There was little talk after this angry exchange.

  They were to travel for another two days up the river, so that they had to camp themselves upon the north-shore, as none had any desire to encamp upon the southern one. It was after dusk had begun to fall, and two fires had been lit that Daegan noticed how the tension of the camp had not faded.

  “It is both the fault of those imbecilic Elves, and that of the pig,” Fergus grumbled never one to mince his words when he thought it appropriate.

  “Aye,” Ronald agreed at once, his brow furrowing as he added, “Brother I must confess to agreeing with him.”

  “Who?”

  “Connor, he is right in that more respect ought to be given to Arduinna,” the sorcerer snapped irritably, “Do not be so thick.”

  “I could be as thick as you yourself, are,” Fergus growled back ere he considered the other Tigrun’s words, “Such is the way of the world. Elves are indeed longer lived than the rest of us, though if they never venture out into the world they do not age properly, and grow. It is only through hardship and seeing the world beyond our house-walls that we grow.”

  Hearing these words made Daegan think. She wondered what they would say about how none of her maternal relatives had ever truly gone beyond the boundaries, of Glasvhail. Neither had Kenna now that she thought about it, does this mean that according to Fergus she had never experienced the world properly?

  It was a line of thought that Daegan did not much like, so she squashed it.

  Edging closer to the Elves she found Kyrenas purposely interposing himself betwixt Glarald and Aragwyn much to the former’s visibly growing frustration. As to the latter, she did not appear to notice and took his interference in hand, apparently considering it almost natural. It was towards her brother she reserved some of her irritation towards, snapping at him as she often did Lauma, who attempted to undermine her or quarrel with her as often as possible.

  Miserable, Calandra could only observe them with a dispirited look in her eyes, approaching Daegan asked of her, full of pity for the only one of the Elves she might have otherwise truly considered her friend (outside Glarald of course). “It appears that Glarald may have found love.”

  Her remark was received but poorly, with the younger of Arduinna’s daughters complaining to her, “Do not sound so pleased Daegan.”

  “Why? Should love not be something that all rejoice in,” Daegan asked of her friend disapproving of the disapprobation her friend showed towards Glarald’s visible affection for Aragwyn.

  Calandra studied her closely. It was as though she were in search for something, as though she were suspicious that the Caled-lass were attempting to mislead her in some fashion. This affronted the younger woman, who could not imagine mocking or lying about her desire to support a friend.

  “Aye, love is something we ought to encourage… save when it binds together we Alfar with those not of our own tribe or peoples. Glarald’s love for humanity was perplexing enough, but now that he wishes to love a Mountain-Elf, this could only end in further tragedy.” Calandra persisted sharply, huffing a little at the implication. “It would be more appropriate for him, to wait until we meet fellow Wilder-Elves and to find love with one of them.”

  “Daegan, I require your assistance, can you come lend us your aid in the changing of Lyr’s bandages?” Bardulf called from the other fire, his voice firm and strict as it always when it was a task he placed particular importance upon. Reluctantly, as she never did like to balk from any sort of battle, Daegan hurried over thither to stand by him, marking it in her spirit to return hither to end her struggle with the Elf-maiden. Once she had bent down to aid Lyr who was in the midst of eating, and discussing ériu’s history with some of the intrigued Moutnain-Elves recounting to them the tale of his grandfather who fell for a mermaid-princess Bardulf said to her. “Tread lightly, in matters of love and their tribes’ princess of Gallia.”

  Angered by his reprimand, for she despised to be treated so by any others than Kenna or Corin in this way, she snapped. “It is hardly your concern Bardulf; I merely wished to try to lend my assistance to Glarald. Love is after-all of the greatest interest to we women, regardless where it is found, for we women crave it by nature, not only for ourselves but those we hold dearest.”

  Bardulf appeared to take her words seriously, smiling a little if in a pained manner, “Something we dogs and wolves also tend towards. I must caution you, for such concern and offers of assistance are rarely forgotten by the Elves. I do not think Selvan’s heir, or Arduinna’s kindred would welcome your interference. Hereafter, I would prefer if you stayed near, and kept away from interfering, for your own safety if no other.”

  Daegan could only grumble under her breath, feeling chaffed as she might have when her father sought to scold her for hasty, hot-tempered words towards Cormac. Why did older men scold her so frequently, on the matter of her ‘intervening’ in the lives and loves of others? It was hardly any concern of theirs, she complained to herself wishing he would fall quiet once more.

  “Oh do leave her be, Bardulf, I daresay the lass did some good,” Lyr grunted gruffly, after he had thanked her for changing his bandages and helped him with his wounds. Smiling at her, in the same fraternal manner that Solamh or Indulf might have, he added. “My dear Mabel might well, have intervened far more.”

  It was the first they heard of that name. it was certainly an érian name. Some of the Elves glanced up curiously, with Connor chuckling just as the Tigrun brothers did at the mention of this Mabel. She suspected it to by his wife, but was not certain.

  Confused, Daegan asked of him, “Who is this Mabel? Your bride?”

  At this Connor teased, nudging his friend as he did so, “She might well be his goddess; for all that he dotes upon this princess of his!”

  The youthful prince of twenty some years smiled at this remark, “Mabel is the daughter of Rional, my father’s adoptive sister and the daughter of Fearghal. She is the fairest maid that ever graced the whole of the Emerald-Isle!”

  Intrigued by this talk of a wife, as she had never heard the prince speak of this Mabel, Daegan asked him, “I have never heard you speak of this princess of yours.”

