Wolfram replied not unkindly with the Elf shrugging his shoulders. “If we are to journey together, and fight side-by-side we ought to be friends Glarald, therefore address me as you might any others of your tribesmen.”

  It was one of the many oddities to Indulf’s mind that the Elves should appear so youthful and yet in reality be so old. This dissonance between their true age and their outward appearance was further worsened by the manner in which Glarald held himself. There was such weight, and such thought put into every movement, with his gaze just as all those of the rest of his folks bespoke of the same sort of appreciation for the world around themselves that most elders had.

  It was peculiar, and it made Indulf highly uncomfortable.

  “What are your thoughts on the road ahead of us, prince Colwyn?” Bardulf asked now turning to the Cymran, who shrugged his shoulders.

  “It makes little difference to me, so long as it is not too far south,” The prince groaned, “I can already feel my thighs aching.”

  “Do men not travel very often in Cymru?” Glarald asked a teasing note to his voice, as he smirked at the prince.

  The teasing note did not go over well, with the Cymran scowling back at the Elf with visible irritation, “Of course not! For my lands are not large with most folks of the lands of Cymru traveling on foot, rather than a-horse.”

  “Such travel is not entirely common herein the lands of the Caleds,” Indulf interjected honestly, interposing himself rather clumsily into the middle of the conversation. He flushed a little when he saw their gazes fall upon him. “I- erh, well that is to say that most travel by caravan, pony or donkey.”

  This explanation went over well with the prince, whom if he was honest with himself was in spite of his thick accent when he spoke the ériu-tongue that was spoken if in a different dialect among Caleds, he admired greatly already. The man was the most eloquent speaker he had ever heard speak, with the quiet youth envious of his silken-tongue, because of his own timidity and verbal clumsiness. It was the same reason he admired Cormac so, because the other youth was never too shy to ask questions.

  Bardulf nodded his head slightly, “Few are those who can travel by war-charger through the lands of Brittia and Caledonia, few do so in Norwend, or Saesonia, or Ergyng.”

  “Have you journeyed to all those lands?” Now Glarald sounded young once again.

  “Aye,” Affirmed the Wolfram, “Though Caledonia is now my favourite, by virtue of the new High-King.”

  *****

  After this exchange most of their discussions returned to the topic of what might await them, with this particular topic of interest to Colwyn and Glarald. It was one that Bardulf went over for what appeared to not be the first time, though he tackled the subject with considerable patience. It was one that Indulf joined him in explaining what they knew of the wraiths.

  The memory of Inga’s wide unseeing eyes as always flew into his mind’s eye the moment he spoke of the wraiths.

  Ignoring the worried gazes of Glarald, Ronald (who had by the end of the tale) and Bardulf sent his way, Indulf focused upon the green-fields that slowly went down, then up several hills ere they sloped downwards once again.

  The greenness of the fields stretched forth as far as one could imagine, for so long that one could well have forgotten that there was such a thing as civilisation. That night they ate frugally, rationing what they could and arranging for three guards to share watches at a time. It was the next day that the Kynforest snuck upon them.

  This particular forest was one that was not particularly large stretching only for a few leagues. Its pines though were young and thin compared to the red-woods and ash-wood trees that had thick trunks that bespoke of a hitherto long, successful existence. The oaks in some places appeared as young as the pines, and in other locations as thick as the ash trees and red-trees, with birches in much the same condition.

  Appreciative of the green and grey, and some of the red-wood that all stretched as far yonder as one could imagine. Some chipmunks and squirrels poked their heads out of their homes, and some birds glanced at them warily as they passed, with few if at all enthused to see them.

  There was a nervous air in the woods that appeared to be conveyed with every flutter of the birds’ wings, with every flash of blue as blue-jays flew past, or the herons that zipped by. Hummingbirds would not flew too near to them, just as the wolves, coyotes and bears all eyed them with the suspicion of jealous, overprotective parents who also guarded their property with much jealousy.

