Forge At The Crossroads

Friday evening
After such an unremarkable departure, my return to the caravan of Thuram Jodassian was rather more conspicuous. It was Malthus who eventually accosted the shuffling hooded figure as he staggered towards the firepit over two moons later. Yet as the brewer’s hand fell upon my shoulder, so did I, for even that slight weight was enough to finish me. Pushed beyond all sense of exhaustion, still fevered, confused and fraught with nightmares, I was broken by those last few steps. Something inside me snapped, some wound or hurt that my body could not contain. I hit the ground in a splay of blood and writhed there like a thing possessed. Did they call for healers? I could not say. Did they carry me to the caravanmaster’s tent or did I crawl? I could not tell you were the truth required to save my very life. The first I knew I was on my side, looking up at the worried faces both well-known and unfamiliar. Yet each one asked the same question, the question that I at first was far too spent to answer, the question that finally was spoken by Thuram.

“What happened to you, Mereddin?”

Drifting along the knife edge of consciousness, I still squirmed at the mispronouncement of my Gaelic name. Khazim tongues have no subtlety in their accent, their intonation too harsh, their syllables too certain. Once there was a young woman, Rioghnach, who spoke my name correctly. I loved the lilting way she transformed that single nomen as if into a poem entire. Yet, no, there was no poetry in the caravanmaster’s speaking, for what profit is there in that? Yet his question needed to be answered, and when I had strength enough to choke back the blood from my mouth, I responded.

I told of how and why I had left for Tirnalis, of my vision in the dreamstone. How I braved the Battledales, and then beyond the rock and sulphur, past the mines and waterless barren wastes, how my thirst drove me across that merciless plateau until I came to the city’s stone walls and the aptly named Foulbergs that crouch at its heels. How there I saw my face upon the walls, scrawled inks on parchment marking me as outlaw, and scrawled beneath a bounty far beyond even the fistful of golden coins I carried. And I told how my face was not alone on that black basalt barrier, for there too were the faces of my travelling companions; Fionn, Mianas, Snake, Katriona, even Thuram himself. I spoke of my headaches, my disorientation and eventual delirium. Of the advent of the hunt for my life, the chase through an unknown gorge, and my final succumbing to the fever that had dogged my every step since leaving the caravan at Lisingarde. I briefly touched upon my collapse and recovery in a rustic cottage, the patient of some never-seen host, of finding my face and hands covered in red, yet well enough to travel. I did not mention the gift I left behind; the cross crowned in a circle of silver; the sign of my village, so that should the unknown healer ever find their way to my home, they would be given shelter unasked for. My return was briefly described; guided by visions and what rumours I could pay for, I heard of a nefarious kabak that stood upon a crossroads on the edge of the mountains. An outpost of lawlessness, the last watering hole before the long march to Tirnalis, it was also shown to me that while I might have failed to speak to the warlords of the city, here was known an auction of disreputable goods, and indeed if Dalelanders had stolen Fionn’s blades, they would be auctioned here. Then, lastly, I told of my flight from those that yet hunted me, of my escape and ultimately my arrival at the caravan; a welcome and unexpected sight after many days in the wildlands.

The telling sapped the last of my strength, yet attended by Katriona, I roused enough to listen to Thuram inform of the caravan’s coming to this place. How they rested here before heading on for their final destination, and how the auction had obviously drawn the tradesmen like a knife. How a virulent sickness had plagued them. Of their slow march across the rugged Battledales. And how here between the Shattered Spine and the Northern Ocean, between the geysers and mud pools of the plateau and the waterhole of the last kabak, they had called a full halt for a few days. I was not present for Thuram’s speech, yet I could quite comfortably guess what it contained; words outlining great profit and fortune to be had at the upcoming auction, and tales of fine ales and wines to drive away the brakish taste of the ever more stagnant water and winter supplies. 

Once all news was passed, Thuram thought and then addressed his council. After attending the auction, he would leave the caravan in Snake’s charge and go to barter away the price on our heads. Meanwhile preparations would be completed for the crossing of the plateau with everything to be in readiness for his return. The matter quickly decided, I retired to the baggage train to wash, rest and finally retire to my tent to recuperate. Some hours later, I was roused by a sense of excitement, shouts and voices that drew me out and down with the gathering crowds to the hulking dark shape of the tavern below us. 

