Dytikástro beckoned to them as the Tower of Iaranntùr had seemed to in the north-west. The crucial difference in regards to their previous visit lay in that then they had maintained some hope, and now they were united in their despair.

  They returned defeated and crushed for they had lost not only Wiglaf and the Blood-Gem of Aganippe but also hope itself. There was not a single head still raised, with each of them bowed in shame and sorrow as they put the north-west firmly behind them.

  The weight of defeat could be discerned upon each of their faces, from the fair visages of Arduinna’s daughters, to the long face of Kyrenas, to the piggish one of Connor. This despair was also reflected upon the faces of Cormac, Indulf, Ronald and Bardulf.

  A pall had befallen each of them so that Meallán and Marian had little wisdom to share with their friends. Lyr and Colwyn, ordinarily at odds had not argued even once, during the whole of the voyage from Iaranntùr to Dytikástro.

  The green fields had passed swiftly, with nary a person paying them any attention, so greatly did they despair that the emerald plains had seemed grey, the seas dark and the heavens perpetually clouded. None spoke when they set up camp, and there was even less talk when they broke their camps and continued on with their journey.

  There were those who came close to speaking out, maybe they would have spoken of Wiglaf. Of his laughter, of his warmth or they might have remarked upon the bitterness of his temper, the coldness of his fits of pique and the heatedness of his angriest of moods. Or mayhaps, they might have remembered the best of times, of how gentle and kindly he could prove himself to be. Cormac in particular remembered how he had embraced him and ruffled his hair at Murchadh’s first funeral.

  Hitherto their failures in Iaranntùr there might have been attempts to restore good cheer, to their troupe there were no such attempts, by any of their numbers. Without hope of victory, they could not engage in talk, each of them convinced that they were solely responsible for the failures in the north.

  Marian alone kept her head raised; she did not say anything to inspire them to regain some of their cheer. It was only as the walls loomed up to greet them, as a hostile neighbour who catches sight of you and has some great matter to argue with you about that she reprimanded them. “Why bow your heads so? We have lost Wiglaf, certainly however hope still lives.”

  “How so?” Lauma snapped full of doubt and anger at her words, “Have you no kindness in you? We have lost Wiglaf, and you speak now of hope?”

  “We have lost but one of our number,” Marian said gently, “Aye, we have lost much with his death, however he would have had us remember that the Blood-Gem was but half of the puzzle.”

  “Puzzle?” Connor spoke up as confused as the Elf was.

  “But of course!” Cormac said eagerly if for but a moment, ere he remembered his own sorrow at his friend’s passing, “There is the Spear of Cyril, and the ice-shards of Mt-Cyril!”

  So fiercely did his friends glare at him, that he quailed a little, back into silence.

  “He is right,” Corin murmured softly, trotting by the side of his friend, face pinched with a similar expression of worry. “Cyril was always to be our final hope, and still remains.”

  This they agreed to at once, most still in a moribund mood.

  *****

  They were nearer to the city, at the time that the short conversation was brought to an end. The city as they could see had now arranged for large banner to decorate the walls, and that the fields had been ruined and otherwise left to ruin. The dusky banners of the Dark Laird had been removed to farther south; the armies of Gargath had nonetheless left their mark upon this place. Such was the devastation of the fields, the stomping down and burning of the crops that they wondered at the devastation.

  They may well have wandered into the city unassuming of the danger that lay that way, they may also have trusted Stamatios after all that had been wrought by his hands. Were it not for Glarald, they could well have wandered into a trap they would surely not have escaped.

  Staring to one side as they approached the walls, the Elf it was who let slip a gasp wherefore he threw himself from his mount and into the midst of the field.

  Confused by his actions, they halted to wait for him to see to what he was so intrigued by, with the Wilder-Elf to pluck from the field the remains of one of Prithia’s followers. Each of them stared worriedly at the remains of the poor wretch.

  For whom Lauma insisted that they ought to bury or cremate, as was proper.

  “We shan’t do that, burial will take time and attract attention,” Marian cautioned with a consternated glance to the city. “Why this poor wretch lays here is quite beyond me.”

  “He was the master-at-arms who was responsible for my arrest,” Corin confessed dismounting from his own horse.

  “What should we do?” Calandra queried her mind numb, the Elf-maiden so wearied that she could hardly string together more than a single thought together by this time.

  Cormac quite agreed with this numbness, and was in a similar condition. He was to dismount, to tread through the fields towards one of the nearby houses; Colwyn did much the same in the opposite direction. As the two got the same idea and wandered in opposite directions to investigate the matter, their friends searched the fields for several more of Prithia’s guards. Not all of whom had been left in the fields; most had been tossed into the sea or thrown from the walls.

  The latter found a single inhabitant of the house, whereas the former did not.

  “What has happened that there are corpses in these fields?” Colwyn questioned of the man he had cornered, who refused to come out of his home.

  Grumbling he sought to chase the prince of Gwyneira from his home, until Lyr stepped forth to threaten him, in exasperation. “They were tossed from the walls, so that I have dragged them here as it is easier to chase the crows from them here, until I bury them all.”

  Frightened Lyr, he would not say more of what had befallen Prithia until the younger prince had turned his back to him.

  Reporting their findings, the son of Bradán the Unifier was visibly puzzled. None of them blamed him for this fact, with Indulf asking in a puzzled voice, “Wait, he has been gathering corpses of Prithia’s followers? But why?”

  “Is it not apparent? It appears as though some foul trick has befallen,” Bardulf guessed mournfully, his long snouted face down-turned with grief. He knew not for certain what had become of the Warlady, he was prescient by nature. He knew at that moment that it had happened that some great evil, had overtaken the once proud lands of the Amazons.

  Corin gritted his teeth, “It is far worse than that Bardulf, heir of Griogair; Dytikástro has fallen to the Dark Laird.”

  His words drew a gasp from each of them, with some such as Colwyn vastly disconcerted by this declaration; others such as Ronald denied it. But all knew in their hearts at that moment that the very worst had taken place. Not only had they lost the Blood-Gem, but they had also lost the one leader in the lands of Antillia who was the most firmly opposed to Gargath and his ambitions.

  “It cannot be, surely he has not seized the city,” The ordinarily pragmatic Tigrun protested sounding rather feeble compared to the proud and fierce figure he had once cut amongst them. Worried for his beloved brother, and crushed by his sense of loss at his master, he had become as a shadow of his former self. This was added to by the shattering of his staff, so that he was without magic in spite of his rescue of Wiglaf’s staff.

