“I shan’t believe this Caled fool, thought to disguise himself as my own glorious self,” Fólki mocked as they drifted away from the island of Tórví as the Northmen dubbed it, to the north. Tall, though not quite so tall as Cormac himself was, he was even blonder, his eyes slightly greener and his was a somewhat more lanky figure.

  Dressed in the garments of a proper Arnish warrior, he wore his dark silver-lined hauberk well, with the accompanying chainmail beneath it and leggings. At seventeen years of age, he had been given command of the Thoronmor, a ship that was twenty-eight meters long and six meters wide.

  Hardly alone in the retrieval of the lad that they had deemed a mere pretender, one whom they had agreed to pay for, without any argument. The gold they had paid for had been lain down upon the shore of the island without any attempt to barter with the Dwarves. Something that had immediately appeared strange to the Caled, not that he had had much desire to speak up.

  Now that he had been whisked away, after a small beating that had left him sore all over, as the Northmen had not hesitated to have some of their most muscular sailors take sticks to him, he felt relieved. He was no longer in the hands of the Dwarves, his relief was rapidly dwindling in quantity, so that when the little isle disappeared at last upon the horizon, Cormac only felt his heart become cold.

  It was two days out from the island, as he aided with the oars as best he could, he heard several of those seated behind him snigger and gossip about the trade that had happened. “How long ere those Dwarves, discover the truth?”

  “Aye, I say four days,” Retorted the other one, neither of them aware that Cormac could understand the great majority of what it was that they uttered.

  He had learnt a great deal of their language, from Indulf, Solamh and the Salmon. A man with a surprising skill in languages, it was the grandfather of Inga, who had done his utmost decades ago, when Indulf’s grandfather first appeared near the village of Glasvhail to learn the Arnish tongue. Just as he had learnt Brittian, to negotiate with the southron merchants from Brittia a language he had shared with his vivacious granddaughter and Daegan.

  Both of whom, had been more than eager to share it with the lads they were fond of. Cormac more than a little grateful at that moment, for all those lessons they had shared with him, as these Arns spoke a variant of Arnish which included a smattering of Brittian and the Caled tongues.

  The dialect was one that he liked in spite of himself, though he was not very fond of them for their shoddy treatment of him.

  “Regardless of what they think, there is little they shall be able to do,” Another man muttered with his own giggle.

  “Aye!” Fólki joined in with his men, looking towards the small cabin near the back of the ship where their mead was housed. He had already gone there twice, to grab several tankards to share with his men, whom were a lot prone to enjoying drink plenty more than even the most hard-drinking men of Glasvhail.

  “Fólki, you and your men are to mind your oars,” Bellowed Erling full of impatience for his second to youngest brother. Taller than his brother, Erling had a hair as brown as the bark of a pine-tree, with a long beard that reached down to his chest with the same long face as his brother.

  His ears though were slightly rounder though they were often like his younger sibling’s oft covered by a long mane of hair. Physically though they were very different, for where the younger one was lanky the older was muscular almost bear-like, able to wield by all appearances a great-axe that might necessitate both of the hands of a lesser man. He was rather akin to Lyr, Meallán and Connor in that regard.

  Grumbling beneath his breath Fólki cursed at his brother, who ignored the spoiled second to youngest in his family’s poor comportment. This likely should have amused or pleased Cormac more than it did, though he could not help but wonder if maybe the other youth would not simply lash out at him once they were securely on land.

  An act that for some reason Erling had stated he had no use for, and had declared would not happen, the moment he first laid eyes upon the son of Murchadh. The reasons behind his decision remained a mystery to the young man.

  Eyeing the fine reddened oak wood drakkar known as the Erlking that belonged to Erling; Cormac could not help but admire the magnificent thirty oar vessel. Its sails’ were large, white and bore the heraldry of the second of the sons of Sweyn that of the double-headed black dog. A symbol that the canine adoring second son of the old Jarl adored, as much as the canines he apparently cared for with the hounds-man of their castle-keep.

  “Bah, you were not so high and mighty, when I proposed we disguise that lump of polished raw stones as gold and silver with gold and silver-dust.” Fólki complained bitterly, revealing at last how he had ‘paid’ for the ransom of the lad mistaken for him.

  “And steer your ship closer to my own, less you will drift off, and raise your sails as it appears apparent to me that there is a growing breeze, coming from the south.” Erling growled from aboard the Erlking, red-faced and glowering at the second-youngest of the sons of Sweyn.

  This sparked some more complaints, among the sailors in the service of Fólki who reluctantly did as commanded.

  Cormac with a heavy sigh put his back all the more to the oar praying to Scota for protection and Tempestas, for a safe crossing to Vargrsteinn.

  *****

  A day after this exchange, they were to quarrel once more all the more vociferously, until the two men were all the more red-faced.

  Yet under the guidance of Erling, they were to bear witness to the quay in the distance of Vargrsteinn. A city that had near to five-thousand people living within its walls, which were more a series of palisades sixty-six meters high four feet thick, and made purely of local pine-wood. Built along a large semi-ring shaped bay that had been all absorbed into a large city, full of long-houses, with the edges of the ‘ring’ serving as quays.

