The forest by the palace of Hraukrheier was soon left behind them, just as the fields of Cuimín-plains also rapidly drifted behind them.

  The four of them rode long into the next day until the suns had arisen basking it in their light and warmth. Leaving darkness behind them in favour of the light of day, it was only when the river Oráiste came within view that they drew to a halt.

  The river was the shortest in all of Antilia, once the site of a small village one that had been reduced to ashes by Herleifr’s ancestors. It was also by this river that Wiglaf decided they should abandon their horses.

  “We must now set our dear, dear heroes and friends free,” He decided for them dismounting from his own mount in order to tear off the saddle and provisions upon it.

  “What do you mean when you say; abandon the horses?” Indulf asked incredulously, unable to believe his ears or his eyes. Why abandon their horses, when they were their only means by which they could continue to evade Herleifr and his supporters?

  Wiglaf appeared visibly affronted by his question, taking the time to glower at him until he quailed away and began to himself dismount. Once he stood before him, and had done as he was bid, the sorcerer retorted furiously, throwing away the saddle into the river. “I never said ‘abandon’ I said; free. We will set them free. Where we go, only misery awaits us and I would rather not burden the innocent with needless agony.”

  Bewildered with her legs thrown to one side of the steed, the princess who sat still where she had been pulled by Indulf looked from one man to the next. Startled and confused, she asked after the sorcerer’s actions, whereupon he informed her in her tongue what he had informed the rest of them mere seconds prior.

  The moment comprehension dawned upon her; she shook her head and crossed her arms in defiance.

  Impatient, Wiglaf snapped at her, “Ce n’est pas une requête, mais un ordre petite fille!” Slapping the rear of the steed with all the might in his body which caused it to let out a great cry ere it charged forward to the west away from the river. Wherefore the princess was thrown back off the horse and into the river. Adding without any scrap of compassion or patience in his voice, “There, now I say we depart from this place unless you care, to continue to bathe yourself in the Oráiste?”

  Certain she could not understand those words. Indulf could hardly resist a small snort of laughter. His chortles won him a stern glower now from the princess who extended her right-hand in an imperious gesture, once she had ceased spitting and wiping the water from her hair and face.

  “What folly, to abandon our horses now!” Colwyn cried out in shock and dismay, “Have you lost the last of your wits Wiglaf?”

  “Nay, but I shan’t say the same for you!” Wiglaf bellowed in a fury, rounding upon the last of their companions, the only one of them who had preferred to remain upon his horse. Stubbornly clinging to what little dignity he had over the rest of them, this hardly pleased the sorcerer who infuriated reached over for the reins.

  Slapping his hands away, Colwyn snapped at him, “Away! Away with your hands, old Wiglaf! What madness has overtaken you?”

  “No madness, I know that the members of that fool Herleifr’s scouting-parties will be searching for three men a-horse and one princess.” He growled at the younger Cymran, “And not I must remind you; a small boat drifting away up the river.”

  This explanation drew astonished glances from both of the younger men. Neither had foreseen this much preparation on the part of the old sorcerer, who was to take advantage of Colwyn’s surprise to push him now into the river and remove the saddle from the horse. Satisfied he urged the horse forward turned away and began to stomp away in the opposite direction to them.

  Still amazed by his revelation, the rest of them gave chase after the old sorcerer; Indulf asked of him, “What did you mean, when you spoke of a ‘boat’? I do not see a boat anywhere within sight of here.”

  “Likely he has lost the last of his wits,” Colwyn muttered to himself.

  Wiglaf was dismissive, “Because I did not waste my time, or halt to inform the enemy of our plans.” At this time he threw a dirty look, in the direction of the prince who was not the slightest bit abashed. “I spent some time in the company of Herleifr’s falcons wild as they were, with one in particular; Hugnor released the night ere we departed at last. It was he who was to warn, one of the few friends I have hereupon this island, of our plight and need for a boat.”

  Mystified by who this friend could be, only to be all the more alarmed at the thought of their fates having been entrusted to a falcon Indulf was to ask. “Wait a falcon? You entrusted our lives to a falcon? And what friend do you speak of? I had thought you had never visited this island before.”

  “Indeed I have not however before my return to the Lairdly-Island to meet with you all in the home of Arduinna, I consulted with my master Shaltair. A wise sorcerer, of untold wisdom it was he who advised that should the need arise to consult with Gallchobhair. He is master of the Tower of Iaranntùr to the distant west of here. His lands lie near those of the Centaurs, and those of the Deep-Dwarves who guard the westernmost region of the island.”

  “Wait, but how did you speak with Gallchobhair if he is in a tower to the distant west?” Colwyn interrupted shocked by the old man’s words.

  “I spoke with him, in a cup of mulled wine mixed with some herbs, now will you let me finish my tale, prince of Gwyneira and of fools?!” Wiglaf asked with it difficult to be able to determine whether his voice was more full of sarcasm or contempt.

