“We have arrived,” Bardulf announced once they were within sight of the mound, the alder-road of the Elves long since behind them, along with the forest to which the road had belonged to.

  After a week and a half spent in the Longwoods, all felt grateful to leave the forest behind though not without some regret on the part of Vragi for the tender deer meat that they had found in such prominence in the forest.

  “The forest was not all bad, the deer were of a tastier variety there than nigh on anywhere else I have ever visited,” Vragi murmured optimistically with a small smile to his friends. His cheery personality one that Daegan found herself taking to once more, for it reminded her of the simple and cheery nature of Cormac.

  “Can you not think of the companions we have lost, of the evil we found inside of that tree?” Yngvarr snarled at the Wolfram who sighed wearily in response.

  “Enough, let us not speak of it,” Bardulf stated sharply to the both of them.

  Yngvarr though, in defiance of his leader’s words glowered furiously at Vragi, who for his part kept his gaze firmly upon the long stretch of land that lay ahead of them, as annoyed by the blond-warrior as the rest of them were. The land all about them was fielded though barren of people, with a few trees peppering the landscape. Most of them were alder-trees, with a few birch and cedar ones that hardly attracted the eye.

  Though she hardly shrunk from them, as much as Trygve did, Daegan nonetheless felt grateful that they veered away from them. The stars shone brightly in the heavens above them, with the seven red stars of Ziu, four green stars of Fufluns and nine blue ones of Scota shining brightly.

  These stars along with several ordinary ones formed the magnificent image of Achaius’ slaying of the Fratriarch Morrion in the battle of Baudré-en-Orvande; near where the kingdom once known as Oriande was (it was now little more than a duchy in Gallia).

  Such was the brightness of this constellation that the land was almost bathed, in greater light than that of the twin-suns. It ordinarily shone the brightest in the fourth month, that of Giplean. It was still the second month of the year that of Gearran, which was when the Thistle-King and Lily-Queen’s constellations were most prominent, with the green, pink and golden stars shining brightest.

  “Strange,” Cormac echoed from where he rode next to her, “Why are the constellation of the High-King at hand, rather than that of the royal couple?”

  Bardulf hardly spared more than a momentary glance before he shrugged his shoulders, “Doubtlessly this year is a leap-year, it occasionally happens.”

  “What do you mean?” Indulf queried now, but it was Wulfnoth who answered for the hero who rode at the rear of their party of travelers.

  “He means that there is a leap year every four years that is to say that we are in store for a leap-day, it is said that the stars occasionally appear out of order so to speak when this happens. As though they are as confused as we are, or mayhap there is a reason for them to take up a certain constellation every few leap-years.”

  “I still fail to grasp what you mean by this ‘leap-day’ talk,” Trygve said speaking up from next to his brother from the front of their troupe.

  “Ah I appear to have talked out of order, very well allow me to explain it once more to you, if in better order,” Wulfnoth apologised adding as he did so. “This was in the time of Cesarius the first Princeps, nigh on a millennia ago who discovered the truth of the leap-day. He was a star-gazer it is said, he took to star-gazing in his youth after the death of his first wife whom he had dubbed Risusia or ‘laughter’, because she laughed so beautifully. He would pray and study the stars of not only the peninsula of Tirreina but that of Korax, Hyspania, and also Doris. Though it was some decades later, that he instituted his grand new calendar that though each of the kingdoms of North-Agenor and South-Agenor bear different names, all follow the Princep’s calendar.”

  The knowledge that a man had gazed upon the stars a thousand years ago, doing so with thoughts of his dear-beloved enchanted Daegan at that moment. Even as she felt tears of pity prickle her eyes at the thought of losing Cormac while they were still young. To lose the one you loved, she suddenly thought must be akin to losing one’s breath or the loss of half of one’s soul.

  This explanation was enough to appease the thirst for knowledge of the brothers, with Vragi also appearing impressed.

