The following day was an early one for Cormac, not only because he was called outside from the small home by Corin, but due to the snores of Wulfnoth that rose in propensity and volume just before the dawn. Groggy, and hardly content with being pulled from his slumber by the noisy druid asleep at the other end of the room, only to be pulled from his bed by the newly arrived smith, he grumbled churlishly beneath his breath when Corin greeted him cheerfully.

  Rarely a man to comport himself in such a manner, the blacksmith had the same leather tunic and trousers, and cloak he had arrived in, the night of the battle of the Mound. His beard had been trimmed a little Cormac saw, with the same sword he had wielded that night girt to his waist.

  “How did you sleep?” Corin asked politely, taking him by the shoulders past the guard outside the house who appeared on the verge of falling asleep. When the lad answered distractedly, the older man went on, “There is a place I wish to show you lad, since I noticed how ill at ease you were the other day.”

  “Where are we headed?” Cormac asked curiously, pleased at the attention though he was still a little tired. “And where is Daegan?”

  “She left to go sew with some of her newfound friends,” Corin answered without too much interest. “We will see her later to-night, but that is for us to discuss at a later time.”

  There was not much more discussion between the two of them. Guided down the stairway to solid ground a part of Cormac felt a wave of gratitude to have his feet once again in contact with the earth. Another part of him, an even more bone-deep one though regretted it for the movement of the upper verandas and bridges of the Elves had reminded him of being in a boat. It was a feeling he had long since come to miss, with all of his heart and soul.

  The suns he noticed, had risen in the distance and had begun to bathe by this time, the whole of the land in their magnificent light. So wondrous did the great village look bathed in sunlight, the distant leaves of the summits of the trees appeared to him as magnificent as the colossi he had heard tell of from distant Doris.

  What was more, was that this was the first he saw of the Elves at a shorter range, they were near enough to touch he mused, shaking with excitement. They were brown and green of hair, with glowing eyes the same colour as their hair, with these almond shaped eyes seemingly piercing him every single time they looked in his direction.

  Yet there was a gladness to see him that made him feel welcome though he felt akin to a clumsy donkey compared to the graceful dignity of each of those who walked to either side of him. Not all of the Elves moved in the same direction, some headed east, some west, with a small number of them headed south.

  Headed west, Cormac could hardly keep from looking all around him, at the dozens of Elves, some short, and some tall all appeared aloof and only a few glanced in his direction. The women he noticed were headed elsewhere with it mostly men-folk that walked all around him.

  Where the women wore long dresses made of linen or silk of the finest green colouration, the men were dressed in tunics and trousers just as human men might have worn. The difference was that theirs appeared to be of a blended material that was strongly reminiscent of both leather and of linen also, with their clothes emerald in some cases in others brown.

  There were some Elves who wore earrings, mostly amongst the women. With these people he noticed all being particularly fond of rings and pendants. Some amongst both sexes wore upon their arms armbands, mostly of bronze make and some gold.

  The most noteworthy of the rings, armbands and earrings they wore though were those made of what appeared to be wood. Some of the jewellery they wore tended to be white, some red and still others of grey or black wood, so that these pieces of jewellery were almost more spectacular than their metal accessories. The men headed west were divided between those who wore dark leaf coloured cloaks, with the heraldry of Arduinna.

  This emblem was of a remarkable simplicity, being little more than a simple tree with four outstretched branches and four long roots, with a shooting-star up overhead. The manner in which her coat of arms were woven into every cloak, was flawless in nature, though the cloaks were different in nature from those of men, who tended to pin the cloak into place with a brooch. Elves appeared to prefer to avoid such jewellery and wrapped the cloaks about their necks several times before they tied a knot. Somehow, in spite of this practice their cloaks still appeared over-long and trailed down to their feet.

  Those who wore these cloaks also had slung over their shoulders a bow and a quiver of arrows, with there being little doubt that they planned to head out for the hunt. Likely, they would not return for days Cormac guessed, struck by the sudden urge to hunt also.

  It was a sport that Corin had taught him and Daegan since they were young and though they ventured out into the north-woods to do so rarely, it had always succeeded in providing him with a great deal of excitement. It would also mean he would not have to converse with the brothers, or ponder too much about Wiglaf, and how he had ignored him.

  “Are we going hunting?” He asked enthusiastically.

  “What? Non,” Corin refused at once, a small smile inching its way upon his lips, “Sadly we have been refused permission to do so, for the Elves feel that we ought to be prepared to leave in the coming days.”

  “Why is that?” The disappointment in those words along with the words themselves, felt torn from his lips.

  “Because, we still have your quest, to hunt down those wraiths,” Corin answered firmly looking away from him.

  *****

  After this conversation, Cormac spent little time conversing with his old mentor. Rather than speak to him, he was soon distracted by the Elves, who were apparently every bit as curious about him as he was them. Without their cloaks they appeared slighter, though a great many bore the same sort of muscular figures that he had seen many of the men of Glasvhail sport after years of hard labour.

  Bemused by him, as he took notice of the fishing rods some sported, he could not help but ask of one of them, “Are you a fisherman?”

  A wink followed before, the Elf in question retorted, “Aye.”

  From there he blurted out several of the questions that had occupied his spirit in the previous days. “Is Arduinna a descendant of Vulimar? Did you Elves grow this forest? Why are there so few wee lads and lasses? Is it true that ye all are immortal? Ye cannot die as we mortals do?’

  There were many others that were torn from his lips. Most of which drew several blinking eyes and loud guffaws from the two dozen non-humans that had come to encircle him as he walked. This response made his ears go bright red from embarrassment.

  “You see brothers of the forest, how crimson his ears are? Truly all humans save for that there iron-slave and the Brittian shaman do so!” Teased the Elf he had addressed with a loud laugh that was so lilting and magnificent it sounded to Cormac and Corin’s ears that it might well have sprung from some musical instrument such as a lyre.

  “Aye, though the shaman’s face tends to go just as red, when angered, if wee Daegan is to be believed,” Commented another of the Elves from farther behind Cormac.

  This drew a new series of laughs.

  The strangeness of how they addressed one another and his friends drew another series of questions from him which furthered the amusement of those around him (Corin included). “By ‘iron-slave’ and ‘shaman’ do you mean Corin and Wulfnoth?”

  “Aye they do, Cormac they consider me a slave to the iron which I work,” Corin whispered to him, his voice quiet with some small amount of amusement.

  The Elves nodded with one of them pushing his way forward, as beardless as the rest of his peoples, he was one of the stouter Elves and appeared to almost be Cormac’s own age. The gleam in his eyes appeared somehow wiser and older than that which the youth saw when he took notice of his own reflection in the home of his mother.

  “If we are to answer your questions mayhap you ought to answer our own,” He rebutted, only to have his hair tousled, hair that was green and long as all the rest of his people’s were.

  “Always with the queries for the sons’ of men,” Teased another of the men, ere one of them added a further mocking comment in the direction of the youth.

  “Aye, control your lad Kyrenas,” One of them reprimanded with a laugh.

  The Elf in question was one of those who had walked some distance ahead of them; he appeared more stoic than the rest and simply shrugged his massive shoulders. Muscular, brown haired he was one of the few Elves who did not appear to be capable of smiling, it appeared to Cormac then that even the fisherman’s shoulders were unsmiling.

  Kyrenas did not appear to have any undue hostility towards those that teased him, rather he simply appeared remote. Remote as the Highland mountains were in Wiglaf and Wulfnoth’s tales. Mountains that Cormac felt a stab of longing for the moment, he thought of how his mother had told him once, of how her father had been born there amongst the mountains. It was strange, he thought to himself; to have longed for so long to see Elves, only to now wish to see the mountains that lay in the opposite direction. To learn more of the grandfather who had raised his mother for a time, and whom she refused to ever speak to him about.

  This desire though was easily shaken as a dog might shake away the rain, from his fur-coat.

  Tearing himself from his thoughts, in time to hear the answer to one of his great flood of questions, this one was answered by the youth, the son of Kyrenas. “Nay, Arduinna is not of the line of Aub?lion. Now you must answer one of my questions; what is this Forlarin that Daegan spoke of? What of Glasvhail?”