  The river cut across the Cuimín fields which were amongst the vastest of all the fields, in all of Antilia. The forest of Beagtean little more than a distant thought, nary on the horizon with the ocean a nearby to the east, past the mouth of the small river.

  Searching about the shore of the river, he was to trip over the back of the boat which had been half buried under some hastily dug grass that had been hurriedly thrown over it. The rear of the ship beige and blending in with the sandy shore, thus had it remained hidden from view of all at a distant. Near the mouth of the river, the sorcerer fell face first into the water with a bellow of pain.

  “By the great bear of Tenjin, who left this plank of wood half-hidden under this undergrowth and sand?” Wiglaf shrieked clutching at his sore foot.

  Ecstatic, Indulf exclaimed, “Wiglaf you found it! This here is the boat! We are saved- oh wait what of the oars?”

  “Forget the oar, my foot hurts!”

  “I have found the oars,” Colwyn informed them kicking about near the boat near the small growth of grass that lay a little above where the edge of the eight-meter wide and twenty-league long river’s shore was.

  “Hurrah for us,” Indulf cheered with genuine enthusiasm, pulling at the boat with the prince. It was the first show of genuine joy on his part, through the whole of their adventure, and drew a stare of astonishment, from both the sorcerer and prince in question, after they had finished pulling the oars free. “What is it?”

  “It is simply that in all the time, we have known you Indulf of the village of Glasvhail, grim son of Freygil the fisherman and Ida the shepherdess, you have honestly been the most wrathful man I have ever met.” Colwyn told him in his long-winded eloquent manner, he then added with some humour, “And I include my good-brother in that long, long list of people.”

  “I was never so bad as all that,” Indulf grunted with a nasty look in the prince’s direction, “I’faith, to compare me so unfavourably to your good-brother is quite the insult.”

  Wiglaf appeared prepared to say something all the more insulting, than his fellow Cymran, only to seemingly think better of it.

  It was as they threw the boat into the sea and pushed it out from the river-mouth’s shore that Indulf, asked of his companions, “Whither are we headed to?”

  “We leave for the north it is there that we shall find Cormac, and that strange nun Marian I believe.” Wiglaf informed him, with a nod in the direction that he spoke of, looking rather uncertain as he spoke.

  *****

  Assigned the task of rowing, Indulf was to take up the lion’s share of the work in this regard. Colwyn as he discovered was incredibly disinterested in boating, and was also profoundly lazy by nature.

  A swift-tongued man accustomed to the gaining of what he wished for, verbally he had no utility for any truly difficult labour outside of stone-building and cattle-herding. Though he had little experience with boating himself, Indulf had considerably more than his companions as he soon discovered. For every man in Glasvhail was required to know how to man a small boat, row it and to swim.

  To his surprise and joy, though the princess Bérénice was skilled with an oar, certainly she had not the sort of strength he or Colwyn had physically. She did however admit through Wiglaf who translated for her that, she had on some occasions gone boating with her brothers, in the Roirne River.

  The principal river of Gallia as Corin had once taught him was one of the longest rivers known to man and was itself the ancestress of the royal line of Gallia, as Bérénice was proud to admit.

  “It was through my ancestor Giwald that, all those of us descended from the august Aemiliemagne are also the heirs of the sea itself. It was the Nymph the spirit of the river of the Roirne, who gave birth to the saintly King Giwald of the Faramondian line’s daughter- that is to say the first of the royal lines after the fall of Roma to rule over the lands now known as the Twelve Kingdoms or Gallia.

  It was Giwald who in his youth, encountered a maiden whilst upon a hunt one who saved him from drowning when he fell into the river, startled by the sight of her bathing, fell instantly in love with her.” This last part was said with such fervency that Wiglaf stared at her with an awed expression, and Colwyn smiled with a far off expression upon his face, thinking of his own wife, as he was oft wont to do whenever he heard such romantic tales.

  Bérénice continued undeterred with her tale, wherefore the old man translated the rest of her story. “It was Giwald the Holy who was to father the lady Geneviève, with this Nereid who fell at once in love with him also, and together they begat the wife of Gontran the Steel who was ancestor of the Aemiliens line. We have a song, one composed by my ancestress the ‘Princess of Poetry’ as she has been dubbed, for her excellent poems, I could sing for all of you.”

  When they had translated her long recounting of the tale of Giwald, Indulf thought it over. It was strange to think that he might have hesitated once, to hear such a tale once upon a time. At one time, so enraptured was he by love for Inga he had a passion for love-poems. His fervency for such things had once been comparable with that of his brother Trygve or Daegan herself.

  “Certainly, it should be delightful, though I would not expect much, from such a vulgar princess,” He said gruffly forcing himself to accept her offer.

  A small smile graced the bearded lips of Colwyn, whereupon he proceeded to translate all of his words for the princess. Affronted, Bérénice scowled at him and sought to smite him with her oar that which she had taken from the prince to contribute herself to the advance of their small ship.

  “Careful!” Wiglaf hissed at them, afraid that they may tip the boat.