  Cormac appeared enchanted, though he asked of the old man, “Did the Elves follow these calendars also?”

  “I- I do not know,” Wulfnoth confessed with a shrug of his shoulders, “I have no doubt that they follow their own calendars and dating systems, mayhap wise Bardulf could offer clarification on this matter.”

  Bardulf for his part offered a weak smile and a shake of his head, as unfamiliar with the Elves’ calendars as the rest of them. Unable to offer any further wisdom on the matter of the subject of calendars, the rest of his traveling companions returned to their inspection of the tall-grassed fields and to the starry-heavens.

  They trotted through mist and fog, past darkness in the direction of the shadow of the great Mound of Griogair. A Mound that had loomed over Caledonia since ancient times, past the age of the kingdom of Strathclarde and Caledonia, past the age of the Pechs who had dominated the north of the isle for nigh on eight centuries before they vanished amidst flame and blood.

  The ‘painted men’ did not predate the Mound it was said, with Roma herself having not yet come to North-Agenor when it was first constructed. These were but some of the tales that had come down to the youths of Glasvhail, from elders who knew precious little about the large mound themselves.

  It was gargantuan, at least fifteen meters high off the ground, and thrice that number long and wide. There was a collection of large stones that had been erected at the summit, four faced west, three faced east and one faced north, and all were topped by four large stones, so that they all appeared as gateways.

  To what or where, none of the Caleds could guess or even begin to suspect. Each of the stones were silver-grey and shone in the light of the stars, whispering it seemed as they did so of lost wonder, and glories long past. All of them looming ten meters high and were approximately three meters wide and easily ten times that number of meters in thickness.

  This greyness was a stark contrast to the green-brown coloration of the mountain of earth and grass that had long since melded itself proper into the surrounding ground of Caledonia.

  “Are we to camp a-top the Great Mound?” This question was wrung from Cormac’s lips, as he gave a dubious glance up at the looming bulk of the Great Mound.

  “No.” Bardulf answered with a distant gleam in his dark eyes, he gazed upon the Mound of Griogair for some time before he spoke. “This place was here ere that Roma was still in her cradle in South-Agenor.”

  A mournful mood came upon the wolf-men then, long they grieved for Griogair before any further words were spoken. In place of words though, they dismounted from their mounts at the foot of the ancient hill, setting to work at once to scavenge for wood favouring Daegan noticed, fallen branches to tearing them from the nearby trees she noticed.

  The fire they lit was larger than that of previous nights, with Indulf and Wulfnoth leaning back against the plush grass of the hill which inclined upwards rather than jutting suddenly in that direction as some mountains were wont to do. The latter closed his eyes almost immediately, his breath hitched and his left hand falling towards his left leg which still pained him so.

  Cormac sat between Trygve and Indulf, which left Daegan to sit to the right of Wulfnoth, with Vragi taking up the place nearest her when he noticed her frown in the direction of Yngvarr who appeared prepared to take the spot in question.

  The fire was warm, and lit up the night nicely, with Ardwulf seated next to Trygve being responsible for taking the last piece of deer meat that they had at hand, which he skewered on a branch and began to cook over the flames. Being careful as he cooked it, he never tore his eyes from the flames or from the deer, which soon began to roast ever so nicely.

  Her mouth watering, Daegan could see that her friends were in much the same condition, their bellies rumbling as hungrily as her own, at that moment.

  To distract himself from the pain and noise of his stomach, Cormac added a slip of mutton they had gotten from Ardrannaig, to the flames, asking as he did so with forced cheer. “May I ask why this is called the Great Mound of Griogair?”

  Bardulf studied them for some time, before he let slip a sigh. Seated across from them, with his sword laid down to his left, and his cloak set down beneath him, his back forcibly to the Longwoods, he appeared old then.

  Such was the veneer of age that crept upon him then he could well have passed, for some distant mangy dog, from Wulfnoth’s grandfather’s time. The weary yet resolute air that hung about him made every back stiffen; every single one of them sat up straighter (save for the druid).

