The village-council was to as always take place just outside of the temple walls. Most who appeared, did so reluctantly with there being a great many absences.

  Only the most successful of workers or the least successful were able to appear, due in no small part to them being the only ones able to set aside the time to do so. Those such as Salmon, Freygil, Aodh, and Sawney the fisherman were all present with the preference for most being that only one family member be in attendance.

  Conn stood before the village with his hands held up in what he doubtlessly believed to be a commanding gesture. It was borne from the fact that he had once heard from someone that ancient Romalians and Quirinian druids from the mainland waved their hands about during speeches.

  The truth was that no one had the heart to tell him, just how ridiculous he appeared when he sought to imitate them without any awareness, of what kind of gestures they performed. Not that there was anyone in Glasvhail aware of the particulars of these historical details.

  Dressed in his finest green silk druid-robe, one that denoted him as a proper representative of Fufluns, who was said to treasure the colour green above all else. Behind the druid stood several members of his family, notably his two younger daughters and wife Ainsley.

  All of them were dressed well in grey linen or in Helga’s case a yellow linen dress, of fine quality with their hair properly braided, trailing down from their shoulders to their flat stomachs. Each of them stood dutifully behind the head of their family, with Ainsley’s eyes going from face to face nervously.

  A kindly if strict woman, one who never liked to show what it was that she was thinking, unless in a foul mood or expressing her love for her husband, the druid’s wife was, Kenna could discern, visibly shaken.

  From her place to the rear of the small crowd of thirty-seven people, the seamstress shared in the alarm some felt the moment they saw to one side of the druid’s family a man they had not had the displeasure of setting eyes upon in years.

  A reclusive man, who had more to do with those villages to the north of Glasvhail, and north-east, Badrách had preferred to send servants and messengers to consort with the locals when he absolutely had to speak with them. His innate disdain for them, one that a great many returned with interest, with none more scornful of him than Salmon, who had maintained that the laird’s father had been a wise baron.

  Though she had rarely ever seen the old man, before his death Kenna had for years held the same view on the subject of the laird. As did most of those inhabitants of Glasvhail, their scorn though was always carefully concealed. It would not do after-all, to upset a man with more than fifty warriors at his command, and with a penchant for violence that was unsurpassed in all of Caledonia.

  Therefore to see the local laird, present in his fine red tunic made of Brittian wool (woven by Kenna’s own hands), sent a ripple of uncertain throughout the crowd of villagers. None of them were blind, to the sword girded to his belt a weapon forged by Corin that they all knew; the hot-tempered laird might well turn upon them.

  To look upon the grey-haired man with his dark pointed beard, yellow eyes and thin lips, was to look upon a stout figure who though he had thickened in recent years still had an element of fierceness no one wished to test. All of them, all too aware of the reputation he had carved for himself in the south, in the service of their Mormaer.

  “Erm, we are all here to uh, well you all see this is a very important meeting,” Conn began several times sweating profusely, with his eyes continuously leaping over to the man standing by the doors to his temple, as though to guard them from anyone who wished to seek sanctuary.

  The druid would begin several more times, all of them more disastrous than the previous time and all of them ending in him starting his speech over again.

  It was not long, before several people began to fidget, or to mutter under their breaths. The sense of discomfort and apprehension grew, until at last Salmon spoke up from the midst of those gathered before the druid.

  “Well do get on with it man,” He growled back stiff, and his teeth clenched against one another in frustration, “It is not as though we have all day, you fool of a druid.”

  This interruption unravelled the last of Conn’s resolve, with Kenna feeling a swell of pity well up within her heart. Her sense of sympathy though, was set aside when Badrách with a huff of his large flared nostrils, stomped over to stand by the village head’s side.

  “Stand aside, and watch a man does it,” He growled shoving the shorter man aside, who fell back against the fencing around the temple with the same look in his eyes, a hare might give a hungry wolf about to devour it. With nary a glance in his direction, or to anyone else, the laird spoke out in a chilling voice, full of menace. “I am herein Glasvhail to reclaim property that is mine by all rights. Something of more worth, than all of your heads put together, and which has been denied to me.”

  A moment of silence followed his words.

  During that moment everyone looked to one another, as though expectant that someone should volunteer the fact that they were the culprit. The trouble was no one present knew of what it was that he spoke of.

  This knowledge was not to long remain concealed though, for though Badrách’s nature was something of a mystery to a great many of those assembled, it was a simple thing to understand. He was at his core little more than a brute, one whom had for years been hidden from the vast majority of those who lived within his domain.

