“It is such a relief to be free from that city,” Meallán muttered rowing in tandem with the youth seated in front of him. The two of them seated behind two of the oars that the Arns had lent out to them, along with a crew led by an old sea-dog by the name of Valdimárr.

  A fierce barrel-chested Wolfram, of Arnish extraction which meant that he had thick black fur with a splash of white fur on his chest and throat, along with the same vivid blue eyes many of those of the race of men had.

  He was nigh on six-feet three, had an infectious laugh and spoke heavily accented Caled, taking very little outside of the seas seriously. He was dressed as the rest of his men, who numbered two dozen, half of which were Wolframs and the rest were Tigruns or men, in the Arnish style.

  With his short-sleeved outer tunic crimson and made of local wool with a thinner yellow tunic just beneath it, trousers made of the same material and equally crimson, a long fur wolf-cloak thrown over his shoulders. The laughing captain of the Storm-Dog as it was called (translated from Stormrgarmr, as it was better known in the Arnish tongue), was a man who was only ever joyful when at sea.

  “The rest of my breed be the worst sorts of ‘mbecils imaginable, for it is only at sea’ ‘dat we men truly become men, ay, men?” His question was purely rhetorical and one that drew grunted cheers from those around him, as he threw his own back into pushing at the oars. As he was not one to give an order, he would not do himself. ‘If ye ‘on’t put yer own back ‘nto it why ‘ught uthers to do so?’

  His philosophy in life was one that did not come unnaturally to each of those for him he had agreed to carry, up the river Tubairuw?. Marian approved though she had on account of her age been excluded from the duties of rowing, though there were a few men who grumbled about this show of chivalry.

  For which they soon apologised if only in spirit and thought, when they heard her voice as she thoughtfully determined to serenade them with old Arnish songs that she knew. Quite how a nun from an isolated convent that had had little to no contact with any of the Arns, save for those few woman-folk who wished to convert, and did not much speak of their own faith did not truly occur to them. Nor did it grace the spirit of either Meallán or Cormac.

  The former being too preoccupied with rowing, though he too had expressed his approval for Valdimárr’s hard-working nature, pronouncing it the wisest policy he had ever heard. He also claimed he wished more kings and nobles, would apply that bit of philosophy.

  As to Cormac himself, he had been raised with such a sentiment that those who do not work do not eat, by not only his mother and Corin, but also the Salmon.

  The old fisherman a man, who had claimed that the whole of the village ought to fish and farm, as they were the only trades worthy of men, and that all else was superficial. This in spite of how the old man, had a fondness for song and had often made excuses, for his granddaughter’s beau being a weaver.

  The current song that Marian sang of though, was unlike any that Cormac had ever heard of. It was of course in the northern tongue, and it bespoke not of blood and violence, but of longing and of the gulf that grew once upon a time, betwixt Oein and his Queen, Freyja.

  Singing with her hoarse, elderly voice that was warm as the suns, and charming as only a butterfly or pup could be, Marian soon won over even the wistful Cormac.

  Wistful for Daegan and his mother since their departure from Vargrsteinn, he had lapsed into melancholic brooding. To his ears and those of all around him, the cracked age of her voice began to heal itself, so that the longer she sang the younger her voice seemed to become.

  Unsure of what to make of this song, which was a long one, Cormac simply contented himself with listening to it. In his mind, he thought of what Corin might have said of it, and wondered if his father had ever heard it before. But in his heart, he recalled Daegan and imagined that it was her singing it.

  Soon though, it appeared to his ears as though Marian took on a melancholic air, looking at him sadly all the while her voice sounded more and more akin to Daegan’s own voice. In spite of his sudden pity for her (and his confusion as to whether she could read his thoughts) he was comforted.

  “Battle-worn Freyja, who lost her spouse,

  For whom her love was always espoused,

  Gold-locked Freyja of the empty-house,

  Thus was the price of her jewel,

  Travel-worn Oein, who left his spouse,

  Whom he always held in highest regard,

  Thick-bearded Oein of the abandoned house,

  Betrayed and far-journeying away from his dearest jewel,

  Afar did Freyja chase after the Aesir-King,

  Who alone her praises did not sing,

  Lovelorn Freyja did thus chase him,

  To and fro to the world’s rim,

  Road-worn Freyja did return,

  To find Hnossa awaiting her return,

  Hnossa had become torn,

  Yet brightly did she glow until Oein also did return,

  Pain-worn Oein did thus hurry home,

  To his shining daughter who smiled sunny-warm,

  Regretful Freyja kept now his hearth warm,

  Lo! The Aesir King and his women rebuilt their home.”

