Quite what they had expected from Trygve was beyond Daegan’s understanding, as every single time that they had placed any sort of expectations upon him he never failed to disappoint them. His was a nature that seemed designed by nature to do little more than to aggravate one’s ill-humours.

  That was determined to drill deep into the very nerve endings and tissue of one’s patience until there was naught left save for a person’s most irascible tendencies. It was as though he looked upon the worst habits of Cormac, and sought to emulate them without ever imitating the better habits of Kenna’s son.

  Woken from the stillness of the dream of a rocking boat and the hammering of her father’s hammer upon the steel within his forge, to find Trygve warning them of danger she could have strangled him. Why the gods had cursed them, with such a companion she knew not. Not that her views were a concern for her friends, who hurried forth from the room with it being Indulf who urged her and Wulfnoth from the room with Cormac, who thankfully awoke himself at long last.

  Racing down the hallway, to the stairs that lay in state at the end of the said part of the room, while those left behind took up arms within the room they had paid for.

  The plan that Indulf had in a few seconds prepared was a desperate one, with Daegan only realizing that they may have cornered themselves. If this indeed was a phantom-rider who was about to climb up the stairs, it could only be wounded by her sword or by Wulfnoth.

  “It is always Trygve and Indulf, who make the most foolish of mistakes,” She hissed at her companions, both still a little groggy from their earlier act of over-indulgence.

  “How so?” Cormac asked her, with his eyes half-closed in pain as though he had just been sorely wounded.

  “It is only by Cosantóir that we wounded the previous phantom-rider, and by Wulfnoth’s miracles therefore they will have need of our assistance.” Daegan hissed at them, with the still rather ill-looking Wulfnoth ‘humming’ for a long minute.

  Cormac for his own part appeared a little more hesitant than the druid, though that may have simply been because of his having overindulged in drink alongside Wulfnoth and Trygve. A mistake that she had no intention to forgive lightly, or soon, this she promised herself. Forgiveness should never come without some sort of cost, or price paid she thought, with a scowl on her face.

  Daegan might well have passed the entirety of the evening, lost in her own bitter recriminatory thoughts and furious curses were it not for the creaking sound of the rider, climbing up the stairs. The man in question moved swiftly, though his weight bore loudly upon the old alder wood of the Dancing Buck’s second floor.

  “There he is,” Cormac hissed, his mop of blonde hair almost covering his eyes as he stared with apprehension at the figure.

  “We must move now!” Daegan whispered back at them.

  “Nay, we must wait until he is within the room, let him open the door at least Dae,” Cormac argued back, as he restrained her by grabbing her by the arm.

  Daegan glared at him for this act, yet said nothing. She understood even if she was reluctant to do as bidden. Hardly a passive person by nature, she had no great love for the art of patience. That was more Indulf or her father’s skill, though in the case of the former there were times when one could have called it a life-long passion.

  “Just a little more,” Wulfnoth murmured having sobered up himself, due to the looming spectre of death that hung over them all.

  Reluctantly, Daegan continued to wait. Her angry glower thrown in their direction with such force from where they stood around the corner of the stars could very well have served as the principal source of heat for them. Such was the force and strength of her fury that neither of them wished to look her way as she did with them.

  Distracted as she was by her own hostility towards them, there came a time when she tarried in properly taking notice of the black-cloaked figure stepping into the room where her friends were.

  Though she had failed to keep her eyes, upon their enemy who had by now crept his way into the room where Trygve and Indulf lay in wait, armed with but a chair and sword, respectively.

  “Dae!” Cormac hissed at his friend who leapt a few feet in the air, with indignation, as he pulled her from hiding by the arm.

  “Do not pull at me Cormac!”

  “But the phantom has entered the room of our friends!”

  “Oh!” She cried out, cursing herself if briefly so for having failed to take notice of what was happening.

  Where before they had crept along the creaking floor, with utter care, cursing as they went the alder wood that had poorly aged over the years, they now raced one another to hurry back thither to the room they had slipped from but mere minutes ago. Such was the force of their fear for their friends that each of their hearts pounded at their rib-cages that it seemed they might burst forth at any moment.

  Her heart torn asunder between her feelings of anger towards Cormac and Wulfnoth, and her sense of guilt at her own distraction, with Daegan overwhelmed also by her own confusion at how she could have been so distracted. An ordinarily intently focused woman with a tendency to fixate on singular objects, moments or people without ever letting go of a single thing, she could understand how she could lost focus upon the phantom-rider. The notion that it was this very trait of hers that had failed her never occurred to her though.

  When they reached the doorway though, it was to hear a crash of some sort, with the three of them fearing the worst, their hearts in their throat.

  What none of them expected, or really the two still in the room truly expected was for the chair which Trygve had grabbed in a panic from where it sat next to the table, to knock down the cloaked figure before Indulf could truly do a single thing.