  This question made Cormac stiffen. For a heartbeat he felt uncomfortable, as though the other youth had intruded into something that was private and that belonged to him. The moment he cast his gaze to the left, to meet that of the Elf he realized there was naught to be envious of. The Elf that walked by his side, continued to ask about Forlarin, and of Glasvhail he realized just how alike the two of them were; they both longed for the horizon.

  Save where Cormac, might well have been contented with the sea, this Elf was in no way capable of settling for something as simple as the sea. The hunger in the emerald eyes of the son of Kyrenas was for distant cities and towns, for outside the forest.

  “Forlarin was the home of Corin; it is there that the kin of Corin and Dae live, in a great castle that stretches up towards the heavens.” Cormac said with a small grin, pleased to be able to speak of a topic of which he had heard plenty of from Daegan. Certainly Corin had once spoken of distant Forlarin; over the years though he had ceased speaking of it for reasons that still escaped his daughter and son. “As to Glasvhail it is a small village, if that. It-er,” He stumbled for words to describe the place of his birth, “It is so small and people are stretched out for a whole league rather than pressed together as this place is. It smells of the sea rather than pine-trees and cherry blossoms as your village does.”

  Speaking of it worked to awaken an ache in his belly. He longed for home, it was an ache that he was unfamiliar with and that the harder he sought to shake it from him, the more persistently it remained with him. His throat tightened, his hands shook and his heart squeezed as though it were on the verge of collapsing inwardly.

  “Fascinating,” the Elf next to him murmured bemusedly, eyes aglow and piercing through him.

  “Of all the questions you could have asked of him, Glarald, why ask such a ridiculous one?” One of the others of the Longwood tribe snorted, with a small chortle that drew an accompanying snigger from the Elf in question.

  Glarald had a sharp laughter, the like of which reminded Cormac think back to the Salmon. It was a peculiar comparison, and yet there was something in the long-nose, the glimmer in his eyes and something in how he creased his prominent brow reminded him of the old fisherman.

  This led to a new question by Cormac who had forgotten some of his older ones, with this one directed towards the youth by his side. “What of Arduinna? If she is not of the line of Vulimar then of what line is she? And who was this Aub?lion?”

  “Always with the endless questions, he truly never ceases does he?” One of the Elves remarked with a rueful shake of his head and a glance to Corin, who smiled back a hint of pride in his eyes.

  “He takes after his father,” Corin’s remark made Cormac’s cheeks redden and his back straighten with pride.

  “We shan’t recount the whole of the tale of Aub?lion and his line.” Kyrenas answered from on ahead of them.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, were we to sing of all his deeds and those of his line, you would be white-haired and long-bearded as you humans are wont to become in such a short period of time.” The muscular Elf snapped shortly, his lack of patience or affection marked him out among the Elves as one to avoid, Cormac mused.

  The unpleasant Elf’s son though, Glarald was swift to answer the question regarding Arduinna, speaking in a rushed voice to make up for his father’s rudeness. “Arduinna happens to be of the line of Brigantion.”

  “Brigantion?”

  “One of those who first swore the Pact of Fionnlach,” Glarald explained helpfully.

  Several of the Elves nodded their heads, as Cormac became keen to show his own knowledge, desirous not to appear entirely foolish shared with them all that he knew of the tale of the Pact. Though he had heard it but a short time ago, he felt confident in the knowledge he did not. He was soon made to appear ignorant, when they laughed at his words that followed his explanation.

  “Were many of you alive at the time of the Pact?”

  The raucousness, with which they laughed, made him think this query was particularly ridiculous in their eyes. When Glarald answered it was with a grimace, “Nay, for this was long ago even by the standards of our people. You see Cormac of the village of Glasvhail we do not live forever, only for a handful of centuries and at times as in the case of Arduinna for near to a millennia.”

  “What is the difference?” Cormac asked confused, not certain of the difference. Even half a century appeared positively ancient to his mind, with entire centuries of life unimaginably long.

  “There may not be one to your human mind, but to those of us of the elder folk, there is one.” Another of the Wilder-Elves of the Longwoods answered.

  “Only unicorns and dragons live forever.” Added another helpfully, “And the gods.”

  After this, they would not answer any further questions. Weary of conversation, much to the disappointment and disapprobation of Cormac who wished to hear more of them. In place of explaining any further of the lineage about Arduinna they sang of Brigantius, her distant ancestor.

  “Westron were all Elves of yore,

  They came hither to this shore,

  Wise and great in lore,

  O’er the isles and to Gallia they did soar,

  Faraway in the east lies the garden,

  O’er in green Beveriand it lies golden,

  To this garden they did hearken,

  Joyous they nary noticed their burden,

  Whither to the east went his kin,

  Abandoning him was a sin,

  This they did in great din,

  A chieftain he had been,

  Brigantius was his name,

  An Elf wild and hardly tame,

  He refused the garden his legs not lame,

  For the green-garden lit in him a flame,

  Westron were all Elves of yore,

  They came hither to this shore,

  Wise and great in lore,

  O’er the isles and to Gallia they did soar,

  Westron was Brignatius born,

  Lairdly-Isle did leave him torn,

  This garden he grew when man was but a bairn,

  The east-journey he did spurn,

  The Longwoods he did grow,

  To the Cyclops he never did bow,

  As a river to his home his kin did flow,

  This garden’s greenness the gods did bestow

  Long and joyously Brigantius did rule,

  He was his people’s favourite jewel,

  Many a-hunts went he until the Cyclops-duel,

  They found him and did strike him most-cruel.”

  The song brimmed with a kind of melodious hearkening to an ancient era that appeared so very distant and yet so very, very close if one was to simply adhere to the emotions contained within the voices of the Elves.

  It filled Cormac with sorrow, and made him wish for that distant era, for the peoples of Roparzh King, for a time when the three great folk of Bretwealda could come together in such a manner. For a time, when those of the Longwoods were not a broken people, all but exiled to a lonely corner of the very isle that had once been home to them, as surely as it was home to the tribes that had fathered Cormac’s own people.

  As he was to learn though, this sense of loss pervaded most songs of the elder-folk, for they had another song in mind for him to listen to. This one though, was no great tale of lost kings or chieftains but rather one which bespoke of the lands they had once called their own.

  “Seasons come, seasons go yet we remain,

  Each year we grow grain,

  Summer to winter goes the day,

  Warm sunny days are past,

  Wind tunic and flesh does coldly slash,

  Icy winter-nights have all aghast,

  Lake-flows and ebbs endless,

  As the trees’ time is boundless,

  So old have they become that they be friendless,

  The ash has reached past the noontide edge,

  High do the oaks stretch,

  How can these trees wither as they do?”

  This song was carried along by the warm wind that traversed faster than any mortal could, throughout the forest. The Elves accompanied by the duo of men, traversed past upraised roots, beneath high-trees and between interfering pines, to come out to a large clearing. One that was by far larger than any of the clearings of trees in the village of the Elves.

  By the large lake that stretched for what appeared to be leagues, sat to the surprise of Cormac a lone cottage. It was evidently a mill as well as a cottage, and was made of fine ash-wood with the manner in which it was built experienced and fine. Three storeys high, with a chimney near to the rear of the building it had a door to the left side of the building and was several meters long and half as wide. The roof was made of similar bark to that of the walls, with only the door being different in that it was made from that great favourite material of the Wilder-Elves; alder-wood.

  “Remarkable, is it not?” Corin asked amused by the amazement on the face of the Caled-lad.

  “It looks as though it could have been built by men!” Cormac gasped his head whipped about to face his father’s old friend, “How came it to be here?”

  “The eyesore was constructed by Delauvaran.” Grunted one of the elder-folk, scorn in his voice.

  It was now that Cormac was introduced to the very worst of the Wilder-Elves’ character traits. For they hold trees and nature in highest regard, something that naught could fault them for. The trouble was that if they viewed someone as having ‘defaced’ nature or in some way, failed to properly honour it they held them in utter contempt. This dislike did not wholly extend to humans or Wolframs, whom they regarded as little different than misbehaving children.