  “It may be best, not to speak of such things,” Yngvarr said softly, showing for the first compassion for another person, his eyes soft from where he sat between Vragi and Bardulf.

  The latter of whom let slip a sigh, ere he opened his mouth and began to sing. It was a mournful song, of the sort to bring hither a brimful of tears to one’s eyes.

  A song that could sadden the heart and to fill the mind with the memory of a once glorious people, who had been laid low by their own arrogance as much as by the savagery of their enemies. His voice was the most beautiful though of the three, all noticed.

  For though Vragi and Ardwulf sung well, there was majesty and a beauty to the haunting depths of Bardulf’s melody that surpassed their own songs.

  “Griogair was the Wolven-king,

  He was giver of many arm-rings,

  From west isles to east-Lowlands,

  He ruled well upon our islands,

  His heart was just, his justice wise,

  His realm did distrust, and ushered his demise,

  His claws robust and fangs sharp,

  Of him many singers sadly thrum their harp,

  As the suns in heaven dip thus he too fell away,

  And why? None will say,

  For into shadows fell his kin,

  Lo! He did pay for their sin,

  Why many asked is there a price to pay?

  Because come what may,

  Roparzh-King comes to deliver their due,

  On the day Griogair did most rue.”

  By the time the final verse had been sung, Vragi and Ardwulf had joined in the singing of the tale of the tragic Wolf-King of the Rothien-lands. His tale one that was entirely unknown to those who peopled the further north and much of the south.

  His should have been a glorious age, for a glorious people, if only they had remembered their ancient pact with the Elves and those of the race of men. They had however turned tyrant, had come to believe themselves mightier than those who considered them kindred, and had suffered for their hubris.

  “What sorrow, to see his people laid low,” Daegan whispered sadly her hair forming a cloud that hid her face from those around her, for which she was grateful.

  Wulfnoth eyed her from beneath his half-closed eyes, murmuring in return, “It was no more than his people deserved, for they wrought such suffering ten-fold upon their neighbours.”

  “How could you say such a thing?” Daegan objected sharply, “Roparzh King ought to have demonstrated more honour. For the slaying of Griogair was wrongful I say, and blackened the honour of the first Brittian monarch.”

  “I do not entirely disagree lass,” Ardwulf replied with a small mournful smile of his own, his expression reflected by Bardulf.

  Only Vragi of the warriors appeared to disagree, pulling out a small bone comb that he used to set his long mane in order, as he spoke, “I am not so certain that is quite right.” Vragi was a mild-tempered man, and once he laid down his comb he pulled out from his pack which he had taken from the horses after he had tied them to a nearby set of trees, a long shoe. It happened that he liked cobbling for some reason that escaped Daegan. Setting to work upon the shoe he said with far more patience most had come to expect from the easily excited wolf-man. “I think that the kingdom of Griogair and his forefathers had wrought their ruin upon themselves.”

  “How can you speak so dismissively, of your own forebears Vragi?” Ardwulf growled his breath hardly even and stable, since he had taken up the possession of the Blood-Gem. Still though, there was a pride, a joy in his voice when he spoke of those forebears of those who had come long before any of them.

  “Because, they wished to enslave Elf and men alike, both of whom we swore an ancient oath to never treat so insolently. At the first we were brothers, then we became the senior sibling of the three, and just as the Cyclops was hounded into the sea we turned upon those under our protection.” Vragi explained with visible regret, “I am sad that innocent blood was shed, however it has also been millennia since that time. Men, Wolfram and Elves have all risen and fallen in the interlude between then and now, ere long more shall fall before we have resolved this ancient divide I think. It has been more than twenty-centuries since the Pact of Fionnlagh was broken, and man came to dominate the Lairdly-Isle.”

  It was the most he had spoken, since they had come to know him. There was wisdom, a gentleness to his voice that moved Daegan.