The kabak at the crossroads had seen better days. Against the harsh wind, its beams and roof moaned. Against the steady rain, its gable and lintels creaked and swelled. Inside, storm lanterns and candles tried to assuage the dark, yet the lack of windows and badly tended fires made the air dense and impenetrable. The people I first encountered inside were the men of Rasputin’s Company. All once wall guard or other military men, Dima, Borya, Pavlov, Tusya, Seriozha sat just within the arched doorway, their songs and ribald humour spilling out across the muddy entranceway outside. I noticed by their attire that they sired from Tirnalis and the parchment above the bar heralded them as swords-for-hire, yet it was not their heritage or chosen occupation that so turned my favour towards them. Followed by my companions, I ventured further into the gloom and there found other faces. Most were new to me, and every one offered the chance for betrayal for the many sovereigns that lay on my head. Passing to the bar, I talked briefly with the bar wench Magda about the establishment and also the wanted posters upon the walls around us. It was with some trepidation that I saw duplicates of the once seen in the Foulbergs here also, yet there was one that I did not recognise. Asking after the man with ten sovereigns reward, I was told that a criminal known as Gukov Shivoski was the establishment’s owner, and that the posters were kept as marks of respect in the kabak. This allayed some of my fears, as did the conversation I had with another of the wenches whose brother was one of those searching for my head. Parting with a silver ring that once belonged to my slain father, I asked that when her kin returned that she should reliably inform him that I had heard of their perusal and fled for my life toward the coast. The merrymaking and tomfoolery of the mercenaries interrupted any subtler message I would have wished to impart, and irked by their raucous insistence that all Gaels were barbarians (opinions that Malthus bore the brunt of on several occasions), I decided to play my part in trying to illustrate their error. Calling for silence, I sang for the company, performing words that had been close to my heart since the very hour of my return to the caravan:

Dean cadalan sàmhach, a chuilean mo rùin,
Dean fuireach mar tha thu, 's tu 'n dràsd an àit ùr;
Bidh òigearan againn làn beartais is cliù,
'S ma bhios tu 'nad airidh, 's leat feareigin dhiù.
Gur h-ann an Gaelica tha sinn an dràsd
Fo dhubhar na coille nach teirig gu bràth,
Nuair dh'fhalbhas an dùldach 's a thionndas am blàths
Bidh cnothan is ùbhlan is siùcar a' fàs.

Now that we come to our journey’s end
These lives blow away like leaves on the wind
Yet though they will travel ‘cross land, sea and sky
True kinship returns us like buds to the tree.

“Well, I think that proves who are the barbarians amongst us,” I muttered as I stepped down from my makeshift stage. Of course the mercenaries heckled and shouted during the performance – I expected no less for the likes of they – but at least my point was enacted. Yet that was not the only time I would sing that evening. For a glass of red wine, I serenaded Magda, yet retreated quickly upon hearing that she was Snake’s long-lost lover. A beauty as she was, there was no love in my heart to stand in the way of the ardour of a ranger.

The last I knew of this night was the auction. Through half-slitted eyes, I watched as poisons and arrows and all manner of other stolen goods were shown, bidded upon and sold. I had no interest in items of armour or supposedly magical artefacts. Instead I waited to see if indeed the thief of the caravan’s weaponry at Lisingarde had ended his road here. I was not to be disappointed. In two separate lots, Fionn’s bronze blades were auctioned and I acquired both with relative ease. Of course, none of the caravan would bid against me, I knew, yet until the hammer fell I did not catch even the slightest breath. And once I possessed these noble blades once more, I retired quickly, heading back to the caravan for more much-needed rest.

Saturday morning and afternoon
I was awoken the next morning by squabbling outside near the firepit. While not the most unusual occurrence, these words were strange to me, and in a peculiar accent that made eavesdropping difficult. There were also several voices, all speaking one atop the other, and when I rose for breakfast, I found that much had transpired as I had rested my weariness away. Weirdly, though I felt an ache in almost every bone of my body, the delirium and inner exhaustion that had so wracked my body were gone. While I bowed to Katriona’s superior healing skills, I nevertheless knew that some other force was at work here. Many had already risen for what was quickly turning into a grey and ghastly day, and I pulled my stormcloak around me as I moved slowly around the encampment, hearing more of what had transpired in the night. The heavy accents originated from two prospectors who spun stories of strange, metal-eating beasts and caused no end of consternation among the chain and cuirass clad members of the caravan. Also, Sir Rhodry had encountered a female spirit who appeared at the far edge of our camp. As is the way with such ghostly apparitions, she looked as if caught in enacting the same scene over and over. Her words or adultery and murder to her unseen lover, and the discarding of what appeared to be a wedding ring or other such token, were confusing at first. Yet piece by piece her story became known to at least some of our company – and the leading of Antonio and Joachim to the shrine of a local water goddess named Baba Reena. I had seen but knew little of these two travellers and during our time together I gleaned a little more about their history and of joining the caravan. 

