Their companions greeted the tale of their adventures with divergent reactions; Ronald was amazed and pleased, Bardulf was full of approbation and Corin was full of anger. Disapproving of their actions, his fury waxed and refused to wane, as he glowered down at them with such red-faced fury that it was impossible to mistake him for any other than Daegan’s father.

  At the same time that the former two of their friends praised them for their ingenuity, and progress in the journey through the Tower of Iaranntùr, the blacksmith glared at them. “Why did you do this thing?” He asked of them stricken to the core, by their admission, “Why did you leave on your own when there might well have been a thousand dangers behind every door and every corner?”

  This was not a question either of the two of them was prepared for, given that they had raced over to each of their friends rooms come the dawn.

  They went on to sleep, for quite some time and awoke to some apples, meat and onions served on large platters of silver which they had devoured at once whereupon they called for their friends at once. Together they devoured what food they had with Cormac having brought his own into Indulf’s chambers, to speak with him.

  The two had spoken but briefly of what had happened, what they had discovered and what they had not accomplished. Neither of them though foresaw that the blacksmith might demonstrate so much anger at their impulsiveness.

  “I er- we had thought to attempt one last time, to press further into the Tower,” Cormac stuttered cheeks flushing scarlet as far down as his neck that was half-covered by his travel-cloak.

  “Aye, it was my notion that we ought to do so,” Indulf piped up, thinking that if ever there was a time his friend might need him, it was now.

  The look that Corin threw in his direction was one so sharp and so icy that he felt his words curl their way back into his throat.

  Cormac sulked grunting out in defiance of Daegan’s father. “No matter how dangerous it was, I feel certain that it was necessary less we remain here forever.”

  “The lad is right in this matter,” Griogair’s heir said from the back of the room, his voice quiet as he turned his canine-gaze upon that of the blacksmith. “Now is not the time, to remain here complaining of the situation. It is time to push forward.”

  Corin was sceptical of this notion, seeing this Ronald patted his shoulder with a long-fingered paw that was rather less of a comfort than he likely, might have wished it to be. The youths for their part, were excited by this decision to rescue Wiglaf. Colwyn for his part sniggered at the blacksmith’s expense, which won him a reproving look from not only Daegan’s father but also Bardulf and the two Caleds. This served only to worsen his sneering laughter, as he regained his feet.

  “At last!” Cormac grumbled rather nastily, with a glower in Corin’s direction who was to return the look with a small mixture of exasperation thrown into the mould.

  *****

  Bardulf led them into the hallway, and it was he who when the four older men stared in horror at the endlessly rising staircases was the first to step thither onto them. Saying as he did so with visible reluctance, “We have a friend to rescue.”

  Recalling the sense of fatigue they had felt when they had fully conquered the stairs, Cormac and Indulf exchanged a grimace, wherefore they threw themselves with all that they had against those stairs. It was a mighty foe, one that defied them, that bit into the flesh of their feet and that pierced every muscle of their legs. It might well have defeated them, were it not for the fire of their spirits and the loyalty that lay within their hearts.

  It was proposed mockingly by Colwyn that they ought to engage in a travel-song but this was refused by each and every person present therewith him. None had any great taste at present for music, nor did they truly feel any great sense of unity and friendship. There was also in their minds the necessity for stealth, to avoid awakening Gallchobhair.

  The stairs when conquered left them as they had been the previous night, every bit as breathless and weary as the duo of lads had been the prior night.

  “Who built this thrice be-damned tower?” Colwyn complained bitterly, by the time they came before the door to the library of Gallchobhair.

  “It is best not to know, I think,” Bardulf retorted with little interest in the question from where he stood leaning against the ramp at the top of the stairs, almost as out of breath as the Cymran prince.

  It was to be Corin who threw the door open, letting slip a grunt as he remarked, “It appears we have found your gargantuan library.”

  He entered it while Cormac and Indulf held themselves back. Neither of them particularly keen to revisit the library, for fear of being caught and returned to their chambers, with their journey up the stairs wasted.

  Corin for his part was unafraid of such a possibility. He returned immediately tucking away into his pack two of the books he had found upon the table.

  “What is it that you think, you are doing?” Bardulf demanded of him, a little crossly.

  “I should think it plainly obvious? I am confiscating that book on evil spirits and that of gem-stone making for proof of Gallchobhair’s ambitions.” Corin replied firmly.

