Shard II 'The Isles of Rill'

By W.Wm. Mee

Erin Ap Conn was a bastard in every possible meaning of the word. He was the unfortunate 'result' of a number of drunken weaponsmen raping a young Rill maiden; he was the fatherless outcast living between two races that despised him as well as each other; and he was the wild, unruly lad who, in a impromptu drunken duel, had slain the son of a very rich and important man. He was an outcast, exile and condemned 'murderer' who, for the last ten long years, had sold both his sword and his soul to the highest bidder. That hard, dangerous decade had made him quick, cold and cruel. He was also a bastard because most of the time he was a mean, hedonistic, outspoken, womanizing, self-centered son-of-a-bitch!
It was Thorn that had saved him. Saved him from the Slath slavers in the river, from the men sent to hunt him down and, the hardest save of all, from himself. Over the long years of his exile, Erin Ap Conn had become a very angry, very bitter and very competent killer --- often killing a part of himself as well.
In SHARD I ‘The Task’, Erin helped the Kirkwean stop the Slathland invasion. He also destroyed the 'body' of the High Gnash --- but, unfortunately, not the evil 'spirit' that dwelt within.
In SHARD II, ‘The Isles of Rill’, Lucfelian is once again a disembodied 'feka', and has fled, like a dark stain on the wind, eastward to Erin’s homeland, the distant Isle of Loamin, the largest of the Rill Isles. The Shadow Lord is seeking revenge, not only against the tall weaponsman who had foiled his grand plans, but against all of Erin's kith and kin that live on the far off Isles of Rill.
Thorn, Erin and a collection of friends follow as fast as they can, bringing Shard, the cursed with them, and a desire to finally end it all one way or another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.Wm. Mee
• Release date: Oct 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301235551

W.Wm. Mee

Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at [e-mail]'ll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

Book preview

Chapter 1: 'The Prodigal Son Returns'

Erin Ap Con was a bastard in every possible meaning of the word. He was the unfortunate 'result' of a number of drunken weaponsmen raping a young Rill maiden; he was the fatherless outcast living between two races that despised him as well as each other; and he was the wild, unruly lad who, in a impromptu drunken duel, had slain the son of a very rich and important man. He was an outcast, exile and condemned 'murderer' who, for the last ten long years, had sold both his sword and his soul to the highest bidder. That hard, dangerous decade had made him quick, cold and cruel. He was also a bastard because most of the time he was a mean, hedonistic, outspoken, womanizing, self-centered son-of-a-bitch!

Spending nearly two years as a rowing slave in a Slathlander dragon ship had done little to improve his disposition. Upon gaining his freedom, revenge, not safety, had been his primary concern --- until he had met Thorn.

It was Thorn that had saved him --- and, one could argue, in far 'more ways than one'! Saved him from the Slath slavers in the river, from the men sent to hunt him down and, the hardest save of all, from himself. Over the long years of his exile, Erin Ap Conn had become a very angry, very bitter and very competent killer --- often killing a part of himself as well.

Erin had eventually helped the Kirkwean stop the Slathland invasion. He had also destroyed the 'body' of the High Gnash --- but, unfortunately, not the evil 'spirit' that dwelt within. Once again a disembodied 'feka', Lucfelian had fled, like a dark stain on the wind, eastward to distant Loamin --- seeking revenge not only against the tall weaponsman who had foiled his grand plans, but against all of Erin's kith and kin that lived on the far off Isles of Rill.

***

Now, several months later, standing at the steering oar of a fast longship from Amon-Hep, Erin looked with eager anticipation at the green, rolling hills of his fast approaching homeland.

Loamin!

The biggest and most populated of the many Isles of Rill.

Located over a hundred kilvels north of the main continent of Oma-Var.

Loamin.

Home!

A place he had been exiled from for over ten years.

Exiled for murder.

Under pain of death should he ever return!

Yet returning he was.

For how could he not, when he was certain the essence of the evil Shadow Lord had fled here!

