The flash of black-steel cut one person apart, so that there was a rain-storm of crimson and what appeared to be dark thunder that struck the spirit of the seamstress. Stricken she did not see who it was that had been cut, nor did she at once notice who it was that she stumbled over in her desperation to back away from the dark-phantom who loomed over her.

  The cloak and the shadow of the evil wraith that trod nearer to her were dark, with his breath hissing out as though he were a pig snuffling along the ground for truffles or a dog sniffing out a fox.

  The vapour of his breath was almost visible as was that of his tall horse. The both of them appeared to devour all the light shed by the moon, which was the sole source of light to be had that night, for all the fires throughout the encampment had been snuffed out by the wind. What was shed by this shadow, could not be described as light or air, but rather unlight and an absence of proper air.

  How such a large charger could possibly have snuck upon those resting upon the Red-Hill, was a mystery to all. What was all the more of a mystery was how long he stalked forward, his war-steed threading a path between and o’er many of the women and children, with nary a sound heard for an impossibly lengthy period of time.

  When that first scream was heard, and the first murmurs then cries of alarm began to circulate among those near to the peak of the hill, there was a sudden sense of panic. One that resulted in the vast multitude of women tearing a path here and there, with many abandoning their kinswomen and kinsmen, to save themselves. The finest of the mothers leapt hither and thither to grapple their children to safety or to take the blows and hooves intended for them.

  This was the state of affairs that had followed the first attempt to grab at the seamstress, who had narrowly slipped away.

  A hiss of frustration had followed, wherefore he was to hiss once more this time in irritation at the great explosion of screams and bodies that threw themselves before him.

  She ought to have taken the opportunity to escape herself, Kenna could no more do so than she could push her legs to properly move and bear her weight enough to carry her away. Her heart in her throat, she felt a mixture of gratitude that her neighbours and people had slowed the beast, at the same time that she felt fearful for them, her words of warning freezing in her throat.

  It was only when she caught sight of a familiar figure out of the periphery of her gaze that she caught sight of someone whom, she cared for.

  Separated from her father for the night, as much as punishment for her as it was for him, Rhona had been placed amidst the women and children, while Tormod was kept with the men-folk.

  Surrounded by those of Glavhail, a fact that had annoyed the son of the laird of Nordleia, this had led to him complaining loudly and bitterly. This had availed him nothing, with his daughter having whined far more than he had. Missing her father, she had nonetheless refused to go near Kenna and preferred to be kept near some of the women and children hostile towards her.

  Crawling backwards in her terror, Kenna had hardly noticed the lass until she had passed her by. It was for this reason that when she saw the lass awaken, scream and attempt to move away from the path before the horseman only to be knocked back to the ground by the onrush of the crowds that sought to escape him.

  The scream of the decade old lass would forever remain engraved in Kenna’s soul, for as long as she lived, never to quite escape her ears.

  Her cry so annoyed the horseman that he paused, hissed out as he did with such regularity. Quite what he hoped to do was not to remain a mystery for long. His sword painted scarlet with the blood of countless innocent victims, rose high as a mountain blotting out the moon and the heavens.

  Whereupon the scarlet-stained steel, menaced to come down with the same sort of finality that it had wrought throughout the encampment in the minutes that had passed since the first scream had erupted from the midst of the women and children.

  “Rhona!” Kenna shrieked, moving faster than she had ever imagined she could hitherto that moment.

  The bound she made crossed the distance that divided them, involved her leaping near to a small now snuffed embers and torches of a nearby fire, across another child. The leap was of the like which no Glasvhail citizen had ever made. It was an act of pure madness such was the force of the folly that gripped her now.

  Later, it would be said when a mother or father might seek to save their child or to shield them at great personal cost, it would be said; ‘it is Kenna leaping thither towards Rhona!’ Such was the strength of the leap she undertook.

  Coming to rest with her full weight bearing down upon the lass, whom she shielded from the world with her body, Kenna took her up into her arms, just as the crimson-stained dark-blade of the wraith whistled through the air. The song of that blade was an evil one, repeating a grim hymn that had silenced the voices and spirits of countless souls ere that moment.

  The agony that tore through the back of the seamstress’ dress, and the flesh of her back, as she pressed herself as near to the ground as possible was the worst sensation she had ever endured. The grief and thunder of the pain she was made to suffer tore apart thought and feeling.

