Chapter 13: Chapter III: A Sword in the Dark 1.1

Ere the winter was in its final days, betwixt the height of a great freeze and the start of the final thaw that was to forecast the dawn of spring, things began to change. Change had long been in the air, as day by day new rumours and tales of dark riders travelled from mouth to mouth. What added to the sense of wrongness, of growing alarm that circulated throughout the locality of Glasvhail, was the rumour from Denkuld that the hereditary abbot and Mormaer Crinen, who was the Mormaer of Athfhotla had begun to conspire against the High-King. This combined with the rumours of MacDuibh’s own malcontent only worsened the tide of fear and anxiousness that ran through the very veins of the village.

“The seasons have been green, since the fall of Donnchad the Foul, therefore what is there to object to or to revolt for?” This was the question upon many young lips, notably those with little knowledge of the terrible feud that existed between Crinen and the High-King.

“It has its roots in High-King Mael Bethad’s slaying of his predecessor,” Explained Corin one day on a rare occasion when he joined several of the other villagers, for a drink in the Scarlet-Wyrm. Seated at a table with Cormac, Daegan and Indulf who had joined them rather publically to the shock of a great many. Not least of which, was Salmon who left with a small snarl.

“How so?” Asked one youngster, the youngest of Simidh’s daughters as the youngest sister of Inga she had long since come to consider Indulf all but kin, regardless what her grandfather claimed. For this reason alone, she was prepared to ignore the harsh words of her parents and grandfather (her parents preferring not to leave, until they had finished their meals), and as in the case of a great many others, had come to heed Corin’s words. Widely renowned throughout all of Glasvhail for his wisdom, many preferred to defer to him than to the foolish Conn.

The aforementioned druid was present, though deep in his mug with his chin resting upon his fist, hiccups and muttered remarks about the folly of the blacksmith. Corin though, took his time as always to answer, selecting his words with his atypical caution, “Because his Grace, slew the unjust Donnchad in battle near the northern fields of Daertean, doing so to defend his lands against the greedy betrayer. Under whom, we had not a single green season.”

The reminder of how poor things were, of how impoverished the realm had become during the reign of Donnchad, who had never cared to husband his resources or treated his people or land as anything other than disposable cattle. It was in part this abuse of the Caleds that had led to Mael Bethad’s rebellion, alongside the threat posed against his wife, Gruach.

“The previous king was a snake,” One man muttered.

“Ugh, Donnchad ought not to be buried upon Rona amongst the other kings of previous generations,” Slurred Conn miserably if loudly enough to be heard by all.

His words were met with approval in all quarters in the pub.

Corin nodded in approval to them also, his only words of warning being ones that all took to heart, “Mark my words, there will be a great deal of sorrow for all involved, should Crinen and MacDuibh have their way.”

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Indulf’s presence by his side, accompanied by the speech Corin gave that night in the tavern, went some distance towards healing the breach, though it did not wholly convince those around them to fully accept Cormac once again. The youth was to the next day spend more time than he had ever before, working before his mother’s loom to better avoid a great many of those who despised him. If she was at all of a mind that her neighbours were right she did not show it, nor was she entirely keen to share her thoughts. No, she was more interested in working him and Indulf as much as possible, in preparation for reasons that escaped him.

His friend did not object at all to her orders, keen as he was to work himself to the bone. Anything to avoid having to think at all, such was the force of his grief at Inga’s passing.

It was a few weeks prior to the end of winter that she announced rather loudly, her intent to depart for Sgain’s annual spring-festival. It was a festival intended to celebrate the goddess Scota, who was the supreme-most deity of the pantheon of deities worshipped by the Temple. The festival also honoured Fufluns and Turan, due in no small part to their connection to spring, a season that was held in high regards by the Caleds.

“It is high time that we attempt to improve our lot in life,” Kenna stated early in the morn to her assistants, both of whom exchanged a sceptical glance.

Indulf, still dressed in the black of mourning was first to voice his discontent, “And how will Sgain aid thee, Kenna?”

“Simple, it is said that the High-King and his Queen will be in attendance, before they hurry back to their home in Dunorcnog. We will impress the two of them with our fine needle-work, is that clear?” She persisted refusing to be beaten down by their lack of faith in her plan. “Come now, the only way to improve one’s lot in life, is to commit to it heart, body and soul therefore get to work the both of you.”

They had their misgivings yet did naught to resist her commands, preferring to do as directed. With all of them hard at work sewing and knitting all that they could, over the course of the winter with even Daegan worked to the bone, much to the impatience of her father.

Complaining at some length, if uncharacteristically when Cormac visited him after a full day of work, “It is not enough that she complains infinitely about my person, and influence over you and Dae, she now seeks to deny me any assistance, with my own work?”

“I am aware,” He replied meekly, all too aware of his mother’s failings, yet pity twisted his heart and made him squirm. “But I still feel a great deal of pity for her, mayhap we could inform her of the truth about father-”

“Nay! She would only believe it to be my fault that I had persuaded you, to say so,” Corin grumbled stubbornly with a roll of his eyes, only to ask, “Do you intend to stay for dinner? I am preparing stew, the sort you and Dae like so much.”

His mouth watering, the youth nodded vigorously moving hastily to assist his friend with the cooking of the stew that was put together in a pot over the chimney in the back of the house. In spite of his recent dour mood at the loss of his father, his hunger for Corin’s stew or any of the deer meat he tended to hunt in the Dyrkwoods (in secret of course).

Desirous to change the subject, Cormac addressed now the matter of Wulfnoth, “What of Wulfnoth, has he sent another messenger?”

“Non, that is another matter for consternation; he is likely still in the Carreyrn lands and is unlikely to come to bless the blade.” Stated Corin exasperated, a hint of worry underlining his tone and words.

They ate that night in silence, yet it was not to be the last of Corin’s complaints about the still absent Wulfnoth. Whilst all others worried about matters such as the continued problem of dark-riders, possible civil-war and trips to Sgain, he had but eyes for his black gold-lined sword.