  This was not to say that the troupe of thirteen were at all discouraged from chatter. Marian recounted a tale as they passed through the forest, her cheery tones carrying throughout the breezy, nervous forest, as she asked of them. “Have any of you ever heard the tale of king Owain ab Dyfnwal?” There were many ‘nays’ that resounded save from Bardulf and the Tigrun twins’ lips. “Perfect, then I shall recount it to you!

  He was king of Strathclarde and was renowned for his skill with the lance and the bow, it was also his ambition to find the forest’s unicorn and hunt it. As it had enchanted his only daughter, Meredith who was but five, when it had met her and he feared that this fascination was a curse. Impulsive and hot-tempered he would not listen to any of his courtiers, or vassals or advisors. Hunting the horned-stallion by night, as by day, he was in time separated by accident from his hunting-party.

  Terrified, as much by the noise of the beasts as by the thunder, Owain king arrived near a small pond; it was thereby it that he first took notice of she who enchanted him so…”

  “Who?” Daegan asked eagerly.

  “The forest-nymph of this place,” Said Marian with an almost girlish smile that appeared mismatched with her thin-lipped elderly appearance. “She sang so beautifully, his soul was forevermore haunted by that song. In love with her on the spot, he stepped forward to greet her, an act that frightened her, and yet he somehow calmed her enough.

  He lived with her for but a short-time, with the king in time found by his people, wherefore he was to return to his lands. For the next half a dozen years he visited the forest every few months, until such time that he heard a baby’s wails. Startled in the middle of preparing for another hunt; which was a pretext he used to try once more to find her. When he heard the babe he hurried thither to find the newborn lass in her mother’s arms.

  The Nymph or dryad as some call this particular breed of Nymph, had expectations that in time he should name her daughter his heiress. But this was not done in Strathclarde. For the king there was nominated and elected to his post only at the pleasure of the kings of Caledonia. And the king though he came to love his daughter the best of all his children, had no desire to see his daughter subjected to the sorrows of the crown and he had four sons to think of from his previous marriage.

  There arose much tragedy in later years, and the Nymph proved fickle as her breed oft-do, her daughter was to become a great comfort to old Owain. It was she who cared for him in his last years; she who invited the druids to give him his last rites and she who wrote the letter to the High-King to secure her half-brother’s throne.”

  There were parts of the story Indulf could at once ascertain that had been left out. Such as much of the details regarding the union between dryad and man, and much of the daughter’s fate and name, so that he did not trust the tale. It was not to say that he did not trust Marian, he did. She was a nun, the trouble he had was that the tale seemed broken and halting in its nature.

  Others such as Cormac or Colwyn were filled with questions. Some such as Daegan and Calandra were filled with girlish awe for the love-story, not questioning much of it. With others studying Marian with the same suspicion the seamstress’s student did, such as Corin and Meallán. As to how Wiglaf and Bardulf felt about the story? Who could tell what they were thinking.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “What a sad story,” Daegan murmured brushing away tears.

  “What a pathetic tale,” Connor muttered with a piggish snort from his nose, “You would never hear a king behave so pathetically in ériu.”

  “Nay, you would only hear of their rapine and plundering actions,” Accused Bardulf as bitterly opposed to the Bairaz as ever.

  Lyr’s guard opened his mouth to object to this description of the kings he admired so, when Lyr’s own face became pinched with rage and disgust, “How dare you speak of my ancestors in such a manner!? They were the very images of honour!”

  “Not all were,” The Wolfram replied calmly, if with an edge of a sneer in his direction.

  “Friends, friends let us remember that we are all united together in this noble quest, and that such talk serves only to incite enmity.” Colwyn said soothingly.

  “I have heard this tale, though in fuller detail than you have told us, Sister,” Replied Ronald having by this time closed his books, and restored them to the satchels girt to his charger. Gaze steely, he recounted what he had heard, “Owain was a wise king certainly, though he did have several years where he was almost an absentee king.

