Despite wishing little more than to lay thereon the shore, thanking the gods and soaking in the relief that they had survived the dread-plains, they could not. Fortune though she had shown, some pity upon them in that the Unliving did not ford the river. Hateful as they were of water, for they could not endure it in any tale told of them, they had inflicted though considerably more harm upon our heroes than they initially suspected.

  The firsts to notice that there were wounded amongst them, were Lauma and Kyrenas. Both were more concerned though with Glarald than Lyr. Calling out to him, they moved to his side to cozen him when he attempted to regain his feet, only to collapse with his hands upon his left leg.

  It was there that had been thrust one of the swords of the fallen, of the Unhallowed Plains. Gasping in pain, he had been bruised and cut, as they had all been, previously as ignorant as they all were of his injuries, in their mad rush from the fields so that he reacted with as much shock as his kin did at his injury.

  Crying out he fell back to the ground, was rolled over onto his back by Fergus, who taking the matter in hand was to remove the sword from within his leg, in one swift action.

  “Why did you do that? Take greater care, cat!” Lauma hissed at the Pardiff who examining the blade threw it into the nearby river.

  “I helped him far more than you did, lass now see to sewing and bandaging his wound.” Fergus growled back with equal venom.

  What followed was the discovery of Lyr’s own injuries though he had had his right-side hewn open along with his shoulder. In his case it was Connor who inspecting the prince as he always did after a battle, who alerted them to the existence of his injuries. In his case, they sought to turn to Daegan to sew together his injuries, on Bardulf’s insistence, while Calandra saw to the wounds inflicted upon Glarald.

  Coming back to her senses with a shudder Daegan began to tremble and shake, as never before. In her childhood she had dreaded the Unliving, had spent countless sleepless nights crying out to her father to comfort her, to keep the vision of them inflicted upon her by the old tales. This was the reason for her admiration, for her reverence for the likes of Aemiliemagne and his glorious Paladins. For they alone, had along with all their troops and levies had the courage to face down the demonic hordes of the Unliving in the Second Wars of Darkness.

  Pressing her face against her knees, Daegan felt tiny then. Tiny and pathetic, for all her brave chatter she had once again shown herself, to be not the equal of her ancestor’s blood but rather his inferior. It made her regret her very existence, so tremendous was the feeling of crushing shame that weighed upon her spirit.

  Daegan was aware of Bardulf calling out to her, was aware that he spoke to her. The trouble was that she could no more understand him, than if he had spoken in Volkholantian.

  Strangely it was Andvari, who reached out to her. Taken up her hand in his own, he spoke to her almost gently, with the young lass still weeping glancing up at him as he addressed her. The calmness in his voice, was uncharacteristic the earlier madness that had overtaken him quite forgotten, so that he reminded her then of Corin. “Daegan, will you assist your friends?”

  There was a hope there. A hope that she might indeed betray her companions, for he had no great love for either Lyr or Glarald, hissing in fury Bardulf might well have struck him for the gleam in his eyes.

  But he was stopped by the nodding Daegan, who her lips trembling as her cheeks and eyes turned as scarlet as her hair in her misery, wiped at her eyes. “A-aye.”

  Scared out of her wits still, her eyes shifting from Andvari and the distant Unliving who had ceased to move, most of them disappearing from sight, as a fog flew into the air. The mist covered the Unhallowed plains from view, so that the nightmare that had hounded them, could well have been mistaken for just that. This hardly comforted Daegan.

  Rising to her feet shakily, with the assistance of the Wolfram next to her, she was almost carried over to Lyr’s side. It was then she saw his injuries, and though her hands shook as her feet did initially, she was to soon set to work repairing the torn flesh of the prince.

  The moment she held needle and thread, Daegan felt some of her earlier agitation, dissipate. The swords of evil she could not trust, terror she could not trust but a needle and thread? Those she could trust.

  Mayhaps, a part of her almost thought dreamily, this was always what she was meant to do on this quest; to thread back together the wounds of those around her, along with their torn cloths. For some reason, her guilt did not feel quite as mighty as it had before, as it began to vanish and dissipate into the evening fog.

  “Do take care! How it hurts, ale! Ale! I must have ale!” Lyr cried out as a baby might, for its bottle or mother.

  “Cease your unmanly whining! You do not hear Glarald crying out as you have at this moment, now do you?” Connor reprimanded sharply, irritated by the prince’s whining.

  Nodding her head a little, Daegan hardly noticed his words or the multitude of complaints that arose from the lips of the prince. She knew at that moment only her appointed task. This was all that there was in her spirit, and in her heart.

  The teachings of Kenna were as strong in her mind, and as alive as those of her father. Such was the focus of the lass upon the thread, that in less time than it had taken him to sustain his wounds, the prince of ériu had his side and shoulder sewn back together.

  “Good lass, you learnt your mother’s craft well,” Connor praised clumsily when she had finished her work, and had at last threaded together the cloth given to her by Bardulf with which to bind Lyr’s side and shoulder together.

  “It was not my mother’s craft, but rather that of Cormac’s mother that I employed to aid your prince,” Daegan said in what she hoped was an austere voice. In place of dignity though, her small voice sounded as tiny and anxious to her own ears, as it did theirs.

  Rather than sneer at her, Connor clumsily patted her upon the shoulder, wherefore Bardulf enveloped her in a paternal hold with his arm upon her shoulder. Neither of them speaking a word against her failure in the fields behind them, and though they bore her no grudge for her failures, she certainly did.

  “This way lass, Glarald necessitates your aid also,” Bardulf encouraged her guiding to the Elf’s side, “For though she knows something of the art of needle-work Calandra, does not have your gift for it, it appears.”

  Nodding her head several times, Daegan felt too tired to truly object. Guided to the side of her friend, she dubbed the needlework of her friend goodly and was thus relieved of her duties for the night.

  The maid was soon permitted to rest herself by the new fire that Andvari and Ronald had lit, with shaky hands and flint. For most of them there was to be little conversation after this, and even less food, as most drifted to sleep. Uneasy still, several of their ranks held watch for the remainder of the evening.

