It was only when the dread-forest long behind them that they breathed a sigh of relief, doing so almost collectively. Only Trygve continued to hold in his breath, so deep ran the mistrust he now felt for lily-beard and his kinsmen. No sight ever filled him with so much relief, as that of the rolling hills and fields that stretched farther on the horizon than the forest that lay to the backs of them.

  The hills were aglow with the yellow and red sheen of the solar disks which appeared as though they had climbed up from the east, to greet the weary-footed wanderers. The emerald fields reminded Trygve of those very gemstones, so that he came close to spilling a few tears in relief at the sight of them.

  Though it had been for but a day and a half, the previous forest had appeared to his mind to stretch on forever, with nary any possibility of an ending in sight. Such had been the bitterness of the fairies that the already long trip had appeared to all of them to be twain as long as that of the Feywoods and Ardrannaig put together. The nameless forest from which they had only just extricated themselves from, firmly behind them (along with the angry songs of the red-faced and eyed fairies), they took a moment to appreciate the hills that lay all but at their feet.

  Some such as Daegan broke down weeping at the sight of them such was the force of her relief. She hid this response behind her cloak’s sleeve. Cormac’s mouth formed a joy ‘o’. Indulf for his part was as was his wont in recent days brooding, likely over the passing of Inga.

  Trygve preferred to leave him be, focusing his gaze upon the hundreds of leagues of fields, farmlands and rolling hills that stretched before them. The greenness of those lands that remained unexplored, beckoned to Trygve especially after the misery of the dread-woods they had crossed through. The memory of the man-eating trees brought to his spirit a shudder that did not soon depart from his frame, as he scratched at his left writers.

  “Trygve, if I may I would ask why did the trees not eat us at once,” Wulfnoth asked of him as they stepped forth at a swift pace towards the beckoning lands.

  Hearing the disquiet in his voice, Trygve knew this question to be no light thing and answered it at once, “They appeared drawn to Daegan, why do you ask.”

  But Wulfnoth did not answer him. Rather, he spoke now to Indulf, considering the matter of the trees evidently at an end even as smoke continued to blaze up from the forest, “Indulf what gave you the idea to say that Alette had given you a memory of Inga, your bride?”

  “Because she did,” Indulf answered morosely, “For a moment she was therewith, us in the Feywoods and I consider that a richer reward than any, any of you received from the Rose-Queen.”

  *****

  The lands into which they now trod were filled not with the sort of farmers who greeted them with keen-eyed curiosity, or with shy if warm-hearted grins but with visible apprehension. The grassy road, so poorly maintained was a disgrace to behold, the druid insisted full of annoyance.

  The road was an unspoken one that they crossed, the farms to either side filled with people doing their utmost to eke out what life they could from the land, both for their own sake and those of the cattle they cared for. The sheep bounded about, the pigs snorted and complained everywhere they went while the donkeys, chickens and horses quietly went about their way, ignoring all around them as though they were of the most purple blood imaginable.

  The timidity with which the farmers, who were of all of different sorts from tall Centaurs, muscular Minotaurs, prancing Satyrs, human-like Tigrun and dogged Wolframs studied the passing travelers with eyes that were equal parts wary as timid. Where those of Ardrannaig had given a sense of weariness yes, but also a certain warmth as though in spite of their terrible dandy of a laird they clung tightly to one another.

  The only ones that appeared to cling closely to each other here, appeared to Trygve’s eyes to be those who were closely related. From siblings to parents to spouses, to grandchildren, they all remained within eyesight of one another, with there being no horse-play to speak of. The slim trail that cut through the different lands, and which the travelers walked upon slowly withered and died, until they had to pick their way across farmlands and sheep-farms that lacked all fencing.

  There was a downtrodden air to the fields. Worried by this, Trygve attempted to consult with Wulfnoth, yet found the druid of little use here. He was as unfamiliar with what had taken place in Rothmore as they were.

  “How very queer,” He murmured to himself struck by the change in the locality, since he had visited some thirty-five years ago, “Thirty-five years prior to to-day, I had the honour and pleasure of seeing these lands with my good friend Rohnald. Though not a laird, he was the maternal cousin of Mormaer MacDuibh, and thus, a man of some commendable rank and influence throughout the realm. Though, where MacDuibh was a man with something of a ferocious temper Rohnald, was ever a man of a humbler temperament and far gentler disposition.”

  “He sounds wonderful,” Daegan breathed moved by the image he had painted with his words, of the honourable noble in question.

  “It does not seem to me that he rules his lands, with any sort of gentility,” Cormac commented looking about all around them, with apprehensive eyes.

  “Tush Cormac, no one wishes to hear such blatant untruths,” Wulfnoth snapped sharply only to glance about at the suspicious gazes of the local people. “Or at least, it would have been untrue thirty-five years ago… what has come over this place?”

  This last question was asked rhetorically more to himself, with Daegan shrugging in answer having as always not discerned the nature of the query. It amused Trygve near as much as her response was the slow-witted one of Cormac who answered with his atypical earnestness. “They appear to me, to be poorly fed and over-worked brother,” This remark led to Trygve repressing a snort with his brother.

  Wulfnoth rolled his eyes at his slowness, “I spoke rhetorically lad.”

  “Oh.”

  “More importantly, I do not see the keep,” Indulf spoke up, hopeful to avoid any further squabbles between them.

  He was thanked for his efforts with a look from his brother who searched about all around them with a distracted gaze. The youth could almost have passed for Cormac then, as he studied the white-wool covered sheep, the beige skin of the pigs, the grey donkeys that were in some cases hoisted by reins to ploughs just as their larger cousins were.

  There were some oxen and cows certainly, who were also attached to ploughs but they were few as it appeared that most of the farmers could hardly afford them.

  Farming as a trade was uncommon in the northern Highlands, and far more common in the southern lowlands, with cattle rearing the preferred trade. It was easier to manage, easier also on the people who sought to eke out a living.

