The fear that had haunted each of those on the boats, day and night was for one of the many storms that tended to haunt the seas between the islands to strike. It was in the estimation of Cormac, a miracle that the suns were so bright and the winds so fierce.

  The fishing-vessels had large sails that they had flared upon Fergus and Cormac’s counsel, so as to ease the stress of pushing themselves against the oars after hours of doing so.

  As to the seas they were blue and dark all at once, and swished and made no sounds just as Cormac had always remembered them to. The joy of the rocking of the boat, the sound of the wind and feel of it in his thick blonde locks at last eased his heart. After almost a week of worrying over the distance that had grown betwixt Daegan and him, he felt calm overtake him and a smile battle its way onto his face.

  Steering such a boat was a difficult thing, as there was a single rod that jutted down below it, which was steered with a single lever at the back of the ship; it was through this mechanism that they managed to keep the boats en route. The trouble was that not all were as familiar with rotating the lever, as Cormac or Fergus were. Corin was familiar with it also though to a much less skilled degree than were the two of them.

  The result was that there were continuous commands shouted out over to Marian’s boat, where Lauma and Calandra were with her, along with Colwyn who was placed in control of their lever. This hardly pleased, Lauma who felt that it ought to have been a role given to her, rather than the silken tongued Cymran, regardless his own boating experience off the shore of Gwyneira.

  “Are you certain you are doing it right, mayhap you should push it farther to the right?” She would ask of him, almost at once after they had left the lands of their forebears.

  “Aye, now seat yourself lest you wish to fall,” Colwyn eventually snapped after three hours of her haranguing him.

  “Do not speak of falling,” Bardulf hissed at him, with such distress that the Cymran sneered back at him.

  “When I had heard I might have the chance to meet the great Bardulf the hero, I was filled with eagerness, yet here you are; a coward with nary any courage in sight.” He snorted earning for himself a glower, only for the Cymran to continue his series of complaints. “Where oh where did Griogair’s heir go?”

  “Griogair’s heir? What does he mean by that Bardulf?” Cormac asked as he cast an annoyed glance towards the prince who preferred to ignore him, as he was not terribly fond of the son of Murchadh for reasons that escaped him. It was a sentiment that had rapidly come to be reciprocated. Much as he still loved the tale of how Colwyn stole the title and lands of Gwyneira from Maelgwn, the man himself was the most arrogant and pompous man he had ever met.

  “It is nothing,” Bardulf stated dourly, as he always did when the topic of King Griogair was discussed.

  “If it is nothing, mayhap you will not mind if we discuss it nonetheless,” Glarald decided for the Wolfram with a teasing smile, ere he turned his head to meet the gaze of his friend. “Bardulf you see is the son of Raldwulf the Far-Voyager. A Wolfram who sought in his own time to restore the honour and dignity of his clan and now the burden has befallen our friend here. The reason is because Bardulf is the descendant of noble Griogair.”

  This was a startling realisation for Cormac, who had never imagined that such a thing was possible. The possibility had never previously occurred to him, so that Cormac now felt utterly simple for not having considered it in the past weeks. Yet now that he thought about it, it explained why and how Wiglaf had become friends with the Wolfram, as well as Wulfnoth’s own bond with him.

  Looking to the Wulfnoth who gazed down at the water beneath them, with a shiver and visibly uncomfortable gleam in his eyes was strange. Not only did he seem more ordinary for the fact that he could feel afraid, but there was also a reason for his dourness.

  One that went beyond simply the losses he had endured, along with all the years he had spent all alone, with but a sword for a bed-fellow. Cormac now saw him not as some distant figure, but rather as no different in how flawed or majestic he was, than say Wiglaf or Corin.

  The sole difference that Wiglaf and Bardulf had from Corin was that the latter feared nothing. He was level-headed, wise and though he feared at times for Daegan, never allowed it to overtake his sense of reason.

  If anything, the youth felt a greater sense of respect and pity for the Wolfram.

  “If I may ask, Bardulf where did you leave the sword of Griogair?” Glarald asked in a voice that was far calmer than what his friend could possibly have summoned. There was little reason to doubt the interest that the young Elf felt in regards to this matter, in spite of his polite tone.

  It was a question that was burning on Cormac’s own lips, and that he appreciated his emerald-haired friend bringing up though he felt a swell of sympathy for the Wolfram. He appeared so discomfited by the question, and unhappy to hear it that the lad from Glasvhail momentarily felt that maybe it should never have been uttered.

  He was evidently not alone in feeling this way, with Kyrenas feeling that this was in some way disrespectful to the wolf. “Enough Glarald, it does not concern us, in any way.”

  “I meant no disrespect,” Glarald insisted with unusual obstinacy, scowling a little in a sudden burst of petulance towards his sire.

  Looking towards his companions on the other boats for assistance, it was then that Cormac noticed that most were distracted with their own little whispered conversations. And that for this reason, they appeared to have no true interest in the exchange happening on his ship, for which he felt a slight twinge of irritation for Wiglaf and Marian, and even Corin for it was their duties to keep the peace throughout the group at large.

  Yet they were the most distracted, Wiglaf was with Daegan who was boasting of what feats she would surely accomplish. While this was happening Corin was preoccupied with steering his ship clumsily while Marian and the twin daughters of Arduinna attempted to offer different counsel from one another. Because of this, their efforts only made things all the worse for them.