  The bays were lined with dragon long-ships that had been pulled up along the beaches. Looming over the whole of the bay was the great castle that was one hundred forty-two meters high, and six hundred thirty-five long and wide with a wide foundation.

  There were eight parapet towers that encircled the main dungeon of the keep, with the towers ending just as the large pointed roof of the dungeon in a large ring-shape that reminded Cormac of an armband. The colours of the tower and dungeon were a rusty red with some parts almost orange, with the peak of the towers grey with the rings were all faded gold or silver colours.

  The rest of the buildings were considerably smaller, with the sole exception of two temples one of them a large pointed building with a spear attached to the roof which was made of ash-wood.

  The rest of the temple was made of the same sort of wood; this temple was located just a little past the left-hand bay that appeared nigh on sharp as a steel blade. It almost appeared as though the towered temple upon the left-bay, and the right-hand one with its own temple similarly high and topped with what appeared to be a dragon-head and that was painted bright blue were a pair of mandibles.

  These mandibles might have been those of a particularly large preying mantis made of sand. One that might well one day squeeze together to bite into those who trod too close and to feed them to the castle that stood near to the principal bay just past the quay and its great many ships.

  *****

  The city was a monument to the glories of the clan descended from Eindriei, as explained by Erling. The clan had landed in this very bay, nigh on two hundred and fifty years ago where they had done battle with a local tribe whereupon they had burnt a local monastery. After the monks of Tempestas had been put to the sword and enslaved, the area had served as trading-hub between the three great ruling clans that had come down from the north to claim the island. That of Tórví had achieved its independence from those who took Hraukrheier, after a short but heated war.

  A war that began after Jarl Mundi’s second son Agnarr had succeeded him after he had expulsed his brother Hrafn, the true heir. Going to their ‘rightful master’ for aid, who had invaded these lands after six months, only to find that Eindriei had not been idle as he had, and had had large palisades built.

  “Since that time, we have dealt with the other two great clans as with all others, as equals rather than as subservient thralls,” Erling stated with some pride, to Cormac as the drakkars drifted nearer to the right-hand port. Pointing as they moved nearer to the shore, with his right-hand, “There you can see the palisade we have constructed to keep our city secure.”

  It looked rather flimsy to Cormac’s mind, in comparison to the tales he had heard talk of about the walls of Sgain and the Kadrianian Wall that divided the north of the Lairdly-Island from the south.

  Tall as far as wooden walls went, he could not know just how impressive the accomplishment of building such a wall, was for such backwards people as the ancestors of Sweyn were. Unaware of why the older man was telling him this, he could not but wonder if Agnarr the Jarl had ever thought to use fire on those walls.

  “They are impenetrable due to the courage of our men-folk, and our invincibility in arms,” Boasted one man from the older prince’s boat taking a larger swig of ale than the Salmon might have thought wise, were he present.

  The thought of what his grandfather’s friend might have thought reminded Cormac, of how the wizened fisherman had a saying that, ‘liquor has no place at sea save for when there is naught else.’ The source of the proverb was one he was not sure of, but there were a great many proverbs and sayings that the old man was fond of that, Cormac could not quite place.

  “Ours is the finest navy all of Antillia,” Was the next boast of Fólki, with a sneer in the direction of the lad in chains at the oars just ahead of those he himself was pushing at.

  Cormac bit his lip, wishing not for the first time, nor for the last to be away from the presence of the younger of the sons of Sweyn.

  A glance up at the heavens followed, a prayer sent up with the answering cry of some eagle capturing his attention and distracting him briefly, just as the first of the three ships arrived upon the sandy beach. The long-ship was pulled ashore by some of the locals, with the captain of that vessel the first upon land lending his own arms and back to the pulling up of the long-ship.

  The next ship was that of Erling, with the last one that of Fólki who took Cormac up by the arm ere he had him pushed off of the ship and into the water near to the shore with a loud snigger.

  Moving through the air for but a brief moment, the youth had not the time to secure his footing, tired as he was from hours of rowing and surprised at the sudden action of the Jarl’s son. Between ship and water for but a brief moment, Cormac was soon left in the water that was hardly that profound.

  It was however deep enough that his feet, could not touch the ground and with his iron chains were heavy. Dragging him down to the bottom, as though to spite his best efforts to kick out with his legs and wave his arms to swim up and forward.

  He had just begun to suck in water into his mouth, to fear drowning when he was seized by his hair and dragged up forcibly by a duo of hands; those of two of Fólki’s men. Both of whom laughed at him, as they dragged him out of the sea swimming themselves with the full force of their own long legs.

  “See how he scampers?” One of them mocked with nary any hint of warmth in his voice, as he jeered at the youth.

  “How could he think, to play at being me?” Fólki jeered also.

  Pulled ashore, choking and coughing and thrown forward, as though little more than a piece of driftwood that no one wanted, Cormac was to glance up to discover a small crowd of men staring at him. The boats had by this time been pulled away, and tied to the quay directly. There were some women there too, and they mocked, pointed and jeered at him also so that Cormac almost wished he had drowned.

  At once he took notice of one figure who tore herself out from the middle of the crowd to hurry over to his side, her eyes round with concern.

