By the time that this tale takes place it had been nine long years, since the assumed death of Murchadh the fisherman. Surnamed ‘Steady-Hand’ for the surety of his hands, and for that of his spirit no matter the crisis, he had been a popular man both with the men and the women of Glasvhail. His name had evoked once, respect and admiration with his wife and him forming one of the most handsome couples in the village. Such was the force of the local affection for him that all overlooked his queer-nature and absent-mindedness. It was because of his approval all that Corin was so easily accepted into the village many years ago by the oft-suspicious locals. Yet, immediately after his death the patience that some had had towards him failed to be extended to his similar, if even more strange son. In many ways, many had looked back on him as a kind of fool, one that many had felt a certain regret to have once favoured so. Strange as he was, none had however doubted that he had perished in the terrible storm that had rocked the whole of the coast of Glasvhail. This in spite of his having fished through more than a few storms in the past, for all knew that he was the most devoted father (after Corin of course) in all of Fidach. If he could have survived, he would be by his family’s side regardless if he had been thrown to the other side of the Antillia-Straits.

  “By Scota, if only Murchadh had lived,” Freygil had once upon a time been prone to saying, “He might well have mediated between Kenna and Corin, or her and her son.” Others were prone to commenting that had the man lived, and been able to pass on his trade to his son, this might have done the lad some good. Or helped to better shape him into the sort of man, who was of use to the local community rather than an eyesore and nuisance, or so they had once said. In more recent days though, they had taken to complaining at some length, on how ashamed Murchadh would be of his ‘filthy murderer of a son.’

  Told and retold continuously of his failings, until he had been pushed further and further inward, Cormac had also learnt from this that there was little that interested him in the words of others. Aware of what was true, what was not, he had thus learnt long ago to pay little heed when those around him regardless if they were Corin or Wiglaf, or even Dae that his father had passed. Though he had not expected by any means, the immensity of the beard and dishevelled mane Murchadh now wore, he was little surprised to see the man alive.

  “I-I must sp-speak to you Corin,” Murchadh stuttered weakly, the moment he was laid down upon his friend’s bed, his blonde hair now white and grey as the torn tunic that barely covered him, his eyes hardly saw as they quivered and gaped as widely as his mouth did.

  “Rest now, rest easy Murchadh you can speak when you have rested fully-” Said Corin at his most soothing, his hand squeezing the bony shoulder of his friend.

  “Nay!” The force of that one word shook the prematurely aged man, along with the three who stood before him. “This is far, far too important! Please Corin!”

  “Dae, Cormac go find Wiglaf, he should still be near!” Ordered the blacksmith in a voice that all knew brooked no argument, not that either of them were prepared to offer up any.

  It was in this way that Wiglaf was retrieved from near Ciaran’s oak, which he had just reached on his donkey, Hubert. Hurrying back in a great hurry, it was he who bound Murchadh’s wounds of which there were a great many; five to his sides, four to his legs and two to his arms along with a large gash on the side of his left temple. Such was the poor-condition that he was in that even the smith let slip a hiss of horrified sympathy escape from his lips.

  His teeth on his lower lip, WIglaf worked as swiftly as he could be expected to with the three of them crowding him. During this time, the fisherman had slipped out of consciousness which helped a great deal to facilitate the sorcerer’s efforts.

  “Can you not heal his wounds, as the druids might?” Daegan asked after some time.

  “Nay, ordinarily I might however it is not any one injury or illness that assails Murchadh at present.” Stated the sorcerer as he and Cormac threaded as many of the large sword-wounds closed, bandaged what they could with Daegan’s assistance as Corin paced about behind them.

  “Such wounds,” Gasped the son of their patient, his eyes filled with pain for his much loved father, “Surely he will recover, Wiglaf?”

  “I am not certain,” Wiglaf retorted bluntly, pulling at his beard in frustration, “He has lost a great deal of blood, lad.”

  Cormac felt his hopes drain alongside the colour from his face. From his right-hand side, Daegan took his wrist in her hands to give it a little squeeze. It was a kindly gesture, one that she was unlikely to show to any other person save for his mother or her father, yet it did little to comfort him. Behind him, Corin continued to pace.

  Contrary to what one might expect, none of their hands shook as they finished the task of bandaging him, not until they had finished. It was then that they were instructed to wash their hands and faces, with the mage doing so before them, dabbing at his sweat-slickened forehead with a cloth that had been dipped in the hastily prepared bowl of water (prepared for them by the smith, who had run to get the water from his smithy).

  “What are we to do now?” Daegan questioned without her typical confidence or haughtiness, so that her voice shook as she spoke.

  “Wait.”