  “Regardless of intention, heedless words remain heedless, no matter how you pretty them up with apologies after the fact. Once spoken, all phrases are given life and must live and die as all things do and therefore must be tended to with care.” Kyrenas reprimanded his far more impulsive son, who took this lesson with a rather irritated expression as he adopted a grimace of forced patience.

  Now it was for Glarald that Cormac felt pity for. Corin could at times be overbearing upon Daegan, however he did so not out of seeming dislike for his daughter, but fondness. A sentiment that he undertook to demonstrate at other times when not scolding her, with teasing gestures, warm praise and in listening to her woes without judgement.

  In marked contrast to Corin, Kyrenas offered naught but sharpness, reproving remarks and cutting words that could have cut the thickest and most enduring of hauberks to his son.

  It appeared as though the son was ready to snap back at him with anger, with Colwyn letting slip a snigger and encouragement for him to do so. Evidently he took pleasure, in the way that only the coldest of men might in the suffering and division of others.

  It was then that Bardulf interrupted the quarrel that had engulfed the whole of their boat, with a heavy sigh. His voice from when he first began to speak, took on a heavy air, heavier and far more dour than it had ever been, much to the pity of the Elves and Cormac. “It is true; I have a heavy burden placed upon me. I am heir to Griogair; my ancestress was Caitriona, his daughter who was the only one of his children to have survived him and his grief-stricken wife.

  It was when he went to pay his respects and to take the crown of Griogair that Roparzh King gave to them his own sword. The kingliest blade in all of Bretwealda, that which Fionnlach had once wielded, was shattered that day upon what became known as the Roparzh-stone by the king.

  For he was not a cruel man, to the contrary he was gentle and wished to repent what he had done. It was then that he laid down what some have called the ‘Doom of Roparzh’, but my father, Raldwulf called it the ‘Promise of Roparzh’.”

  “He gave your ancestress the sword?” Cormac asked eagerly, fascinated by this ancient tale only to then ask, “Do you still have it?”

  “Aye, though I- you see when the time came for Caitriona to wed my ancestor millennia ago she carried with her as her only dowry, the shame of her forefathers and the shattered blade. Yet her love, the great chieftain Girion would not have another mate, it is said that he took up her burden as his own, and after they had had a litter of sons and daughters he left in search to fulfill the Promise of Roparzh.” Bardulf continued tearing his gaze to meet that of the Caled, who froze in place, held prisoner in a trance by his dark eyes.

  “What became of him?” Glarald now queried in a hushed voice.

  “What do you think, became of him Elf?” Colwyn asked drolly, with a quirked brow, “It is evident that he perished.”

  “It was about that time that the island of Antillia arose in the north, and Girion left for those lands, along with his Centaur mentor, Mentirian, who was said to have vowed never to be separated from him.” Bardulf finished his tale with a down-turned gaze, his voice full of shame and pain, “You see? The Promise of Roparzh was in many ways our Doom, with Caitriona made to endure the same pain as her mother. Living to a very old age and made to watch her sons, grandsons and great-grandsons all perish on this quest. The oath and the ‘Doom’ have passed down now to myself, the moment my thrice beloved noble father perished in defence of my people.”

  “And when you die it shall pass to your children…” Cormac predicted feeling awful for his friend, who appeared to become ever more disconsolate if such was possible.

  “Nay, for my fate is different; my intended- my leofhundrr is denied me unless I fulfill the quest.” Bardulf confessed staring at his hands, which he opened and closed, appearing suddenly vulnerable with his ears pressed against his head. “I have had the misfortune of being the last of my line; my uncles and cousins have all fallen. I am all that remains and my intended’s father will not have her become a widow and continue the cycle of pain and grief, therefore I am denied her.”

  Colwyn adjusted the sails on Cormac’s instructions in the minutes that followed, with the Cymran not questioning. He did not appear particularly affected by the sad tale of the heirs of Griogair Wolf-King; it was after he had adjusted the sails eyes on the heavens just as the Caled raised his own gaze upwardly. The heavens still appeared cloudless, as they had been almost all morn’ something that was a blessing when out at sea.

  This will not last, Cormac predicted, certain that given the poor weather from the past week would only continue. According to the fishermen he had spoken to just before they had purchased the boats, the storms that had haunted the previous night had done so all week long, every night. The moment evening was to grasp them in its steely grip; dark clouds would likely begin to gather to menace them with another storm.

  This knowledge made his belly tighten with anxiety. He did not want to catch a cold, nor did he want the peacefulness of the sea that was currently upon them, to end.

  “A sad story,” Glarald remarked, bending over the side of the boat, to cup some of the water in his hands to the distress of his father.

  “Do not do that Glarald,” Kyrenas ordered and yet his son ignored him.

  “You must fulfill the Promise of Roparzh King, Bardulf the hero,” Glarald said softly as they drifted along, eyes aglow almost with a cyan colouration rather than the ordinary vivid green of his eyes, he added. “You must succeed, just as Cormac must in the discovery of the truth behind his father’s disappearance, and the destruction of the Blood-Gem.”

  Letting the water fall from between his fingers, Glarald appeared otherworldly, if there were such things as trees that grow upon the sea they would have resembled the son of Kyrenas, the youth mused.

  Filled with sudden shyness, as he always did when others praised him since he was unused to such kindness from others, especially since the night his father had disappeared, he mumbled. “I do not think the quests at all comparable in weight.”

  “I disagree Cormac, yours is the purer quest,” Bardulf told him with sudden intensity, capturing and keeping his gaze once again, distracting him from his examination of the heavens. “My quest is aye for love and to lay to rest a burden millennia old, but yours is simply out of simple love for a father. I daresay that there is no purer love than that, no greater admiration or act of goodness than such a quest or act. Therefore, do not demur but hold your head up proud when others, praise you for this.”