After originally training to be a Ranger, the peace between the Gaels and Tirnalis saw Joachim joining his wealthy uncle and apprenticing as a gem merchant. Part of the caravan destroyed by the Urdaal, luckily his stock was saved allowing him to become an active member of the merchant cooperative with us. As for Antonio de Zedes, he was second son of the renowned Ronaldo de Zedes and head of the great de Zedes Trade House of Roma. Sent to undertake the arcane studies of the elements by his father, he shared lodgings with a small group that included a Saurian and other Roma merchants.

I was distracted from these fellows by the relatively demure exit of Thuram, and a brief introduction to Jacobo Kopanari, his distant cousin. If there was any family resemblance I could not see it, nor could I discern any other traits that had been passed by sharing a common bloodline. Where one was brusque and garrulous, the other appeared well-spoken and decidedly civil. But there was no time for anything other than the merest courtesies for I noticed that Joachim and his fellows had left the encampment bound for the river at the base of the valley. 

Hurrying, I passed quickly and quietly through the woodland, never wishing to leave the tree line and yet eager for haste. I emerged as close to the water course as I could and there saw the small group standing around the as yet unseen shrine. Odd-looking blue flowers were being lain there and, meeting Joachim as they left, I discovered that the Tirnalian spirit had spoken to him and told how the ghost was the spirit’s daughter, Veela. She was betrothed to Vodyanoy, the local blacksmith, yet upon their wedding night, she angered him and he flew into a rage and killed her. In vengeance, her spirit cursed him to forever wander the land during the day, searching for the ring and never finding it. However Vodyanoy was a wielder of dark magic and had worked his powers into the ring, so when the curse was uttered it bound them both in its words. As a result the daughter was also cursed to wander the land at night as a ghost. Baba Reena had also left him with a riddle to ponder: 

It cannot be seen; it cannot be felt
Cannot be heard; cannot be smelt
It lies behind the stars and under hills
And empty holes it fills.
It comes first and follows after
Ends life and kills laughter.

My first thoughts at hearing this, after writing down the verse, was that the answer was darkness, though shadows and silence were also mooted. While we all talked as to the significance of the rhyme, I was shocked to see a figure approaching us across the grasslands; a white haired crone in a pale blue dress; and an apparition too judging from the way the horizon was clearly visible through her stocky frame. Fearing reprisals as to my Gaelic heritage, I placed my swords and walking staff upon the grass, and bowed in obeisance. Yet clearly I was not the source of the harridan’s attentions. Instead she spoke briefly to the Tirnalian, revealing more of the story to him, of her daughter, her association with the local blacksmith and the curse she suffered. I did not catch all that was said, yet as the old woman left, I followed Joachim and the others as they headed in search of the ruins of the smith’s forge. It was found some few fields distant, a scant remainder of what must once have been a fine establishment. Now just a door remained, surrounded by scattered beams and timbers, and also a collection of cairns marking out a distinct area. While Antonio and Joachim searched through the ruined forge, I paused beside one of the piles of grey rocks, and drew the dreamstone from my pouch. Yet as I began to concentrate on the sliver of polished stone, I was immediately struck by the feeling that I must remove myself from this place. Worried, I looked about me and there approaching was an ogrish figure, pale faced and carrying the largest maul I have ever witnessed. From lungs as strong as his own rotted bellows, the blacksmith warned us away, began making sure that nothing was disturbed, and then finally started searching for something in the wet grasses. Retreating to the nearby wooded path (as much to be out of the rain as the man’s vicinity), we watched and debated as to what next to do. Eventually, we returned to camp, and just in time to see a new series of events unfolding. We heard from the ever-level headed Jennifer that men were recently there looking for me. Not a new experience, I shrugged and, giving her the riddle to think over, left to start searching for the missing ring. 