  This drew a slight nod from the Wolfram, who was sceptical of such a plan whereas Colwyn smiled at this decision. His nod was considerably more enthusiastic than that of the heir of Griogair.

  “But that’s theft!” Indulf exclaimed alarmed by this misdeed on the part of the ordinarily unblemished blacksmith who shrugged in response. Cormac kept his own mouth closed, wherefore he nodded his head in support of Corin. Seeing this from the corner of his eyes, the son of Freygils gasped, “Cormac do not tell me that you support such an act?”

  “It may in fact be the only way to convince others of what has happened hereupon Antilia,” Cormac muttered defensively.

  Grumbling Indulf closed his mouth, thinking to himself he did not much like this particular act. It did not seem right or honourable to him. He understood that they had to think practically, but he felt certain that Gallchobhair would notice that the books were missing and would likely hunt for them. Initially charmed by the érian Archdruid, he had since that time come to feel less certain of the man’s goodness of heart.

  They continued their search of that floor of Iaranntùr with none at all interested in the outrage of the Caled-youth. Their search turned up when they opened the next door, the same library as before. The door after that revealed… the same room.

  Seeing this Bardulf and Corin both gaped and argued between themselves over what should be done.

  It fell upon Colwyn, to ask the question that Indulf had dreaded since the second door had been thrown open; “Just how,” Said the prince of Gwyneira, “Did you break through that illusion cast by Gallchobhair?”

  The question had been one which Cormac and Indulf had skirted, as best they possibly could and at considerable effort. It was one that none of the three nobles had in truth, blatantly asked hitherto this moment.

  Resigned, Indulf told them the truth at long last, “It was the gem. Cormac thought to press it against the walls, thinking to turn to the magic of the Sorcerer-King to cast aside the illusions.”

  Cormac threw a disgusted look in his direction, as though he considered this admission an act of betrayal. Indulf refused to reply to this glance with a similar one of his own. A part of Indulf prayed that they might take the Bane of Aganippe away from his friend, to entrust it to him.

  They did not do this.

  To the contrary it was Colwyn who asked with keen interest, “Could we not turn to it once more?”

  “How do you mean?” Cormac asked suspiciously, having no wish to be falsely taken in by the silken-tongue of the prince of Gwyneira.

  “Such an act is out of the question,” Bardulf barked furiously, scandalised that he might recommend turning now to the Blood-Gem.

  “Can you think of another solution?” Colwyn countered at once, his own voice markedly more impatient than before.

  “Very well,” Cormac replied, ere the Wolfram or the visibly divided blacksmith could properly answer the Cymran. The two of them were taken aback by his decision, with Cormac stepping forward with the stone upraised from its chain.

  It glimmered with crimson fury, as though it objected to the youth utilising its might for any cause other than its own.

  Pressed against one of the still closed doors, they waited a few minutes ere they opened it. It was Corin who stepped up to the lad, standing by his left-side for the door that Cormac stood before was one to the right-hand side of the hallway. The door was thrown open, by the blacksmith who took a step forward to enter the room first, in place of Murchadh’s son.

  All of them took a step back, when they saw the figure resting upon the small bed at the centre of the room that stretched out before them. It was Wiglaf.

  The chamber was fourteen meters wide and fourteen long, with two large wooden dressers opposite from the bed, a small square table near the foot of the dark-blue draped bed.

  *****

  The first into the room was Cormac, followed by Indulf. Bardulf likewise did not hesitate to join them by the bedside of the old sorcerer. Corin and Colwyn for their parts trod forward slowly with considerably more caution than the three of them did.

  “Wiglaf!” Cormac and Indulf cried together, both seized by worry for their elderly mentor.

  His eyes which were hitherto closed were to crack open wherefore he was to blink several times in surprise at the sight of his friends.

  “What are you three doing here?” Wiglaf whispered startled, a small smile creasing the lower half of his face. “I had thought the lot of you had long since left, with the Blood-Gem.”

  His words drew them up short, with Cormac assuring him, “We could not abandon you Wiglaf!”

  Pleased by these words, the gratitude of the sorcerer could not long endure in the face of the reality that they were still there. “I really must insist that you do so, Cormac,” He murmured coughing ever so slightly. “You know not what has happened, in this very room.”