  It obliterated all sense of calm and sense of self at that moment. The hymn of evil the blade seemed to light up a fire in a horizontal fashion along her back just below, where her shoulder blades were located.

  Her mind empty of thought, Kenna was thus freed from the darkness of fear that had hitherto dominated her. Knowing that to remain where she lay, could only mean death for her, the headwoman of Glasvhail rolled with the momentum of the blow.

  Pulling Rhona along with her, she rolled and fell over herself to escape a second blade of that blade, crying from the pain as she went. Moving more with age old primordial instinct than from any conscious thought, or plan prepared in advancement of that instant.

  The hiss of the wratih’s breath echoed behind her, near the peak of the Red Hill.

  Coming to a stop part of the way down from the peak, breathless and stricken with the delirium of the flame of pain that continued to emanate from her slip back, Kenna asked of her charge. “Rhona… are you aright?”

  “Ay-Aye Kenna,” Rhona stuttered just as breathlessly as her, tears in her eyes as she lay there half beneath the seamstress.

  Relieved, Kenna did not long stay there, gazing grimly down at the tremulous little lass, hissing at her from between teeth clenched in pain. “Fly, lass! Fly away from this place, fly to your father!”

  Rhona stared up at her, unmoving for a small period of time ere she did as bidden pulling herself out from the embrace of the stricken seamstress. The noble-lass took flight with all the strength and desperation she could muster, without being trampled by the people of Glasvhail who trampled one another in their desperate flight from the wraith.

  Hardly interested in the daughter of Tormod, not when he had been sent to capture Kenna herself, the phantom galloped after her.

  Still terrified of this horrid spectral figure that was determined to bring about her end, Kenna sought once more to back away with the widow seized by such fear she could no longer tear her gaze away from the horseman hounding her.

  Certain that this would be the end of her, she tore from about her neck the very pendant her father had left her with, the day he had abandoned her. It was a precious heirloom she had always treasured, with the silver image of the god Khnum, god of industry and the forge with his hammer upraised as he rose from an anvil precious to her. Praying not only to him, but to the good lord Orcus, she hoped for the end when it came, to be swift.

  *****

  The end of her life was not what the rider had in mind. Nor was her capture to be, for it was at that moment that one of the warriors’ surged forth from amidst the crowd, striking at the figure with an iron sword. One that cut through the shadow-rider with nary any hiss or cry of pain erupting from his helm twisted by evil and darkness, but rather he hardly took notice of the strike.

  This time, as the warrior, cloaked in a dark cloak and with a shield in his left hand interposed himself in front of Kenna with his back to her. The fury of the hissing, dark hauberk adorned figure was terrible to behold, for he seemed to grow in size and in darkness with each moment. Few were the warriors who could have stood against him then, in the darkness of the early morning, sword high and shield raised equally high.

  Yet tremble this warrior did not, nor did he hesitate as he met the rage of his foe with unflinching bravery. The courage of that man could have inspired songs, just as it might well have won the hearts of more than one maiden.

  “Back! Back lest you should wish to taste, the steel of my sword spawn of darkness,” Tormod bellowed, drawing another hiss of hatred from his foe.

  They exchanged a series of blows, ones that Tormod preferred to dodge, leap away from and otherwise retreat from. His every movement was swift, decisive and sure with Kenna impressed by the rapidity of his sword-arm, the swiftness of his legs and the bravery of his defence of her.

  Had she been told that he would seek to shield her from harm, several hours ago she might not have believed the person. Yet there he stood, as brave as any man ever was.

  Hardly a woman, who appreciated violence or bloodshed in any form or shape Kenna, was not made of stone, but of flesh. A part of her heart melted then, moved as she was by his ardent defence of her.

  At the same time, she felt a new wave of panic course through her, one that at last gave her voice, “Tormod! Away! Away with you, he seeks me not you!”

  Tormod remained deaf to her pleas, just as he was blind to fear it seemed. Ducking, leaping and avoiding the hewing and stabbing blows of his foe, he in time was backed steadily down the hill towards her.

  It was a spirited defence and battle, with the Knightwraith hardly bothering to parry his blows, for they could no more harm him than they could daunt him. This seeming immortality was decisive in securing him his victory.

  There came a time that though Tormod had sensed that it might prove a foolish thing to do, that he had to parry a great blow from the wraith’s mighty blade.