Here, where the evil thing called 'Lucfelian' would seek its cruel revenge.

Here, his home, his land, his family --- the center of his very being.

Loamin --- the biggest and most easterly of the many Isles of Rill.

***

Haul in that line, you lazy bastards, or we'll capsize for sure!

The owner and captain of the longship, Dornish Farsail, looked at the lean, hard man standing at the steering oar of his beloved ship and swore under his breath --- for he'd leaned the hard way that it didn't pay to swear 'at' Erin Ap Conn --- not if you wanted to keep your teeth in your head!

Erin was attempting to do a very dangerous thing --- to thread the Needle's Eye; the narrow, wave-churned, rock-mouthed opening into the small but deep harbour of Dunn Hailbeth, the walled city of his foster-father, Conn Ap Hail. Dunn Hailbeth was located on the rocky, isolated southern coast of Loamin. All the bigger 'dunns' and larger city-states were in the more habitable east and west. The far north was all mountains, snow and ice --- and other things seldom spoken about, and then, only in whispers.

Put your bloody backs into it, for Quent's sake! Haul in that quiffin' sail! Erin yelled, ice-blue water streaming from his scarred, grinning face. As the sleek craft leaned hard to port, the carved wormshead on the bow bit into the cresting waves like an eager hound.

That's it, lads! Now lash the bloody boom n' look to the mizzen! She's hanging loose as an old lady's tits!

Besides Dornish and his half dozen crew, Erin's four travelling companions were also straining on the ships lines. Over two weeks sailing from the Kirkwean's homeland had given all four of them a 'crash course' on deep water sailing.

Calon Gwailith, the always laughing, always joking Nimlothian giant; Kel, the small, slant eyed archer from distant Chin; and the two small Kirkwean: Bramblethorn Higgs, known better as Thorn Starhand, and his faithful shadow, cousin and best friend, Timin Goldenberry. All four hastened to do Erin's bidding, for though Dornish Farsail was the builder, owner and 'captain' of the craft, Erin Ap Conn was clearly in command!

Lash that line there! Erin bellowed, then shoved hard on the steering oar and the long, sleek craft turned and ran with the wind, 'threading the needle' in a swirling rush of white-water, sunlight and spray! Just beneath the surface the coral crusted rocks, golden in the crisp sunlight, slid by like the beringed fingers of a lover. Stroking, touching, but oh so gently. Then they were through! The rocks fell away and the clear water deepened to a darker blue.

By Quent's curly thatch, we made it! Erin grinned, waving Dornish back to bring them to the dock while he went forward to the dripping bow.

Are we safe? Timin asked as the tall weaponsman as he strode by. The pudgy Kirkwean was soaked to the skin and his hands raw from the ropes, but there was an excited grin on his tanned face. Did we make it?

Erin suddenly swept Timin off his feet and swirled him around as though he was a child, then lowered him to the dripping deck. Safe and sound we are indeed, Timin my lad! And its soon back on solid ground you'll be, and with a pint or two of good Loamin ale in you as well!

Timin, like most Kirkwean, looked from a distance to be a youth in his mid teens. He smiled up at the tall mercenary that he now considered a good friend. A pint or two would suit me just fine, Erin, but its a piece o' strong cheese I'm wanting the most. The bloody rats got ours over a week ago!

I think cheese n' drink will have to wait awhile, good Timin, the tall blond Calon Gwailith said, pointing at a large galley that was swiftly coming out to meet them. Sunlight glinted off its two rows of flashing oars, as well as the helms and spearpoints of the men that lined both sides of the upper deck.

Timin looked from the fast approaching galley, to Erin, and then to the smaller, quiet form of his cousin Thorn up at the bow. Timin's hand went to the battered shortsword at his side. Trouble, Erin? Should I get Thorn?

The tall weaponsman shook his head. No need, Timin. It's just the harbormaster coming to look us over. But if anyone asks, remember I'm Erin Ap Bran, not Conn, and we're here to see my uncle, Conn Ap Hail!