  Cormac only nodded, barely noticing the pensive smile on Colwyn’s face or the sorrowful look that overcame Kyrenas’s own face and the way Glarald looked to his own father with a wistful gaze. To one side Ronald remained silent, his back to the Caled lad so that his expression continued to remain hidden, not that this truly registered into his consciousness then. All that he noticed then, was the smiling eyes and genuine fondness on the face of the Wolfram hero.

  *****

  It was a little while later that the fog came in, and they began to lose track of the other boats. Unused to boating about in a mist, Cormac came by this time to rely upon the shouted instructions of Fergus, who called for all boats to answer his call every few minutes.

  Quite why he wished to do things this way was apparent to the youth, though not quite so apparent to Lauma who complained, “Why must he continuously shout?”

  “It is so that we do not lose track of one another, for the previous time we boated through a fog it was near the Skull-Isle, to the north of ériu and west of Norwend, with Marculf.” Ronald explained morosely, only to shudder for at that time he was still visible to the lad at the posterior of the boat.

  The Skull-Island was a place of dark-mystery. Those who had visited it were never keen to explain what it was that they had seen. Not that there was a need for this, or so some were wont to claim.

  The rumour was that there were cannibals who lived there, and that they decorated their homes with the skulls of their victims.

  Still others claimed that it was not cannibalistic men who lived there, but rather some other creature that slunk in the night, and that hunted men, and beasts and even wraiths or the Unliving with equal malice.

  The tales that were told were always blood-chilling, and for the nervous lad who had heard similar tales passed around his home-town about the Misty-Island, the fog took on a suddenly malevolent air.

  “I mislike this fog,” Connor complained from one side, his voice weak and small.

  “Now who is afraid of a bit of water,” Bardulf muttered.

  What worried all was that the pig did not answer, or insult him in turn. But rather, he fell into a brooding silence that was shared by all his companions.

  Even Wiglaf stammered when the time came for his boat to answer the calls, only for him to add, “This is no o-o-ordinary fog, by the beard of my grandfather Eual the Cobbler, this is the coldest and most frightful fog I have ever endured!”

  “Aye,” Colwyn agreed in a shaky voice, his ordinary swift wit sluggish at that moment, with another round of calls begun by him.

  This time, there was more than one voice that appeared hoarse, with Daegan’s voice when the time came, sounding a little shaky as did Corin’s. Both of them, normally unflappable were at that moment as vulnerable as all the rest were.

  So thick and dense was the misty air that surrounded them all, that he could nary see a few centimetres in front of him. His own hands were barely visible and if it was not for the sound of his companions’ voices and heavy, frightened breathing he might have thought himself dead and on the boatman of the Styx’s ship rather than a fishing vessel bound for the island of Antillia.

  This last thought made up his mind, with the youth calling out to his friends, “Does anyone know of any boating songs? I shan’t recall any other than that of Mìcheil the Sailor-Rat, who journeyed across all the Agenorian isles?”

  The tale was one sung to children, even those not of Ratvian descent. Mìcheil was the son it was said of a butcher who would as Cormac had done, wander off to the sea for he was said to have lived in a village by the sea in Caledonia. Some said he lived in Bhalkeld and others on one of the western isles, it was of little consequence. He one day hitched up a boat after he had cut down a number of trees, and took off to explore all the lands of the faithful.

  “I have heard some of his tales, though I am surprised that a human not from Gallia has heard tell of him,” Fergus mocked from the other boat.

  “Why is that?” Calandra asked now from some point to the left and aft of Cormac’s own small vessel.

  “Because he was a Ratvian, and most humans would prefer not to speak of him. The only reason Gallia knows of him is because of the famous ‘Temple de Michel l’Explorateur’ as they call it, as the Temple has canonised him as the patron paragon of explorers.”

  “Really? I was not aware of this,” Wiglaf exclaimed amazed, “Which Grand Divan did that?”

  “You were not aware master?” Ronald asked, with it now his turn to be startled.

  “Nay, for such news is slow to reach me in my Cymran cottage. Most come to me for spells, love-charms and quests rather than to preach of Father-Temple.” Wiglaf complained bitterly, “Why do men expect us sorcerers to be any less pious than the next man? Are we not as human, or as mortal as the next person?”

  “I imagine not in their eyes,” Corin replied cynically, ere he turned the matter once more to Mìcheil, pronouncing as he did the name as ‘Michel’. “Mìcheil is known to us Gallians, even in Forlarin.” This drew the attention of several of his companions who knew him best, for he rarely spoke of Forlarin. “I am unfamiliar with the song, do you know it Dae?”

  “Nay, for I have not had chance to sing it recently or heard it.” This surprised several more people, for she knew all the songs of Mìcheil, or almost all.

  Even Cormac was startled at this admission. What was all the more surprising was how small her voice sounded then, and how weary she seemed. In a surge of frustration he suddenly wished, he was on the same boat as she, that he might be able to wrap his arms about her and shield her from the world. For her to fell so, was a failure in some way on his part he thought, with considerable self-recrimination musing as he did so that this was why women should not go on such quests or off to war. It always ended poorly, and there was always ever so much death, and no woman should ever have to endure such pain and agony, he concluded. Least of all Dae, who deserved naught but the sunniest and brightest of days, rather than gloomy, fog enclosed ones.