  The despair that Trygve found engraved upon each face, filled him with such sorrow that he could hardly find the words to speak. A rare occurrence he mused with little humour, grateful for the neglect of laird Badrách and Conn, else Glasvhail might well have transformed into the sort of existence these people had to suffer from.

  They carried on in this brooding silence, until night began to creep up, upon them with Daegan the only one to insist that they not stop for the night. Her pride as always, a vice to be cursed by her companions who had long thought of this the worst blight they had suffered throughout this quest.

  “We must soon stop for the night,” Wulfnoth stated in response to her, his face pale in the fading sunlight, breathe hitching a little so weary was he. “I fear I may not be able to continue for much longer.”

  “You always say so, when night falls wherefore you rise on the morrow haler and happier, than the previous day.” Daegan countered bitterly.

  “Dae, we are all tired,” Cormac reprimanded earning a pout from her.

  “Even you, She-Paladin,” Trygve said wearily, ignoring her numerous complaints and even more numerous accusations of cowardice and weakness. Both accusations that he had hardly any true toleration for at that moment, preferring to stop one of the passing shepherds in the act of guiding his cattle past the wanderers, “Hail sirrah, I would ask but a few questions of you.”

  He was ignored.

  Daegan snorted in amusement, which annoyed Trygve all the more.

  He almost snapped at her, yet was saved from doing so by Cormac who told her firmly, “Do be quiet Dae, now I will try to ask if there is a tavern or temple near here.” They walked for some time before he halted a passing Minotaur, “Hello horned-one, I would ask of you if there is a temple or tavern herein Rothmore?”

  To their collective surprise, the Minotaur ignored him. Playing at deafness he hurried away, thither up the hill to pick up his son, fleeing into the small hut that it was a wonder the gargantuan figure could fit into.

  Amazed by this response on the part of one of the gentle-folk as they were known, throughout all the lands of the Lairdly-Isle, the lot of them fell to brooding once more.

  This time there was no snort of laughter, for there had never existed any kind of rivalry between Daegan and Cormac.

  It was proposed a short time after his failure, by his brother that Indulf should mayhap attempt his luck with another passing Minotaur, who was in the midst of setting down her plough. He demurred though, with it being Wulfnoth who growled in exasperation.

  “Enough of timidity and casting blame upon others in your minds and hearts,” He moved onto the fields, between the crops taking great care not to step upon them. “Milady,” He greeted, “I would ask of you as a servant of the gods, notably her ladyship Scota the Golden, where may my pupils and I find solace to-night?”

  “How very formal,” Trygve mocked instinctively.

  “Tush fool,” Wulfnoth barked back over his shoulder.

  The she-Minotaur was far more reciprocal than her male counterpart had been, the sight of the pendant with the image of the thistle-bearing goddess serving to disarm her. Making the sign of the flower she answered with a bowed head, “Brother there is a temple to the lord Khnum farther down the road. Most of the monks have left though, having lost their faith in the steward of these lands.”

  “What? How can this be?” Wulfnoth gasped, brows knitting together.

  “It was nigh on eight years ago,” She explained with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “What? Why?”

  “I have answered your question, brother please do not ask me any further questions.” She said sorrow and regret carved into the rough marble of her face.

  Thanking her, the druid returned with a bowed head his moustache tugged and pulled upon with such force he quickly drew a wince of pain from himself. Such was the force of his poor mood that they lapsed once more into silence.

  The darkened light cast by the descending mournful suns cast a very particular sort of ambiance, one which filled Trygve with a sudden longing to be back home. Home was where his mother and father were, and where the Salmon and Helga were. Hungry, he could hear his stomach growling and suddenly resented his having joined this quest.

  It had appeared the perfect chance to demonstrate his friendship and courage to his brother and Cormac, and it had begun so well in the Feywoods. Afterwards all had appeared to him to have gone awry for the worst, especially in that forest of man-eating trees which made him, shudder and cast about an anxious glance to several of the nearby oak-trees. There were a great many of them that lined the landscape between the woods behind them, and the great hills that continued to stretch on for what appeared to be an eternity.

  Resentful as he was for being on the road, when he could have been at home, with a full belly of cod-fish and mutton cooked by his mother, dreams of a married life with Helga in his mind and heart, he knew that had he stayed he would have hated himself all the more.

  To have stayed would have signified being shown, for the coward he knew himself to be. He could not have endured Helga to have looked upon him as such, or worse endured the knowledge that his brother and Cormac may lie deceased in a field somewhere.

  Pulled from his darkened thoughts, Trygve was relieved when they found themselves before the rectangular twenty-meter long temple and half as wide temple. The symbol of the hammer was carved into the birch wood just above the door, which was closed and though it hardly appeared all that welcoming, the brown building was at that moment a sight that almost made him fall to his knees in gratitude.

  “Thank Khnum!” He breathed in relief, “My legs feel as though they may fall down and stay behind without me.”

  “What a stupid phrasing,” Daegan sniffed.

  “Oh do tell me all that you know, of cunning word-play Daegan, after all we all know how silver-tongued you have proven yourself in the past.” Trygve muttered with no small amount of sarcasm.

  “I would educate you further fool, however I have no wish to waste my breath upon you,” She retorted as always blind to the true mockery behind his words.

  Trygve shook his head at her, scratching at his chin he became in a burst of irritation aware of how itchy he felt there. Scratching for a few minutes at his right cheek, he might well have cut himself were it not for his brother’s intervention.

  “Cease Trygve,” He whispered at him.

  “Leave me be,” Trygve hissed back.

  Indulf stared back with equal hostility. For a moment it occurred to the younger of the two that a brawl, might break out between them as had happened in their childhood. Thankfully, Wulfnoth intervened if indirectly by striking the door with all his might.

  The sound of his flesh smashing itself against the birch-wood made all of them leap several dozen feet in the air, or so it appeared to Trygve. It was only when he sought to throw a nervously amused glance in Cormac’s direction that he realized with a start just how late it was getting on.