  Nestled by the fire, full of melancholy for all her failures, Daegan could nary see the flames so fierce were the tears that plagued her eyes, as next to her Andvari began to snore. He was soon followed by Ronald, though the Tigrun’s sleep was disturbed by visions and terror, and a great many cries.

  Soon though, she thought no more of the nightmares that had dogged them for nigh on a week, and drifted into a long, long sleep. One which was plagued with visions of her great ancestors, including her mother and father frowning in disgust at her ere they turned away from her, out of shame.

  *****

  Daegan was not certain what it was that woke her from her sleep, only that there was a change in the air, one that was subtle yet difficult to deny. Shivering, Daegan noticed at once that Fergus, who was meant to be the last of those formally on watch had fallen asleep, snoring gently from where he lay next to Glarald. Worried over this, her concern was nothing compared to that which overcame her when she caught sight of the tall figures that stood over the whole of their group.

  Their eyes aglow with a radiance comparable to those of her companions, they also had long-ears that were curved in the same manner and appeared as angular in their features. Their almond shaped eyes though were dark, brown, red and in some cases snow-white just as their hair was, so that they bore a similarity in appearance to the mountains of the world.

  Another difference, one that was apparent at a glance was that where the kindred of Arduinna had come as friends, these folks certainly did not. They too were armed with bows and arrows or with spears and javelins though. Except where Wilder-Elves painted their faces and bodies with woad, as the men of Norwend might, these people were garbed in such a way only their arms, hair and eyes were visible. Masked with intricate brown, red, grey and emerald masks which bore a strange likeness to gryphons, drakes, lions, bears, wolves and stags they were a fearsome lot.

  Daegan could only stare at them in amazement, having never before seen such figures. She did not know it, but these were the Sagndar, or as some had taken to calling them the ‘Mountain-Elves’. The fey-folk of the hills as they were dubbed by the Centaurs, they were as different from the Wilder-Elf cousins, as Highland men were from the Lowlander ones.

  Fierce, swift of wroth and unconquered, these people were the kindred of Arduinna’s distant ancestors, those who forsook the path to the ‘Golden Garden’ in favour of the mountains, and the hills and the high-places of the world. Dubbed the ‘Forsaken’ or H?klanai in the speech of Arduinna’s people, they were also called the Vl?klunei by the Sea-Dwarves, which roughly translated means the ‘masked-ones’. Only the woad upon their arms and sides of their necks, hinted at a common cultural ancestry with the Wilder-Elves.

  To the local villages near the eastern mountains that separated the Dagsátr-River in the south and the vast holdings of the Norléanians and south-west of the southern-most lands of the Amazons, these Elves were as gods. To those whom they defended the villages from, they were demons with the faces of beasts who crept about after-dusk and shortly after the dawn, in the hopes to seize their children. In truth though, they were as much fey as Arduinna herself was.

  Silent as a lioness on a hunt, and as trained with the bow and javelins as their cousins were, they were however considerably wilder in temperament than those who clung to the woods. Though their memories were no less long, stretching back to the dawn of known time upon the islands just as the memory of those of Brigantius’ line could.

  It was thus with far more trepidation than joy at seeing these distant cousins of theirs that Kyrenas and his kin set eyes upon the Elves of the island of Antillia.

  The returning gazes that gazed back upon them were far cooler, than their gazes. The hostility they felt for the emerald-haired Elves, made Daegan wonder if these were demons rather than fey-folk.

  It was strange, but the words that echoed from the lips of one of their numbers, a muscular figure with a mask that resembled a boar and who held a highly ornate, ash-wooden spear sounded as though it were a distant relation of Caled words. The words also bore for that matter, a distinct resemblance to the tongue of the Wilder-Elves. So that though she did not fully grasp the dialect, Daegan had something of a sense of his words.

  “Seize them,” He seemed to say, or so she imagined.

  Lauma appeared as though she wished to lunge up, yet was rapidly dissuaded from doing so, by the notching of a dozen bows and two spears being thrust just below her chin, by two wolf-masked warriors.

  Starting awake, Connor took a moment to realize what was happening, and bellowed distracting a great many of their assailants from the rest of their captives. Upon his feet ere they could properly react, the Bairaz might well have struck them, destroyed a number of their ranks single-handedly. He was however brought up short, by the sight of a spear near to Lyr’s own chin, by one of the bear-masked Elves.

  “You foul knave, I shall have your skin for a sword-belt!” Connor roared in a fit of rage, at the Elf who appeared frozen in place by his fury.

  Though he menaced them, the Bairaz’s wits did not wholly depart from him, he could see the danger that hung over his prince and laird. The woe that entered his heart was unparalleled then, for he loved the prince as all dutiful men love their brothers or sisters. He wished for naught else than to throw himself forward against the one who held Lyr captive, and rend him piece by piece.

  Seeing his hesitancy, Daegan almost offered him words of encouragement, frustrated by his inability to move, but a knife at her own throat stopped her words. As did those that pressed against her friends Calandra and Bardulf’s own.

  “I come naught for the sake of war, nor do my brave-hearted companions,” Bardulf uttered calmly in a steady voice. A steadier one than the rest of his companions, might well have utilised, had it been they who were pressed into negotiating with the formidable warriors that menaced them.

  More words were exchanged and in the end, a number of the Elves decided to address the Wolfram in another tongue. He was visibly surprised that he did not give away much more of his thoughts and insights into their ambushers.

  “What is it they said?” Ronald inquired of the Wolfram, from where he sat by his brother’s side sweating far more than Calandra or Daegan themselves were at that moment.

  “We are their captives,” Bardulf informed him promptly, “We are to surrender and offer up no resistance.”

  “Aye, but what else did they say? They uttered more than what you have said,” Kyrenas interrupted him ere he could say much more.

  Daegan stared briefly at the eldest of the Elves who had accompanied them, upon their quest. Waiting for him to translate the words of these strangers, yet this he did not do for reasons that escaped her. The truth was that he could no more understand their words than she could. Just as the language of these Elves was unknown to the Wilder-Elves, the tongue of Arduinna’s folk was unknown to these masked-Elves.

  She was not alone in her confusion, with it Connor who proved every bit as thick as she, when he asked of the Elf, “Well? What do they say? I’faith man, tell us!”

