They were herded back then, inch by inch from the now extinguished fire, by the shadows that were now almost invisible to any mortal eyes, their hopes having been dashed in the same instant. More than one of them stumbled back, with not a single one of them keen to stay where the wraiths could reach them whether by arm or by arms. Only Bardulf and Wulfnoth stood as bravely as ever before, with the rest of their traveling companions almost hurrying away, tripping and trembling in the face of the sheer evil of the demonic wraiths.
An unnatural darkness had befallen the night, with the clouds menacing to break out into a storm, the likes of which had not been seen in weeks. The grass was high and scratched at their legs, where they were visible, particularly in the case of Daegan and Wulfnoth. Neither of whom paid this much mind, both too distracted by the threat of death that loomed now over each and every one of them.
The maiden had attempted to aid her friends by unsheathing her father's sword, to attack the wraiths with. However the wraith of the broken sword emblem had met her sword, with his own before he knocked the weapon from her hands without the faintest difficulty. This had slain the last hopes they had, with the lass nearly beheaded in the next instant with Wulfnoth having reached out to pull her to safety.
This had resulted in the sword slashing across his left shoulder which had sent Wulfnoth tumbling back a few steps. Daegan was pulled away from him by Cormac, who all but threw her behind him in his desperation to follow up this action by pulling the druid to safety immediately afterwards. Refusing to let himself be outshone by her, Bardulf had moved to shield the druid from the harm that the rest of the wraiths sought to inflict upon the cleric with the aid of his large alder-wood and iron buckler. Parrying the blows offered by the other wraiths with his sword, this act had drawn a hiss of frustration, from the kingliest of the shadows menacing them.
This had taken place a few minutes before, with the group now stumbling back with a few of them standing near the foundation of the Great Mound.
"We shan't continue in this manner," Bardulf gasped, panting and sweating so that his fur stunk so badly that it made Cormac's gag in spite of their present predicament.
"We must climb the mound," Cormac said with a backwards glance over his shoulder, thinking that it was the only place they could flee to.
"It is forbidden to climb it, without due cause!" Bardulf barked before he leapt back narrowly avoiding a slash from the kingly-wraith.
The blow caught itself upon his sword, the last of the two he had girded to his belt. This blade shattered as its predecessor had, the shock of this loss hardly registered itself in the hearts of his companions. It was the third sword that they had lost, that day.
Bardulf himself appeared at a loss, with the Wolfram no longer offering any resistance to the repeated suggestions by the youth. Reluctant though he was, the canine gave in to his counsel once his buckler suffered the same fate as his sword.
Up the lot of them went, head almost over feet fearful for their lives, with Trygve and Bardulf aiding the hampered druid up the mound. Retreating farther up the Great Mound, than men had in years, the first to reach the summit was Daegan, followed by Cormac and Indulf.
Behind them the wraiths silently made their way up the hill. The only hint of movement on their parts lay in the wispy movement of the tall near-fens that danced here and there, just past Wulfnoth and the two aiding him, in his flight. The movement was one that one had to strain one's gaze, to take notice of with Cormac straining his gaze to catch sight of this tiny detail. Worried by how the wraiths had in the darkness all but disappeared from sight. Only for five of them to burst back into sight, when he at last reached the summit having glanced over his shoulder, as he climbed. As he moved each of them, became visible once again with their long-cloaks and large hauberks, their dark steel blade still in hand.
"Wait!" Daegan shrieked, whereupon he reached the summit nary a few seconds behind her alongside Indulf.
The summit of the man-made mountain was to the amazement of the three of them paved with stones that shone with the same silver-grey sheen that the great stones did, and had for centuries. The solid stones were so well-wrought and perfectly placed that not a blade of grass grew between them, nor could one slide a single wet sheet of paper between the cracks or spaces between the mentioned stones. Each one glittered with gold and green runes, the light of which was not simply aglow with its own light but reflected the little moonlight that escaped from between the cracks in the clouds that sought to choke out the moon himself. The first thing they were to take notice of lay in the gargantuan silver-grey stones that gleamed with green and golden runes shining here and there along each of them. The stones loomed high over their heads, with the four-fold rocks positioned in such a way with the three sets planted in a semi-circle. All three were composed of two stones side by side were topped by a third stone.
Each of them glittered and gleamed with such light that each of them took a moment to gape at the sheer size, of the majestic marble stood.
The six meters that separated each of the stones appeared as almost inches to them, where they were a sizeable distance for mere, flesh and blood mortals such as he.
To the amazement of Cormac and his friends, what lay at the center of the rock-formation was what appeared to be a large anvil, made of red sandstone, with strange glyphs and runes of the same nature as those of the great stones that surrounded it. The anvil was perfectly cut with its jutting edge that faced north the only part that broke from its perfect three by two meter in diameter and length. Half the size of a man in terms of height, the anvil appeared aged in comparison to the stones that surrounded it. Its decrepit appearance was nonetheless impressive if for no other reason than how smoothly it was cut.