  The song pulled to an end, with Hnossa Star-Pendant, the fairest goddess who had ever lived according to the tales of the north, brought mother and father together once more. With the princess stood her uncles’; Vili and Ve who were as filled with joy, as were all the other Aesir cheering at misery’s end and the new spring of Asgard.

  Despite the fact he had never heard the song before Cormac had a vague memory of being told this exact tale, by the likes of Mairi, the grandmother of Indulf ere her passing. A jovial old crone, she had a depth of knowledge and familiarity with the Northern tongue and their many songs that was unmatched in all of Rothien.

  “How did you come to know that song?” Meallán asked of her, as curious as the rest of them were to the origin of the nun’s knowledge of the lore of the north.

  “It is frequently sung, in the place of my birth,” Marian answered with a small smile her voice once more old as all the mountains of the Highlands were.

  “I knew, she ‘ad to be ‘rnish!” Valdimárr proclaimed to the many cheers of her men, and though none of them heard in their loud approval, Marian demurred from this guess.

  “Hardly,” She murmured, her mysteriousness drawing to her person an inquisitive look from Cormac. Strangely, it was he and he alone who heard her utterance.

  *****

  The river Tubairuw? was a curved one that had four lesser branches known as the ‘arms of Tubairuw?’. The name itself meant ‘Shadow-Fountain’ and thus the ‘arms of the shadow-fountain’ was how the Northmen knew the branches of this particular river. The river was dotted with a number of villages with high palisades and walls. And yet on either side of the river there were none as Valdimárr told them, near the end of the arms of the river.

  “Why is that?” Cormac asked of him, his innate curiosity piqued by this strange comportment on the part of the ordinarily fearless Arns.

  “Because, though we are brave,” Answered another Arn, this one by the name of Rheughal whom was the swarthiest of the men who had joined them on this quest. His bronzed skin from time spent outside, was contrasted by his blonde hair and beard, proof of his Caled mother and Arnish father.

  The former according to him, having been captured by his father ere she seduced the latter, and convinced him to free her from bondage and wed her, with the half-Caled fully fluent thanks to her in the tongue of the Caleds, unlike Valdimárr. “There is naught but death and sorrow that way. We long for the fertile lands that lie that way, but have been driven back from it decades ago.”

  “Aye, many of us could still remember how but three decades ago we ruled over those lands,” Added another Northman his voice bitter.

  “Before the fortress Svarttairne ‘as built!” At the mention of the word Svarttairne Valdimárr spat o’er the side of the drakkar and into the sea.

  “Who built this fortress? The Dark Laird?” Cormac asked stupidly, for which he was given a quizzical glance that bespoke, of just how foolish this query appeared to be to their minds. Aggrieved at their treatment of his question, he subsided into grumbling beneath his breath.

  The fortress in question, according to them was the largest of the war-forts of the Dark-Laird, and was the greatest menace to the forces of Sweyn. In full retreat, since its completion they had been unable to hold their own against the snake-men known as the Colubar or the other demonic forces of the Dark Laird.

  This became known to Cormac, so that he understood the heavy sorrow that weighed upon the men of the house of Sweyn. They could feel themselves to be at the end, of an age.

  It was for fear of this terrible fortress and the Dark Laird’s general who ruled in that keep, he whom they called the ‘Kingwraith’ that they dared not war with the forces of evil.

  At the mention of the Kingwraith by the Arns, who spoke of him in hushed voices as all men do, Cormac jumped a little. Staring at Valdimárr as he spoke in a trembling voice of the horror that lay that way, and that dominated the river that had once belonged wholly to the men of Vargrsteinn, he asked him. “Have there been no attempts to dislodge the Kingwraith?”

  “Aye, some ‘ave ridden out, both the ‘arls’ of Rauergard and the one of the Amazons did. Jarl Sweyn’s own father Sigvar and the current lady of Dytikástro ventured thither on separate ‘casions’ to bring ‘hem down,” Valdimárr explained with a grimace on his canine-face.

  “It happened that the Jarl of the far-north called forth the banners of all the Jarls of the land, we answered the cry as spoken of in the song of Svarttairne.” Rheughal added with a shudder, he soon sang the sad dirge of the great Jarl who rallied the north-east to seek to take the black fort of the Kingwraith.

  “The high-mounts, the great north-horn,

  Left all asunder-torn,

  Once foes now friends were Sigvar and Dytikástro’s folk,

  Together they banded to break Svarttairne’s yoke,

  Green as cedar leaves was Sigvar’s banner,

  And crimson as the flames was Dytikástro’s banner,

  In war no jarl did stammer,

  The fields of Svarttairne were wholly covered by horses,

  The Kingwraith did cover the fields with their corpses,

  Sigvar fought first his son by his side,

  Together against the wraith they did ride,

  Upon the fields of Svarttairne their remains now reside,

  The Warlady no less brave and all her Amazons did also ride,

  And for the crows they were also to provide,

  In the fields of Svarttairne most wide.”