  “We must enter the city in secret,” Connor counselled at once, his advice surprised the sorcerer as it did Indulf, since the Bairaz was rarely if ever one for the use of subterfuge. He was a direct-mannered man who preferred to tackle all problems, as he might a foe in battle; with his hatchet or direct blows and words.

  “If such is the case, I will enter the city as I am the most familiar with the people there,” Corin informed them, his voice resolute he added when he saw several of them move to argue with him. “I shall do so of course under disguise.”

  “I will go too,” Cormac volunteered at once, keen to see Daegan again. He was worried sick for her, and worried that some great misfortune had visited itself upon her.

  “Nay, you cannot,” Bardulf countered at once.

  “But I must see Dae!”

  “He is right, Cormac,” Glarald spoke out at once, his sad old eyes gazing at his friend sorrowfully, “You are too concerned for her. Your love is what worries us my friend, you must not behave impulsively.”

  Cormac fumed and might well have raged, were he any other man. Simple by nature and prone to deep-thinking so that he often appeared distracted to the world around him. He could not help but feel cheated or slighted in some way. He needed to see Daegan and yet, all that he could see was that his friends preferred to keep him from her.

  His despair swelled within him, just as the black anger that had overcome him had. Cormac would have wished to protest, but the memory of Wiglaf’s death hung over him, as did his failure to retain the Blood-Gem in spite of his promise to his father to keep it from falling into the Dark Laird’s hands.

  Guilt and frustration ate away at him, and yet he did not wish to acknowledge these facts or feelings.

  It was only when Indulf offered, “I shall go, as will Colwyn and we shall return after dusk and Cormac could then slip into the city.”

  This sort of compromise was the sort of act of mediation that Kenna’s pupil might well have proposed hitherto their leaving Glasvhail. It had however been some time, since Indulf had behaved so reasonably.

  Though he had little inclination to heed his friend’s proposal, Cormac was pulled aside by his friend who pressed him. “Cormac please let me do this for you.”

  “But I have to see Daegan,” Cormac persisted avoiding the gaze of his friend, his voice exasperated.

  “Cormac, just as you asked of me to trust in you, please do the same with me,” Indulf pleaded meeting his blue gaze with his own dark ones.

  Reluctantly, though every inch of his being and of his spirit wished to refuse, Cormac at last gave way to his friend’s supplications.

  *****

  The wait that followed after the three of them left to slip into the city via the western gates, was the longest of Cormac’s life. He had lost Wiglaf, yet now was menaced with the possibility of losing Daegan. Feeling utterly alone, with the small group of those left in the fields to the north of the city of Dytikástro he was set to work by Sister Marian and Lauma who were keen to see to the dead.

  They buried them there in the fields, with the Nun to preside over the ceremony, doing so with considerable aplomb in the name of the King of Light, Orcus. She sanctified the land with water from her satchel that she blessed with a swift gesture. The graves were marked with rapidly assembled lengths of wood hastily assembled, after hours of digging.

  It was to the end of this little ceremony and the devouring of some of the Elvish-cornbread that Calandra still had with her that their companions returned hither from the city. It was the last of the cornbread that they had, and it was shared amongst them after they had properly prayed for the souls, of the dead.

  Seeing their friends hurry towards them, they crowded them at once, with Cormac the first to notice Corin was absent, and immediately asking after his hero. “Where is Corin? You did not leave him behind in the city, did you?”

  “Of course not,” Colwyn rejected at once, “Now give me some milk or wine if you would be so kind,” This the fisherman’s son did, whereupon the Cymran prince drank thirstily ere he said. “We met with them; they have taken up residence in secret near the fish-markets. Stamatios has initiated martial-law throughout the city and is searching for them, in spite of how unpopular his rule is.”

  “Wait, Stamatios? Do you refer to the half-brother of Prithia?” Connor inquired dumbly, hardly daring to believe his ears. It seemed impossible to image, for a brother to slaughter his sister and yet this was exactly what had happened. Many of his companions had given him diverging images of the man’s nature with the likes of Indulf and Colwyn painting the man as scum. Neither Indulf nor Colwyn had appreciated being discovered, captured and imprisoned by him. Just as they did not like him, Lyr and Ronald had spoken of how steadfastly Stamatios had defended them. According to them, it was Prithia who was not to be trusted, for it was she that had had little wish to negotiate with them. It was also she; according to them who had had Corin imprisoned and would only release him in exchange for Daegan.

  A condition that they were now ruing and that Cormac would have given anything to go back in time, to stop.

  “Likely he was jealous of his sister’s holding the throne, and wishing to pass it down to his nieces in place of him.” Meallán guessed with a dour shake of his head, disgusted by the actions of the younger brother of the old Warlady of Dytikástro.

  It was a situation that the old warrior had seen countless times throughout his life. Those who were without envy and who were blessed in some manner, or who had worked and toiled all their lives, were the most susceptible to the envious. Cormac wondered why this was the way of things, why the jealous-hearted always sought after what was not theirs.

  He might have otherwise have asked after this phenomenon, were it not for the greater sense of worry that he felt for Daegan, Fergus and Andvari.

  “Regardless of his motivations, we must enter the city, and must find our friends,” Bardulf decided for them, his brow furrowed worriedly.

  *****

  The city which had once bustled with life, which had cheered at Andvari’s courage, wept at the beauty of Fergus’ songs and sung of Daegan’s beauty and goodness was silent as the grave. It appeared in mourning, its own ‘brow’ seemingly furrowed as each statue and temple was darkened with more than a thousand crows and ravens perched atop them. There was to be no great sense of joy in any of the crevices and corners of the once great city.

  Gloom was the word with which Bardulf was to describe it, with Connor who might otherwise have taunted the Wolfram remained silent, in spite of how the wolf-man could have been described using that term.

  Filled with urgency Ronald and Cormac were among the first to enter the city with the two beast-folks who accompanied them only because Meallán pressed the two to do so. Saying to them with a mournful expression on his bearded face, when they both volunteered to enter the city, “We must make haste, yet must be discrete. Neither Ronald nor Cormac, look to me to be prepared to embrace both of these virtues and will have need of both of your wits, and loyalty. Therefore, you both ought to accompany them thither into the city.”

  Agreeing half-heartedly, to protect the worried duo, it was Bardulf who was to lead the two of them into the city. He had control of the palace and theoretical control over the whole of the city, Stamatios had yet to solidify his authority over the whole of the city. This was why they found the western-gate still open with no guards near it.

  Slipping into the city with nary a soul to be found out in the streets, they soon crossed through the city in the direction of the fish-markets.