  “Tell us what has occurred old friend,” Bardulf said with far greater firmness and strength upon his mien, eyes never flinching from the pained ones of the sorcerer.

  *****

  Wiglaf undertook the tale of his own sojourn in the palatial house of Gallchobhair. His tale was infinitely sadder than any they had had to tell, for it was of betrayal most foul and of the fall of a once great man. A man, who had as Lyr had told them in weeks past, had been the favoured advisor and friend of Bradán the Unifier. With a pained twist to his thickened lips, which he licked with a dried tongue wetted only on occasion by Corin who dutifully grabbed a nearby tankard of fine Aguianian wine to help him when he struggled. For this the father of Daegan was often rewarded throughout the tale-telling, with many a grateful looks.

  “It has happened,” Wiglaf informed them half-heartedly, “That I have been a fool and an unwitting traitor. I have misled the lot of you, in my selfish desire for a cure for my wounds, and my cowardice. ‘Twas my heart’s desire to pass along the torch, I first picked up in Glasvhail to my dear friend Gallchobhair. I had thought it might redeem him in the eyes of his High-King, as I rested here in comfort, until such a time I would either expire peacefully or recover enough to join you all, for the end of this great quest of ours.”

  “You must cease with this endless self-recrimination, Wiglaf,” Colwyn pleaded a note of disapproval in his voice, “Time may in fact be of the essence, you must tell us straight as an arrow of what has occurred. Guilt and grief will only eat up the little time that remains to us.”

  “You are correct,” Wiglaf said ere he continued his tragic tale, “It happened that I was placed here, in this very chamber to rest. As I slept, my old friend Gallchobhair had his people care for me, closing my wound, cleaning it wherefore he bandaged it by his own hands. It was some time after he had finished, that I awoke to find him seated in that very chair.” He pointed with a trembling hand to the other side of his bed where there stood a lone red-wood chair, polished and well-crafted as only Elvish chairs could be. “He remarked that he was pleased, I had awoken and informed me of how he had the wound sewn shut, and bandaged after cleaning it. He had fretted for some time that I might not survive. Wherefore, he told me that he knew of my quest. We spoke at length, at first of trivial matters such as our training in the Tower of Draíocht in days of yore. It was a grand time we had thought, and we laughed at our youthful loves, jests and foolishness.

  Then our minds turned quite naturally, to the present danger. It was with considerable consternation that I informed him, of my wish to turn over the ‘Great Matter’ as I termed it, over to him. Knowing as I did that he had studied the Blood-Gem, its history along with other such artefacts for some time, I asked of him, ‘will you do this for love of me? In honour of our ancient bond of brotherhood, forged in a bygone age, when the true Dark Laird still stalked the land, when good men perished by the thousands and evil ones throve incomparably.’

  He left for a time leaving me to rest, I asked him once again to do me the honour of taking my place on our quest. It was at this time that he promised that he would certainly do so, yet there was something in his manner. Quite what it was, I do not know but there was some darkness in his voice or in his eyes that, alerted me to the truth; he had come not to aid me but to deceive me.

  I asked of him, ‘How might we destroy the Dark Laird?’ whereupon he answered at once with assurance, ‘There is naught to fear, my old friend… I shall see to the matter, now rest easy.’

  I attempted to sit up, to better face him and he pressed me back to the bed, with my last remark fluttering out from my lips as a part of me truly longed then for rest. ‘I shall rest easy soon as the Bane of Aganippe is retrieved from that Wyvern-pit.’

  At this lie he grew angry, gripping me tightly as though his fingers were not fingers but rather cat’s claws, saying as he did so; ‘Retrieved! Do you mean to say that you lost the Blood-Gem?’”

  At this time Wiglaf showed tugged a little at the collar of his robes, to show them the scarlet welts left over by the sharp-nailed fingers of the western-born man of ériu.

  Before they could do much more than gasp, he carried on with his dark tale, “It was thence that I divined the truth; he had been lost. Pulling back from him, I roared as best I could, ‘Gallchobhair! You are hurting me! The Gallchobhair I knew would never have done such a thing! And why did you not so much as blink in surprise at the mention of the jewel!’

  He was quite taken aback. He did not answer for a time, only drew himself back, whereupon he sat still for quite some time stroking his long-beard, pulling at some of the whiskers with a few coming undone from his very chin.