  “It was as Herleifr arrived after he had slain his father, the Jarl Mundi and chased out the legitimate heir of the land Thorvain from the island some fifty years ago, arrived to chase away Sweyn. Still a young man at that time, he it was who was to succeed his elder brother Harald who fell upon the Myrkrfields just outside the fort at the hands of the Kingwraith.

  As said there were three Jarls that sought to defy the wraith, and two fell outside while one was seized within her gates.” Rheughal went on to explain.

  “A terrible story,” Meallán said sadly, “It rather reminds me of what befell our noble High-King the Boruma, nigh on thirty years ago.”

  “A noble man that one,” Another Northman commented, full of admiration for the grandfather of the prince Lyr.

  “We approach the fortress now, we must be careful take us farther south now, and tush with those songs you lot,” Marian counselled as she pointed at a distant black spot on the horizon. One that loomed high above the heavens it seemed, so dark and terrible was it that it blotted out the suns or so it seemed to the minds of all who observed it.

  Frightened by its shadow, it happened that even the most terrible and bloodthirsty of the Arns had retreated back from the sight of it. For though they were prepared through all the ages they had lived, to take to the seas, to girt their belts with axe and sword and face down dragons, drakes and the very worst of monsters. What lived on in that keep, was far in a way worst than the most terrible of nightmares man has ever dreamt.

  Drifting southwards from there along the southernmost branch of the river Tubairuw?, they were to journey for another two days by river. The heading one that relieved the men who were nonetheless worried over the direction the heroes were headed towards.

  “Why ‘ead south?” Valdimárr asked of them, “When ‘tis the spear of Cyril ye seek?”

  “We shan’t abandon Daegan and the rest of our friends,” Cormac replied at once, as he rowed alongside the head of the ship.

  “Noble lad, very noble of ye,” Valdimárr praised with genuine respect in his voice, “Too many in this ‘orld dunna ‘ave any loyalties.”

  “Lyr and the rest of them would do no less, for us,” Meallán stated with a pinched brow from where he sat directly behind the two of them. “I do worry about whether this is wise on our parts.”

  “Why?” Rheughal asked from where he sat himself to one side, of the boat rowing with no less vigour than the rest of those around him.

  “Because the nearer we come to rescuing my nephew, the farther away from the principal purpose of our quest,” Meallán murmured full of doubt.

  Hearing the great hero of ériu doubt himself, was frightening for Cormac. Hitherto full of confidence that were they to encounter danger once more, they would surely be able to rely upon the courage of Meallán, and he now felt his confidence begin to crack. Surely, if the hero had begun to doubt himself, and the direction they were headed towards, they had likely gone down the wrong path?

  Anxious, he sought to belie his own doubt with words full of confidence, “Surely this is right for the quest also, for if we were to head north to seize the spear and abandon them, we would encounter far worst troubles? It is known that the enemy likely guards the spear of providence.”

  “I am not so certain,” Meallán retorted quietly, “I am also not certain that they know our purpose is to purge the world of the Blood-Gem. It is also a fact that simply destroying the stone is not enough to simply end the threat of Tuathmurdún all at once.”

  “Aye, it will deal a great blow to him,” Marian interrupted sharply, her eyes red with fury at the hesitant Meallán, “But please do continue to list all the dangers of our quest. It is surely better to frighten ourselves, from future actions than to stay the course we have chosen.”

  The sarcasm in her voice was so bitter, so malicious in spirit that Cormac could not help but stare at her. Never before had she spoken in such a manner to any, suspicious that it was the burgeoning influence of Aganippe’s Bane upon her, he opened his mouth to ask her if such was the case, then thought better of it and closed his mouth. It might be wiser he decided, to speak to her in private about this rather than when all could hear him.

  Meallán had after-all made that mistake, and it was one for which he felt his own anger begin to grow towards him for. How could the uncle of Bradán the Unifier not demonstrate the same wisdom, he and his nephew were renowned for, and simply keep his doubts to himself? All it had done was inspire uncertainty and fear in the crew, at just such a time when they most needed them, to be brave.

  To be brave, he mused angrily was no easy thing and what this fearless érian did not understand, was that not all men were born as great as he. It was perhaps this anger that pushed him to whisper, when they paused their rowing to eat some lunch, which consisted of carrots and fish. “Must you have spoken thusly, to them?”

  “Of what do you speak?” Meallán asked of the youth.

  “Of your doubts, it appears to have frightened many of our new friends all the more, than what was wise.” Cormac criticised him, impatient to have his better understand the fears, trepidations and insecurities of those they had taken along on this journey.

  Meallán smiled a little at him, “You are wise to worry so, of these men. I expressed only my thoughts to them, and think they deserve to hear them spoken honestly.”