  “Aye, I try to not speak of her or our sons, lest I should be laid low by the force, of my own longing to see them and my father.” Lyr admitted earnestly, only to cough and regain some of his composure, “But never you mind them, it is time for us all to get to sleep, lest we should be useless on the morrow.”

  *****

  It was upon the following day with the order of those upon the boats changed if only slightly, so that Daegan had taken up Glarald’s post upon the Elf-boat. An arrangement that hardly suited the likes of either Glarald or Andvari, for one was displeased at being separated from Aragwyn and the other from the daughter of Corin. The Dwarf of course kicked up quite the fuss, out of concern for Daegan, whom he had sworn to protect in the name of Cormac. Ignoring him, the vast majority of the travelers simply pressed for the ‘Elves-boat’ to depart first.

  Once out at sea, placed betwixt Lauma and Aragwyn both of whom went on to glower at one another, which was not assisted by Kyrenas who went on to glare at the back of Selvan’s daughter.

  Clearing her throat, Daegan only drew several annoyed glances wherefore she glanced out across the distant northern plains. Miserable, she resorted to as always song and poetry to raise her spirits at such a time.

  “East strode the conquering King,

  Of whom more deeds can any sing,

  The Pechs did he lay low,

  The battle had the Riadans awarded splendour,

  And decreed that the elder

  Should serve the younger,

  And to that award they did bow,

  Not Pechish blood lone,

  Nor Caled blood alone,

  But the two streams commingled in grandeur.”

  As her song neared its end, Lauma muttered, “What a terrible song, and horrid man to have betrayed his word as he had.”

  “I shan’t agree,” Aragwyn said quietly, “He did what he had to, it seems. Besides, it is said that Cináed had a touch of you Wilder-Elves in him, through his grandfather Achaius. Thusly, it can be said that treachery was in his blood.”

  “Silence lass, you speak of things you know little of,” Kyrenas snapped shortly.

  “Oh by the gods! ‘Tis simply a song! Who are you Elves to gainsay against Cináed who I will have you know ruled well and wisely, loving all of his people both Pechs and Ríocht-Riada!” Daegan shrieked her terrible mood borne from little sleep, because of the noise caused by her equally sleepless companions and from their continuous bickering. “How is it that Glarald can be so kindly to all upon this boat, and yet not a one of you can pretend to be?

  Are we not united in a common cause; that is to say the destruction of the Blood-Gem and the Dark Laird?” Her words surprised them, what confounded them all the more, was her next few words, “For this reason and for the fact that none of you can claim Cináed as your own as I can. I shall hear no more, of your complaints and forbid you all from speaking so mindlessly again.”

  Lauma pouting grumbled, “I have no reason to obey you.”

  “Silence Lauma,” Kyrenas ordered from between his clenched lips, ere he murmured, “She is wise to speak as she does.”

  The Wilder-Elves were to thus do as bidden, so that a good deal of the journey that day was an awkward quiet affair. This pleased Daegan far more, than any of their previous exchanges of hot-tempered words or haughty glares.

  It was to be Aragwyn though who grew uncomfortable, first and to break the silence with an intrigued glance in Daegan’s direction ere she addressed her. “You Caleds… you lot also come from the mountains, is that correct?”

  “Aye, though I lived near the Firth,” Daegan retorted stiffly. “And my father was a great laird of Gallia’s son, and is of royal stock.”

  “Is he now?” This apparently fascinated the Mountain-Elf, who pressed her for more about this detail, “How so?”

  “He is son of the Mormaer of Forlarin, or ‘Count’ as they term the title,” Daegan explained with considerable joy, pleased to have so eager an audience to her glorious familial history. “My grandfather had for wife the eldest of Duc Clovis’ daughters, from before his marriage to Bertrade de Sudron, the Red-Princess. This daughter was named Augustine, and she mothered my beloved father Corin, named for his great-uncle the grand maréchal of Forlarin. So there you have it, we are of royal stock because Clovis’ sons, Juste and Guillaume claimed the throne of Gallia.”

  It was a grand history of her family, and though some such as Lyr snorted at it as did Ronald and Fergus, thinking her little more than a pretentious wee lass with foolish dreams in her head. Others such as Bardulf remained quiet, a small if sad smile upon his lips.

  The greatest doubter though was to be Lauma, who snorted under her breath, “And how pray-tell lass did you come to be in Caledonia, if you truly are of such royal stock as you claim to be?”

  Disliking her tone, Daegan scowled back at her, “My father washed ashore near Glasvhail which is infamous for its many tempestuous storms, it was thereupon the shore he set eyes upon my mama Olith and wed her.”

  “A remarkable tale,” Aragwyn said with a small smile, “I do hope it is true.”

  This did not much please Daegan much more. Because it sounded to her ears, as though the huntress of the Sagndar had her own doubts, to the veracity of her family-line, which was a source of profound pride for the Caled-lass.

  It was Kyrenas who surprisingly came to her defence, “Who is to say that she is not royalty? Far stranger things have taken place in the history of this world. I daresay far stranger things may yet come to pass.”

  Pleased by his words, Daegan felt her cheeks split in a wide-smile, flushed with victory and joy at his words. They were the finest, most cogent defence for what was the second to most important to her in her life.