  It happened that when next he spoke, he was much calmer than when he had pounced over being told I had lost the jewel, ‘I have still yet to hear of how you came by the gemstone.’

  ‘It was quite by accident, just as my encounter with those Knightwraiths,’ I told him coldly.

  ‘Ah, the thirteen once more stalk the land do they?’ He queried bemused.

  To this question I froze for I was certain that there was only twelve rather than thirteen, thus I put forward my question to him, ‘Thirteen? Whatever do you mean by that preposterous statement? I encountered only twelve.’

  ‘I misspoke,’ He said hastily but I could tell he was lying, why remains a mystery to me still.

  “If such was the case, why did you mention them in the first place?’ I asked of him rather more sharply than he expected.

  It was at this time that all bluster and deceitfulness left him, and he hissed after another lengthy silence full of dark glares in my direction. ‘Why can you not remain grateful for what assistance I did lend thee, Wiglaf?’ but I persisted in my desire to know how he knew of the thirteen wraiths that currently plague the lands of Midard. ‘Why do you speak to me as though I were one of those fools, who bow and scrape along at your feet, Wiglaf? I am no apprentice to kneel and plead for your favour, as those fools Ronald and Marculf do. If you may recall, I have long since graduated from such a lowly rank and now stand here, before you a master of the most ancient arts.’

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  ‘If you will recall we are all apprentices in life, true mastery cannot be achieved in this life,’ I quoted to him.

  He sneered at this, ‘Do not patronize me those childish lessons, I have long outgrown them.’

  I stubbornly persisted, ‘There are some lessons we never outgrow.’

  He drew himself up rigidly where he sat upon his chair, saying in a voice that rang like thunder, ‘Wiglaf, times are changing and the solutions of yesteryear must fall away…! A new power arises in the north, one that the Order and all the old allies have no power… the Elves and Dwarves have had their time and look at what remains of them; a tired people with little of the old arts and empires that once they dominated.

  This new power will soon prove itself indomitable. Imagine the wonders we may achieve with it! It is only through this power that the world may change as we once envisioned it, for change it must! No more bowing and scraping to the likes of Bradán or to the Colwyns of the world, for we would rule! This power that could surely be ours, if we have the patience and wisdom- yes wisdom for we are counted amongst the Wise you and I, and we would need not be hindered, by kings or those so-called ‘friends’ of ours.

  Why rule through kings and princes, when we could lay claim to those positions ourselves? I for one, have had enough of seeking to push them in the right direction, to advice them and to hope that they follow the way of progress, of knowledge and wisdom. You must see as I do Wiglaf! O the glories we shall achieve were to have the Blood-Gem!’

  This speech was most extraordinary and I could see that he had practiced it for some time. So astonished was I, that I could nary speak a word for some time, yet when I did it was to exclaim. ‘Gallchobhair, there have been grand speeches such as this uttered in our distant youth, typically only by the most foolish of our peers who sought to rebel against our masters. You must remember what became of them…?’

  At this he grew angry, coldly so, ‘Bah, they were weak and foolish, yet what did we achieve with our servitude to the masters? It has only served to enhance the glory and name of Shaltair, or that fool Findralan, or old Claude Grey-Cloak. So old friend, what is your answer?’

  ‘I would sooner perish of these dragon-wounds than to embark, on so foolish a course, for I know all too well the price of such folly.’

  He seethed and grew all the colder, eyes flashing with malice and hate- such hatred that I have rarely if ever seen its likeness before. He was to stamp his left foot on the ground and grind his staff into the stone also, in a fit of pique ere he snapped at me. ‘Then lie here and perish, of those dirty wounds, old fool! Mayhaps the pain of them shall restore some sense by the time I have returned!’”

  *****

  So strange and horrible was this tale, so queer the development of the discourse betwixt the two old sorcerers that all stared at Wiglaf. He drank thirstily as he had in the middle and to the end of his long tale, smiling benignly up at his old friend, who gave an uncertain one of his own in return.

  When at last someone spoke, it was Indulf who recovered his thoughts enough to ask, “That is all that has happened?”