  “I do not know,” Kyrenas snapped irritably, to the stunned shock of the two of them, for neither had considered the possibility that the Elves might not understand these masked-Elves.

  Menaced once more with arrows and spears, their argument was put to an end, though the Bairaz continued to grumble, just as Lauma did.

  “Lauma behave yourself,” Calandra pleaded with her sister, “Think of Glarald and prince Lyr.”

  This served to calm the reluctant princess. It was Ronald and Fergus, who volunteered their few arms over to the Elves, surrendering as ordered by Bardulf ere, the rest of them would. The Pardiff grumbling as he did so, whereas the sorcerer clenched his jaw.

  “The choice has been robbed from us, we have only to do as they wish,” Fergus declared to his companions, adding hastily with a glance to the visibly furious Connor and Andvari, “For now.”

  *****

  The village of the Mountain-Elves was located near a cavern of the mountain, just outside of it. It was a wooded town with homes made of local stone, taken from a local quarry, on the north-west side of the large mountain Mt-Sjolénard. A part of a small chain of mountains that lined the eastern side of the island, their town’s walls were painted grey so as to blend in with the mountain.

  A simple act for a simple people, they lived in small stone houses that were never more than two storeys high and which were hardly larger than thirty meters wide and long. There being nigh six hundred homes, there and another along the other mountains with the village’s cavern a possible escape route should the Amazons or Norliéanians appear. Their palisade was seventy-eight meters high and had a constant set of guards marching along them. As to their homes, they also had strangely large stones highly polished and fashioned so that they could sit upon them, with their backs to the wall next to their doors.

  The goal of these stones was evidently so that they could bask in the suns when they liked, with the roofs of the houses though made of stone jagged so that shadows loomed over some of these stones. They typically used the interior of the cave near the village not to escape the world, but for rituals, having built a holy altar there to their gods which were; Woden, Sól and Ullr.

  The people of the village were no less unique than their stone-homes, tall in most cases, they ate a diet consisting of predator meat (some prey), fish (for they were great fishermen), yet grew no vegetables or fruits. These were traded for, with some of the local human and Ratvian farmers who lived at the base of some of the mountains these Elves had claimed for themselves.

  Though they bore many disparaging names, courtesy of the Wilder-Elves and the Dwarves, whom they had never truly enjoyed peaceable relations with, these people called themselves the ‘Hunters’ or ‘Sun-Children’. Or as they tended to call themselves in their own tongue; Sagnarians (Sun-children) and Ganglivarians (Hunters), names that none of their enemies had come to associate with them. Yet they called themselves these things, for they loved Woden best of all gods as he was a prolific hunter alongside, Ullr the Hunter-god of the Arns. As to Sól, their reverence for her, came from the belief that she was ever their friend and that it was she who had appeared to them, to guide them in ages past to this island.

  The Norliéanians though also despised them, and had by far the most insulting name for them; ‘menteurs’ or ‘liars’, they also called them on account of their masks ‘deux-faces’ or ‘two-faced’. They believed them physically incapable of telling a truthful word, and had come to hate them and wished to hunt them down, for their many crimes, both real and imagined. Their most sinister name though, was the ‘griffons’ or ‘gryphons’ though the reason for that particular name, was to be revealed later.

  Escorted into the heart of the small city of nigh on three thousand Elves, the largest center of their race in all of North-Agenor outside of those found in Gallia, the heroes were instructed to seat themselves. As to Lyr and Glarald, they had been carried uphill on make-shift beds made of cloth and carried by these mountainous folks themselves.

  From the first it was easy to see where the differences that separated the Wilder-Elves from these folks, for they wore not plain linen and leather. They preferred the hides of beasts, such as cougars, lions and bears, wearing their teeth along with sea-shells as necklaces and earrings over the emeralds of the Wilder-Elves.

  Planted near the center of the unequal village which was on an angle, due entirely to the manner in which they village had been constructed going up the side of the mountain. The heroes were positioned before the fire at the heart of the village. Stared at by the children, the women in their lioness and bear-fur dresses, for they had never seen such peculiar folks journey together. There were not many men-folk present, for they were busy elsewhere with hunting, fishing and laying traps in the north-west.

  “Stay,” Ordered one of the men, the one with the boar-mask, in a voice as profound as the very mountains’ cavern depths that these people held to be sacred.

  “As you wish,” Ronald grunted miserable at the loss of his staff, which was carried by one of the more slender Elves with the mask that bore the face of a bear. Seated nearby, upon a large slab of stone just behind them, by the door of a house he poked and prodded at the staff, visibly fascinated by it. This went on, until one of the other hunters took it from him, and circled about the travellers to lay it before the kneeling Tigrun. Confident that as he had his hands tied behind his back, alongside the rest of their prisoners that, he could no more use it than he could fly or call down the wrath of the gods upon them.

  It was a respectful gesture, and one that went some way to mollifying the Tigrun. “They appear not wholly uncivilised,” He muttered to himself pleased.

  “Aye, though I do hope they untie our hands soon, and return my harp,” Fergus snapped intent upon his ill-mood.

  Daegan for her own part hardly paid them any mind, distracted as she was by how four of the Elves approached her from behind. Keen to touch her hair, they wove their fingers amongst her long tresses. Alarmed and frightened by this gesture she barked at them, “Back! Back you demons do not touch my locks so!”

  Still the women and two small female Elves who bore the appearance of five years olds clung to her tresses in awe.

  The Elf with the boar-mask who had departed into one of the nearby homes, soon returned hither to stand upon the other side of the extinguished fire-place. Alongside him was an Elf who bore the same dark hair that he did, though his hair was lined with silver just as his eyes were. The dark though at times grey-tinged glowing eyes of this serious-faced Mountain-Elf were grim as was the rest of him.

  His raiment was sewn together with the dark fur of a black-bear and a dark-wolf both of which were sacred to these Elves, with his own clothes not made into trousers and tunic but had been made into a set of robes. There was an inner robe (the wolf-flesh) and the outer robe (the bear one) both of which were draped over his lithe though muscular figure. His lips were thin, and his features severe, he was also stouter than Arduinna.

