They were herded back then, inch by inch from the now extinguished fire, by the shadows that were now almost invisible to any mortal eyes, their hopes having been dashed in the same instant. More than one of them stumbled back, with not a single one of them keen to stay where the wraiths could reach them whether by arm or by arms. Only Bardulf and Wulfnoth stood as bravely as ever before, with the rest of their traveling companions almost hurrying away, tripping and trembling in the face of the sheer evil of the demonic wraiths.

  An unnatural darkness had befallen the night, with the clouds menacing to break out into a storm, the likes of which had not been seen in weeks. The grass was high and scratched at their legs, where they were visible, particularly in the case of Daegan and Wulfnoth. Neither of whom paid this much mind, both too distracted by the threat of death that loomed now over each and every one of them.

  The maiden had attempted to aid her friends by unsheathing her father’s sword, to attack the wraiths with. However the wraith of the broken sword emblem had met her sword, with his own before he knocked the weapon from her hands without the faintest difficulty. This had slain the last hopes they had, with the lass nearly beheaded in the next instant with Wulfnoth having reached out to pull her to safety.

  This had resulted in the sword slashing across his left shoulder which had sent Wulfnoth tumbling back a few steps. Daegan was pulled away from him by Cormac, who all but threw her behind him in his desperation to follow up this action by pulling the druid to safety immediately afterwards.

  Refusing to let himself be outshone by her, Bardulf had moved to shield the druid from the harm that the rest of the wraiths sought to inflict upon the cleric with the aid of his large alder-wood and iron buckler. Parrying the blows offered by the other wraiths with his sword, this act had drawn a hiss of frustration, from the kingliest of the shadows menacing them.

  This had taken place a few minutes before, with the group now stumbling back with a few of them standing near the foundation of the Great Mound.

  “We shan’t continue in this manner,” Bardulf gasped, panting and sweating so that his fur stunk so badly that it made Cormac’s gag in spite of their present predicament.

  “We must climb the mound,” Cormac said with a backwards glance over his shoulder, thinking that it was the only place they could flee to.

  “It is forbidden to climb it, without due cause!” Bardulf barked before he leapt back narrowly avoiding a slash from the kingly-wraith.

  The blow caught itself upon his sword, the last of the two he had girded to his belt. This blade shattered as its predecessor had, the shock of this loss hardly registered itself in the hearts of his companions. It was the third sword that they had lost, that day.

  Bardulf himself appeared at a loss, with the Wolfram no longer offering any resistance to the repeated suggestions by the youth. Reluctant though he was, the canine gave in to his counsel once his buckler suffered the same fate as his sword.

  Up the lot of them went, head almost over feet fearful for their lives, with Trygve and Bardulf aiding the hampered druid up the mound. Retreating farther up the Great Mound, than men had in years, the first to reach the summit was Daegan, followed by Cormac and Indulf.

  Behind them the wraiths silently made their way up the hill. The only hint of movement on their parts lay in the wispy movement of the tall near-fens that danced here and there, just past Wulfnoth and the two aiding him, in his flight. The movement was one that one had to strain one’s gaze, to take notice of with Cormac straining his gaze to catch sight of this tiny detail. Worried by how the wraiths had in the darkness all but disappeared from sight.

  Only for five of them to burst back into sight, when he at last reached the summit having glanced over his shoulder, as he climbed. As he moved each of them, became visible once again with their long-cloaks and large hauberks, their dark steel blade still in hand.

  “Wait!” Daegan shrieked, whereupon he reached the summit nary a few seconds behind her alongside Indulf.

  The summit of the man-made mountain was to the amazement of the three of them paved with stones that shone with the same silver-grey sheen that the great stones did, and had for centuries. The solid stones were so well-wrought and perfectly placed that not a blade of grass grew between them, nor could one slide a single wet sheet of paper between the cracks or spaces between the mentioned stones.