  The force of his own feelings startled him as much as her admission. For it felt far stronger than his ordinary feelings of this kind for Daegan. His fingers itchy, he began to scratch and peel at some of the stray wood on the shoddily built old fishing-boat, praying to Tempestas and the Sea-Queen his father had once told him, to have greeted and saved his grandfather Waltigon and the Salmon.

  “I know it,” Indulf said all of a sudden, his voice almost as dour as that of Bardulf, there was a moment of silence before he admitted. “Inga loved the song of Mìcheil.”

  “I was not privy to this!” Daegan exclaimed irritably.

  “Because you were but her friend, whereas I was more than a friend to her, there were no secrets betwixt her and I,” Indulf countered at once, with Cormac able to imagine the scarlet-haired lass pouting at these words.

  Though he was a clumsy singer, Indulf soon proved his merit with several other, finer voices soon joining theirs to his own. Notably those of Bardulf, Marian and Meallán, all of whom had remarkable voices. It took a little longer, though for Fergus join in the song yet when he did his was the finest heard amongst all of them. Finer even than the voices of the Elves.

  “To the sea Mìcheil did shout,

  Possessed by wanderlust to sea he set-out,

  The Rat did thus sail about,

  First he sailed south,

  Thus, did the Rat set sail for parts untrammelled,

  It shan’t be denied Mìcheil was lost,

  A great Sea-Drake he did accost,

  Mìcheil, Mìcheil why do battle with a Sea-Drake?

  The answer was he was lost,

  Mìcheil did do battle, then he turned about,

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

  To the sea Mìcheil did depart,

  Possessed by wanderlust he shouted hark,

  The Rat did thus set sail and depart,

  Second he sailed northwards,

  Across the Glacial-Sea he travelled,

  Northmen and frost-leviathans he battled,

  Amidst ice-pillars and wits that be frost-addled,

  Mìcheil, Mìcheil why fight frost and a Leviathan?

  The answer was he had been shackled,

  To mast thus he ardently battled,

  To the sea, Mìcheil did shout,

  Possessed by wanderlust to sea he set-out,

  The Rat once more sailed about,

  Next he went east,

  Forthwith, he did set out for Doria unchallenged,

  Pirates and sirens he did annex,

  When he was accosted next,

  Mìcheil, Mìcheil why did you sail across Siren’s Bay?

  The Rat at sea did rest,

  His men did save, and turn back they then did suggest,

  To the sea, Mìcheil did shout,

  Seized by wanderlust to sea he set out,

  The Rat once more sailed about,

  Now he left west,

  Past ériu he journeyed,

  That way he went about,

  A Kraken came to accost,

  Mìcheil, Mìcheil why do battle with a Kraken?

  The answer was he was lost,

  The many arms he did chop ere he turned about,

  To the sea, Mìcheil did shout,

  Seized by wanderlust to sea he set out,

  The Rat set about,

  Now he wished to head to the moon,

  The gods only laughed with a great shout,

  This way and that way he went about,

  A princess with a beast he did accost,

  Mìcheil, Mìcheil why do battle for a Rat-princess?

  The answer is they are always such trouble and you they accost,

  This she did wherefore, he next gave a great shout,

  To the sea Mìcheil did shout,

  Possessed by wanderlust to sea he set-out,

  The Rat did thus sail about,

  Thus, did the Rat set sail for parts untrammelled.”

  When the last verse was sung, there was silence again.

  There were no calls between the various boats with this worrying Cormac who worried called out to his companions. “Are there any other sea-songs you lot know?”

  “I know of one; it is my nephew’s favourite. It is a new one, which my people call the ‘Song of Muirgel’ for our Queen.” Meallán replied with a small laugh.

  “Ugh, anything but that song, I have heard it all too often!” Lyr complained, whining so that he sounded at that moment ten years younger than he truly was. “I do think I have heard it sung a thousand times!”

  “Quiet you, it is a fine song and one you ought to look forward to hearing it sung another ten-thousand times.” Connor growled at the prince with unusual heat. “It is an honour to have songs made of one’s parents. Now sing, lest I throw you into the sea, my prince.”

  Reluctantly, and with audible disdain, Lyr joined in the song. Fergus, Marian and strangest of all even Colwyn joined in the singing, with the Cymran later to admit that he had heard it sung a few times by merchants from ériu newly arrived in the port of Gwyneira.

  “In his youth the King Bradán

  And a mermaid were wed; she was his brightest gemstone,

  She was ne’er left to suffer alone,

  Her hair was as flaxen-fields, smile as a ruby-stone,

  Hair as flaxen as gold,

  Neither was very old,

  He was all the more bold,

  She smiled and sung and was never cold,

  Fins and gills no longer tightly to her hold,

  In his youth the King Bradán

  And a mermaid were wed; she was his brightest gemstone,

  She was ne’er left to suffer alone,

  Her hair was as flaxen-fields, smile as a ruby-stone,

  South of the hill there stands an abbey,

  Where the king ruled,

  There Muirgel first met him and was made happy,

  In twilight, her kin would have Bradán ridiculed,

  Yet whoever ever loved as fiercely as he?

  Through tempest and sorrow they clung together,

  He endured molten heated iron-shoes for her,

  For him she endured to be torn from the sea forever,

  Through battle and sorrow they clung together,

  None hath ever suffered such love..”

  “A fair song, for what is without a doubt a fair Queen,” Bardulf murmured gently, for the first time since he had met Connor, showing that he did not have to always oppose him.