  It was thereby the port that they followed the Wolfram to where Corin had taken refuge in one of the nearby houses. Most of the buildings were made of brick where he had taken refuge, in the southern quay area.

  “He was left near here, it seems,” Bardulf informed the rest of them.

  “I am surprised you remember where,” Connor said nastily, his head swivelling about as he glanced in every direction.

  He was not alone in feeling apprehension at having to wait for Corin. The street, he noticed was just as the others throughout the city were; overcast with long shadows. There was a malevolence at the heart of the city, a stench that went beyond the physical one that made each of them gag. The rot that had set in, from the moment that Stamatios had laid low, his half-sister was a palpable presence in every street, by every stall and before every door to all the houses of the city. Even the rats and few wild dogs and cats that haunted the alleyways and roads, sniffed the air with trepidation, coming out only for food when there was no other choice. The vast majority were to stay near to their nests or holes or homes, clinging to their children with all the fervour of frightened infants themselves.

  The thought that each of them had at that moment was that; ‘yep there is some great horror that awaits this place’. They were not far from the truth.

  After some time of waiting, one of the doors was thrown open, with Corin stepping out of the building to wave them over to him. “Hurry,” he said to them, “You shan’t remain out there, lest the enemy should come along!”

  *****

  The house was small, sparsely decorated with nary a person in sight. Pleased with himself, Corin informed them that the owner of the house had gone to rally the boats that Prithia had had carved for them.

  “The good Warlady had foreseen that we may have need of ships quite why, is a mystery. I suspect that the valiant lady foresaw our plight, for this we owe her a great debt.” Corin said to them by way of explanation of how the boats in question to escape from Dytikástro. The fisherman according to him, had left to go secure the hidden boats just outside the city, where they had been hidden in the shadow of the great walls to the south-east of the city.

  Refusing to elucidate any further upon the plan that had been left to them or of Daegan’s fate, in spite of this being of the greatest concern to Cormac, as he could think of nothing else save her. It was all he could do to keep from pressing for further knowledge, of her.

  Ronald in turn did not try to present an austere image in any way, resorting to pleading and asking after his brother Fergus endlessly. When Corin had left without answering his questions, he cursed mightily and was to complain at some length about the blacksmith.

  Upon his return with several others of his companions, he was to inform them that, “I do indeed have news of Fergus, Ronald and my daughter also. Both of them are safe, if for the moment.”

  “How is that? Where are they?” The sorcerer demanded of their friend, throwing himself against the blacksmith to pull at his cloak.

  “They have fled to Cinqfort by way of the river,” Corin informed them a hint of his own relief, having by this time crept upon his prematurely creased face.

  Long did the younger man stare at him there was doubt there and hesitancy, as if he did not know whether he should believe him or not, yet in the end he preferred to.

  It was Colwyn who was to ask them, “And how are we to make our escape from the city?”

  “We wait here now for the fishermen and boat-builders to return, to lead us to the drakkars’ they have carved for us.” Corin said looking to the door with wistful eyes.

  Indulf muttered something, as did Bardulf. Neither of the two dour men keen to wait for the enemy to creep upon them, when there was a chance to escape while they could.

  It was a sentiment that Cormac wholeheartedly agreed with. Not that he intended to voice it, not when most of his companions were so wearied.

  “One of us must keep watch outside,” Meallán advised, his brow furrowed with worry eyes upon the door.

  At first it came about that he volunteered to step out of the house to maintain the watch, until Cormac was to volunteer for this duty. Keen to be alone, apart from Corin.

  *****

  Once outside, he was to sit by the door looking about the port, resolute in his desire not to fail his friend even as his thoughts wandered away. They came to reside far to the east, with Daegan even as he silently recriminated against Corin, feeling that his friend had somehow failed her.

  Cormac knew that it was not as though the blacksmith could possibly have kept her from having fled, yet so great was the longing in his heart to see her once more that he could not control his bitter sentiments.

  The greater part of him though, knew that these feelings were not entirely his own.

  This was why when he gazed upon the source of the darkness that had hounded him, the doom that had wrapped its dark tendrils about him he felt a wave of guilt.

  Cormac near leapt out of his flesh when he heard the door open, wherefore he hid the blood-red gleaming jewel once more behind his tunic.

  Looking up to find Glarald emerging from the house, a frown upon his face he joined his friend without a word.

  They sat there side by side, with nary a glance or word exchanged betwixt them. The heavens remained overcast; the dusky clouds cloaked the suns from their vision so that the whole of the world was cast in darkness. The shadows that loomed large not only over the city, but over the mountains, the seas and all the fields that lay over the land of Antillia.

  It filled them with sorrow to see these shadows.

  The sorrow of Cormac lay as said in the fall of this great city and in not having the chance to once again see Daegan so that he felt conspired against.

  As to the grief of his friend, it was a sentiment he could only guess at. Self-consciously he sought to moderate his dark-thoughts, and his even darker feelings. Full of pity for his friend, Cormac could only stare for a time when at last he did set eyes upon him.

  Glarald’s eyes had dimmed in their strange preternatural glow, his ears had dipped and the sense of isolation that always hung over his person was all the stronger over him. He was no longer in appearance and in spirit the same, Elf he had met in the Longwoods. If anything he reminded him of winter that had a great deal of rain poured onto it, until there was nothing left of the once pristine beauty of the undisturbed snow. He was thus, pale as winter and as disturbed as the fallen, water-logged snow.

  “Cormac,” Glarald said to him at last, troubled and uncertain of himself in a way that the youth had never heard the Elf sound ere that moment. “It has come about that we are at a crossroads of sorts I think. The road divides, and the heavens have darkened over us so that none of us can truly see what lies before us.”

  Still unsure of himself, just as he was if his friend had taken notice of he had hidden from him, and all the rest of their friends, Cormac could only nod. He felt as a bird that is entrapped in a gilded cage at that moment, with the cage one of his own inadvertent design. He did not know why it was that he had hidden the gem from them, only that he had done so and never left any hint of what he had done. The longer he kept the secret, the more wretched and guilty he felt.

  Glarald when next he spoke did so in a hushed voice, as one who plots some dreadful crime that only the two of them must know about. It was in this quiet, dark manner that the first hints that the League they had formed in the Longwoods was nigh on at an end. “Cormac, I must be away soon.”

  “Aye, as must we all,” Cormac said at once never guessing at what his friend truly meant more out of a lack of desire to guess it than from any simplicity of spirit.