  For he had taken his evil nature south, into the lands of Norlion, or south-west on secret raids into Strawthern, those lands of the fierce Raghnall that bordered the lands of Rothien.

  They were soon to discover this ugly fact about their laird though it would pain a great many of those present.

  “Can we know what it is that you seek, o laird?” The Salmon queried worriedly, his voice unusually polite which goes to show, how serious the situation was.

  “It is a sword.” Badrách was swift to inform him in a voice that made it obvious he believed the fisherman was playing at stupidity.

  This was the sort of tone that, none of those who lived near the fisherman’s home would ever have dared take up with him. Ordinarily, he might have offered a sharp correction this was not the case with this particular individual though.

  Another moment passed wherein, all exchanged nervous glances between one another.

  It was Freygil who spoke up when none of the rest of those assembled all around him, “Do you mean one of those forged by Corin? One of those he took with him to Sgain?”

  The uncertainty of the villagers could not have been presented more plainly. The matter of what Corin did with his craftsmanship had never previously been much subject of curiosity, on their parts.

  He was a semi-recluse by nature, one who preferred it that none questioned him about his comings and goings, or his work. Ever since his first appearance in Glasvhail, he had always been subject to a great deal of wariness on the parts of some of those assembled.

  “Corin took swords to Sgain?” Badrách asked of them, visibly disturbed by this declaration.

  By now Kenna felt all the fury she had previously felt towards Corin well up within her only for it to pale in comparison to the inferno she felt afterwards.

  Theft was a crime, and one that never boded well when one stole from a nobleman. All knew they were a little daft in the head, and unlikely to take the loss of any of their possessions well.

  “I was not aware,” Conn muttered as disturbed as Kenna herself was, his face darkening with anger, “If he took any swords you commissioned my laird, we were not aware.”

  “We have thus sorted this incident out, good luck with hunting him down laird,” Salmon intervened keen as all of them were, to end the village-council.

  “Aye, thank you my laird, and may Ziu bless your best efforts in your hunt for Corin,” Kenna shouted from her place to the rear of the village-assembly.

  “Aye, aye you have all of our support my laird,” Conn repeated with utter fidelity and desperation.

  Things almost turned out well, with every villager nodding their heads and muttering curses against the blacksmith. All knew that any assembly that included Badrách’s presence was never one where they were present to represent their own views, but to echo his.

  Such hypocrisy was not a great concern to Kenna, though she was well-accustomed to living blindly according to the law and never questioning it. She may well have happily continued in this manner, were it not for Badrách’s response to Salmon’s attempt to end the village-assembly.

  “Hold, the lot of you!” the laird cried out just as several of those present began to disperse, “I would ask once more where the sword I commissioned from Corin has gone to.”

  “Likely Sgain, my laird, or mayhap with him south,” This time it was Freygil who spoke up before he added. “Much of what the Gallian did was never recounted to the rest of us. He possibly took it with him, when he departed in pursuit of the children.”

  “Children? What children?”

  “Those who left through yonder forest, the Dyrkwoods,” Sachairi answered with a shrug of his own massive shoulders. A tall dark-haired and bearded man himself he was one of the more successful shepherds and woodcutters.

  Once again the laird was taken aback, with a number of the villagers growing impatient for this assembly to be adjourned. A missing sword was to their minds hardly a matter, for all who lived in the vicinity of Corin to be involved in.

  “When did these children take to the forest?” Badrách asked now, flabbergasted as this was the first he heard of such events.

  Most of the villagers shuffled their feet, visibly uncomfortable with the topic, since it involved admitting their inherent guilt in the matter of the children in question. Several looked to Freygil for guidance, for it was he who had led them in the conspiracy to banish Cormac from their midst.

  Aware of this, and though she had broken bread with him in days past, it had hardly involved any dialogue between him and her, Kenna glowered venomously at him. It came into her spirit to unveil that it was he who had chased her son away; a thought came into her spirit one that purged her of this desire. It was thus that she fell silent.

  “This was some three weeks ago, my laird when the phantom-riders stalked this land, smiting several in our midst down and otherwise laying waste to our kinsmen.” Salmon growled bitterly, showing that he was still sore about Inga’s death regardless that it had been months ago.

  “Phantom-riders?” Badrách wondered, his mouth gaping open.