Stepping forth from just past it, was the captain of the wraiths, his crowned helm held high just below the long-sword he menaced them with. Moving past the anvil, it was the sight of him and his comrades that had brought up the lass short, her mouth agape with fear.
"I am not afraid," Indulf said when they neared him and his friends, drawing forth the sword girded to his own waist, with trembling hands. The war-song of the blade a certainty that blood was to be spilled, and that this lay at the heart of his intentions echoed in his ears.
Filled with greater boldness than his friends had ever seen him demonstrate, in all their years of knowing him, they could not but wonder where the timid lad of their youth had disappeared to. Though his hands trembled, Cormac wondered briefly if they did so from fear or from anticipation at the vengeance the other youth, desired so earnestly.
The fire in his eyes so aflame with anger and hatred, it made the wraiths pause, bringing them up short a meter and a half from the trio. This highly uncharacteristic show of hesitation emboldened the quiet youth, wherefore he took a step forward towards them.
Behind them, the other half of their troupe reached the summit panting and coughing, from the exertion, with those wraiths scaling past them brought up short by the sight of Wulfnoth waving his pendant at them. This act held back those who might otherwise have cut them down from behind.
Trygve for his part, at the sight of Indulf standing betwixt his friends and the wraiths sent him into a frenzy of panic. Bardulf distracted with starting another fire, using what flints he still had, and with a stick he had grabbed before his ascent up the hill.
Indulf had when at the foot of the hill, never truly managed to claim his footing or had the chance to menace the wraiths, dragged along by the fear and panic of his friends as he was. But now that they stood breathlessly at the summit of the Mound of Griogair, their panic almost drained from them so that they could only stand frozen where they stood at the knowledge that escape was impossible, he would brook no alternative choice save that of fighting to the death.
He bears such hate and madness, he could well pass for one of those mad fey or trees, from that forest we left behind us. Cormac thought tartly, if briefly so. He could not but feel as though his friend, were departing for some faraway place one which they could not possibly reach. This thought worried him, and all of a sudden he wondered, if it was the knowledge of the existence of this inner-rage inside of Indulf that had caused Wulfnoth, to refuse to allow him near the Blood-Gem of Aganippe.
His innermost musings though were interrupted not by clashing swords, nor by desperate prayers on the part of the druid behind him, but rather by Trygve. Pushing and jostling the two who stood betwixt him and his brother, Trygve threw them aside with such force that they were thrown off their feet. Hitting the stone-floor with such force that the both of them let out small cries of pain, though their pain largely went unnoticed by those around them.
The reason for this lay in that the great bellow of panic that issued forth from Trygve's throat drowned out all other sounds. From the distant clap of thunder that had begun to resonate from the west, to the sea that had begun to rage distantly, to the sound of hooves in the distance to the pain-cries of Daegan and Cormac. The hooves though was a sound neither paid much attention to, when they did regain their bearings and dragged their eyes from their aching hands and elbows, raised to keep from falling upon their faces. Their battered knees propped them up, so that they bore witness to the awe-inspiring sight of Indulf's sword shattering against that of the wraith of the skeletal-hand. Another of the wraiths, the one of the broken scale took a mighty swipe at Indulf's head at the same time that he of the dark-moon slashed down at his right-shoulder.
Indulf though, was not dealt a single blow; for it was then that Trygve intervened heroically throwing himself against his brother, with his leonine-bellow. His roar was turned into a scream of purest anguish, when the blades bit into his flesh. Slashed across his left-shoulder and down the length of his right-arm from shoulder near to his elbow, Trygve fell upon his brother.
"Trygve!" The shout was torn from Indulf's throat.
Cormac gaped in horror alongside Daegan. There were several more hewing cuts and stabs that followed with only half of them striking the younger of the two brothers. His whimpering cries though were drowned out by the cry of alarm at this sight that echoed from the mouths of Bardulf and Wulfnoth.
Their own cries though were drowned out by the great sea of sound that echoed across the whole of the landscape as dozens of hooves struck the whole of the land.
This newfound wealth of sound that dominated the whole of the area near to the Great Mound of Griogair came not only from the north but from the south. The oppressive darkness began to break high overhead, though not without the rancour. Rain began to fall from the clouds that spread out their ranks all throughout the heavens, slowly at first then with increasing rapidity, just as the echo of hooves slowed themselves to a slow halt. Each of the raindrops struck and burst against the stones, with the same dark wetness that weighed them down in spirit as they did physically. The weight of these heavenly tears, so dimmed the light of the stones and the moon struck each of the intended victims and actual victim of the wraiths with the same force as a thousand knives. The darkness contained in each droplet, appeared only to encourage the wraiths who let loose, their hissing laugh at the sight of Indulf pulling his brother from the vanguard.