  For a moment all of them stood where they were, struck dumb. Trygve for his part continued to hold onto the broken legs of the chair (the rest of which was scattered about the fallen figure at his and his brother’s feet), his breath panting as he gaped at the fallen figure.

  With a wide grin he raised his gaze to boast to them, “I have done it! I have defeated the terrible phantom-rider with but a chair my friends! Rejoice!”

  Cormac though remained unconvinced, while Wulfnoth and Indulf sought to discourage him from approaching the fallen figure he nonetheless did as he wished. Whereupon he removed the hood from over the man’s head to reveal a wolf-shaped head with dark hair and grey-black fur, a revelation that drew a gasp from each of them.

  “Not unless the phantom no longer inspires fear, and is a Wolfram now,” Cormac said with a frown before he squirmed uncomfortably at their disbelieving stares. “It could happen. Mayhap, Trygve has defeated the beastly rider who seeks the Blood-Gem?”

  “Impossible,” Daegan huffed.

  “How can it be impossible Daegan? Was it not Cormac, who always used to say as you so oft repeat that nothing is impossible?” Trygve countered with sincere arrogance, such that she crossed her arms and glared back.

  “Aye, but it is impossible for you to have defeated him,” She insisted to which he asked how it could be, “Because you could never accomplish such a heroic deed.”

  This served to worsen his own temper, it was not Daegan though who was to be the recipient of anyone’s anger, but Trygve himself. Because while the two of them had busied themselves with bickering and Cormac had sought to in his humble way restore some semblance of peace between them, as he always did Wulfnoth had been studying the wolf head at Indulf’s feet.

  “You bungling fool of a fisherman! I ought to smash your own head with a thrice-cursed chair!” The druid snarled in a fit of pique, “You have laid down the hero Bardulf the Wanderer!”

  “The hero Bardulf and the phantom-rider were in truth one and the same?” Trygve asked amazed by this discovery.

  “How could this be?” Daegan inquired with a gasp, for she had heard a great many tales about the heroism of Bardulf the Wanderer.

  “Nay! They are not the same.” Wulfnoth snapped at once. “He could never be corrupted so.”

  “Regardless if he was, Brother Wulfnoth I must confess that he must not be such a great hero, if he was indeed laid low by a simple chair.” Cormac remarked a bit thickly.

  “This is entirely Trygve’s fault,” Daegan complained bitterly.

  “Hardly!”

  “Cease with this foolish bickering, as to you Cormac, Bardulf is a great hero though I suppose he did indeed fail to properly apply his wits, in this situation.” Wulfnoth growled at them, being careful to moderate his tone, for he had no wish to alert those in the main-room of the tavern of what had come to pass. “As for you Trygve, put down the remains of that savaged alder-wood chair and Indulf re-sheath that sword of yours, and help me to carry poor Bardulf to bed.”

  They hurried to do as bidden, each of them feeling sheepish and a bit annoyed by how poorly Bardulf the Wanderer had failed to meet their expectations. Many were the myths and legends that had grown around his person prior to this tale. It was he who had slain more monsters and fell-beasts than any living mortal in all the lands of the Lairdly-Isle of Bretwealda. It was also he who had rescued more dames, and braved through more dangers than any other living man or woman in those same lands. Yet he had fallen so easily, to a simple alder-wood chair.

  Once placed upon the nearest bed, it did not take long for him to be revived by them. Taking a tankard they had filled with water from the woods with the man-eating trees, Wulfnoth poured some of it upon Bardulf’s temple.

  It was with a start that he woke up, coughing and choking due to how much and how swiftly the water was poured upon him. Shaking his head, the Wolfram growled after almost a minute of Wulfnoth still pouring water upon his head.

  Shoving his wrist from his face, the non-human was to growl at the druid saying in a deep voice that resonated in the small room with the sort of force in his voice that one could find in the wilderness when thunder struck throughout the land. “Enough, you fool! I am awake, stop already!”

  “Oh apologies Bardulf,” he said embarrassed as he hurried to pull the now empty tankard of water from his face.

  The glare Bardulf threw in his direction was so fierce that Daegan almost quailed, away from him. When he went to pull himself up from the bed, he laid his head low once again with a groan as he rubbed at the back of his head.

  “Apologies Bardulf, we had thought you to be one of the phantom-riders,” Wulfnoth apologised sincerely, “We have been hunting them while meeting with a number of other dangers, on the road up until now.”

  “One of the what?” The Wolfram demanded rubbing at the back of his skull, with it being Daegan who intervened next.

  “The dark-riders who came to haunt Glasvhail, and whom I drove away as much with the strength of my sword-arm and the sword my father forged,” She boasted proudly hopeful to impress Bardulf.