Elsewhere, the warriors of Caravan Jodassian were arming up to hunt the beasts of which the prospectors had told us. A whip-carrying blackguard in worryingly baggy pantaloons was speaking of these creatures by name now. Snargs, he told all who would listen, were fearsome monsters and their heads made respected trophies for the halls of great lords. It had been decided to track and kill one of the beasts for a price, and yet preparations were halted somewhat by the return of the mercenaries conducting their own hunting party. I kept apart from the fighting, intent as ever on defence rather than attack, and though the melee was fierce the fighters were dispatched without serious casualty or death. Once all had regrouped, our own hunt began, and I followed the trail of our own warriors, speaking with Jack of his herbal trade and passing pleasantries as we trailed the as yet unglimpsed creature. Was this metal-eating monster with claws that could rend rock a myth after all? This opinion was certainly proving to be more popular when the party returned, having traipsed for hours across the soggy hillsides and found nothing. 

Joachim and Antonio had been more successful. During our fruitless searching, they had returned to the clearing where the ghostly lady had appeared and there, with the help of the Celestials, located a patch of withered grass. Previously Snake had attributed this to the magical cold of the ghost’s manifestation standing in this world, yet Father Simon sensed that here was where Veela’s body was buried. Digging, Joachim found the object in the upturned soil, a ring of fine Mytil steel, that changed colour constantly due to the magic within it. After being cheered at hearing this, I retired to my tent to rest, and so was as surprised as any when the blackguard returned, bringing the Snarg fast along in his wake. I watched as Sir Rhodry, Magnus, Daenn and many others surrounded and attacked the black beast, wincing as its foot-long claws did indeed do all that the prospectors had warned us of. I only emerged once the thing was killed and its head was taken as a trophy – just in time to watch as the monster’s body was thrown onto the spit to be roasted and promptly turned the iron to dust. And the stench! 

Saturday evening and night
Retiring to a nearby hill, upwind of the camp, I encountered Malthus who informed me that he was to prepare a party for Evaan Abramov, a Tirnalian noble and the son of one of the city’s heroes and leaders, Dimitri Abramov, and that all the caravan had been invited. Suspicious of all such invitations, I inquired further and discovered that Quinn had the previous evening delivered a cargo that had been brought all the way from Jahan; two ornate boxes, highly carved and inlaid with ivory and much parquetry. Sent from Jahan by Malamass, of House Pentath and carried all this way by the caravan. Many had speculated on their content and when broken open to deliver their contents, it was revealed that they held two beautiful wooden chests, covered in intricate and exotic carvings. Such workmanship clearly heralded their origin to be from across the ocean, from the Jaguar Sun Empire, the distant lands of the Tezcatax. Once delivered, Evaan was so grateful to receive the chests, he told those who delivered them that they were presents for his birthday, and that he was to throw a party in celebration – and all the members of caravan Jodassian were invited. While Evaan and his men were encamped in a tent that was warded with magic a little way off in a further valley, preparations were being made. My uneasy feelings were now grave misgivings as to the evening ahead, and these were confirmed when Antonio used his arcane powers to read Tezcatax evil within the fine crates. 

So the party began. There were those there who drank and laughed and entered into the hi-jinx and higher spirits of the evening, yet when I was done, most knew of the danger that we faced. After singing my present to the noble (a rousing drinking song learned in an inn just south of Jahan), as midnight approached and Evaan jested of opening his final presents and goaded his prisoner, I wove my way amongst the members of the caravan alerting them to my fears and warnings that all should flee this place lest they be caught in whatever devilry this spoilt lordling dabbled. I had heard from Joachim that Baba Reena had promised her shrine to be a place of safety for any who sought it and that when the answer to the riddle was revealed, here was a much-needed sanctuary. I pressed upon my fellows to remember these words, rallying all those who would listen to follow me away from the inn. Not one for debate in matters as dark and light as those that to me were clearly presented, I turned away from the ensuing squabbles. I ignored the Celestial’s insistence that we should confront the evil and thwart whatever fell uprising was to appear. I dismissed others’ words that we should intervene in the unlocking, the stealing of the crates, their removal to safety, their destruction – all this I foreswore as the folly of a man intent on turning back an avalanche. My mettle is not made for such things. I guessed that I had no druidry or earth magic, no necromantic understanding deep enough to dissipate the invocations bound within the boxes. Instead I urged caution, and retreat to a place of protection. Who but a fool would not?

I was already halfway down the tree-lined track when I cast a look behind me in the near-total darkness. Two torches bobbed their way behind me lighting the few faces that followed. Few faces indeed. Joachim I saw. Antonio, too. Carolynne. And far behind, was that Magnus and the straggling members of Rasputin’s Company? I could not be sure. My only thought was reaching the water shrine before the night’s zenith. I tried not to think of the many others at the kabak; those remaining now lost to whatever horrors the boxes contained. As the rain lashed down and our destination finally reached, here we planted the torches in the boggy ground and waited. And waited. Later, we half-slept, half-crouched in the bitter dampness of the night. Later still, hideous demons haunted the dark. Later still than that, there were screams in the night. Then nothing. 