  “There is more,” Wiglaf stated looking utterly wearied by this discussion, looking as though his age had at long last caught up to him; his hair and eyebrows were bushier and his beard thicker. With the colour of his mane the purest snow-white colour that any of them had ever seen in all their years. “Gallchobhair has gathered some of the blood of Mimir, quite how he came across or gathered the blood of the wise one is a mystery to me. I have seen him standing o’er his well which houses the blood, and asking it questions to attempt to find the Blood-Gem of Aganippe and also the Dragon’s Eye. Alas, he has thankfully been unable to find either of these relics.”

  Mimir was a name that Indulf had not expected to hear, from any lips since he had seen his grandmother cremated and her remains laid into the ground in the same jar that contained the ashes of his grandfather Thorvain. It was a name that hearkened back to the oldest of Norse-tales, those that bespoke of Oein the Alffather, who was in their beliefs said to have created heaven and earth.

  It was said that he wished for the knowledge to aid mankind, and that he could only find it by drinking from the Well of Wisdom. This well was guarded by Mimir, who was very jealous of the Well, and traded a single draught in exchange for the war-god’s eye. Later, Mimir was taken captive by the former enemies of the Aesir. He had his head cut off wherefore it was taken up by Oein, who kept it near so as to ask it questions and consult with it when great sorrows arose in the mortal-realm.

  “Mimir, as in the guardian of wisdom? First of the wise, Wiglaf?” Corin queried not as familiar with those tales as the Caled who knelt between him and the old sorcerer.

  “Aye, Corin I am surprised to hear you know of him,” Indulf affirmed.

  “I know his tales from Corin, and you know through your grandmother?”

  “Aye,” Said Indulf at once, wherefore he frowned as a new thought entered into his mind, “But wait, I have never heard of the blood of Mimir? What tale is that sprung from?”

  “It is not exactly any singular tale as such,” Bardulf stated hesitantly, only to when they all turned to him he admitted. “I do not know very much, only what I have heard on my wanderings… that is to say that it is whispered that when Mimir’s murderers slew him they spilled his blood. It fell upon some distant part of the mortal-realm, and that it was gathered together by Elves with the assistance of Oein. These Elves were to use it for good, with the techniques to keep and preserve it passed down amongst their noblest of lines. Though I have never met, any who actually had done so or had a well of ‘Mimir’ so to speak.”

  “The well is not important at this moment, all that matters is for us to escape,” Cormac said resolutely, as he offered up a helping hand to Wiglaf. “Wiglaf can you walk? Let us help you, to escape from this place.”

  “I do not think I can, or that I shall be much help to you now,” Wiglaf demurred feebly, struggling up as best he could.

  “But we will not leave without you,” Cormac said at once, speaking for them all once again with such determination that it overrode the hesitation of the old man.

  Opening and closing his mouth, the sorcerer was to wipe the tears from his eyes with the tip of his beard, sniffling as he did so. “Thank you Cormac, your compassion and devotion makes an old man proud.”

  “Allow me to help also,” Bardulf offered generously, helping the old man to his feet.

  “I will fetch his staff,” Ronald volunteered with visible eagerness, as he raced about the bed to retrieve his master’s most important possession.

  *****

  They ventured out the door with Wiglaf leaning upon Bardulf, while the old man retained his staff in his left hand. It was Indulf, Corin and Ronald who scouted ahead with Cormac just before the sorcerer and Wolfram while Colwyn took up the rear of their party. Each one heroes, each one worried only for the next man.

  They had not ventured far, when the eldest of their group warned them in the most hoarse of hisses, “All is an illusion, I must cast it aside!”

  “But what of the gemstone? It is how I dispelled the spell, to gain passage to your chambers Wiglaf,” Cormac answered confused by his words.

  “Nay! You must not use the ruby, Cormac! It is a thing of evil that shall only grow in cruelty the more you turn to it, so that in time it shall lay claim to your very soul. Do you understand me lad?” Wiglaf snapped with a considerable more vigour and strength, than any of them had expected from him ere that moment. So passionately did he speak, such was the force of his conviction that might well have struck them with all the might of a Cyclops’ gargantuan fist that they only stared at him.

  Cormac in particular stared at him, transfixed by horror as the realisation of the depths of his folly hitherto that moment struck him between the eyes. He had never known or realized just how badly the usage of the gem could affect him.

  “Aye, Wiglaf,” He muttered dispirited.

  “Fear not Cormac, were you to lose your soul so would I alongside you, as I also used it alongside you.” Indulf assured him even as his own heart tore with fear, of the curse he had wrought upon himself.