  Each one glittered with gold and green runes, the light of which was not simply aglow with its own light but reflected the little moonlight that escaped from between the cracks in the clouds that sought to choke out the moon himself. The first thing they were to take notice of lay in the gargantuan silver-grey stones that gleamed with green and golden runes shining here and there along each of them. The stones loomed high over their heads, with the four-fold rocks positioned in such a way with the three sets planted in a semi-circle. All three were composed of two stones side by side were topped by a third stone.

  Each of them glittered and gleamed with such light that each of them took a moment to gape at the sheer size, of the majestic marble stood.

  The six meters that separated each of the stones appeared as almost inches to them, where they were a sizeable distance for mere, flesh and blood mortals such as he.

  To the amazement of Cormac and his friends, what lay at the center of the rock-formation was what appeared to be a large anvil, made of red sandstone, with strange glyphs and runes of the same nature as those of the great stones that surrounded it. The anvil was perfectly cut with its jutting edge that faced north the only part that broke from its perfect three by two meter in diameter and length. Half the size of a man in terms of height, the anvil appeared aged in comparison to the stones that surrounded it. Its decrepit appearance was nonetheless impressive if for no other reason than how smoothly it was cut.

  Stepping forth from just past it, was the captain of the wraiths, his crowned helm held high just below the long-sword he menaced them with. Moving past the anvil, it was the sight of him and his comrades that had brought up the lass short, her mouth agape with fear.

  “I am not afraid,” Indulf said when they neared him and his friends, drawing forth the sword girded to his own waist, with trembling hands. The war-song of the blade a certainty that blood was to be spilled, and that this lay at the heart of his intentions echoed in his ears.

  Filled with greater boldness than his friends had ever seen him demonstrate, in all their years of knowing him, they could not but wonder where the timid lad of their youth had disappeared to. Though his hands trembled, Cormac wondered briefly if they did so from fear or from anticipation at the vengeance the other youth, desired so earnestly.

  The fire in his eyes so aflame with anger and hatred, it made the wraiths pause, bringing them up short a meter and a half from the trio. This highly uncharacteristic show of hesitation emboldened the quiet youth, wherefore he took a step forward towards them.

  Behind them, the other half of their troupe reached the summit panting and coughing, from the exertion, with those wraiths scaling past them brought up short by the sight of Wulfnoth waving his pendant at them. This act held back those who might otherwise have cut them down from behind.

  Trygve for his part, at the sight of Indulf standing betwixt his friends and the wraiths sent him into a frenzy of panic. Bardulf distracted with starting another fire, using what flints he still had, and with a stick he had grabbed before his ascent up the hill.

  Indulf had when at the foot of the hill, never truly managed to claim his footing or had the chance to menace the wraiths, dragged along by the fear and panic of his friends as he was. But now that they stood breathlessly at the summit of the Mound of Griogair, their panic almost drained from them so that they could only stand frozen where they stood at the knowledge that escape was impossible, he would brook no alternative choice save that of fighting to the death.

  He bears such hate and madness, he could well pass for one of those mad fey or trees, from that forest we left behind us. Cormac thought tartly, if briefly so. He could not but feel as though his friend, were departing for some faraway place one which they could not possibly reach. This thought worried him, and all of a sudden he wondered, if it was the knowledge of the existence of this inner-rage inside of Indulf that had caused Wulfnoth, to refuse to allow him near the Blood-Gem of Aganippe.

  His innermost musings though were interrupted not by clashing swords, nor by desperate prayers on the part of the druid behind him, but rather by Trygve. Pushing and jostling the two who stood betwixt him and his brother, Trygve threw them aside with such force that they were thrown off their feet. Hitting the stone-floor with such force that the both of them let out small cries of pain, though their pain largely went unnoticed by those around them.

  The reason for this lay in that the great bellow of panic that issued forth from Trygve’s throat drowned out all other sounds. From the distant clap of thunder that had begun to resonate from the west, to the sea that had begun to rage distantly, to the sound of hooves in the distance to the pain-cries of Daegan and Cormac.