  Where she had borne, a certain sorrow in her features he did not allow his thoughts to show. He also wore a blue tattoo of a sun over his right-eye that was evidently made from blue-woad. It began just below his brow, and went as far down as just below his cheek bone. It covered only half his face, yet it did not distract from his gaze.

  In his left-hand, he held a large staff topped by a simple slice of sandstone, one that was darkened with blue ink (the same blue as his tattoo). His staff had intricate animal carvings and the images of mountains engraved into it, along with ancient Elvish symbols or what might have been symbols. They were similar in appearance to Dwarvish runes, for they were jagged and sharp to the eye, and encircled the bottom and near the summit of the ash-wood staff.

  “The hunter with the boar-mask is telling this man… his father that, he found us by the river that we swam across it.” Bardulf informed them, from where he knelt at the center of them all.

  “You understand them?” Lauma hissed at him.

  “A little,” The Wolfram answered, “I have met their brethren upon the Continent, during my sojourn in Gallia.”

  The head of the village was soon joined by others who gathered slowly, having been called upon by the rest of those hunters, who had discovered them. These fellow heads and elders of the tribe were dressed in trousers and tunics as the hunters were, made from the furs of animal-predators they had hunted.

  None though bore the sort of fierceness of their chieftain. Though, they did not know him at first sight, he certainly knew of Bardulf at a glance. “You are Bardulf the heir of Griogair.” At the startled look the warrior gave him, he offered a thin-lipped smile in response. “Aye, I know of you. I have heard from my wife’s cousin, from over the sea in Gallia.”

  “But we have never met.”

  “Aye, but I recognise the empty sword-scabbard you wear, for it was fashioned for Roparzh King’s blade was it not? I know of it, as the tradition was passed down through my wife’s kin, and a duplicate, was I had heard re-fashioned twenty-years ago. This after you had come to the rescue of a clan that lived in Gallia.” The chieftain stated, in his clear, deep voice curing a dagger-sharp brow in the direction of Bardulf. His eyes were momentarily drawn to Daegan, wherefore he barked out a single command in his language.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The Elf-women and children behind her, picking at and handling her tresses suddenly released her with muttered complaints. Grateful for this gesture, Daegan thanked him if with a glower at the embarrassed, Elf-maids and their daughters.

  “Apologies milady, we are ill-accustomed to hair such a deep shade of crimson. So deep is the shade that it almost appears as fire to our sight.” He explained with a regretful grimace upon his face.

  “Not at all, though it was a little irritating,” Daegan retorted earnestly.

  For her frankness, she won herself a small nod of approval from him. Turning away, from her to address Bardulf once more, the chief of the Mountain-Elves said to him. “I would know for what reason you crossed the Cursed-Plains.”

  “Cursed-Plains?”

  “It is their term for the Unhallowed Plains,” Andvari clarified, only to be stared at into silence by their captors.

  The fright which they inspired in him, with but a look unnerved Daegan in turn. Half-mad, the Sea-Dwarf had hitherto rarely if ever been frightened of other people. Yet, he was utterly terrified of these strange, graceful if menacing Elves.

  If there was one person who utterly lacked any semblance of fear it was Connor MacBaronk. Utterly without fear for himself, he had observed their captors with nary any apprehension and had come to hold them in contempt.

  For the Bairaz-folk of ériu the whole of their people save those of ériu’s enemies, all fellow boar-men were to be treated as brothers. So that the shoddy treatment of the Wilder-Elves by what appeared to his mind to be their kindred, was hardly welcome. The glares and visible hostility towards them, such that even the unobservant Andvari appeared to take notice and appeared worried.

  “Who are you?” Connor asked in frustration, “You appear to be Elves, yet are as unlike Arduinna’s folk as I am! And why have you seized us? We have done ye no wrong, therefore I demand that you release us!”

  “How rude of us, not to introduce myself or my people, I shall endeavour to ensure that such rudeness by my kith and kin never repeats itself in the future.” The chieftain said with earnest regret on his smooth face. “I am Selvan son of Sevarath the Scourge as the Dwarf may have known him, chief elder of the kindred of Mt-Andvurial.”

  “Selvan?” Bardulf questioned amazed, adding hastily for his companions, “But I had thought that you were dead, your cousin certainly implied such. He claimed that shortly after the Norléanians arrived upon your shores that, you had fallen in battle.”

  “I very near did, however our healers are quite skilled in their craft, friend Bardulf,” Selvan replied with sincere regret, “I must confess that my lack of contact with my wife’s cousin, Belthdan has long weighed upon my conscience.”

  “I understand, when next I see him, I shall tell him you yet draw breath and continue to honour thy ancestors,” Bardulf replied with honest feeling.

  “I would be much obliged.”

  “Does this mean you shall release us?” Daegan demanded of the chieftain, who curved his brow once more in her direction.

  He said little to this effect, giving only a slight nod to those who stood near them. Once their bonds were cut, and they could rub circulation back into their wrists, all save for the Wilder-Elves and Andvari, were permitted to stand.

  Anxious for their friends, Daegan turned now to the matter of asking for their liberty for which she was pierced with a stern glance by the severe Selvan. “They shall be our guests just as you are, though with different rules applied to them.”

  Lauma muttered something in her native tongue, something that Daegan well-imagined was hardly befitting for a lady to utter. For which she was to win herself a stern glance from the likes of Ronald and Bardulf, with neither Kyrenas nor Calandra uttering a word to contradict her.

  *****

  Given a place to stay amongst the Elves, notably a house that was emptied of its original inhabitant and that had room enough for six people of Connor’s girth. Daegan was given her own room on the second floor, of the stone-house by the men-folk of her group, out of respect for her sex.

  The only ones that were not given space in the home were the Wilder-Elves who were kept apart from them. As to the injured, they were to stay with Selvan himself who insisted as a point of honour that he be permitted to care for them, himself.

  The house offered over to them was one that had on the first floor a kitchen, full of pots and pans made of clay, along with clay goblets and plates.