  “Nay, what I meant to say Cormac, was that time and destiny beckon me elsewhere,” Glarald corrected him, sombre in his heart and visibly grieving for the parting that was to come. They had grown close in their adventures, and had become as brothers though there was little common in flesh or blood between them. So that when he heard these words, the blonde-haired youth felt his heart shatter for grief at this declaration. Seeing this, the wise young Elf informed him genially, “I fear for the Sagndar, they have no knowledge of the profoundness of our failure. This is why, someone must brave the distance and dangers that separate us from them at present.”

  “But you cannot Glarald! We still have need of your courage, and wisdom,” Cormac argued back in an even more hushed voice, with thrice as many glances all about them. Even less at ease than his friend was, forgetting for a moment that the non-human next to him could hear all within the city with little paramount difficulty. “For you to depart would be to halve our chances of what remains of victory for us.”

  Glarald looked utterly divided; as though he were genuinely wounded in spirit by the words of his friend. “Cormac, there is naught that I can do to assist you aught more, than I already have. It has come upon my mind that we will have need of greater allies and friends, than we have at present.”

  “How so?” He challenged, driven by his childish need to keep his friend close in spite of the knowledge that to do so, could only harm their chances of success over the Dark Laird. What he also forgot at that moment was how he had been pondering doing much the same, to seek out Daegan.

  “Cormac, I- I must confess that I am not only worried for them but the lady Aragwyn,” Glarald admitted utterly ashamed and apologetic, “It has come into my mind that it has been some time since I have last seen her. Just as you long for Daegan, I ask- nay beg that you may understand my own weakness, one borne from a heart no less mortal in many ways than thy own my friend.”

  Cormac would not, and could not understand at that moment. Though he had longed to abandon all to go seek out Daegan, he had known since the beginning that this was a foolish hope. That he could not seek her out so long as he held his secret clasped to his chest.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  By this time, he felt his spirit once again sink at the dashing of this last hope.

  It was he understood, best if he were to seek out Mt-Cyril. He ought to have gone that way, and yet it had not come into his mind to do so ere this moment.

  The only question that came to him then, was the question of why? Why had he refused to do his duty, inform his friends and venture west rather than south-east when they had the chance to? The answer he feared lay in the secret itself. In the stone that he continued to secret away from his friends, having in some way by this time corrupted him.

  If he was already tainted, then what hope did he have to bring himself to destroy it, he asked himself. Stricken by a sudden terror, it was all he could do to keep from panicking, or otherwise fleeing from Dytikástro for the distant north-west, to Mt-Cyril.

  *****

  Their discussion was brought to an abrupt end; by Lyr who threw open the door with his usual bombastic vigour. Quite why he had been elected to inform them that a plan had been decided upon was a mystery to them. Far from being a man of a subtle nature, with a talent for subterfuge Lyr was a man predisposed towards bombastic displays and always speaking loudly. In short, he was at present neither Cormac nor Glarald’s favourite person in the world.

  Doing so, shortly after the arrival of the messenger from the fishermen hidden outside of the city he was to inform them that, “All are waiting inside.”

  “But how did this man sneak past us?” Cormac asked in a plaintive voice, annoyed that the fisherman in question had snuck past him.

  “You were not listening for him,” Glarald informed him, with a small smile on his lips. As always when he corrected those around him, his tone was genial and his manner polite. He was as ever, Arduinna’s cousin. Regaining his feet, the son of Kyrenas was to whisper to his friend, “Do not speak to him or the others what I intend. I shall accompany you as far as the Sjolénard-Mountains where the Sagndar dwell.” Cormac gave a slight nod, to show that he had heard him this in spite of the trepidation he felt and showed upon his face. As he passed by the érian prince, Glarald told him, “Cormac shall follow me in a moment; therefore you need not worry over where he shall go, prince Lyr.”

  Lyr gave a curt nod.

  Once the other man had slipped past him and into the small rundown house, Lyr looked now to Cormac. Meeting his gaze, he studied the youth seated near to the alley with a darkened look in his ordinarily vivid eyes.

  Unnerved by this stare of his, Cormac studied the other man in turn, his own wide blue gaze soon bowed in response for fear of upsetting him. “Is there some matter that troubles you so, prince Lyr?”

  Bradán’s heir did not answer him at once. And why should he have? It was not as though Cormac knew of what it was that he had whispered and shouted, at the likes of Bardulf and Corin, or even Kyrenas. All of whom were concerned for the son of Murchadh, and full of mistrust of the prince’s sudden attachment to him.

  Once inside though, the shouts and cries that had been muffled from outside were heard clearly and concisely by the Caled. Cormac was to find in those cries and exclamations of fury on the parts of all his companions save for Bardulf and Calandra, a source of worry unlike any other encountered on their quest since Iaranntùr.

  Lauma was concerned about Calandra, Connor over Lyr, just as Meallán was and Sister Marian in an uncharacteristic display of temper was in the midst of bickering with Corin. Namely about whereat Cormac ought to head for, with the latter of a mind to take the youth east down the river to reunite him with Daegan.

  “This simply will not do,” Marian was in the midst of saying to him, her voice raised and her eyes flashing with near golden light. “Cormac shall accompany me west. He and Bardulf both must follow me there, if we should have any hope at all.”

  “What are you on about?” Corin asked in exasperation.

  The ethereal air that haunted the Nun was one that had only grown in the time, since Iaranntùr. It was an air that was crisp as a bright spring morn’ and as severe as the very harshest of summer days, when both suns bore down upon the earth with all their fury. Such was the ferocity of the old woman’s fury that a man half as formidable as the blacksmith might well have fled then and there. But not the fearless Corin, who took but a single step backwards as though he had been struck, though he did so with a displeased gleam in his eyes.

  “And what took the both of you so long, to rejoin us?” Kyrenas asked of the two who had newly rejoined them, his manner as brusque as it had been at the time when he first made, their acquaintanceship.

  Neither Lyr nor Cormac had a suitable answer. They were saved from having to answer him, when Meallán drew the attention of all to the decrepit fisherman who had assisted Daegan and their friends in their escape.

  He was a nondescript person, with few hairs upon his head and chin with jagged yellow teeth, vivid dark eyes and an air of exhaustion about his person. Contrary to his haggard face, he wore a bright red tunic and trousers, and had a thin if muscular physique.

  His thin lips curled up into a wide smile, of the sort that the heroes could not help but stare. Especially Cormac who had never seen a more jagged smile before, in his entire life, for a moment he felt a flash of pity.

  “Prodópius here will act as guide for the first group,” Meallán declared to those around him, calling them to silence with these words. “The ladies Calandra and Lauma shall leave first, along with prince Colwyn.”