Sunday morning
My last day with Caravan Jodassian began huddled beneath the dampness of my much-prized loden wool cloak. Woven by the finest Gaelic weavers in a way that repelled the worst of the winter’s weathers, the garment had finally met its match in the water-logged marsh beside the stream. Dragged into wakefulness by my fellows, it was with much caution that we trudged back up the steep valleyside, bound for the blacksmithy and its cursed owner. Listening to our own armourer, precious metals had been found and these were to be offered in exchange for the crafting of a steel mirror, itself in exchange for the ring that the blacksmith so coveted. I know not how the intelligence befell us that this instrument would prove proof against the magics that the noble’s son had unleashed, yet tales that the other members of the caravan were in some way possessed with a sickness that made them appear as if drunk or drugged, all passive and convivial, made crawl my skin. There was also tell that Evaan had been seen with a black-skinned she-demon, a beauty who bound his fate as surely as the winds bind the fate of a feather. It was guessed by those more skilled in the arcane than I that such a mirror would serve as a way to reverse the enchantment surrounding the members of the caravan. Slogging back to the wetlands beside the fallen smithy, it was not long before the grey-faced blacksmith approached us and again began to threaten us away. Unable to lead negotiations, always the whisper behind the throne, I goaded Magnus to first part with the raw minerals and then counselled Joachim to stay with the ogre and complete the deal. Driven by the rain back beneath the trees upon the road, we were joined by Rasputin’s mercenaries, and all of us watched as the process of creating the mirror began.

Waiting there, my eyes were ever on the woods, especially in the direction of the inn. And there I saw a figure break away from the kabak’s dark shadow, and move onto the road. Slowly, as the shadow became recognisable, I saw it was the Cocal ranger. Unsure as to what fate had befallen him, I warned the others and then waited for his to approach. For my own part, I stood back as Snake was questioned as to his movements after the boxes were opened, and his half-amused, half-laconic replies only made me further worried as to exactly what had befallen those we had left behind us. Things after this happened so fast, that there was scant time to understand their dire implications. Snatching glances between the distant Joachim and the blacksmith, then back to Snake and the mercenaries, the next I knew, the ranger was upon the ground, his head beaten by Dima and his fellows. Then the next Joachim and the mirror were amongst us, and Snake’s throat was a gaping wound. With Rasputin Company’s slaying of the Cocal under the pretext that his story was a mass of lies, and that he had somehow been tainted by the demonic figures said to be at work in the caravan, I had only just recollected myself when another figure approached. This time it was Daenn, and he too was shown the mirror, questioned, pummelled by sword point to the ground, then slain. Despite Magnus’ anger, and request that I intervene, I stood silently by. Apparently untroubled, my heart pounded in my chest, yet I was trained to suffer traumas far greater than this. I had already watched adulteress’ throats grin blood as I kept silent, even though it was I that was the chieftain’s mistress’ lover. Pain is a weakness to be hidden, and surrounded as I was by death-hungry mercenaries, I felt perhaps now was not the time to voice my horror at these pointless killings. Unfortunately, Magnus’ face betrayed clearly his feelings, yet he was not foolish enough to tackle four against his one. Instead, all listened to my insistent words that, now we had the mirror, we should seek out the lord who was the source of this day’s evil – and fortunately all saw sense in this course of action.

The mud and filth of the hillside slowed our approach to the white tent of the son of the Ward Protector of Tirnalis, yet at the last we came before the noble’s encampment. Tusya explained that the last time they had tried to near the tent, they were repelled by an invisible barrier that, though causing no injury, threw them back from their destination. This they illustrated with much hilarity, though I could not see any comedy in their antics as they rolled on the boggy ground. Moving to a position of vantage, I watched as the mercenaries then, in a fit of frustration, tossed torches instead of themselves at the tent, and managed to set light to the fabric construction. Within a short time the place was ablaze, then dying to ash, revealing a pair of goblets that stood at the centre of the now-empty space. To me these symbolised a union far more sinister than ever I had encountered, yet though I could not discern the purpose of the vessels, I began to become aware of the diminishing of the protective warding that separated us from them. Having effectively killed, burned and destroyed all that they could touch, Rasputin’s company disputed the next course of action they should take, while I waited, staring intently at the weakening magic – and once the enchantment was gone, I merely walked forwards into the ring of ashes, picked up the goblets and left; much to the bafflement of the mercenaries, for whom subtlety is as lost as the sunken cities of the eldest races. It was in returning from this latest escapade, that our band had what could be viewed as our first taste of fortune. For there upon the road we met Lord Dimitri Abramov himself, come direct from Tirnalis to meet with his son. I had heard of this man, linked to the city as head of one of the three most powerful Wards within Tirnalis. The youngest of the city patriarchs, Dimitri was a well travelled soldier who spent long absences from the city fighting bandits to the south. Though he is popular, Evaan’s representation of his father is not so favoured, as the son is considered a shameful indulger of foreign ways and an embarrassment to his father.