  Sheepish, the two youths glowered at one another, ere long Colwyn cackling as might a hyena entreated her to sing the song of Giwald.

  With a huff and a glare over her shoulder at Indulf, the princess did at last deign to lift up her voice, in praise of her distant ancestor.

  “O Roi, o Roi sacré,

  Par la Roirne il est arrivé,

  Le lion dont le Roi ait chassé,

  Trois jours ensoleillé, il l’a poursuivi,

  Par la mer aux dieux il le sacrifie,

  O Roi o Roi pur,

  Par la Roirne il vit la femme mur,

  La Néréide l’observa lorsqu’il baignait,

  Roi sacré, comme tu l’aimais !

  Chasser Monseigneur tu la verrais,

  Visite-la en dehors de le perré,

  La dame d’eau à tresses légères,

  Par la rive tous la révères,

  Une fille, une fille elle le donna,

  Une princesse qu’il éleva,

  J’entends sa mère l’appelée,

  Et ses héritiers commandés,

  Célébré la belle Roirne,

  Car le Roi pur aime la Roirne,

  S’il plait à Marianne nous aurons,

  Un autre Roi et Reine dont nous adorons,

  Il portera la couronne de Lys,

  Et comme Giwald il serait sans malice,

  O Roi, o Roi sacré,

  Par Marianne, la Roirne il a bien aimé.”

  The words were utterly incomprehensible to Indulf. They spoke of the tide and the pursuit of the King after the maiden who was the true spirit of the greatest river in North-Agenor, as he later was told. The beauty of her voice and of the song itself though gripped him and left him, transfixed staring for a long time at the princess.

  “Oye there, you young fool! Now is hardly the time for love, but for rowing, therefore get back to doing just that,” Wiglaf howled worriedly at him, from where he sat near the front of the vessel.

  His shout made Indulf flush bright red, despite himself and his lack of fondness for the princess, with his first reaction being to throw the oar in the sorcerer’s direction. But such an act would only serve, to entice him to further fury and would necessitate injuring Bérénice, whom had already suffered far too much in his view. The princess was seated before, him while Colwyn was seated just behind him so that he would be better served striking at the Cymran who had moved to sit behind him in the small boat.

  “I am not in love with her,” Indulf said with some force, adding in protest, “I was merely caught up in the song.”

  “Trouble with the young, is that they hardly know themselves half as well, as they claim to,” Wiglaf retorted evenly, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

  “And the difficulty with the old, is acknowledging that they are no longer youthful,” Colwyn teased with a bark of laughter.

  “Quiet you!”

  It hung upon Indulf’s mind for some time though, after Wiglaf’s loss of temper, about what the words meant. Worried over this, and desiring to know more he sighed and shifted in place, nervously. Frustrated that neither Cymran had translated the song for him, neither of them filled with the same spirit of courtesy that Wulfnoth or Cormac were which only worsened his resentment towards the Cymrans.

  Cormac would have translated it, though he would not have sung it being too timid about singing since their childhood. He was not always like that, he had once sung more frequently than Daegan, the timid youth thought sadly, sorrowful for his friend who had lost his voice so to speak when Murchadh disappeared. Though Cormac claimed he had not been as wounded as Kenna, at the man’s disappearance he had lived the next nine years, as a man with one foot in the sea and the other in the boat so to speak.

  Thinking of Cormac, only made him miss his best friend all the more. In comparison to him, these three were poor company. At that moment, he also felt a pang of longing for the company of Daegan. Though snobby by nature, she would sing him the song of Giwald.

  ‘Why should I sing for you, if you have not the courage to ask for such?’ She might well have asked him, though at that moment it was not her voice that he heard those words uttered in his mind. But rather, it was the voice of Kenna that resounded in his mind. It was always she and Cormac, outside of his kinsmen who strove to encourage him to speak out more, to be braver. It was they who had first encouraged him, to request Inga’s hand in marriage.

  “Could you- do you think you could sing the song for me?” Indulf asked of Colwyn, with the prince behind him staring at him in confusion for a few minutes, for it had been some time since Bérénice had sung. “I speak of the song of Giwald,” He clarified.

  With a shrug, Colwyn assented though not without complaints. “Certainly, though if you were to ask me my view on the matter, the song of the Colderyn Mountain Nymph is far, far more beautiful.”

  The song he spoke of was a Cymran one, Indulf was wholly unfamiliar with, knowing only of it by reputation thanks to Wiglaf during his previous visits to Glasvhail. “Just sing me, the Gallian song.”

  “Fine,” the Cymran grunted irritably.

  “O King, o King most holy,

  By the Roirne he did arrive,

  After the lion which he did hunt wholly,

  For three sunny days, he did strive,

  By the sea to the gods he did sacrifice,

  O King, O King most holy,

  By the Roirne he saw a lady most fair and dainty,

  Long did the Nereid observe him whilst he bathed,

  Sacred King o how you loved!