  “Aye, but what if it causes a few to not have faith?”

  “Faith in what lad?”

  “Faith that we could win,” Argued Cormac feeling as though he were bickering with a wall.

  “Hmm, faith is a tricky thing,” Meallán retorted almost more to himself, “I worry at times if men place too much stock in how others perceive them to be.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Aye, but image is all important when one is burdened with leadership,” Cormac replied quoting Corin, who had uttered this phrase once in reference to the youth taking the lead in a game as a child. It was a twisting of a Gallian proverb that had first been uttered he knew, by the famous Clovis the Golden Duke. Clovis was one of the ancestors of Daegan, through her father’s grandmother the lady of Forlarin Augustine, who was herself the Duke’s eldest daughter.

  Meallán studied him for a long moment, pondering his words. For a moment Cormac had the feeling that the érian strongly disagreed with him, and was about to scold him. Instead, he remarked as he laid down a heavy hand upon his shoulder. “You are very wise, Cormac… I misspoke and should have weighed my words more carefully. It is just that I do fret so, for I have observed too much in my time.”

  “To fret is to be a woman,” Cormac jested thinking back to one of the Salmon’s phrases now.

  It had the desired result of drawing a loud bellow of laughter, from the hero who threw back his head as he did so. The sound of the first laugh of the uncle of the Unifier, served to relax many of those around them. Only for the men to begin laughing also, when they heard the jest the flaxen-haired lad had uttered, with Marian giggling also.

  *****

  They set to shore, near the forest of Whitewood. It was a place with a fiercely positive reputation, according to Marian, and also the Jarl’s men.

  A few did however give the forest a dubious glance, uncertain of the merits of leaving them in this forest, regardless of the assurances of the old nun. Most of her assurances were of how it, was a place of good, one which had for centuries been visited by many a maidens. Quite why, was a mystery to the Northmen, who would not tread whither into a forest they knew naught of.

  It was left to Cormac to ask of the nun, “Why would maidens wander unescorted into this forest, Sister Marian?”

  “For in ancient times, it was a holy place to the Golden-Goddess,” Marian informed him cheerily, appearing to gain some strength from merely being near the forest. Her skin looked less rumpled, her wrinkles were less and she was less bent.

  All of a sudden, Cormac had the errant thought as he studied her pleased face that, she must have been beautiful once.

  “How was it holy to her?” Meallán asked of the nun polite as ever towards Sister Marian, for which he was favoured with a warm smile.

  “A tale mayhaps, for after we have left the ship behind us, and these good, brave lads have gone back up the river.” Marian suggested, earning for herself a grateful look in turn from the captain of the ship.

  “We thank ye most kindly, sister,” Valdimárr uttered for his crew, visibly relieved to hear that they were planning to leave them behind. “I be no co’ard, I must say that ‘dis quest o’ ‘ours ‘orries us all.”

  There were several nods and muttered remarks in approbation to the head of the drakkar’s words. In spite of her assurances, and a few of them clinging to the same faith as she, they had little desire to tempt fate in the darkened woods.

  Marian smiled, and encouraged Cormac and Meallán off the ship, saying to them she wished to speak in private to the Northerners.

  The two leapt off the ship onto firm land, in the bog with the wet mossy ground, letting out a loud squelching noise as their boots sunk into the mire. Putting a bit more effort into their feet, than at any other time in recent days past, so that they rapidly began to curse the land beneath their feet.

  *****

  Their effects and packs upon their shoulders, with swords girded to their belts. This last was a gift from Valdimárr who insisted that he had orders from Sweyn to ensure that they had all that they had need of for their quest.

  Carrying the Sister’s goods, so that she had less to worry about, they took to the forest, with a song upon their lips and the suns in the sky. The song was a muted one, with both men humming just a little, if nervously. Distantly a crow or raven squawked which made them jump a little.

  “I really am not so certain that this forest, is still a place of safety,” Cormac complained bitterly, not seeing what it was that the nun saw in this place.

  The forest was a dank one, with a suffocating air of oppression all about it. The trees which were of all sorts of variety, from alder-trees, to birch, to oaks, ashes, pines, red-woods and so very many others did not appear white or green. Rather, they bore the appearance of dark figures, ones that had cast their arms out above the travelers.

  As though to warn them to turn back, or in an attempt to seize them. Neither one truly warmed Cormac’s heart, given his memories of the past forests he had visited, over in Caledonia, where he had come close to being eaten.

  Marian for her part merely chuckled at his words, as though she had never heard something so foolish. “Oh dear me lad, I’faith as you Caleds always say I have not heard such folly in years! Safe? When did I ever say that this was a place of safety?”

  “But you said, it was a goodly place, a blessed one.” He argued not comprehending what it was that she was trying to tell him.