  “Aye, she is fair for a human I suppose,” The Bairaz laughed, adding as he did so, “Though her beauty is negligible compared to that of my own ‘Queen’ of a sorts!”

  His words pulled several chortles from a great many of them, even the ordinarily serious Ronald, with only Bardulf and Kyrenas not joining in the merriness of the moment.

  Once again they fell quiet though this silence was soon interrupted by a new round of calls between the boats, begun by Ronald, who growled out. “We must either continue these songs or calling between ourselves.”

  In response to his words, several groans were heard for all were tired and their voices hoarse. Only a few of them, such as Daegan and Calandra continued to sing and hum the song of Muirgel, mother of Lyr. Lyr for his part, Cormac could have sworn he heard joining in with the two of them (though the prince later denied it).

  The fog strangely only thickened, at the same time that the wind began to pick up.

  Originally floating forward at a steady pace, they now began to accelerate in rapidity, so that it was not long ere panic began to spread, just as the sound of the waves grew in steadiness.

  “The wind has begun to thicken, and grow in force!” Lyr screamed anxiously.

  “This is not unexpected,” Ronald cried out in response, on his feet or so it seemed, “We must lower the sails!”

  “What? I shan’t hear you!” The most recent cry erupted from Wiglaf, who sounded utterly frightened and lost.

  “We must lower the sails,” Daegan concluded at the same time as the Tigrun.

  But once again their suggestion was lost in the sound of the crashing waves. It was a sound that grew steadily in force and might, with the sound echoing in Cormac’s ears. It was a sound that struck not simply at his spirit, but at a primordial part of his very being. Such was the magnitude of the sense of smallness of shock that poured into his soul that he knew at once, though he had never heard that sound before in all his years. It was the sound of the sea, throwing itself with all the force it had against the rocks.

  “Row away! Bardulf, Kyrenas take to the oars, Ronald burn the sail if you must!” Cormac bellowed pulling at the lever that he might switch the direction of the boat as best he could from his position at the rear of the boat. Yelling out over the thunderous din, at his other companions he commanded them, “Burn or tear down your sails, to the oars!”

  Such was the command in his voice; such was the fear that had overtaken him that none questioned him. All obeyed, this in spite of the fear that continued to hold Bardulf captive and the arrogance of both Kyrenas and Colwyn, who despised obeying a man or one of lower-rank respectively.

  Though he did not know whether the other boats were responding to his commands, he only knew that they began to lose some speed, just as the mast of the ship was torn bodily off by a sudden gust of wind. Such was the force that it flew into the air, as though it were some sort of eagle and disappeared somewhere in the distance ahead of them.

  Having waved his staff at it, Ronald broke into panting from the exertion, only to mutter a little once more, and then to exclaim in shock, “I shan’t slow the waves beneath us!”

  “Do something!” Bardulf quailed in a blind panic, this the first time that he was heard to ever panic.

  The ship had just begun to turn, it did so with what appeared to be increasing slowness, rather than with the rapidity which Cormac might otherwise have preferred. As forward movement could only result in them crushing, themselves against the stones that lay ahead.

  His heart beating against the prison that was his chest, with the same might that he imagined that all things and animals currently at the mercy of those terrible waves of the sea were reduced to naught. Such was the fear that gripped him then that the fisherman’s son froze at the sound of the mast striking the rocks, a bare couple of meters away.

  There remained only a single recourse left open to them.

  “To the sea!” He ordered next full of desperation, deciding that they had to trust themselves to the sea though it may not prove a merciful mistress.

  “What but, I shan’t swim!” Bardulf bellowed back at him.

  It was then that the fog began to slowly dissipate, and that they had their first vision of the rocks that loomed up ahead of them, and the promontory that lay farther past it. It loomed high above them, jagged in places, with a majesty that few if any man-made fortifications or monuments could ever compare with. Or so thought Cormac, though he was in no mood to admire the sight, leaping over to one side, he was soon submerged in the sea.

  He did not have time to suck in a breath of air, nor did he have ample time to prepare himself for the shock of the sea or the waves that carried him forward after the boat that he had just abandoned.

  It was all he could do to try to pull himself away from the onrushing waves that appeared as resolute as he was, to avoid the rocks as it was to throw him against them. Heart racing, arms waving and legs kicking he swam with all the fortitude, all the might that he had been blessed with, and only succeeded in fighting against those waves for a brief time.

  At the same time that Cormac was struggling for his life, against the waves, he was struck in the head by Ronald’s leg, crashing down upon him with the force of a thrown stone.

  Pain blinding him momentarily, Cormac was sent askew and lost his focus on keeping his breath in his mouth and kicking out against the sea.

  Lost in the sea far below, he strove upwards now desperate for air as his lungs began to burn and his head throbbed, lost for the moment in the crushing weight of the sea. A weight incomparable, and infinitely more malevolent, than all the worst kings and men in all the world, and a thousand times worst than the Kingwraith and his ilk.

  Lurching upwards, it was with a shock that Cormac found himself not being thrown forwards but pulled back down.

  It was then that he felt what he thought to be Ronald’s hand gripping his ankle in a steely grip that bruised his foot to the bone. Screaming once more with pain, he tried to bat at the Tigrun with his leg, even as he strove to look all around himself. All he saw was an inky darkness that engulfed his gaze and blotted out the sea.

  Suffocating he tried once more to wave his arms and agitate his legs beneath him, only for a similar grip to latch on and around his other leg with equal strength to the first.