  Though there was a certain disdain for those people who were not their guests, they had simply hidden it from Cormac. The trouble now, was that their disdain was directed towards one of their own. Useful though the mill was, and dependant as they were upon it, there was a dislike for those Elves who cut down trees or otherwise manipulated them through the use of what one might term ‘magic’. Certainly they had done this latter deed in the past, but not to the extent that those who had departed for the far eastern ‘Great Garden’ had.

  Tearing his gaze incomprehensibly from the mill which bore signs of age as naught else built by the elder-folk did, Cormac looked to those around him, most of whom moved towards the lake, where there sat by its side an array of long boats with oars near to them. Both appeared to be made of fine red-wood, and were smooth as the walls of the houses of the Elves were.

  The Elves set out to sea, with Glarald shooting an apologetic glance for his peoples’ strong disdain for what appeared to be a mill built by the likes of humans.

  Without any hesitation, Corin unaffected by the unhappiness of the Elves moved to the door, to knock upon it. Hardly paying him any attention, Cormac looked off to the sea, the brilliant shimmering blueness that had always enchanted him. The redwood oars struck the blue waves, as the two-man boats which were almost three meters long traversed the waves swifter than a bird’s wings might carry it through the heavens.

  The sight of the hair that was the same colour as the leaves upon the nearby trees, or their roots reflected in the water was a sight that Cormac swore to carry with him to his grave. So pleased was he by this sight, he did not hear Corin address him near to three times.

  “Cease dawdling lad, I’faith you are more absent-minded than back in Glasvhail,” Corin mocked him genially, with a wide grin. Cormac could feel his cheeks redden once more, but his embarrassment was soon forgotten when he saw the Elf in the doorway just past the blacksmith.

  By no means short at six-feet tall Corin though, was nowhere near the height of the almost grey and dusky-haired Elf that stood just past him. He was also the eldest Elf in appearance that Cormac had ever beheld, with lines across his forehead and grey-lines that ran their way through his dark-brown hair the same colour as that of the darkest trees.

  His was nonetheless a powerfully built figure, one that stood nearer to seven feet tall, with a stern disposition that not even Kenna could have matched. Mighty as he appeared there was nonetheless something soft in his long-nosed, high-cheek bones and in the manner in which he silently greeted Corin and Cormac.

  His eyes were the same honeyed colour as his hair, with that same glow that all Elven eyes appeared to have, though his were a little different. The light within them were somewhat faded, as though time had shorn the light ever so slightly from them.

  This last detail filled Cormac with a little sorrow, for it was as if a great oak had been struck down, or toppled by time, or as if a great monument had been allowed to decay to dust.

  “Delauvaran, hope you do not mind Cormac’s curiosity, his father was a fisherman,” Corin explained to the Elf who waved away his words.

  This Elf when he spoke, spoke with a slightly different accent to the rest. His was a rougher accent, his voice was profound as all male Elvish voices were, though there was a quietness and a hardness there that almost made him appear more like a man than an Elf.

  “So long as it is not that braggart, you call a daughter, I am content.” Delauvaran the miller retorted evenly, ushering him into the mill.

  The interior of his home was large even as far as mills go. The machinery was to one side, of what was almost built in a manner akin to a long-house with the walls of the same sort of polished wood as the rest of the village was. The roofing was far rougher in appearance, though it was of the same reddened appearance the walls had (and likely were every bit as smooth).

  The obsession with appearances that the rest of the tribe had was visible here, as was the obsession with red-wood and alder-wood as the table that lay in the center of the room was of the former, as were the chairs. They also had the same sort of blue-woven linen cushions in them and were large, fine to the eye and to the touch, with the kitchen though having counters and a hearth built of the alder-wood stone that was ever so reminiscent as the alder-stones that formed the Elf-road elsewhere in the Longwoods. Near to the mill’s machinery lay the bed of the elderly non-human with its red-wood and thick wolf fur coverings and cloaks.

  Keen to defend Daegan once inside the mill, “Aww but Dae’s boasts is a part of her charm, she means no harm by it.”

  “But great harm has nonetheless come from such boasts, or so experience has taught me young Cormag,” Delauvaran warned sharply motioning for his guests to seat themselves by his table. Mispronouncing the youth’s name, with it taking a moment ere the youth realized what it was that Corin’s friend had uttered.

  “Cormac,” Corrected the youth in question.

  Delauvaran jumped a little and for a moment he was of a mind that the elder might correct him harshly. Little did he know was that nothing could be farther from the miller’s spirit, rather linguistics were an important art to Elves, even Wilder ones. So that the mispronunciation of a term or name could be considered almost a slur against the person in question, thus he was swift to tender his apologies to the youth.

  “It is simply that I am accustomed to many of those from Strathclarde and Antilia who pronounced it ‘Cormag’.” Said Delauvaran once he was told it was quite aright adding as he pulled up a bottle of wine and goblets for his guests. “What is it that brings you here once more Corin?”

  “I wished to speak to you of what we spoke the day before, when you spoke of your time abroad ere we join others upon the lake,” Corin stated pleasantly, unusually convivial at that moment as he took up one of the seats across from the Elf.

  The mention of a time abroad, made Delauvaran stiffen just as he finished pouring wine for each of them. His eyes darkened with the Elf letting slip a great sigh that collapsed his frame inwards if briefly so, wherefore he glanced towards the door. He regained his feet hurrying over to the door to run his hand along the side of the door, or at least just above it.

  When he turned away from it, Cormac had the impression that there was a soft green glow in the shape of a half rose and half thistle. There seemed thereupon the door the strange child of a rose and a thistle. A symbol that he might never have imagined, especially as to halve a thistle seemed almost heretical to his mind, as one who loved his people and their lands.

  Regaining his seat as suddenly as he had left it, the miller addressed himself properly to them now, “I hope you do not mind my abruptness, my people’s long-ears are for more than show as those of Gargans can be.”

  “Really?” Cormac asked startled.

  “Aye, for they can hear all within a league at times,” Delauvaran admitted in a rather casual tone, as though he were now indifferent towards it. Addressing himself now to the question that Corin had asked (and that he now repeated at the elder’s prompting), he answered it in full; “It was some time ago, I had taken to the hunt. My people you see have in the past decades forsaken the world of men and the unicorn of this forest just as I have forsaken them. At the time, it was about the time of the day of mourning I hold for the passing of my beloved wife and children, when I came too near to the edge of the woods. I had approached the sea, out of longing to see it and behold something larger than myself, when I was captured by Viking slave-traders, they sold me across what you Caleds term, the Clachcaolas to people in the Misty-Isle of Antilia, thereupon I spent nigh on a half-score years.”

  As he spoke he encouraged them to drink, with Cormac at first not comprehending his point and wishing to interrupt to ask several questions. He was however discouraged from doing so, by the stately Corin who cast stern eyes upon him, so that he quieted and subsided into confused silence. There was however a certain musical quality to the miller’s voice so that in time, he almost became enchanted by it, as he had been by Alette’s own voice, in the Feywoods.

  His mind wandering back to that time, he recalled all of a sudden all she had said of her beloved Ciaran, and of the oak that had grown from his bones and blood.

  Cormac’s thoughts were interrupted by the ongoing tale of woe of Delauvaran who unlike the rest of his folk, did not take to singing the tales he spoke of, but rather preferred it seemed to speak frankly of them. “I was afraid for a long time, for the Amazon clan who bought me, have none of the reverence for my people that the Caleds or Wolfram have been known to have. Ere, I was torched as they oft called it, whipped and caned frequently for the amusement of the clan that had taken me up as their property. There came a time though, when this clan met with that of a Northman who had established himself there, and they played a game of chance at the encouragement of the northerner’s slave, and he won me.

  Though it might well have pleased him to keep me, he had sworn a mighty oath to this Caled slave of his, whom in gratitude I could no more separate myself from than I could cease breathing. We became as brothers, until at last he was taken away, still I followed him for a time. There came a time though, when he bade me to return here to my people, this I did if reluctantly so.