  Her companions appeared to agree with him, though Bardulf appeared as though he wished to disagree, there was a reluctant acceptance in his eyes, and a regret there that could never be wholly placated. Only Yngvarr appeared prepared to disagree, as did Indulf to her surprise with the latter the first to speak up in disagreement, if in his atypical thoughtful manner.

  “It often follows that those who break from the path of honour, bring down upon their own heads their fates.” Indulf said darkly, his brow furrowed and bowed as though in regret for his own people, though there was little connection between him and the peoples in the tale.

  “Aye,” Yngvarr agreed, “Though it is not for us to judge the dead, or the causes for which they fought for. All that matters is that they fought valiantly, and that we remember that much of them.”

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  His words were unusually wise, with Daegan inclined to agree on the point of the importance of the valour of the ancestors. It was often something she took strongly to heart, for valour was the fount of all good and all greatness in her eyes.

  The wind was cold as it trailed through their hair, fur and cloaks, bringing with it an echo of those who had long passed. Those who had given their lives possibly near this very hill, upon which the great stones stood.

  “To remember only their valour though, is to forget all else of our ancestors though,” Cormac propounded passionately, surprising Daegan who had hoped he might agree with Yngvarr and her. “What use is remembering them if we choose to be selective in our memory of those who are past? We ought to recall all that they were, all that they did lest we should lose something of ourselves.”

  His words made little sense to Daegan, and drew a sceptical rise of Trygve’s brow, a rueful smile from Indulf and much moustache-tugging from Wulfnoth. It was Bardulf though who reacted the most positively, laughing a small sad laugh, a gleam in his eyes. The look he gave Cormac was one of utter approbation that was shared by his kindred, who both appeared impressed.

  “You have much wisdom to offer us, young Cormac much as your namesakes did, before you.” Bardulf approved chuckling a little at how the youth’s cheeks reddened then, as he demurred with a stutter from the high-praise paid to him. “Aye, there is much to remember of the past.”

  “What I fail to understand,” Trygve spoke up an envious light in his eyes, for the praise paid to the other youth, “Is if Griogair was buried here and his people’s kingdom shattered, who interred him herein the Great Mound? And what was the Pact of Fionnlagh?”

  The stars shone high above all, the wind whispered amongst them as the past cried out to them across more than twenty centuries. The weight of the past bore down upon them all then, with all the harshness and darkness that a mountain might have, had it dropped itself wholly and completely upon them all.

  Bardulf gazed long into the flames, before he at last raised his brow so that his gaze felled the mist between them. His gaze was as piercing and sorrowful just as his voice, was when he spoke which he did with all the weight of the mentioned mountain. “The Pact of Fionnlagh was forged by those who resisted the Cyclops who had dominated the isle for so long, and who held a corner of the Lairdly-Isle. This they did after Fionnlagh the Great-Father fell to the Cyclop’s chieftain Ygorln. For before the grand alliance between the four rulers of Bretwealda, Fionnlagh of the lands of Sgain rode south to muster all and speak sense to all. None listened, therefore when he heard of the death of his youngest son, he charged wither into the realm of the Cyclops and slew the chief’s son. ‘Blood for blood,’ he is said to have cried at the enraged Cyclops who pounded him down with their large clubs sparing only his skull which they turned into a goblet. This goblet was retrieved only by the union of fey, Elves, Wolfram and men who joined together under the leadership of Fionnlagh’s eldest son; Uthard the Sword.”

  “The pact-song is still revered and remembered amongst our people,” Vragi informed the breathless humans, who listened raptly to the tale of Fionnlagh and his many sorrows. “If you will, here it is in your Caled tongue.”

  And he sang then of the sorrows of Fionnlagh, who had had his youngest son kidnapped by a witch after he spurned her affection, then of how Uthard the mightiest of the warriors of the sons of Fionnlagh avenged them both.