Despair filled Cormac then, his hair soon pressed against his head, as he tried to force his eyes to stay open and keep from closing in fear. Unsure if Trygve still lived, he could not summon hither to him, the hope that he did. The rain-fall and ugly boom of distant lightning served only to drive deeper the knife of crushed hope into his breast. Hardly daring to breath, he glanced over his shoulder to see Bardulf limping back with a pained wolf-like whimper, his own right arm pressed under his left arm. Bleeding from several gashes he could hardly stand, as the wraiths forced him and the equally pain-stricken Wulfnoth back.
At that moment their ugly laugh cut the melancholic air just before the wraiths turned away to stare as a multitude of figures appeared all around them. For those focused upon the summit, there came three dozen figures from the south, north and east all of them hard to discern in the tempest and moonless night.
Each of them kept their distance from the wraiths that turned their heads from one side to another, just as, out of the darkness came Corin. Dressed in simple leather, with a cloak thrown about his shoulders he was unmistakeable in his gait, a far fiercer flame lit up his face as he crossed from the north of the summit between the wraiths nearest to Wulfnoth and those who had moved to encircle near where Cormac had fallen and never risen from.
In his hand, he held the great white blade of Cosantóir. Shining with the light of a thousand white suns, he wielded it with such force as one possessed. Slashing with all his might, he cut across the back of the hauberk of the wraith that bore the emblem of the dark-horse who screeched out a terrible shriek of pain. The dreadfulness of his cry pierced the darkness and so alarmed even his compatriots that they fell back nearer to the anvil, behind their captain.
Though Cormac did not at once realize it was Corin, so brightly did Cosantóir shine he did however recognise him when he reached him, kneeling by his side for but an instant in time.
"Corin!" Cormac cried out in joy and relief, hardly able to believe his own eyes, such was the force of his emotions.
Blinking his eyes at him, to ward off the rain that had fallen into them Corin offered little more than a grim nod, in his direction along with that of his equally relieved daughter. Blade held high near to his right-shoulder, the tall warrior uttered his name with the same steel that he held in his tightly wrung hands. "Step back Cormac, and keep Dae safe."
"Be careful," Cormac spluttered once he could at last speak his head spinning in a daze from where he knelt. "They are not at all like us, Corin!"
"I am aware," Was the stern reply.
He was not alone in his fear for the smith though, as Daegan burst out with her own warning, one that the middle-aged man paid even less attention to than that of her friend. "Tread lightly father, and do not turn your back to them for even an instant!"
Corin though did just that, leaving those in the center of the hill's summit to his companion in arms who remained frozen where they stood also. His neck suddenly felt as sore as the rest of him felt then, as Cormac twisted it a little, rising slowly as he did so to his feet nearly slipping twice in his hurry to get out from in front of the blacksmith.
Determined to ward off those wraiths that menaced the druid and Wolfram-hero, Corin leapt past his friends to throw himself upon the aforementioned enemies. Shaken by the flight of the wraith of the dark-horse, those led up the mountain by the warrior of the dark-drake clashed their swords with the white-steel of the man of Forlarin.
The blade crackled it seemed to all eyes that observed it, with a gold glimmer. One that seemed to bellow with a fury that no creature living or unliving could possibly ever hope to hear without taking fright at the sound of. Such was the majesty of the sword-swings of the blacksmith, the ferocity of his righteous anger as he wielded the gold hilted blade that the man of Forlarin appeared then as a war-god. Thrice did he strike at his foes, and thrice did they fall back for fear of being hewed down by him.
At the same time that Corin was in the midst of striking fear into the dark-souls of the wraiths, a new light arose in the darkness that had stolen across the peak of Griogair's final resting place. Distracted from the great clash, Cormac could only gasp, by then he had hurried thither to Indulf's side, with Daegan just behind him as the two of them worried over Trygve whilst at the same time continuously glancing back at her father, for past the fallen Trygve, arose a lady unlike any they had ever beheld.
She was tall as a great oak it seemed to their wearied eyes, her greying green hair flowed long down her back untamed by either braids or by any other instruments worn by mortals. Her grey wool robes were thick yet sought not to hide the magnificence of her beautiful figure. Over her robes she wore a thick wolf-fur cloak that was pinned together near her left-shoulder by a brooch in the shape of golden-leaf. There was simplicity to her appearance, from the manner in which her dress from ankles to neck all of which were finely woven, her eyes green as the emerald alder-stones of the Longwoods pierced through the darkness.
Such was the greenness of those glowing eyes, that those who knelt at the side of the fallen Trygve could nary tear theirs from hers though she looked not upon them. Nor did they notice how pointed her dagger-length ears which peaked a little to the back of her head curving a little near the tips to do so. Her frown was terrible to behold, as was the wrath she shook and shone with that even the wraiths appeared frozen in place where they were crowded about the anvil.
Her long-fingered hands at first clenched at her sides, darted up to point in the direction of the beasts of the night with a trembling fury that was as righteous as it was angry.