  The blow when it at last struck his shield was to prove itself a blow so inhuman in its strength, it cut deep into the iron of the round shield, strapped to the arm of the nobleman.

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  Hewn apart, with half the shield falling to one side Tormod was knocked from his feet and onto his rear. Stunned by the intensity of the strike and showing for the first time a bit of the fear that most other folk, had hitherto felt in the face of the beast that loomed over him.

  Though vile in every distinguishable way, the Knightwraith was not immune to some of the darker impulses of men. This included the triumph of victory, over a defeated foe one whom he had come to hate, for his interference in his mission. The laugh that was pulled from the depths of his darkened helm sent a quaver of fear straight to the stomachs and wave of terror to the hearts of all who heard him.

  His triumph though was short-lived, for he had vastly underestimated his foe. Just as he had forgotten the time it might take to defeat him. The Knightwraith of the horned-kingfisher sought to once again trot around the noble, who leapt back to his feet and interposed himself between him and the seamstress once more. The hissing figure swung several more times at him, ere he came to a sudden stop.

  A new shriek erupted from his lungs, one of utter panic and helpless rage.

  They could not have known it, not at once but the wraiths feared sunlight. They dreaded the suns, which had just begun their first ascent in the distance.

  Unsuccessful in his dread-mission the servant of the Dark Laird peeled away with the shadows, just as the suns began to arise in the east. A mortal man might have cursed, or menaced the valorous Tormod with words, but not this horrid figure. He only let loose a great shriek that pierced the very souls of those around him, who had nary a doubt that he would return.

  *****

  Once she had calmed her racing heartbeat, and regained her ability to feel her legs, Kenna regained them. Climbing up to her feet, tremblingly just as Tormod sagged a little with relief, letting slip from his lips one long breath that he had unknowingly held in throughout the heated battle for his and her very lives.

  Though they were among the first to recover the vast crowds of fleeing women and children were to first crash headlong into the surrounding men-folk and Gormcruach.

  “We shan’t allow such a thing!” Solamh cried out, in a panic gathering together a great multitude of the men-folk who followed him up the hill with spears, pitchforks, and sticks in hand.

  A little ahead of him, ran Arran who arrived with his Gormcruach to find the shadow to have vanished and Tormod seated with a sword by his side and a torn shield in his other hand. Kneeling by his side, Kenna was as overwhelmed as the rest of the women were.

  “Where did it go?” One man asked.

  “Where did the shadow flee whither to?” came the cry of a second man, this one a Tigrun, who wore the symbol of the blue-sword of the Gormcruach.

  It might have taken quite some time for the shaken seamstress to answer them however Tormod was not so shaken by what had just taken place as she was. “We did battle, wherefore I was defeated and the phantom if it was such a thing fled.”

  “Why did it flee if you were defeated?” Cailean demanded, the Wolfram wrinkling his nose doubtfully at the noble.

  “I-I do not know.”

  “Kenna! By the gods are you aright?” Arran bellowed arriving at last upon the scene, racing hither to her side. His long, long legs carried him at a mad gallop rather than in what might be termed in the case of another man a dead-run. Beard trembling, his mane all about him and his eyes narrowed in a scowl as his teeth ground together, a large battle-axe in hand along with a buckler. “What happened here?”

  “I- I am well,” Kenna admitted startled by the wroth and panic that had decorated his face.

  Why should, he care so much for her, she asked herself. They were nigh on strangers, and what was more they had so recently quarrelled. Yet there he was a foot higher than all other men, blades ready and body trembling with barely concealed rage. He had also raced forth from his tent, with only a simple tunic and trousers on him, with neither his cloak nor his hauberk to protect him.

  Seeing the suspicion in his eyes, Kenna though still trembling with fright snapped at him and all those gazing at Tormod with dark looks in their eyes, “If it were not for Tormod, I would have perished. Quite why he had a sword and shield in hand, at that moment is a mystery to me.”

  It was now that the son of áed grew embarrassed, only to sigh and hang his head in resignation. He well knew that he had infringed upon the trust of his captors small as this amount of trust was, and confessed. “I had succeeded in freeing myself, had seized arms and intended to battle my way if necessary to my daughter and a horse when I heard the cries. Hearing from Ida for Kenna to run in the chaos, I hurried to her rescue.”

  Having not heard Ida cry out, Kenna felt a surge of gratitude to her friend for that cry, as she nodded her head a little, to confirm his tale.