  The light of the suns had dimmed in the west, with their light replaced by the feeble one of the moon, which had yet to complete its own ascent. Caught betwixt the time when the suns gave light and the moon replaced them; the four of them were to throw careful looks in every direction at every shadow.

  Whether his friends searched for the monstrous trees from the night before, or the phantom-riders Trygve could not say, he knew only that he did not much like some of the trees that loomed near the temple. It was too dark to tell which sort they were, but he couldn’t imagine they were made of cedar or firm oak.

  “What could possibly be taking them so long, as to answer your call?” Daegan grumbled miserably.

  “I thought you were not tired Daegan,” Trygve remarked scornfully.

  “I do wish you would be quiet,” She snapped back at once, and though she could not see it he stuck his tongue out at her.

  An impatient sigh escaped Cormac’s lips, before he whined to Wulfnoth, “Wulfnoth, they have yet to answer, can we not simply go in and warm ourselves by the fire?”

  “Nay, such rudeness would hardly endear us to the local brothers here,” The druid muttered though it sounded as though the words were forcefully torn from his reluctant lips. Another sigh escaped the youngest lad’s lips, before the two of them rapt their fists upon the door with all of their strength once more.

  At last, as the moon began its steady ascent in the heavens, the stars bursting forth from wherever it was that they hid during the day, with their various constellations beginning to wink down at them, Wulfnoth made his decision.

  Throwing the door open with a sour expression on his face, he barked out in a voice full of fury, “By the skirts of Scota and thunder of Tempestas what are you up to in here that you cannot hear some weary travelers knocking upon your miserable door!?”

  Such was the fury of his voice and glowering dark eyes that even Daegan blinked in surprise before she shrunk back a little from him, fearful to incur his wrath. Stomping his way into the building, full of vim and his face crimson the druid was bathed in the light of a small fire that lay in the tiny chimney to the center of the room, with a small hole in the roofing meant to allow for the smoke to escape through. The fact that no one minded the hearth-fire worried Trygve, who was pleased that it had not yet escaped control and was still small.

  The floor was surprisingly clean and made of the same birch wood as the exterior-walls were, with the area around the hearth-flame a sitting area of worship. To the back of the ten-meter long temple-hall stood the altar which was a stone-slab of copper (a precious metal to Khnum) without any cloth upon it, and a wooden statue of Khnum.

  The smith-god was depicted as a large, bald broad-shouldered and heavily bearded man hammer in hand and a flame in the other, this flame was meant to signify the fire through which he was said to have forged parts of the world.

  Khnum was the favourite god of artisans, with Daegan having long treated him as one of her chief-most patrons and her father a dedicated follower of his. Carrying at times a pendant in the shape of a smith’s hammer about his neck, to honour the smith-god, Corin was not alone in his reverence for the deity, with Kenna and Indulf revering him also.

  Indulf though he wore a pendant in the shape of a rose in honour of Turan the goddess of love, given to him by Inga (forged by Corin of course), had long honoured this god also. This was the reason for which he hurried to stand before the altar, to bend the knee and hold his hands in an act of receiving, this being the gesture of proper prayer in the faith of Quirinas.

  Though he bent the knee to the statue, Wulfnoth hurried past the statue to the door just past the statue and to the right of it. His furious steps receded for a moment as he threw the next door open with a bellow of rage, as his companions for their own part searched the left-hand door to the statue.

  In search of the kitchens they soon found it, and were relieved to find it well-stocked with cheese, bread, onions and beer. The smells of which greatly pleased their nostrils and made every single one of their mouths water with hunger as they longed at once for the cheese, bread, onions and beer. All of which they were keen to enjoy, though each of them complained at some length of the lack of mutton.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing thereupon the ground?” Wulfnoth’s voice echoed from the other room, just as Trygve stepped out of the kitchens with his mouth full of cheese, and hands full with a couple of onions and a mug of sloshing beer all about him.

  “It sounds rather serious,” Indulf remarked worriedly, swallowing his own hunk of cheese with an eagerness surpassed only by that of Cormac.

  The youngest of the lads was so utterly reluctant to be separated from the kitchens that Daegan could be heard accusing him of being a worthless pig. An accusation he ignored, before he spoke with his mouth full, her cry of disgust resonating throughout the temple.

  Ignoring their antics, the brothers waited by the fire, which they stoked a little with some wood they found to the right-hand side of the long-hall. Trygve studied the ceiling found it to be dull and poorly made with cracks in the roof in some places, before he settled upon studying the stars. His eyes as always were drawn to the constellation of the Thistle-King and Lily-Queen.

  “Indulf, do you ever think these days, of home? Of ma, pa and the Salmon?”

  “Nay.” Indulf said with such firmness as he laid himself down on his right side, so that Trygve had to choose the spot to the left of the fire, if he wanted to see his face.

  “Why is that?” The question felt torn from his lips, as he briefly ripped away his gaze from the lovely vision of the constellations that hung far-over head.

  Before Indulf could answer though, the noise of Wulfnoth’s return interrupted their conversation. Frustrated brown-haired Trygve might well have snapped at the cleric were it not for the fact that a single glance to the old man was more than hint enough to silence him, before he could utter a single word.

  “That fool!” Wulfnoth shouted full of fury, causing the two brothers to sit up a little, in alarmed fright, “Do you know what he has done?” It was on the tip of the tongues of the two lads to answer ‘nay’, but this proved needless. “He has drunk himself into such a stupor I could not awaken the imbecile!”

  “If such is the case, it means he shan’t guard the rest of his beer,” Trygve jested hoping to lighten the druid’s sour mood.

  “Oh do shut up you loud-mouthed fool!” The cleric snarled at him, red-faced and in no mood for the youth’s sardonic humour. Pulling on his moustache as was his wont, Wulfnoth paced the length of the floor that stood before the altar to the god Khnum. “I shan’t believe such foolishness, a druid drunk as though no better than some local tavern-drunk!”