  When he returned he did so with his daughter, who grew to love her father. She loved him so much that, when he decided to at last banish his fickle and jealous wife from his court, this daughter supported him over her mother, though it broke both of their hearts to do so.

  This was during the reign of Mael-Martin I, the immediate heir to Causantín II, with it being the former’s son, Cináed II the ‘Fratricidal’, one of the most vile kings of the Caleds’ who sought to alongside his eldest son Marven sought to seize Owain’s daughter. For she was said to be the most beautiful woman in all the Lairdly-Isle, with the woman imprisoned by the very brother she helped onto the throne, only for her brothers to die in a war against Cináed. She was freed by a Norse raid, who took her away, only for the Jarl in question, one by the name of Sigmun to fall in love with her, only for her to escape him when they reached the short near Norwend.

  From there she was seized in a cattle-raid by the Mormaer of Noroak. One that resulted in her coming to live in Noroak, it was therein the castle on the Mount as Inverdúnis is oft-called that she was wed, to Noroak, himself. With the princess Morna as she was known, bore Ruaidri of Noroak, his second son, Findlaech whom was as we all know the father of our noble High-King.”

  “Her life was one of difficulty, it seems,” Cormac remarked while his friend sought to wrap his mind about all the twists and turns the story had taken.

  In all Indulf, concluded that this tale was full of so very m any coincidences, so very many that he doubted that it had gone exactly as the Tigrun had stated it had.

  Marian for her part shrugged a little with a small smile, “Aye it happened as you said, though it appears that Ruaidri’s sentimentality also had an element of strategy.”

  “If such was the case how can we be certain, he truly loved his newfound bride?” Glarald questioned with a raised brow, doubtful of the sentimentality behind the union.

  “That is not the correct question,” Wiglaf corrected all of a sudden, with quite a bit of thought behind his words, which drew the attention of all to him.

  But it was Bardulf who realized what he was thinking, “The correct question is when did she reveal her heritage, you mean?”

  “Correct.”

  “I much preferred the more romantic prelude to the tale,” Calandra grumbled with her sister who though far more hardened, nodded her head and murmured her agreement.

  It was at this time that Kyrenas weighed in upon the discussion with his own hitherto guarded view, “Nothing is ever so simple. Romantic tales always have as much sorrow, as they do romance.”

  “That is not the moral I have pulled from that tale,” Indulf grunted more to himself.

  “And that is?” Fergus questioned of him, a flicker of amusement in his dark-honeyed feline eyes.

  “Not to get lost in this forest, or to be separated from the group. As Sister Marian did not mention what this dryad did to force Owain and his daughter to banish her.”

  This muttered remark to his confusion, only drew a small if sad smile from the crone.

  *****

  It was later that day, after they had left the Kynforest with its cautious animals, and long-shadows and beautiful fireflies that only emerged after-dark. It was there that Indulf had had a sense that there were many a songs sung in the night, though every time he had awoken it was to find Marian or Calandra singing.

  The latter, as he had found had a lovely voice as all Wilder-Elves did and though he did not much like being woke up in the night due to someone singing, her voice was a comfort to him. It brought him back to Glasvhail, when Inga would at times do much the same, though this was a comfort only due to him realizing it was not some maddened forest-nymph singing to him.

  The thought of which had apparently driven Glarald and Lauma to some curiosity, for which the day they left the Kynforest behind them, Fergus sang a mocking song that so embarrassed them they both shouted themselves hoarse at him.

  “If you do wish to be made to feel akin to a fool, do not act the fool,” The Pardiff retorted evenly, with a small snigger.

  Both Elves grumbled beneath their breaths. Irritated with his son, Kyrenas would complain long and bitterly into old Marian’s patient ear, with the two lagging to the rear of the rest of the group by almost half a league. This was a factor that bewildered some such as Connor and Lyr, even Cormac was worried for them, though he was the only one of the three to confess to being relieved at Kyrenas’s absence. The oldest of the Elves who travelled with them, was poor company at the best of times.