"Begone!" She howled in a thickly accented voice. Her voice was melodious as the finest of the Temple psalms of Meret and beautiful as the first dawn of light in the day, so that all who heard it had a sense of relief and warmth that flowed over them, once they heard it.
As brightly as she shone though, and as frightened as his companions were by her, the captain of the phantoms stood alone before her, unafraid. Having moved without appearing to do so, in smoke and shadow, his terrible raiment all the darker in the tempestuous early morn' hours, his blade still held up in his gauntleted fist as though in defiance to her light.
"Begone! Lest ye wish to at last complete thy journey, to the halls of Orcus the Light-Bringer," The high-lady menaced with one hand now closing and her right one's finger jutting up in the air before her in a menacing gesture. Her voice boomed as thunder, yet retained its innate femininity so that she was both the most terrifying and magnificent lady Cormac had ever seen in all his life.
Her courage, her great light was untainted by both the rain and the wickedness of the great-ghost who defied her in gesture and will, whilst at the same time dwarfed her in size and physique. He it was who alone could laugh in the face of her brilliance and threats.
His laugh which was the worst of all the laughs of the wraiths, which denied all that was good, all that was light and which darkened the very world around him and which squeezed all air from the very lungs of those about him momentarily made even the lady shrink back. At the sound of this dark chortle rather than take heart, the lesser phantoms likewise shrunk back, with those facing Corin preferring to flee rather than listen to it, shrieking with fright as they fled into the shadows of the night.
Once his hissing sniggers had faded, the wraith spoke. His voice was as thunder, yet as soft as the faintest summer-breeze; it was cold as the middle of winter and darker than the foulest pit that had ever been dug. Such was the force of his voice that the stones themselves appeared to shrink from him (save for the anvil), his voice was filled with mockery and choked with a venomous hate that left no room for goodness. "I shall not fall to any iron or steel dug from the earth, and wielded by any mortal hands, be they male or female if born upon land, or the mountains, in the glens, fens or in the deepest of caverns."
The shadows grew with this pronouncement, there was a crowing wherefore the rain and tempest grew sharper and louder as never before seen. None spoke for fear of upsetting the delicate balance between light and the dark, at that moment. The crowing grew, as did the din of thunder though Cormac struggled to hear any of these sounds over the panting of his frightened breath or the din of his heart's incessant pounding within his rib-cage.
This pronouncement though was followed by a great light that came from not simply the lady but some other point past her. One that caused the dark-wraiths hissing breath to sharpen and to worsen as a great explosion of light pierced through the heavens. The light cut apart the clouds and ushering in what appeared to all to be the light of day.
The response from most of the wraiths was immediate. Most fled, hissing and cursing in their own strange, terrible tongue the magnificent light, as the lady and this other figure of light joined their flames together. It was as two torches joining into a greater blaze so that it became a mighty inferno. One that drew together all those that surrounded the summit of the Great Mound of Griogair, menacing the shadows and darkness of the most vile of nocturnal phantoms present thereon the mound.
Bristling though, the great crowned-head raised itself in defiance, nonetheless though he retreated from the light of day, a hiss of hatred escaping him.
Though none noticed this, in their fixation with him or the lady, or the light to the right-side of her and the sudden clearing of the clouds and explosion of daylight, the farther the wraith retreated from her the closer he came to the youths. They noticed this at once though, with Daegan gaping open-mouthed at him, Trygve his eyes shuttered closed had long since passed out. His brother, who clung to him ever so tightly, glowered at the wraith with a mix of loathing and fear.
It was Cormac who spoke out, breaking the moment of fear and uncertainty as the great looming cloak of shadow neared them. "We must move! Indulf, Dae we have to move Trygve from here!"
His attempt to warn his friends meant that in the moment the wraith turned his back upon the light at the other end of the summit of the mountain, his eyes were turned away from the darkness of his shadow. Keen to have Trygve moved away to safety, it was the height of folly to look away though, even if for but a moment. The only comfort that there was to be was in the rescuing of his friend, who was dragged aside by Indulf and Daegan in a heartbeat though the shadow-cape of the wraith brushed the feet of the unconscious lad. A whimper escaped him even in his unconscious state, at this contact something that worried Indulf greatly. Daegan was distracted by the knowledge that her distracted mooncalf of a friend had failed to take immediate notice of what impending danger was headed towards him.
Trampled under the heels of the great shadow, Cormac had only time to turn his head to face forward, the great threat that had slain several of his travelling companions. His last thought before he was overtaken by darkness was to wonder how there could be such blackness, without even the slightest trace of light. For the cloak of this evil creature, along with the rest of it appeared to his eyes then to just as its sword had; devouring all light until there was naught left of the world around it.