  Aragwyn for her part looked from the Elf, who had ceased to glare at her, in favour of looking northwards. To the north galloped a herd of horses that charged along the plains, proud and strong as Daegan felt at that moment. Their fur bright white, grey and in some cases dark with their muscles bunching up along their legs, as they lifted them up then thundered back down. These horses’ hooves thundered so loudly, so powerfully did they echo across all the vast green fields. They echoed all the more loudly and mightily in the heart of the Caled-lass, who felt as indomitable as those horses at that moment.

  “I suppose, you are right,” Said Aragwyn with a smile slowly climbing, up onto her heart-shaped face.

  *****

  The river ended near to the city of Dytikástro. The buildings were grander than most upon the island of Antillia, most of which were three storeys in size and made of mud-brick, wood and regular stones. How they got mud-bricks built up in the land of the Misty-Island, was a mystery to any observer.

  Their temples were not built as those of the rest of those of North-Agenor were, built more rectangular and squarely with marble stones. While the outer edges of the village’s homes in disrepair, the inner part of the city which was built more solidly.

  Circular in nature, the city’s temples near the center along with three castles with large dungeons and four towers apiece, each built upon large mounds and behind twelve meter-high walls. The city could well have passed as a fair imitation of the fair cities of Roma, or of Quirinas, with it the first example of a classic city that Daegan ever bore witness to.

  At a distance the castles that dominated the land appeared as temples, in the mould of the temples but upon closer inspection one could easily discern that they were no such things. Grey-stoned and defiant, they slightly more angular and less rounded than Gallian keeps, and had square towers, with the main dungeon divided into seven parts with lesser ‘squares’.

  The outer-walls were one hundred and thirty meters high, defiant and proud, made of red-sandstone they were six meters thick and painted with the image of the curly-haired, dusky-haired face of their goddess. The goddess was Roma, or as she was known by the Romalians, ere she was renamed when shipped over to the isle of Namavo off the coast of South-Agenor; Namaia. A war-goddess, her face was painted and affixed with cerulean stones, rubies and emeralds along with gold and silver where her eyes were.

  Onyx stones and black-steel imported from the Moutnain-Dwarves’ kingdom were also affixed where her eyes were, but mostly used to define her hair and war-helm. It was the silver that was used to define her ivory skin that most caught the eye, with this emblem emblazoned upon the city-gates by the master-builders who had first planned and built the cities.

  The river reached some distance into the city, with the outer walls encircled around a portion of the aforementioned river. The port’s quay though was nigh on empty, so that there were few means by which the people could truly have stopped their entry.

  Seeing them drift down the river, the men and women in the fields stared at them. Dressed in simple tunics and trousers, not unlike those that Gallians might have, with the women all dressed in long dresses. Their clothes were brown, grey, green and red as the woollen cloths of Caleds or Gallians might well have been.

  Looking up in the fields, they gaped at the new arrivals that held their heads high with Aragwyn, éothérod and the Mountain-Elf guards that accompanied them, urged them to disembark several leagues away from the city.

  *****

  “This is as far as we can accompany you all,” Aragwyn stated visibly reluctant, “We shan’t approach any closer to the city of the Amazons, than we already have.”

  “Why is that?” Connor queried of the Elf-maid, who along with the rest of her people glanced about all about themselves, at the gaping peasants.

  “Because, the Amazon-warriors and holy-men think us, ungodly demons to be hunted,” éothérod explained with a pinched expression.

  Few were more pleased than he, when Glarald clasped his arm with his hand, an expression of respect and earnestness upon his handsome face. “Aye, but we know the truth, none of you are any such thing but are, our brothers.”

  Visibly moved by this remark, éothérod was to clasp his arm in return. Brotherhood all but sealed between them at that moment, as was right. If Glarald felt himself to be kin to these people as he was to Arduinna, his kinsmen did not wholly agree with his sentiments. Kyrenas maintained his distance, as did Lauma and Calandra. None of them felt then, the same keenness for their mountainous cousins that Glarald did.

  “We shall if such is the case, wait outside the city, in the woods that lie to the north-east of it,” Kyrenas informed Bardulf who nodded his head in response.

  “How will we find you there?” Lyr asked of them worried, with a mistrustful glance to the large seemingly pristine city of the Amazons.

  “We will find you,” Lauma retorted evenly, ere the Wilder-Elves departed, though not without a few whispered words spoken from Aragwyn to Glarald. Both of them appearing reluctant to see one another go, to the resentment of Glarald’s kin, and amusement of the érians who were to tease him for quite some time after, over his ‘lady-love’.

  His cheeks flushing red at these remarks, he shoved Lyr back a little, nearly pushing him into the water, only for the prince to be caught by his guard. Cackling the two of them, trailed not far behind the Wilder-Elves who began to run past the fields, past frightened peasants who let loose great shrieks of terror. None of them keen to be near them, for fear that they themselves might be cursed.

  It as they moved to leave the boats behind them, Bardulf was stopped by the Elves after he had stepped off the small row-boat that had carried him, through the heartland of Antillia.

  Speaking in a hurried voice, éothérod murmured to him, “Tread lightly within the city Elf-friend, for they do not care for you beast-folks or we, Elves as my father or people do. They may tolerate Minotaurs and Ratvians, who are subservient by nature but not Wolframs or Tigruns. For they are the heirs of Thrasoneira and she was ever, a blood-thirsty woman, worthy of the Jarls of the north at their very worst.”

  “Also keep away from the slave-markets, for they are sure to think to enchain you also,” Aragwyn advised gently, a hint of her prior sternness.