  The hooves though was a sound neither paid much attention to, when they did regain their bearings and dragged their eyes from their aching hands and elbows, raised to keep from falling upon their faces. Their battered knees propped them up, so that they bore witness to the awe-inspiring sight of Indulf’s sword shattering against that of the wraith of the skeletal-hand. Another of the wraiths, the one of the broken scale took a mighty swipe at Indulf’s head at the same time that he of the dark-moon slashed down at his right-shoulder.

  Indulf though, was not dealt a single blow; for it was then that Trygve intervened heroically throwing himself against his brother, with his leonine-bellow. His roar was turned into a scream of purest anguish, when the blades bit into his flesh. Slashed across his left-shoulder and down the length of his right-arm from shoulder near to his elbow, Trygve fell upon his brother.

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  “Trygve!” The shout was torn from Indulf’s throat.

  Cormac gaped in horror alongside Daegan. There were several more hewing cuts and stabs that followed with only half of them striking the younger of the two brothers. His whimpering cries though were drowned out by the cry of alarm at this sight that echoed from the mouths of Bardulf and Wulfnoth.

  Their own cries though were drowned out by the great sea of sound that echoed across the whole of the landscape as dozens of hooves struck the whole of the land.

  This newfound wealth of sound that dominated the whole of the area near to the Great Mound of Griogair came not only from the north but from the south. The oppressive darkness began to break high overhead, though not without the rancour. Rain began to fall from the clouds that spread out their ranks all throughout the heavens, slowly at first then with increasing rapidity, just as the echo of hooves slowed themselves to a slow halt.

  Each of the raindrops struck and burst against the stones, with the same dark wetness that weighed them down in spirit as they did physically. The weight of these heavenly tears, so dimmed the light of the stones and the moon struck each of the intended victims and actual victim of the wraiths with the same force as a thousand knives. The darkness contained in each droplet, appeared only to encourage the wraiths who let loose, their hissing laugh at the sight of Indulf pulling his brother from the vanguard.

  Despair filled Cormac then, his hair soon pressed against his head, as he tried to force his eyes to stay open and keep from closing in fear. Unsure if Trygve still lived, he could not summon hither to him, the hope that he did. The rain-fall and ugly boom of distant lightning served only to drive deeper the knife of crushed hope into his breast.

  Hardly daring to breath, he glanced over his shoulder to see Bardulf limping back with a pained wolf-like whimper, his own right arm pressed under his left arm. Bleeding from several gashes he could hardly stand, as the wraiths forced him and the equally pain-stricken Wulfnoth back.

  At that moment their ugly laugh cut the melancholic air just before the wraiths turned away to stare as a multitude of figures appeared all around them. For those focused upon the summit, there came three dozen figures from the south, north and east all of them hard to discern in the tempest and moonless night.

  Each of them kept their distance from the wraiths that turned their heads from one side to another, just as, out of the darkness came Corin. Dressed in simple leather, with a cloak thrown about his shoulders he was unmistakeable in his gait, a far fiercer flame lit up his face as he crossed from the north of the summit between the wraiths nearest to Wulfnoth and those who had moved to encircle near where Cormac had fallen and never risen from.

  In his hand, he held the great white blade of Cosantóir. Shining with the light of a thousand white suns, he wielded it with such force as one possessed. Slashing with all his might, he cut across the back of the hauberk of the wraith that bore the emblem of the dark-horse who screeched out a terrible shriek of pain. The dreadfulness of his cry pierced the darkness and so alarmed even his compatriots that they fell back nearer to the anvil, behind their captain.

  Though Cormac did not at once realize it was Corin, so brightly did Cosantóir shine he did however recognise him when he reached him, kneeling by his side for but an instant in time.

  “Corin!” Cormac cried out in joy and relief, hardly able to believe his own eyes, such was the force of his emotions.