  “What is this?” Marian demanded in her elderly voice that exuded such strength, as to make even grown men quail. As it did then, in the case of several of the hardened sailors, her eyes narrowing with fury once she had reached the youth’s side. “Have you truly so little good in you, you would drown an innocent lad? And the son of a man, you once called all but kin?”

  As impeccably dressed in her habit and robe as ever, her back strong and straight the crone bore a remarkable resemblance at that moment to a guard-dog or wolf. So viciously did she reprimand Fólki and his men, most of whom backed away from her, to the amazement of the still prone lad, who lay forgotten on the beach sands.

  “Oh come now, it was but a jest,” Fólki retorted irritably, not liking the way in which this old woman with her foreign faith was scolding him.

  “Hardly, you fool,” Erling snapped back only to order one of the men, “Unchain him and help him to his feet. Father will wish to meet with him, as will Meallán.”

  Reluctantly the younger of the brothers did as he was bidden; calling for the key to the chains of the younger lad he had treated so poorly over the course of the journey, from the island of Tórví. Relieved though not grateful to the Arn, or his men even when he was helped up to his feet, with the youth pushing their hands away and glowering at them, with no small amount of hostility.

  With a huff, those who had helped him to his feet, and unlocked his chains, grumbled and stormed away with more than a few choice words, about him. The most noticeable one being Fólki himself, who complained to any who would listen. “Such is the gratitude of a Caled! I whom, he stole the identity of, who saved him from the cruel Margvarrovs is now shunned by him. How father could possibly hope, for aught else but war with their sort, is a mystery to me.”

  There were many rumbled remarks, and feminine grunts of assent at his foolhardy words.

  “Come along Cormac,” Marian pressed, urging him away as much with her voice as she did when she sought to pull him away by the arm, towards the keep, at the heart of the large city. “Sweyn wishes to meet you. He has been waiting for this day for a very long time, as have all the rest of his children.”

  Not fully comprehending the fullness of her words, inebriated with righteous indignation as he was, Cormac felt some of what his mother would have termed the ‘Caledonian fire-blood’ burst forth beneath his veins. Such was the malignance that he had been treated with, by the spiteful Fólki that, he could hardly hear the warning that lay hidden behind her words.

  “Such is the civility of a member of the house of Sweyn that I shan’t help but wonder, how any could hope for aught else but dung-eating and cowardly words uttered in full retreat, and never in defiance to the face of another man. You have truly made your father proud, wee Fólki Jarl of the sands, fish and gulls of the ringed-bay of Vargrsteinn.” Jeered Cormac in a voice full of sardonic wit and utter contempt such that all laughter directed at him faded from the lips, and eyes of all present.

  They had not expected such an insult, to the house of Sweyn, which had for centuries guarded their homes and led more Vikingr-raids abroad and throughout Antillia than any others. Such was the esteem that those of the city held the house of Eindriei in that near to all faces turned crimson with anger.

  None moreso than Fólki himself, who had by this time reached the crowd turned about to face him, face twisted with hatred. His lips pulled back to show his teeth, so that he appeared more wolf-like and bestial than Bardulf, himself truly was.

  Pleased with his insult to the other man, Cormac was to later have reason to regret this impulsive quarrel, though at the moment he felt fairly proud of himself for his having ‘won’ the petty argument.

  *****

  The castle of Eindrieiheimr was a large structure that loomed all the higher, the nearer one got to it, as Cormac soon discovered. To him, it was akin to a shadowy monolith that sought to cut through the heavens, as a butcher’s knife might a pig’s hide.

  Imposing, with an interior that was as shadowed as the exterior had already proved itself to be, with but a few torches near the entrance to the dungeon. It was half long-house half castle-proper with a small entrance that was square in construction.

  After this there were three long rooms that of the left led to the kitchens and the servants’ quarters. The door to the right led towards the barracks of the huscarls, those house-guards sworn to the service of the Jarl.

  The third door, which lay directly opposite the black doors of the keep, led to the principal mead-hall of the great Jarl Sweyn. Time-Honoured Vargrsteinn, as his subjects fondly knew him and his rivals derided him was a man of stout-stature, with eyes the colour of the sea and lips thinner than parchment. In possession of long-flowing, well-combed snow-locks and a thick beard that was the glory of the city or it might have been had the face above it not been more care-worn.

  Wrinkled and at one time plump, Sweyn had become thin as a rail as time had wreaked terrible vengeance upon his person. It appeared that joy had long departed, along with his youth with his large banquet hall fifteen meets long and wide, had become a place of melancholy and sorrow.

  His banners were nowhere to be seen, nor was there any colours hung from the walls with but a few torches to decorate the plain, wooden hall the ten meter high wall creaked along with the walls in the wind.

  But blacker than the darkest of shadows was that worn by the old man, who dressed in a black tunic and trousers, with nary a ring nor pendant upon his neck, all he wore above his right-hand long-sleeve was a single arm-band. Well-crafted it bore to the fascination of Cormac intricate érian knots and what appeared to be a large tree with knotted branches and roots.

  This was a symbol rarely seen in recent days, yet was an ancient one that Cormac knew only because it had been long ago carved into Ciaran’s Oak. It was the ‘Tree of Life of ériu’ as one well-traveled merchant from Strawthern had told him. The symbol he had said was an old favourite of the current Mormaer Raghnall.