  It is not as though they are wholly mutually exclusive, Mused Trygve bitterly, wise enough now to know to keep his mouth shuttered for the moment.

  “Drink Wulfnoth, you will have need of it and some food in your belly,” Indulf urged with the sort of patience he always demonstrated whenever Wulfnoth worked himself into a temper.

  Never able to resist the offer of a hearty meal, or Indulf’s counsel for that matter, the druid let slip a sigh before he stomped his way to the kitchens. Once there he was to squawk at the two youths still present therein, with the two of them all but thrown bodily out of the kitchen.

  Neither of them particularly pleased by this shabby treatment, they stomped their way over to the fire. With Daegan making a point to seat herself on the opposite side to that of Cormac, who shrugged to himself as he settled down on the side closest to the door.

  A star-lover also, Cormac soon wiped his beer-soaked hands upon his tunic, before he set himself upon his back also eyes upon them.

  Seeing that he had lost his opportunity to discuss the stars with his brother, Trygve closed his eyes and allowed himself, to begin to drift away.

  The tune sung by Alette hanging upon his lips, the memory of her and her fair-folk’s dancing lights the last thing he thought of before he drifted into an uncomfortable slumber haunted by hungry trees, with white-slits for eyes. He awoke thrice throughout the night, each time ending in whimpers or in him quivering with fear before he slunk back down to sleep.

  On the third time, Wulfnoth was awoken, and expecting a tongue-lashing Trygve in place of this sort of angry response felt the old man patting his head, with a “There, there lad, sleep now… I am here, to ward any shadows off.” It was a clumsy and highly drowsy attempt to comfort him, yet it somehow helped to reassure him enough so that the remainder of the night passed dreamlessly.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  *****

  Dawn broke far too soon for Trygve’s taste. It found him curled up near the last few burning embers of the fire, which had been partially put out by Wulfnoth the night before. So that only a few flames were still licking away at the small amount of firewood in the heart, as he demonstrated greater wisdom than the local druid.

  The sound of Wulfnoth and Daegan’s snores combated in a duel that could have rattled the very foundations of a mountain. Slumbering considerably more quietly Indulf now had his back to him, while Cormac muttered something incomprehensible in his sleep.

  This pleasant scene with its highly unpleasant cacophony might well have endured for some time, if it were not for the sound of someone rousing themselves with a snort and the local druid stepping on into the main-hall. A large obese man, with a barrel chest, long blonde-locks and a beard that was as loose as his hair was. His robe was beer-stained and encrusted with cheese, onion and even mutton remains.

  Disgusted and amused all at once, by the filthy appearance of this robed man who hurried outside with nary a word to Trygve or the rest of them, as he was still half-asleep. Bemused by this, Trygve waited for the man to finish his toilet outside before he uttered a word to him, as he passed. “Good morning.”

  “‘Ornin’,” The middle-aged drunk grunted as he passed without really paying him any mind, and hurrying off to the room from whence he came.

  This exchange resulted in the brown-haired youth chortling for a time so loudly that he received an elbow to the stomach by his older brother. One that knocked the wind from his lungs, as his annoyed brother awoke reluctantly.

  The rest of them were to awaken an hour later, with the five of them enjoying a hearty breakfast of onions, cheese and beer before they left. Wulfnoth was the last to leave, claiming he wished to leave a message with the other druid and urging them on down the road claiming he would hurry after them.

  This they did with all of them snickering at some length, as the mood was generally light between them. The suns were high in the heavens, the wind was warm and the smell of cattle and their remains could hardly beat back the warmth of the spring-day.

  The thaw appeared in this corner of the kingdom to have faded overnight, thought Trygve. A smile playing itself out upon his lips, he eyed the oak, birch and ash-trees that dotted the landscape all around them with far less wariness.

  As the events of the night involving their struggle against the man-eating trees seemed as though they had happened years ago. What was more was that the once wary and down-turned gazes of the local farmers and shepherds that had appeared so hostile the day before, had lost some of their frost it seemed to him. Or at least, he took it far less personally than he had the previous day, with a glance Trygve noticed that his friends were in such good spirits themselves that they were of the same mind.

  Only Indulf appeared to be wary of the locals still, the golden and orange rays of the suns failing to brighten his mood.

  All at once, Daegan though worried still over her dress and with Cormac’s cloak still wrapped about her shoulders danced about a little, her smile bright as a white-ray as she gave a toothy grin to Cormac. Her ill-temper from the prior night already forgotten after a full meal and a night filled with rest, a song burst then from her lips.

  “Fare well, fair-fellows

  Your ways are for me

  Wait o wait fair-fellows

  Your ways are?for?me

  Resting upon my?laurels

  Has left me farting and bored

  Fare?well, fair-ladies

  Their travellers’ ways are for me

  Rappin' at the?chapel?door

  Devouring the chapel’s boar

  Scalin’ the enemy’s wall,

  Revelin’ in his hall

  I swept up countless hills

  Passed unnumbered mills

  Forded all the rivers

  Yet still the road glitters

  Up away I ran,

  Why? Because I can,

  For Razenth’s gold does call,

  Fare well fair-fellows

  For the road refuses to wait and I am its thrall.”

  By the third verse, Indulf and Trygve joined her, with the latter by the end of it told to desist from joining in the song after many glowers thrown in his direction by the locals.

  Heedless of their words, he insisted upon singing brokenly with them. The elder of the siblings joined in after much prompting by his brother, and had a far better voice for song, than the younger one. Only Cormac resisted any and all attempts to extricate a single verse from his lips, as he joined them if shyly in muttering the verses, smiling if ever so slightly.

  Eventually just as they began to sing the song once more, Wulfnoth could be heard calling after them, racing on over with a sense of urgency on his face. Once he had reached them, panting and sweating he doubled over yet continued to press them onwards. “Hurry less the old fool should notice many of his onions and cheese, along with his beer missing.”