  As though the gods could see the heroes fracturing and coming to regret their decision to leave the Longwoods, dark-clouds came together to blot out the suns and pour rainwater upon the land of Rothien.

  It was in dark-spirits and with few if any of them in good humour, that they made their arrival into the village of Firthbarrow where Wiglaf had claimed he had one of his apprentices secure for him a boat to the Misty-Island.

  Soaked to the bone, and hardly able to see further than a few meters in front of him, due to the darkness of the evening storm, one that appeared to Indulf’s mind to rock the whole of Bretwealda. Every tree and there were a great many, shook and trembled with the force of the wind that blew against them with all its might. The houses were there were but one hundred of them stretched out along the way to the shore, for a third of a league.

  Some clustered together others did not, with the houses made from oak, birch and pine-wood with most of the huts square or round as thatch huts tended to be. This forest of homes, were accompanied in some cases by small fenced in areas attached to secondary buildings that functioned as small barns where their pigs, goats, sheep or cows lived in.

  Others such as the local blacksmith or fishermen only had their small homes and maybe a forge next to the home. The roofs were wooden, with this a strange sight to Indulf’s mind as most of the houses in the north tended to be thatch ones. Glasvhail was to his knowledge unusual in having the same practice as this locality in roofing their homes with wood to keep out the rain, sleet and snow better.

  The houses had a single floor, with a small kitchen area with a small-table to eat before, a bedding area and that was all. All of this was but three maybe four meters in length and diameter so that these were truly squalid manors in comparison to the homes of those who lived farther north in Glasvhail.

  There were a few wealthier houses, such as the four storey manor-house of the local manor-laird who had a long-house almost in the Viking style, though it was also wide and had a stable and kennel for the laird’s dogs. This house made of fine oak-wood was halfway to the beach and was designated by Wiglaf as a place to be avoided.

  “This is the house of the Kynfirth clan, a ruthless family that has long desired to elevate their status. Though they have long been mistrusted, we had best avoid them,” He said to his companions.

  Colwyn scoffed, “How dangerous can they be? Are they as dangerous as prince Maelgwn and my sister?”

  “Aye they are, for they are far cleverer and more cautious in their actions and dealings with others than your foes were.” Ronald stated with a sneer to the Cymran who flushed irritably at the robed cat-man, both of them having to shout to be heard over the storm. “I have heard talk that they have sent two of their sons to the home of Raghnall the Strawthern, along with a daughter of theirs to try to wed him.”

  “But is he not already wed, to the Mormaer of Sudclarde’s daughter?” Lyr asked ill-impressed by this action on the part of the famous Mormaer of Strawthern and this local manor-laird.

  “Aye, but it is said that Raghnall is a great lover of women.” Corin stated with a shrug, “Though it makes little difference, likely it is this man here who seeks to in the event of a rebellion by his laird who favours MacDuibh, betray the Mormaer of Rothien to lay claim to his titles.”

  “Such a black-hearted scheme!” Daegan exclaimed in disgust.

  “Aye!” Lyr bellowed with equal disgust.

  “What difference is to you, what this Raghnall or this Kynfirth clan do?” Lauma asked of the prince of ériu.

  “It matters, for my younger brother has married Sudclarde’s youngest daughter several months ago, and this Raghnall dishonours my clan as well as that of my kinsman.” Lyr growled with self-righteous fury, “Why if I was nearer to Thernlyng I would hew Raghnall with my long-sword!”

  Indulf doubted he would make it very far against Raghnall. It was not that he doubted the prince’s courage or rather his folly, but the trouble was that Raghnall or as many called him ‘the Lion of Strawthern’ or others ‘the Lion of Caledonia’ was the mightiest warrior in all of Caledonia. It was said, with the young Mormaer the most battle-hardened and skilled with the blade and with the hatchet of Mael Bethad’s vassals.