  Seated in a large high-backed oak-wood chair, at the largest of the banquet tables the old man did not appear prepared to touch his porridge and goblet full of mead. Seated with him were a number of women and children.

  Most were lasses, with two women seated nearest to him; one was near to his age and wore many a gold-rings upon her fingers, two large gold earrings in the shape of an eight-legged horse and in a fine Lyonessian silk red dress.

  The dress was noteworthy also for the futhark ‘Berkana’ woven into the edges and sleeves of the Norse-styled dress, which she shore over another dress this one a softer shade of red, almost pink likewise made of silk. Plump, this woman had grey hair, hawkish-nosed and was in possession of dark eyes that reminded Cormac of a crow’s eyes.

  To the other side of the old man, was blonde woman approximately thirty years his junior, her hair was greying a little, and she had fuller lips, was near to plump and had a far more cheerful mien. Her own gaze was a curious shade of green that sometimes ran to blue, dependant, upon the light it was cast in. Her own nose was long, her chin did not jut quite as awkwardly as that of the crone’s and her own dress was greener, had the same runic futhark woven into it in gold cloth, with her dress also made of silk.

  In all the two matriarchs of the clan were both fearsome women, surrounding by a gaggle of women and lasses, some pretty blonde, some darker haired some tall, some stout. In total there were twelve daughters that bore a lesser or greater resemblance to varying degrees to the old Jarl. The eldest of those daughters appeared to be near to thirty years old, while the youngest was twelve years of age.

  His sons numbered seven in total, and all bore a remarkable resemblance to the father. The eldest was Hjálmarr, a tall blonde-haired man of thirty-four years with long heavily-braided hair and an equally long beard braided in Nordic knots.

  Blue-eyed and fiercely built, seated at the table to the left with the family huscarls, dressed in a green wool tunic and trousers, with gold-armbands, one ring on his left fourth finger, and a smiling face, he was an impressive man. The next two brothers were dark-haired, blue eyed stout as their father was and both dressed in dark tunics and trousers.

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  Seated with their brother, at the huscarl’s table where they were laughing with him, at some jest he had just finished telling them. These two brothers were twenty-two, and twenty years of age respectively.

  The next brother was Erling, who was twenty years of age himself, with the next eldest eighteen years of age and absent, with Fólki the second to youngest son. The youngest was eleven years of age, and was named Hróaldr and seated at the same table as his father, between one of his sisters’ and his blonde mother, with his own short hair the same colour, tunic made of rough green wool and trousers red woollen cloth and eyes the same vivid blue as that of his father.

  In all they were a pleasant family to look upon, with a pleasing air of warmth to them, with most forking with large two-fingered forks hunks of fish-meat, otters, deer-meat and onions into their mouths. Even the women appeared to have quite the appetite, to the amazement of Cormac, who had never seen any women eat quite so much as they did then.

  Only the matriarchs restrained themselves, both of them visibly disconcerted and ill at ease with the older one looking weary where the younger was continuously scolding her son, for eating too swiftly.

  *****

  “Hail to thee, Sweyn Hróaldrsson Jarl of Vargrsteinn! I present to ye, Cormac MacMurchadh, I have brought him hither in spite of Fólki’s best attempts to drown and humiliate him.” Marian informed the old Jarl, in a bold, loud voice that echoed in the large hall.

  Most only glanced briefly at them, with one man leaping to his feet to cross the hall to seize Cormac’s arm, and to give him a hard slap upon his back that nearly sent him sprawling forward. It was none other than Meallán, the great-uncle of Lyr.

  “Cormac! It is wonderful to see you,” The great-hero of ériu pronounced warmly, his kindly tone a comfort to the lad who’s head was spinning. The man from the Emerald-Isle did not wait to for a response from him though, asking with considerable interest. “And how is my nephew, how is prince Lyr? Did he survive?”

  “A-aye, he was- is well,” Cormac stuttered unsure of how best to answer this question, adding for good measure, “He is with the majority of our group, held captive by the Margdvarrovs. Or he was, when last I saw him.”

  Pleased by this knowledge, Meallán nodded his head with visible satisfaction, “Good, I thank you lad.” Nodding a little, Cormac risked a glance towards Marian who gave him a small smile that reassured him a little. Seeing this exchange and something of the weariness on the face of the ill-fed lad, the old hero apologised to him, “My apologies dear lad, for forgetting myself in my concern for Lyr. Lyr, I know better than most can take care of himself. You must be so very, very hungry.”

  Suddenly reminded of how he had barely eaten all day, Cormac felt to his immense embarrassment his stomach rumble emptily.

  His mouth watering at all the scents that filled his nose, drowning out the wretched city-stench that came from outside and that of wet-dog that appeared to his mind, to be perpetually everywhere in this town also. He would have accepted the table-scraps of the nobles present therein the halls of the castle, even if it meant squabbling with the forty or so dogs that strode here and there or rested about in the corners, with their tongues lolling.

  Most of them had the fat or muscular appearance of well-fed, well-tended to canines each of their tongues lolling and their eyes upon the mouth-watering meat on display on the plates of their masters. Some of their eyes, were drawn to the withdrawn Jarl worry in their large, round eyes as they sensed as only canines could that there was much amiss with the heir of Vargrsteinn.