  “You stole from him?” Trygve asked incredulously a small smile of amusement playing out on his lips. The notion of the fat druid sneaking about no differently from, the most common and base of thieves for some reason appeared worthy of laughter to his mind.

  “I did not steal!” Wulfnoth objected, his words setting a number of his companions at ease, before he added rather haltingly. “I merely accepted a donation, after discussing with him the importance of our quest.”

  This appeared well and good to the vast majority of them, with Daegan prepared to resume the song, Indulf nodded his head in approbation at these words and Trygve prepared himself to tease the druid. Only Cormac was not entirely convinced.

  “Was he awake, for this discussion?” He inquired doubtfully.

  “What is most important is that we remember the piety, and goodness of this brother of mine who in a time of need saw the greater need of road-weary travelers on a most important gods-given quest.” Wulfnoth lectured him, speaking over the blonde-youth who stared at him confused by the loud tone of the old man only to grunt when he was handed a large and rather full pack.

  Daegan was made to carry the ale and beer or at least the tankards that Wulfnoth demonstrated himself willing to part with. With the priestly Brittian leading them they once again resumed their long journey. That night they slept out under a nearby tree, after a full day of travel so that it was early the next day that they found on the horizon the great keep of MacDuibh.

  The local keep was a tall keep, surrounded by farms, it was a twenty-five meter high stone-keep built in the old Pech manner, with high stone walls which rose twenty meters off the ground. The might of this great fort that had unquestionable command of the whole valley, its walls armed with bristling high-towers every six meters. With the dungeon a mighty keep that had four towers attached to it and which appeared prepared to defy the gods themselves awed each one of them.

  “A fort unlike any other in all of Caledonia,” Trygve gasped amazed by this impressive sight, unable to imagine it being taken by anyone.

  “If only,” Wulfnoth muttered sorrowfully, “This is the keep of Rothmore, under the command of my good friend Rohnald MacNeal. This fort is but seventy-years of age and has withstood more than twain-times that number, over those many years. With half those sieges having been fended off, by noble Rohnald or his father, the heroic Neal who is said to have rescued his good-father Duibh, in the battle of Madadhfearn.”

  “Mayhap he should have let him perish,” Daegan grumbled harshly, taking the cleric by surprise with her lack of enthusiasm for this particular tale. “Duibh was a rotten High-King, according to the elders of Glasvhail.”

  “He was no such thing,” Wulfnoth defended with some heat, “He was a loyal man, it is said that it was he who defeated the swamp-laird of Colnlach, down in Strathclarde. Why, my father used to tell me tales of good Duibh’s piety.”

  “Aye, but what of the poor harvests that took place during his reign?” Trygve asked curiously, recalling how the Salmon used to speak of how his own father once complained at length of Duibh and his lack of legitimacy.

  “Often you Caleds expect far too much, from your monarchs,” Wulfnoth said quietly, his eyes upon the bright blue horizon of the heavens above them, his moustache quivering with each word and breeze that passed. “I often wonder if the harvests that go poorly, are not simply sent down by the gods as a test rather than as a punishment.”

  “If such is the case,” Cormac said, after some thought, “Why is it that most poor harvests occur during the reigns of poor kings who are toppled shortly thereafter? Why was there not a bad harvest during the reign of say the Thistle-King?”

  “But there was,” Wulfnoth countered sharply, to the surprise of his listeners all of whom gasped in response, “There were two such incidences; one was early in his reign, in the fourth year and he reacted by husbanding for the remainder of his reign. I remember it well, for I visited during one of his last years as High-King, and there was another poor harvest. However, he had stored much of the produce and husbanded what he had with great care, so that few of those people in his lands went hungry.”

  This little revelation was a shock to all of them. Cormac appeared at a loss for words, yet looked fascinated, as did Indulf.

  Daegan and Trygve though were not convinced, if for different reasons, she on the grounds of faith. “But if such was the case, why would he not be punished by the gods, for what happened outside of his own lands?”

  “Aye, why not offer assistance to those throughout all of Caledonia?” Trygve asked rather resentful of any doubt or aspersion cast upon the good name, of his favourite of all the previous monarchs in Caledonia’s history.

  His annoyance with the topic went unnoticed by Wulfnoth, who blinked his eyes a little and studying the parapets of the castle-towers, in the distance. “But he did give it, and his enemies used what he had given them to initiate an assassination against him claiming that there had been a poor harvest and that this signified the gods had turned away from him.”

  “Aye, and it was a son of Duibh who aided in the murder,” Added Trygve heatedly, demonstrating that he too knew the history of Siomon the Thistle and how he had perished. “He was welcomed into his lands as a guest, only to be cut down by MacDuibh.”

  Wulfnoth blinked in surprise at the heat in the lad’s voice. Startled his expression changed to one of disapproval as he spoke in a reproving manner, “It appears you have decided for us all what is to have taken place. You have missed the entirety of my argument; that it is not through the efforts of the gods that we succeed, but through the dint of our own efforts.”

  Trygve felt the sting of his words more keenly than he might otherwise have expected, his face turned a little red with barely concealed fury. He did not much appreciate the reprimand, nor did he see how he was in the wrong.

  From the corner of his eye though, he could see that Cormac was staring at him in apparent amazement, which made Trygve rethink his opposition. Sullen he fell quiet, wishing at that moment that the earth would swallow the overbearing druid whole. Gods knew the pompous paragon could test the patience of anyone, even the Grand Divan.

  The hills which were either utterly green in their complexion with some trees here and there, so that there were small thickets of ash-trees, birch wood and alder-trees, of the finest growth. These hills, which were in many cases covered with cattle devouring much of the grass-fields, were juxtaposed with well-harvested hills filled with apple-trees, tomato-gardens, fields of corn, and wheat.