  Thankfully for him, she soon made it all the more evident to him, what the meaning of her words were, doing so just as her foot became stuck in some of the mud and she necessitated his aid in pulling free from it. “Thank ye lad, and as far as I can see; there are no such thing as safe places in this or any other place in the world.”

  “Aye, if we wish for there to be peaceful ones though, we must accomplish it by dint of the strength of our arms,” Meallán stated firmly almost defiantly towards her.

  For this Marian smiled sadly, nodding her head. “You are a mighty man Meallán, though I do wonder if you are as prepared, for the cost of such a war, as you like to claim to be.”

  “I shall be the judge, of that statement.” Meallán swore boldly, his words serving to inspire some courage in Cormac.

  Marian did not speak again of such things.

  *****

  It was the next day though, when next her words of that day were brought up, this time by the érian, who asked of her shortly after their breakfast of fish and carrots, shortly after the dawn. Having rested by a small creek, in the middle of the woods, the ground where they had rested was nowhere near as soft as that near the river. “What of this forest? Why did the goddess consider it holy?”

  “Because, it is said that this was the place where she most liked to visit, during her visits to Miegarer,” Marian replied quietly, studying the trees all around them, with discerning if distressed eyes.

  “Why did the goddess like this place so much?” Cormac asked as he picked up his pack, and hers, for which he was heartily thanked by the old nun.

  “The reason for her passion for this place, is that this is where Cyril, would tell the good goddess, tales, ere his disappearance.” Said Marian with her eyes upon the skies above them, visibly enchanted by their blueness. “It was also here where she oft met, with the unicorns of the island.”

  “Unicorns? There were unicorns upon this island?” Meallán asked as they began the long walk south, as she pointed them in that direction.

  “Aye, all lands have Unicorns, you need only look for them.” Marian explained to him, only to freeze in place, as the men walked some distance away from her, before realizing that she had fallen behind.

  The reason behind her mystification was unclear to the men, who were to find her fixed in place, staring at some of the nearby trees. She appeared dazed at the sight of several dead trees. Quite why she should be so alarmed, at dead birch-trees was a mystery in and of itself, to Cormac who looked to Meallán who impatient called out to her, ere he moved to her side to take her by the arm.

  The Sister did not offer any resistance, muttering to herself as she passed Cormac, “Those trees are not supposed to be deceased! What does this mean?”

  *****

  The forest was enclosed, or so it felt, with it no longer feeling quite as free as the seas had felt. Cormac loved the feel of drifting on the boat, of the smell and spray of the water and even the wearying feel of rowing that tended to sink into his every pore and muscle.

  He had enjoyed it such that it now felt akin to a physical ache, now that he was on-land and in this dark forest. Where there was only danger and menace about every corner, and behind every tree, in spite of the words of comfort that Marian murmured every few hours to Meallán and him.

  Over time, even she grew doubtful of her own reassuring words.

  It was as they crossed in the direction of the west, following Marian’s directions with the nun muttering to herself. “Could have sworn- I was sure that… now where was it?”

  “What do you search for? Mayhaps, Cormac and I could be of assistance with the finding of it?” Meallán offered politely with a hint of exasperation in his deep, if increasingly hoarse voice. His annoyance towards the nun having only grown in the days they had spent traveling through the hearts.

  “It is simply that last I had heard, this forest was supposed to be alive, thriving as only one blessed by Nymph and Unicorn might.” Marian snapped at him, with equal annoyance.

  “It does not appear to be thriving to me, quite to the contrary,” Cormac pointed out as he inadvertently snapped the thirteenth branch of a tree that very hour.

  Marian threw him a withering look, though she did not refute his statement, able to see with her own two eyes that the forest was indeed dying even as they spoke. Quite why, she could not truly grasp.

  For Nymphs and Unicorns were magical creatures, supposed to be immortal and as everlasting as the very earth beneath their feet or the heavens above. A forest may die certainly, but the spirits will move along, however here it appeared to be rotting from inside out. So that there was little doubt that something had gone horribly wrong, or that the soil had become poisoned.

  What also amazed them was how few bugs there were, how soundless the forest was. Ordinarily at the dawn of summer, bugs were out in force yet there were none to be seen. The three of them startled by how no matter how tall the tree, how young they were or how old, they all appeared either dying or to have recently fallen.

  *****

  It was for this reason that all three, leapt several feet to find birds’ chirp come from farther to the south-west of where they currently stood.

  Startled, the three of them stared in that direction until at last Marian directed them forward thither towards where the birds had been heard to chirp.

  Taking up the rear, Cormac was entirely forgotten by the Sister and Meallán who followed after her with a curse, if only because he was worried for her. Yelling after her, “Do be careful Sister Marian, we shan’t separate, wait! They are only birds!”