  “Hither rode Fionnlagh Many-sons,

  Yet none would heed his fatherly-grief,

  Thus he came to grief,

  His six sons fell as might white-plums,

  Uthard the Sword rode next,

  To wolf lands as to Elf-woods,

  The wolf folk swore their axe,

  The Fey their cures,

  And the Elves their bows and next,

  In the lands of Bretwealda thrice they swore,

  Their hands clasped twice together,

  For brothers they now were,

  To rouse, war and ride as one under the suns,

  For all were now as Fionnlagh’s filial sons.”

  The Pact-Song with all of its ancientness did not echo, nor was it sung back to them as the songs inside of the forest were. But rather, just as the Pact of the three races had, died a quiet death as all such alliances do in time, long after it has been hollowed out by those involved in it. Leaving naught behind it save grief and sorrow. It made Daegan’s heart ache to think of a father burying his son, yet she pitied Uthard all the more for the brothers he had buried.

  “After the death of Uthard, the kingship passed to the chief of the Wolframs, as had been agreed between the three peoples of Bretwealda.” Bardulf went on to explain, his throat a little hoarse until he took a swallow from his tankard, “I think that meat should be ready by now, Ardwulf.

  Where was I? Oh yes, the crown had returned to the people of Griogair. Who at first ruled well and honourably over their neighbours until there came a time when men forgot the old pact and a descendant of Uthard waged war against one of the Wolf-Kings of old. Succeeding in slaying his sons, the Wolframs became enraged and punished the sons’ of men, and then enslaved them after accusing them of consorting with the Cyclops.”

  He took a breath, his throat tight and eyes shining with tears at the errors of his ancestors, those who had forgotten what ran in the very blood of all Wolframs; loyalty. A canine people, they were every inch as loyal and faithful to one another, as those they called friend as dogs or wolves had a tendency to be.

  Thereafter, for a time it was Vragi who took up the tale of the fall of the Wolfram kingdom of Bretwealda, speaking cheerlessly as he did so. “The Elves objected also, claiming as they did so that they would never have sworn the pact if it meant man was to be enslaved so. As punishment we enslaved them for a time, as familiar with their woods as they were. In response, one of their kindred, a shaman whose name has been lost to history, twisted some of the trees of a nearby forest with evil spirits and imbued them with the desire to devour flesh.” At this mention of a forest the lot of them had traversed through, Daegan and Trygve shuddered at the memory.

  “This shaman was cast out by the other Elves, out of shame for what he had done. Wherefore the wolf-tyrants built a mighty state resisted only by the Caleds in the north, those people descended from Fionnlagh’s second son, shielded by the golem Sgain, and in the south by the Cyclops. That is until the age of Roparzh King. By then, the Wolframs had forgotten the Cyclops menace, and had grown complacent, losing control of the Elves they failed to take into account the growing menace in the south, but men were not so foolish.

  They were the first to suffer to them, whereupon they called for assistance from the Wolframs who put to death their messengers. Only Griogair warned his people of the folly of such actions. It was upon his succession to his older brother’s throne that he sought to atone for what had happened, but events had swept out of control for the Elves and men had agreed amongst themselves to destroy the Wolfram kingdom.”

  “But what of Griogair? Did he not try to negotiate with them?” Cormac asked now, eyes wide and gleaming with pity in his eyes, for the ancient Wolframs and all others who surrounded their once magnificent kingdom.

  “Aye, though none could be certain that he meant what he said. To prove his worth, he went to war in the south against the Cyclops; this was a foolish action for he left his court in the city of Wulfvaard or Norchester as you now know it, under the rule of his mate, Blaedswith. A despotic woman, who had little love for the other people, notably men for the death of her brother, an event that took place ten years prior. Full of fear for her sons, she staged an ambush against the people of Roparzh’s tribe, who took umbrage when their chieftain, Roparzh’s good-brother perished in the attack. The war that was sparked lasted for years until at the last the mournful Roparzh after the burial of four of his six sons, was slain in battle by Roparzh.”

