“As a sun was the light of Orcus Snow-Hair’d,

  Venus first beheld the Light-Laird,

  Isles arose and the earth shone,

  Awed as a maid before the moon,

  The isles were green, high did they loom,

  In the day as in the night he shone,

  Jewels she sent him, long did he gaze at them,

  With a hey and a ho he toss’d them,

  Red as the fire were her cheeks,

  Wherefore she had Ares throw him down the peaks,

  With a hey and a ho he leapt away,

  In sorrow did Venus weep when he flew away,

  Sword-glancing in his eyes and flowers in hand

  Did he return!

  Eyes as starlight, hair sun-bright,

  Smile as snowfall, thus she clung to her shawl,

  O how they danced hand in hand!

  Across all the green lands,

  Until dark-eyed Ares did arrive hither,

  Blade in hand to send Orcus whither,

  With a hey and a ho did Scota sing this tale,

  As a matron did Venus teach it in a vale,

  Thus is how all loves,

  May they grow!

  All hemlocks and leaves do so tumble,

  Summer lilies in the vast fields,

  As the winter-plums do so grow in the valleys!”

  The song was a beautiful one, an old favourite of both Trygve and Wulfnoth. Though the former could not for the life of him, hold a tune. The latter was the principal one who was able to sing and enchant those around him, in that manner. Their spirits remained high for the moment, in spite of how their calves ached from several days a-horse. The steeds they rode upon were named Naraugr and álfwine respectively were fierce beasts, named by the Wilder-Elves they had in the days since their departure from the Longwoods become quite fond of.

  Traveling south through countless villages, farms past first one river then another crossing first the Lion-River then the Lamb-River. One named for how long it was, and how many strands it had and how much shorter and how many fewer branches the latter river had. Both rivers were but at one time dreams to Trygve, distant ones he could never imagine in his infancy ever seeing. Having caught sight of them and the shimmering golden-blue beauty of the Lion-River had made him gasp. It was the Lamb-River though, with its white purity and the intermingled blueness of the water upon the white-stones beneath it that made him weep.

  “This river has thousands of little white stones and pebbles beneath the surface, you see just as the northern one has sandstone beneath it.” Wulfnoth informed him cheerily, pleased by his awed reaction, ere he had told him. “It is said, or at least this is what Abbot Lachlan once told me that the Lion was the site of a great Romalian palace.

  One built of purely sandstone, it however was shoddily constructed and when he displeased the Nereid of the local river, she turned to the god Fufluns who flung it down upon her. If only to silence her innumerable complaints, not at once realizing that this was exactly what the Nereid, that infamous daughter of Lugh had desired. The sandstone is said to separate those of us above the water, form her own palace that lies beneath the river.”

  It was some time later that he told him the tale, of the Lamb-River, with this tale one of far greater tragedy. “The Lamb-River, was in the time of Roparzh King where most shepherds liked to bring their sheep and tended to them just to the north of it. It was hereby the river, where the shepherd Roparzh-”

  “Wait, the hero of this tale is known as ‘Roparzh’? Are all Brittian heroes called Roparzh?” Trygve interrupted rudely, unable to understand why the name continuously repeated throughout the history of the southron nation.

  “Quiet you,” Wulfnoth huffed, though he hardly scowled from where he sat upon his own horse, which trod slowly along the main road, “This here river was where he tended his sheep. The trouble was that he was fair beyond comparison to look upon, so fair that his hair shone as the stars did and his beard glimmering as they did also.

  Such was his beauty that, the princess of the tribe known as the Lerimii clan fell instantly in love with him. She strove for his love for a long time, forsook her old status, dressed herself in simple garb and even threw herself upon his door. Still he refused her, for the only love worthy of Roparzh in his eyes was himself.”

  “What a lout I say.” Trygve interrupted once more, if savagely so, “It is only through love that men and women truly live, there is no other ways to live.”

  “Agreed,” Wulfnoth approved at once, with a faraway look in his eyes, thinking of his own long-departed wife, and of his now deceased son. His had been a sorrowful life, one that he would not have changed for the life of him, as he was later to admit countless times to Trygve. “Roparzh may not have loved the beautiful, tragic maiden but his neighbour Wilheard certainly adored her.

  It was he who begged her in turn, to consider his own suit, and even her father counselled her to consider his offer. She would have no other man but Roparzh, who told her he would love her if she were to throw herself into the river. Whereupon she threw herself into it and drowned, with the gods weeping at her passing with her body dispersed throughout the river so that it became the white-stones that populate the river.”

  “What of Roparzh?” Trygve asked stunned and disgusted by the tale.