  It was a stark warning, one that might well have been delivered by the likes of Wulfnoth, had he been present at hand with them. It was one that they all took with utmost seriousness at once. The very notion of slavery was anathema to those from Bretwealda. For some such as the Wolfram and Caleds, they had never practiced slavery, nor had any of their ancestors going back a thousand generations.

  They did not however make it into the city unhindered, for it was a short distance away from the city that news had begun to circulate, of demons accompanied by a motley of people upon their boats. This news had of course garnered the attention of the local guards and scouts.

  It was they who had been tasked since olden times with maintaining the safety of the city that were to round upon the group as they crossed through the fields towards the city. There being no proper road, no route into the city save through the fields of tomatoes and peach-trees. For the Amazons were great lovers of peaches, as they were of pork and beef, so that these along with grazing cattle were what their farmers primarily worked upon in the vast fields given to them to tend.

  The guards approached upon horseback, though not as formidable as cavalry, as the knights of Gallia were, they were nonetheless mighty, beefy warriors by nature. The lot of them pranced about on horseback formidable in their black-steel hauberks and ring-mail chainmail, made with techniques stolen from the Dwarves.

  Each of those dark-haired tanned men was formidably built, with great war-helms shaped as cones with a beak-shaped opening for their faces and with lions atop their peaks. These were the ‘lion-helms’ of the Amazons, worn since the days of Hypolita and carried across the waves of Namavo to the lands of South-Agenor.

  Their chief was a tall, lion of a man with a great mane of hair, his beard thick and dark as only his midnight-hair could be, with his eyes just as dark. He was dressed in a hauberk that gleamed with the image of a dark-gold lion upon it, his arms free to the world and thick as tree-trunks. He could not have been older than Corin himself, and was nigh on as majestic at that moment.

  His loud was a great bellow also, and was as defiant as it was proud, “Who are you who approach the city of Dytikástro?”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  When he spoke it was in the tongue of the Norsemen, so that all stared in bewilderment for a moment. None had expected to hear those descended from the Amazons, to speak any other tongue than Namavian or Dorian, and yet they spoke the Arnish language.

  This was because of the North’s colonising of the lands of Namavo over the course of the past three centuries, so that in the south they clung still to the traditions passed down to them by their ancestors. The men and women of Namavo had come to intermingle themselves with the Northerners, with those upon the Misty-Island guilty of having done so far more, themselves.

  Their colonial kingdom of Vórástra had in the days since the fall of Derimacheia and Anameia, and the coronation of Thrasoneira fallen to a petty-kinglet state that paled in comparison to its former glories. Once they had spoken purely the language of their forefathers that time, though had long-since past.

  Fluent in the tongue, as her father had had the foresight to have her taught it by Freygils’ kin and by Indulf, who was himself the finest speaker in the language of the Arns in all of Glasvhail. Daegan thus understood every last word that the man spoke, which was a relief to her.

  What was more was that all those who were part of their troupe understood the language, with Andvari the one who best understood his words.

  In this spirit they felt suitably cheerful, in spite of how they were all fairly cautious. None trusted this man, and all knew he did not trust them one inch. There was something tempestuous about him, some inner passion in his very nature that was all the more noticeable than even that of Lyr.

  The crown prince of ériu, partially raised in the Arnish city of Fialinn was to demonstrate some of his dignity and regal nature, at that moment. Declaring louder than the Amazon-man, as though he felt he had to out-shout him. “We are travelers here only in passing, with the hope to meet friends of ours, ere we shall depart from your lands at once.”

  These words might well have persuaded any man in ériu, to heed his wishes but they were not upon the Emerald-Isle.

  “And who are you?” Connor decided to ask of the human, not liking how some of the men present at hand greeted him, or Bardulf glowering at them with open hostility. Nettled he would not admit to it, the Bairaz knew himself not to be welcome, and he could not know it at once, many of his people had found themselves in the Dark Laird’s forces.

  Shifting his glare to the Tigruns, who for their part met his glare with their own in the case of Ronald and an even if suspicious stare on Fergus’ part, the Amazon answered them. “I am Stamatios, chief of the city-watch and brother to the lady Prithia, ruler of these lands.”

  The name he mentioned as ruler of the city was one which none recognised. His name was a Dorian one, and thus few had any familiarity with the meaning of.

  Only Andvari recognised the name, and it fell upon him to speak for them, “We have no wish to offend only to pass through your lands unimpeded.”

  It was with a start that Daegan realized he was being submissive, which was unusual for him, not fully grasping quite why, she chortled, “Why change our minds? Aye, he looks formidable, but was surely as my father’s name is Corin, we will wait hereby the city for our friends as we were counselled.”

  It was the name of her father that evoked a reaction from the Amazon, who had previously studied them with keen interest. Staring at them, Stamatios addressed them with a pensive if worried look in his eyes, “Did you say Corin? As in Corin of Forlarin, the blacksmith?”

  The familiarity he showed towards her father’s name, pleased Daegan who affirmed this fact at once with a white-toothed smile, “But of course, aye he is my papa as I have said very clearly to you, Stamatios of Dytikástro.”

  It was at this moment as the guards muttered to themselves that the man informed them with a sorrowful expression of resignation, “I must insist then that you come with me.”

  “Else? Will you slay us if we do not comply with your wishes, prince of Dytikástro?” Bardulf asked with a dark frown upon his long canine-lips.