*****
The realm into which he fell had none of the warmth, of our own. Images of monstrosities beyond the human ken were to be found therein the darkness that he fell into. Some of the monsters had large arms with claws, some appeared to him as beasts, and these terrible figures slowly gave way to darkness. A realm of shadows that was colder than any other he had ever imagined, one in which the dead trod the world, without any hope for warmth, where hunger and pain were constant, and where sorrow unending was mistress. The darkness fell away as scales, to give him a glimpse of high mountainous figures. Of half-corpse half-living creatures that hungered for all the living possessed their gazes empty as the darkness that had bred them.
Once again Cormac fell into a swoon, one he was more than keen to go to, at the sight of the terrible half-rotted giantess that he observed in a grand hall built from solid ice.
*****
This new realm he entered was darker, far less murky and infinitely warmer, it had little more good though. Creatures with bat-wings stalked the land, wyverns fluttered about devouring the flesh of men it was there that fourteen tombs embedded themselves into the still molten land as rivers of flame traversed the land around him. These immense iron tombs grew into thrones, ones in which several glowering skeletal figures seated themselves upon the thirteen lesser thrones.
These skeletal figures were immense ones, who bore the appearance in life of magnificent near gods amongst men; he knew though he was not certain how he knew this. These spectral figures were dominated by two, the garland-crowned figure who seated himself upon the second largest of the thrones. Glaring at Cormac with unmitigated hatred, there was little benevolence in that man, his hauberk and cloak black as night and even more hostile than any night could ever be. He was not alone in his hatred, or in his bony-spectral nature with the second nearest to him in size a more feminine figure. One with a smaller if icier crown, one that bled as she devoured and tore into what appeared to Cormac's eyes to be corpses that reminded him faintly of the images Daegan and Corin had painted in words, of their ancestors.
The empty throne at the center though loomed over all.
Cormac did not stare long at it, for he was in the next instant cast in flames by the eleven lesser figures, where he screamed an unending scream as every inch of him was burnt, torn asunder and melted into naught. Such was the agony he endured then that he would never forget this nightmare so long, as he lived. The more he struggled against the flames, the more they ate away at him, devouring and crushing him below their heel. Eventually the flames poured into the broken cracks of his skin so as to melt him from the inside out, devouring all within him before eating him from inside out. It was a terrible sensation, one that made him wish for death then.
There were other terrible, dark visions that were shown to him after this, monoliths of evil, sea-leviathans and flaming ones, along with further demonic figures of smoke and ice, of fire and cold and of unending darkness. But these visions and figures that tormented him through the molten period of flesh-melting and screaming agony were forgotten by him, as rapidly as they appeared to him. Such was the force of the agony that tortured his body and his spirit then.
Darkness when it at last came was a comfort now, rather than something to be feared.
*****
"Wake up Cormac!" The cry when it emerged piercing through the darkness pulled him away from the flames, from the ice-cold giantesses from the sky-less, molten realm of the thirteen skeletal unliving kings. It pulled him into the light of day it seemed, though Cormac was not entirely certain this was for the better. For a time he had forgotten his own name, and it was but with the supreme-most effort that he recalled who he was. Opening his eyes gingerly, hopeful that he might not see more of those mad-visions and evil sights. He was however greeted not by glaring gaunt figures or ungodly monstrosities but a smiling, freckled green-eyed face that leant over him. It was a face that he knew far better than his own, one that he felt as though he had not seen in decades. "At last, you have returned to us."
Amazed to see her radiant, teary-eyed smile above him Cormac could almost feel tears well up within his own eyes. Unsure of what to say, not that he trusted his mouth to properly convey what lay in his heart at that moment. He was to with all the effort he could summon in his weary body that felt as though it had never rested, place his hand over hers. Resting on his chest, her small right hand was covered by his larger one, with the resultant warmth moving to him.
For a time little was said, before she erupted into one of her relieved songs, as she always did after they spent some time apart from one another.
"Flowers reaching for the suns,
Skies cast in dusk,
All dreams faded save ones
The trees and my joy sunk,
With each day that passed,
That you remained trapped
By sorrow-dreams,
Now though the suns rise again,
The songs of herons and wrens
Echo as the fields grow brimful again,
To see you awake, is as the sweetest of dreams,
Joy blossoms in the land as in my heart once more."
Near the end of the song, Cormac relieved as he was could feel drawn once more to the realm of sleep. This time he resisted as best he could, so that it was only when Wiglaf appeared to the right of the green linen covered straw bed upon which the fisherman's son slept in that he was offered protection from the darkness that lay in wait for him.
"Rest well, Cormac we shall be here when you next awaken," Wiglaf spoke with his usual confidence and warmth. His dark eyes so very hypnotic at that moment that Cormac could not help but fall back into his former slumber, Daegan's hand still gripped in his own.
In contradiction to his previous 'slumber' this one was peaceful in nature. It was accompanied though by the strangest feeling of lightness and of feathers like those of an eagle upon his brow.
*****
When next Cormac arose, it was to the sound of a multiplicity of groans, complaints and accusations of poisoning. This just before he glanced about the bare room he found himself in. It was notable for its alder-wood stone floor, the bark-covered ceiling and walls and little else in it save for the large wooden-bed with green linen and straw two meters from his own contained Wulfnoth.