  “Oh, do you mean the wraiths?” Bardulf asked with another groan, “And enough of your boasts lass doubtlessly, it was more fortune taking you for a pet than any true sword-skill.”

  Daegan stopped mid-speech offended by his words, unable to believe he could speak so rudely to her. Dismissing her victory, when he had just lost to a lad with a chair, something that she was keen to remind him of, “Well, it was not I who had the misfortune to walk into a room and be laid low by a simple alder-wood chair.”

  The growl that was torn from the hero’s throat made her blink in surprise, as she retreated a few steps wherefore Bardulf rose slowly to his feet, with a grunt of displeasure and a glower at Trygve. “I am aware how shamefully I have carried myself, and know that I will not soon forget this incident lad!”

  This last part was snarled at the lad in question, who let slip a small whimper before he followed Daegan’s example and hid behind Cormac, who stood stiffly, chin raised as though in defiance. Or so it appeared to Daegan’s eyes, until a small whimper and a long swallow was heard to come from his own throat.

  Disgusted by his apprehension and cowardice, just as she was by that of Trygve, the young lass hissed at him, “What are you afraid for Cormac, you are a man therefore comport yourself as one! Rather than akin, to Trygve!”

  “You truly intend to shame me at a time such as this?” Trygve queried sharply, hardly appreciative of her eternal disdain for him, “It is not as though you are comporting yourself with any true courage yourself.”

  “The lot of you be quiet, for we do not have much time,” Bardulf grunted on his feet, still rubbing at the back of his head, leading them towards the door with a pained expression. “We must hurry away whither south of this place.”

  “Why is that?” Indulf asked quietly, so much so that Daegan almost did not hear him.

  Bardulf evidently did, though he refused to stall his steps for a single moment preferring to exit the room answering as he did, “Because the wraiths whom you seek, have stalled a week’s journey from here. I have tracked them there, leaving several of my company to maintain an eye upon them while I track you lot for Wiglaf.”

  “Wiglaf? Did he send you hither?” Cormac asked curiously, latching onto the mention of his friend who had behaved in a far more grandfatherly manner than Wulfnoth himself had. Where the latter had sunken continuously to drink and nagging at all of them tirelessly, Wiglaf was sober and preferred to leave others to do as they pleased.

  “Aye, he did so just before winter struck the land,” Bardulf explained before he complained as they followed him out of the room, racing in similar fashion to chastened children. “Ow! You do not think maybe to have struck me more gently?”

  “My apologies, I shall remember that lesson, for once I encounter the wraith,” Trygve said with his usual sarcasm now that he knew he was in no further danger from the legendary Wolfram.

  Bardulf glowered over his shoulder, with such hostility that the youngest of Freygil’s sons shrunk back a little. Sulking as he did so, at how no one ever seemed to like him quite so much, as those of Glasvhail or Wiglaf did. Patting him on the shoulder sympathetically, Cormac was the only one to do so, as Indulf raced after the Wolfram, with the druid just behind the two of them followed by Daegan as they took to the stairs.

  “What could be taking him so long?” Asked a Brittian accented voice, impatience in his voice.

  “I thought I heard a crash,” Replied another with the same sort of accent, both of them speaking in Caled of course.

  All were brought up short, when they saw the other two Wolframs from the back of the bar, and the blonde warrior who had menaced Cormac with his gaze, all prepared and at the door. The tavern-owner was tossed a coin by the blonde warrior, who spoke in a voice which had a distinctly different sort of accent from that of Bardulf. The Wolfram spoke with one that sounded decisively Brittian in nature, whereas his companion spoke with a Nordic one.

  “For your silence, master,” He uttered shortly to the man behind the bar who slipped the coin into a satchel girded to his belt, with a nod and a glare.

  Ignoring the unsmiling local, Daegan was amazed that so many of those disreputable men they had feared to cross gazes with earlier, were to be those who kept them safe.

  When she brought up this point to Wulfnoth, commenting as she did so, “I had no notion that those present were the safest possible people, for just such a quest.”

  The elderly paragon though simply gave her a long look before he uttered, “Not safe, never that. If you ask me the very best people on this side of the earth, just as the worst are, are never safe to be around. For both invite such danger to their doors that most prefer, to keep away from them, or so this has been my experience lass.”

  His words did not fit with all that Daegan had previously come to believe. In her experience strength guaranteed safety, this fit with all the stories she had been told. This was why good people, had to prove themselves mighty in all the tales, to protect those around them. For strength and goodness to invite a lack of safety confused her.

  Guiding them out of the inn, it was with a start that the young lass was introduced to her delight to a full herd of nine horses. Only three of them were war-horses, all three of whom Bardulf, the blonde-warrior and one of the other Wolframs laid claim to themselves. The other horse was for the other Wolfram, after he had aided the five of them onto their own horses.