  The title appeared to amuse the scout who could not resist a short laugh, ere he shook his head informing them, “Not at all, this is by no means an order but rather a request I submit to you. I have no wish for violence, contrary to what you may think Wolfram; I bear you no ill will.” When this failed to impress any of them, or persuade them of the earnestness of his word he swore to them a mighty oath, “I swear in the name of Namaia, the oath-binder and destroyer of oath-breakers that no harm shall befall you while, you are within the city. That I shall never do you harm, so long as you lie or stand within her walls.”

  This pleased them; though Daegan herself felt her hackles remain elevated. She had heard much of the Amazons, and had thought them great warrioresses rather than warriors. It was this along with the light tone he used when speaking his oath that troubled her. Such oaths and promises ought to have been sworn with the utmost seriousness.

  The only ones of her companions that appeared to be troubled also were Bardulf, and of course the crafty Ronald. Both of whom continued to hesitate.

  It was to be the latter who uttered when his brother insisted that they enter the city, “I go, but I daresay that there shall be a price to this entry.”

  “Bah, enough with your prices and your worrying wizard,” Lyr muttered with great cheer, keen to have a bath and to enjoy for the first time in weeks civilised company. His wounds also pained him so that he had no great desire to hear of hesitation on his friends’ parts.

  *****

  The interior of the city was all the more magnificent than what it appeared from outside its great walls. These walls that upon closer inspection were painted over with the image of the goddess Namaia, and that of Zisa, the war-goddess who had for purview strategy and just-warfare, so that her symbol was a ruling sceptre. So that the two goddesses were mirror images of one another, in a lot of ways with one depicted with bronze-hair the other with onyx hair, yet both depicted as ivory-skinned.

  Both were depicted on each of the houses as wearing Romalian styled dresses tied at the shoulders, and at times depicted opposite from the Romalian armoured war-god Ziu-Mars. With his thick beard blonde beard and long curly hair, and ivory skin, with bronze armour so that he was a match for his mother Zisa, his long-sword upraised.

  These three war-gods were favoured by the Amazons, and it was to them that they dedicated each of their greatest temples. Certainly they had a temple to Pluton or Orcus as those of North-Agenor termed him, and the love-goddess Venus to whom he was married, respectively.

  Each of these temples was bedecked with magnificent marble columns that supported them and had before them large marble statues of these diverse gods. Zisa had her hair and jewellery bedecked with bronze, Roma with onyx, Ziu-Mars rubies, Venus emeralds. As to Pluton he had strangest of all white-shining jewels that drew the eye and that reflected all the colours of the suns.

  “What are those gems?” Daegan questioned pointing at them, only for her hand to be forcibly lowered by Stamatios.

  “They are pearls of a rare breed found here, the Centaurs and other local peoples, call them ‘neamhngeal’ that is to say ‘white-pearls’.” Stamatios answered irreverently, the name meaning naught to him for he was not of a nature to care for such things.

  Quite what it was that he cared for was a mystery to them, as they passed the bright-shining gemstones that had somehow been engraved upon the marble statues of Pluton. Pluton was depicted with his roll of parchment upon which was the name of all the sins, and virtuous deeds that all individuals had performed, in their lifetime.

  The next great-building that they saw was that of the castle or rather palace of Prithia, ostentatious and magnificent it was as previously described built in the Dorian style. This meant that it had more in common with the Romalian and Dorian domus save on a larger scale. Large gates with the image of Namaia engraved onto them, the keep had four towers, with dungeon and towers alike looming high.

  The interior when they entered it was large with the finely woven tapestries of ancient battles and of great figures from the history of Prithia’s line. These figures included the likes of Derimacheia and Anameia, with their great victories over the Centaurs, then their great losses against the Arns. Anameia’s love-story with Eindriei was not excluded, with it depicted with considerable honour for though the Amazons were typically warrior-women they were nonetheless women.

  There were the battles of Derimacheia and Anameia’s successors, mostly those involving their many struggles against the likes of the Centaurs farther west of their lands, their ancient enemies the Arns and also the Dwarves.

  Some figures such as Euryale Pink-Mantle was notable for having clung to her pink-mantle even well into adulthood. This in spite of the shame that the colour had brought her, for Amazon warriors were expected to wear red, purple, dark or white mantles. Pink was specifically a colour for young lasses, and yet this particular warrior was said to have defiantly worn her favoured colour. It was she who had pushed back the Deep-Dwarves back to their caverns a century prior, at the battle of Iolvangr.

  Her son was Zinon Wyvern-Slayer, renowned for having slain a wyvern he did so in the mountains of Dòraican, it was thereupon those peaks that he slew the green beast. Zinon did so to save his young daughter Euryale II herself the grandmother of Prithia, as she was carried off at five years of age by the beast. It was he who had scaled the mountain, hatchet in hand and who had endured the heights and cold for his eldest child.

  It was this tapestry of the eight in the hall that most attracted Daegan’s eye, for the sight of the great mountains, the figure climbing them with his head always upraised and his hatchet slung over his shoulder awed her. It along with the later image of him battle with the wyvern, pleased Daegan and reminded her rather strongly of Corin.

  Seated upon a throne crudely made from marble, was the lady Prithia. A woman of some forty or fifty years, she was dark-grey haired with faded dark eyes, a weary air to her and was dressed in a long flowing grey dress. The dress itself was finely made, tied at the shoulders as the Romalian dresses in yonder ages before this one were, though she wore a thick bear-cloak over her shoulders.

  This cloak was tied together with a bear-head, a sacred animal in the eyes of the descendants of Thrasoneira, for its motherly qualities. The brooch itself was strangely made of simple wood, and though none who set eyes upon it thought much of it. It was Prithia’s most prized possession.