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  Hunt your Grace and you’ll be shown,

  Go visit her beyond your walls of stone,

  The Sea-lady with tresses sheer,

  By the river which all revere,

  A lass, a lass to him she did upraise,

  A princess whom he did lovingly raise,

  I hear her mother cry out across the land,

  That which all her and Giwald’s heirs command,

  Let us celebrate the beauteous Roirne,

  For the pure-King did so love the Roirne,

  If it please Marianne let us have more,

  Another King and Queen to adore,

  He could wear the crown adorned with Lys,

  And like Giwald he will be with nary any malice,

  O King, o King most holy,

  By Marianne the Roirne he did love most dearly.”

  “This is the song as best I know it,” Colwyn stated once he had had a drink from his tankard of wine, to quench his thirst. “It is no easy thing to translate Gallian to your Caled tongue, as it is markedly different in nature.”

  Indulf did not pay heed to his complaints, paying only attention to the manner in which Bérénice listened to them and smiled at him, when Wiglaf informed her of how the youth had requested her song be sung again for him. The smile she flashed him, filled him with both joy for her pleasant company and wistfulness for his Inga.

  *****

  The journey up the water-ways was not so long or difficult, with Indulf amazed to find that while the great cliffs to the south were so frequent and gave an air of danger and majesty. The more north one journeyed, at least for a while it appeared that there were but soft-beaches and shorelines where water met land.

  This passage from south-east of the island towards the north was no smooth thing, with their nights filled with suspicion, little sleep and fear of seeing drakkars pass this way. For the quay of Hraukrheier, as with all Norse cities were filled to the brim with dragon long-ships.

  Ships that were the terror of the seaand second according to Wiglaf only to some of those utilized by the Sea-Dwarves who inhabited a great many shores around the world.

  “‘Sea-Dwarves’? But I had heard that they mostly lived in mountains and amidst the hills,” Indulf had gasped amazed by such a notion as a sea-loving Dwarf.

  “Aye, once again you show your naiveté, there are a great many Dwarves who have taken to the sea. They did so at the time of their Empire’s fall.” Wiglaf explained to him stiffly.

  Indulf huffed, weary of the old man continuously humiliating and deriding him for the slightest lack of knowledge, he very near insulted the sorcerer in return.

  In place of him lashing out at the other man, he asked as patiently as he could, while rowing with even more visible effort than before. “Can you tell me how these Sea-Dwarves first came to be?”

  “I must confess to not knowing the whole of the tale.” Wiglaf admitted reluctantly.

  “Then why give me so much difficulty, about this matter?” Indulf asked in exasperation, whereupon Colwyn smiled a little.

  “Mayhaps, he loves you and doth protest too much,” Colwyn teased.

  “Do be quiet you,” the sorcerer grumbled, “I have my reasons for all that I do, Indulf. But my expertise lies only in the history of my nation and that of Brittia, along with that of the lands of Ardhiálf, or Earth-Elves as you might term them, the people of Shaltair.”

  At this time Bérénice asked something of him, her voice impatient and high. Guessing that she was frustrated by her own lack of comprehension of their tongue, Indulf felt a flash of pity for her. It was much how he felt, when Colwyn and Wiglaf took to discussing in Gallian with her.

  As he listened to the sorcerer translate with Colwyn’s intervening teasing, ridiculing remarks thrown in, the youth glanced overboard.

  The sea was peaceful at this time, though there were strange eddies flowing all about the boat. They were drifting near to the land of the island of Antilia, as their boat was a small one. Hardly made for deep-sea travel or traversing anything but small rivers or lakes, as the long-ships of the Sea-Dwarves and Northmen were.

  Bluer than the heavens could ever be, and darker than the night the sea some distance from the shore inspired little confidence on his part, in the boat they were seated upon. To the left sat the Misty-Isle, and to the right lay one of the smaller islands, with the water deeper, he mused than even he could assume.

  For hours he had assumed it could not be terribly deep, but that was before he thought he saw a large scale strike the side of the boat when the others were distracted. The scale flashed into sight but for a second. It was long, blue almost cyan and most of all to his disconcertment; wide. Wider than his entire body or those of his companions put together. With the over-all length also worrying, as it appeared to his mind longer than when it flowed back down beneath the surface.

  What was that? A fish? He asked himself startled and bewildered by the scope and size of the beast. “I do think we should cling closer to the shore.”

  “Bah, there is naught to fear out here, what is more if we do we shall strike the shore itself. Clinging to the shore any more than we already do, will only slow us.” Wiglaf argued absent-mindedly, his eyes upon the princess who had cleared her delicate throat, ere she threw herself into a passionate explanation. Her rowing slowing to a near halt to his annoyance, which left the onus of the work upon his own back, he noted with some resentment.

  “The Dwarves and the division of their Empire, is something I have studied in Lynette, or at least in the abbey of Saga near where I was sent to study for a time.” Bérénice boasted through Colwyn who translated for her this time, with her pompousness annoying him all the more.