  “The battle,” Bardulf said, taking back up the story his eyes full of the grief that all of his people present thereon the foot to the Mound. “The battle was a long one, Roparzh fought not only for his bride, but for his people’s continued survival. He perished, yet comported himself with such valour and honour, Roparzh regretted the slaying and had a great mound elevated where he had fallen to the north of the lands named Wulfvaard in honour of him.

  The Wolframs were stripped of their three cities, of the forests they also called home and were made into a free-ranging folks as the Tigruns and Minotaurs who had newly arrived upon the Lairdly-Isle at the time, were. They fought to destroy the Minotaurs, hopeful to regain their ancestral homes and to throw off the shame of their ancestors, yet it was not to be.

  The humans, who promised them so much, broke their pact and treated them as a cursed people after the reign of Roparzh. The Elves enjoyed Roparzh’s people’s esteem for a time, until his latter-day descendant Roparzh the Reclaimer took the throne and cast them out also.”

  For a time none spoke. So struck were they, by these terrible words of so dark a past that few ever spoke of it, so that few of those present had ever heard talk of these tragedies.

  The first to break the silence though, was Daegan who asked of Bardulf, “What became of Blaedswith and her remaining children? Surely, they did not forgive Roparzh for his misdeed?”

  Bardulf was surprised by this question, answering stonily his eyes hard and upon her, “Of course she did, though I do wonder if she ever forgave herself. As to her sons, the last of them perished in the wars against the Cyclops’, her daughter though wed and had many children herself. They passed down their tale of sorrow and renamed their tribe the Griogair in honour of the King who resides here. There is a tale though that Roparzh had the sons and even Blaedswith in time buried with Griogair in his Mound. He declared it a holy site, and made three pilgrimages here a year, or so one shaman told me. The stones you see at the summit were raised in honour of Griogair, his wife and his sons who fell in the ancient wars. Raised by Roparzh’s command, they are called the Roparzh-stones amongst my people and are said to be decorated with ancient Brittian and Wolfram runes. For they are sacred to both of our kindred, as all things of that age have long since become.”

  This last source of knowledge appeared to be vague to Daegan, far more so than she might have otherwise liked. Looking to Wulfnoth for confirmation, expectant to find that the Canticle had some sort of knowledge regarding what had taken place between Roparzh and his rivals. But the druid had no such wisdom to give; rather he tugged at his moustache and appeared as fascinated by the tale as the children.

  His only remark, “I had heard Roparzh ruled well, it is said that he founded the city of Grioburh and that he ruled there for sixty-five years. Or so my old abbot once taught me, it was said that he forged such a bond of friendship with those folk who called themselves Pechs and even those who resided upon the Emerald Isle that even among their people he was known as the ‘Wise’.”

  “Aye, he is greatly revered amongst our people, for all that he strove to do,” Vragi stated with a warm smile, “His name is a popular one amongst our sons.”

  “What of the fact that they would share a name, with the Reclaimer?” Yngvarr sneered adding with some scorn, “It appears to me as though, your people became little more than slaves. One would never find an Arn in such a pathetic state, for we are a people who love our freedom above all else in the world.”

  This accusation of weakness made the Wolframs bristle. Not only them, but Indulf and Cormac, both of whom looked prepared to lunge at the Arn, Daegan for her part glared at him also.

  It was Wulfnoth though who with a laugh dismissed the blonde-warriors words, “Then why is it that your kindred people the slave-markets as much in chains, as do those they come across in their long voyages?”

  The glare that Yngvarr threw in his direction was so utterly murderous, that if looks were arms the druid would have been mortally wounded.

  To one side Ardwulf cackled almost madly, with amusement at his comrade’s expense. His laugh served to make Daegan feel all the more sickly, she hoped then that Bardulf would remove the Blood-Gem of Aganippe from him soon.

  Encouraged to sleep, after Wulfnoth began to snore his old voice going well with the off-tune voice of Trygve and that of Cormac, Daegan fought to stay awake as long as she could, without too much success.