Never a man to do anything gracefully, save for Temple rituals and prayers the old moustachioed druid had thrust a bowl full of what appeared to be stew away from him. Corin stood by his right-side, with his arms folded across his chest with an impatient expression on his bearded face.
"Wulfnoth, you need your strength," Corin grunted, glaring down at the druid with his grey eyes as sharp as twin drawn swords.
"But it tastes horrid, it is rancid and feels thick," Wulfnoth complained in a childish manner, "I shan't understand how they can feed people stew that has leaves mixed with rotten tomatoes and apples. How can they claim this to be a restorative?"
He made then a sound of disgust, his expression almost enough to make Cormac laugh. The images from his previous rest though were not to be repressed for much longer, and brought a shudder to his still weakened frame.
Forcing them down back into the realm of dreams, lest he should whimper or cry out in a manner that was to his mind unbefitting for a man. Especially with Corin present therewith him, Cormac took the next several minutes to indulge in the frankly trivial nature of the bickering between the two foreigners. Their voices then the greatest comfort to him imaginable, as his battered spirit soaked in the familiarity and warmth of their presence.
Not that either man had much in the way of warmth for one another at that moment. Corin was most especially bitter and rancid in nature, as he bit out in a harsh tone. "Eat it, and you will not have to at a later date."
"I would prefer to eat meat, and have a bottle of wine or ale." Wulfnoth countered bitterly.
Corin and the druid continued their argument for some time. Neither of them especially keen, to give in on the matter of the restorative-stew. The mention of meat made Cormac's own stomach rumble, just as the scent of the tree entered into his nostrils, filling him with a peculiar desire to eat and relax in his bed to rest once more.
Unable for a few minutes to decide quite what it was that he wished for, he was amazed to discover after a few more minutes of indecision, Corin's eyes fixed on him.
Wasting no further time on his argument with Wulfnoth, he hurried across the room to stand by Cormac's side, with a small sound of relief. "At last, you are awake, lad! You have been asleep for days, Cormac! There was a time we were not certain you would awaken!"
"Days?" he gasped unable to believe his ears, when next he spoke it was to add, in what he hoped was a comforting voice, as Corin looked ever so worried, as did Wulfnoth. "Ah yes, I suppose I am quite awake now." Cormac murmured shyly, only noticing then how tiny the small windowless room was, these details piqued his interest, as he asked, "Where are we?"
"The Longwoods," Wulfnoth answered at once, placing his bowl upon the only chair in the room, which appeared made of alder-wood and was to be found to the right of the head of his bead. "It appears that a group of Wilder-Elves survived here, far away from Auldchester and the rest of the centers of power in Brittia over the centuries."
"Elves still live hereon the Lairdly-Isle?" Cormac asked almost leaping from his bed in his excitement, pleased and amazed all at once by this wonderful news.
"Oui, though they have remained a private, secretive people who mistrust outsiders," Corin explained. "What we have seen of the remnants of their once great city, is but an empty diversion from the true village that lies above and around it."
"Above it?"
"Yes, it appears that they took to the trees in some cases, others live upon land and in the westernmost parts of the forest." The Gallian said sitting down on the bed, ruffling his hair as he did so with his right-hand, "But never you mind that lad, how do you feel?"
Cormac smiled in return pleased to see him, grateful also for the demonstration of warmth on the part of the blacksmith. It had been some time since he had seen, his father's greatest friend the warmth in his heart enough to chase away the final memories of those monsters and phantoms that lay somewhere within his spirit.
Between this feeling of relieved joy and his innate curiosity he could not quite decide between whether he ought to break the moment by asking his endless questions, or not. Though his mind was undecided, his stomach rumbled once again, loudly enough for Corin to hear it this time.
A small laugh escaped him, before he regained his feet ruffling once more the hair of the lad, "It appears that you have need of some food, ere we next speak of what has happened."
Corin went to leave, with the youth only now taking notice of the wooden door to the left of his bed. It was only as he opened the door that the youth recalled his other friends, the lightheaded sensation that had haunted him since he had awakened cleared, a little then though not entirely.
It was replaced by the memory of what had happened atop the Great Mound of Griogair, of the sight of Bardulf bleeding profusely from nigh on a dozen wounds. This along with the far worse memory of Trygve stabbed and seemingly dying from his own collection of wounds inspired in Cormac a horrid combination of guilt and fear. Fear for one of his oldest friends, a man who had followed him out into the wilderness in spite of his not being a warrior by nature or by birth. Trygve, he determined deserved far better than to perish, anywhere other than in his own bed, surrounded by family after a full life filled to the brim with joy.
"Wait, where are Trygve and Bardulf? Are they safe?" He demanded of his friend, stricken to the core of his being by consternation for the two of them.