  “He was drowned in the river by Wilheard, thus it can be said that in the end the maiden won him in the end.” Wulfnoth recounted to him helplessly, “Not all tales that begin with love, end with it, though I should suppose that this tale did in a manner of speaking, as man and wife were reunited in the end.”

  “I do not much like this tale, or how it ended,” Trygve grunted miserably, wishing it had ended otherwise.

  “I do not decide how these things end, only recount them lad,” Wulfnoth muttered only to end his tale with a sigh, “Do you think I like the end of this tale, much more than you?”

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  Trygve was of a mind that he did. If only, he told himself he could rid himself of the resentful thought that Wilheard was a man he was akin to. One whom loved without ever being loved in return by the maid he had so ardently dedicated himself to, just as Trygve had devoted so much of his heart to Helga.

  *****

  Their journey after this was filled with avoiding noteworthy places, such as this rock-formation or that great mound of an ancient king. Most of them of the line of Roparzh King, who along with his children had mostly wished to be buried in the lands of the north, where they had come from. Wulfnoth did note that the Roparzh-hill was nearest to that of Griogair, pointing it out in the distance as they travelled past it, and remarking upon its nearness at three leagues from Griogair.

  It was the last of all the Mounds though that he most wished to avoid, for it had become a great shrine of Ziu, where the monks trained in arms and had raised the greatest of Brittia’s kings save for Amuner. It was a place that he would not speak of until well after they had departed the lands of Norlion.

  For a week Trygve bothered him, and annoyed him and pleaded with him, at dawn, at dusk and in between these times for their tales. First he wished to hear of the ‘Usurper-King’ as the Brittian monarchy and nobility had dubbed the ‘third foundational king’ of their realm.

  For they bore a deep hatred for him, according to Wulfnoth (who admitted such in a moment of temper), who had observed it and its contrast to the feelings of the common-folk. The common-folk had loved the mightiest of kings of Brittia, admiring him and appreciating his dedication to them.

  But in time, Trygve became more curious and inquisitive of the figure from the north, who had come down from the lands of Ríocht-Riada to carve his own kingdom.

  A noble monarch, who had it was said forged together the kingdom of Norlion. He was a descendant of Roparzh the Reclaimer, and also of Fergan the Poet of ériu. The King Artuir the Bear, the very ruler who had forged the noblest of the kingdoms of Brittia.

  “I will not speak of him, for the kingdom he and his son Llachlan forged together, was to perish in blood, and tragedy with Llachlan cast down by the Wilder-Elves under the command of Vulkuinas, father of Arduinna.” Wulfnoth murmured to him, his revelation one that caught his attention at once. “It was Vulkuinas and King M?rwine II, who joined together in alliance against Llachlan whom they slew in the Leowine fields wherefore he was hounded to death. It happened that his daughters were taken and thrust into nunneries, and his sons were cast into the sea to perish, in the Lion-River. This is how it won its name it is said in the Brittian tongue; the Lion that devoured the children of the line of kings.”

  “What became of the daughters?”

  “They fled to Caledonia for a time, where they became Queens and their line was to migrate to the western isles. It was they who are said to be the ancestors of the line of Achaius, and they who founded the convents of the isles of Merrah and that of Kull respectively.” Wulfnoth admitted adding after some time spent in thought, “I had heard that it was the younger daughter Hilda, who had her father’s groom, Bediwine found the monastery of Ziu. It was he who was to show the deepest sense of dedication to the memory of Artuir and Llachlan.”

  *****

  This discussion had taken place two weeks in the past, with the two having left it long behind since behind them. Later discussions turned next to personal thoughts and views of the state of the kingdom. Both were fond of Mael Bethad, though in different ways.

  For the young Trygve, he represented an ideal. One that he could hopefully strive towards, one that was as brilliant as the star of Turan in the night-sky. His love for Gruach, for the family he had forged with her and the lengths he had gone for her, both against Comgain and Donnchad when the later had demanded her head, moved him.

  “A man who would cross the Highland mountains, such as that of Razenth to confront both drake and man, then cross back across them in later years to strike down his king is incomparable. What else could one dub him, but an ideal,” Trygve was prone to defending and proclaiming, adding with a hint of mockery in his voice. “I suppose you shan’t name a single Brittian King who is his equal.”

  To Wulfnoth, the High-King was not a remote, distant figure. But rather, a friend he had come to know the strengths and foibles of. It was in this far more intimate manner that he knew his liege. Many a men might have felt that this served to dampen his admiration, it was to the contrary.

  Knowing Mael-Bethad as well as he did hardly diminished his feelings of attachment to the man. He loved him all the more, for knowing his foibles, imperfections and many, many mistakes.