  Heedless of his own words, the hero of ériu gave chase, leaping over fallen logs and birch-trees, ducking under branches and brushing past brushes as surely as he did the oak-trees of the forest. Weaving his way through the forest with far less skill and grace than did the nun, Meallán was to nonetheless move as one who might well have been born in the woods. His desperation hardly marring his ability to dance and race past one tree, just as his age failed to do so.

  In comparison Cormac, wove his way as clumsily as a duckling or tortoise might have done. Smacking his face against one branch after another, he was to push aside one brush, after another, he was to also trip one score times over the trunks and roots of many of the trees he encountered along the way.

  So that by the time he had caught up to his friends, he had scuffed his knees and hands, and was panting and puffing. Feeling right and properly humiliated, when he at last caught up to the two of the figures who had come themselves to a sudden halt.

  Hardly understanding why they had done so, Cormac could only bend over hands upon his cut knees, his face stinging from the various branches and times he had fallen over. Tugging upon the sleeve of his érian friend, he attempted to say something only to necessitate a moment longer to regain his breath.

  “Why have you stopped?” He asked needlessly, raising his gaze and shuffling around Marian.

  Gasping himself, when he saw the bird-chicks that had fallen upon the ground and lay dying at the foot of the fallen tree where they had once nested upon. Their nest was half-broken, beneath the broken ash-tree that had crushed a number of the chicks. The last remaining chick lay with broken feathers and sides with its chest pierced by a nearby branch it had fallen upon.

  It was horrible to look upon, Cormac mused to himself full of pity for the poor, wretched animal. “How horrible!” He said, wishing there was something they could have done for it.

  “Aye,” Marian agreed in a choked voice of her own.

  “Come along the both of you,” Meallán whispered eyes upon the nearby trees, the scent of death that hung over the forest sticking in his nostrils and throat. Just as the sight and sounds of the forest chilled the blood in his veins, the nobleman tugged on their arms, urging them away.

  Marian though would not be pulled away, pushing aside his arm she stumbled her way to the broken bird which continued to whimper weakly at her.

  Trailing after her, Cormac did not know what to say, though he could understand being filled with pity for the birds, he was unsure if he could bring himself to fully comprehend why she wept so. Marian contrary to any and all rules of propriety, wept as brokenly as a mother might have for her child, or a grandmother for her grandchild who lay deceased, murdered in his bed before her.

  The strength of the sobs that wracked her at that moment startled and humbled the two men. Neither of the of them prone to tears, with one of them looking away from her in discomfort, leaving it to the younger to clumsily rub at her shoulder, in a futile attempt to sooth her grief.

  Not fully able to understand the true depths of it, or why she felt so for an animal she had never known, he did his best to comfort her.

  “If you will, Sister Marian I could bury them for you,” He offered thinking that this would be a kindness, attempting to urge her away, “There, there I will do so, so why not follow after Meallán?”

  Marian smiled wanly at him, through a veil of tears that reminded him, her eyes shifting in colours to his amazement. The moment passed, so that the gold in her gaze faded back to the dull grey he was so accustomed to by this time. She stared for such a long period into his eyes, as though in search of some great secret which only he could know which set him more and more ill at ease.

  At last she took the dying chick from him, and smiling wanly urged him, “Believe Cormac, believe.”

  “In what?” He asked in a hushed voice, unsure of what it was she spoke of.

  Her answer was a simple one, “In the goddess.”

  They pray there, for a long time. For a time Cormac grows uncomfortable at the feeling of her leathery hands, upon his own, callused by the oars of the ship they had travelled upon. Confused as to whether she meant pray for the end to come quickly, for the baby bird or for it to find peace, he simply prayed.

  Opened his heart and emptied his mind of all the various thoughts that plagued him eternally. This latter part was more difficult to do, though he still strove to do as she had asked, with his eyes closed and head bowed.

  When the bird took flight, its golden wings fluttering it surprised him for he had not thought it old enough to fly quite yet. “But how?”

  “You had faith Cormac, how is less important than what you might think.” Marian corrected him genially, ere she turned away looking as though she were brooding once more. “Quite what has caused this forest to rot is a mystery to me.”

  As she caught up with the equally amazed if impatient Meallán, Cormac lagged a little behind them, gaping up at the heavens. The bird fluttered by chirping happily, as it caught up with its parents and flock, which had decided to take flight for the south. They were soon joined by four more chicks in full flight.

  When next he looked down, he found that the corpses of the birds crushed by the fallen ash had disappeared.

  *****

  It was shortly after dusk had begun to befall them that, Marian once again comported herself with uncharacteristic impulsiveness. Saying just as Meallán proposed that they stop to light a fire, “Nay! We must press on; I know it is near here! I can smell her and she needs me!”