  The majority of the warriors and men remained grim-faced, with only one or two appearing to soften a little. Worried for her and the other women and children, they were to carry away Tormod though not before they allowed him to exchange several words with his daughter. For her own part Rhona, was to throw herself against Kenna, in a fit of concern and gratitude for her rescue of her.

  Astonished by this, Tormod was to ask about this detail with his daughter informing him, “Kenna saved me papa!” Ere she began to weep once more, with her father in time peeling her away from the exhausted seamstress who could only run her hands, through her hair.

  “Thank you,” He murmured to her, gratitude shining in his eyes when he looked at her.

  *****

  It was later discovered when they searched up the Red Hill, for the corpses of the fallen that there had been only a half-score deaths. This still felt to all concerned to be a tragedy, with the most notable ones being three of the children which tore apart the hearts of several of the women. For Kenna personally, the greatest of losses was the death of Ainsley.

  Ainsley was a dear friend that she had come to depend upon, and confide continuously in, with Kenna joining in the spilling of tears that Eillidh, Doada and Helga let flow from their eyes, at the discovery of Ainsley’s corpse. The old woman was among those who had been stabbed, with her death one that affected everyone.

  “This is wholly your fault, witch,” Elspet hissed at her, when she had joined those surrounding Ainsley’s remains.

  Startled by this accusation, Kenna glanced over the head of Helga, whom she held against her while the lass sobbed into her shoulder. “How so?”

  With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she had the feeling she knew, what the other woman intended to accuse her of, and prayed she would leave the matter to another date and time. Surely, she told herself, the woodcutter’s wife could not be so cruel. Elspet proved her as always quite wrong.

  “I saw that thing it chased you across the whole of the hill! It sought you, and wished to bring about your end, and thus this makes Ainsley’s murder your fault,” She hissed at Kenna who could only blink dumbly at her. “If it was not for you, our loved ones would still live!”

  “You may not live much longer, old hag,” Arran threatened to the stunned shock of all present, one of his hands resting upon the pommel of his sword.

  Stunned at the overt threat, the widow froze with her mouth open. Many others appeared to share a similar reaction, save for the Salmon.

  He simply stared at the sell-sword thoughtfully, as though searching through his memory for something, his furrowed brow did not clear up, by the time the other old man departed for his tent.

  The dead were to be buried in the local cemetery, of the village of Bhaldthorpe which belonged to the barony of Bj?rndun. The corpses were cremated on the orders of the local druid of Orcus, who ordered the ashes buried in his cemetery, in an act of great generosity, one that led several of the parents and spouses of the deceased to peel away from the fleeing group.

  The dispersion of a number of the travelers displeased Arran, and his supporters such as Thormvrain, though Kenna and Ida argued that any who wished to leave could. They had no wish to enforce their authority, by force of arms.

  “This must be a purely voluntary act,” Ida explained the day after the funerals which were held on masse, seated in the camp of the Gormcruach outside of the village, with the rest of the council of Glasvhail.

  A council that was not entirely united, as Kenna was to learn to her shock, when Salmon’s daughter stated, “I am not so certain it is wise to continue north. The people here are welcoming therefore I suggest we stay here, to find peace. I am certain that the local druid would be more than happy to chase away this terrible phantom, were he to return.”

  Her desire to abandon their quest to push northwards was greeted with displeasure, with the most scornful towards her for her suggestion, none other than her own father. Laughing scornfully, he jeered at her, “Aye and I am certain that that is exactly what the dead would have had us do. If you ask me, once the laird of this land returns from the north-east, he will surely chase us away.”

  “Pa, I think you underestimate his generosity-”

  “Oh be quiet and do not ever take that tone with me lassie, lest I should put you over my knee,” Salmon snapped with sudden force against his forty year old daughter who fell silent.

  Discomfited by this angry exchange between father and daughter, during such an important meeting, no one spoke for a time.

  The next to speak was Freygil, with his suggestion being one uttered in a hard voice, “I would suggest that we invite Elspet into the next meeting.” Several people gaped at him, with the husband of Ida continuing, while they gasped. “She may not always be agreeable, however I do think that she was correct in that the phantom wished to slay or capture Kenna. There were others who said the same thing as she.”

  “And what is your hope? To abandon Kenna, or have her carry on north by herself?” Arran questioned sharply, the only one of them not seated upon the ground, but upon a proper pine-wood chair one of his men had found for him.