  “Aye, until Cormac and his friends departed,” Sachairi explained tactfully.

  “I still think that we are better off without them,” Ealar grumbled, “Especially that Cormac mooncalf. I daresay he must have been involved, in the death of poor Inga and took poor Daegan captive.”

  There was a time Kenna might well have taken the raven-haired man’s point and agreed with it. She might at one time have even worded things the same way.

  This time though, something snapped within her, with the seamstress seething with fury. “Ealar am I to take it that you were involved in the exile of my son?”

  The words were gritted out quietly, with Kenna taking some time to notice just how far her words spread themselves out throughout the assembly. The wave of unease shifted now from being directed at the laird, to now being directed towards her.

  “Well, I simply meant that Cormac was the one who was presented wherever this ‘phantom’ appeared.” Ealar stuttered with a glance to many of the men who stepped back granting her passage through the crowd, so fierce was the glare of her eyes.

  Only Salmon stood between them, and dared to mediate between the two individuals, “Calm yourself Kenna, less you should say something you come to regret, as you always do.” The stinging rebuke was followed by the old man, rounding upon the man who had criticised her son, “As to you Ealar, have ye not learnt to cease making a complete fool of yourself?”

  “What do you mean?” He blustered, face reddening.

  “It is long past time, we cease speaking of Cormac’s guilt, not when he is not at hand to endanger the village, with any more of his foolhardiness,” Salmon snapped furiously, his passionate words astounded them.

  Who was he to reprimand them in such a stern manner? Treating them as though they were no better than infants, neither side was pleased by Salmon’s shouting down of both groups, with Kenna thinking him far too slanted in his arguments in favour of Ealar.

  It was at this time the splintering of the assembly into factions and individuals grumbling accusations and complaints against one another took place and struck Badrách with even greater force. “What is this nonsense? What of my sword?”

  “We do not have your thrice-cursed sword,” Freygil snarled at him, “If we did, you would be in possession of it by this time.”

  “I must have it before day-break.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “And what would you have us do to accomplish this?” Kenna demanded in exasperation, her patience at an end, “The caravan Corin used to ship his swords to Sgain is still here. It has been taken into safe-keeping by Conn surely your sword, is amongst those still left thereon it.”

  Her words had the effect of placing the druid in between the furious villagers, and the even more red-faced laird who did not hesitate or falter for a single heartbeat. “I have inspected those, and there is not the black-sword I commissioned from Corin.”

  “He went into the Dyrkwoods, if you wish to give chase you have our unmitigated support o laird, but do kindly leave us be.” Freygil replied now in support of Kenna, looking every bit as weary as she did then, of the nobleman’s poor treatment of them.

  At these words, Badrách looked distinctly affronted and with a horrid curse one that drew gasps from the women, and made the men blink at him in stunned shock he spat upon the ground. Such was the fury in his eyes and that possessed his trembling frame now, none did more than cringe back from him.

  “I will have my black-sword, no matter what the price or cost! You have until the ‘morrow to return it to me, less I shall see to the retrieval of it myself.” There was a certain ominous meaning to his words.

  They chilled the blood of all those assembled before him, as none of them understood quite why he had attached such meaning to a sword. There was a wagon full of them, and doubtlessly plenty in the village of Thernhallow which lay nearer to his castle as there was also a forge with a well-trained blacksmith there.

  Badrách left them to their own devices; taking his horse out from the stables he tore a path up the road back to his keep. Such was the bleakness of his mood that it appeared to the untrained eye that a dark cloud followed him wither to his castle.

  The mood in the village when he had properly left was one of indecision and fear. None wished to contradict the laird, especially since they all knew that much of their prosperity was owed to his neglect of their village.

  The despair of the assembly was visible upon every face. Several of them broke off to hurry home, to report to their family all that had taken place. Kenna might well have left, but her thoughts bound her feet, to the spot where she stood.

  “There must be something that we can do,” Kenna said desperation marring her every word, there were several nods from all those around. “It is as though he were searching for some sort of excuse, to punish us.”

  “It could have something to do with the absence of some of the properly paid tithes,” Bungo proposed nodding his head at her words.

  “If such was the case, why would he not mention it?” Salmon asked cynically, “I think you lend him far too much cunning, Badrách is not a man renowned for his wit.”

  “Mayhap, he will leave us be if we offer him more of what it is that we have,” Freygil proposed to his fellow villagers.