  What was more was that, it was uttered in all of the lands of the Caleds that it was Raghnall who at thirteen years of age slain more than a dozen men at once in a single duel to reclaim his lost lands of Strawthern. What was also murmured and sung throughout the lands of the Caleds, was that it was he who had ended the Ealdorman Ealdwyn of Weslion’s raids into Caledonia, fighting his five-hundred men with but a hundred of his own, and succeeding in slaying the Brittian.

  Tales such as these abounded throughout the islands, about the ‘Red Lion of Strawthern’ called red at times for his red armour and clothing, so that he almost appeared more legend than man. What was even more impressive was the fact that Raghnall was feared and admired throughout the isle more than any other man, though he was only twenty-three years old.

  “Such is the nature of many of the wealthy and landed-classes,” Glarald remarked tartly to the misery of the more idealistic members of their troupe.

  *****

  This was the last they spoke on the matter of the local Kynfirth clan, with Cormac the first to notice the next largest building of the village. The building in question was an inn and pub by the name of the Shore-Kyng, with the image of a crowned tankard of beer painted onto the sign that swung from the wall of the three storey inn. The yellow of the crown looked rather worn, and the tankard which was supposed to be brimming with beer appeared so utterly faded as to almost not be present.

  The rest of the building though, was far more impressively built than the creaking sign made it ought to be. It was when they pulled to a stop and had urged their horses into the stable next door where they soon filled the whole of it up; wearying a Minotaur stable-hand who appeared ill-pleased by his added work that Wiglaf urged them inside.

  “He should be here, I imagine Marculf has begun to grow impatient,” The sorcerer told them with forced cheer.

  “Marculf? Is he Gallian?” Corin asked curiously, as the name certainly sounded as though it might be Gallian.

  As if he had read the mind of the Gallia-born smith, Bardulf muttered, “Marculf almost sounds as though it is a Noren?ian name.”

  They were treated to the first quarrel in the next heartbeat that was to occur betwixt Ronald and the master-sorcerer. The Tigrun pulled himself to a sudden halt, one of stupefaction then indignation, “When you say Marculf, do you mean who I think you mean, Master Wiglaf?”

  “Who else could I mean?” The old man answered mysteriously, much to the consternation of his companions ere he stepped thither into the building.

  “Wait, you shan’t be serious that we should entrust our lives to that- wait you old fool!” Ronald growled only to follow the older magii into the inn, where the two spent the next several minutes bickering endlessly.

  Grumbling Connor complained to himself, “Why will he not answer openly as to who this Marculf is?”

  “His apprentice,” Fergus replied amusedly, “I rather like him, though you may find him to be an acquired taste. Marculf as with the rest of his breed can be a little difficult at times but he has an honourable side to him.”

  With this vague description, Indulf pushed his way inside just as Lyr did. The two were not the only ones to do so with the Wolfram Bardulf making his way into the inn just after them and ahead of Connor, who was followed by Corin. The rest soon followed shortly after him, with the interior of the building one which was different from the Dancing Buck.

  There was no counter, and no innkeep to take their orders, at least not at first. There were several people who had come out to stay out of the storm, and to enjoy some of the locally brewed ale or imported wine. But outside of the three Ratvians, four bearded fishermen and six Centaurs, they were alone.

  The Centaurs were in the midst of becoming riotously drunk, with Wiglaf by the time Indulf next put eyes upon the man, steering his way between the various square tables that separated the entrance and the back of the tavern. There was a door to the left that led to the kitchens, from which popped out a weary-looking Minotaur matron with four large tankards in hand which she swiftly distributed amongst the horse-men. To the right were the stairs that went up to the next floor.

  The interior was brightly lit, in marked contrast to the exterior, as there was wax candles lit at every table between the nearest to the door and those at the rear of the building.