Seeing his worried expression caused Corin's own face to soften a great deal, so that for a moment it was possible to see what sort of man he once was. Before he had come to Caledonia, before he had suffered so many terrible blows at the hand and club that was life. Genial, he smiled gently at the youth whom he assured with utter sincerity, "They are safe, and you may visit with them once you have regained your strength."
This hardly assuaged Cormac's concern for his friends, though he tried to do as he was told, all he could think of was Trygve and Bardulf.
*****
The food he was served by Corin was revolting with the only comfort as he ate, was the company of his friends and Daegan, who had apparently been sleeping but had roused herself long enough to learn from him that Cormac was awake, after which she insisted upon visiting him. Though not even they could entirely erase the rancid taste of what appeared to him then to be a half-rotted taste.
Seeing the disgusted face he made, Wulfnoth smiled a little in sympathy, only to remark, "I can see that you like their restorative dish far less than I do."
Cormac nodded and might have spat it back out, however a warning glance from both father and daughter kept him from doing so. Disappointed, he swallowed it though he regretted this decision at once, coughing as he did so. Offering him a sip from a goblet that she filled with watered wine, Daegan continued to eye him sternly as he drank.
Once he had finished emptying the goblet, he made the decision to keep from eating any more of the stew. Never again would he touch the slightest food or stew made by these Elves, not even if his mother was near at hand to show them to properly cook a stew.
How they could ruin stews for me is a mystery, he thought to himself since like any other Caled who drew breathe across the lands in the north of the Lairdly-Isle, he loved nothing more than the dishes of the north. This last thought made him all of a sudden homesick, he missed his mother most of all. Though the harshest person, he knew, he suddenly longed for her company and wished she was there with him even if it meant that she might do little more than scold him until her voice was hoarse, and he felt worse than before. The silliness of this last thought and the bitterness towards all the pain she had caused him hardly seemed to him to dent his homesickness though.
"How are Trygve and Bardulf?" He asked once he could speak again, eyeing the bottle of heavily watered Caledonian wine. He recognised the taste as a local one from Glasvhail, suspicious that Corin had bought it before he had raced south, after them Cormac thought the taste still preferable to that of the restorative.
"They are well, though Indulf is in the midst of smothering Trygve," Daegan stated with a roll of her eyes, a hint of worry belied her seeming indifference. "As though he truly requires any sort of mothering at such a time, especially after he has not ceased to complain and make endless jests at my expense."
This last statement brought a small smile to Cormac's lips. Though the desire to visit his friends, had not abated in the slightest he contented himself then with chattering with those present therewith him, on all matters that pertained to the area they found themselves in, and the south of Caledonia. Corin had left Sgain sooner than he had intended, and once he had returned to Glasvhail he had departed south with all haste. Taking up a horse, he had exchanged it later for a faster steed in Ardanneag only to continue by circling about the burning forest south of that area. From there he had traversed the Longwoods, heading south of the Great Mound, to the town of Liocarrow where he had met with Wiglaf.
"-Once there we convened on the matter of what was to be done, it was he who had hired Bardulf and his tribe to see to escorting you there. As none of you had arrived yet, even after he had returned from an extended visit to his Order, he suggested we make contact with the local Elves." Corin went on to explain, having by then taken up the chair from Wulfnoth's side so as to seat himself upon it nearer to Cormac's own bed. "It was while we met with Arduinna that her niece had seen the smoke in the distance and investigated just as those wraiths made their presence known."
After this he went on to explain that in a panic Arduinna had ordered an immediate rescue of those by the Great Mound, though it was forbidden to fight near there. It was holy in the eyes of the Wilder Elves, and they had preserved the memory of Griogair whom they still burnt sycamine sprigs and mulberry wood in memory of. Such trees were symbolic in Wilder-Elvish society and the burning of these as incense, thrice upon the Great Mound was a sacred rite practiced since the time of Griogair's death. This ritual was often carried out by Arduinna or by one of her clan, who selected the tree that they cut branches from themselves. Once the sprig and mulberry were properly shaved down and prepared they were burnt. All while the Elves sang a song begging for Griogair's forgiveness.
"It is really fascinating to hear them speak so of their rites," Daegan carried on merrily, unaware of the envy in his heart and eyes at that moment, for he truly longed to hear more of the Elves and to converse with them. It had been after-all his most heartfelt wish, since he had first heard Murchadh and Corin speak of them back when he could barely walk. Still though, he felt happy to hear of them from Daegan's full lips. "They do this thrice a year as stated, and have even sung the song that they call the 'song of pleas' and will continue to sing it until right is restored, and the house of Griogair has claimed a lairdship of some sort."
"Lairdship where? Herein Caledonia or over in yonder Brittia?" Cormac inquired confused by the vagueness of the language used.
At this question, Daegan shrugged her shoulders as though such a detail was of little import, "What difference does it make? They are to claim it, is it not romantic Cormac?"