  Excited to mount the horse, Daegan near knocked the man over in her excitement to climb up onto the saddle. Her eagerness won her a small smile and wag of the man’s tail which stuck out from just above his posterior, dressed in a grey hauberk, chainmail and gauntlets he helped her up with a small laugh.

  To her disgust though, of the lads only Indulf appeared eager to climb up onto the horses. With Cormac freezing where he stood before the doorway, his eyes wide and round with even more anxiousness than Trygve. The latter though nervous about the horses, still agreed to climb up with the one Wolfram’s aid wherefore Cormac refused with a shake of his head.

  “Do hurry up lad,” Bardulf grunted impatiently, “We must race south before the suns dawn.”

  “Cormac do hurry it up, this is no different than when we were young, and would ride about on Romulus, or his mother Rheia,” Daegan growled at her simple-minded friend who gaped at her with visible stupefaction.

  “I must disagree, this seems quite different,” He said with untypical timidity, his voice sounding remarkably akin to Indulf’s something that worsened her aggravation against him.

  Cormac still shook his head, whereupon the blonde warrior with a huff dropped down from his horse, and though the youth offered to walk alongside the horses he was dragged by the scruff of his neck and all but thrown over the side of the saddle, by both the warrior and the Wolfram.

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  This done, they regained their own horses, with the spare one attached to the latter of the two’s own charger. This done, they began not a slow trot but a swift gallop from the Dancing Buck, across the nearby stone-bridge and through the fields that stretched out for dozens of leagues.

  *****

  None of them spoke for the remainder of that day, though they did eat more plentifully than any of them might well have expected given how food had begun to become hard to come by, since they had left the Feywoods behind them. Prepared to guide almost twice their numbers, Bardulf had loaded down each of his and his companions horses with provisions for a two week long journey. Most of his provisions though were cheese, salted mutton and bread, along with some small amount of ale that were kept as far away from Wulfnoth’s own charger as possible (much to his very vocal displeasure). The cheese was the first of the provisions he dispersed amongst them, along with some of the bread as he knew they were to be the first that might sour in the days to come.

  Introductions were done at the start of their journey, though as said all exchanges were to be lain aside after this initial dialogue between them. Bardulf motioned to the blonde warrior to begin with, “This is Yngvarr.”

  He then motioned to the brown-furred Wolfram who had helped them in the mounting of their horses. “This is Vragi,” the Wolfram in question gave them a friendly wave, his dark eyes shining with humour.

  The last of them was grey-haired and furred, with a short beard and the same grey hauberk as the previous wolf-man, though his eyes were older and far less friendly, he refused in all frankness to acknowledge them. “This is Ardwulf; he is the finest tracker I have ever met.”

  Wulfnoth opened his mouth to introduce them, but he was shushed by Yngvarr who scowled at Cormac in particular for having slowed their advance south but a few minutes prior. “There will be time for the lot of you to introduce yourselves when we have stopped, for supper.”

  “He dismisses us, as though he thinks us more nuisance than any true aid,” Daegan heard Trygve complain to Cormac who gave a sulky nod in response.

  “Tush,” Indulf hissed at them, to the gratitude of the fuming Daegan who glowered back at them as she pulled on the reins of her own charger rather clumsily.

  This nearly sent it into a mad dash forward, one which near tossed her off its back if it were not for Vragi who had predicted just such an event and caught the horse before it could throw itself forward by the bridle.

  What followed was him linking it for a time to his own, and the lads’ own being linked to Wulfnoth and that of the silently irascible Ardwulf. Both of whom managed their horses with a great deal of skill, in comparison to the lads and her.

  By the end of the day, Daegan’s thighs and the whole of her body felt as though it were torn to shreds, unaccustomed to such long journeys a-horse she had not expected to feel, so terrible. A glance to the rest of her friends revealed they felt much the same way. Only Indulf appeared as though, he was attempting to present a brave face though, in turn Wulfnoth whined beneath his breath about his age. He was helped down by Vragi, who was the first to leap down hurrying to aid the elder who accepted his aid with visible gratitude.

  “If I never have to look upon another horse, it will be too soon,” the druid complained beneath his breath to the amusement of the youngest of the trio of Wolframs.

  “Do not speak so harshly with them; they may take umbrage as might their great progenitor Tempestas.” He said with a laugh that sounded remarkably akin to a dog’s bark, before he turned away to assist the visibly shaken Cormac down from his own mount.

  “If I never have to mount another charger,” He complained with a soft whimper that sent a wave of disgust straight to Daegan’s belly.