  The three in question agreed, with Bardulf suggesting after the three volunteered for this key duty had agreed, “Kyrenas, Glarald, shall leave together. Marian and Indulf should follow next, I think. Then it ought to be Cormac, and myself and Meallán. At which time, Lyr and Connor shall follow if it pleases them.”

  Glarald appeared as though he might argue, but his father who had caught sight of this momentary defiant look, glared at him until he had subsided into a resigned silence. It looked as though Marian might also contest this notion, when she at last assented with a bowed head.

  Cormac remembered suddenly the discussion the two of them had had, and felt a flash of pity for Glarald. It could not have been easy he mused, to have one’s parent so near at hand, to push one into this or that decision. Especially when he wished to go his own way, find his own path.

  Corin was against his wishes volunteered by the rest of his friends, to leave first to scout ahead of the first group. He was ultimately convinced when Cormac reminded him that, “I do not think we have much time to decide this matter.”

  Grumbling beneath his breath he halted when near to the door, wishing to whisper to Cormac speaking to him as he had once upon a time, in their life in Glasvhail. “I do grasp that we have had difficulties in recent days, Cormac. It has come to my attention that you detest, being treated as a child. It is every man’s wish I am aware, to be when the time comes treated as he ought to be, and as an equal to his father or to those who have taken on this role and task for themselves. While I would not have it so, I know that you must defy me in order to claim your position as a man; I would ask that you at the least remember the love I bear you, and that which you once bore for me. For this love, this affection I would ask that you treat me as you might have Murchadh, in so dire an hour and heed my counsel where and when I find it necessary.”

  It was a speech delivered with the utmost heart and feeling, one that had been uttered with the blacksmith never turning his gaze away from that of Cormac. Nor did he hesitate when enunciating a single word, or blink his eyes boring into those of the youth.

  Meeting the grey-eyed stare of the older man with his blue one, it happened that Cormac felt his old kinship with Corin. It was a feeling that he had come to know and associate with him since early childhood.

  The difficulty for the two of them lay, he felt in Corin’s determination to continue to treat him as one who shan’t defend himself. This was no great sin, but it was of the utmost importance to the lad who might otherwise be dubbed MacMurchadh that he needed to break free from Corin’s shadow. Just as he had pulled himself free from Kenna’s, he now felt it was long since time to step forth out of the shadow.

  Strangely for him, he felt the great love he held for his father’s greatest friend wax to its fullest might. It arose within him as the sun does in the heavens, arose high above all their heads in a summer day.

  But just as the full moon must in time wane, so too did the warmth in his chest so that the fisherman’s son felt the recent sense of frustration return with full vigour.

  “Corin, I understand and appreciate that the love and honour you bear towards me, far in a way surpasses that you might otherwise have borne for your own son. However I say to you that I will not keep the city, will not show myself to be a coward. I will prove myself, as a man just as you did in your own youth when fate and time called you hither.”

  Corin stared at him; the wounded air in his gaze was one that Cormac once his impatience and anger had cooled would regret forever.

  Never before had he behaved himself so poorly towards the blacksmith, nor had he ever been responsible for inflicting such agony upon his friend. He wanted then to reach out for him and to apologise, but the difficulty lay in that a part of him suspected that such a decision would mean doing away with the progress he had made.

  He had decided earlier when he was outside, by Glarald’s side to escape to Mt-Cyril, yet to apologise to Corin would only result in him turning once more to him. He would as always depend upon his mentor to do all for him, and this was he felt not the duty of Corin. But his own, despite how none had entrusted it to him, as they had Bardulf or Corin, but had been thrust upon him with the death of Wiglaf now.

  Death had sadly, decided his hand for him. He had shirked it in recent weeks, as he had as always allowed his mind to wander and his usual preference to simply thrust responsibility unto the shoulders of others. This could not be allowed to continue.

  *****

  Corin was to say no more, in regards to this disagreement that had crept upon them, over the course of several weeks. Rather than insist that the youth do as he wished him to, the Gallian departed as bidden by his friends.

  Not all of them had been listening, yet there were those who had overheard their whispered exchange. Some such as Lauma cast a disapproving look, as did Calandra. It was strange yet both Glarald and Kyrenas were to look upon him with compassion. Their goodness was a comfort but also set him even more adrift in the world, with a sense that he had failed his friend all the more.

  All proceeded as specified by those who had planned their escape, they left all in the correct order as outlined by Bardulf.

  When it came time for Cormac to leave the small house, he could not but help feeling as though the malevolence of the city were crushing down, all the more upon him.

  The moment he thrust his head outside the house, it was to discern a great flock of crows and ravens observing him from where they were nestled upon some of the fishing boats and stalls. There were others he observed, upon the roof of the houses near to the quay. So that the dark cloud that haunted the whole of the east of the city.

  Traversing through the streets, past the lifeless fish-market and the creaking boats filled the group with which Cormac travelled with considerable dread.

  Meallán demonstrated this with drawing and re-sheathing the dagger girded to his waist. This particular anxious gesture of his was one that the youth had never seen him act upon hitherto this moment. His face was twisted in a grimace as he glanced all about them, his eyes continuously found that of the crows.

  Bardulf for his own part, sniffed at the air reached for his sword whereupon he was to scowl at the remembrance that he lost this particular weapon. He had no blade, no buckler and thus no great defence. Like Meallán he had daggers, but these were to his mind but a poor defence against the shadows that loomed over them.

  To the right of them lay the sea, and though it was not crashing with the force of a great beast, it nonetheless drew itself forward, nearer to them with enough strength to set every tied boat creaking. Those not tied were soon drawn thither out to the sea, just as those that had been drawn from the water were soon pulled into its midst.

  In previous days the water had been frozen, dyed deep blue yet now it carried with it the animosity of the large ravens that fluttered here and there or nestled firmly in place atop all the buildings. There was an expectant air about the waves that were devoid of all light so that it was every bit as dusky, as black as the night.

  In this it was not alone; the heavens were far darker still. By this time the skies had become as full of animosity as the Dark Laird Gargath had showed himself capable of, towards the trio. The blackness of heaven, the skies between it and the earth along with the seas, did little to reassure any of them.

  Grief haunted Cormac’s steps at that moment; grief for the city and land that had once been so full of joy, of life and vitality. It had been as though the whole of the city had been slaughtered, and left to rot for centuries.