  It was with this proposal that they and Conn discussed amongst themselves exactly the percentage, of what was owed how much every house should donate. What they found though, was that there were a great many willing to make a sudden contribution where they had almost never done so before.

  Some offered more than others, such as the Salmon (who did so reluctantly). Others still offered less and had to be strong-armed into sacrificing some of their wealth, for the greater good of the village. Ealar the fisherman was one example, with several of the shepherds parting reluctantly with a few of their choicest sheep.

  It was also decided on the spur of the moment that Conn, as the only man from Glasvhail that Badrách appeared to tolerate, would deliver their ‘gift’. What was also decided was that he would transport their goods, with all the remaining swords and tools that Corin had failed to sell in Sgain.

  This pleased all or almost all, since the desire to live was stronger than any sense of greed, with many of the locals aware that now was hardly the time for deception towards one another. They would either all survive together, or fall together given the mood of their laird.

  Only Salmon murmured darkly, “I fear this may only whet his appetite.”

  “Mayhap, but at least we will be left in peace with our lives,” Freygil argued back, with many of those around him applauding his words, including Conn.

  “Is our backs bent and broken, without any of our previous joys truly living though?” Salmon questioned with an arched brow.

  “Spare us your philosophy, fisherman,” Conn countered face a touch red, though the suns had begun to descend in the west. “We have need of unity and hope, not dark words and strange mutterings.”

  “It is no philosophy I speak of, but if you prefer to kowtow to him by showing him a hint of what we have hidden, prepare to be made to offer more.” Salmon replied turning away from them, to return to his home.

  “What would you have us do instead? Rebel?” Ealar asked desperation and horror as alive in his voice as it was in every eye and face of those present therewith him.

  But Salmon did not answer, instead he left. He contributed more salmon and cod than any other fisherman, though he was opposed to this plan. This was ever his way; he was always one to voice the unpopular stance within the village and yet the first to offer his support. It was why though he was a curmudgeon he had remained beloved by all in Glasvhail.

  There were many who grumbled as they worked about the old man, with Freygil one of those who had latched onto Kenna’s scheme with the most enthusiasm. “We should not pay him any heed, since Belinda his beloved passed twenty two years ago he has become quite the pessimist.”

  “Aye, as long as he contributes his share let us ignore his mad mutterings,” Conn added with a small nervous laugh.

  “But father, they did not appear so mad to me,” Helga murmured, standing in the shadows of the doorway of the temple. “I have a sense that Badrách wishes for naught else but this ‘black-sword’ of his.”

  “Bah, be quiet fool lass, ‘tis but a trick and even if it is not, once he sees the riches we would offer him he will forget all about this talk of a sword.” Her mother, Ainsley countered her sharply. Ordinarily the first to take her side the druid’s wife appeared as convinced by Kenna’s plan as the rest of the village was.

  “It will be well, your father has a hold over Badrách, between his well-meaning words and our gift surely the laird will see reason,” Kenna said supportive of the druid’s wife who threw her a grateful glance over her shoulder.

  *****

  The wealth of produce, mutton, fish, coin were joined by fine alder-wood, red ash, grey oak, cedar and birch woods all take from the western woods that almost reached the southern Dyrkwoods. These gifts were given by the carpenters and woodcutters.

  Such was the weight of the gifts of the village that the cart positively groaned with each movement, with the villagers so concerned that it might prove too heavy for Romulus the donkey that they preferred to cut him free. In his stead, two large work-horses were found and properly tied while Romulus was sent over to Ida’s house to compensate her for the loss of one of the horses (as one of them was her property).

  The song of Muireall the founder of the village floated along on the wind. The song one that some of those who hurried thither back to their homes, whistled to or sang with such enthusiasm that it made their voices carry further on the wind.

  “O for his bride good Ciaran was leal,

  A blushing maid most fair,

  One to care for his hurts that she did heal,

  First he fought for Roma as a bairn,

  Judge him not for he had appeal,

  This the fey saw and this they desired,

  All he wished was to caress his lady’s hair,

  And to serve his Pech-King in a manner most leal,

  Lo! Did she weep when they the fey felt undesired,

  Stab and a-hew there, soon he was as good as a yew,

  Thus his bride did sob undelighted

  His branches tangled in her hair.”

  Pleased with themselves, many of those present returned home with their hearts full of joy and warmth. By this time convinced of the rectitude of their choice to offer up such a bribe to their laird, so that when they regained their beds, they did so with wide smiles.