  This they did for hours, with all of them keen to hear from Murchadh. Daegan sat to one side, her lips moving as though she were in the middle of speaking, only for them to quiver. Cormac for his own part, sat to her left. Both of them were seated upon the ground, to one side of Murchadh, eyes upon him. Both lost in their own thoughts, while Corin paced throughout the middle of the house. Wiglaf seated to the right of his patient studied him, hand racing up and down, from one side to the other of his beard.

  Cormac was to jump a little after several moments that felt to him to stretch on for hours, when he felt a hand touch his own. It was Daegan. Eyes lowered, lips still quivering and trembling she was visibly shaken and though it was evident the return of Murchadh had shaken her when she at last did meet his gaze, there was sympathy there. Moved, Cormac silently gripped her hand tightly in his own, as he drifted back into his own thoughts, staring at his father. Grateful for the support even as his insides felt as though they were melting, such was the torrent of emotions that rattled him to his core.

  Time at this time stretched on, or so it appeared to all present. The length of this great wait, went on for so long that when Murchadh awoke, they all (the sorcerer included though he later denied it) leapt in surprise.

  Doing so with a groan, his head shaking and quaking from side to side, leaning over him so that his beard touched that of the fisherman’s. “Murchadh, how did you come to find yourself before your friend’s door?”

  “Wi- Wiglaf, is this Glasvhail?” the wounded man asked feverishly, scanning the area immediately about him with such fear that it made all their hearts ache for him.

  “Aye, you are amongst friends; therefore speak to me of what has befallen you.”

  “I-I do not know where to begin-”

  “The storm nine years ago is when, I would were I you,” Daegan interrupted sharply, her old confidence newly restored after hours of absence.

  “Daegan!” Her father hissed at her harshly, which drew an immediate apology from her lips.

  “I must confess that I agree with your daughter, Corin.” Wiglaf muttered eyes downcast and weary.

  Murchadh shifted his eyes about, licked his lips and with his gaze dark and sorrowful he spake of dark things they might otherwise, not have heard him ever speak of. “I was cast adrift, from near the shore of my forefathers, to that of Antillia, the Isle of Mists. I was afraid then, and for a long time afterwards as I swam about the south-western sward of that island. Once there, I attempted to build a raft to return yet was captured and enslaved by a local Northman.

  I stayed in his house for three years, during which time I was made to slave away in his kitchens. Then he made me aid in the educating of his children after he discovered my knowledge of letters taught to me, by Corin years before. He also learnt I knew something of boats, and of old legends, and had me teach them along with languages to the three of them. I must confess that though he was harsh in the beginning, his children won my affection.

  However much I cared for them, and respected the fairness of this Jarl, for he was a great laird amongst his people who had settled upon the Misty-Isle, I longed for home. Wherefore I strove to cast away my fetters and chains, to return home. This angered him, though it was naught in comparison to the great wrath it awoke in his wife, who ordered me sold when he departed to do war with one of his neighbours. Sold to Amazons, they treated me worst though some respected my knowledge; they were in time after another year to sell me to- to… him.”

  The shudder that ran through the fisherman’s body, soon spread to those gathered about him (save for the sorcerer), each of them continued to gaze at him. All of them were either incredibly impatient with Cormac for example less so, than the next person. Murchadh unaware of the effect that his words had had upon them, his eyes darted when opened, and went through long spells where they were covered by his eyelids. The weight of which evidently troubled him, so weary did he appear that Corin attempted to intervene in his favour.

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  “Wiglaf, surely this could wait, until Murchadh has rested,” He suggested gently, his typically soft accent thickening then, so great was his concern for his wounded friend.

  “Nay, we must have the tale now,” The sorcerer persisted sharply, with a glower towards the smith he added, “If it troubles you so, mayhap you should wander off somewhere, to your forge for example, and leave us to hear the remainder of this tale.”

  Taken aback by the fierceness of the old man’s words and tone, the three of them stared at him. The fisherman for his part hardly appeared to notice, so utterly lost in his dark memories was he that he continued his dread-filled tale with nary a thought for them. “He was dark, a foul creature of the abyss… such was the fury of his might all of the misty-isle trembled whensoever his rage was awakened. Such was the wickedness of his raiment and appearance none looked long upon him. How true, were the words of the song of Tuathmurdún:

  “Long before the crown was rent,

  Ere from unworthy fingers the Thistle was made free,

  In the age when the Lairdly-Isle was still unbent

  When shadows ruled, wyrms’ reign’d beyond grasping trees,

  And to the black-drake all men wert bound,

  All bound in lamentations to the Dark Crown,

  That belongs to the Dark Laird upon his Icy-Throne,

  Thus are all bound within the Unhallow’d Crown.”