  Light had died and shadow had won here, just as it had thereupon the Tower of Iaranntùr, Cormac mused to himself glumly. His own glances were reserved solely for the ravens, disliking how eagerly they looked upon him. It seems he were already perished, and laid bare for them to devour. It filled him with a sense of foreboding.

  “I do not much like these crows and ravens,” He muttered to his companions, both of whom nodded their own heads.

  “Fear not, naught shall come of their eagerness,” Meallán growled with the determination of a man accustomed to forging his own path through life. The most resolute man who had ever lived, in the history of ériu, it was he who had endured a decade and a half for his nephew. Turning away from wife and hearth, for his sister’s son, wherefore he had fought off demons and monsters for the Unifier.

  Cormac wished he could have trusted in the other man’s inner strength at that moment. But the memory of Wiglaf’s death still haunted him. Doubt clouded his heart as it did his mind, as he trailed a short distance behind the other two men.

  “I am not so certain,” Bardulf remarked tartly, casting dark looks in the direction of those birds, “Their presence thereupon the rooftops and stalls does not feel natural. They bring to mind the tales of the Black Queen of Oriande.”

  Keen to listen to the sound of his voice, if only to ward off his own fear and apprehension Cormac asked of him quickly, “Tell me of this tale?”

  “I do not think her tale is appropriate for this moment,” Meallán countered at once, nerves aflame and gaze narrowed as he glared at the unperturbed Wolfram. “Why talk of dooms and sorrows that few men have ever endured? All that shall come of such talk is to bring down our own doom. Nay, we must leave such discussions to the future, lest misfortune become reality.”

  Cormac fell into a glummer silence, as Bardulf’s lips thinned and he studied the crows with greater suspicion, “I maintain though that those crows are the same sort that she used to spy and hound her foes to their deaths.”

  He was still ignorant of the woman in question, Cormac with that one phrase felt his stomach plummet and his mood sink into greater melancholy. He understood then why the old man had preferred, to deter such talk.

  With another glance of his own at them, he had a sense that they were clacking their beaks at him. The menace implied there gnawed at him.

  *****

  The gates received them with no greater enthusiasm than the western ones had, or that the fish-market had. The stench of rotted fish had subsided, with all its implications of neglect and of the sea which had appeared as a mirror to the cloud-darkened skies were all behind them. Or so it seemed, as they inched their way around one house, thither closer to the great gates that menaced them with its dark frown.

  Anger, lay in every inch of the concrete and stones, of those great-walls. How could they not? Near to a dozen or so people had trod past her western sister, intruded upon the ill-wrought peace of the city and brought with them their sorrows, their grief and their stories. The tales of each of those souls depended now upon the good humour of those very gates and those upon her.

  “There does not appear to be a single soul,” Meallán observed with a large frown, one that was troubled. His knife-hand went up and down, the knife was drawn from the scabbard, and then returned Cormac noted absently. So intent was he upon this motion on the part of the old man, that he very nearly did not hear Meallán’s next words. “I think we should advance, as those led by Corin must have by this time.”

  “I do not smell aught else than the crows, ravens and that same rotting stench that has permeated every centimetre of the city.” Bardulf complained quietly beneath his breath, wary eyes scanning now the top of the gates and walls. “Black-wings upon each roof boat and stall or so it seems and now they haunt the city-walls. Were I superstitious as Fergus or Sister Marian I might attempt to guess that this city was now haunted. But being no fool, I shall not guess but rather daresay it is all that and more. There is evil in this place.”

  “Aye,” Meallán agreed with a shudder, “It has entered even the air itself, so that even the animals will not come hither from their hideaways.”

  These glum observations made, they at last ventured thither from their own hidden nest, in the shadow of one of the larger fishermen’s homes. The wattle material of a hut mixed with the stone of a proper house firmly left behind them, they scrambled along one of the largest of the yawning gaps that separated city from walls. The gates lay ahead, tempting them with their promise of freedom that each of them doubted was truly heartfelt.

  Across the gap they went, across the path of the open gates they went, hearts a-pounding with all the ferocity that the Dark Laird’s rams had struck the northern walls.

  “What worries me is that these gates are open,” Bardulf remarked as they ran ill-pleased by this plan of theirs, “A siege has come and gone, yet they remain open to us. Meallán you must also find this an ominous sign.”

  Meallán nodded, but did not answer.

  Cormac nearly did, but then preferred to subside into quiet sulking.

  It would soon be time to say farewell, he knew. The Spear of Cyril along with the icicles of the frosty-mountain of Mt-Cyril lay to the north-west, and not to the east or south. Therefore, flight from the dread isle of Antillia was out of the question for him.

  Yet still he could not bring his voice to bear. It was as though, his voice had been stolen from him similarly to how a thief might steal one’s prized possessions in the night. To delay the decision was the height of folly he knew, because it would mean that it might give his friends the chance to better encircle him and combat his desire to go his own way.

  He was however pulled from his dark musings, of what lay ahead of him by the sight of the torches by the shore. It was a simple matter to discern that they did indeed belong to their friends, as the tall figures of Kyrenas and Glarald along with Corin held theirs high.

  The torches that shone bright as the stars wavered here and there, to the apprehension of the new arrivals who were disturbed to find the small group in the midst of an escalating quarrel. The argument was between Glarald and Lauma, over the former’s desire to return to the Sagndar, to warn them of what had occurred.

  “Another quarrel,” Meallán grumbled displeased, as he let slip a long sigh, “It appears that the more we press forward, along this journey of ours the more divided we become. I worry that the time is nigh when we break into smaller groups, each man treading where his heart beckons him.”

  “Why fear what is most natural? I think that if our hearts beckon us this way, or along that path we ought to support him,” Cormac murmured with little vitality or joy in his voice.

  His words disturbed Meallán all the more. But what they did was tipped off Bardulf to his intentions, as he turned a suspicious glance in his direction.

  “You surprise me Cormac,” He replied sharply, “I would have thought you might dread such a thing, in the past you were always the principal member of our troupe who resisted division. Why have you come to greet it with open arms?”

  Cormac had no answer for him, save to direct his attention back to their friends, as he trod with extra care through the darkness around the walls to his right. Always kept within hand’s reach, they cast a long shadow over the lot of them.

  High above, a crow squawked.

  “We must return to the Longwoods, Glarald,” Lauma was saying, stern as a mother-hen with a disobedient chick, hands upon her hips.

  “Lauma is correct Glarald,” Calandra agreed at once, with equal disapproval, “We must all hurry onto the boats.”