  For I had come to love him, as I did my own children or my brothers once upon a time, and though he was dear to me, he bound me by sacred oath to never speak of what I had seen therein the Onyx-Tower, for my own sake.”

  The majesty of his speech, the sincerity he poured into each word he spake moved Cormac. Moved to tears, he wiped at the edge of his eyes with his sleeves. The grief in the eyes of Delauvaran was so visible as to infect those who listened to him, or observed him.

  Corin himself watched him gravely, his own eyes full of sorrow also more than any he had ever shown in the past. This was quite the sentiment conveyed by the sorrowful nature, of the blacksmith who had though he had been happy in Glasvhail always carried it appeared to those who knew him, a great weight upon his shoulders since Murchadh had disappeared in that great storm nine years ago.

  Delauvaran surprised him then with his lament, “O if only my brother by oath and in grief Murchadh had agreed to fly away with me, but he could no more abandon Eindriei than he could leave behind him, his very soul.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The reference to Murchadh stunned Cormac. It stole speech from his mouth, and all else from his spirit so that he gaped as he so often did these days, it seemed to him.

  His host and friend were both patient men, and waited out his surprise until such a time that he had recomposed himself. “By Murchadh… do you mean my father? Murchadh MacWaltigon?”

  Delauvaran nodded if slightly so, “Aye.” And at the lad’s query, he did not tarry in answering who Eindriei was. “Eindriei was as his brother also, if in a different manner. The two loved one another, and ate from the same plate and it was he who was captured by the laird of the Onyx-Tower, and he whom Murchadh sought to rescue from the tower, though he went there under the pretext of having been sold there, though it must be acknowledged the Amazons had abused him.

  It was while he was there that he set me to the task of building a boat, for it was felt by him that it would be needed for Eindriei’s escape from the Misty-Isle. I built it, and hid it where he had told me, near to the fens in the south-west of the island, ere I built myself a boat at his encouragement, for he wished me to return among my people.”

  “Why did he wish for you to do so?” Corin asked curiously.

  The half-smile that Delauvaran gave him was a bitter thing, “He said that ‘though you have no wish to remain in this world, with the passing of your beloved wife and children, it is right that you live to sorrow for them. It is natural to weep, to grieve and though life may in fact be full of naught but pain at their loss but do not cease to live! Lest they should grieve, for they still wish for you to find joy, to be happy and to care for your granddaughters.’ Murchadh was so obstinate that I could not resist his words. I wonder if his friendship was more bane than boon for me.”

  The knowledge that Murchadh had forged such strong bonds both pleased and disheartened Cormac. He would have liked to have better known his father; however he loved to hear of the heroism and goodness that lay at the heart of Murchadh. He may have been a lowly fisherman to others, but the more he heard of his father the less fierce the wistfulness for him became and the prouder Cormac became of him.

  Murchadh may not have had the extensive history behind him that Daegan loved to boast her father did, or the longevity of life that Inga’s forefathers had had, or the great love that Freygil and Ida had shared. But, there was such nobility in Murchadh that outstripped that of all other men, and cut him apart from the fathers and mothers of those Cormac had known or so it appeared to him then.

  Thus, his love for his sire that had already been formidable only grew, and he took into himself the admiration that Delauvaran and Corin held for the fisherman.

  “Thank you, wise Delauvaran I do appreciate all that you have told me of my father,” Said Cormac moved and pleased.

  “You are most welcome, though I would pray that you visit me before you return to the village, for I have one last gift to share with you later.” Delauvaran told him, the seriousness in his eyes unlike the gleam of those in the eyes of the rest of his kindred, who appeared to take little all that seriously, save their disdain for the mill. “It is an heirloom of your father, one that he had sent with me that Eindriei had given to him.”

  *****

  The greatest gift that Cormac could have imagined was given to him that day, after the meeting with Delauvaran. Given the pleasure of rowing a small boat out onto the lake, one but a little larger than the boat of his father and grandfather with Corin, to fish in the middle of the lake.

  He was surprised by the length and width of the lake, along with the plentiful bounty of fish that they caught. Though often accused of being middling in all that he aspired to, or simply too disinterested to become as fine a weaver as say Indulf, there were few who could compare with him in the art of fishing.

  Having always been made to sneak about after dark with Trygve to go fishing by the village, due to Kenna and the Salmon’s disapproval of him, Cormac had always loved fishing and swimming. Such was the skill with which he caught fish, and calculated the best places to cast his rod or the net that he made the most trips to and from land.

  In the past, it was always Corin who directed him, to-day it was the reverse Cormac who directed his god-father in all that he was to do. A middling fisherman at best, the usually reserved Corin laughed loudly and followed every order without question or debate.

  The Elves in the meantime could only stare in admiration, or seek to imitate their successes. Some began to ask themselves cheerily if all men were such skilled fishermen.

  They heard every word uttered by Cormac yet did not begrudge or attempt to steal the spots he targeted along the lake, nor did they seek to tangle their rods or nets with his own. Seeing that as dishonourable, rather they gave him space wherever he went and smiled at his apparent love for the sea and inherent respect for it, for though they favoured the forest over the sea, they respected him for his passion.

  *****

  It was to the end of the day that Cormac, who had forgotten all about Delauvaran’s words was urged to join him, while a great many of the Elves carried away his spoils from the shore. They were to be shared with the whole of the village, just before they departed as all fish were and deer were.

  Only Delauvaran had a sense of ownership over what he hunted, baked or fished from the sea, in this he was held to be the most peculiar and strange of the Elves. It was Corin of course, who reminded the youth to go pay homage to the elder.

  “He has a gift if you will recall,” Corin said to him, stopping Cormac from following after Glarald who sought to encourage him to follow after him, keen to exchange more questions.

  “Aye, I had forgotten,” Cormac replied wearily a little waspish, for all he wished for was to return to the village to enjoy the feast and songs of the Elves.

  The gift as it turned out, was an item that Delauvaran who was in the midst of working the mill to make some bread for the feast that night, lay upon the table at this time. It had been hidden beneath his bed he said, and he had pulled it out before he had gotten to work. “It is the war-horn of Eindriei, and was given to Murchadh years ago. It is known as Hvítrhorn, the white-horn as you may know it. An ancient heirloom of the kin of Eindriei and one that Murchadh prized above all other things, save for an armband given to him by your mother.”

  The horn of which he spoke was a gleaming white thing, curved and brilliant it all but shone in the light of the twin-suns. There were grey-iron rings it appeared at either end of the war-horn just short of the tips of the horn, and one in the middle of the horn that shone in the light, for it was made and curved in the Northmen’s style, and these iron coverings had engraved into them runes of the North and of the Dwarves.

  But it was ever the whiteness of the principal part of the horn that most captured the eye. No light that was cast upon it could alter the whiteness of it, and no shadow could darken the light and beauty that emanated from it. Upon the back of it was carved Nordic runes, ones that Corin who was wise in the ways of the Northmen had long taught Cormac about.

  They were the runes Sōwilō that great solar symbol with its twin array of lines and the sea-Rune of laguz, a rune that had ever been Cormac’s favourite since he first set eyes upon it. Laguz with its upward then descending vertical line had, he was told been dear to his father also, Corin had once told him in his childhood.

  “It has laguz engraved upon it,” He said pleased to see the rune.

  “Aye, it was you see,” At this time Delauvaran paused upon the turning of flour into proper bread, “Crafted near where the Arns in the lands of Norvech call the ‘Sun-lake’ where it was said that a great victory was once won against the tide of evil in those lands by an alliance between Cormac, the successors of Kalthea Pegasus-Rider, and the north-folk of all races. It is said that after this battle, Eindriei’s ancestor was given it by the Grey-Dwarves of those lands in thanks for his heroic rescue mid-battle of their king, Durlanthrin Gold-Beard.”

  Though unfamiliar with the tale in question, and much as he might have liked to hear more of this battle and of the Dwarf in question, and even of Eindriei’s ancestor. Cormac was ushered out by Corin, who told him they were distracting for the elder, and that there would be time later for such tales.