  The last thing she heard before she drifted away was Bardulf singing melancholically a song she later learnt to was named the Fall of Griogair.

  “Griom’s realm was in decay,

  This all could see in night and day,

  This he left to Griogair,

  He was as the stars that rule ayr,

  Righteous as Blaedswith Queen was foolish,

  For this he was made to pay,

  Son after son lost they,

  To suffer as Fionnlagh once did,

  South-born Roparzh revolted,

  Long mourned the comet-coat,

  As a bolt across the Lairdly-Isle did Uthard’s heir burn

  Wulffields,

  Stars in heaven wept at heroes thus embattled,

  Star-tears decorated Griogair’s shield,

  Thus did Griogair Blaedswith’s joy fall,

  Thither where the Mound stands tall,

  Roparzh-King Wulf-Mourner thus swore,

  By suns, moon, glen and firth to restore,

  That pact that he had asunder-torn,

  This he promised on his crown’s swans,

  This he promised we Griogair’s folk,

  Ere his sword broke.”

  It was not long after she had fallen asleep that Daegan awoke with a start, to the angry voices of Vragi and Yngvarr. The former by this time loomed over Ardwulf, this she could discern through her half-closed eyes, feigning sleep from where she slept with her head on the snoring Wulfnoth’s shoulder.

  As to the latter, he had remained upon the other side of the fire, blue storm eyes ablaze with the fury of a tornado or of the raging sea as he glowered jealously at Vragi.

  “-It is Bardulf’s wish Yngvarr, you know that Ardwulf has held it long enough, now go back to sleep.” Vragi was saying, pointing to their chieftain who lay asleep on his left-side, eyes closed and breathing even.

  “So you say, however Vragi he gave me separate orders,” Yngvarr insisted with such sharpness that a blade of the finest steel could not cut deeper, than his voice did then.

  It took some time for Daegan to realize what it was they were arguing over, once she did a part of her wished they might come closer so that she may snatch away the gemstone. It might be best for the two of them, given the possessive way they spoke of it.

  None of her companions so much as stirred, if anything Cormac snored a little louder after rolling over to face her, having been facing the other side. Indulf hugged tighter to his chest the sword he had stolen from Rothmore, having taken to holding it tight against his chest in his sleep. It was a heart-wrenching thing to behold, for it was hardly a worthy replacement for laughter-loving Inga.

  The argument between Vragi and Yngvarr though went on for some time, with the former rebutting the ridiculous argument of the latter. “Nonsense, Yngvarr you lie. I know this because at the start and earlier in the night before he went to sleep, Bardulf told me that under no circumstances that you were to be allowed near the gem.”

  There! He spoke of her gemstone, Daegan thought with some satisfaction, pleased to be right and already pondering how she could help alleviate the weight of the stone from Vragi’s shoulders.

  Yngvarr retorted furiously, “Stupid mutt, I have as much a claim to the Blood-Gem Vragi, we have fought in how many battles here and upon the Misty-Isle? How many times in those battles did I save your life? Therefore I would argue I am owed a bit more trust.”

  The knowledge that Yngvarr and Vragi had visited the mysterious isle to the north of Bretwealda was a revelation Daegan had not expected to hear. She had known that they had traveled widely, yet had always imagined that they had journeyed to the Emerald-Isle or to Gallia.

  The principal countries all wide-ranging travelers journeyed to, doing so as pilgrimages. Those from across the Glacial Sea that lies to the north of North-Agenor typically journeyed to Norléans as there was an enclave there for them. This had been done by the lords of Roven, who were themselves descended from men originally of Arnish stock.

  Fialinn the white-city of ériu was also said to be ruled over by men descended from Arns, though it had ten years ago come to owe fealty to Bradán the new High-King. Wolframs were in turn held in high-esteem in both ériu and Gallia, notably in Breizh and Vaugrim, both sub-kingdoms that owed allegiance to the lily-throne.