  Kyrenas alone had the bearing of a man at war with himself. He wished to also scold his son, at the same time that he was in agreement with the youth or so Cormac observed. By this time they drew closer to the circle of fire, by the lake where the drakkars had all been cast into the sea with the two small boats more than capable of carrying them all to safety.

  As the Elves bickered, Corin was in the midst of lowering Marian onto the second boat, at her request. Grateful to him, she whispered those words ere she turned her head to stare at the newly arrived trio, with visible relief.

  Equally glad to see them, Corin’s face exploded with joy in a similar imitation of the suns as they threw themselves over the hills and mountains, with all their rays.

  As to Indulf he was by this time, in the first boat and behind one of the oars, prepared to see to his duties. He was not alone in this regard, since there was just as in the case of Marian’s boat near to a dozen fishermen behind the oars. Each of these dozen men was more concerned with preparing for the voyage that lay ahead of them. It was evident that few realized where it was they were going, without needing to hear their hushed conversations. All that they desired at that moment was to carry their wives and children away, to safety and to bring back rescuers to liberate the city that had as a mother might begat each and every one of them.

  “What is this? Why do you quarrel so? Cease this meaningless posturing at once!” Meallán bellowed at the bickering Elves.

  He was joined in his reprimands of the three arguing cousins, by the Wolfram.

  It happened that Bardulf looked about the shore-line in search of some person or object. None paid him any mind, for they had quite forgotten him.

  Cormac for his part was in the midst of hesitating to climb aboard the second boat which was nearest to him.

  Corin was urging him to climb aboard, “Hurry hither Cormac!”

  “But-,” It was now that he hesitated for an excuse not to do as he was bidden, not out of anger as he had earlier but out of genuine hesitation.

  He was saved from needing a reason not to listen to his friend, when he heard the rest of his companions arrive thereon the small hill by the sea-shore.

  At the same time that he hesitated, Bardulf called out to Lyr and the rest of their friends, “If I may; where are our guide? The man who showed us the way hither to this place?”

  Most shrugged, but Lyr simply stated that he did not know, informing him only that, “I did not say him. The whole of the way from the port to the gates he did not appear before me, nor did he approach any of us.” The question was now turned over to the Elves, who their argument at an end turned to climb aboard the ships, in spite of their differences. “Did you see the man Corin found within the city, and who aided in our escape?”

  “Nay,” Was the answer all had in reserve for him.

  It was one of those by the ships who belonged to the city who informed them of his own concerns, “I too am worried about Prodópius, but much as he was instrumental in fulfilling the last of Prithia’s wishes. We shan’t wait for him; we must be off to Cinqfort to your friends.”

  “Aye,” Said one of the women who sat by Sister Marian, her manner and voice set her apart as one of the younger women aboard the ship. She had to be no older than Cormac himself, and though he did not realize it she was in five half a decade older and was concerned solely with her daughter who was nestled between her and Marian. “You men must climb onboard, lest the guards should determine our location and slay us all. Think of us, the women and children who depend upon your courage and strength, to escape this terrible place!”

  Unable to argue, and unwilling to risk the women and children, they all heeded her and Corin’s encouragements to leave. Even Cormac, had abided by their judgements, though it pained him to do so once again, for him well-knew this to be another failure upon his part.

  His hesitancy when he was knee-deep was a source of frustration to his friends, with Lyr the one who seized him by just below the arms in order to haul him bodily up into the awaiting arms of Corin. Once aboard, he was set before an oar with the severe instructions, by the ship captain to throw his weight against it.

  Reluctantly he set to work, with the prince of ériu throwing himself also into the rowing that came so naturally to Cormac and him.

  What set the younger lad ill at ease was not simply the man’s stare in the back of his head or the sidelong look Corin continued to throw in his direction, long after they had set out. Nor was it due to the discomfited silence between the Elves who attracted plenty of looks from the local people unaccustomed to such strange and unearthly creatures. No, his discomfort had all to do with the vague sense that for a moment when Lyr had eased him up, onto the boat that when he glanced back to him, there had been a flash of awareness and greed in his eyes.

  But most of all, he did not like how the boat creaked when the waves of the sea grew particularly ferocious. Cormac recalled a great deal from his father’s lessons, when he was a lad of how to construct a boat and how not to, and though he did not have the best trained eye or ear for such details. He nonetheless had the instinctive notion that, the boat had not been particularly well-built. This most of all worried him.

  *****

  The drakkars were to sail long through the night, and into the next day. The time came upon them the next day, in the manner of a predatory wolf that seeks out and grapples the fleeing racoon to death, for them to hoist their boats to shore. They had travelled for dozens of leagues from the city of Dytikástro, and they felt much safer now.

  At once many of the men had food brought out with which they cooked a light morning meal that was composed of fish, apples, olives and onions. It was a hearty meal and one that Cormac thoroughly enjoyed in spite of his thoughts continuously puling him elsewhere.

  It was as most of those around him dozed in the fields by the shore, to the north of the river the lesson from the Unhallowed Plains had been learnt that he sat to one side. Keeping his distance from those around him, his thoughts dark and brooding in nature, his right-hand playing every once in awhile with the gemstone that was pressed against his bare skin. It somehow felt as though it were burning him, yet when he would pull it away and glance down at his chest he found no mark upon his flesh.

  Consternated he passed the next hours, irritated with the world around him and with this burning pain. Looking out over the southern plains he knew that they were not the Unhallowed Plains yet he at times imagined that he might be able to see them. This thought made him shudder, it made his heart wrench to think that Daegan had endured such terror.

  Thinking of Daegan was the sole notion that gave him the hope to think he could endure going his own way, apart from the route travelled by his companions.

  The memory of her fair face and scarlet hair, in his mind’s eye it was as it began to grow dark that he began to inch away. Knowing that the hour of awakening for his companions and friends was near.

  Cormac slowly inched away from the encampment, he would flee into the nearby forest that lay to the north of the river and stretched out for some distance both to the west and east. This was the Vinwoods jokingly dubbed such by the Norléanians as it lay beyond their most westerly of grape-vines.

  Fleeing west was both an exhilarating joy and terror for Cormac, who had escaped only when he noticed that Corin was firmly asleep. For it was Corin that he most dreaded being caught out by, because he knew that the blacksmith would insist that he accompany him. And if there was one man that Cormac could not bring harm and danger to, it was him.

  What he had quite forgotten about, were the two who were on watch.

  *****

  This was farthest from his mind, as he fled. The wind whistling in his ears, and the Blood-Gem whispering as much in the air and it seemed in his ears also as it was at last freed from the confinement provided by his tunic.