  Blinking his eyes at him, to ward off the rain that had fallen into them Corin offered little more than a grim nod, in his direction along with that of his equally relieved daughter. Blade held high near to his right-shoulder, the tall warrior uttered his name with the same steel that he held in his tightly wrung hands. “Step back Cormac, and keep Dae safe.”

  “Be careful,” Cormac spluttered once he could at last speak his head spinning in a daze from where he knelt. “They are not at all like us, Corin!”

  “I am aware,” Was the stern reply.

  He was not alone in his fear for the smith though, as Daegan burst out with her own warning, one that the middle-aged man paid even less attention to than that of her friend. “Tread lightly father, and do not turn your back to them for even an instant!”

  Corin though did just that, leaving those in the center of the hill’s summit to his companion in arms who remained frozen where they stood also. His neck suddenly felt as sore as the rest of him felt then, as Cormac twisted it a little, rising slowly as he did so to his feet nearly slipping twice in his hurry to get out from in front of the blacksmith.

  Determined to ward off those wraiths that menaced the druid and Wolfram-hero, Corin leapt past his friends to throw himself upon the aforementioned enemies. Shaken by the flight of the wraith of the dark-horse, those led up the mountain by the warrior of the dark-drake clashed their swords with the white-steel of the man of Forlarin.

  The blade crackled it seemed to all eyes that observed it, with a gold glimmer. One that seemed to bellow with a fury that no creature living or unliving could possibly ever hope to hear without taking fright at the sound of. Such was the majesty of the sword-swings of the blacksmith, the ferocity of his righteous anger as he wielded the gold hilted blade that the man of Forlarin appeared then as a war-god. Thrice did he strike at his foes, and thrice did they fall back for fear of being hewed down by him.

  At the same time that Corin was in the midst of striking fear into the dark-souls of the wraiths, a new light arose in the darkness that had stolen across the peak of Griogair’s final resting place. Distracted from the great clash, Cormac could only gasp, by then he had hurried thither to Indulf’s side, with Daegan just behind him as the two of them worried over Trygve whilst at the same time continuously glancing back at her father, for past the fallen Trygve, arose a lady unlike any they had ever beheld.

  She was tall as a great oak it seemed to their wearied eyes, her greying green hair flowed long down her back untamed by either braids or by any other instruments worn by mortals. Her grey wool robes were thick yet sought not to hide the magnificence of her beautiful figure. Over her robes she wore a thick wolf-fur cloak that was pinned together near her left-shoulder by a brooch in the shape of golden-leaf.

  There was simplicity to her appearance, from the manner in which her dress from ankles to neck all of which were finely woven, her eyes green as the emerald alder-stones of the Longwoods pierced through the darkness.

  Such was the greenness of those glowing eyes, that those who knelt at the side of the fallen Trygve could nary tear theirs from hers though she looked not upon them. Nor did they notice how pointed her dagger-length ears which peaked a little to the back of her head curving a little near the tips to do so. Her frown was terrible to behold, as was the wrath she shook and shone with that even the wraiths appeared frozen in place where they were crowded about the anvil.

  Her long-fingered hands at first clenched at her sides, darted up to point in the direction of the beasts of the night with a trembling fury that was as righteous as it was angry.

  “Begone!” She howled in a thickly accented voice. Her voice was melodious as the finest of the Temple psalms of Meret and beautiful as the first dawn of light in the day, so that all who heard it had a sense of relief and warmth that flowed over them, once they heard it.

  As brightly as she shone though, and as frightened as his companions were by her, the captain of the phantoms stood alone before her, unafraid. Having moved without appearing to do so, in smoke and shadow, his terrible raiment all the darker in the tempestuous early morn’ hours, his blade still held up in his gauntleted fist as though in defiance to her light.

  “Begone! Lest ye wish to at last complete thy journey, to the halls of Orcus the Light-Bringer,” The high-lady menaced with one hand now closing and her right one’s finger jutting up in the air before her in a menacing gesture. Her voice boomed as thunder, yet retained its innate femininity so that she was both the most terrifying and magnificent lady Cormac had ever seen in all his life.