  Quite who this ‘her’ was, was a mystery to the men. It was at this time that Meallán lost what little patience he had for Marian’s strange comportment, “Who? If you will not tell us who it is you speak of, mayhaps you could go find her by yourself, because we have wasted enough time searching about the forest needlessly.”

  Cormac for his part squirmed, it was not that he wished to contradict Meallán at such a time, “I will accompany her, maybe there’s another baby bird in need of rescue?”

  “Nay, this is no bird but Talaitheá,” Marian said frantically ere she was once again swift to take flight through the glen they found themselves in.

  Cursing below his breath, Meallán demanded, “And who is Talaitheá? A chicken you have not informed us of?”

  “Do not be rude, nor do I much like your tone Meallán,” Marian scolded him sharply, ill-pleased by the cross manner in which he had addressed her.

  Chastened, Meallán stuttered a little uncharacteristically ere he said to her, “My apologies, Sister. I had no intention to insult you, or treat you cruelly it is just that I am concerned for Lyr.”

  Marian did not answer at once, only patted him upon the shoulder. There was still a little impatience in the older man’s gait as he strode after the nun, with Cormac hopeful that this was the end of any quarrels between them. He had no wish for any further squabbles, not when they had the Blood-Gem and the Dark Laird to worry over.

  It was as though she had ceased to care, for their quest he added, feeling resentful. Or maybe it was simply that she was easily distracted? Exasperated he wondered in passing if this was how others had felt towards him, in his time in Glasvhail?

  Forcing the thought out of his head, for fear of being distracted as he might have been in days ere that one, the youth trailed reluctantly after his friends, if at a distance.

  This time though, as he followed them at a much slower pace, he was distracted by strangest of all a sound. Sounds he had come to think were a strange thing in this part of the forest was peculiar enough, given how lifeless it was supposed to be. This thus left him confused, for he could have sworn that he heard a strange cross betwixt a hiss and a wolf’s growl.

  The sense of uneasiness only grew, the further into the woods they went his eyes constantly drifting behind him, where the sound appeared to his mind to be following after them. Uncomfortable, he tried thrice to tell the other two but Meallán was intent upon following Marian who for her own part was intent upon the smell and sound of Talaitheá.

  A part of him wished to do naught else than to leave them to their fates, but the greater part knew that he could not do such a thing. It would hardly be right.

  Marian’s pack about his shoulders, alongside his own and with a huffed expostulation of weariness he hurried thither after them. It was when they at last reached a clearing bumping into the back of the érian-man and nearly knocking him over, so suddenly did he trip and all but throw himself against the other man’s back.

  “Mind your footing lad,” Meallán warned after he caught his footing.

  Cormac paid him no mind. Gasping at what lay in the center of the clearing, he could only stare at the animal that lay broken upon the forest floor.

  *****

  Resting in a scarlet pool of its own blood, the crimson liquid darkening the pure white-silver colour of its silken fur that was as delicate as the gentlest of breezes, with its horn broken in three, the Unicorn could only look up at them. Three of its legs lay at awkward angles with its hooves shattered, and its mane torn out at various spots. In all it was a heart-breaking sight, one that could well have reduced even the most black-hearted of raiders or thugs to tears.

  The pain in the Unicorn’s eyes made each of their hearts ache.

  Having never seen one before, let alone in such poor condition Meallán appeared as though he might break into tears.

  Marian hurried to the animal’s side with a sob; she was to sob all the more with her arms wrapped around the magnificent mystical animal that, at fool height might well have been seven feet high. All it could do at that moment, was to raise its head ever so slightly, the weakness in its eyes only worsened the feelings of pity that welled up in Cormac’s chest.

  Hardly able to tear his eyes from its own gaze, he heard once again that strange sound that was a combination of hiss and growl.

  He was thus to need an extra moment to shake himself enough from the spell cast by the fallen creature’s eyes, to hear her words. Her voice was hardly any less beautiful than she ought to have been, and that her cousin- the one he had seen in Caledonia was. “Away, fly away all of you!”

  So beauteous was her voice that he found his heart melting and aching all at once, because of the pain she felt at that moment and that was so visible on her long face just as it was in her eyes.

  Stupidly, he at last shook himself from the spell she had cast upon him, in time to hear her address his friend, “Marian take flight! For the love I hold for you and you for I escape from this place!”

  The question of how Marian and this Unicorn knew one another was to remain a mystery to him, with it only at that moment that a large shadow was cast over them. The sense of awe and blistering emotional pain was washed away in an instant. To be replaced, by a sense of dread, of mortal terror that made the whole of his body tremble and very soul quake with such horror he felt his lunch come near to escaping him.