  Cormac though, was not to be given leave to eat and gorge himself as he so wished to do ever so desperately.

  “Cormac? MacMurchadh, you say Sister Marian?” Sweyn said in a soft voice that was also hoarse with age and care, his large blue eyes, metting those of the fisherman’s son. There was such intense interest in his gaze that the youth, could hardly tear his gaze away from them, no matter how much he tried.

  “Aye,” She affirmed with a glance full of fondness cast in the lad’s direction, “As you have long wished, he it is who wears about his neck the war-horn given to Murchadh, by your own hands. The horn he in turn gave away to Delavauran ere his own escape from the Dark Laird’s forces, years ago.”

  “Is it truly Hvítrhorn?” Sweyn asked of her, a little life entering into his eyes and voice at long last, for the first time in years. He beckoned the youth to approach his table, “Come hither, young man, and show me the horn I gave your father.”

  Hesitant, as he feared the Jarl’s wroth as he had come to fear that of Fólki during his journey there. It took the prompting of the nun for him and the old man beckoning him once more, before he would approach him.

  When he did near the Jarl who was once master to Murchadh and the dread of the eastern seas of Antillia, the old man paused at the sight of him. A look of utter amazement entered his gaze at the sight of him, as he gaped at Cormac.

  It was an expression that the rest of those present who glanced in his direction shared, with several of them murmuring between them. Uncomfortable, the son of Murchadh the fisherman at first shifted from foot to foot and tried to clumsily offer up Hvítrhorn only to almost drop it upon a dish of boar-meat.

  “Apologies, my laird,” Cormac murmured as best he could in the northerners tongue, aware of how accented and clumsy his speech was.

  “You truly are Murchadh’s son,” old Sweyn breathed, awed and stunned as he reached over across the table to grasp not the horn but the lad’s hands. “Thy father was more than a mere slave, in time he became as kin to me. ‘Twas he who saved my daughter Fríea, tutored my children and showed greater courage in the Yule-storm when Fólki was in danger, and required his aid. This was the reason I promised him; blood for blood, brothers by sacral oath sworn after having drunk from the Goblet of Faith.”

  Of northron birth, both in culture and lineage, for Sweyn to have sworn oaths in both the old Norsemen’s manner and that of the Quirinian faith bespoke of the bond between Murchadh and him. It was with a start that Cormac realized he stood before the man, who had so long denied him his father.

  Where once he might have imagined himself flushing bright scarlet with rage, he could hardly summon the fury that the thought of his father enslaved, once came so very naturally. In place of hatred all he felt was pity for the old man.

  Hesitant to express such a sentiment, he was grateful for the old man taking Hvítrhorn from him, so that he may pull his hands back and to hide them.

  Cormac may have backed away had it not been for the swift, stern glance Marian threw in his direction one that made him squirm and cease moving away. Studying the old man with a curious gaze, he watched as the Jarl cradled the horn delicately.

  “I still remember the day I passed this along to him, with the orders to blow into it when next he returned. I had no inkling that he had passed it to Delauvaran or that he had at last gone home.” Sweyn stated miserably, “It is not our ways to treat our slaves as aught else but that rank, yet for every heroic deed he performed it became less and less clear to me, I should treat him as I do other slaves. In time, I came to regard him as a brother.”

  “One who could not leave, on pain of death,” Cormac strove to keep the accusation out of his voice, however he felt certain he did not succeed when he noticed the fury in the eyes of the women. The matriarchs to either side of Sweyn were notably offended, by his words glowering in his direction with equal fury.

  He expected a great deal of anger from Sweyn also, however the oldest of all the Jarls upon the Misty-Island, had no such emotion to dispense upon him. In place of hate, he simply bowed his head a little saying as he did so, “I suppose that you may in fact be right. I thought only of myself and not of his kin, especially when I heard him speak so fondly of you, his son.”

  This brought a lump of emotion to the throat of the Caled, who could feel some of his grief and wistfulness for the father he had loved and hardly seen in nine years. Full of emotions, Cormac was at a loss for words once more.

  In place of words his stomach, to his embarrassment rumbled.

  A flicker of amusement appeared in Sweyn’s eyes as he met the gaze of the youth saying as he did so, “Mayhaps such serious discussions should wait until after you have been fed.” When the lad turned to leave he was halted by Sweyn calling out his name, “Oh and Cormac, do not forget this heirloom passed to you by your father, and Delauvaran.”

  Given the horn of the house of Eindriei, Cormac was quick to take it back and to begin searching for a place to seat himself, eager to begin eating.

  Once again, time honoured Vargrsteinn was swifter than he, and invited both him and Marian to seat themselves at his side to eat with him. Shooing away the older of his two wives from his side, with a quick command, one that she visibly bristled at. Satisfied with the seating arrangement, the old man was to then take a large hunk of boar-meat and present it first to Cormac, ere he ordered one of his daughters to pass along some fish to Marian out of respect for her vows as a nun.

  *****

  It was after the feast had ended that Sweyn was to inform them that it was his wish that they consider his home akin to their own. Calling for his daughters Hrafnhildr, Ingunn and Saldis, the eldest was blonde, with the younger two dark of haired, the Jarl told them. “Take our three guests to their chambers; I would have them well-rested ere their departure.”