Timin's smiling face suddenly clouded over. But I though he was your father, Erin?

Erin smiled and resisted ruffling Timin's curly locks. Though the two Kirkwean may 'look' like gangly, adolescent boys, Erin had leaned the hard way that they were both fully mature and hard headed adults, and, like himself, took none too kindly to being treated like foolish children.

He is, Timin, Erin smiled, "but since I am still an 'outlaw' here with a price on my head, my father is now my 'uncle' and I am his distant 'nephew', Erin Ap Bran.

Ahhhhh, Timin smiled. Got it!

***

And you've come from Del Lingus, you say? Harbormaster Blatter asked for the second time.

We do, Erin replied curtly. As I've already told you, my fellow companions and I have been in service there for a number of years

With someone called the 'Raje Spaniel'? the man asked.

Spangle. Erin corrected Raje Spangle.

The harbormaster spoke briefly with his assistant, who had been checking down below, then turned back to Erin. Your 'companions' are not from Loamin.

Obviously, Erin replied.

From where then?

Somewhere else.

Harbormaster Blatter smiled coldly. Where else?

Suddenly the tension on the ship tightened like a strained rope, the various strands stretched almost to their limit. Erin's attempt at patience had vanished, as had his smile. Without knowing it, his hand had gone to the hilt of Glenrig, the larger twin of Shard, the infamous smallsword that now rested in the battered leather scabbard on Thorn Starhand's hip.

Sucking in a semi-calming lungful of air, Erin tried once more to refrain from spilling blood. The blond giant is a Nim from Gareth Withrin. The sallow looking slant-eyed bugger is my Chin servant. As for the two 'youngsters', they're just a pair o' Del Lingus lads off to see the world. Now, if you're finished with your bloody questions, I'd like to go ashore and see my uncle!

Ahhh yes, your 'uncle'. That would be again?

Conn Ap Hail! The bloody commander o' Dunn Hailbeth!

The harbormaster smiled sincerely for the first time since he came aboard. Not any more, I'm afraid.

What's that? Erin demanded, just barely holding himself back from taking this pompous popinjay and tossing his over the side.

You 'uncle' was arrested for treason some time ago. There is a civil war going on, you know!

No I don't bloody well know! Erin growled. And just were the quiff is my uncle?!

The harbormaster shrugged. The Protector's men took him away several years ago. Who knows what happens to such men? Hung? Imprisoned? Exiled? His shrug became a sneer. And who really cares? Except, of course, for distant kin from Del Lingus. Lord Drass rules here now, and that is all that matters!

Not to me! Erin snapped.

The harbormaster raised his hand and stepped back. Instantly the four men drew their blades and rushed forward, surrounding Erin. One made the mistake of trying to remove Glenrig from its sheath on Erin's right hip, and was rewarded with an elbow in his mouth that knocked out a tooth and loosened two more.

That brought the other three guards down on Erin, which in turn brought the giant Gwailith into the fray. Back on board the harbormaster's galley, several other leather and mail clad men started to cross the gangplank that linked the two vessels --- and were stopped short when Kel the Chin sent not one but two of his long arrows into the wooden plank from his even longer bamboo bow.

At the same time as Erin and Gwailith, using fists, feet, knees and elbows, were taking care of the four men, the pair of Kirkwean had moved quickly in behind Harbormaster Blatter and, while Timin pressed his shortsword up against the man's ribs, Thorn smiled and gently relieved the man of his sword and dagger. All of this took place in the space of several heartbeats, leaving the harbormaster and his men far worse off than the men they had tried to detain.

Now, Erin said, using the back of his hand to wipe away blood from his split lip, "If you'd kindly take me to this Lord Drass of yours, I'll be asking him where my uncle might be!