  There was a wooden table and birch wood chairs of a crude design. The floor was simple dirt on the first floor, with there being a sitting room to the right-hand side of the tiny entrance, one that had chairs also along with stores of food which was preserved using salt. The second floor for its part was accessible via red-wood stairs highly polished and rather cleaner than the chairs of the first floor was. There were four rooms up those stairs; a latrine, and three bedrooms which had a rather humble looking bed of oak-wood with wolf, bear and lion fur coverlets thrown upon it.

  There were soft pillows filled with eagle-feathers encased in a pillow-case made of bear-fur that was soft in nature. Each of the beds covered almost the whole of the rooms, with the walls painted with animal blood that depicted in as great detail as tapestries night skies. Or in the case of Daegan’s room, a great battle between snake-men and the great father of Selvan, Sevarath the Scourge.

  As to the floor of this second floor, it was like the walls of the house made of purest stone and felt smoother than the floors of the homes of Arduinna’s people. In all though the first floor was hardly cozy, to her mind the second floor more than made up for any feeling of discomfort provided by the villagers. Villagers, whom demonstrated incredible rudeness when they insisted upon staring at the outsiders as they ate in private, some in amazement others with suspicious eyes, as in the case of some of the men-folk.

  Preferring to remain polite towards the chieftain, Bardulf acquiesced at once to this arrangement though it displeased some, such as Connor. The érian Bairaz was of a mind that the prince ought to have been given over into his care, rather than that of these strangers.

  “What might you prefer? They have healers, therefore there is no reason to refuse their politeness,” Bardulf argued wearily shortly after they had eaten some of the cook-mutton that the Elves had given them.

  “Especially, given the alternative,” Fergus jested caustically, with a cynical smile on his lips as he glanced towards the window of the house they sat in.

  The Wolfram threw him a dirty look, one that hardly appeared to bother the Tigrun.

  It was Ronald though who changed the topic, from Connor’s endless complaints and Fergus’ mockery of the situation, “We must consider what it is regarding the Elves that Andvari finds so offensive. I must confess that though I have travelled widely, I am not familiar with the particulars of the differences between the various Elves. Could you elaborate, about this particular subject Bardulf?”

  Bardulf rubbed his temple wearily, “The tales I understand, involve there being a split shortly after the passage of the Elves through the lands of Agenor, tens of millennia ago from what I understand their history. They split in twain, with the Wilder-Elves stopping here and there along the journey to the Golden Garden destined for the High-Elves, with the Mountain-Elves themselves splitting from the Wilder-Elves. Quite why, I am not certain as each clan appears to have different tales, about why they split from this clan or that one.”

  “It is simple dog-man,” One of the speakers from the windows called out to him, the man in question was the formidable figure who had acted as their escort to the village.

  Dressed in the same wolf-hide as before, he had since then abandoned his boar-mask, having removed it though it hung about his muscular right-arm for some reason. His face was fair and magnificent as the face, of all Elves were, though his face had high-cheekbones, with his long-hair pulled back into a horse-tail.

  His prominent forehead and thin-lips were highly reminiscent of his father’s own, as were the dark hair and eyes that glowed with the mystical light of the Elves. His own woad tattoos lay solely along his arms and chest along with his lower jaw with that particular tattoo appearing as a thunderbolt striking a mountain that extended downwards to his neck.

  “Do tell us, son of Selvan,” Ronald invited wearily, “And do make it quick for we wish to be gone on the morrow if we could.”

  “That will likely prove impossible,” The young man said quietly with a hint of regret in his voice, ere he added hurriedly, “Our history which has been passed down through images along our many caverns and in ancient tales stretch back to the time of our split from our cousins.”

  “Does your tale begin about the same time as that of Brigantius?” Ronald guessed eagerly.

  “Nay, ours begins even earlier, notably in the age of the Crossing into Agenor,” the Elf revealed honestly as he seated himself upon a chair that Connor stood up from, to walk out of the room, in a foul mood. Grumbling as he left that he had no use, for Elvish folk-tales not when they had separated him from his liege-prince.

  Seated with them as they finished their meal, the Elf introduced himself as éothérod adding that his people had given him the name Tusk-Spear, for his aptitude for the hunt. “In the ancient days shortly after we crossed the sea and into the Agenors, and after the ancient great lairds of the Heraldor as they are known in their tongue, abandoned us.

  For this betrayal we rejected them and all the gifts that they had bestowed upon them in their supposed benevolence. We the Sagndar were to reject the gifts of ‘magic’ as some might call that the Heraldor left behind them, we broke with the Skógr?lf for the reason that they would isolate, hide and otherwise live as beasts in denial of what we are.”

  “And what are you?” Daegan queried petulantly, growing irritated by the vague manner with which he spoke of the tale of the split of the Sagndar from the Skógr?lf.

  “If we were to properly separate ourselves from the Heraldor, it must be done properly. They had abandoned us which meant that all that they possessed was dirty.” éothérod stated proudly, his mood dimmed though. “This is not the sole reason we split from our forest-brothers. This was indeed the reason a number of our people did so at the time, for they cared little for the cause of the kings of our people.

  The other reason the ‘Great Schism’ of our people took place, involved King Silthan of the Skógr?lf and his cousin Agnadeas quarrelling over a maiden. Both men were the most charismatic, the mightiest of lairds and magnificent Elves alive at the time. Though he was not king, Agnadeas was chief in all of Silthan’s councils and as we were still united at the time, rather than ten thousand tribes spread throughout the two Agenors. It was not long after the appearance of the lady Eilenall? Lunar-Hair before the court of Silthan that all changed.

  She was fair beyond the understanding of all the Elves at the time, for she was the daughter of the god Poseidon. So fair was she that, it was said that her hair shone as the night-sky did with all the brilliance of the stars. She it was who was the only testament of a union betwixt an Olympian and one of the ‘First-Born’.”

  “Poseidon, you say?” Ronald queried startled by the reference to the ancient Dorian god of the sea, a god slain millennia ago in the war of the gods known as the Olympnomachi. “How do you know him to be the father of this Eilenall??”

  “My father heard the tale from Mythandralius’ lips-” éothérod began.

  “Mythandralius? You mean the great-uncle of Arduinna?” Daegan interrupted amazed to hear his name fall from the lips of one who lived upon the Misty-Isle.