"It does matter I should think, given the darkness that could be ushered in by them seeking to lay claim to the kingship of either land." Corin countered his daughter, a small grin on his face as his eyes shone with amusement. He added just as she stuck her tongue out at him, and grumbled about him not understanding a thing. "It appears that any lairdship will do, I am not certain I know only that it is important to the Elves. For they wish to right all the old wrongs, and restore what they term 'balance', though if Dae would humour us, mayhap rather than pulling faces or striking queer poses about romance she could sing us the song she loves so very much."
Daegan coloured a little at his gentle reprimand. Ordinarily harsher towards her, the relief and love the father felt at the sight of his daughter healthy, and filled with her old vim and vigour had softened him. If temporarily so, Cormac suspected that some of the old sharpness may yet return. For the moment though, he felt happy not to speak of this. Especially if it meant there was a chance to hear of Elves, and Daegan's singing voice, as these were two of his three favourite things in the world (the last was the sea).
Though she blushed all the way up to her freckled ears, the young lass opened her mouth to sing after she stammered out that her voice was likely to not sound anything akin, to those of the Elf-women who had taken to her.
It was as she sang though that many voices echoed from outside the room, from all around all of them were accented and laughing as they sang with sincere warmth. Such was the force of those voices and so completely did they envelop the room that it appeared to Cormac, as though the lot of them were floating in a bubble made of bark and song. It felt magical, airy and light all at once, it was the perfect comfort he mused, after the sudden fire and darkness of the battle that they had had left behind them, but a short time ago.
"While the grey-woods sleep,
Thereby the glen fair-folk dwell,
In lament deep within the dell,
Perk thy ears ye may yet hear tell,
Of their tale most unfell,
In the murky forest deep,
In the woods that still sleep,
We reside hereto this day,
We chosen of the woods are gay,
In days of yore we sang mighty songs,
While trees grew like swans,
Long before this dawn,
In hollow places we still build walls,
For the younger born, many a Elvish laird,
To war they went, war-horns blared,
They crafted and fought, and they lost many a bairn,
This isle once our home is now our cairn,
Roma was still young and we aged,
On giant prows they came many wars they waged,
'Till the sons of Roparzh were proper-caged,
Stars rose, dawns passed and the land aged,
In the murky forest deep,
In the woods that still sleep,
We reside hereto this day,
We chosen of the woods are gay,
This village they wove where none may tell,
Among the trees in this dell,
Oaks rising and stretching where they still dwell,
To solely in song revel,
For this song also rebuffed Razenth's ire,
Our pines unequalled keep reaching higher,
This though the night is dire,
For Brigantius' sons who shall soon expire,
Dark Elves, Roma, Razenth, all were endured,
Until reduced to this wood,
Though we sing still in corners shadowed,
None may tell what next winter may bring"
"Oh, what a beautiful if sorrowful song!" Cormac cried out, moved his chest and heart squeezed with the force of the grief that the song had evoked in him.
"I am not so certain of its actual beauty," Wulfnoth remarked to one side, brushing and dabbing at his eyes with his robe's sleeves. "But the sorrow it spreads amongst us is undeniable as is that felt by the elder-folk."
"What do you mean 'unsure of its beauty'?" Daegan growled indignant at this perceived slight on his part, against what she felt to be amongst the most magnificent people, and one of the finest songs she had ever heard. "If you had heard the song sung in their tongue, you would not judge so swiftly."
"Peace arrogant daughter of the Forlarin," Wulfnoth snapped irritably, in a foul mood because he had yet to have a bottle of brandy or ale of any kind as was his wont early in the morn'. He went on at her insistence to explain himself, if in a waspish tone. "The trouble with the remembering and honouring of past wounds is that it causes the wound to fester. It means that the anger of yonder days and of olden times live on, and is passed down from father to child. That anger and pain does not disappear, but rather grows and grows, eventually as in the case of all flames it comes home to devour all around it."
The wisdom that lay within his words brought Cormac and Corin up short, both of them pondering them at some length. Corin sunk back into his age-old brooding. Withdrawing inwardly as he had done time and again over the years, this served to in turn darken Cormac's own mood. The graveness and weight with which the druid spoke caused him to ponder another question. One closer to home; was he keeping the bitterness exchanged between him and his mother alive, when he revisited all the past words and deeds that had gone wrong between them? Was it that he was the one who stoked the flames between them? It was a question that was hardly comforting to think about. What was even less of a comfort to him was the conclusion that the question was a self-answering one. It begged him to wonder if he had somehow, brought down upon his own head some of the anger and bitterness that his mother had directed against him, over the past decade.
Daegan for her part scoffed at them, in marked contrast to the two of them, "This is wholly ridiculous, what do you propose? That we erase the past and all memory of it?"
"Nay, not at all I never said any such thing," Wulfnoth replied at once, with equal sharpness to her own tone. "I merely propose that history ought to be passed down, but not the pain. That to pass down cultural guilt is to pass down one's hatred for oneself and others and to teach one's children, to destroy themselves."