  He had enough sense to know at once that what lay behind him had to be one of the wraiths, and if such was the case that death loomed over them all.

  It was as that shadow grew in size and he turned his head ever so slightly that he noticed that it was not at all one of the Knightwraiths who stood behind them. But rather a gargantuan reptile incomparable with aught else he had ever set his blue eyes upon, ere that moment. The beast’s scales were dark-blue just as the dark of night could be.

  These scales gleamed with the light of cerulean crystals and eyes that glowed with liquid-gold, evil radiating from them. The beast had to be at least three score meters wide, a full two score high and ten score meters long. Not that Cormac spent a great deal of time measuring the monstrosity behind him, for very long.

  Seeing it raise its great head, with its maw stretching open as it glowered down towards Meallán, he lunged forward.

  As he could not do much to stop it, he knew he had to at least save the only one of them who could. Tossing himself at the érian-hero Cormac threw the both of them to one side, out of the way of the great bolt of thunder that carved an arc through the air, cutting apart the air as its breath burnt down countless trees.

  The sorrow of the earth echoed for leagues, reaching with the rapidly rising smoke the heavens which might well have otherwise wept at such grief and pain. The air shimmered and burst into the sound of a thousand thunderclaps, which made the ears of all near it ring.

  Flames licked at the summits and trunks of the trees all about them, so that at once the dusk-air was filled with the light of a hundred flames. The flames merciless legionaries that they were of the dragon, showed even less mercy towards the trees they had attached themselves to, than had the great wyrm that dominated the forest. Dread spread where flames failed to, devouring all that they did not.

  Sprawled over one another, the two men could only gape for a time at all the destruction inflicted upon the forest about them and at the wyrm.

  “An Erde-Wyrm!” Meallán gasped stunned.

  Erde-Wyrms were as all well knew, from tales such as those of ?eelric from Brittia, or from the tale of Cormac Stone-Giver wingless dragons. Just as dragons could, they too could spew out flames, or thunder or frost, in the case of this one it was the second.

  Quite where they came from was a mystery to Cormac, not that he very much wondered at that moment about such a detail. Stricken with panic, he could only struggle to his feet ere he was made to leap aside once more, as the wyrm charged with its fangs tearing through some of the enflamed trees all about them.

  The behemoth was to whip about, tearing about a great many other trees as its bladed tail tore apart bark with the force of a tempest. The scales of the beast were as steel hauberks and its glare as foul as that of a tiger.

  Fearful as he was, Meallán was to hurl himself forward, his Arnish steel-sword upraised. Armed by Sweyn, his cerulean dyed blade was fierce as a bear’s claws. Thrice as sharp, deep-eyed in gore it should have been at that moment. Forged by the finest of Sweyn’s smiths, battle-tested it was wielded by the finest sword-arm from ériu saving her High-King, since the days of that king’s good-father, the Boruma.

  Blue flashed through air, and flew about as a gull might in the air. Pitiful it was, and little better than a brown-stick in the face of the steeled hauberk hardened scales that covered the whole of the Erde-Wyrm’s majestic form.

  Terrified, Cormac stared at where his friend had fallen, wherefore he looked to Marian to find her clinging still to Talaitheá who begged her to abandon her, to leave her. Her last gasping breaths reserved as were her last thoughts, only for the safety of the nun.

  She herself called out to Cormac, who looked from her to that which was girded to his own belt. Immobilised by fear, just as the Unicorn was, he could only stare as the Erde-Wyrm sneered down upon the fallen Meallán some distance away from both of them.

  Troubled, divided and tiny in comparison to the beast, Cormac screamed out to Meallán, but the man was unconscious. Adrift in darkness, he could no more aid the youth than he could defend himself at that moment.

  Aware just how futile any gesture on his part to defy the beast would be, and that only a hero of the calibre of Meallán who had fought such beasts before alongside Bradán could possibly save them. Cormac struggled to push away the fear that plagued his thoughts, banishing all sense of reason in its wake.

  There is a tipping point for all things. A place where none may push a man, especially a desperate one such as Cormac and it was into this place that the Erde-Wyrm was to push him, as it made for Sister-Marian and Talaitheá. It was the sight of the two of them shrinking back that pushed him into action.

  Choking on wroth, he threw himself as quickly as any man could well have wished, his fire-blood bursting to life as he placed himself betwixt crone and monster.

  Despite cutting his hands almost to the bone, his soul seared by terror he acted not in the name of fear but that of anger. Drowning in rage at the innumerable injustices both past and intended on the part of the Erde-Wyrm, he set eyes upon his only hope.

  Eyes upon the tapered remains of the stallions’ glory, Cormac did then as his namesakes might well have. Tapered blade in hand, Cormac thrust with all his straightened-arms’ might at the beast that barrelled down towards the crone and the Unicorn.

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