  Her courage, her great light was untainted by both the rain and the wickedness of the great-ghost who defied her in gesture and will, whilst at the same time dwarfed her in size and physique. He it was who alone could laugh in the face of her brilliance and threats.

  His laugh which was the worst of all the laughs of the wraiths, which denied all that was good, all that was light and which darkened the very world around him and which squeezed all air from the very lungs of those about him momentarily made even the lady shrink back. At the sound of this dark chortle rather than take heart, the lesser phantoms likewise shrunk back, with those facing Corin preferring to flee rather than listen to it, shrieking with fright as they fled into the shadows of the night.

  Once his hissing sniggers had faded, the wraith spoke. His voice was as thunder, yet as soft as the faintest summer-breeze; it was cold as the middle of winter and darker than the foulest pit that had ever been dug. Such was the force of his voice that the stones themselves appeared to shrink from him (save for the anvil), his voice was filled with mockery and choked with a venomous hate that left no room for goodness. “I shall not fall to any iron or steel dug from the earth, and wielded by any mortal hands, be they male or female if born upon land, or the mountains, in the glens, fens or in the deepest of caverns.”

  The shadows grew with this pronouncement, there was a crowing wherefore the rain and tempest grew sharper and louder as never before seen. None spoke for fear of upsetting the delicate balance between light and the dark, at that moment. The crowing grew, as did the din of thunder though Cormac struggled to hear any of these sounds over the panting of his frightened breath or the din of his heart’s incessant pounding within his rib-cage.

  This pronouncement though was followed by a great light that came from not simply the lady but some other point past her. One that caused the dark-wraiths hissing breath to sharpen and to worsen as a great explosion of light pierced through the heavens. The light cut apart the clouds and ushering in what appeared to all to be the light of day.

  The response from most of the wraiths was immediate. Most fled, hissing and cursing in their own strange, terrible tongue the magnificent light, as the lady and this other figure of light joined their flames together.

  It was as two torches joining into a greater blaze so that it became a mighty inferno. One that drew together all those that surrounded the summit of the Great Mound of Griogair, menacing the shadows and darkness of the most vile of nocturnal phantoms present thereon the mound.

  Bristling though, the great crowned-head raised itself in defiance, nonetheless though he retreated from the light of day, a hiss of hatred escaping him.

  Though none noticed this, in their fixation with him or the lady, or the light to the right-side of her and the sudden clearing of the clouds and explosion of daylight, the farther the wraith retreated from her the closer he came to the youths. They noticed this at once though, with Daegan gaping open-mouthed at him, Trygve his eyes shuttered closed had long since passed out. His brother, who clung to him ever so tightly, glowered at the wraith with a mix of loathing and fear.

  It was Cormac who spoke out, breaking the moment of fear and uncertainty as the great looming cloak of shadow neared them. “We must move! Indulf, Dae we have to move Trygve from here!”

  His attempt to warn his friends meant that in the moment the wraith turned his back upon the light at the other end of the summit of the mountain, his eyes were turned away from the darkness of his shadow. Keen to have Trygve moved away to safety, it was the height of folly to look away though, even if for but a moment.

  The only comfort that there was to be was in the rescuing of his friend, who was dragged aside by Indulf and Daegan in a heartbeat though the shadow-cape of the wraith brushed the feet of the unconscious lad. A whimper escaped him even in his unconscious state, at this contact something that worried Indulf greatly. Daegan was distracted by the knowledge that her distracted mooncalf of a friend had failed to take immediate notice of what impending danger was headed towards him.

  Trampled under the heels of the great shadow, Cormac had only time to turn his head to face forward, the great threat that had slain several of his travelling companions.

  His last thought before he was overtaken by darkness was to wonder how there could be such blackness, without even the slightest trace of light. For the cloak of this evil creature, along with the rest of it appeared to his eyes then to just as its sword had; devouring all light until there was naught left of the world around it.