  The ocean of fields and trees, gave way as stated before to the great lumbering fortress that snuck upon them with a secrecy and deviousness that left them all breathless. The bulk of the stone ramparts, of the walls that Wulfnoth was keen to teach them about were more than ten-meters thick and the evident esteem the keep appeared to hold himself in, amazed them.

  Trygve felt a touch of resentment intermingled with his awe, for he had no great love for the clan that ruled over all the lands of Rothien, for the simple fact that all knew it was from the High-King that the good harvests had stemmed from, these past four years.

  That the years prior to his reign had been hard years, hard ones that had forged men into either the finest of gallant farmers and fishermen, or broken them into gaunt shadows of what they once were. More than one child of Glasvhail could recall how, all their parents had taken either to fishing or to begging fishermen or the wealthier artisans such as Corin or Kenna. The former whom had forged countless weapons for the wicked Donnchad and MacDuibh, only to impoverish himself buying what little food he could, for the locals many of whom perished in the famines that followed.

  Freygil for example, whom was the eldest in his family, had buried two brothers, during those years. One to the famine, as the man had refused to after illness had taken his wife and sons, preferred to pass over all his meals to Trygve, Indulf and the rest of Freygil’s children.

  The other was conscripted by MacDuibh and perished in battle, his corpse never recovered from the south. The loss of these uncles had shaken the whole of the family, who had learnt to mistrust and even despise their lairds and liege-lairds, and any who bore the name ‘Duibh’.

  “This castle is an eyesore,” Trygve grumbled with no small amount of loathing for it, even as he quailed at the sight of it. A part of him wished for the fall of the ruling lairds of Rothien, yet he could not help but wonder how anyone could possibly topple anyone, who hid behind these gargantuan walls.

  “This keep is a wonder to behold, constructed during the reign of MacDuibh; it was one of the first claimed by his son Giric, shortly after the dawn of Duibh’s reign as High-King.” Wulfnoth explained to his companions, cheerful and utterly convinced of the rectitude of his old friend, he added. “Neal held it for Giric when he moved two years later to found Deasdunmar keep north-west of here, along the Réaltamar River.”

  The breadth of his knowledge of history impressed his companions, who followed politely along each of their eyes moving up and down the keep.

  Though the druid insisted that all was well, not a one of them felt at ease then, for the air about the castle from the crows that squawked and flew overhead, to the way in which the castle blotted out the light of the twin-suns set them ill at ease.

  The words of Trygve of how the castle was an eyesore appeared to their minds to be both true, and to have somehow possibly offended the castle. The dark grey sheen of the castle along with the pointed roofs of the towers, of the dungeon and the guards that circulated beneath the pointed roofs of the walls did not lend much comfort either.

  “I am not so certain, this is the same place that you recall it to have been, Wulfnoth,” Cormac warned in a hushed voice, as daunted as the rest of them were by the dark presence that held this keep in its grasp.

  Wulfnoth was determined to remain blind to what was apparent to the rest of his companions. Harrumphing at their reticence, he pressed them forward urging them towards the gates of the keep walls, as a shepherd might encourage unwilling sheep back into the fenced field from whence they came.

  Such was the force of the dark atmosphere about the castle, with the stench of an ill-cared for city about it. Ravens and crows circling overhead and the air of menace from the gates at the gates that even Daegan were unwilling to approach the mentioned gates.

  “Hurry up, why the four of you ought to feel honoured to be here,” Wulfnoth declared proudly with what he likely thought was an air of dignity, when in reality he looked like an over-dressed walrus and a fool.

  “I think you should speak to those guards alone, and we will wait for your return,” Daegan proposed with a nervous glance at the two guards who stared back at them, with hostile gazes.

  Seeing that he could no more persuade them to approach the guards, than he could convince them to leap from a cliff, Wulfnoth let loose a curse and a huff of exasperation. Stomping over to stand before the guards, thereupon he began to agitate his arms at them, as he attempted to convince them to open the gates and let them slip comfortably into castle Rothmore.

  He might well have succeeded, were the steward any other man. The pretensions that Wulfnoth had made of the steward’s long memory, were proven false at that moment for he failed to negotiate their entry into the keep,

  What was worse for the cleric was that the more worked up he became, the less welcoming the guards became. So vicious and hostile were they that when he began to shouted at them, “I am Brother Wulfnoth! A recognised paragon of the Temple, and an old friend from thirty-five years ago of steward Rohnald MacNeal, who rules here therefore you must send someone to inform him that I have come to call upon his debt to me!”

  “Get back old man, we would have no further utterances exchanged between us,” One guard commanded sharply, when the old man went to protest once more he loosened his blade from its scabbard. The warrior did not remove it completely, but even half liberated from the scabbard it was menacing enough to persuade the paragon to leave.

  Stunned, Wulfnoth continued to stare in open-mouthed shock at the brute that stood between him and the gates. At last he backed away, and without another word of complaint or fussing reprimand against any of them, left Castle Rothmore in favour of the south.

  *****

  “I shan’t understand what happened,” Wulfnoth complained for the eleventh time, seated in the Dancing Buck tavern, hours away from the castle, guzzling ale as readily as one might breath. The smoky darkened air of the pub was one that had at once attracted the liquor-loving Brittian as a flame might a moth. By then, darkness had crept up on them no differently from a thief in the night as the druid had stumbled on utterly senseless to their voices and muttered questions of stopping for the night.

  It would be Cormac, who proved himself the loudest of those who complained of his fatigue, attempted to wrestle a proper response from the paragon before he had prevailed on the rest of them of the importance of establishing a camp. This decision they had submitted to a vote, with only Indulf in support of arranging an immediate camp. A vote he later withdrew, the moment that Trygve learnt from a local famer of the location of a nearby tavern.

  Bitter at being outvoted, Cormac preferred to sulk than to join in any further conversations, for the rest of the hours of walking that followed. The decision to continue onwards, was one that they all regretted for some time though not a one of them had spoken their innermost frustrations (outside of Daegan), for fear of being made to revote rather than reaching the tavern that night.