  Why could she not contribute more, rather than gloat over her superior education? Cursing the lazy princess beneath his breath, his complaints soon forgotten when she began the tale of the fall of the Dwarves had begun. It was a sad tale and one that cut straight to his heart with its melancholy.

  *****

  “Once, in the time ere men ruled over all the lands from those of the Agenors and Ifriquya to those in the distant east of Ho?l and in the lands north of the Glacial-Sea, the Dwarves reigned over all. There was unity and power and majesty, unending in their midst.

  They ruled from their mountain-keeps and megarons which were decorated with great pillars and statues in the shape of their mightiest Emperors. Dwarves such as the majestic Durthor Strong-Arm, or Throrain the Great or Drorin the Mighty ruled over all the lands beneath the plains, the mountains and the hills.

  For time unending, enduring across millennia all the men of the fields, the Tigruns and Wolframs, and Minotaurs and all other beast-men were their vassals, their serfs, their slaves and their merchants. These conquered people spreading Dwarfish customs to all the great lands of Beveriand, the greatest of all the continents of the world.

  Under the mountains, especially that of Khelzstálk?n the highest of all mountain peaks and deepest of all cities of the Dwarves, all was decorated in gold, in silver, in jewels, such as rubies, and emeralds. The cities and palaces of the Dwarves were interlinked by the Edranite Depths, their deep-wrought roads leagues and leagues beneath the earth. These roads which they had been warned not to make too deep, by the gods they most revered; Vulcan and Oein the All-Seeing.

  But this counsel went unheeded by the fourth of their first imperial dynasty’s Emperors, Dwalin Gold-Bringer, who found reserves of gold down in the Edranite Depths. It was he who expanded the capital city in that direction, keen to enrich his people and his own palaces which he expanded to cover a third of the city. His tomb was to later be the envy of all the Dwarf Emperors who followed thereafter him.

  By the time the sixth dynasty that of Throrain the Great was founded the Dwarves had achieved such glory, such greatness that even the mighty Elvish kings sent them tribute.

  Their arms were the envy of the world, and their colonies stretched as far in the north as the continent of Niordlandr in the north, to North and South Agenors and even Ifriquya in the south. There was not a continent they did not colonize, did not plant the mighty Iron-Banner upon. It was the vastest and proudest of all empires that ever arose beneath the twin-suns.

  Yet what none could have foreseen at the time, was that Throrain the Great’s own vast accomplishments in war, in digging, in architecture and all else there was, would prove their undoing. It was he who forged the great bond of friendship with the Elf-prince, Valderian.

  It was Valderian who had studied for centuries under Dvalin the Great, the finest blacksmith who ever lived, and who was granted immortality by the gods in return, for his many gifts to them. Valderian loved the Dwarves more than his own people, and it was he who had forged the Hámelerii armbands for his dearest friend, and his kinsmen. This was a great gift, though it was to pale in comparison to Valderian’s greatest accomplishment as a smith.

  In the centuries that followed Throrain’s passing, which itself was a long put off event as he lived for centuries, Valderian went on to perfect his arts. Together, he and his master forged wonders such as the sword of Qual'valess from the bones of the very dragon Throrain had slain; Vangalathan the Giant.

  The ancestor of Mydan and his ilk, who so plagued Gallia and Bretwealda. Or there were the earrings of Keldiana, the Empress of the Dwarves renowned for her beauty and goodness. Such that the Elf-prince Veltarius rode nine times into battle for her, and pledged to wed her thrice as many times as that to wed her, until at last she acquiesced. Her earrings being forged from the skull of that dragon, and given to her as a gift.

  But these wonders paled in comparison to Dvalin and Valderian’s most prized wonder; the Stjárgamen. The greatest of all jewels ever crafted; a jewel so beautiful, so magnificent that all who saw it warred for its possession, with Valderian’s own kin no exception to this rule. The wars that followed toppled the first dynasty of the Elvish kings, destroyed their nation for a time and wrought havoc upon the lands of Beveriand precipitating the decline of the Dwarves as they also warred for it.

  The jewel was to drift across the Vóreiosian-Sea and into the lands of the Dorians, where it was claimed by the iron-goddess Macaria, the daughter of Hades. It was this majestic goddess who was to later rename herself when she had redeemed herself of her many evils, as Roma mother of nations, who was to commit the greatest of atrocities for the Stjárgamen. It was after she had redeemed herself though that the war of the gods was to worsen until at last the jewel was cracked and some of its beauty escaped out into the world. The remnants of the jewel are still worn to this day it is said, by the daughter of Oein, Hnossa herself.

  As to the Dwarves, their empire had been battered and damaged, but when the green-skinned Ogres appeared from out of the land, summoned hither into the realm of mortals by gods and demons, in the middle of the Stjárgamen war, they were to inflict such violence upon the Dwarves the Empire could not endure.

  Still they fought! Fought as only Dwarves could, endured as only they could! The suns were hot above them! From all corners of the Dwarven Empire arose the mightiest of vassals and warriors, to defend the Iron-Banner of the Dwarves, from the rampaging barbarian Ogres.