  Most of them settled at random at one of the available tables, taking great care to avoid the Centaurs for the most part, and preferring to veer nearer to the hooded figure who sat by one of the local Ratvians. At the table to the right of that one sat the other two Ratvians, both of whom eyed the newcomers with unfeigned interest and suspicion.

  Apprehensive, for he could see that they were not alone in mistrusting the new arrivals, with Indulf keen to sidle up next to Wiglaf however just as he had begun to try to wedge himself between Connor and Corin, he was forced into a seat by Bardulf where he stood two tables away from the table near the rat-men. He had to repress a flash of disappointment at the distance between himself, and the table at which Wiglaf’s apprentice sat.

  Taking up the seat across from him, Bardulf encouraged Cormac to seat himself with them, with the latter sighing in disappointment also. “Patience,” Said the Wolfram to the overly curious blonde-haired lad, who grumbled a bit beneath his breath.

  “Who is Marculf?” The younger lad questioned after a few minutes of sitting quietly and squirming in his seat.

  “I do not know.” Bardulf replied honestly, he cautioned the youth the moment that the Minotaur matron approached their table to ask their order. “Quiet and I shall have ale, as will my companions seated herewith me.”

  Once the matron had departed back to the kitchens, relieved that they had not asked for much more, in marked contrast to Lyr, Connor, Fergus and Colwyn, whom had all asked for the local-delicacy of crab stew, of which there was not much left after serving the Centaurs. Complaining about them, and the work she still had to do, the Minotaur was soon gone.

  It was they waited for Wiglaf to cease whispering to the robed figure and the lone Ratvian, who appeared from behind, rather irritated with his shoulders tensed up or so it appeared to Indulf. He was however distracted, as was Bardulf when Cormac growing bored asked of those two Ratvians seated apart from their fellow rat.

  “What brings you here? Do either of you own any of the boats by the beach?”

  The question could have been mistaken for an innocuous one. It should have been, however both Ratvians only grew suspicious and guarded at this question, to which the three of them became confused. “Why do you ask?”

  “I-I was just curious, and wanted to have a light conversation,” Cormac stammered bewildered by the sudden drop in temperature betwixt them and himself.

  “You are the second large group of outsiders to visit recently, asking for boats,” Grumbled the first Ratvian under his breath.

  Though he had hardly been paying the discussion between them much mind, preferring to glower a little at the blonde-youth, Bardulf stiffened now. Turning his head, he asked of the rats, “Those others, they would not happen to have been dressed all in black now would they?”

  Amazed, the two locals gaped at him, asking of him, “How could you have known such a thing?”

  It was now that Cormac intervened to ask of them, all the while Indulf studied what some of his companions were doing. Cowyn had begun to entertain the Centaurs with wild tales, Lyr’s uncle was sitting amidst the humans nearer to the entrance, listening to them and Lyr and Connor were engaged in wild tales. The Elves who had preferred to seat apart with the hoods of their cloaks raised up, over their heads appeared to be scowling at Wiglaf and his apprentice. Only Glarald sat nearer, having taken up the third oak-wood chair at the square table occupied just behind that of Bardulf with the Tigrun twins.

  “How long ago was this?” Cormac asked casually urging the two half-drunk Ratvians once more into a relax state.

  The two exchanged a confused glance, as they thought the time the wraiths had passed through the small town. “This would have been almost a week ago.” One of them eventually said in a hesitant voice.

  “Aye, it was about the same time that Marculf there appeared, though they departed shortly thereafter,” The other stated with a shrug of his shoulders as though it no longer mattered.

  This served only to perplex Bardulf and the two lads all the more. Dismayed at the thought that they had missed the shadowy figure of the wraiths, by a matter of a week, they thanked the two Ratvians.

  It was not long, ere Wiglaf approached them from Marculf’s table, with the Minotaur woman bringing out Colwyn’s meal at long last, just as he challenged the Centaurs to a game of chance (one that involved rigged dice as they later learnt). “I have news; Marculf is not here.”