  “Yes father,” the younger two daughters said dutifully, Ingunn appeared to be Cormac’s own age, whereas the younger one Saldis was likely fourteen years of age. As to Hrafnhildr she appeared to be approximately Indulf’s age.

  It was the eldest of the three who did not acquiesce verbally; it was evident that she did when she rose first from the table to do as bidden.

  Guided along through a door to the right, one that led to a hallway and from there up a series of stairs, then another ere they were directed towards a pair of doors opposite one another. The hallways were almost thirty-five meters long, though the stair-cases were rather smaller in nature. Cormac was to scale three steps at a time, with little difficulty with even the diminutive Marian scaling two at a time. Each time she did so the nun let slip cries of delight, much to the annoyance of Meallán who rolled his eyes.

  The walls of each of the hallways were as gloomy as the hall was, poorly lit with no openings so that the candle on the small silver candlestick that Hrafnhildr carried was the only source of light.

  It was Ingunn who selected one of them saying, “This one should suffice for you Sister Marian, as it was the room occupied by a missionary who once lived here, ten years ago I do believe it was.”

  “He left us two years after his arrival, to go preach amongst the Amazons,” Saldis stated with a shudder, “Their men-folk likely tortured him, as they are a barbarous people.”

  It was strange to hear these lasses speak of another clan of people, as being ‘barbarous’ especially when the most horrific deeds in Caledonia’s history had been performed, by Northmen and women. Bemused, he did not say anything, for just as he wished to do so Marian shook her head at him, signalling that he should remain quiet.

  “Why did he leave,” He asked in place of the original query he had wished to ask.

  “Father was disinterested in his faith, and he did not much like Murchadh when he arrived,” Hrafnhildr explained brusquely, she motioned then with the candle to the right-hand room. “Sister Marian these are your chambers, the ones opposite shall belong to those of Meallán. As to you MacMurchadh, you shall be placed farther down this hallway.”

  “I would prefer he were placed next to Meallán or my own chambers, thank you lassie,” Marian interrupted deciding for the daughter of Sweyn, who frowned in displeasure at her words.

  “But that room is hardly appropriate.” She argued, to the visible discomfort of her sisters who exchanged a worried glance. “That room is occupied.”

  “Really now? Well then, I should think that whoever enjoys the room at present, would be more than delighted to turn it over to the original occupants’ son.” Marian said sharply to the exasperation of the lass, who glared at her.

  Stunned to hear of how it was his father’s room, Cormac almost leapt out of his skin so eager was he to look inside of the room. Though he felt certain that it had changed, since the time that Murchadh had lived there, he could not help but almost push past Hrafnhildr for the room when she at last with a sigh opened the door for him to enter it.

  The room itself was a small one, sparsely decorated with a simple pine-wood table, single chair and a small bed built upon a wooden frame made of sycamore wood. The bed was a straw one, with linen coverings and thick bear and wolf fur set upon it, with pillows made of eagle-feathers contained in linen.

  In all it appeared considerably more comfortable than the bed that Cormac, had grown up sleeping in, throughout his young life. Though it was nowhere near, as comfortable as that which Arduinna had lent to the travelers.

  It was neither the bed nor the small table to one side that caught the attention of Cormac, but rather the tapestry above it, opposite the door.

  The tapestry was one that depicted the figure of a lad and woman, the former blonde of hair and the latter a brunette, with the two worshipping before a statue. It was clumsily woven, indicative that the person who had sewn it had little understanding, of how to properly apply stitches together.

  The statue for one thing was depicted as an actual woman, with her elbow at an awkward angle with her feet not visible, and a thistle or what could barely pass for it growing out of her right hand.

  Familiar with his father’s inability to ever fully master sewing, just as he was with the image though, the most glaring issue with it was that Cormac as depicted was far shorter than Kenna. He knew that it was meant to describe in some capacity Kenna and Cormac on any number of Didòmhnaich, as the two had once had the habit of praying together, quite often. Piety had meant at one time a great deal to Kenna, before she had lost her way from the faith, and thrown herself body and soul into her work.

  “I aided him a little with that tapestry, it was special to the both of us,” Hrafnhildr said gently to Cormac who gave the barest hint of a nod.

  The thought that Murchadh might have stood where he currently was, dreaming of home and longing to see him and Kenna once more, filled Cormac with such sorrow he could barely contain it. If only Murchadh had returned home, he mused to himself, if only he had returned sooner mayhaps life could have been better and Kenna would not have been so miserable. He may have even convinced her to let their son fish as he pleased.

  And he may have flown over the moon, the youth almost uttered with more than a little ridicule To wish for what was other than what he present had, was ridiculous he told himself, certain that the world would be all the worst for his father having escaped sooner. He had had his duties, if he had not taken what time he had taken up, in Antillia, they may not have a chance to defeat the Dark Laird.

  Turning to face the door, he was however bewildered to find Hrafnhildr still standing in the doorway of the room, with a strangely intent look in her eyes. Intensely interested, she continued to stare at him for a moment ere she turned away.

  “If you will excuse me, MacMurchadh,” She said hastily growling at her sisters when they whispered to her only to titter.