  Kenna was no exception, though she hardly smiled as such an act was one that she had all but left behind her on the road back from Sgain. Her son and his friends having taken with them all true joy, she had left in life. In place of any true happiness, she went to her bed with a great deal of satisfaction. Once again though, she dreamt of the sound of the sea, and of the leaping fish and of the strange elk that had haunted her dreams, the day she gave birth to Cormac.

  *****

  When they awoke the next day, the people of Glasvhail re-assembled as Badrách had called for them to do so the next day. They did so shortly after the dawn, with some such as Salmon arriving in a foul mood. Others such as Freygil and Ealar arrived in a much better mood than the eldest fisherman of Glasvhail. All of them convinced just as Kenna was, of the inevitable success of their gift to Badrách.

  Such was the mood of the village that jests were exchanged, many laughs were heard and some even sang songs or whistled them with a cheery air about the whole of the region. This enthusiasm for what the day had to offer them was surely a prelude they said to themselves, to a great and happy day not unlike, all those that had come before this one.

  Though she hardly joined in the cheer or songs that followed, Kenna accepted a great many of the accolades, applause and praise that those around her offered her, with a polite nod of her head. Many of them considering her the village saviour, for her idea of offering a gift to Badrách, and Conn one also for carrying it out, with the assembly gathering in much less uncertain spirits than they had the prior day.

  They were made to wait though. Conn had left the prior night, so that it was his wife Ainsley who called them to order, with the approval of the likes of Ealar, Freygil and the rest of the men-folk. Joined now by a few more people, who were drawn by curiosity to this assembly, keen as they were to bear witness to what was to transpire.

  Once all were present, they were made to wait still longer. This waiting period filed down the nail that was the patience of the locals. Hardly a patient people for anything other than working the earth, or fishing they grumbled amongst themselves.

  Waiting for his return was made all the worst because of the ice-cold northern breeze that crashed into every face, tearing at their skin, whipping their clothes about and otherwise flagellating them as punishment for having the temerity to step outside of their warm homes.

  Still they resolved themselves against it, and did their utmost to follow the excellent example set by their ancestors and the promontory in absorbing the sea’s many blows. This resolve on their part was an entirely noble thing for which they were to later receive much praise from their relatives, for. For the present though, they suffered as all men and women indeed must through the coldest morn’ they had yet endured in days.

  Some such as Salmon and Kenna felt immense gratitude and were the recipients of considerable envy for having dressed themselves in black. They had done so, more out of continued grief for their lost loved ones and those who had fled the village than out of any true foresight. However, a great many nonetheless cursed themselves for not having worn darker and thicker cloth as they were observed to have done.

  “Where is he?” Some of those present asked before the doors of the temple of Fufluns, barely able to see past the light of their torches, as the suns awoke almost grumpily in the east.

  “I know not.”

  “He must be here soon,” Others muttered.

  “Mayhap we should send someone, to go see if he is en route for the village,” Freygil proposed uncertainly.

  “Patience, he will return soon, doubtless he is counting all the great gifts we have given him.” Kenna assured him, convinced of the success of her plan. All knew how greedy Badrách could be, and how short-sighted he was in comparison to his wise father, Ringean who had ruled as laird before him. Therefore, a simple bribe would surely convince him to leave them in peace and look elsewhere for his ‘black-sword’.

  Still they waited. It was just as some began to mutter about getting on with their day, the suns having by now risen in the heavens so that they were splashed with orange and yellow light. That the sound of horse-hooves striking the ground and sight of a lone horseman galloping hither towards them that they took heart.

  An air of expectation hung in the air, as all waited breathlessly for the horseman to arrive to announce that their laird had been properly placated. Only Salmon appeared reserved, his cynicism at that moment left him the pariah in the village. A status he was not unaccustomed to, as he waited to the rear of the assembly with crossed arms. With Kenna having exchanged him in terms of status, as she now stood at the head of the assembly, due entirely to the gratitude felt for her part in the previous day’s gathering.

  This newly achieved status was one that Kenna had striven for, for years. The trouble was that now that she had it, it felt utterly hollow. It was not at all the same, if she could not rejoice in it with Daegan and Indulf. Or use it to demonstrate to Cormac what one could achieve with a bit of hard-work.

  That mooncalf, Kenna thought miserably to herself, forcing herself to shake off the thought of him and how he might have shrugged indifferently or wandered off while she spoke. Doing so lest she might fall to weeping in public, which was something that genuinely horrified her worst than the threat of death.