  “Why is that? What of that hooded figure?” Cormac asked pointing towards the shadowed figure seated across from the lone Ratvian.

  “That is but a shadow, a memory left behind to await me here, I knew from the moment I neared him.” Wiglaf revealed a hint of frustration in his voice, tugging at his beard as though he wished to tear it clean off from his chin.

  “Mayhap, he simply left for a walk or to go rest?” Indulf proposed only to receive a scathing glance from the sorcerer he and his friends had come appreciate so very much, for his wisdom as for his loyalty.

  “Do you not think I did not think to ask the Ratvian seated across from him just that very question? All he knows is that Marculf left yesterday, and paid him to when the apparition would appear herein the common room of the Shore-Kyng.” Wiglaf informed them with a troubled gleam in his eyes, and a long downwards frown on his lips.

  “Where did Marculf go?” Indulf asked worried and on his feet in an instant.

  “That I do not know all I know is that he made for the shore and disappeared shortly thereafter and has not been seen.”

  “If such was the case, we must go find him first thing in the morn’,” Bardulf decided climbing up to his own feet and signalling to the matron.

  Wiglaf did not appear at all convinced.

  *****

  It was when they went to go up the stairs that Indulf, who had kept to the rear of the group, noticed Wiglaf’s absence.

  Hearing the door close, he glanced ahead to those who had decided to wait out the storm. Hesitant to join them, as the thought of those wraiths did indeed frighten him, as did the tempest that raged just outside of the Shore-Kyng. The memory of Inga prevailed though over that of the battle by the Great Mound of Griogair.

  Waiting for several of his friends to make their way up the stairs, each of them preoccupied with their by now habitual arguments and petty concerns.

  The most noteworthy being the continuous quarrels between Lyr and Colwyn, that between Bardulf and Connor, along with the father-son arguments of Kyrenas and Glarald, this last quarrel though was one that Lauma was keen to interject herself into.

  This left Cormac near the rear of the group, next to Fergus and Marian, both of whom were engaged in a debate about old Tigrun songs.

  Only Meallán remained in the common room, out of the travelers where he was distracted by the other men who were telling him of the dark-riders who had visited Shore-Kyng days before the arrival, of the heroes themselves.

  Inordinately pleased that he was not looking in his direction, nor were the rest of the patrons or the innkeeper, Indulf slipped out of the inn.

  *****

  Wiglaf though almost cloaked in the shadows and din of the tempest that thundered across all the land. Staff in hand, he raced towards the shore hair tossed about and swept in every direction. His hat during this time was lost drifting off in the wind, and off in the direction of the sea or so it seemed to the seamstress’s pupil.

  Following him was not an easy feat, for Indulf found himself almost crushed under the weight of the might of the storm. His ears were deafened by the din of thunder, breath stolen from his lungs as much from the effort of following his friend, as from the wind that buffeted against him.

  It felt as he breathed in that buffeting air, as though he had breathed in some sort of toxin that filled him with utter terror. It was the same feeling that had inspired him by the Great Mound.

  Once he had reached the shore, Wiglaf began to examine the ground in search of something that escaped the notice of Indulf, due to the torch that the old man had carried with him into the night. For reasons that escaped Indulf, the torch appeared to be immune to the force of the wind, and ignorant of the wetness of the rain.

  It was as he looked up at the heavens in the direction of the southern woods that Wiglaf took notice of the youth who had followed him out into the storm. A flash of anger appeared in his eyes, as he bellowed at him, “What do you think you are doing, to have followed me into the storm, you young fools!?”

  Indulf opened his mouth to answer, when he realized the plural use of the term ‘fool’ so that he glanced about over his shoulder. It was then that he took notice of Cormac just a few feet behind him.

  The sheepish expression on the younger lad’s face was a sheepishly worried one. At the sight of him, Indulf was filled with anger, and might well have yelled at him were it not for the sorcerer crying out to them.

  “Go back you fools!”