  *****

  Presented before Prithia, it fell upon Stamatios to represent them. This he did with utmost fidelity, leal in spirit at that moment he had no thought other than to spare them, the very worst of fates. Begging that they allow him, to plead their case, as they advanced into the grandiose hall that could well have been a temple-hall, so long and majestic did it appear.

  “Very well,” Lyr said though he added rather hastily, “If only it means I could sit, for my wounds pain me so.”

  Stamatios had a chair to one side pulled up for him, and then ordered the servant who had done this favour; go on to fetch his sister’s physician.

  Appreciative for the kindness behind this gesture Lyr gratefully seated himself to one side, with Connor fretting over him and the ruler of Dytikástro’s physician, a bent old man inspected his bandages and wounds. The old man was swift to complain, about Lyr having journeyed with them and the danger this could pose to his health.

  As this took place, Stamatios presented the rest of them to his sister, saying to her, “Milady sister, these strangers have invaded the sovereignty of our lands.”

  No sooner had he begun, than he was interrupted by the distracted lady, who eyes strictly upon her stitches, “Rather like the others we caught the other day?”

  “Aye, these ones though were-” Stamatios began once again, eager to further elucidate on the matter of those he had ‘caught’.

  He was interrupted once more, by the lady who sat alone save for the male-guards that stood by each of the six doors that led in and out of this great hall. “Why are you bothering me with these prisoners, when I have instructed you in the past that, I had no further wish to see any? Not after the manner in which they troubled Otrera.”

  “But milady, they came pleading to see Corin of Forlarin,” Stamatios at last got out, his voice frustrated despite the exaggerated patience he had adopted. “I thought only that, his daughter had a right to see him.”

  This caught the woman’s attention. When she raised her face to properly envisage them, she revealed a face that bore four scars, two that did not quite meet on her left cheek, one on her forehead just above, her right-brow and one just below it next to her eye. She was also when she stood revealed to be quite tall, a little more so than Stamatios. The city-guardsman was himself near to give-feet ten with the old woman towering over him easily, her muscled arms bunched up as she threw herself forward towards him.

  “What did you say to me?” She asked in a voice full of menace, one that made her younger brother quail back a little, visibly daunted. “I ordered that that name be banished from my presence, the moment that thief was imprisoned!”

  This was more than Daegan could bear, throwing herself forward with a yell, she was to commit sacrilege in the eyes of the lady Prithia, “Nay! My papa is no thief, and you will restore to him his freedom forthwith. No wrong he may have committed, could possibly warrant imprisonment!”

  Her friends sought to restrain her, none more so than Andvari who hissed at her to be mindful of where she was, and who she stood before. Yet the lass from Glasvhail would not be restrained, nor would she be silenced, not at such a time. It was her father who was at stake, and she knew her friends to be of a reasonable mind and leal in heart in their desire to safeguard her.

  “Tread lightly Daegan,” Andvari warned earnestly, full of manly worry for what was the love of his greatest friend.

  It was with a startled look that the formidable, towering woman before her considered the shorter lass, as though she had never seen such a lass before. Indeed she had not, for Daegan was the first Caled-lass she ever beheld, and what could the lasses of other nations compare with those of Caledonia the brave?

  Here was the flower of Caledonia, one who did not shirk from her own Amazonian gaze, as proud as Corin the smith could ever show himself to be.

  “Who would have thought that that dishonourable lout could produce such a daughter?” Prithia muttered to herself, almost enviously. “A daughter who could make any mother proud of, for standing her ground before I, Prithia Strong-Arms.”

  “Or any father,” Bardulf corrected helpfully, only to meet the old woman’s stern gaze when she at last directed her sharp stare in his direction. Any other would have flinched, but not the heir of Griogair, he only stared back evenly. The only one of them to be willing to do so, for which he was given a slight nod of approval, from Prithia.

  Daegan approved of his correction, grateful to him for adding his voice in the defence of the honour of her father.

  “You see sister?” Stamatios said softly, “They love her father so, if for no other reason than respect for this bond, might we not show a little leniency towards this Corin? He has done little real harm.”

  “He sought to steal one of my finest horses, and has aided three slaves from the markets in their escape,” Prithia snapped at him irritably, not seeing quite why he wished to defend Corin. “And what difference is it to you, brother? Do you think that defending this man will redeem your honour after all the failures it has been made to endure?”

  This was a horrid statement, to utter towards one’s brother. The blow was a terrible one, to the dignity and very being of Stamatios. The effects of her cruel words were visible upon his mien and his indrawn breath.

  “Sister, I do this out of understanding that were it you, in those cells and she in your place I would do as this Daegan has,” Stamatios answered meeting her gaze sincerely.

  His words which all of them expected her to reject at once, had the desired effect upon her. Visibly moved in spite of herself, the matriarch of the city of Dytikástro at last let loose a great breath ere she gave in.

  Calling for one of her handmaidens, who were never very far from her own presence, she informed the lass who wore a simpler white dress than that of her mistress. “Go inform the guards and my niece, Otrera that she may have what she wishes; Corin of Forlarin will be escorted from his cell into the light of day. I would not however, have him brought before me again… not after all that he has done to shame this house and city.”

  *****

  They were escorted from her presence by the handmaiden, named Dalara, who was immensely friendly towards Stamatios who weary would not however leave them alone. It was not right he argued, for him to seek his bed until he had ensured that, they had seen Corin themselves.