  Cormac almost opened the door to stride over to Meallán or Marian’s rooms, to ask them their tales, but assuming that they were as tired as he, he simply decided to settle in for the night. Exhausted, with his belly full for the first time in days, he fell asleep faster than he had in days, his mind drifting to a memory of his father showing him how to use a fishing-rod when he was young. The memory of that time, when he was three years of age, was a precious memory that he had always treasured, yet rarely seen in any of his dreams.

  A memory that warmed the heart of the youth, and eased some of the grief he still felt, at the passing of his father.

  *****

  “Your father lad was not simply a good friend to me, but a great man,” Sweyn told him the subsequent day in a confidential tone, his hand upon his shoulder as they ate. “I must confess that I have rarely ever seen a more capable boats-man. One might have thought him born with gills rather than lungs; such was his skill as a mariner.”

  Breakfast that day was markedly different from that of the previous day. To-day, it was composed of locally captured cod, carrots, apples and of course some of the local gulls. This particular animal was one that the Jarl had little tolerance for and that he deemed little more than a ‘sea-mosquito’. A sentiment remarkably similar to that which the Salmon himself, held towards the birds Cormac noted with more than a little amusement. The birds were thus, a favourite meal of the Jarl, as it was amongst his dearest wishes to chase the birds out of the locality. Unfortunately for him, this had hardly had any impact upon the local population and had only resulted in the locals turning his vindictive hatred of gulls, into a local jest.

  A jest he was not blind to, and even alluded to shortly after he had placed a bit of the gull-meat upon the plate of the youth next to him.

  From there he had directed the subject towards that of Murchadh, which appeared to Cormac to be one of his favourite topics of conversation. It was soon to be revealed to be a favourite discussion subject also of the man’s children. Starting with Erling, who was seated that day across from him, “Murchadh once grew so annoyed at a pigeon that continued to flutter above his head that he gave chase after it, even commandeering a drakkar to hunt it down. So infuriated was he against the pigeon.”

  “Did he catch it?” Cormac queried curiously, fascinated by the story which the older man was telling him, and envious of the fact that he had seen such an event.

  “Well no, he did fall into the sea and have to swim back to shore while two of our fishermen had to retrieve the boat.” Erling admitted with a booming laugh that echoed throughout the hall.

  Seated on the right-hand side of Sweyn, he was by this time Cormac’s favourite of the strange family that appeared determined to try to make him one of their own. Though, he had little wish to join them, if only due to his unfamiliarity with them and resentment of their having imprisoned his father.

  His father having been he knew, a man who had been free as the wind, munificent as the sea was beautiful and as wondrously kind as the stars were bright. So that to imprison him was to imprison goodness itself to his mind.

  It was the younger children though who had most closely bonded with Murchadh whom they knew of as ‘uncle’ or ‘nuncle’. As tutor of the children of Sweyn, the fisherman had been tasked with teaching them how to man ships, swimming, languages and strangest of all arms and old Arnish tales.

  The children of Sweyn and the man himself keen to inform the youth, of just how many languages, how skilled at the wielding of a spear and how warmly they had taken to his father. Especially in the years that followed the first one the fisherman had spent with them.

  The tales they told of how oft he told tales to them, just before bed, of how he never let them fish without him being near and of how he spoke of his homeland, were told by them as rapidly as they could speak. All of them filled with wistfulness, for the Caled fisherman, with the last tale they told being of how Fólki had gone out hunting some distance away, from the city when he was seized by men from Hraukrheier.

  “When your father learnt of this and the ransom demands he agreed to trade himself for Fólki and Delauvaran, in the guise of father,” said Hrafnhildr in an awe-stricken voice from her own place to the left of Erling. “It was shortly thereafter that he as given over to the Dark Laird, alongside the Elf.”

  “It is for this reason we must depart at once for the western mountains, where the Spear of Cyril lies.” Marian reminded their hosts, from her own seat farther down the table.

  “And there is also the task of finding my great-nephew,” Meallán added in an annoyed voice that was rather uncharacteristic for him. A respectful man, by nature he had become overnight a difficult man to live with, in his concern for his nephew’s son.

  Visibly aggrieved by their words, and desire to leave, Sweyn’s eyes dimmed. His next words were hot ones, “You may leave when best it pleases you, my friends. But I would remind you, my aid is offered purely out of kindness.”

  “Kindness that is as far as the Narratsian ocean stretches for, and as profound as the Duck-Lake to the north-west of our lands. This you have demonstrated an ample number of times, and which I as your wife am at great pains to vouch for.” Guerún the oldest of the wives of Sweyn said in a waspish voice that could well have passed for that of Kenna’s when she spoke to Cormac after he had been out and about, all day.

  What only added to the discomfort of the moment was the visible offense which the old man took at her cruel tone.

  Seated to one side of their youngest daughter, she was nearer to Sweyn’s second wife ástríer’s age, being nearer to twenty-eight years of age. A ‘lass’ who had three daughters of her own whom were seated to the other side of their grandmother, their father being the steward of the keep, and seated amongst the huscarls, with the couple’s son bouncing on his knee.

  “You could use even our love,” Sweyn accused sorely his face consumed by fury and disappointment.