  Vragi took it in stride though, while Daegan sought to throw over one leg to the horse’s left side and leap down as the warriors had. Keen to prove her own mettle as they had, she however failed and came very near to tangling her legs and landing face first in the dirt. She was caught though by Ardwulf who was near her charger in order to lend his own silent assistance.

  “Thank you, I would have been fine though,” She blustered with what little dignity she still had left in her.

  “Ha, do us all the pleasure Daegan of closing your lips and remaining silent,” Trygve snapped back at her.

  A frown came to decorate her freckled face, it might well have led to an angry retort was it not for Bardulf barking at them, “Quiet that noise, the both of you! We do not have the luxury of being noisy, on this hunt.”

  “Are we on a hunt? I thought we were chasing after these ‘wraiths’ to punish them, for the slaughter of our friend and my father.” Cormac said with an arched brow of his own now, though he did bear in mind the reprimand of the hero and properly regulated his voice so that it was quiet.

  “Do be quiet if you have naught to add that is intelligent,” This time it was Yngvarr who sneered at him, disdain evident in his eyes. “Leave the thinking and decisions to those of us, who are wiser than ye, Caled.”

  “Very well, Bardulf, Wulfnoth what prithee should we do next?” Cormac retorted turning his back very deliberately to the Northman so that he could address, the two of whom he spoke to.

  A flash of irritation entered Daegan’s heart, just as a touch of bemusement entered the gaze of Bardulf, who looked about the vast plains they now found themselves in. Much of it was long-grassed with nary a proper road in sight, nor any true castles in sight, they had left those behind them.

  In their place were a few distant mud and thatch huts in the distance to the east and west of their present position, belonging to those peasants who were attached to these fields. The manor house of the local noble of this region, they had passed hours ago was a large red-painted alder-wood manor-house with a long stone chimney upon the left side of the building. One that was five meters high, and thrice that long and wide with a large stable and granary attached to the building.

  Tired not only from the day of riding, but from the little sleep they had had. Those of Wulfnoth’s company were excused by Bardulf from having to help with the menial tasks of fetching fire-wood (as there were still alder-trees here and there) in the nearby fields. The tall alders loomed over the landscape, with Trygve shuddering visibly at the sight of them, like the true-born coward he had always been, Daegan mused. Not that her own gaze lingered long on those trees, as they did in the darkness of the night seem particularly unfriendly.

  Several of their branches were torn off by Vragi who brought them over to Bardulf who began the fire at once, removing flint from a satchel that hung from his belt. Once this was done, Ardwulf withdrew from the spare horse a small cauldron, whereupon he threw in several hunks of cheese, bread, some carrots and mutton and even some tomatoes. The stew he made was quite delicious, with the Wolfram refusing to cease cooking until all had had two helpings, only Yngvarr appeared skeptical of this decision.

  “We should ration our provisions better,” He warned dourly, “Lest we run out sooner, rather than at a later day.”

  “The Longwoods are near, there will be plenty of game to hunt there,” Bardulf replied with a shrug of his massive shoulders tugging at his dark beard with a long-clawed and heavily furred hand. “If you prefer though, our companions appear particularly ravenous, mayhap you could give up your share to-night to one of them.”

  “Bah! I would never do that, the food ought to go to us warriors before the mice,” Yngvarr grunted malevolently, with a harsh glance in their direction.

  Daegan felt some hostility at last burst forth within her heart towards the brutish man, not due to any particular choice in wording or in tone on his part, but due to how his gaze lingered upon her. There was something in that gaze that alarmed her; it reminded her of how some of the local lads had tended to look upon her, since she had come of age. Only Indulf and Trygve of those lads near to her age, had never in truth looked upon her in such a manner. It was why she clung to their company, when Cormac was absent and why she suddenly felt unsettled by the presence of the large warrior.

  Normally, never a particularly observant person by nature, Cormac threw a defiant glance in the direction of Yngvarr. One that tore another sneer from the warrior, the scorn he had for the youth was fairly understandable given the disgraceful manner in which the younger of the two men, had shown earlier that morning. Or so Daegan thought to herself, though she felt some small amount of anger towards him for this, if he had behaved himself with greater force that morning, Yngvarr would not be gazing upon them in such an insulting manner.

  Wulfnoth though, was not entirely blind to this exchange between the three of them, and was quick to change the topic. “Bardulf I must confess that your choice in company since we last met twenty years ago, has changed.”

  The tone used was mild, and though Ardwulf and Yngvarr bristled at these words, the hero himself took little offense. But rather, he appeared bemused by the subtle reprimand that lay hidden behind the druid’s words. “Aye, I suppose it has,” He laughed a little, his head no longer in pain he adopted a much more cheery mien than he had earlier in the day. “Once you see my troupe in battle though, you will feel differently from before.”

  “Last I saw you, you sought to bring down Eoforwine, Ealdorman of Weslam,” The human Brittian recounted adding with some significance, “And you had sought to do so alone, without the aid of others.”