  The war lasted for centuries, past the battles of Darkmund, where the Emperor Thlrorain VI and all his sons perished. Past the battle of Griefmount where the whole of the last dynasty’s thirteenth Emperor died, with his sons, daughters, grandsons and even his uncles and nephews. Such was the violence of that particular battle even the Ogres avoided ever after that place. The dirges of grief about Griefmount are numbered in the thousands, with it the most sung about battle and even in all Dwarvish history.

  Still they fought on, until at last the Ogres were pressed across a desert and into the lands of the Dorians. With but a few barbarian human tribes and some over-zealous Elves in hot pursuit, so that even after the Ogres civilized they were hounded for centuries. Not that this availed the Dwarves aught else but grief and sorrow.

  Though they had won the great battle of Valdour-peak they were soon betrayed by their own barbarian auxiliaries, by the Elves and by the Wingar-folk. This combined with the Gargan-wars that they needlessly poured the last of their resources into, and the civil war that followed led to more and more colonies breaking away. The cycle of wars and loss of lands and colonies lasted until the Empire had faded into bitter memory, and into countless songs.

  But not all was lost, for some Dwarves who sought to escape the ravages of the invading hordes, and the taxes of the petty-kings who arose in place of the Empire’s governors took to the sea. Long had many of them stared out across it, and long were they fascinated yet too frightened by it to ever test it.

  Until at last, the god Njord invited them to imitate some of the Elves, and men in the crafting of their own boats. This they did under the leadership of Thvain Blue-Hands called thus for being the first Dwarf to take to the sea, alongside his eight brothers. In that hour, that of collapse of all that the Dwarves had known, Thvain and his brothers rowed from the shores of Agenor, westwards, ever westwards, until at last they discovered the lands of Bretwealda and ériu.

  They returned with much laughter, much joy for what else could they feel at their discoveries? Aye there was much sorrow, which populated those islands, but better, they said; a sorrowful life than certain doom and slavery in the lost lands of the fallen Empire.

  This event was recorded and recalled across the millennia via Thvain’s lullaby. A lullaby the Sea-Dwarves have passed down, and that other Dwarves including some who took to the sea only to settle into lands such as your islands, have since sneered at.

  It goes as follows:

  “Au-dessus des montagnes-rouges,

  Par les plages de Salacie se trouve,

  Les Nains des lointains-jours

  Grace au plus long voyage se portes secours,

  De fins infernals à des débuts bien bleus,

  Traversa Thvain qui évita plus qu’un decapitation impieux,

  Ses mains bleux glacés,

  Lui qui tua des Golèmes glacés,

  Au-dessus des montes-brumeux du nord,

  Par les isles vertes et chateaux au sud voyagèrent-ils,

  Leurs drakkars battant l’eau dont conquièrent-ils,

  Bêtes étranges et grand-or volèrent-ils,

  Encore sans une maison,

  Et pas de fort en vue autre qu’un de mousse en vision,

  également menace par esclavage que la mort,

  Hormis ils voyagèrent en outre,

  Outre la mer-ténébreuse,

  Aux rivages inconnus guère chaleureuses,

  établit sur l’Ile Brumeuse,

  Habités par Cyclopes et monstres qu’ils aboutissent

  Jusqu’aux caverns et plateaux sans-fins,

  Aux champs verts forts sur les rivages sans confins,

  Conquiert par lui des Mains-Bleus, Thvain,

  Lui qui regna sur les haut-plateaux et caverns sans-fins !”

  And this is how it went in the Caled speech:

  “O’er the crimson-mountains,

  To shores by Salacia’s fountains,

  Dwarves of forgotten days

  A great voyage now did blaze,

  From fiery endings, to blue beginnings,

  Journeyed Thvain, who evaded many beheadings,

  He of the hands blue from frost,

  He who slew golems made of frost,

  O’er the misty-hills of the north,

  To the emerald-islet and south-keeps they went forth,

  Long-ship battering and men a-conquering,

  Strange beasts and great gold were they a-gathering,

  Still without a home,

  And nary a holdfast but one of sea-foam,

  By slavery or death were his folks menaced,

  Thus did they to the sea whither-row,

  O’er the dusky-sea,

  To shores none could see,

  Thereupon the Misty-Isle he and his did settle,

  With countless Cyclops and beasts they did battle

  Until the dungeons deep and Highlands’ peaks,

  To the green-fields and shore-side keeps,

  Lay claimed by the Blue-Hands of Thvain,

  Far o’er the peaks to the dungeons deep did he reign.”

  By the time, the Cymrans had translated the length and breadth of her incredible reserves of knowledge, and the song she sang in her native Gallian they were entirely out of breath.

  Once Wiglaf had drunk his fair-share and they had gorged themselves upon lunch as the morn’ had given way some time ago to high-noon, he complimented the lass. Colwyn added his own praise then translated for the blushing yet pleased looking lass the awed extolling words for the blushing lass. “Incredible, how did you come by all this knowledge?”