  “But Wiglaf, what of yourself? Why have you come out in the rain?” Cormac asked of the old man.

  “I have come out to lay claim to what is mine, yet not mine!” The sorcerer screamed just as the wind shifted and blew more coldly from the south, it was at this moment that his position over the matter of their following him out into the rain changed. “They have arrived! If you will not return huddle closer to me, lest they hew you down.”

  Both lads hurried over to him, with the lads armed with daggers that they unsheathed, with shaky hands. Once they had reached his side, they were amazed to find that the rainwater did not touch him, or anywhere where the circle of light cast by the torch and staff of the sorcerer. Later they would also remember how the cold of the night, had been banished to be replaced by the same sort of warmth that Wiglaf always inspired in those around him.

  His staff a-light with a fire at that moment, as the wind tore with greedy fingers at the mage’s cloak, robes and beard. It was just as had happened upon the Great Mound, a dark figure appeared from the shadows of the night, doing so with a loud cackle that shook the night, denied all light and squeezed the courage from all the hearts that heard this voice.

  This Knightwraith was he of the horned-kingfisher, and was armed on this day with a trident with his horse rearing up with a great sneering noise.

  Thrusting out the trident at the old man, he might well have cut the sorcerer down were it not for the great light that shone from the crystal upon the peak of the staff. Crying out in the strange tongue of sorcerers, Wiglaf cast back the trident while the lads cowered behind him.

  “Back! Back, shadow of blackest night!” He cried with the utmost fury so that the Knightwraith was forced back.

  The hiss that escaped his helm was the most frustrated, furious sound that had ever been uttered in the lands of Caledonia since the time of the wars of Mael-Martin II. Enraged, the phantom raised his grim helm, with it at this time that the wind grew in its hissing.

  Worried and suspicious about this, while Wiglaf advanced with his torch in one hand, and staff in the other, unaware of the strangeness of this behaviour on the part of the enemy, which was what caused Indulf to glance about themselves. He saw naught but the shadows; this only worsened his suspicion so that when the time came a few bare minutes later, after the Knightwraith had been backed almost all the way to the woods.

  The shade that surged into being from their own shadows might well have had the better of the sorcerer were it not for Indulf himself who cried out at the same moment that he loomed, high above them a-horse and took a mighty swipe at Wiglaf.

  His great-sword cut apart the torch of the sorcerer missing the man’s shoulder by bare inches, and might well have stabbed into him were it not for his turning about to face his newest attacker.

  Desperate, he might well have fallen, as had the lads, had the shadows not grown over-confident. Such was the arrogance that overtook them that they herded the trio in the direction of the sea, with the end result being that Cormac concluded.

  “They intend to force us into the sea!” He guessed horrified.

  “Aye, they will not however succeed,” Wiglaf bit out full of fury, adding far more loudly in the direction of the Knightwraiths. “Where o shadows of men, have you taken my greatest student? Where have you taken Marculf? I should warn you that to not produce him, would prove an error and that never again shall you rest at peace, lest he not be shown to me.”

  Indulf with bated breath, glanced behind him at the sea, fearing it as much as the terrible monsters that loomed over him and his friends. He prayed then to Inga’s spirit, along with the war-god he had taken for his patron, since he had set forth upon this quest for some miracle.

  “Produce the gem,” Hissed the Knight of the horned-kingfisher, his voice as menacing as ever.

  Confused, Indulf stopped moving back, to stare at the Knightwraiths, who cruel and masterful loomed over them, trident well in hand. Cormac and Wiglaf did not appear to notice the frustration in the voice of the enemy, the former was too frightened and the latter too furious over the perceived loss of his student.

  “Produce my student first! Then I shall dignify your lies, with credulity if such is your wish.”

  Open-mouthed, Indulf almost blathered that he felt certain the wraith had somehow lost the gemstone were it not for the Knight of the broken-scales who stood to one side scorned them and persisted in such a tone. “Where is the gem?”

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