  The land of which he spoke lay to the west of the lands of Norlam. Weslam was south of Weslion, itself south of ériadtheal, and north of the lands of Rheged in Brittia. Said to be some of the richest farmlands in the whole of Brittian, it was a land that existed in the minds of the youths only in legend.

  “Much has changed since then,” Bardulf acknowledged with a darkened expression upon his face, “I have had many adventures since that time, and have as you no doubt heard, brought down the tyrannical Eoforwine for his many crimes against my people.” This last part Bardulf uttered with considerable passion in his voice and heat in his onyx-black eyes. Some regret though flickered into his gaze, “However I discovered when he was laid low that, my deeds only wrought greater misery for those of Weslam. This was not my desire, and I was made an outcast in those lands for reasons entirely my own fault though it was Sivard Land-Taker who branded me as such.”

  The man of whom he spoke was one of dread for all Caleds, a man of equal or more renowned in their lands than Bardulf himself. Sivard was Ealdorman (an equivalent rank to that of Mormaer) of Jorvik, appointed to the post by the legendary Arnish-born King of Brittia ámuner. The North-King who had conquered Brittia nigh on thirty years ago, whereupon he endeavoured to bring peace if at the point of a sword throughout all the lands in the north of Norht-Agenor or to the north of that region.

  Sivard had achieved his position it was said, by slaying the previous Ealdorman or ‘Jarl’ as the King had known his rank, in a drunken brawl. Their families having long since been engaged in an extended blood-feud, one that Sivard ended by the burning of Ealdorman Waltheof (his predecessor)’s entire clan along with their principal manor-house by the sea, just outside the city of Jorvik.

  The violence of the deed might well have offended some, and might have displeased kings such as those who ruled on the Continent, but not a brute such as ámuner. To the contrary, the boldness and swiftness of Sivard’s actions along with how he seized power in the city itself, won him the admiration of his liege-lord who named him Ealdorman but a few weeks later.

  The reason Sivard was such a monstrous figure in the eyes of the Caleds, was in how he had during the reign of Donnchad made it clear that he longed to conquer Caledonia. This after he had of course, overthrown the ruling houses of Norlam and Norlion, the two earldoms to the north of his lands, and added those realms to his own domain, before he had thrown himself into raiding the South-Marches of the Caleds.

  His raids were brutal affairs that had left much of the south burnt to ashes in Donnchad’s reign. It was only with the ascension of Mael Bethad to the throne, and Raghnall the Strawthern Mormaer’s ascension to his own ancestral lands and appointment as Mormaer of the South-Marches that the raids had ended.

  “You brought down Ealdorman Eoforwine?” Cormac asked amazed, “And escaped from Sivard the Land-Taker?”

  “Aye, I did much to my shame lad,” Bardulf confessed gravely, with sorrowful eyes, “I thought that were I only to remove the mightiest tyrant in the lands of Brittia, he who had spilled much of the blood of my tribe-brothers that peace might be restored. The reverse happened, and a new more terrible man, was appointed by Sivard.”

  “At the least you learnt the price of vengeance,” Wulfnoth declared with some moral pique, “All things rooted in anger, in hate run to ash and destroy, they can never create.”

  Bardulf bowed his head at that statement, with the Wolfram though retorting some time later, “Though I have not given up my ambitions to one day, find a land which may offer succour to my people.”

  “Have you considered ériu, I hear the new High-King there, is a mighty monarch and one not unsympathetic to the plight of Wolframs.” Wulfnoth proposed gently, with a long swig from a tankard that Vragi offered him to the disapproval of Ardwulf and Bardulf. “He has after all Tigruns at his court, and Minotaurs and Ogres, and many other non-humans.”

  “Including Bairazes,” Bardulf hissed with some spite in his voice, though a heroic man of some loyalty it appeared then to Daegan that he had a long-memory. Sensing more than seeing the disapproval that glittered to life in Wulfnoth’s eyes, he said with a shake of his head as the fire-light danced upon his long-snouted face. “Nay, ériu is not the land for us, not if the king there is a man fond of pigs.”

  The pigs of which he spoke were the Bairaz people, a brutish people renowned for having served in countless dark wars of the past upon the side of evil. They were a pig-people, who had it was said in the lands of ériu until recently served faithfully the infamous Warlock-King of Amadan, until just before his fall, when the hero-king Bradán had rallied them to his own side.

  Familiar with the tale thanks entirely to those merchants from further-south west that had had occasion to visit Glasvhail, notably her father when his renown as a blacksmith had spread, throughout all the lands of the Caleds. Many of those merchants had come from the small-isles that peppered the sea between ériu and the Lairdly-Isle.