  Before he had left though, he was warned by Delauvaran who paused in the middle of his work, to warn him in a grim tone and with the most serious expression upon his face that Cormac had ever worn in all his life. “One last thing, Cormac MacMurchadh; do not speak to anyone at the feast of your adventure alongside Daegan regarding the pond.”

  The reason for this warning was one that mystified the youth; he was not given a proper reason for why he was not to speak of Daegan’s encounter with the unicorn-statue. He was left to guess at the fact that the statue was somehow linked, to the tale he had been told of how the Wilder-Elves had turned away from the local unicorn.

  This shunning of the unicorn, mystified the youth who could not bring himself to understand how it was that Elves, who were amongst the fey-folk of the world had come to comport themselves in such a manner.

  The return journey saw the Elves sing once more, this time of a sorrow that Cormac shared far more keenly than the previous times.

  For they sang now, not of lost wonders or mighty figures, but of the separation from the sea, a sentiment that struck him all too keenly at that moment, for he had never been allowed to fish for so long, at a single time before then. He also had the feeling as he carried the horn Hvítrhorn gingerly in his hands that he was not to see that large and abundant lake, ever again.

  “Home be where the hart awaits,

  Wives call where the heart full o’grace,

  This warmly decreed have the Fates

  Noontide hearkens to fish-men,

  Hurry hither to thy den,

  Away from the lake to our glen,

  The sea in the morn’ glittering,

  Shall still be remaining,

  Long after our fish-dinner is waning,

  Home be where the hart awaits,

  Wives call where the heart full o’grace,

  This warmly decreed have the Fates.”

  The feast was not held on that day, but the subsequent one. Held in the evening, a full day after Cormac returned to show to his friends the great Northern war-horn with its iron rings and multiplicity of runes. The most impressed by it was not Daegan, though she loved it also, but of all people Indulf.

  For between him and Trygve, he was the most proud of his Nordic ancestry, an ancestry that his grandmother had done her best to pass down to him, before she departed for the realm of Orcus. It was he who handled the horn as though it were made of softest silk, and he who spoke most highly of Delauvaran for passing it onto Cormac.

  “This is a great horn, and these runes are beautiful, do you know what the Dwarven ones say?” He asked seated at the table in the home lent to Wulfnoth and Trygve now. Cormac, who had been moved into the home previously occupied by the brothers, was to point at the runes as he spoke.

  The runes in question were said to have been given to the Dwarves by the god they called Oethen, or as the Arnish called him; Oein. The runes themselves were in the shape of a war-horn in the case of one which has an open tip. The next one was as the rune Jera the yield or harvest rune, except reversed so that they faced upwards. The last was of what appeared to be a blade downthrust into a stone.

  “The first is of ‘cnelm’, the ‘horn’ rune. The second I do believe is that of ‘neigl’ the snow-rune and lastly this blade must be ‘Oeen’ the godly rune, it is also that of ‘brotherhood’ and ‘honour’ unless I am very much mistaken which is highly unlikely.” Wulfnoth read as best he could, when he saw how they stared at him; he tugged proudly at his fine moustache. “I once knew a Dwarf, and he taught me such things though this was long, long ago. I do wonder what became of Dominic de Bellion.”

  Familiar with the North-runes only by virtue of Cormac having shared his knowledge gleaned from Corin growing up with the elder lad, Indulf ran his thumb along the futharks in question. His reverent manner and genuine smile left none in doubt of how pleased he was for his friend to have received such a gift.

  These runes were not alone, as the Arnish runes were as follows; ‘isaz’ the ‘ice’ rune, followed by that of ‘tiwaz’ the ‘war’ rune and lastly there was the ‘ash’ or ‘mouth’ rune of ‘ansuz’. So that it spelled the ‘ice-mouth of war’ though this translation was a rough one performed by Indulf and Cormac.

  If there was any who appeared mildly disinterested it Trygve though, he simply shrugged in response when he was if he might like to hold it. “Why? I can see from here that it is magnificent to behold yes, but it has no bearing upon me nor will it in the future.”

  This drew the ire of Wulfnoth who snorted at him, “Bah, typical of what I would expect of you Trygve, though in this your foolishness surpasses even my own worst expectations.” At his words Trygve appeared almost as hurt as Cormac had been at the other lad’s dismissal of the war-horn. Wulfnoth continued, “It is our ancestry that helps to shape what we are for the better or for the worst. Our ancestors are crucial lest we should repeat their errors, and duplicate their courage and goodness when the time comes. As to heirlooms they are important, for more than a simple item is transferred with them. And there is much that has been given hereon this day; I suspect that this horn will have a great role to play in the coming days.”

  *****

  After this the horn was no longer spoken of amongst them, and though Cormac might well have liked to share it with his new Elvish friends, he was encouraged to leave it on the table in his newfound room. Leaving it on the table there, at the encouragement of Corin, just before the feast which began with songs sung from all quarters of the village. The women began, by singing as they departed from their homes, with the first to sing in this great chorus being Arduinna.

  “Hither race all the squirrels,

  They come with nary any quarrels,

  Bellies rumbling ladies tighten girdles,

  Lest ye shall be thought immodest,

  For the lions and wolves have been sighted,

  They are not to be daunted,

  Neither shall we, this they have flaunted,

  Why are we so exalted?”

  Then the men-folk were to rejoin with;

  “Baked goods and cooked fish crave the lions,

  These do call as might sirens,

  If offered such goods none may raise denials,

  In days of yore up went the walls and irons,

  To-day the trees are raised never taunted,

  Fish caught this the wolves have vaunted,

  Baked cooks and fish ye ladies have flaunted,

  This and the hearth-fires’ beauty be why ye be exalted.”

  Torches in hand, the procession of women, and men descended from the upper verandas of the village, or in the case of those far down below on the actual ground, they prepared the tables, clothed them in green silken table-clothes and began to lay out the plates and food for the feast.

  The tables in question were made of the fine alder-wood perfected by the people of the forest, with it near to sixty meters long. There were four of them laid out in the middle of the village, with only three of them almost entirely filled up, for there were only three hundred citizens of the village left in those days.

  They were arrayed in a square with each of the tables facing one another, with the one to the north where Arduinna seated herself. To her left sat Wiglaf, while to her right was seated a young Elf-maiden who bore a remarkable similarity to her in appearance. She was long of hair and fairer than any maiden any of the lads had ever set eyes upon, in all their lives.

  She appeared little older than Indulf himself, and had dimples when she smiled which was almost continuously, with her brown hair and eyes of an entirely unique colouring. The glow of her eyes appeared to surpass those of all her kindred, and though her ears were not quite as long as those of her mother, they curved in a manner akin to hers.

  Dressed in a silk dress that flattered her figure, it in no way was vulgar stretching greenly from her ankles to her neck, with it leaving her tanned and muscled arms bare to the world. Upon her neck-length haired brow she wore what appeared to Cormac’s eye to be a red-wood circlet with a large emerald carved into its summit.

  To her other side sat her sister, who was but a little younger than she, green of hair and eyes, though she appeared to smile a little less, hers was a more reserved nature. Pretty where her sister was beautiful, she wore her hair longer, where her sister wore it short.

  Her ears were slightly more pointed and her fingers longer and dress cut in the same manner as that of her sister. Her own forehead was bare, though her hair was woven into an intricate array of braids that wove together her hair into three knotted braids down to the middle of her back while the rest was left untamed.

  The lady of the Longwoods wore her own hair in this manner also, and wore upon her own brow a slightly more intricate, jagged and larger near-crown of red-wood with three emeralds upheld by the branches. These gems appeared to continuously be aglow as her eyes were, and were so fair to look upon that few were those who could gaze upon them without being blinded by her radiance.

  She was dressed as she had been the night of the battle of the Mound of Griogair and appeared much less stern at that moment than previously observed to be, by Cormac.

  Seated next to him, Daegan fussed and whined a little beneath her breath at his staring at the head table from where they sat at the table to the left of it, at the complete other end of the feast. “Where do you stare at, in such amazement and awe Cormac?”