  The song was hardly sung, but rather they were murmured softly, so much so that all leant forward to hear them. Yet there was such fear, such evil hinted at through the song that all glanced about themselves warily. Daegan tightened her grip on Cormac’s hand, who continued to regard his father with a feverish gaze of his own. Corin cursed and glanced about himself whereas Wiglaf pressed the blacksmith to bring him wine.

  Once he had drunk a little, with the sorcerer lifting his head whilst holding the bottle in the other hand, he asked of him, “Is that where you have been, all this time Murchadh?”

  “A-aye, I escaped with Delauvaran’s aid, but beware! Beware his riders, for they come for me! And all those they think I may pass it on to!” Breathed Murchadh, eyes wide as the heavens were and thrice as darkened at that moment, as the stench of death that hung over him which they had all done their best to ignore worsened, and the boom of thunder echoed outside.

  “Speaks sense,” Wiglaf urged as bewildered as the rest of those crowded about him were, “What do you speak of? Did you steal something from your former master?”

  “Aye,” His voice nary a whisper, the man raised a trembling hand to point towards his beard. For a ridiculous moment, it crossed the mind of his son to ponder if mayhap the half-mad fisherman believed his beard to have been stolen from this tormentor of his.

  A surge of foresight though penetrated his being, wherefore he reached past the thick mane of facial hair, with both hands so that he withdrew from about the neck of the prematurely aged man. Sedate for several minutes, as his son stared with confusion equal to that of his friends, there was a moment of silence before his hand awoke to grasp at the youth’s wrist with the rapidity of a serpent.

  “Stop,” Hissed the fisherman, blue eyes at once wide as he took in for what appeared to be the first time, the sight of his son. “You- Cormac? For what reason are you here?”

  “I have been present since before your own arrival,” Cormac corrected gently, sliding his wrist free of the grip of the other man only to clasp the aforementioned hand with his own. “What is this silver-white pendant?”

  The pendant was exactly as described, a near snow-white pendant with silver gleaming here and there as though the silver sought to escape from the devouring grasp of the white. Such was the beauty of the locket that more than one eye was held within its grip.

  If Daegan and Corin were distracted by it, fascinated so that they hardly noticed the horror that painted itself onto the face of Murchadh at the sight of his son, holding the necklace, which did not go unnoticed by Wiglaf, who was swift to ask of him, “What is it Murchadh?”

  His breath came out in a manner akin to that of a snake, so frightened did he appear that he appeared to have shrunken even further into himself. His answer when it came, was one full of regret, “His treasure, oh what sorrow to see my son hold it!”

  “What treasure?” Daegan asked intrigued.

  “The gem! The Crimson-Gem!” Said Murchadh, his blue eyes brimmed with tears that spilled down into his hair and beard.

  The man’s words startled all of them, with Cormac who had been caught by the beauty of the gem, and felt as though he never wished to look away from it, found his gaze at last torn away from it. If he was entirely ignorant as to the implications of those fateful words, Wiglaf one of the wisest men in all of North-Agenor and the Lairdly-Isle divined at once, what the fisherman spoke of.

  “The Crimson-Gem? The same gem known as Aganippe’s Bane?”

  “It does not appear crimson to me,” Daegan commented ignorantly.

  “That- container,” Murchadh explained weakly, as he tapped once upon the white sphere, his eyes continued to rest upon his son. They shone as the sea oft did, Cormac noticed and with a thousand times the fervour. Though tears continued to slip from the corners of his eyes, he reached out a trembling hand to grasp his son’s shoulder, “My son… my son…!”

  “The container,” Wiglaf murmured quietly to himself as he examined the gem that the fisherman’s son held tightly by the chain. The chain in question was removed from around the gaunt man’s neck by Daegan, who removed it with remarkable gentleness. “How did you come to own this gem- and to have rediscovered its container, Murchadh?”

  He pressed the thinned man several more times, yet could no more pull an answer from him than he might have water from a dry sponge. By the fourth time, Murchadh was unconscious once more, and Cormac grew restless towards the sorcerer. “He is unconscious, Wiglaf! Halt!”

  “But we must know more, Cormac,” Answered the old man urgently, “I must know more, for the good of all present here to-day.”

  “Father must rest first, see how he rests? What good will it do to awaken him, if all we hear from him are more erratic statements that hint at shadows rather, than inform us of the whole truth of his adventures?” He countered with equal fervour to that of the elder who paused.

  “Wiglaf, what is this gem?” This time it was Corin who spoke up, eyes half-lidded with consternation.