  They had brought news of the rise of the new High-King. Many did not know was of how he had wed a mermaid, had rescued the Emerald-Isle from the brink of disaster and brought peace for the first time in centuries there.

  “But it is said that Wolframs thereon the Emerald-Isle are well treated,” Daegan muttered amazing some of her friends with her knowledge, and to her not so secret pleasure the Wolfram-hero himself.

  “Aye, but as with all things in life that men speak of, rumours must be treated with doubt rather than as truth until one has verified it for oneself.” Bardulf replied at once, his voice weary and his eyes burning with a fire that was hotter and hungrier than the flames, he cast them upon. “Let us no longer speak of my journeys though, for they bring me little pleasure. Though you may not approve, of those sell-swords and Arns I have had to consort with, they are all stout folk who are always prepared, to fight for their beliefs.”

  “Aye fight, but not defend,” Wulfnoth said with some sharpness, he then grumbled beneath his breath, “And few are of the true faith.”

  “As if such things matter,” Yngvarr said impatiently, speaking for the first time in some time.

  His statement was a terrible thing for them to hear, with Daegan fulminating at his impious words. Cormac stared open-mouthed after gasping as Trygve and Indulf had. Vragi for his part grimaced as did Ardwulf, though the latter was rather more irritated than filled with horror at the man’s refusal to pay homage to the faith of Quirinas. Only Bardulf remained unmoved by the heretical dismissal, of the importance of what Daegan and her friends considered the true faith.

  “They do to those of us who care for the souls, of those around us,” Wulfnoth declared his expression overshadowed by a hint of disapproval verging upon anger.

  “Peace friends, we are not here to war with one another, gods only know there has been enough of that in the past centuries. What we are here to do, is to accomplish that which Wiglaf has tasked us with; namely the hunt for these wraiths and the destruction of the Blood-Gem.” Bardulf interrupted some small amount of concern entering his voice now.

  “The former appears to be easier to me,” Yngvarr grunted as he took a seat next to the horses, which he had long since tied to two nearby alder-trees.

  “That is because you are a fool,” Cormac snapped with some heat.

  “What was that you pitiful lad?” The anger that grew in the Norseman’s eyes apparently worried Bardulf as much as it did the rest of them. Only Cormac refused to be cowed by the anger therein, but rather he met the barbarian’s gaze evenly.

  His mouth was open to add more fire-wood onto the inferno he had lit, however Wulfnoth intervened sensing danger. “Enough, the wraith is alone and there are many of us, therefore we shall deal with him. What of the gemstone?”

  Bardulf gave Cormac a hard look, one full of distaste that the youth frowned in response to. Though hardly fond of the lad, the hero appeared determined to appease the druid, this he proved when he sighed and asked. “First I would like to see, if I may?”

  The first instinct of Daegan was a defensive one. She did not much like the notion of sharing with them a single sight of her gem. It was hers, as much by right that it had been left in her father’s house as it was her who had shielded it throughout the journey, since Trygve had given it to her for safe-keeping.

  A look from Wulfnoth though all but quieted her objections. Daegan did as bidden, reaching down for the chain still wrapped about her slender throat, before she let it drop back down against her heart. “There now that you have seen it, what are we to discuss next?”

  Bardulf’s face emptied itself of all expressions as Wulfnoth hissed at her, from where he sat next to Indulf, “Daegan comport yourself, and show him the gemstone properly.”

  “But I did,” She muttered petulantly to herself, only to do as bidden if against her own will.

  Seated on the opposite side of the small campfire from where Wulfnoth sat, Bardulf reached over to hold the cursed gem. His eyes studied it with a hard expression, for a moment a flash of greed entered into his eyes before he closed his eyes.

  Struggling visibly for reasons that escaped Daegan, Bardulf released it a moment later to her intense relief, only to order, “Take it off lass, we must now have it change hands.”

  “Why?” The one word felt torn from her lips, ere long Indulf echoed her confusion.

  “Is it for Cormac or myself to bear it now?” There was a hint of desire in the timid lad’s voice just as there was a great deal of fear.

  Coward, Daegan found herself thinking with some scorn, a sentiment that moved itself in the direction of the lad seated next to her, Cormac when he shook his head.

  “I pray not,” He blurted out, “I dislike having it so near in the very first place.”

  “It should be I who bears the gemstone,” Yngvarr volunteered with a superior look in the direction of the son of Murchadh who bristled at him.

  “Nay, anyone save you or Indulf here,” Wulfnoth stated with a hard expression in his eyes as he glowered also at the heathen, who met his gaze with one of anger. “Nor should it be myself, for the gem would doubtlessly corrupt me the quickest of all those here.”

  “Why is that?” Vragi queried tilting his head from where he sat with his back against a nearby alder-tree.