  “It is not for lack of gratitude, Yngvarr that I repudiate your claim to the gem or deny you the right to a glimpse of Aganippe’s Bane. But rather, out of gratitude to you and yours for all that you have done for Bardulf, my people and I.” Vragi argued back, his voice passionate as the roaring blaze that danced with such vigour between him and the Northman.

  For a long time they duelled with their eyes. Autumn-brown clashed with the dark blue of the ocean. Both were angry, both felt drawn to the Blood-Gem, and neither had any urge to retreat from this mêlée of wills.

  The wind blew against them with such cold that for a moment a shiver ran up every spine. This included those who were asleep, along with the two men who stood facing one another. Their anger was temporarily forgotten, as they stood there shuddering due to the poor climate.

  Without a word between them they drew nearer to the flames, as though they were both keen to curry its favour when in reality all they wished for, was for warmth.

  If there was any hope for this momentary cessation in violence to be permanent, it was a na?ve hope that was soon dashed upon the ground. Not unlike a fine piece of glass that had been hand-sculpted by the finest glass-merchants of Parmenia.

  “Give me the gem,” Yngvarr repeated as he had doubtlessly done many a times before.

  The smoke of the fire rose wispy, dancing about just as the flames did. The fire grew ever smaller, if slowly so.

  “Nay, Yngvarr can ye not see how it pulls at you?” Vragi pleaded his voice reasonable, though there was an edge of steel beneath his supplication.

  The wind blew once more, the fog rolled in and the clouds covered the moon.

  Yngvarr took another step forward, a menacing one that caused Vragi to take a step back an expression of uncertain apprehension upon his long-snouted face. “Give me the stone; I have earned the right to hold it.”

  “You swore an oath in the name of your one-eyed god, and his one-handed adoptive son to uphold the orders of Bardulf.” Vragi retorted the moment he realized that the pleas he had uttered had had the opposite effect he desired.

  Once more the wind blew, though this time it blew in a thick fog one that slowly rode in as a horseman does into battle, surrounding the small group of travelers as the two watches bickered.

  Yngvarr hesitated at the reminder of his oath. Oaths were all-important things; to break one was a terrible sin. One that there could be no returning from, if he had indeed sworn such mighty oaths as Vragi hinted at, he might well cause his own fall if he were to break them.

  The shadows cast by the large fire lengthened behind the Arn.

  “I swore those oaths, yes but those I swore the oaths alongside, are the very reason I must now have that gemstone,” Yngvarr growled furiously, “You know who it is that longs for it. Just as surely as I do, therefore it falls upon me to guard it, until we can take it to Vargrstein.”

  The location of which he spoke was a mystery to Daegan, though the manner in which Yngvarr spoke of his hopes awoke a wave of dread in her. One that was comparable only to how she had felt, the night that the wraith had attacked her father’s home.

  Swallowing she continued to listen to the two men quarrel, with it being Vragi who revealed to her if inadvertently so, the geographic location of Yngvarr’s kinsmen. “Antilia? You would take the stone back to the Misty-Isle, after all the sorrow it has wrought there, and after Murchadh’s sacrifices to bring it here?”

  The wave of dread was mixed now with one of stunned alarm at the mention of Murchadh. The knowledge that they were familiar with Kenna’s husband alarmed the smith’s daughter.

  She felt as though they had told some sort of lie to her, hurt and angered by this it was only due to the feeling of cold trepidation that paralysed her. She might otherwise have revealed herself, with a loud cry that could have shaken her friends, from the sleep which held them captive.

  “That was a mistake, my father could have mastered it,” Yngvarr snarled only to unsheathe his long-sword, which reflected the redness of the fire with such coldness that in their sleep her friends whimpered, or so it seemed to Daegan.

  “What folly! What of what Wiglaf warned of the gem’s terrible powers?” Once again the Wolfram appealed to the man’s sense of reason. Something that the Caled-lass was not entirely certain the warrior had ever truly possessed.