  His chest felt torn in three then; between the burning grip on his lungs, the force of the waves and the grasp of Ronald beneath him.

  The grip below him tightened, crushing his feet all the more.

  Another prayer and another wave of kicking followed.

  Then with a ‘pop’ that only the dwellers of the deep, such as the mer-folk from whom Lyr’s mother Muirgel had sprung was heard as Cormac lost his boots.

  Carried away by the waves, he was to blindly make for the surface bursting thereupon to the open air which he drew into his lungs by mouth and nostrils, with all the joy of one who has not tasted the most delicious flavour in the entire world, for what felt to him to be years. The fire in his lungs, the agony of not being able to breathe slowly abated, to the joy of Cormac.

  Only to be once again swept up by the sea and overtaken by the old feeling of water in his lungs and nostrils.

  Choking, he might well have ended his days there, were it not for someone grasping him by the foot, only to pull him over. To the relief of the coughing lad, he was not to be pulled downwards or to the side but upwards.

  Opening his eyes, which took a moment to clear ere he could properly see again, Cormac, was greeted by the welcome sight of Calandra and Kyrenas.

  The two Elves appeared smaller than they ordinarily were, with their hair and clothes pressed against them due to being soaked. They had shed their cloaks, and had just to say pulled him up, onto one of the upwardly slanted rocks upon which their boats had just been dashed. Clinging to him, Cormac bent himself as best he could, and was momentarily released with Kyrenas swiftly catching his extended palm in his own.

  “Th-thank you,” Cormac gasped as he was pulled up the rock-face which lay beneath them and which was easily ten times their size. “You- you saved my life-”

  “No matter, where is my son?” Kyrenas demanded trembling with the force of his passion for his only kinsman left to him in the world.

  “I-I do not know,” Cormac confessed holding onto the slanted precipice of the great rock beneath him for dear life.

  Kyrenas did not pay him any further mind, and threw himself once more into the sea with nary, a further glance in his direction. Startled, the lad cried out at the same time that the younger of Arduinna’s two daughters did.

  Frightened, Calandra yelled, “What is he thinking? Surely he cannot hope to survive the waves or being crushed against the promontory!”

  “I do not know- oh look! Over yonder!” Cormac shouted pointing over towards the next rock; it was there that Connor the Bairaz at last surged forth from the sea.

  Grasping the rock which was a little higher than that of that which the blonde lad and Elf-maid clung to, ever so desperately, the Bairaz pulled up from the depths of the sea the gasping figure of Bardulf. He was soon thrown up onto the nigh on flat-surface of the rock, much to the relief of the two behind him.

  To lift a man, in so clean a fashion after having swam in armour was no easy feat, and it appeared at that moment to Cormac that the mightiest person in all the world had to be Connor, son of Baronk. Without waiting for the bruised and gasping Wolfram, to properly thank him, the Bairaz leapt back into the maelstrom of waves.

  This pulled a gasp from both Calandra and Cormac, who could do little more than stare as Baronk’s son reappeared a little while after, with prince Lyr in his grasp.

  Seizing him up, once he had pulled himself up along the side of the rock, he threw the prince up and almost over the other side of the rock-island. Scraping his side along the edge of the stone, Lyr coughed almost as much as the wolf had, and was every bit as miserable as he coughed and hacked.

  This was not the only surprise that was in store, for them Kyrenas soon returned hither with an unconscious Glarald whom he pulled up onto thither rock to the left of that of Calandra and Cormac.

  Struggling visibly, the red-faced father pounded at his son’s chest with one hand, pressing it down upon him until the youthful fey began to cough up some of the water in his lungs. Kyrenas looked as though he might weep from the relief of the sight of his son safe and sound.

  “We must get onto dry land,” Cormac shouted at his companions, exhausted as wave after wave threw itself upon them with such force every few seconds that he had to cling to the rock precipice with all his might.

  “Not without Meallán,” Connor cried out as Lyr coughed a little nodding his head ever so slightly with an air of weariness.

  Searching about the sea, the lad gave a faint nod of his own ere he glanced up the promontory. He was not certain, but he thought he saw several dark spots hundreds of meters above him. Worried for Daegan, though desperate to secure for them all an escape from the sea, the son of Kenna the seamstress prayed to the Sea-Queen his grandfather had once seen and the goddess Tempestas that she would prove to be safe.

  It was a few minutes later that he found a small hand clinging to another nearby rock; it looked as though it were struggling to keep to the stone, a short distance from Connor’s rock. A flash of red confirmed the lad’s suspicions that this was in reality Daegan.

  “Dae!” Cormac cried out, ready to leap into the sea when he felt Calandra grab at his arm.

  “Wait, Cormac! You shan’t leap into the sea now!”She screeched at him, as filled with desperation as he was.

  “But I cannot leave her to die beneath the sea! See, how she has yet to lift her head above the water? She needs me!” Without any further words between them, the fisherman’s son took once more to the sea.

  This time, he swam not against the tide and though his arms ached, diving into the open sea a little behind the rocks that had so frightened him and his friends a few minutes past. Cormac was nearly swept up once more by the tide. However it was a little weaker behind the stones so that though he was still knocked about and nearly dashed against the promontory, he was able to with a little effort force his way forward.

  His arms swept up over his head when above water, pulled at the sea and swept down to his sides, his legs kicking with full force below the waves, all in an effort to reach Corin’s daughter. Never before had Cormac ever felt so wearied, so worn down until it felt as though there would likely be naught left of him after this.