  “I know not so much, as others of my order might,” Said Wiglaf uncertainly, yet seeing their curiosity he sighed. “Likely the little I know of the tale is more than what most of you know. I am only familiar with the beginning, which was told to me some forty- gods it must have been fifty years ago!” He took a swig of the wine, which he tasted fully before he swallowed, “Aganippe was the finest sorcerer and warlock of his age that is to say that of the First Wars of Darkness. To the utter horror of the Order of Auguria, which was in dire straits at the time as our founder Brunst Silverhammer had perished! Now where was I? Oh yes, Aganippe, King of the Zulvrain people, who are the ancestors of the Gallians, sought the means by which he could destroy the dragon Zomok, along with the three great Arch-Warlocks of the Svartálfar sent to lead the invasion of Zulvrain, the Svartálfar being the true name of the Dark Elves.

  It was at this time, he resorted to the same means by which they had attained power; that is to say through convening with dark spirits. These spirits taught Aganippe- who was by this time a formidable sorcerer, terrible secrets which he utilised to imprison a great many of them, along with the dragon Zomok and the Arch-Warlocks. Sealing their power within his Blood-Gem, this gem was the mightiest of all the relics created at the time of those dark wars. Such was the evil of the Blood-Gem, which had imprisoned those malicious spirits and souls rather than destroy them as the foolish Aganippe initially believed that, he was driven nigh mad with terror towards his own creation. He consulted with the dragon Arndryck the Elder, father of the mighty Arndryck the Younger or the Golden as some know him. The wise-dragon advised that he craft a container for the gem, to keep the malice of its victims from escaping, and while this container succeeded in its appointed task, it was for a time lost so that the evil contained in the Blood-Gem escaped, until such a time as the gemstone was placed in a temple, somewhere in Gallia.”

  The youths listened raptly where the Gallian though as attentive to the sorcerer’s words, had nonetheless not lost himself in the tale or in his horror at the knowledge that Aganippe had turned to black-magic. “We know now where the gem came from, now the question remains if it was in a temple for several centuries or even for millennia how did Murchadh find it and its container on Antillia?”

  “I do not know, I am not familiar with the gemstone, only the beginning of the tale from the time when I was an apprentice to Master Charles who was, a Gallian born sorcerer. He felt it important to learn of it, due in no small part to his participation in the Gargath Wars led by Otton of Volkholant, and his ‘Companions de Tivérie’.” Clarified Wiglaf quietly, hand in his beard once more.

  “What do we do, in regards to this gemstone, now that we know what it is and where it came from?” Cormac asked the first of them all to turn his mind, to what was to be done, desperate to shield his father from further harm.

  “I do not know.” The Cymran admitted honestly.

  “We must inform Kenna of what has happened; Murchadh is after-all her husband.” Corin insisted marriage as ever, near and dear to his heart.

  “Nay!” This time the cry came not from either Cormac or Wiglaf, but rather the fisherman himself, who awoke with a start. His sudden reaction caused Daegan to let slip a shriek, the lad next to her was nearly knocked over by her, if he had not leapt to his own feet. The elder for his part truly did fall over with a cry, hitting his head against the house-wall with a series of curses escaping his chapped lips. Corin for his part merely froze where he stood gaping at the scraggly man before him. “Kenna must not know,” the gaunt one whimpered, “please, you must not inform her! Less danger shall stalk her wherever she wanders… as- swear to me, to take away the gem…”

  The lot of them exchanged glances, with each of them necessitating a moment to calm themselves with Daegan the first to swear the oath, “But of course uncle Murchadh! We swear to not tell her, or to let the gem remain here if it be truly cursed.”

  For their own part, the men remained quiet, with Corin reluctantly swearing the oath though he did so with visible unwillingness, whereas the sorcerer shrugged helplessly. “I will not speak to her nor would she believe me, given her hatred of me. As to the stone, I could no more move it than I could the mountains or the sea.”

  None paid attention to Cormac’s reticent silence, as he studied his father and the Blood-Gem with an anxious light in his bright blue eyes. Only his father noticed him then, though his thoughts were to move away from the cursed gem. “My son… beware! Beware!”

  “Beware what father?” The eagerness of the lad to please and soothe his sire was noticed at once by all, who gazed upon him with much admiration for his filial nature.

  “Beware the Riders! The Riders!” Murchadh whispered, his voice softer than a whisper as he pulled his son towards him weakly, with Cormac allowing himself to be pulled over so that his ear rested near the older man’s lips.

  The desire for secrecy on the part of the fisherman made all quake, as he succumbed once more to slumber. This time, he would not awaken from it, as he expired some time later with each of those present with him pondered just what was to be done next.

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