  Cormac gripped his arm wordlessly, as always the two of them as united as brothers.

  *****

  Wiglaf had no further words for them, pushing himself away when they had reached yonder stairs his staff aglow with a brilliant grey luminous light. A groan of pain and exertion escaped from his lips, thereon the top of the steps he waved his great staff along the air before him. Muttering in the silken ancient tongue, with his staff’s crystal still grey he halted his gesture mid-motion.

  “Do not over-exert yourself too much, Master Wiglaf,” Colwyn pleaded eyeing the moving crystal with worried eyes.

  “Aye, he speaks sense master,” Ronald agreed at once, stepping forward with his fist pounding upon his muscled chest. “Allow me to do it for you; I would gladly do this for you.”

  “You lack the ability at present, young Ronald,” Said Wiglaf in a reproving voice, eyes flashing below his bushy brows with anger. “Now shove off over there, and let me work I can do this though it tires me so.”

  He went once again to work, muttering and gesticulating with his large staff until it had traced a whole path and back in the air. To the amazement of all save for Bardulf who had not lost faith in him that the illusion was at last cast aside.

  The ‘illusion’ as Wiglaf had called it permeated the whole of the fabric and wood, along with all the mortar and stones of the interior of the great Tower. It was a place that existed as much in the minds of those who visited it, as it did around them. Once it was burnt away, all that was left was a set of hallways that made it impossible to differentiate between the various floors.

  The greatest surprise for those uninitiated in the old ways of the Order to which Wiglaf and Ronald belonged, was to find themselves in the same hallway where they were first ushered into the house of Gallchobhair.

  “What happened to the stairs?” Indulf asked feeling foolish and awed all at once.

  “There never were any stairs, they existed solely in your minds,” Wiglaf explained with a slight ‘harrumph’. “Now come, we must escape.”

  “Really? Escape seems to me a rather extreme term,” Gallchobhair remarked genially, his thick western ériu accent echoed off the walls of the empty palace he had built up to himself. “If you had wished to leave, you could have done so at any time.”

  As he spoke, the room shifted back to the stair-case, the first that they had seen upon entering that which split in two. Standing atop it so that he could look down upon them, Gallchobhair loomed high above an amused gleam in his eyes.

  “Gallchobhair old friend, I beg once more that you turn away from this mad-quest of yours,” Wiglaf pleaded with the sorcerer of ériu.

  The magii of Cymru stood in defiance of the mighty sorcerer.

  Unsheathing their daggers, the nobles held themselves as ready as they could be under the circumstances after the loss of their arms in the Edranite Depths.

  Sneering down at him, Gallchobhair stepped confidently down from the stair case taking his time, he spoke with an ease that was at odds with the old sorcerer. “‘Mad’? Madness would be to kneel before those fools.”

  His hardened stare moved slowly, while Wiglaf spoke to settle itself upon Cormac who stood to one side of the sorcerer. “Gallchobhair, you must know that to burn down the forest is hardly a sign of wisdom and courage, but rather proof of one’s failings.”

  Gallchobhair did not answer him. Eyes upon Cormac who moved to leap back, when he saw the old warlock raise a hand to him.

  The chain that tied the Blood-Gem that had fallen loose from its confinement behind his tunic so that it was visible to all present, was loosened. It did not fall to the ground instead it flew through the air as a bird might have into the waiting palm of Gallchobhair.

  “At last! How I have waited for this day,” Gallchobhair gasped when he looked down at the sparkling crimson ruby that was the bane of kings and common-men alike. “Aganippe’s bane is at last mine!”

  Indulf took a step thither towards the old man, prepared to throw himself bodily against him. Enraged to see the gemstone that so many had risked their lives for, in the grasp of their foe he might well have truly tackled him. Foreseeing this rash act, Colwyn grabbed him wherefore he drew him back with a hiss. “Wait, you shan’t challenge him, not if you wish to live Indulf!”

  “He has the Blood-Gem!” Indulf shouted back tugging futilely against the grasp of his friend, who would not be deterred.

  “Indeed, he does,” Said a new voice one far darker, deeper and infinitely crueller than that of Gallchobhair. “Now bring me the gemstone of our master, Senán!”