  In another life, he might well have run forever. He might have experienced true liberty at that moment, and never looked back. But he was neither a canine, nor was he a bird to take flight into the great blue yonder skies that hang over us all. Cormac was destined for no such things.

  Rather destiny loomed large behind him, as he moved westwards keen to return some of the way he had trod by river, ere he might cross it and move to avoid the city.

  “Cormac!” Indulf’s voice called to him, pulling him to a sudden stop.

  The voice sounded distant, yet somewhere nearby so that Cormac was confused. This was to pass, as the instinctive desire to hit himself for his inattention.

  Fool! His mother might well have shouted, he mused as he stood there unsure if he should wait for Indulf or hurry all the faster thither to the west.

  The decision was ultimately taken out of his hands when Indulf’s cries grew quieter, and with the sudden sound of Lyr’s voice. Over the course of their journey, he had had few interactions with the large, muscular prince of ériu.

  “Cormac! Wait, it is I Lyr!” He cried out to the younger lad, who was nearly pulled off his feet by the older lad.

  Having appeared suddenly just behind him, the heir to the Clover-Throne caught him ere he could hit the ground one instant to the next. Turned about, as his mind raced still to come to terms with the realisation that he had been caught by Lyr, Cormac could only stare in amazement at his friend.

  The older man studied him as if in search of words himself. Neither had paid much mind to the great cedar, ash and alder trees that they had dove past on their way there. The silence of the forest save for the odd creaking of branches breaking, and of the sound of the flow of the river hardly disturbing them as they raced thither. Neither of them had truly paid it much mind, nor had they expected for the younger of the two of them to flee as he had.

  It was Lyr who of the two of them spoke first, his eyes firmly on that of Cormac, as he asked, “Cormac, why do you run so? I had thought we were headed east to reunite with Daegan, Fergus and Andvari?”

  Cormac did not have a ready answer for him, nor was it likely that he could have answered properly, for he was suddenly and very seriously out of breath. Ere to this moment, he had felt as though he could run still for leagues upon leagues, distance was all relative to him. It could not possibly matter, and yet now that he had been pulled to a halt his legs felt weak and his lungs as though they had been squeezed of all air within them. Even his heart felt as though it might burst forth, from his chest so fiercely did it hammer against his ribs.

  He only gaped stupidly, up at the prince who stared hard at him eyes penetrating his very soul, as he gripped him by the folds of his travel-cloak. “Cormac, I know why you fled so and have striven to be patient until such a time that you might at last realize that honesty is best.”

  “You- you know?” Cormac risked a glance down at his pendant, at that moment he could have kicked himself for behaving in so dumbfounded a manner. When he raised his gaze it was to find that the gaze of Lyr had likewise lowered to the Blood-Gem, studying it with the same greedy gaze he had before, just outside of Dytikástro.

  “I am also the only one of all your friends who knows what has weighed upon your mind,” Lyr growled lifting him bodily from the ground his muscles straining and his voice deepening huskily. There was such hunger in his eyes as he gazed upon the Bane of Aganippe that Cormac felt his previous fear of the large érian quintuple.

  He had never seen his friend so possessed, not in the home of Arduinna and certainly not on the road nor had he been observed to behave so horridly back on the mountain.

  His gem had a hold over the other man, Cormac realized with a start glancing down once again. This time he noticed with alarm that the white locket had begun, to come undone with more of the actual gemstone gleaming scarlet in the light of the suns.

  “Lyr, if you know what it is that I intend and why, then you must know that you should release me.” Cormac said summoning all of his courage, grateful for the moment at his own old anger and possessive sentiments towards the Bane of Aganippe. It was his after-all, it had been entrusted to him and it was he who had protected it, from that old monster Gallchobhair and Gargath, so why should he not keep it now from Lyr?

  For a moment he believed he saw a flicker of doubt and self-recrimination in the gaze of the son of Bradán. But the moment was broken a moment later, as the Blood-Gem glowed once more and shimmered. “Give it to me!” Lyr bellowed his voice reminding the other youth of a maddened bull, “You cannot protect it from the Dark Laird!”

  What was he yelling for, Cormac asked of himself he had not spoken nor had he spoken of protecting the gemstone. “Release me!”

  His hands came up to bat away those of the prince, who did not release him. It was only when he grabbed at the slightly larger hands that he succeeded at last in freeing himself. With a start, Cormac heard the prince scream in pain, the imprint of the Caled’s own hands upon them as they sizzled ever so slightly.

  The fume that stemmed from Lyr’s hands made him at once feel guilty. What worsened the feeling was the sight of his friend plunging those hands into the nearby sea.

  Off in the distance he thought he heard Indulf call out.

  Shaken from his possessive fury over the Blood-Gem, Cormac bent down to touch the shoulder of the prince by his side, “Lyr, I am- I am sorry, I did not mean to harm you… I’faith it is the gem! It has driven the both of us mad!”

  The realisation that it was the gem that had driven him to such madness shook him free from its possession if momentarily.

  It was perhaps a little too late, for such sentiments as Lyr recovered fully from his earlier pain and shock. Panting like a wounded dog, his hands no longer trembling he was to move with a rapidity that startled Cormac and made him leap back only for him to stumble on a nearby rock.

  The next moment saw Lyr grab him by the chain about his throat even as the latter man drew himself to his full-height dagger in hand. How it had gotten there, would later prove itself a mystery to both men. All they knew at that moment was that it flashed upwards just as Cormac was pulled down unto it.

  The blade entered fully to the hilt fully near to his hip coming up into his side. In what was the greatest act of betrayal that had ever rocked those who had journeyed together thus far, from the Longwoods Lyr struck Cormac. It was a deed too foul for so true and noble a prince, yet still he did it. For madness had overcome him, as it had at times his namesake, the man who had kidnapped the High-King when he was but a babe to raise him amongst monk. And all right-reason that might once have ruled over him, inherited from his noble and valiant sire, the Unifier King fell away if briefly so.

  It was difficult to say who was more shocked; Cormac or Lyr. Neither of the two men could tear their gaze from one another. Neither of them had expected Lyr to comport himself, as his distant cousin éodain who’s brood, were not at this moment far from them, the most treacherous of all those of royal blood of ériu.

  As swiftly as it happened, the dagger was removed from his side and the Blood-Gem fell from his neck and into the waiting palm of the panicked Lyr. Panicked the Prince of Amadan was to push him away instinctively, throwing him in this manner towards the river ere he could properly put together his thoughts.

  The last Cormac heard, when he struck the river was Lyr’s stricken scream and the sound of the crimson dyed dagger striking a nearby rock.

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