  “Er, it is just that I was amazed at the silken-style of their dresses and amazed to see Arduinna present herewith us all.” He stammered, for he well-knew why Daegan was infuriated and could not bring himself to blame the lass on his left.

  Daegan he noticed had dressed herself in the same dress she had arrived in, though she wore one of the linen green dress of the Elf-maidens over it, in an effort to cover herself where her dress had been torn. She had done naught with her hair, nor had she prettied herself considerably that day beyond having taken a bath alongside the other women elsewhere in the forest.

  An act that the women did separately from the men, and did as a community why they did this was one of many mysteries to him. He had in the past week or so he had been present in the Longwoods noticed that men bathed alone.

  The other chair at his side was empty with Indulf seated one chair away, having been instructed that the chair was already selected by someone. Having been himself directly to his own seat, Cormac was soon surprised to find Corin find his way to the seat next to Indulf, and two Elf-maids that he had observed on occasion in the past day or so, walking in step with Daegan.

  Both were pretty, and kindly-looking, with both of them pretty to look upon. Both had green haired, with one of them having darker hair, she was taller than even Indulf. The latter lass was shorter, with the same slim figure and warmth about her person that most of the Elves held.

  The mystery of whom, it was that wished to sit by Cormac’s side was soon answered, by the arrival of Bardulf.

  Dressed in a tunic and trousers that was different from before, he was dressed in the same simple leather though his clothes was slightly darker as in mourning though. There was a weight about his person, though he also wore a slightly apologetic expression. He appeared so regretful as though he had done some great harm to them that Cormac was seized by pity, and was swift to bid him seat himself by his side.

  “Thank you, I had hoped you might be so kind Cormac,” He said quietly taking up the seat only at this time, nodding to a few Elves seated across from him or by the sides of his gathered traveling companions. “I must confess that I had avoided you all.”

  This admission was a surprise, though it was one that they had all long suspected, that this lay at the heart of why he had not visited them yet.

  “Then seat yourself elsewhere,” Daegan grunted harshly, which made Bardulf’s ears droop lower than they already were, his expression a brooding one.

  “Dae,” Corin hissed in exasperation before he turned from glaring sternly at his daughter to glance at the Wolfram. “You have naught to apologise for, Bardulf. Especially after all that you have done to shield the children and to thwart the wraiths.”

  Grateful, a smile climbed up to Bardulf’s troubled face. Seeing how he appeared to take what the other man said so closely to heart, Indulf spoke up for the first time since they had seated themselves, his own tone morose, “Why did you not join us, after the night of our arrival?”

  Bardulf answered this query earnestly, “I must confess to having been troubled at the loss of my clan-brothers and Yngvarr. My losses along, with the great matter of the Blood-Gem and continuous meetings with Arduinna have taken up all of my attention.”

  So sorrowful and grief-stricken did he appear that Cormac was filled with pity, so that he passed along several words of kindness. “It is alright, Bardulf! It is only that you have been missed!”

  In this he spoke from the heart, with the Wolfram in spite of his prior distant comportment over the course of their journey, through the Longwoods and to Griogair’s Mound, demonstrating now genuine gratitude. He appeared moved with his ears pointing up a little; just before he took three herons from the plate offered him by the youth and planted them upon his own plate.

  Pleased by this visible gratitude and moved gleam in his eyes, Cormac nudged Daegan with his elbow, “Dae also feels this way deep down, right Dae?”

  She grumbled but did not disagree, with her friends giggling and teasing her also. Disconcerted by the distant manner with which she behaved, preferring to pay most of her attention to the other lasses. For their own part, they giggled and alongside a great many other Elf-maids appeared to enjoy teasing and sniggering at most of Indulf said.

  Though to look into their eyes, there was little desire of the sort women felt for men to be found there. It appeared as though, they simply enjoyed teasing the youth who paid them absolutely no mind.

  Indulf went on to brood for a great deal of the feast that followed. Though he was surrounded by his friends, as he examined the food that was passed about and his stomach rumbled louder than ever before, Cormac had to admit that he had never felt more alone.

  The feast was a grand one, of the sort he had never seen the like of which in all his years. There was every imaginable bird from poultry, to herons, to eagles, to hawks, to smaller birds. There was upon other plates the meat of, every other imaginable beast of burden from oxen, to donkey-meat to horses, to elk-meat.

  There was the meat of pigs, those of foxes, wolves, coyotes, bears and other predators, along with fish and of course the vegetables and fruits that the Elves loved so dearly. Each of these smelt and tasted magnificently. The peaches were as rich-tasting, as the apples, bananas, tomatoes, onions and still more all were.

  There were the still-steaming buns and soft cornbread so beloved by the Elves, lovingly baked by old Delavauran (though the Elf himself was absent from the feast), and there was also cheese of all sizes and differing flavours. Ask not how this latter accomplishment was done, for it is a secret of this Elf-tribe, one that they guarded jealously, all that is known is that the tribal-secret of cheese-baking yielded some of the finest taste that ever graced Cormac and his friends’ mouths.

  As to the milk, goat-milk, wine and beer that the Elves passed in large clay jugs and tankards, they all tasted magnificently so that Cormac soon forgot some of his misery. Next to him, Bardulf devoured every single morsel that passed under his nose, eating almost three times as much as the human youths did put together.

  All about them, some of the Elves studied them through distant, half-lidded eyes.

  It was towards the end of the feasting part of the celebration that the son of Murchadh asked of the Wolfram-hero, of his many meetings with Arduinna. “I shan’t say more than it is a very dark and terrible matter Cormac. Though I have come to value the courage and goodness that lies at the heart of you and each of your friends, it might be best discussed at a later date.”

  “Wise words,” Said Kyrenas from one corner of the table, near where they sat his scowling grimace one that was largely ignored by those who surrounded him.

  Ill-tempered and hardly inviting a host among the Wilder-Elves, Cormac had almost become accustomed to his rudeness, where the Elves preferred to overlook it, so that he sought to imitate their overlooking of the fisherman’s poor-attitude.

  This was made all the easier by the man’s son, who seated across from Bardulf, spoke up, in a cheery tone. “Have you ever joined in a Pact-Day Celebration ere your arrival herein En-Coillt??n or as it is called in the Caled tongue; Duskenvale?”

  His question appeared directed towards the whole of their company, with it being Corin who answered for them, “Nay we do not celebrate this celebration in Caledonia. For the Caleds and Pech kingdom arose only after the kingdoms of the folk of Roparzh fell in the days immediately after the arrival of Roma upon these shores.”

  “My people celebrate this day, in mourning,” Bardulf uttered grimly, meeting the gaze of the youthful Elf frankly.

  “Do not ask them too many questions, Glarald,” one of Daegan’s friends reprimanded in a teasing tone flashing a small inviting smile in his direction.

  The Elf in question merely shrugged his shoulders in response. He did not appear at all interested in her words, with Bardulf the one who countered her words with his eternal earnestness. “It is no trouble lady, there was no offense taken at his words, for we Wolframs of the Griogairii have reason to mourn after-all.”

  “It is nonetheless unbecoming of him, to remind you of such sorrows when this ought to be a day of celebration.” The Elf-maid in question argued back if in the same polite tone that she appeared to have perfected.

  “Then cease to exist, for it is impossible not to remind me of it,” Bardulf murmured softly so that a great many people all around them struggled to hear him, before he added a little more loudly. “It is my peoples’ burden and one I intend to bear regardless your kindly wishes.”

  “It is not that we wish to cast aside burdens, only to enforce proper decorum before the most honoured of our chieftain’s guests.” The other Elf-maid, the shorter of the two replied with what was the first show of irritation by one of the female Elves that populated the village.

  This disagreement continued for some time, with Bardulf visibly amused, it was as it went on that Glarald sought to placate the maids he at last named as Elduilas (the taller of the two) and Eflarria (the stouter).