  The horseman began to pull his mount to a halt before them, with none of them at all surprised to discover that Badrách had deferred his return to Glasvhail, to a subordinate. This was to the contrary, something that they had all come to expect from their laird. This was entirely because he had never been very attentive towards his duties that did not involve the swinging of a blade.

  What none expected was the horseman pull himself to a sudden halt before them, with a scornful expression on his long face. His was a figure none were familiar with, though his accent was a local one that they could all decipher perfectly with nary any difficult. His thick brown hair and beard were both long, his years middling at best and his chocolate eyes were as hard as stones. He pulled himself to a stop with a single tug of his beefy arm on the reins of his mount.

  “People of Glasvhail, know that you have sinned most grievously against your noble laird, Badrách,” The warrior bellowed with a glower, his dark horse huffing a little as though it wished to contribute to the air of menace about him. The effect was not lost upon those gathered before rider and animal, as all took a step away from him. “Long have you toiled herein the fields of thy ancestors, and longer still has the house of Thernkirk been master over ye all. Long has Badrách tarried in distant lands for your protection, always for your safety and longer still have ye all cheated him, abused his good-natured kindness and failed to properly demonstrate your gratitude for all that he has given and sacrificed for you all.” At these words the Salmon could be heard to snort in utter contempt. “What have ye all to say for yourselves for your gross injustice towards fair and noble Badrách?”

  Everyone exchanged glances, unsure of what to say or do. They had not prepared themselves that morn’, to be scolded. Kenna was no exception, shivering as the cold wind had hardly dissipated she exchanged a worried stare with Ainsley.

  Only Freygil had the boldness to step forth from the crowd of people, to defend their good names, “We must protest as all that we wish is to be good subjects, which is why we gave the last of all that we had.”

  This was not strictly speaking true, as there was still a great deal of mutton, fish, coin and cloth to be found in the village. The village had only offered up each a small amount of their over-all wealth, what was owed or they felt were owed by them to their laird. Such was the strength of their feelings of justice that there were few, who had truly sought to cheat their laird feeling that mayhap some compensation was owed for the lost sword.

  At present they were beside themselves with stupefaction, when the baron’s messenger not only spat in their faces but sneered at their attempts to placate him. “Somehow I doubt that, ye all look too fat, too well-to-do to have offered all that ye have to your laird.”

  “Have you come all this way, merely to insult us and criticize us for our good fortune?” Salmon challenged his brows knitting together in frustration, “Would you have us starve? Or mayhap you intend to abuse us, as your precious laird has for failing to produce a sword of which, we know nothing of?”

  So true did his words ring amongst those of the assembly that there were many faces that grew black with anger, and others that looked to the messenger with uncertainty in their eyes.

  The beefy warrior did not disappoint any who might have expected him, to take the Salmon’s words but poorly. He flushed then a bright scarlet almost purple colour, his eyes darkening until they were nigh on black with fury.

  “Do you know of whom you speak to peasant?” He demanded of the old man who shrugged his shoulders in response, to which the messenger answered, “I am Craig of Thernkirk, and am the finest of those warriors sworn to Badrách’s service. I have never failed in any of my duties to him, nor do I intend to begin to hereon this day. Therefore I ask of those of you of the village of Glasvhail as he did before me; where is the black-sword forged by Corin the Smith?”

  There was now something of a strange admixture between dread and mutinous hostility that grew between the villagers and Craig the herald. None knew what next he intended to do, nor were they truly prepared for much more than the exchange of words.

  What none expected though, was for Craig to shrug his shoulders a moment later, “Very well I can see that I can no more take this village than I could change the direction of the sea.” This was the end of it, they decided but little did they know that the herald had one last ‘gift’ in store for them. “If ye tarry to return the black-sword to Thernkirk-Castle, you shall share in the fate of your druid. You have two days…” Craig barked at them, turning his horse to return from whence he had come.

  With a single gesture, he withdrew from the pack attached to the left-hand side of his horse, a large ball or what appeared to be so, and threw it with a forward motion of his arm at the feet of the assembly.

  It took Kenna several long minutes for her mind to realize why it was that Ainsley began to scream and wail, before she fell into a swoon. Her daughters screeching with horror, as Eillidh the youngest burst into one loud wailing scream unmatched save for that which escaped Helga’s own lips. What lay at their feet was the head of poor old Conn, his expression twisted into an expression of stunned pain.