  “In Gallia,” she explained with her own mouth full of fish-meat fetched and cooked via Wiglaf’s staff, which burnt each fish perfectly (along with his fingers on occasion!). “There is much expectation placed upon those of us of royal stock, for we have endured centuries of ignorance, and, folly and are resolved, unlike you brutes of the Lairdly-Isle, to pull ourselves from it.

  By reason of our superior blood, we of the line of Aemiliemagne are therefore expected to know all that we can. Thus, was I gifted with Elvish, Dwarvish and even Wolfram tutors, all of whom know much if not all that is worth knowing about the world, and all about its songs,’ from those of our own lands, to tales sung in South-Agenor, to those of distant Beveriand. We are gifted with tutors who know all.”

  “I would wager there are a few Ogre tutors also, as much of what she sang of, was passed down for centuries by the Ogres, or so one of my pupils tended to preach.” Wiglaf muttered to himself, in his native Cymran. It was a language Indulf understood but in passing, though well enough to grasp the meaning of most of his words.

  Indulf frowned, for he had never much imagined that Ogres could be wise. Most tales told of them were frightful. They were the mightiest of warriors, stronger than any ordinary humans ever could be, and more ruthless, being black-hearted whereas the hearts of men were by their very nature good. Ogre were said to prey upon the children of men, to eat them and to skin those they took a particular liking to.

  And yet, the manner in which Wiglaf spoke of them was one of deepest respect.

  Disgusted Indulf supposed there was a great deal he might have said to Wiglaf on this matter, as his father or brother Solamh might have. The two of them were far more impulsive speakers than he, more earnest in voicing what they thought of people and the world around them.

  A part of him wished he could have uttered a tale in response. Mayhaps he would have spoken of Tadhgán the Valiant who rallied the tribes of the Pechs against the legions of Roma. Or maybe he would have spoken of Achaius I or Causantín II, both of whom saved the lands of the Caleds. But he was to not to speak of their tales that day.

  *****

  As they boated across the sea, drifting past the lands that separated the people of Hraukrheier from those of the Norléans, the vessel rocked from side to side on occasion. Lost in his own brooding thoughts, Indulf remembered with a start the large sea-scale of which he had caught sight in passing hours ago.

  It began to dawn upon him just how foolish a decision, it was to ignore his better judgment and heed the commands of the sorcerer.

  “Wiglaf? I fear we may have crossed something we might have been wiser, not to cross.” Indulf warned plaintively, eyes upon the sea again. He was anxious that he could not see the bottom.

  His concern was worsened by the nearness of one of the islands just some two leagues off the shore of the Misty-Island. They were one league from the smaller islet.

  When he shared his concerns, Wiglaf paid him no attention. His eyes had lit upon the distant northern horizon now, with his back to the rest of them. “I think I see… Well it must be out thereupon the horizon. Surely after days at sea we are near to the Norléanians!”

  “I am not so certain that we ought to continue in this manner,” Indulf said to the eldest of their much diminished troupe, “I do fear that these waters are infested with some sort of creatures, for I have seen long, long scales earlier in the day.”

  “What nonsense,” the sorcerer muttered, a statement he retracted when the boat was rocked from side to side, with such roughness there could be no doubt it was the doing of some large beast. The water remained mostly peaceful, with any kind of disturbed eddies had their source near the vessel. “I suppose it is not so nonsensical, as I originally believed.”

  The boat was rocked from side to side once more, so that they all clung to the boat, fearful for their lives.

  The princess was the most terrified of them all. Panicked she stared open-mouthed at each one of them to the next, keen for someone to decide what to do to save them.

  “We must head now for the shore! Aid me Prince Colwyn, Master Wiglaf,” Indulf cried out as he rowed with all his strength.

  Blinking in surprise, the sorcerer nodded his head shakily while Colwyn took up one of the spare oars to do as instructed.

  They met with some success so that they moved towards the shoreline of the smaller isle, each of their hearts lifted as it drew nearer to them. Moving thither, they might well have saved themselves, had there not been any interference at that moment.

  The boat was struck once more from the side, which very nearly threw them off the opposite side of the ship. Their cries of alarm only emboldened their ambusher so that it threw itself more visibly against the ship beneath their feet. Now those who once doubted him at last caught sight of the scales of the beast beneath them.

  “Sea-Drake! A Sea-Drake!” Wiglaf shrieked stricken with fear, utterly terrified of this beast that dwelt far beneath the waves.

  “Aye, I can see that!” Colwyn yelled back, almost as scared as the old man. “Do something! You have magic do you not? Fight it, fight it!”

  “I shan’t!”

  “Why not?” The frustration in the prince’s voice was tinged with panic, which served only to heighten the fear that permeated the rest of their group.