  Answering questions by Glarald only to counter with his own, it was at this time that Cormac learnt a great deal about this line of Elves. Descended from Brigantius and those closest to him, Arduinna’s great-grandfather was succeeded by her maternal grandfather Tanythullian Starbow, surnamed due to his having been the greatest of all the archers of the tribe of Brigantius. He reigned for centuries as chieftain, the youngest of his predecessor’s sons.

  He became chieftain only after his brothers had all been slaughtered during the Wars of Darkness. They fell along with their father in the early part of those wars, in the battle of Auldvendell. Tanythullian it was who chose to remain upon the Lairdly-Isle in spite of his sister, Azeriah Silversong who took with her the vast majority of the tribe north of the Glacial-Sea with Cormac.

  After Tanythullian, who passed away in his bed near to four centuries after the death of his kinsmen, succeeded his eldest son Mythandralius the Disgraced. This was the best translated variant of his surname, with Glarald struggling to pronounce a finer sounding name for the Elf-chief in question. The Elf’s tale was one that he appeared keen to recount to them when he was interrupted by his father who grew angry with him.

  “Speak not of the traitor,” He growled with such sternness that the lad appeared visibly shaken.

  His desire to quiet all talk of the Elf in question, only acerbated the curiosity Cormac who had his mouth full at this time, towards the chieftain in question. This sentiment was shared by Corin who sought to needle more information about the figure, but none of the Elves would speak of him. They preferred to offer more food and Caled songs from their homeland in place of any proper answers.

  It was Bardulf who answered their questions, “Among my people there are tales of a Mythandralius, who left to go south almost a hundred years after the first arrival of the Romalians on these shores. Whereupon he was accepted and became so honoured that they nominated governor of their province of Brittia.”

  “Do not speak of him,” Kyrenas commanded harshly, bitterness in his voice.

  Bardulf raised an eyebrow, ran a hand through his hair ere he went on to prompt several of the Elves about the younger brother of Mythandralius, Vulkuinas, father of Arduinna became chieftain, Glarald recounted. He was a worthy chief and died shortly after the fall of Roma, with his son Vulkuilar leading until the middle of the Second Wars of Darkness, he explained only now his cheerfulness fading a little.

  Injured in battle, he was to retreat to the Unicorn’s Clearing, a mysterious clearing in the forest that came and went, with a handful of the Elf’s supporters with him.

  At this mention Daegan choked on her drink (cow-milk), with Cormac in the midst of biting into mutton choking a little also, both explained it away as them being excited to hear of the unicorn. With a shrug many of those of En-Coillt??n as this tribe called their village encouraged the son of Kyrenas to continue with his tale. He was a good-storyteller, with this praise coming from Bardulf, who smiled a little at the Elf who grinned back at this praise.

  “All were injured, a large number of these Elves pleaded with the local unicorn to heal them, however for reasons beyond us the unicorn refused to heal them. She claimed that ‘it was their time’ or so it is said according to those present at the time. Galanvalthan husband to Arduinna who loved our chief as though he were his own father was angered. In a fit of rage, he commanded that the unicorn be lured out, seized and sealed in marble. Her horn was broken, though it could not be taken away from her presence, the prosperity of the forest endowed by She of the one horn was thenceforth directed towards preserving our village.” Glarald recounted to the distinct pleasure of those around him.

  Bardulf praised him and might have gone on to recount a tale or two that he had heard, including ones about the tribe of the En-Coillt??n, if it were not for him re-thinking this notion. The friends of Daegan were in particular keen to praise Glarald for his accomplishment, in condensing and recounting the history of the Longwoods. The enthusiasm the two Elves showed, made Cormac ponder if the local women thought the son of Kyrenas handsome.

  This made him ponder if he appeared so, to Daegan’s mind from there he went on to wonder about the superficiality of the flesh and whether it was truly important. This philosophical musing made him go on to question if Elvish longevity had been granted as part of a request to the gods, as some claimed or if it was given to them as a curse, as Corin had once hypothesized.

  This last notion had appeared to him, ridiculous yet as he studied the eyes of the Elves, few if any appeared sincerely joyous. There was a sorrow, an awareness of their decline that was reflected there that made him pity them. From there he pondered, if this celebration mattered at that moment due in no small part to the distance between them and the Blood-Gem.

  Just as he began to recount some of the tales he knew of, regarding the history of Caledonia. Notably of how Achaius’s sons were betrayed early in their lives, exiled west to the western-isles to the kingdom of Ríocht-Riada where their father had come from. It was Achaius who had initially united the two kingdoms, but with his death his kingdom was to break into two.

  While his first realm passed to his son, the Pechs fell to barbarism. This led Cináed to his great act of conquest, inviting them to negotiate he had mystical chairs wrought by Dwarves in the Highlands, whereupon he had the Pech royal line and nobles seat themselves upon them. These chairs bound them to them, and Cináed cut them down to a man.

  “What a cruel human,” Eflarria remarked genuinely shocked by the tale, appearing disturbed by the tale.

  “Hardly, for at the time Northman had begun to raid our shores and to push our people from their native lands. It was for this reason that he had initially sought to make peace with them, was rebuffed and decided to punish the murderers of his brother, Achaian, who was originally the eldest.

  Cináed with their deaths had the chairs shattered and made part of the black fort of Geamdubh in Tuathgeal where some of the raids were at their worst and repelled them for a time. When they returned it was to take parts of the north and the western-isles,” Cormac went on to explain wishing he had a map so as to demonstrate to them, which parts were conquered and which were not.

  It was as he sucked in a breath to better explain, having been swept up by the history of his people which he was not certain he knew half as well as others such as Corin did. That Arduinna arose to her feet, startled by this Cormac ceased speaking mid-sentence at the same time that a large number of those present did.

  The only one who continued to speak to anyone was Wiglaf who had to be nudged by the Elf he spoke to, before he realized that he was meant to be quiet. Embarrassed he laughed, and jostled his friend, which made Cormac feel once more as though he had been forgotten by the grandfatherly old Cymran.

  Disliking this petty feeling within himself, he forced his gaze to return to the shining, beautiful figure of Arduinna who spoke with such majesty and dignity that this was no difficult feat. She was truly an incredible figure whose wisdom and greatness was unmatched throughout much of the lands of the Lairdly-Isle. “We are joined, by heroes the likes of which have not been seen since those dark wars that have long clouded what happiness is to be found in the hearts of those of us who remember those foul days.” She began, speaking gravely, even sorrowfully fingering a wooden pendant with a diamond in the center. The pendant in the shape of a shooting star was difficult to see where he sat, but later, when he saw more closely he was to notice how magnificent it was.

  “Yet now there are those who threaten what little joy we have left in this world, and that of our friends from the north, and that in the lands of Cymru. All lands that must band together, to stop the encroachment of darkness, which makes this possibly the most crucial of all Pact-Day Celebrations since the days of Achaius, my father and those southron kings who dominated what is now Brittia.” She raised her goblet, “A toast to the friendships we have re-forged and to the renewal of the pact.”

  There was hearty approval at these words, notably from the Elves and Bardulf, who appeared moved by the statement. A man who disliked references to his clan’s past, he took this remarkably well Cormac noted, and raised his own goblet in celebration of the Pact.

  This done, Arduinna drank heartily herself, wherefore she lowered her goblet and began to intone a song whose words slipped in one ear and out the other, for Cormac. Because of this he did not grasp the individual words properly for a time. It was Bardulf who sang their translation to him, in his magnificent, deep voice with a small ghost of a smile that appeared almost to be something of a grimace.

  “Fionnlagh went south to die,

  Uthard by his war-horn gave a great cry,

  Upon the Wolves did he rely,

  The Elves who ruled under the sky,

  Against the Cyclops their fates they did tie,

  Scarlet with their blood they did dye,

  By their pact by oaks and the skies up-high,

  They did abide and never did lie,

  For their sons’ they did valorously by thousands die,

  Fionnlagh may well have died,

  Uthard also never did hide,

  The Wolf-Kings were next to stride,

  Against the Giants they all defied,

  Riches poured hither as a groom might provide,

  And their siblings did abide

  As might a loving bride,

  Well-did the Wolves rule but they in time did divide,

  This they did after they lost their pride,

  They broke the Pact and for this all cried,

  Roparzh-King swore this Pact has not forever-died.”