  “Aye,” éothérod said more than a little irritated, wherefore he continued with his tale. “It was he who saved my father from human slavers, centuries ago. He it was who recounted the ancient tale of our great-split, a split that took place when the cousins Silthan and Agnadeas quarrelled bitterly over the hand of Eilenall?.

  The cousins bickered, until Silthan was counselled by his son Silkas to banish Agnadeas from court and to take Eilenall? for wife in his absence.

  The Lunar-Haired maiden, though had by this time come to favour Agnadeas and wished to accompany him into exile. Silthan though would not hear of it, and imprisoned her in a high-tower the Maid-Hold is the most direct translation of its name into your language. This Maid-Hold did not hold her forever, for the maiden was crafty as she was beauteous and had delivered to her by servants of the King endless amounts of cloth, for they knew the secret passage’s entrance to the door-less tower.

  This they did on her behalf unknowing of her great quest. Just as she concluded the act of freeing herself, Agnadeas fled from exile, and found his way to her tower whereupon she lowered her length of cloth and escaped with him. Escorted by his guards, they fled north-east wherefore they were wed and begat the twin sons Truor and Gilhuor.

  Infuriated by her escape Silthan demanded Eilenall?’s return, to which Agnadeas refused and was encouraged to wage war for her, by the maiden and her mother the lady Eilenall?. What resulted was the Great Schism War that so disgusted our people, with the final battle of cousin against cousin taking place near Montlunaire in Gallia. It was thereon the mountain that Silthan caught up with Agnadeas and the two Elf-lairds fought a bitter battle.”

  At this time the prince of the Sagndar halted in his speech, his throat dry as a desert he quenched his thirst with wine.

  During this time, he was prompted by Ronald who appeared keenly interested, “What was the result? Did they sword each other?”

  “Nay, it was at the moment that Silthan had his cousin at his mercy that he was overwhelmed by the old love he felt for his cousin that he stayed his arm.” éothérod said sorrowfully, “Agnadeas regained his footing and peace might have been restored, were it not for Silkas surged forward to hew the son of Eilenall?.

  Lo! Did the first kin-slaying of the first mask-wearing Sagndar come to pass; Agnadeas passed away in his cousin’s arms, who for his part wept at his kinsman’s death. He it was who had crafted the first mask, first favoured life in the open-fields in place of the forest, and he who had won the love of the Lunar-Maid.

  The battle at an end, Silthan attempted to make peace with the sons of Agnadeas but they fled at the sight of him despite his giving over to them the corpse of their father. We buried him according to our customs, and swearing to honour their father the twins took to the mountains though the Wilder-Elves claimed they banished us there. The war though did not end as the twins later returned for vengeance against Silthan in his palace of the ‘Deep-Green Hollow’ or N?rndyrgrath as it is said in our tongue.

  They escaped afterwards, with Silkas slaughtering a great many of their sympathisers in retaliation for which crimes Gilhuor slew him in the second battle of Montlunaire. In horror at this great act of bloodshed though, a great many renounced the leadership of Silkas’ sons and took to other forests, his kingship had become tainted.

  His sons though all slew one another for the kingship, while his younger brother fled to the lands of Hyspania to begin anew, as a tribal chief. As to the sons of Agnadeas, the younger twin was slain by Silthor the youngest of Silkas’ sons and the elder twin was slain by Ares laird of war, of Olympus when a maiden he desired took a greater desire to the Elf-prince. It was in this way that kingship was broken, and the clans sundered with the Sagndar renouncing the Lunar-Maiden and her descendants as cursed, as the Wilder-Elves had the line of Silthan.

  Though she was banished, to the lands east of Volkholant, or mayhaps the Gernavian isles, I know not, her grandson Algnar Boar-Mask led a small tribe alongside his cousin, the son of Truor. The two guided their people away from a number of the once-followers of their fathers who took up new chieftains.”

  *****

  “Such a sorrowful tale,” Daegan declared swept up by feminine emotion and pity for the grandsons of the Lunar-Maid, and the Elf-maid herself. “What became of this Eilenall? Lunar-Hair?”

  “It is not said, though the maidens of our tribe and brother-tribes recount that she was reunited in death with her beloved. Others say that so filled with wroth was Vili that the laird of light himself, cast a terrible curse upon her; that she would live to suffer through the ages until such a time as the line of Silthan and Agnadeas were to come together once more in brotherhood. And that as she had caused the split, she it must be to bring them together once more.” éothérod said with an expression full of doubt, “I do not believe that particular tale.”

  “Why?” Fergus inquired curiously, with a small sly smirk upon his face, on that bespoke of his own doubt.

  “Because it is unlikely, and Vili is renowned as a gentle god one who though a fearsome warrior, and possessor of the Sword of Light Ljósstaer, never did favour curses no matter the crime.” éothérod retorted with a shrug of his large shoulders, hardly of a mind to bicker with the Tigrun over the fate of an Elf long since deceased.

  “You said that it was Mythandralius who recounted the story to your father, how came he by this tale?” Bardulf asked of the chieftain’s son, who gave him a puzzled look at this question.

  “This is a tale that his line has passed down through the centuries, or so he told my father.” éothérod said neutrally.

  All throughout his recounting of the tale, which had ended just as the suns had descended leaving in its wake the shadows of dusk. It was at this time, as she grew drowsy that Daegan realized who it was that the young Elf-hunter before her reminded her of; he was rather akin to Solamh. The eldest of Indulf’s brothers had a similarly serious nature, and a fire in his eyes that was shared by all the men of his family.

  To one side, one of the Elves said something to the chief’s son who chuckled in response, for which he was queried about this exchange by Daegan, he replied to her question at once. “My clan-brother Arkras, thinks I have shared all too much with you. He worries now that you know our tales you somehow possess the means by which to undo us.”

  “How could we accomplish that, simply by knowing your most ancient of tales?” Ronald asked cynically.

  “For all peoples are made or unmade as my father says, by the tales they tell of themselves.” éothérod replied wisely, almost sternly to the Tigrun who fell silent. “The brother of a Pardiff ought to be more aware of such things.”