  *****

  It was shortly after this exchange that the conversation of what to do next was put aside. The three travelers were to retire to one side of the hall, where they were to discuss their leaving Vargrsteinn.

  Uncomfortable as the boisterous hall was with plenty of people calling for him to join them, in this endeavour or that conversation, Cormac could hardly bring himself to share in their revelry or joy. Worried still for Daegan and Bardulf, over in the village of the Margdvarrovs and for Indulf, whom he felt certain had been lost at sea alongside Wiglaf, Cormac resisted all their loudest invitations. It was when he thought of Daegan and his friends that his mood became dour as that of Meallán. It somehow felt to him to be some sort of betrayal, for him to enjoy himself in any capacity.

  “Understand that we shall necessitate food,” Meallán instructed them sternly, “I also recommend we bring with us extra quivers, arrows and other arms.”

  Cormac nodded his head, marking each as of the uttermost importance in his mind. They would also need ponies or horses, he decided if they were not to travel further up-river by drakkar. The boats being highly capable of river-travel he knew, from having been taught all about them by Salmon, Trygve and Murchadh.

  What startled him was Marian’s less practical view of the matter of how they ought to travel, and how prepared they should be, saying when prompted for her view by the older man. “The gods shall take care of the majority of our needs. We need neither arms, nor mounts, nor food only the hope that lies in our hearts and the faith that shall free us from our flesh, when the time comes.”

  Struck by this pronouncement, Meallán and Cormac exchanged a sceptical look. Both of them having grown up dreamers by nature, they nonetheless both appreciated hearty-meals and the importance of arms, in keeping them safe from danger.

  The serenity of the nun thus, appeared to them half mad. They would not say anything, regarding this, preferring to remain respectful towards her in place of any criticism Meallán addressed her with forced patience. “I thank you for your noble words Sister Marian, though if I may, I do think we shall necessitate for our own safety added arms, and some lessons for Cormac in the usage of several of them.”

  “Bah, what is safety but a state within our own minds? There is no such thing in this world.” Marian uttered full of contempt for his words, which left him flabbergasted.

  “If not safer, then would you not consider it wiser to be prepared for the danger that surely lies farther down the road, so to speak?” Cormac questioned, exasperated.

  Marian considered his words at some length, pondering them and looking as though she still had her own views on this particular subject.

  At last she gave a slight dip of her head, “Preparation, is different from safety, for that reason I will give my blessings to your efforts Meallán.”

  Equally frustrated, though he did not say anything further on the topic of their preparations for their departure from Vargrsteinn, Meallán looked as though he wished to leave the nun behind in the city.

  “I shall see to the preparations in the city itself, though I doubt that my efforts shall go unnoticed,” He concluded after several minutes.

  “Aye, for the Jarl is not wont to let Cormac leave his presence,” Marian grumbled irritably, with a hard stare in the direction of the man in question. “I may appreciate his sense of loyalty, and good intent, but if we were to heed his counsel we would never leave this place and the Blood-Gem would taint the whole of this world.”

  This being the first mention made of the Bane of Aganippe in some time that Cormac had heard, he naturally grew curious of where the old woman had hidden it. He could hardly be blamed, for he had not felt its influence in some time, where ordinarily it felt as though it weighed continuously upon his mind and heart.

  “Where is the Blood-Gem? I have not felt particularly short, in any way since my arrival where once it felt as though the gemstone made everyone more ill-tempered than they are by nature.” Cormac said worriedly with many glances all about them, for fear that he might have said too much, and that those around them were listening in on them. It was a sentiment that he knew his friends shared, especially with so many eyes seeming to fix themselves upon them.

  Marian was the most at ease of them all, saying to the youth, “I have indeed as you well know hidden it lad, I must correct you upon one matter as I have observed during my time with the gem; it does not simply make you more volatile. But rather, it can be cunning, preying upon your vices and foibles as a man, when it sees that it would be best to work using subterfuge. Therefore do not underestimate it, lad.”

  Annoyed by this correction, Cormac repeated the first part of his question, “Where have you hidden it? May we know?”

  Marian answered breezily, to his question and the curious gaze of the man from ériu, “I have hidden it if you must know such things, on the isle of Estrivik, just to the north-east of the eastern bay, of this city. Few men tread there and as it is only approachable by boat most times of the year, is uninhabited and is accessible on foot only several times a year, when the tide changes.”

  Amazed by her knowledge of the locality, as he was by her foresight, Cormac could only remark, “I did not see this island, when I was arriving.”

  “It is sometimes hidden by fog, which was why I myself did not notice it the first day of my own arrival in this place either lad,” She answered with a cheerful laugh.

  “I was no more aware than you Cormac, of her choice in hiding places, and it strikes me as particularly goodly. I must commend you Sister Marian, and here I had thought you a little absent-minded and neglectful of practical matters.” Meallán admitted with visible embarrassment, which served to amuse her all the more.

  “Practical matters are only a transient thing, temporary and hardly as practical as you might deem it, my friend. In time you will understand, what it means to be truly practical,” She said in something of a coy voice that had a touch of sorrow.

  Nodding his head respectfully to her, the érian took her criticism to heart. He was never to forget it either, bearing in mind ever afterwards, the truth of her words and pondering about them for many days to come.

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