  They were escorted through one hallway that turned left, with the lot of them walking past half score of rooms then down a set of stairs. They continued down a small hallway, with this one in marked contrast to the meticulously clean marble floor of the above-floor this one was filthy. From there they turned right, into a sparsely furnished room with but one chair in it, and nary enough room for them all.

  “I must leave you now,” Stamatios told them turning now to leave with a yawn, his great-weariness after days at work without sleep visible upon his face.

  “Before you go noble Stamatios, I must ask of you one last question,” Ronald interrupted, ever the clever one he added at the man’s questioning look. “Your sister spoke of others whom you have imprisoned, if I may ask would they be a youth with dark-sandy hair, the prince of Gwyneira and an old sorcerer.”

  At this question, he was given an open-mouthed astonished stare. This was all the answer that the Tigrun had need of, with several of his friends praising him for his perceptiveness. They had all (save for Bardulf) failed to properly take note of Prithia’s words.

  “Well-done brother,” Fergus praised, “For the first time since I have made your acquaintance, you have proven your wits!”

  “Agreed,” Connor snorted in agreement, nudging the Pardiff playfully in a fraternal manner pleased by his jest.

  Stamatios grimaced, “I shall see what I could do to assist them. My sister seized them for reasons that escape me. I shall have to have recourse to my niece, for it is she whom my sister is most attached to.”

  He departed then, with Fergus and Ronald deciding to go visit with their friends from Cymru, once the guards arrived with Corin. They were granted this privilege, at the prince’s request though not without the two guards scowling at them.

  They were not alone though, as Lyr was requested a room by Connor, who was to escort the prince of ériu from their presence. This last request was seen to with far more enthusiasm, than any of the others hitherto his asking for it.

  Visibly worn from weeks of poor-care, there was however still strength in how he held his head up high and in which he entered the room. His hair had grown quite a bit since last she saw him, and his beard was less well-cared for than Corin usually liked to keep it. Hardly a vain man, he did however like to keep his hair shorn short and beard well-trimmed, as that was how Olith had loved him.

  It was for this reason that the scraggly appearance of her father shocked Daegan. It was the closest she had ever come to see him looking defeated, a vision she had never imagined or wished to ever see.

  Hurrying to his side once the door had been securely closed behind the scowling guards, Daegan was to throw herself against him in a tight hug which left her head pressed against his chin. Corin for his own part took her into his arms with his own breath coming out somewhat haltingly.

  “Oh Dae, Dae! I have dreamt of this day,” He murmured to her sincerely, with utmost relief in his cracked hoarse voice. “Oh how the gods are good to have let me see you!”

  “Aye, good to me, and-oh what have they done to you?” Daegan asked as she looked up to his face, to see fresh new scars marring his once nigh unmarred face.

  Soon his smile disappeared to be replaced by a frown of worry, as a new thought came into his spirit. “Wait, how came you to be here?”

  At this question they explained to him at great-length their various adventures. When he heard of how Cormac had survived, Corin was to breath out a sigh of relief. A muttered prayer in his native Gallian, he encouraged them then to tell him more. This they did, so that he knew full well all that they had accomplished and hoped to do.

  It was when they asked him of his own adventures and how he came to be known as a thief and criminal that he grimaced.

  *****

  “It came about that I found myself washed up along the Auraewn river, I had thought myself lost in South-Agenor for a short time ere I heard the locals address me in a strange mixture of Caled and Nordic. It was as I sought to enter the city of Dytikástro that I was caught up by some of the city-guards, taken captive if briefly so. They thought me some sort of Dwarvish spy,” At this moment Corin’s tale was interrupted by Andvari who was to be punished with a collection of glowers by his friends.

  “I escaped though, for their captain was a particularly dull man by the name of Stamatios. Wherefore I sought to seize some of the ‘Warlady’ as the Amazons’ know their chieftain, horses. I had the opportunity to escape but seeing a family enslaved and to be sold in the markets, moved me foolishly to pity.

  ‘Away with you, away!’ I called out to the family of Dwarves, for of this race were they, seized from the south-west from near to the sea. They did not hesitate after I had slain the slaver, to throw themselves upon the charger, whereupon they charged from the city.

  It was in this manner that they sought to capture me, I however fought them off and even managed to defeat the foster-daughter of the Warlady, when she came to lead the city-guards against me. It was the Stamatios of whom I speak of, whom at last subdued me and handed me over to his half-sister who had me imprisoned at once. It was there under the keep that I was to endure the past weeks of pain and captivity, until I was joined by Indulf and his friends, for reasons that still escape me.”

  *****

  It was after he had concluded his tale that, he was escorted back to his cell. Something that Daegan protested against with all her heart and soul. She was ignored, and to be shoved aside by the said guards, while her father continued to struggle to maintain her gaze with his own, still overjoyed to see her.

  “Dae, Dae forget about me! You must escape this place ere they imprison you,” He called desperate for her safety which mattered more to him than his own self.

  “Papa! I will see you freed, no matter the cost!” She swore to him at once.

  She was held back though by Bardulf and Andvari, both of whom pulled her away from the door just as it slammed shut with enough finality to cut some of her hopes to pieces.

  *****

  It was later after they had been escorted to proper chambers upon the second floor of the building that they were told by the Tigruns, the tale of Indulf’s adventures. The chamber they were escorted into was a large lounging area, wherein there were bed-rolls placed, with there being only a few dogs for company and large windows that gave a splendid view of the Auraewn-River. These were the heroes’ first experience with ‘glass-windows’ for upon their arrival in the lands of the Misty-Island, the Amazons had captured Dwarven masons, who were well-familiarised with working glass.