  The gentle reprimand was not spoken with much hostility or disapproval it was evident that Ronald took it ill. Embarrassed and annoyed, he turned away to depart now himself, muttering hot-words under his breath.

  Amused Fergus was to remain and to offer to drink with the wearer of the boar-mask. An offer that was accepted with rather more eagerness, than he had the invitation to join them, in the discussion of the Sagndar’s history.

  *****

  It was the next day that they were allowed under escort, to visit with the Wilder-Elves, and Andvari, with the Dwarf about prepared to go mad once more. The sense that he was imprisoned one that awoke once more in him, memories of being cast down into the pit in the center of his village. Though he had been treated with the utmost respect, invited as he was into the home of Selvan the chieftain himself, he showed little gratitude for this gesture. Nor did the kin of Arduinna, show themselves to be very grateful or inclined towards appreciation, for Selvan.

  “He spent the whole of the night, complaining and shrieking about the evil of these Elves,” Calandra complained at length, resembling for the first time in personality to Daegan’s knowledge Lauma.

  The less pleasant of the daughters of Arduinna for her own part, appeared far more weary than her sister. It was Kyrenas, who was the most wearied and frantic, placed in the same room as his wounded son, he had hardly left his side. Save when he had been banished, from Glarald’s side by the chieftain Selvan himself.

  “I have reason to fear, for these are the same people who have for generations done all in their power to destroy my ancestors, all throughout the centuries!” Andvari cried out in a panic, “It was they who slew my great-uncle Karatikath the Explorer!”

  This proclamation was to win him an affronted expression from the Mountain-Elves, just as it did the Wilder-Elves, save for Kyrenas. The cousin of Arduinna, who had hitherto moved from irritation to fondness, then back in the direction of exasperation towards the Sea-Dwarf, was aggrieved at his words.

  The open hostility that existed between the Wilder-Elves and those of the mountain encouraged Daegan to ask of their hosts. “How soon will your healers complete their tasks? We must be away upon the road.”

  “Where are you bound, girl-child?” One of their guides asked with no less hostility towards her, than he had thrown in the direction of Kyrenas with his eyes.

  It was Bardulf who answered for them, sensing that some such as Connor, and the Elves had little good to say. The only one of their company who appeared remotely keen to visit with these people was Fergus. Treated with utmost geniality and warmth due to his status as a Pardiff he had already sung a number of songs, and had his harp returned to him. Such was his joy at his good treatment he had refused to leave the town-square preferring to in place of that sing of their quest.

  “We are bound north-wards for the lands of Jarl Sweyn, who has taken one of our friends into captivity,” Bardulf said to them with visible agitation.

  “He likely is dead by this time,” One of the Elves said indifferently.

  “Nonsense!” Lyr burst out from the top of the stairs, for the home of the chieftain was built similarly to that in which the rest of the group had been placed in. “Cormac still lives, as does my great-uncle! We will save them, regardless what ye painted-Elves say!”

  Lyr hurried down the stairs, in spite of his injuries which had not fully healed with a grimace of pain on his face, one that did not dim the resoluteness in his eyes. Dressed in his hauberk and chainmail as before, he leant upon a staff lent to him by one of the Elves, to walk. Seeing this several of their numbers worried over him, most notably Calandra and Connor.

  “You can hardly walk, how do you expect to continue with the quest?” Calandra barked out with uncharacteristic impatience.

  “Aye, you must not continue whither the rest of us go,” Connor bellowed with thrice as much fury as she.

  “But I must, because uncle Meallán would do no less for me,” Lyr insisted stubbornly.

  “Aye, though he would prefer if you did not,” Bardulf argued joining his voice to those of the two most worried for him, for which he won himself a grateful look from the Bairaz.

  “Bah, and that is why I must venture forth to his rescue!” Lyr roared as loudly as he did all else in life, full of utter confidence and faith in his skills.

  Stunned by this demonstration of strength and courage, they stared at him.

  Enchanted by this demonstration of his valour, Daegan took heart saying to those around her, “Are we to let this foppish prince show us up and show us to be chicken-hearted? I say nay, now who else thinks we ought to set off to rescue Cormac?”

  There was not much hope in her heart that they may hearken to her words and rally once more yet they did. Even Ronald appeared heartened and pleased by her words, raising his newly regained staff high which had been returned to him by the newly arrived éothérod.

  The great cheer that arose from them and also Bardulf, resulted in a chuckle being heard from farther up the stairs, as Selvan the elder appeared, making his way down the stairs slowly. A smile adorned upon his thin lips as he came to stand a short distance behind Lyr, saying as he did so, “I see that you are exactly as Lyr described lass.”

  Lyr sniggered and Daegan coloured a little, but remained firm in her resolve to project dignity and strength.

  “I should hope so,” She stated confidently.

  “If such is the case, and if you wish to truly depart we shall not stop you, though we must warn you; we will not stand for you going to meet with the followers of Arnaud.” Selvan declared severely, with the group either bristling or hesitating.

  “We are bound north to the lands of Sweyn not for those of the Norléanians,” Daegan said steadily, to the delight of the Mountain-Elf who nodded his head in response.

  Pleased by her words, he was to suggest to them. “If such is truly your resolve, allow me to ask you to meet me in our cavern.”

  *****

  The cavern of which he spoke was a large once-entrance to a series of tunnels dug by the Dwarves and humans who had lived locally. In the age of Selvan’s grandfather Aerenthar Sea-Crosser, it was who led the Sagndar in the thousands across the Noren?ian Sea to the lands of Antillia.

  It was he who had ridden the eastern mountains of the many Dwarves who ruled under the mountains. Declaring the mountains holy and sacred to his people, and armed with stealth and their strange diamond-tipped arrows and spears they had chased the Dwarves from the eastern mountains. The cavern entrance that had been carved more than three millennia ago by the Deep-Dwarves, decorated with emeralds, rubies, cerulean gemstones and also gold and silver.

  All of which ran through the walls and ceiling as might blood or veins. The walls highly polished in places though there were certainly shadows despite the brilliance of the gems. Most of the vast tunnels by the Dwarves had been covered by tons of rubble and boulders, from the age of Aerenthar. The cave was almost a league large and wide, so vast was it.