  *****

  The new arrival had the bat-like exterior of the Gargans, from the wings to the demonic boney-spikes that jutted forth from his chin and forehead. He had the long dark hair, and large build that was easily seven feet-tall, his though was a broken body though. He was as a long reed that had been snapped in twain by an uncaring traveller, for he was bent forward in the manner of an old man. His hand resting upon the top of a sorcerer’s staff that was the same length as those of the other magii, yet to him acted in a manner akin to a cane.

  The most notable thing about him though, was neither his great stature nor the age with which he held himself, but rather the crown he wore upon his brow. It was a dark thing, grander and more jagged than the Kingwraith’s crown. All black-spikes it was a truly regal thing that was aglow with a purple and blue gem to either side of it. But in the centre, where there ought to have been a gemstone there was but an absence.

  He came into the room dressed in his dark robe as Gallchobhair own robe slowly grew darker, and as the Blood-Gem flashed from about Cormac’s throat to the old man’s palm. Malevolent and brooding, he carried with him a hate and evil that seethed with the fullness of hot lava newly spewed from a volcano.

  This was Gargath the Foul. Each of them guessed this to be none other than the Dark Laird himself, at once.

  Each of them reacted differently; Bardulf took a step forward, Corin reached for Cormac to try to pull him back from the front of their group, Colwyn backed away alongside Indulf and Ronald.

  Only Wiglaf stood fast. His head held high, staff higher he alone defied the shadow that stood over them. “You shall not have the Blood-Gem.”

  “But it is already mine,” Gargath declared in an ironic tone. “Or shall I say, our Master’s.”

  Mesmerised and terrorised out of his wits, Indulf stared at the tall figure who wore for raiment the shadows themselves or so it appeared to his mortal eyes.

  For a moment there was a flicker of irritation in the eyes of Gallchobhair, who did not appear at all keen to give over the gem.

  Quite what he would have done at that moment was a mystery, not that a great many gave the Blood-Gem much thought hitherto that moment. It had by this time disappeared into the many folds of Gallchobhair’s grand robes.

  Cormac leapt forward with a bound that could well have been legendary. Crossing the distance that separated him from Wiglaf’s side and the other magii, he let loose a great possessive shriek. Hands grabbed at the sorcerer the moment he saw the gemstone disappear from sight.

  “Back you filthy beast!” Gallchobhair bellowed as he threw back the youth with a mighty shove that had as much gust as it did the force of sinew behind it. Raising his great-staff a great light shimmering within the depths of the crystal it held atop it.

  There would doubtlessly have been some great tragedy that might have befallen were it not for Ronald who interceded. Moving so fast that none saw him budge thither to stand between the youth and Gallchobhair, he defied the old man.

  Bravely he fought then, for what other word could be used to describe a man who stands in defiance of a master of an art, when one is barely more than an apprentice? Sweat-slicked fur, back rigid and head up, he held himself in place with nary a sign of cowardice or fear. Lost to the world of mortal vision, and wholly entranced by another realm that only they who are practiced in the ancient arts could perceive.

  Ronald’s defiance was the most futile and foolhardy of gestures. His show of magic was to be struck aside, and end in humiliation as the great stone that lay atop his staff shattered into a thousand shards. Thrown back, because of the great blow that was struck Ronald flew back and toppled over Cormac and Corin alike. The three of them slid across the floor, until they struck their heads against the door.

  The shock of this loss made Ronald when at last he raised himself up from the ground collapse in defeat. His staff had been as an extension of himself, it was him and he was it. Never had a day passed when he had been separated from it. A great cry escaped him, as he held it clasped against his chest, the loss of his magic too much for him to bear.

  “Thus, shall fall all my enemies,” Gallchobhair decreed his voice mighty, as he glowered at the fallen apprentice arms upraised and staff aglow with a dark, nefarious light.

  “Indulf, you must leave now,” Wiglaf murmured yet before the youth could move, he was told, “There are horses in the stable similar to those utilised by the wraiths. I noticed them, when first we entered this place in spite of being hardly conscious.”

  “But what of you, Wiglaf?” Indulf asked of him when at last he reclaimed his voice.

  “Never you, mind that,” Wiglaf snapped turning now to throw his staff towards Ronald, the sceptre flew through the air whistling as it cut the air asunder, until it landed safely in the younger sorcerer’s hands. “Take this now Ronald and cease that snivelling. This is no time for tears, but for I- Wiglaf Far-Wanderer to uncloak himself!”