  Where once the blue waves of the sea had enchanted him, now they only served to buffet and annoy him. Suddenly he appreciated his mother’s love for the land, in place of the waters that she likely still believed to have taken away his beloved father.

  A lesser man might have given up, might well have decided to swim towards one of the nearby rocks and to pray to the gods for rescue.

  But at that moment, Cormac was as a man possessed. Obsessed with the thought of Daegan being in danger, he threw himself body and soul against the waves glancing about only when near the surface to direct him around the pillar upon which Connor lay.

  Somehow over the course of several minutes, he found his way near to where Daegan was. His back and chest felt as though, they had been beaten down upon with war-hammers, his legs and arms screamed at him.

  “Cor… mag!” She tried to shriek at him, fighting against the current as best she could to keep her head a little above water, without almost any success.

  Grabbing her by the hand, he called out to her, “Hold onto me, Dae!”

  Daegan nodded a little, ere she slumped forward against him.

  The journey to Connor’s rock took a little longer than his trip to save her, with the red-haired lass struggling to stay conscious. A competent swimmer, as he was to later learn she had been struck by Wiglaf’s staff by accident, when her own boat had struck the rocks.

  At the moment all he knew was that he needed to get her to safety, looking up to find Connor reaching down to grab him, he thrust Daegan forward.

  “Take her first,” He gasped almost thrown back by the sea.

  The Bairaz did as requested, seizing first the Caled-lass passing her along to the now awakened Bardulf, and then reaching down to grab Cormac by the arm. Lifting him up bodily, he pulled him to safety with a heave-ho that hardly took the breath out of his lungs.

  “Th-thank you Connor,” He mumbled feeling utterly broken by the waves and shivering from the spring cold-water.

  “Aye, though now we truly are doomed.” Lyr murmured with a shudder from where he clung to the same rock.

  “What? Why is that?” Connor queried a little foolishly.

  “Because, we shan’t climb up the promontory, have no land in sight and the tide too mighty,” Lyr countered as though these facts were the most apparent things in the world.

  They were to any person with eyes and ears, with Cormac pulled up by Bardulf to rest on the summit of the rock on his back. Placed next to Daegan who was made to cough out the water from her own lungs, as had been done to Lyr a short time before, with Cormac once again struck by what appeared to be dark crows high above him.

  And if they are not crows? He wondered to himself, unsure of what those shapes were he pointed them out to his companions who remained as ignorant as he.

  Only Calandra appeared to have her doubts. The pretty Elf-maid clinging to the rock flared her ears and listened with the air of one all but prepared to throw herself once more, into the stream.

  Though most of them had forgotten about her, the moment Daegan gasped out, “My papa, my papa! You have to find him and Indulf too!”

  Or when Lyr thought he had seen Meallán only to be kept from diving into the sea as Connor and Cormac had done before him. “Release me! I must help uncle Meallán!”

  “Nay lad, it is unsafe, you are a prince remember that!”

  “Still, I have a duty to him!”

  “And I to you, my prince,” Connor reminded the prince who struggled against him, unable to break free from his grasp.

  It was then that Calandra cried out to them, “I can hear them!”

  “What? Who? The others?” Bardulf yelped out wearily.

  “Nay, the- there are people high above us!” Calandra replied shrieking to be heard by them.

  Her words were almost lost in the crash of the sea, as the waves raged once more against them.

  Those words offered hope, if only a sliver of one with Bardulf the one, who advised, “We must call out to them.”

  “But what of the others?” Cormac rasped out, still wearied and feeling as though he had been beaten incessantly by the sea.

  “We shan’t worry for them at the moment, we will simply send up the women and Lyr.” Bardulf determined with the rest of them offering no resistance save for Lyr, who disliked the very notion of him being sent up with the woman. When he replied that he would remain with them, on the rocks the Wolfram struck him with an open-palm, across the cheek. “Listen you fool, you must protect them should those people up there not be entirely friendly. Daegan is injured and Calandra cannot protect her on her own.”

  “But-”

  “You were taught the Code of Thierry by Sir Gaston, and what would he expect you to do?” This time it was Connor who scolded the apprehensive prince who silent. Defeated he, was to offer up no further argument, so stringent were the teachings of Gaston de Quirinas.

  Shouting up at those high on the cliff above them, yielded no aid.

  It was Daegan who muttered after a few minutes useless yelling and pleading, “It is a shame we shan’t scream louder than these waves, maybe if you put more air into it, pig you might be heard by them.”

  “Oh do be quiet,” Connor grunted.

  This gave Cormac an idea, so that he reached up to grasp the war-horn given to him by Delauvaran; that which the Jarl who had enslaved his father, had gifted to that same man, “Wait, why scream when we could pour what air we have into our war-horns!”

  His first tentative attempt to blow the horn was an embarrassment, so clogged with water was it, with Cormac forced to empty it and try once more.

  Three times did he blow into the great horn, and thrice did his friends have to cover their ears. Hope in their breasts as surely as their hearts were, each of them prayed and each of them hardly dared to breathe for fear that their hopes were to prove vain.

  At first there was no response, however after a few minutes there rained down upon them a long length of rope which fell a little short. Another blow of the horn caused those high above them to pull the rope up a little ere they lowered it down once more.

  The moment the line was near enough to them to be grasped, the tallest of them Connor reached up to test it. Finding it to be firm, he went to pick up Lyr, when he was stopped by Cormac.

  “Dae first!” He shouted at him.