  “Because, it is in its nature to corrupt those who have some sort of connection to the gods or to magic, I am not certain as to why; I know only that which Wiglaf told me by letter.” Wulfnoth informed him gravely.

  “Well, I think that it is still my turn,” Daegan insisted with some passion.

  “You have held it long enough,” Trygve countered with a snarl. “I do think it should be myself, who once again bears its weight.”

  “It appears to me that the two of you, have held the gem long enough,” Indulf interrupted with a roll of his eyes.

  “I quite agree,” Bardulf stated with a cautious glance in the direction of Wulfnoth who nodded imperceptibly in response.

  “What do we do, if she will not give it over?” He asked.

  “Ardwulf, hold her down,” The Wolfram commanded at once in response.

  Daegan moved to leap at him, with a snarl what she did not expect though was for Trygve and Cormac to latch onto her arms from either side of her. Throwing them off from her, with more strength than she had previously known herself to have had such was the force of the fury that their actions inspired in her.

  Swifter than lightning itself and certainly more so than Daegan herself could have imagined, Ardwulf reached over to the side of her throat to pull up in one smooth motion the chain over her heart.

  The moment the Blood-Gem of Aganippe was taken from her, Daegan felt as though she were shaken from a long nightmare. One that had held her in its grasp, for so long that it felt as though she were seeing all that was around her for the first time in years, from the alder-trees near them, to the fire that lay before her, to those who sat or lay all about her. Suddenly her head felt as though it had been struck repeatedly so that she felt a certain amount of nausea.

  “What in the name of the gods?” Daegan murmured as all that had come before rushed hither to her, from what seemed to her some distant place.

  “Hurrah, you have done it Ardwulf, you have removed the accursed gem from her throat,” Wulfnoth cheered an air of exhausted relief hanging about his person.

  “Oh gods, I fear I have been royally obtuse up until this point,” Daegan confessed at the same time, guilt and pain at her poor behaviour flooded her being. Quite why she had been so angry, now appeared mostly a mystery to her, one that a part of her preferred not to attempt to explore. At the same time that she was filled, with this sense of nausea both physical and spiritual, there was a feeling of loss and hunger. One that was directed to the stone contained in the locket that Ardwulf now dangled between his claws before his face.

  The thought of how much the stone had changed her, had worked to change in her and the exhaustion that had overwhelmed her (and that was now mostly lifted) frightened her. In many ways, it frightened her worse than the wraith had.

  “Well done Ardwulf,” Bardulf praised with sincere relief on his face, “Now do please put that away please.”

  “Aye,” Ardwulf uttered speaking for the first time since they had made his acquaintance, shaking his head as though he were little more than a wet dog. An uneasy air hanging over him, as the gem likely began to work its corruptive influence over him.

  “Ow,” Trygve groaned from where he had been tossed to one side.

  Cormac for his part, let loose a long gusty sigh followed by a small groan one that saw her pulling herself to her feet, to help him from where he had fallen next to the anxious Indulf. “Oh Cormac, I am so sorry I meant no true harm to you, it was the jewel that compelled me to cruelty and folly!”

  Cormac merely groaned and waved off her apologies, as he was unconcerned by them. His chief-most interest lay in saying rather optimistically, “The important thing is that we separated you from it.”

  Daegan embraced him then, held him close to her as she fought off the feminine tears that came to her eyes, tears that she felt utterly ashamed of yet a part of her wished to spill. If only to show that she was not the woman, who had hated all that the gemstone had attempted to turn her into.

  Coughing in embarrassment, Wulfnoth broke the moment between her and Cormac, and their friendly embrace in order to bring attention back to the matter at hand. “We must tread carefully where the Blood-Gem is concerned, Bardulf.”

  “I intend to.” Bardulf said firmly, before he instructed them to bed.

  It was as they were preparing themselves for rest that Cormac extricated himself from Daegan’s side, in order to join the druid in prayer. The rest of those all about them, outside of Indulf did not concern themselves with such things. But rather preferred to prepare for sleep, or for the night-watch. The first two who were to perform this all-important duty was Ardwulf and Bardulf, followed by Vragi and Yngvarr.

  Daegan moved to join the three men in prayer though, and had just bowed her head, when she heard Cormac whispering to the cleric he trusted ever so much. “Brother Wulfnoth, why did Bardulf not seize the gem when Daegan was asleep?”

  This resulted in silence, as Wulfnoth did not answer. The gaze he cast to the youth as he advised him to simply pray was disturbed though, which was just how Daegan felt then. If the stone had (and if she were honest) still possessed a hold over her, could it not from the start be exerting some sort of hold over the Wolfram?

  This question, which Cormac had awoken in her without meaning to, kept her awake for a time, long into the night, while she lay with Indulf two meters to one side and the snoring Wulfnoth almost two meters to her left.