  The moment he beheld the tavern, which stood three storeys off the ground with a large sign with the image of a buck holding up a mug of ale. The wooden sign of polished wood was a good match for the eight meter high building, which was the largest in the locality south of the castle.

  Fifteen meters long and wide, the building was surrounded by farmland that was every bit as wide and long as the rest that surrounded the keep. Its fields were filled with grapes and wheat, so that it was apparent that the master of the building preferred to grow his own ingredients for his pub than to buy it from others. All of this was a testament to the prosperity enjoyed by the tavern-keep with a small bridge just past it that led still farther south. The bridge was a stone one that was small as surely as the small sea-knife through the land was.

  Wulfnoth entered it before Trygve could lord over Cormac this victory over him. Bewildered they followed just as the wind whipped about with increasing violence it was supported in this aggression by the rain.

  Soaked, the four of them studied the shadowed interior of the Dancing Buck with weary eyes, and impatient to find a place to sleep, they only cast the swiftest of glances around them. With the left-hand side of the tavern cast in shadows, as two men stood by the wall, seated at a table distracted by a game of chance. The tables were rounded and made from alder wood, the same sort that the pub was though they were slightly more polished than the walls were. Just as there was a griminess to the muddied floors, the bar and tables were filthy with sloshed beer and wine, proof of the popularity of the tavern, though the nearest house to it was at least two almost three leagues away. By the tables to the rear of the bar were three Wolframs, all of whom were cast in shadows as there was very little light by them. Only the left-hand tables and bar itself had a small number of candles (as the master had little interesting in paying for anything else). The three of them were hunched over towards one another, whispering and muttering between themselves in their strange barking and howling language.

  The stench of rot and soured milk and cheese hung pungently in the air; so that it was the worst thing each of them took notice of, about this wretched place.

  Careful to cast away his gaze from them, for fear of the violence that might ensue as they did not appear to him, the sort of Wolframs they had seen in the fields, Trygve turned his gaze towards studying the rest of the patrons. There were two other than Wulfnoth seated at the bar; one was a plump Satyr who had the appearance of a farmer, his squat frame sulky as he muttered on and on to himself. The other was a human, bearded and with a muscular build, a thick blonde beard and was dressed in a grey hauberk with a cloak cast over him and pulled up over his long-haired head.

  Between all of these people, and the creak in the floor wherever they stepped, the general lack of stability some of the chairs appeared to have and the creaking of the wind and rain against the exterior, they could hardly be excused for their apprehension.

  “Let us simply request a room and be away,” Indulf whispered to his friends, “I would prefer not to spend any more time than is necessary, with these people.”

  “Agreed,” Daegan replied a hint of nervousness in her voice.

  “Aw, is the princess of Forlarin frightened?” Trygve mocked his fatigue and innate apprehension in regards, to this place replaced by his eternal need to humiliate his friend.

  “Oh do be quiet Trygve, it is hardly as though you feel much more at ease here, than I,” Daegan retorted evenly.

  “She is right, Trygve,” Cormac murmured worriedly, “I would prefer to avoid this place and its patrons as much as possible.”

  His own boastfulness overtaking once again his better nature, Trygve shrugged and advanced towards the pub to join Wulfnoth, who already had a mug of ale on hand. There he ordered some ale for himself, in his loudest, most confident voice.

  Made to wait as they were all too anxious to properly approach the bearded pub-owner whom Trygve was startled to discover was a Centaur, with a muscular figure, his bare arms looked as though they could have squeezed marble with but a flex. The tunic he wore only reached as far down as his waist, with his lower body almost hidden by the high bar.

  Trygve sipped at his drink that was slammed before his face with a glare, before the Centaur filled it, only to add with a snarl. “Pay ahead of drinking lad, and pay for your friend, less I throw the lot of you outside to be fodder for them, dark-riders.”

  Daunted despite himself, the fisherman called for Daegan to pay, which she did though it meant parting with a single silver-thistle. For a time Trygve sat there, by Wulfnoth’s side sipping at his ale and attempting to coax the Centaur into a conversation. This ended in the man telling him to be quiet, which he dully did. The ambient candle-light serving to quiet him, he did however succeed in persuading Cormac into joining him on Wulfnoth’s other side. The other lad’s innate curiosity about both the ale and the bearded hauberk-adorned patron getting the better of him, pleased by this victory over the other two Trygve ordered another mug of ale.

  The quietness though, combined with the continued grumbling of the druid served in time to embitter his good humour. He was not alone, as Cormac once his few questions for the warrior next to him went by ignored, became rather miserable company himself, downing his ale rapidly until he very visibly became drunk. Sliding sleepily in his chair, his head almost hit the wood of the bar, an airy laugh escaping his lungs.

  “I shan’t understand what happened,” Wulfnoth repeated once more, to the growing irritation of the inebriated Trygve.

  “Oh do be quiet it has been thirty-five years, all men change in that time.” He snapped irritably, slurring some of his words as he spoke.

  “Aye, but not typically that much,” The druid hiccupped a little, “He was honourable, he saved my life and now look at him. How could a man change so much? There are times, when I shan’t understand man’s nature.”

  “Because man is inherently foolish,” Trygve grunted beneath his breath.

  “Hardly,” Cormac slurred with a loud laugh that won him a glare from the man to his left whom he had his back to.

  Thankfully for the youth, Indulf foresaw the danger that was imminent, and hurried over to pull him off his chair. Kenna’s son attempted to resist if futilely so, his efforts were so disjointed from his drunkenness that he was easily pulled away by the older youth and the red-haired lass next to him. This pulled a small snort of laughter from Trygve, who felt a wave of pride at how he had managed to better handle his beer. This in spite of how the room spun all about him, and how the druid’s words at times did not make it to his ears, so distant did they seem at that moment.

  “Come Trygve, it is time to sleep,” Indulf attempted once more.