  “But, the prince is royalty!” Connor bellowed back at him, enraged at the notion that some peasant lass should take priority of place ahead of his liege-laird’s son.

  “Connor! Cormac is right; the lady goes first, as does princess Calandra!” Lyr argued, only to blink up at his guard, “At least grant me that much dignity. I will not be the prince who would place himself ahead of women and children!”

  The nobility of the prince’s character, which had previously seemed to Cormac’s mind to be pure bluster, suddenly appeared every bit as majestic as the high-birth of the heir of the Clover-Throne. Moved and pleased at this demonstration of valour on the part of a man he had previously disliked, the youth swore then to banish all thoughts against the royal moving forward. For how could he ever think little of him, in the future after such a valorous display of chivalry?

  Hoisting up the visibly wearied Daegan, the Bairaz waited for Bardulf and Cormac to securely tie the line about her waist. Another blow of the horn followed, whereupon the Bairaz moved as she was easily and speedily pulled up, to go aid Calandra in moving to the rock upon which, they clung to.

  Once the Elf-maiden had been tied, after the rope had been lowered once more for them, she shouted at her friends, “What of my sister?”

  It was then that Kyrenas yelling from where his own stone lay, yelled out, “Never you mind her, lady I shall be last up the hill, so as to continue the search for her, if you will have these rescuers of ours lower another line… one nearer to my son and myself.”

  Having remained quiet hitherto this moment, so that a number of his traveling companions had forgotten all about him, Kyrenas’s suggestion did not appear wholly unreasonable to the rest of them. Though they lacked a great deal of affection, for the father, the son had more than won their love and respect in the days hitherto their crossing of the Murky-Straits.

  When next the rope was pulled up, two were soon lowered with the next person to be hoisted up prince Lyr and Glarald. The two of them were pulled up, with the Elf’s father visibly concerned and shouting continuous instructions for them to take greater care with his son.

  The ropes were soon lowered once again, and while Kyrenas fastened the line about his own waist, those upon the other rock had a small conundrum; namely who would go next?

  “Cormac, you must go thither up the mountain after our friends,” Bardulf ordered sharply.

  “But, you should go up, I am quite prepared to wait my turn,” Cormac argued back trying to fight the exhaustion that worked and toiled away at him. Clinging to the rock against the crashing waves, and after what felt to be hours of swimming to rescue Daegan had left him, quite thoroughly wearied to the bone.

  “Bardulf is right, you shall proceed next then it shall be for him to go up, and then myself.” Connor declared wiping away at his bald scalp where he ordinarily wore his war-helm, with it having been lost in the sea.

  “On that point, I must disagree, you ought to go up next for I am no coward, nor have I had to endure the seas as often as you did when rescuing your prince. I should go up last,” Bardulf rebutted.

  The argument continued in this vein for some time, until Cormac was tied an act which served to once more knock the wind from him as the rope was tied almost too tightly for his taste. The last he heard of their bickering was them deciding by dice, on the matter of who should go next. This last solution was proposed by the Bairaz.

  It was a solution that had he been slightly less sluggish and more cognizant of what the two were up to, he might have concluded to be less than fair. Though he was by no means, able to realize it then, you may have already recalled yourself how Lyr and Connor had been mentioned to love games of chance. Bardulf had yet to realize that the dice the two érians utilised was cut and loaded in such a way, as to favour the clover-symbol on them.

  Cormac was distracted though, or he soon was as he was pulled along the rocky hill that loomed high, higher than the heavens it seemed to him when he stood at their base. Slammed against the rocky, jagged edges more than a dozen times, with the wind continuously knocked out of his lungs, and sides soon reduced to a bleeding, bruised mess.

  Crying out every time his side or his left arm or right one cut themselves or were knocked against the great mount, Cormac was soon reduced to tears of pain. Launching a thousand prayers in his heart as in his words, he begged Ziu for strength and Scota for his suffering to be at an end.

  By the time the trip up the promontory was at an end, and Cormac was pulled over the edge with his bloodied and mangled hands which lacked a few nails now, helped him to climb over the cliff.

  The youth felt new tears prickle his eyes. Helped up over the edge, he was to have the knot about his belly, the one that had seemed to almost cut him in half cut loose by a swift movement of one of his rescuers.

  His vision still hazy from a blow to the head, the first thing he saw was Daegan throwing herself upon him, with a cry of relief. “Oh by Ziu and Tempestas, you are safe Cormac!”

  A small laugh that was little more than a wheeze of pain escaped his lungs, “A-a-aye.”

  Returning the embrace, he felt her smooth freckled cheek press itself against his own, with a force that made him question if this was not simply just some illusion.

  “We are safe at last,” He breathed for the moment his companions forgotten, in his joy at having Daegan in his arms, safe and sound.

  “I would not say so, at this time,” Kyrenas replied quietly from where he lay on his chest to one side, with his hands in the midst of being tied behind his back, with the remains of a cut rope.

  It was as they lowered the rope once more down the side of the promontory that he realized two things; one was that it was not simply one long rope. But a collection of more than three dozen of them tied together.

  The other major realisation that struck Cormac was that those who had rescued him were short-limbed, small-legged, heavily muscled and heavily bearded (in the case of the men-folk) and were evidently Dwarves.

  The most noteworthy of the lot of them, an auburn-bearded semi-bald Dwarf with a great mane of hair to the back and side of his head, who glowered at them with yellow furious eyes, growled down, as he hefted his great war-axe. “Now, what in the name of Khnum, Vulcan and Salacia are ye doing with these ‘ere Kelfs?”

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