  “Mael Bethad is no ideal, lad but a man like any other. He is wondrous in that way just as he is horrid in all the many ways a common-man can be. Though he has certainly done a great deal to conquer himself and demonstrate virtue in all the proper ways a man ought to.” Wulfnoth said with a small smile that only served to egg the youth on.

  Though he snorted derisively at the notion that there was anything common about the High-King, Trygve could not resist asking. ”May I ask, when did you first made his acquaintance, Wulfnoth? I have rarely if ever heard you speak of him, and am intrigued by the timing of when your friendship first saw the light of day.”

  “Our friendship, was begun decades ago, nigh on- oh dear me it must have been- I shan’t believe it but thirty years ago! My how the time has flown!” Wulfnoth exclaimed stunned by how long it had been since the day he had first met Mael Bethad.

  “Aye, but how did it come to pass?” Trygve demanded of the old man impatiently.

  “Tush you, I was going to begin to discuss that,” Wulfnoth snapped irritated as he always towards the youngest of the sons of Freygil and Ida. He added after he had taken several breaths and cast his eyes askance across the vast farm-fields that dotted the whole of the landscape it seemed, south of the Lamb-River. “It was when he first arrived from the north to plead, for protection from his mighty grandfather, the leonine Mael-Martin II the Destroyer.

  I was at court if you must know, as his interpreter and absolver to a number of his officials. This was likely some of the most difficult years of my life, as I never had much desire to study to be a warrior not that at the time I had much choice in the matter.”

  “How so?” Trygve asked by this time his gaze having wandered to the local landscape, taking in the sight of the hundreds of pine, alder and ash-wood trees that loomed tall above countless heads and huts. The trees were almost all tall, green and large though not quite so large as those of the south of the lands of the Caleds. This stood out to him, for reasons that escaped him.

  As to the huts he beheld then, they were brown and crafted together with the use of sticks and mud, with the greater majority of those people living in smaller houses than those in Caledonia. The difference he mused was that the number of people that populated the landscapes of this region outnumbered those of his own homeland.

  This was not to say that the majority of these people all lived in small huts, some had homes that were built of wood as those of his own people did. Their homes though were slightly more elongated and built a little higher, than those of Caledonia. They also he observed, preferred farming crops such as grain, corn and wheat where the Caleds preferred animal-husbandry. There were more sheep, more cows, horses and pigs brought up in Caledonia, in marked contrast to the lands of Brittia, who farmed more.

  Some things such as the importance of the local wooden temples, the hospitality of the local monks and nuns were much the same as they were in his homeland. Their language though was quite different, so that Trygve hardly understood them.

  Troubled, he found himself less and less inclined towards talking, feeling utterly depressed at his own inability to understand those around him, or to make himself, understood. Few if any of the local people truly understood Caledonian, just as he did not understand Brittian.

  He had never thought it a particularly useful skill, not that there was anyone in Glasvhail to teach him it, outside of Kenna, who had never truly taken to him. How she understood the southron tongue was not clear to him, nor did he particularly care. All he knew was that she alone understood it, with not even Corin familiar with it.

  Pleased to be talking about the High-King Mael-Martin II, one of the most violent, cruel monarchs in the history of the Caleds was almost a relief. Better to discuss that, regardless how disinterested Trygve truly was in him, than their immediate surroundings.

  “Because, for one thing the old King was old even at the time that he took the throne, why dear me his wife was but a waif when she came to him. One of the Boruma’s daughters she was a fair lady with considerable kindness within her, one who never experienced an ounce of kindliness.

  I must confess that I loved her, as one might a sister, her daughters as nieces to me. It was why when I saw that poor, poor young lad throw himself into his grandfather’s mead-hall to plead for his protection… just as I will never forget how Mael-Martin hesitated. For though he never said it aloud, he had in truth despised his good-son, and despised his second daughter, Doada.” Wulfnoth further clarified, with a shudder that Trygve shared as the old man remarked sadly to him.

  “I have delivered many children into this world, held them as they took their first breath, and later when they have departed from this place held them as they took their last, Trygve. Therefore let me say to you my young friend; why do you think I feared Mael-Martin so? Was it because of all the kinsmen he could slay, ere he devoured his breakfast, or bathed in the morn’? Aye certainly that was a reason to fear him, but the manner in which he treated Doada and Mael-Bethad was reason enough to fear him.”

  Chilled to the bone, worst than if he had fought a dragon Trygve could only stare at the druid’s back as they trotted past the countless fields, thankful he had never met the Destroyer.

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