  “Aw do not be that way, I’faith brother I have only just begun to enjoy myself.” Trygve replied with a small laugh.

  “Do you have a room free?” Daegan asked pointedly with a scowl towards her friends.

  “Aye, second floor, first door on the right now off with the lot of you,” The Centaur retorted rudely taking a key from below the bar and tossing it down on the surface of the alder-wood bar with a glower.

  *****

  Escorted roughly up the stairs by his brother, after they dragged the laughing, singing Cormac who made everyone cringe with the ridiculousness of the figure he cut. Daegan and Indulf returned a few minutes later to drag away Trygve himself, whereupon he protested at the top of his lungs that he preferred to stay where he was. “Simply because you carry the gem, or are my brother hardly gives either of ye the right to command me!”

  Disgusted by his words, Daegan glowered at him rage in her eyes; though this was naught in comparison to his brother’s fury this he demonstrated when he slapped the younger man for his gaffe. Stunned by this, Trygve might well have reacted with fury, were he not paralysed with surprise by this gesture. Not a once in all their lives, outside of a few brawls had the timid Indulf ever laid hands upon him, or lorded, his status as an elder brother over him. Yet here he stood in the pub, doing just that.

  “I am your brother, and you will listen to me Trygve, cease this nonsense else I shall tell ma’ all about it by our return home.” He growled at him sharply, with his brother nodding dumbly in response.

  Tripping and shambling about as though they were at sea, following after them with nary a word of protest until they were in the hallway on the second floor, the filthy stairs well behind them, with the door to the right left open. They slipped into the barren room which possessed only two hay-beds, of questionable quality and a simple table with a Canticle of all things to the rear of the room. On the bed in question Cormac continued to giggle before, he slipped into a snoring sleep that won him the scorn of Daegan.

  “What a worthless drunk,” She grunted sounding remarkably like Kenna at that moment.

  “Bah as though you are much better,” Trygve countered with a sneering laugh that only won him the green-eyed fury of the lass.

  “Do be quiet, less I shall give you a second smile,” She threatened hand going to the sword-hilt on her belt.

  There was a menace in her voice that had never been there before, save once or twice in the past several days. Her eyes were hard as stones, with no mercy or pity held therein to his surprise, but drunk as he was he had no ability to temper his judgement, laughing in her face with a sneer.

  Daegan almost followed through with her threat, however once again Indulf interceded as always the mediator between his friends, “Daegan go find Wulfnoth.”

  “I need not listen to you!”

  “Just do as you are told, Wulfnoth is defenceless and I do not much like the vast majority, of those we left him with,” Indulf persisted from between clenched teeth.

  Once she had left in a huff, muttering curses and threats below her breath Trygve rounded upon his brother, “Who are you to command us?”

  “Leave it be Trygve.”

  “You did not need to slap me,” He grumbled his face still aching from the pain of the blow he had been dealt a few short minutes ago.

  “Yes, I did Trygve, now sleep,” Indulf snapped back with equal fury, dragging him to the same bed that Cormac lay snoring upon the edge of. Laying him down on it with rather more roughness, than his brother expected so that he was sprawled along the middle of the bed, Indulf turned away to go aid Daegan.

  This he did, returning with many a jeers, curses and complaints shared between him, Daegan and the druid as they walked up the stairs and into the room. With the druid laying down at the foot of the bed, more due to their not having the strength to continue dragging the tottering old man along, they soon descended between them what to do next. Closing the door, Indulf took the only chair in the room and pressed it against the alder-wood door, with the intent that none would be able to enter now (the door swung inwards you see). Placed below the doorknob, it effectively meant that none would be theoretically impenetrable without burning the door down.

  Satisfied by this, along with the knowledge that his companions slept, with Daegan having presumptuously taken the other bed for herself Indulf laid himself down on the floor, between the two beds and promptly went to sleep.

  Feigning sleep Trygve waited until his brother’s breath had even itself out before he pulled himself over to the other side of the bed. There were no candles to light the room, yet his eyes had long since grown accustomed to the darkness of the room.

  Gleefully, the drunken young man shambled away from the bed, around his friends, removed the chair from before the door. Pulling the door open he did not bother to close it behind him, figuring that he would not be long, and what was more was that the hallway was darkened also therefore there was naught to be concerned about.

  Just one more drink, He thought to himself, certain that he could handle one more and that he would not be long, he ambled down the hallway, followed by down the stairs.

  Cast in shadows the stairs could hardly be discerned save for a few bottom steps, from the entrance of the Dancing Buck, with this being to Trygve’s advantage. It was as he neared the lower creaking steps that he heard the door sing open with a bang, and some great beast of a man stomp over to the pub.

  “Where are they?” The figure cast in shadows, a dark-cloak about his shoulders asked of the pub-owner, his voice soft and whispering.

  Seized by fear at the sound of this figure’s voice, Trygve regained his sobriety faster than he ever had previously in all his years.

  “First door on the right, three of ‘em are sloshed, they should not be a problem,” The tavern’s master replied at once.

  Filled with terror, the youth did not waste any time in hurrying back up the way he had come. It had to be a phantom-rider, he threw himself almost bodily into the room where his companions slept, hissing and calling out to them to awaken. “Wake up! Indulf! Daegan, wake up!”

  “Trygve, be quiet it is late,” Indulf protested at once.

  “What is it?” Wulfnoth grumbled in a slurred voice, a combination of sleep and exhaustion made him the most irritable of the lot of them. Cormac groaned and rolled over only to be kicked by Trygve, which resulted in a curse being almost snarled at him were it not for his friend’s hand falling upon his lips.

  “Tush, wake up!” Trygve hissed at him desperately.

  “What is this about? Another of your jests? I swear, if so it shall be the last one you ever inflict upon us.” Daegan hissed at him.

  “It’s one of them!” He countered at once, just as Daegan muttered a threat, “A phantom-rider, he is here and the owner has already directed him to our room!”

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