***

Commander Lord Fairith Drass awaited the trouble-making foreigners in Dunn Hailbeth's main hall. Made of local quarried stone, the room was large, vaulted and damp, even in summer. Over the years successive 'commanders' had done what they could or would to brighten the place; a mural here, a wall hanging there, but in the end it remained what it had always been: a rough fortress built by rough people living in a savage land who were constantly at war with an even more savage group of killers --- the strange, 'other-worldly' Rill!

Drass hated the Rill. Not for the usual 'religious' reasons that High Protector Sallic was always going on about --- Sallic, a competent enough administrator, was turning into an absolute fanatic about the bloody creatures and their 'depraved sexual rites'! Personally Drass rather enjoyed those, what little truth there was in them. The dancing, the costumes, the whole 'Mother Earth' thing. Certainly the infamous 'Daughters of Quent' were seductive looking enough! No, he hated the Rill because they not only 'acted' superior to the regular Loamin population, but because they actually 'were' superior!

Of course, he'd never admit such a heresy, certainly not around the High Protector or any of his fawning toadies, but over the last three years with his admittedly 'limited' dealings with them, he had come to that rather life shaking conclusion. The Rill, despite their ridiculous 'nature worship', did seem faster, quicker and smarter than most humans. The rumors about them being long lived, that they could read men's minds and commune with other creatures were obviously ridiculous, yet he knew that many of the common people believed them, most especially his ignorant soldiers! The superstitious fools wouldn't leave the dunn without going heavily armed in large numbers for fear of being 'spirited away' by the elusive Rill!

In the past, the Rill had always been maligned, mistrusted and certainly mistreated. However, in the three years since the bloody coup when General Corin Sallic became the High Protector of all Loamin, the strange race had been persecuted far more than they ever were under the late King Eldrick. Under the High Protector's new Religious Reformation, all followers of the ancient goddess, Quent, be they Rill or Loamin, were to be hunted down, arrested and tried for treason. If convicted they were given one chance and one chance only to convert to the new, true faith of Lear the Sky Father. If they did not, then may Lear have mercy on their spirit, for High Protector Sallic certainly would not!

Needless to say after the beheading of King Eldrick three years ago, there had been a great number of mass conversions, especially among nobles and the general's staff. Lord Fairith Drass had been one of the first to do so. At heart however, Drass remained what he had always been, an agnostic who believed in nothing beyond what he could see, touch or smell and thought any who did otherwise were misguided and/or delusional fools --- yet that was a 'belief' that he guardedly kept to himself.

Your 'guests' Commander, have arrived. The ones Harbormaster Blatter told you about.

Drass looked up to see his aid, Wickam, leading a gaggle of odd looking fellows into the far end of the Great Hall. Their leader appeared to be a rather rough looking weaponsman; an ordinary enough sight in a hill fort of soldiers and mercenaries, though apparently this one claimed to be the nephew of Conn Ap Hail, the former commander of this very fort. The blonde giant behind him supposedly was one of the legendary Nim-Loth from the mainland of Oma-Var; from some distant silve or sith or whatever they called their colonies! Everyone on Loamin had heard the tales that the Rill were really an off-shoot of the infamous Nim-Loth, the 'elder race' of Oma-Var. That would explain, despite his size and golden locks, the towering giant's sharp Rill-like features. Then there were the two adolescent boys with the overlarge eyes. Two 'youths from Amon Hep out to see the world' was what the harbormaster had reported. It had been difficult for Drass to understand the man, with his swollen lip and dislocated shoulder. Wickam had brought the fool directly here before sending him off to the infirmary. Wickam always was such a 'quick witted lad'.

They've been disarmed, Wickam?

Yes sir.

And searched?

Yes sir.

Thoroughly this time?

I did it myself, sir.

Several months ago a 'messenger' had come in the dead of winter 'supposedly' from the High Protector. The man had worn one of those iron rings stamped with the Protector's sign and so, when Drass had leaned close to hear the exhausted man's spoken 'message', the cunning creature had produced a short, sharp blade from his boot at almost cut the commander's throat! It was only Wickam's fast wits and faster hand that had saved him. The man had been dragged out screaming 'Death to the usurper!' and 'Quent forever!'