  They had made the windows marvellous and large, so that one could have a perfect view of the river, with this loung-area leading to a bedroom via a small stair-case. That other room had apparently been given over for Daegan to sleep in. It had itself the same marble floor as elsewhere in the castle, a wooden-bed-frame covered with silk furnishings and feather-pillows along with bear-fur drapes also.

  The curtains were woven from dark velvet and silk, and were made of glass also. In all it was far more magnificent than the sleeping-area given over to her companions and filled Daegan with awkwardness and discomfort while her companions uttered nary a word of complaint.

  To the contrary, they appeared pleased that she had been treated with such regal favour, and were keen to set her at ease with her chambers. This only worsened her guilt towards them and her father’s present sleeping conditions.

  Despite her great grief at this second separation from her father, Daegan listened to the tale with avid interest. It filled her with mixed emotions though, for she was both by the end of it proud of Indulf for his accomplishments against the Sea-Drake and to her shame, full of jealousy. She wished it had been she who had achieved such glory.

  “Truly a deed worthy of a song,” Fergus pronounced with genuine admiration in his voice, “And here I had thought that after Mael-Bethad, and his contemporaries in ériu and Gwyneira that there were to be no further great-heroes born!”

  Those words only worsened the terrible envy that had embedded itself, into Daegan’s heart.

  “Save your poetry, for after we have escaped from this place,” Connor counselled impatiently, “Aye the lad did well. But he was foolish to drift along this way.”

  “If you were to ask me, my view of the matter I would say that the greater folly was in the attacking of that over-sized shark,” Ronald grumbled under his breath.

  “Indulf did something great and noble, therefore if you wish to speak ill of him I would prefer that you keep such views to yourselves.” Daegan countered at once, keen to quash her own inner-darkness that agreed with his words and to demonstrate how good a friend she was. She knew that if she wished to do so, she had to do at least this much.

  “What is more important is securing their freedom,” Bardulf said always the first to turn his mind to the most important questions and challenges that faced them.

  At this question they all fell to awkward silence. Lyr would have vouched for immediate action, but they had by this time left him with his physician in his chambers. They had succeeded in having Wiglaf moved to the same room, so that the same monk could attend him also.

  But where the young man was on his way back to haleness, the older one was hardly in any such shape. His wounds aggravated by days in a cell with nary a physician or druid to attend him, his health had become all the worst.

  The only thing that amused most of them was the knowledge that the whiny prince of Gwyneira had not been heeded by the guards, and had been left in his cell. This was possibly the only source of good humour that they were permitted access to by the gods, though it meant Indulf being punished for his valorous deeds with the prince’s company.

  The answer when it came came not from one of them but from the woman who stepped into the large room. She was tanned as all Namavians appeared to be, with a high-forehead, a long nose, long-fingers all traits that were reminiscent of Prithia and Stamatios. Her eyes were dark, her hair was browner and lighter than that of her aunt or uncle, and she wore a long-gowned Amazonian dress with her hair in the same Romalian braid as her aunt.

  There was also a nervousness to her, an apprehension and indecision that placed her at utter odds with her relatives. Hers was not the bravest nature, this they could discern at once with the young woman who had a dozen years over Daegan was however fair enough to the eye, to attract all of them.

  “I could assist you,” She offered in a soft feminine voice, her voice a little rougher than it ought to have been for a woman with so feminine a build. “That is if you truly intend to free Sir Corin of Gallia.”

  Mistrustful of her, they nonetheless turned now to her eager to hear what she had to say to them. Fergus said with no small amount of suspicion in his voice. “Why assist us? I assume that you are the princess Otrera that Pithia mentioned earlier during our encounter with her and your uncle?”

  Otrera nodded her head if shakily so, wringing her hands as she did so. It was evident she did not intend to make a show of it, but it brought attention to the gold bracelets and rings that decorated her wrists and fingers, if for but a brief moment.

  Every eye moved then to her slightly downturned gaze as she searched the floor for answers, in a gesture that squeezed every heart and filled them with pity, ere she at last answered Fergus’ question. “Because I do not wish to see harm befall Sir Corin.”

  “That is hardly a suitable answer,” Fergus persisted impatiently.

  “Aye,” Daegan agreed with similar irritation, adding her own anger to his own, if out of fear of this woman’s comportment.

  “Never you two mind, regardless your reasons milady, we will accept your assistance,” Ronald countered with a roll of his feline eyes. “What did you have in mind, when you spoke of aiding in the freeing of Corin?”

  Pleased by his willingness to accept her aid, Otrera immediately promised. “I had hoped that I may repay my debt to him, for such debts are a source of shame among my people.” There was pride there, and in her next words there was all the more. “This is how I have convinced, several of the guards, down in the prisons to aid in the release of your friends and Corin.”

  “What of those guards by the gates?” Daegan asked in a voice full of adversarial meaning, one that few of them quite took notice of. Being men, such challenges were most often delivered openly, and valorously rather than in such a petty, passive manner.

  It came about that the Tigruns noticed but preferred to say nothing, about her tone or words. Lyr might well have noticed accustomed as he was to it, but he was absent.

  Her cheeks were a darker shade of crimson and eyes lowered ever so slightly, in response to Daegan’s snide behaviour, she answered with commendable dignity. “My uncle Stamatios shall see to it that, they are absent.”

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