  “Because I know not how to fight it,” Wiglaf retorted with another shriek, looking as though he may burst into terrified tears. At their uncomprehending looks he explained. “It may be a perversion by Loki of one of the Drago-Father’s creations, but it is still a dragon. My arts have no more influence or effect upon such creatures than a fly has over you or me.”

  This revelation struck each of them with the force, of a Sea-Drake striking a boat. Colwyn, ordinarily so witty and sly-tongued seemed all of a sudden at a complete loss for words. He did not appear to know what to say, or do, so that even his rowing halted.

  “Why have you stopped, Colwyn? Row! Row! You too princess!” Indulf shouted too terrified to think of much else.

  His words had some effect upon those around him, who began to paddle and row with considerably more energy. Their efforts proved themselves of scarcely any help, however, to the contrary, fatiguing themselves and flapping the oars about wildly slowed their advance more than sped it forward.

  Aware of this for it was he who was most familiar with the nature of boating and the sea, thanks to Trygve, Cormac and Inga’s grandfather, Indulf felt a sense of panic grow in him. They had to stop paddling, he thought to himself, and began to row properly, lest they should slash themselves below the knee, as the Tigruns’ proverb went. It was a proverb that Indulf had heard several times over the course of his life, and had never truly applied in the whole of his life.

  The worst fears of the group were re-awakened when the Sea-Drake appeared again, brushing against the boat with greater force this time. The fear that pervaded them one and all, mingled and grew in strength until they froze in place. Unable to advance, or escape once more, they simply sat thereon, the boat praying to Tempestas (in the case of the Quirinians) and Salacia (in the case of Wiglaf) for mercy.

  Their prayers were not answered, though, as a dorsal fin seventy meters long appeared some distance behind the boat. The sheer size of it tore a gasp from each of them, and tears from Bérénice, even as it vanished once more.

  “We are fortunate, I think,” Wiglaf whispered as though afraid it might understand their speech, “The fin is only half as long as I have read it should be.”

  “How is that fortunate?” Indulf asked thickly.

  “Because, it means that it is not full-grown,” the sorcerer said. Hardly assuaged by his own words, he appeared instead to be all the more miserable.

  No sooner had he finished speaking than the cyan-blue dorsal fin resurfaced once more. Slamming against the side of the boat, striking it with the force of a battering-ram, it finally succeeded in its goal, as one of their group fell over-board. The shock of one of them being tossed into the freezing sea, slew something in the men; it chilled them, even as they clung with some difficulty to their seats. Their cries of alarm rose with the princess’ own shrieks.

  “à l’aide! à l’aide! Sauve-moi!” Bérénice screamed amid the freezing waves, her voice high and plaintive, with tears of terror in her eyes.

  “Princess!” Wiglaf shouted as the boat almost capsized and he almost followed her into the waters.

  Colwyn shouted something in Gallian to her, which Indulf did not grasp, but that he guessed was an order for her to get back onto the boat.

  The dorsal fin moved away from the boat, the youth noticed absently ere it disappeared below the surface. The knowledge that it was once again hidden beneath the waves, served only to heighten the debilitating fear that pervaded their souls.

  “I’faith, get her back onto the boat!” Indulf shouted at the Cymrans as he threw himself to one side to try to help her.

  Nodding his head, Wiglaf pulled up and threw over one end of his staff. The question of how he had retained it when the boat had almost cap-sized was a mystery that concerned no one at that moment. Far more urgent was the matter of rescuing the princess.

  “How are we to accomplish such a thing? The prince of Gwyneira yelled back, stricken by panic “We shan’t reason or stop the beast from moving!”

  Thrusting his oars into the hands of the man behind him, and pushing his way to the front of the ship, past Wiglaf, Indulf searched about for a weapon of some sort. They had no javelins, only fishing rods and nets all of which he suspected would crack and break at once against the beast’s hide.

  The dorsal fin appeared once more, and it was evident to all, toward whom it was headed. Struggling with the skirts of her dress, Bérénice could no more escape it than she could breathe underwater. At the sight of the Sea-Drake, Colwyn gave up hope and Wiglaf screamed all the louder for princess to get back on the boat.

  Indulf’s search came to an end as he rediscovered the small knife girt to his belt. It was hardly a worthy weapon against men, let alone a dragon.

  He swallowed deeply, forcing down his fear the memory of Inga’s death as vivid as Bérénice weeping and struggling as she screamed for help and mercy. A black rage swept over Indulf. The same rage he had felt that night on the Mound, which had almost cost Trygve his life. Now he swore not to give himself over to it.

  Neither Wiglaf nor Colwyn, expected what he intended to do, nor did they have the words to describe what it was that he did certainly not at that moment, though they were later to dub it the most foolish act ever performed by a Caled. Bérénice was to dub it, in turn, the most ‘magnificent’ deed ever performed in history.

  Now the cry of, “Airson Tempestas!” poured forth from Indulf’s lips (For those of you not of Caled descent, it can roughly be translated as ‘For Tempestas!’). At that moment he mastered his fate and leapt off the boat and over the void of the sea and onto the Sea-Drake.

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