  As he spoke, a great fire grew from all about Wiglaf. A flame that engulfed him, and engulfed all about him, with Gargath shrieking as he fled into the shadows, Gallchobhair for his part cried out also. The flames in defiance of the master of the tower only grew in strength, and intensity until all around him was engulfed.

  The Tigrun caught the staff clumsily, his own cast aside as he gaped foolishly at his master. None of them had any wish to flee with Indulf pulled back by Colwyn while Cormac was pulled outside by Corin.

  Bardulf was the last to leave that wretched place, and last to see Wiglaf burst forth in a great explosion of fire.

  *****

  Once outside, the half dozen of them were to turn to the stables, taking hold of the horses they threw over saddles as swiftly as the wind, wherefore they escaped from the Tower. As they fled though, they all paid heed to the great figures who burst forth from the ground all about them. The snake-like Colubar and Boairn were to tear themselves free from the very ground they had been planted amidst.

  Most gazed upon the escaping travelers with stupid eyes, as surprised to see them as they were them. The time came though, for them to recover, from their nap wherefore they threw themselves against them.

  But none could move so quickly as the wraith’s mounts, such was their speed that they tore through the air as they might flesh, swift as thunder and as firmly as the mountains.

  *****

  The time came when the gallop ended, the heroes were reunited with those they had left outside, and who had moved steadily south-west nearer to one of the mountain passes. Blinking in surprise, for they at first mistook their friends for the wraiths, they might well have fled but Sister Marian calmed them. Yes, Sister Marian for she had escaped the caverns of the Edranite Depths, only to be found wandering about, lost and confused as to where she found herself currently at the feet of the mountains. It was thereby the forest where it was healthy by the walls of the valley that the Elves and the men of ériu found her.

  “There! You cowardly lot see? It is Cormac and the rest, newly returned from the Tower of Iaranntùr!” She cried pointing and bouncing up and down as a child might.

  Her merriment died and was replaced with alarm, when she saw that they were missing a friend.

  Reunited, they explained rapidly what had to be done, “We must escape from this place at once, and ride as the wind might south! We have lost all, and must regroup and re-strategise with the aid of Prithia!” Bardulf exclaimed to her, and the rest of them.

  “Wiglaf?” Glarald asked hesitantly.

  “Dead, but there can be no time for grief though,” the Wolfram said harshly. “We must escape from this place, for the enemy’s armies are almost upon us now.”

  Lauma, along with Bradán looked as though they might disagree with him. Lyr meanwhile had not torn his gaze from his thorough examination of each of them. His gaze became unreadable as he studied Ronald and Cormac in particular. Indulf assumed that he was simply surprised by how frazzled they appeared, and at the change in staff on the part of the Tigrun.

  “Mayhaps, we could use magic to speed ourselves away from this place?” Indulf suggested with a significant glance towards Ronald.

  “Do not be daft,” Marian snapped at him, “That is the staff of Wiglaf, and Ronald can no more utilise it, than he could draw breath under the sea. Each staff is particular, to his wielder and cannot abide any other magii. Saving three cases, this law has never been broken and for them it took decades ere the staves recognised their new masters.”

  Ronald nodded his head glumly at this correction, his head bowed in defeat.

  “What of horses…?” Corin asked of those with her, his worried gaze flying over his shoulders.

  “Fear not, I found a few wandering near here, and they have agreed to whisk us as far away, as Dytikástro.” Marian replied racing into the woods, thereupon she returned with enough horses already saddled and with bridles about their manes for all.

  “Then let us be away from this place,” Glarald declared the only one of their group, with the remotest trace of valour and defiance still in his eyes. “And we shall raise all of Antillia against Gallchobhair for his treachery, no matter the squalls!”

  “AYE!” Lyr bellowed, ere any could stop him, with every soul Connor included, downcast and annoyed by how obnoxiously loud he was.

  Lyr it was who took the lead and it was he who blew into his war-horn as they smashed their way past the half-built gates of Dòraican. It was also he who laughed as one who is fey, as though they were going into battle at that moment.

  For the rest of them the moment lacked all joy, all cheer. Because just as the suns hid behind the clouds, and there was no light to be found in the land of the Misty-Isle, there was no hope to be found in the hearts of the once dauntless heroes.

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