  Freygil remained silent, as did Salmon’s daughter. Their stoniness was a blow to Kenna’s hopes as a headwoman, with the council a group that had now become divided in two between those who remained faithful to her and those who did not. Still, she had a slim majority, with the seamstress lowering her gaze from that of the fisherman in defeat. Too weary and grief-stricken to argue with him, or with Mairead whom she had thought her friend.

  Thankfully, the Salmon’s good-son, Simidh preferred to compromise saying, “I am not sure we ought to bring in Elspet when she has yet to contribute anything of merit, though I do think we should bear in mind this wicked phantom’s goal.”

  “Aye, though I would not mind voting out someone from this council rather than voting one in,” Ida snapped with visible fury directed towards her husband, who appeared shaken by her anger.

  “Enough the lot of you, if all of you simply wish to balk at making a decision, I say we end this council to-day.” Salmon snapped in exasperation, only to narrow his gaze at Freygil and Mairead. “And there will be no talking to Elspet about any of the matters we have discussed. If there is, there will be punishments lobbied out against each of you, is that understood?”

  The cold menace in his voice left them with no doubt that, he had no desire to hear of Elspet interfering in the decisions that the heads of the village wished to make.

  It was when the doubters had left that Kenna pulled Ida aside, along with the Salmon to whisper to them, in despairing tones, “You do not suppose that they have a point? I am beginning to think that I really should resign, from my position as headwoman.”

  Salmon scoffed at once, “Pah, I’faith, I shan’t believe you intend to truly put any stock in the words of those fools. Apologies Ida, but your husband is the most changeable man I have ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

  Ida did not argue with him, rather she asked Kenna, “Kenna do you really not know what or who that shadow was, or why he was hunting for you?”

  “I-I nay though, I do hope this does not mean that he has gotten to Cormac and has simply decided to turn north, to slay me next!” Kenna replied a hint of panic in her voice, at the thought of her son having been put in danger by this terrible dark-rider.

  Both of them assured her that this could not be the case, with Ida recommending that she rest. Advice that seemed sound to Kenna’s mind, as she found her way to the part of the encampment that those of Glasvhail had occupied just to the north of the camp of the Gormcruach.

  Though it took her some time to sleep, she slept soundly with the sound of the sea once again, in her ears as she thought of her son and sent a prayer for him to stay safe.

  When she awoke it was to the suns rising in the distance, and a great number of those on watch, marching all along the encampment. The decision having been made days prior, just after the tragedy on the Red Hill that they ought to have men and Gormcruach guard the women and children as they slept, throughout the night.

  The watches were assigned their circuits and hours by Arran himself, with the old man also participating himself, as did Tormod. The latter man had not been given any weapons, and was kept firmly in chains, and was under the scrutiny of a number of the Gormcruach themselves.

  His daughter, as Kenna soon discovered had wedged herself up against the seamstress’ side, much to her amusement.

  Snoring softly, just as Helga was a short distance behind her, the headwoman sat up and pondered what she should do next to pass the time. It had been almost a week since they had settled into the fields, near the Red Hill. The more she mulled it over, the more she questioned whether those such as Mairead were correct in thinking that Bj?rndun was safe and where they ought to make their home.

  “Kenna? Why are you awake?” Tormod asked her, speaking up suddenly from just a little behind her, his chains rattling a little with his every movement, as Cailean who held the link in his own large paws eyed him suspiciously.

  Pretending not to notice the Wolfram, the noble kept his gaze fixed upon her own, as he moved towards her, with the other man made to follow him.

  Smiling wanly at him, Kenna replied in earnest, “I could not sleep anymore. I am worried about Cormac.”

  “Cormac? Your son you mean?” Curious, he asked with a wary glance about the camp and to the north and west of it, “Why did he wander off to the south?”

  Kenna saw no reason to lie, at this time. Still half asleep she answered him with the full truth of what Ida had told her, “He left with Brother Wulfnoth to seek the red gem of Aganippe or some such man. It was his hope to prove himself to all that he was not simply, some mooncalf.”

  Tormod studied her faraway gaze that looked south for a time, saying after some time, “I must thank you Kenna, just as your son showed incredible courage, you have also. Thank you for saving my daughter.”

  Kenna smiled a little in response, her gaze still off in the distance.

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