  At the center there was an altar, with a carved marble statue of the three great gods of the Sagndar; Woden, Sól and Ullr. The one-eyed spear-wielding god stood to the left, the hunter god to the right with his bow and arrow in hand while the sun-goddess stood between them. Her face was wise and gentle, and hands spread to either side of her in a gesture of feminine compassion.

  To the amazement of Daegan the old Woden wore a long beard, just as Ullr wore his short. Just before their large marble altar which had thrown over it a dark-cloth of silk with gold embedded into it, in imitation of the night-sky, with a hearth-fire not yet lit three meters away from the altar. It was a sacred thing to the Sagndar, though they feared it so. They were not as the Iron-Elves, the Valdor as they called themselves who held fire to be a sacred thing, and the greatest of all elements.

  The sight of beards upon the gods of the Elves was a bewildering thing to behold for her, with the scarlet-haired lass curious to this aspect of Elvish culture.

  Seeing her curiosity, Selvan smiled a little in response saying to her, “Our gods are not cast in our image but rather in that which we have seen them, long, long ago.”

  “Why have we come here?” Connor queried disgruntled, snorting a little as he spoke with the likes of Lauma and her kin joining him in snorting unhappily.

  It was then that Glarald joined them, advancing into the cave with the assistance of éothérod and a young Elf-maid with similarly dark hair and eyes to those of Selvan, though she wore a wolf-mask. Her dress made of lioness fur could not hide her beauty, with her hair free-flowing in the wind in spite of the mask that covered her features.

  “Who is that maiden?” Connor asked of Andvari and Kyrenas, neither of whom spared much more than a brief glance towards the fair-skinned figure who stayed close to Glarald’s side. She was very evidently concerned for him, just as he seemed distracted by her, which pulled another irritated glance from Kyrenas and Lauma. Neither keen for what they saw in Glarald’s eyes, when he looked upon her. It was a look that few of them did not see, nor did it appear to be overlooked by éothérod who took up a pinched expression, visibly concerned.

  “That is Lindys, daughter of Selvan,” Andvari informed the Bairaz with a suspicious glance in the lass’ direction. “She is one of the few female-hunters they have and is dubbed ‘Wolf-Fang’ for her skill with a spear, from what the chieftain has told me.”

  “He spoke to you?” Daegan asked now, keen to know as much as him about their hosts, this won her a bemused glance from Kyrenas.

  “Aye, he spoke to us though much of what he said was of little of practical use,” Said the father of Glarald making his way to his son’s side, with Lauma not far behind him.

  Called to his father’s side ere he could truly object leaving the Wilder-Elf to seat himself upon the ground with the maiden remaining upon her haunches if at his side. A cautious gleam to her eyes, as they wandered from one man to the next, mistrustful of a number of them, for she had been raised with the Sagndar view that outsiders were not to be trusted.

  In Daegan’s estimation, though she was fair to look upon, Lindys was hardly of a match for Calandra in regards to her appearance. She had something of the fierceness of Lauma and the stony nature of Kyrenas.

  “We are here to discuss your reasons for being herewith us upon the Misty-Island,” Selvan said to them sternly, his dark eyes aglow and piercing through most of them.

  The greater proportion of them exchanged glances, wherefore Lyr took up the duty to explain to him the nature of their quest. This appeared to worry Bardulf who maintained his gaze upon the prince who went on to explain all to the Elf-chief who listened without a word of interruption. The interest the chief felt for their tale was evident, his brow furrowing the more the tale was explained to him.

  When at last Lyr came to a halt, with Connor and Ronald having assisted in the telling of their adventures, he at last spoke. “The wraiths and their own quest for the Blood-Gem of the blasphemous Aganippe is not unknown to me. I must inform you though that, just as their desire for the stone is known, I am also aware of the Dark Laird’s influence over the vast majority of the lairds and jarls’ of this island. Though, I was not aware that they had lost the Blood-Gem, now their many actions’ are clear to me as well as their goals and I do think I know what they shall seek to do.”

  “And what is that?” Daegan asked eagerly.

  Selvan met her gaze with his wise one, “They shall seek to tighten their grip upon all the lairds and jarls, therefore the war will soon begin. Before I see to the defences of my people and the digging out of the rubble that covers the tunnels of the Dwarves within the mountains, I shall assist you.”

  “How do you intend to do that, chief Selvan?” Glarald queried intrigued, tearing his gaze from Selvan’s daughter who continued to appear worried over him, so that she now stood a distance away due to Kyrenas and Lauma.

  “By seeing where your companions are headed at present,” Selvan informed them, signalling to his daughter who hurried forward near to the large fire-place thereupon she lit a fire rapidly with two pieces of flint. Once the fire was started, it did not necessitate long ere it had grown into a raging inferno within the hearth that was stone-guarded at the base so that it did not leak away from its place at the center of the cavern. The smoke though few of them noticed it, did not begin to crowd the cave, due entirely to the small holes that the Elves had dug in the mountain-top. These holes served to filter out the smoke carefully, at various places so that it would not appear overtly so to those observing the mountain at a distance, nor would those inside suffocate.

  “What is he doing?” Daegan questioned of Bardulf, who simply glanced at her briefly, a flash of annoyance in his eyes.

  “Wait, he is about to enchant the fire lass,” Said the Wolfram with forced patience, his gaze returning to the flames.

  The veracity of his words were proven, when Selvan withdrew some spices from a pouch handed to him by his daughter, spices which he threw into the flames.

  They shifted from bright orange to blue and green, imitating all the lights of the rainbow though these ones appeared darker, and as though they were painted onto the darkness. Awed by the sight of them Daegan could only gasp and wonder at this act of magic.

  Selvan threw several more fistfuls of spices and powders, ere he studied the flames for a few minutes, before the flames appeared to take on the shape of what appeared to be a river. The smoke and fire wound back upon themselves, as though devouring their roots ere they metamorphosed into the shape of a woman.

  At this time, the flames resumed their original shape. Selvan when he next spoke did so softly, “It is worse than I feared, you must head westwards… because your companions lie or shall soon find themselves in the village of the Amazons of Antillia.”

  https://www.youtube.com/@BrosKrynn