After failing to win Dimitri’s trust, I left the parlay to non-Gaelician tongues, and then followed the lord and his guards back into the caravan. There we were confronted with the ranting son, and also a final understanding of his motivations. For here at last were seen his inadequacies to live up to his father’s ideals, and as there begun a battle of words, finally Evaan revealed the creature to which he was wedded. The thing that emerged for Thuram’s tent was hideous, its grinning skull and funereal attire marking it as a beast from the deepest, darkest places of the world. It was clear that here was the purpose of the mirror, to reflect all that was filth and evil into the face of this once beauty, now abomination. So the fight began, both with those under the spell that Evaan had cast upon our company and those of free minds who were still left amongst us. Slowly more were turned by the mirror, bringing them back to the fold, yet the fight was fierce and prolonged. Finally I snatched the Mytil steel from the hand of Joachim and ran to present it to the monstrous corpse. Seeing its reflection, the thing froze, yet not for ever. Recollecting itself, it turned upon me, reaching its ice cold hands into my chest and rending apart my flesh, and ribs, and reaching, reaching, reaching towards my naked heart…

Epilogue
I awoke on a bench in a tent hung with the dead and dying from the battle, gazing into the face I later found out to be Roseanna. She had stitched the flesh over my ruptured ribs, yet she told me that it was Father Simon who had saved my life with his saw and surgery. Of Evaan and the beauty, there was only news of their demise, and of Lord Dimitri’s begrudging acceptance of the caravan’s help and his agreement to allow free passage through his lands until the edge of Tirnalian territories. Jacobo Kopanari, Thuram’s cousin, led us now, yet I had no time for the politics of trade and war and other such bluster. Instead I sought out food and company, and found them both in the guise of Carolynne. I knew that here was the closest the caravan would come to my homeland and that my hours with these people grew short. Yet who to hear my farewells? Most of the friends I had made along this road were slain, the others unconscious from battle or off on errands. Only the cook was around to hear my goodbyes and in repayment for all her kindnesses on the long journey, my final song to the caravan was sung with her as sole audience, though was perhaps overhead by those nearby who huddled against the winds around the firepit. As it seemed appropriate, I chose a reprisal of the words and sentiments I first voiced in the smoky kabak, now given up to the brightness of the morning:

I follow a path not drawn on any map
I speak words not written on any page
Mine is a tale not told in any tongue.

I dance to a tune not played on any harp
Mine is a life not lived by any one
Mine will be a death died by me and me alone.

Dean cadalan sàmhach, a chuilean mo rùin,
Dean fuireach mar tha thu, 's tu 'n dràsd an àit ùr;
Bidh òigearan againn làn beartais is cliù,
'S ma bhios tu 'nad airidh, 's leat feareigin dhiù.

Now that we come to our journey’s end
These lives blow away like clouds on the wind
Yet though they will travel ‘cross land, sea and sky
True kinship returns us like rain to the sea.

And then I left.

The caravan was bound for the Great Fen Road, then on to Mytil and finally Roma – but I was not. This inn at the crossroads was a place of many directions, yet I only had one. Northwards. Northwards, to the Gael heartlands. To return to my people, and to instruct them in the ways of the darkness, give confirmation of its fell approach, and also of the ways I had seen of combating and defending against its might. I know that there I shall hasten to Twr-a-Gân and gaze once more into Blackmirror Tarn. When I do, in Dudrychllyn’s waters will I see the coming midnight anew and know it for what it is. And in this way I will prepare my clan.

And when they ask me who stands at their shadowed gates, I will answer: “I am Huan Caius Mereddin, dark tanist of this village, aspiring bard still and harper.” And when they answer me, when they run to greet me, they, and they alone, shall sound my name correctly.

And in this way I will know that I am again among my people.

Other Tales:

Antonio's Vision

Goodbye To Malthus

End Of The Road

Back To Tales Of The Night

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