  “Such beauty,” Daegan uttered awed by the grief and awe in the voices of all those around her, Cormac and Indulf could only nod their heads.

  It was faint at first, however as the song progressed and as the voices of the non-humans, Wiglaf and Bardulf rose in volume there came to the intrigue and enchantment of those listening the most wondrous fireflies. They arrived from the edges of the village, but by the repetition of the first verse they reached the northern and southern tables, ere they encircled and flew everywhere about the feast. Until it was awash in golden light, as the fireflies danced and wove here and therewith their pretty light, chattering amongst themselves in tune, with the great song.

  For as long as they lived, none of those present ever forgot this beauteous moment for as long as they lived.

  *****

  Where humans or beast-folk, those races that appeared partly animalistic might well have danced and gone on to sing enthusiastically, such things were rejected by the Wilder-Elves. They considered such things it seemed beneath them, with even Bardulf bewildered by this. He later claimed that some of the Continental tribes did dance, particularly those non-Wilder-Elves he had met there.

  The notion of his having met other tribes of Elves excited Cormac, who left the feast several hours later, his mind feeling empty feeling wearied and overwhelmed by all that he had seen. He also felt relieved that the lady Arduinna had acknowledged the importance of their quest. Distracted to the end of the feast by the presence of several figures that were clearly not-Elvish, and who were to be found at the other side of the table.

  One of those present wore richly green decorated leather and wool, with wolf-fur cloaks about their shoulders, with the two bearded men pinning their cloaks together with emerald encrusted golden clover-shaped brooches. Both of their eyes were dark, their hair dark-brown with their whiskers much the same colour, with the older male grey in the beard and in his hair, with his lined face grave as he listened attentively to the music.

  His younger compatriot appeared bemused, and was speaking energetically with several Elf-maids all about him, their eyes shining with genuine amazement and warmth.

  To one side of them, to the left to be exact sat an old crone, dressed in grey robes with a grandmotherly air about her, seated with one of the few Elf-children present she listened to him speak on to her. White-haired, she had a heavily wrinkled face with long-fingered hands, her eyes were the same colour as that of molten gold, and appeared warmer than the liquid form of that precious metal.

  Walking along the path that led up to the house lent to him, with Indulf neither of them speaking a great deal, though Cormac hummed the tune of the Pact-Song sung by Arduinna and her people. This to an extent to the irritation of the other youth, who did not appear terribly pleased with the song, sighing and grumbling a little under his breath.

  Daegan had been invited to walk with them, only to refuse which left Cormac all the more disappointed and dispirited in regards to their friendship. It felt as though it was being morphed, being twisted in some way that he could not predict, nor could he quite grasp the reason for the distance between them. For one who had long ago learnt to depend upon this friendship, every day of his life, he felt as though he had had a limb severed in the past few days.

  It was as they walked up, neither of them particularly enthusiastic for one another’s company at that moment. But for that of either a sibling as in the case of Indulf, as Trygve had been unable to join them, being weary from his wounds and still recovering from his wounds, just as Wulfnoth was.

  As to Cormac, he himself longed for the company of Daegan to discuss with her all that he had been told, and had observed out upon the lake, and in the home of Dalauvaran. However she had remained behind, at the feast with her friends.

  She was not alone in this desire, with Corin and Bardulf carrying on a lengthy discussion of the distance between the Longwoods, and the village of Firthbarrow and the particulars of how much food they would have need of upon their departure. Both of them spoke of the necessity of haste, in the hunt after the wraiths and the dangers that could arise after they departed from the Longwoods.

  “We ought to expect a number of ambushes, from the moment ewe depart from the Great Mound,” Bardulf had stated at one point, just before the departure of the two youths from the feast, savouring the taste of the wine he had imbibed.

  “How can you be certain?” Corin had countered, doubtful.

  “Because, they will be wary of Arduinna, and her might,” the Wolfram countered confidently, with this serving as the principal source of argument between the two middle-aged men.

  The youngest of the youths departed, just as the two of them began to grow heated and to spar verbally. There was beneath this iron though, a respect in their eyes and though neither lad were present to bear witness to it, the two men eventually came around to a discussion of steel, forges and the working of iron.

  A discussion the Wilder-Elves despised, and ejected them from the table for at the insistence of Kyrenas. Whereupon they departed for the house given over to Bardulf, to continue their discussion of forging techniques over a bottle of beer made from local grapes grown by the Elves.

  “I am glad you two lads found your way to the forest safely,” Wiglaf said appearing behind Cormac and Indulf, as they reached the door to the home given over to them for the duration of their stay.

  Having not heard him approach, they both leapt up several feet in the air. They had a multitude of questions for him, all of which he refused to answer, preferring to inform them. “The last of the delegates and several of my apprentices, and many of Arduinna’s friends, will have a special meeting on the morrow.”

  “Why is that? Are they arriving then?” Cormac asked keen, to extend this conversation, “And why have you not visited sooner Wiglaf?” This last part he uttered with a bit of hurt in his voice.

  “Apologies lad, there has been much to discuss and I-I must confess that I have worried for all of you, I am glad Bardulf reached you all when he did.” Wiglaf said with such sincerity in his voice that all past grievances between them and him were forgotten.

  “It is alright, Wiglaf but tell us, what of this meeting?” Cormac queried feeling a little drowsy then, and hopeful that this conversation may, be drawn to a close so he could regain his bed, next to him Indulf nodded supportively of his words.

  Wiglaf cleared his throat with a cough, blinking his eyes which were full of emotion and of melancholy. “It shall be shortly after the dawn. I must warn you though, it shall be a dour thing and no decisions shall be made at once.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I shan’t answer that question immediately, but mark my words lads; you may still turn away from this quest. For the Blood-Gem has been lost to the wraiths, and no longer concerns you.” He warned with a sad bow of his grey, thickly bearded head blue eyes shimmering with emotions and urgency. “This quest shall be a sorrowful thing, one that I am not so certain you are yet aware of the darkness that lies farther down its road.”

  “I cannot turn back,” Indulf growled heatedly, adding with some passion, “One of those wraiths slew Inga, my love and for that I shall not turn back. Not for all the gold, the wealth, or all the suffering that the gods may heap upon me or punish me with!”

  “If vengeance it is that you seek, Indulf it is likely that you shall find naught but sorrow in the days to come.” The sorcerer warned with pity and frustration warring for dominance in his eyes, eyes that he soon turned upon Cormac who gazed upon his vengeful friend in consternation. “What of you Cormac? Shall you turn back?”

  At this question, and at his warning Cormac mused about his own motives. It was true that he had sworn to find the truth behind his father’s death. While vengeance sounded sweet to his ears, and he had to admit to himself that the thought of his father’s murder sparked in his breast a passion, a feeling of boiling heat that he could not quench on his own. He longed to tear down those who had slain his beloved father, and to punish them for all that they had done. However, seeing the fury that possessed his friend, made him question.

  Divided within himself, he shrugged helplessly, answering the sorcerer, “You know that our hearts are angry, there is also in us the desire for truth, a desire that propels forward whithersoever the Blood-Gem goes, and where my father returned from.”

  These words aggrieved Wiglaf, who appeared all the more bowed and melancholic than before, saying as he stared them in the eyes. “I was afraid you may feel that way. I can see in you- the both of you the struggle and the passion. You Caleds certainly have fire in your veins, as surely as mine have the wind and those of ériu swamps, and Brittians iron.” He sighed, and turned away, “I shall be here shortly after the dawn to fetch the both of you, then you shall both hear of the tales of these wraiths and of what the emissaries of the divers lands of the Lairdly and Emerald-Isles have to say in regards to this great matter.”

  Long after he departed, they stood there staring after his dark-blue cloak, his grey tipped hat and almost angry squarely-set shoulders. Neither of them spoke to one another, of what had transpired, they only set themselves into their beds and fell into troubled sleep. Indulf dreamt of Inga and Cormac of shadows, half-rotted Queens and of fire-consumed lairds of pure malevolence.