One of the worst keep secrets in all of Loamin was that almost half of the population, especially the common farmers and poorer folk, were against the Protector's 'Religious Reformation'. The common folk were comfortable with the age old religious union of Quent the Earth Mother and Lear the Sky Father They were familiar with it's seasonal customs and festivals, content with its simplistic view of a constant yet ever-changing world. The High Protector however, had ended all that, raising Lear up to a position of supreme godhead and banishing all former gods, goddesses, faeries, nymphs and water sprites to the 'Nether Regions of Bal' --- wherever that may be! High Protector Sallic had been especially adamant when it came to Quent, the Earth Mother and 'former' wife of Lear. Under the Protector's new Reformation, Quent had been un-queened and dethroned and was now portrayed as an evil, lustful harlot who had tried to lead the pure and chaste Lear astray.

For straight forward, practical Drass it was all bullshit, though he rather liked 'old religion' where Quent was seen as a beautiful warm, caring, sexual partner to the hot tempered, war-mongering and always randy Lear. 'A much more manageable balance' he thought. Three years ago, in one of the bloodiest coups in the long and bloody history of Loamin, General Corin Sallic had changed all that. The 'Voice of Lear' was even now having a large stone cathedral built in honour of the One God's new lofty yet solitary position over all that crawls, swims or flies on, in or under the earth, sky or water!

'Bullshit!' Drass thought again. 'The bloody building alone is costing a goddamned fortune! Taking twice as long and four times the price! Sallic will be raising all our 'taxes' to pay for the quiffing thing!' He then drew a deep breath and turned to these odd looking foreigners that now stood before him. After a long moment of silence, Drass spoke, directing his question to Erin. You are the one who claims kinship with the former commander of this dunn?

Erin, his 'raven's armor' in a trunk back on Dornish's ship, was, like the others, dressed in dripping leather and wet wool. Slowly he raised his shaggy head and fixed Drass with his wolf grey eyes. I 'claim' nothing. I am kin to Conn Ap Hail Ap Halith. I knew well his raven haired Rill wife, Gwyenelith og Gwenach of the House of Drandok, one of the largest of the 'siths' on the Isles of Rill. Here Erin couldn't help laying it on a little heavy, and with an arrogant smile, continued his tale of half truths. I was a boyhood companion to Uncle Conn's adopted son, Erin, and followed him gladly into exile when he was wrongly accused of murder nearly twelve years passed.

How commendable of you, Drass said, the sarcastic tone thick in his southern isle accent. And just where is your cousin now?

Dead.

An eyebrow was raised and Drass leaned a bit closer to this tall, hard man before him. You say your cousin was 'wrongly accused' of murder? Was he not given a fair trial by his peers?

Erin grunted out a laugh that made Wickam's hand move to his dagger. If being dragged in chains before three half deaf and fully dumb old men counts! Besides, the fight was a fair one, but the fool he killed was a rich man's son, and my --- 'uncle' was not. The 'Blood Price' the senile old judges placed on my cousin's life was far beyond anything my family could pay!

Drass picked up a strange looking dagger from his desk and toyed with it. The brass handle had been shaped like a horses head. And so your cousin chose exile rather than bankrupt his father. How very touching. And you, dutiful fellow that you are, went with him. Almost good enough for a song, eh Wickam? One of those sad 'Rill' dirges that go on and on, sung by a beautiful, near naked Daughter of Quent and a blind, toothless old harper! Nothing like a hot Rill wench a cold winter's night, eh?!

Erin ignored the man's crude comments and leaned in to make one of his own. You look like you'd enjoy the toothless old harper more --- or perhaps this 'boy' here that you keep? Either way, I could care less. Shag sheep if you like --- what I do care about is my uncle. Tell me where he is and no blood need be spilt.

Drass blinked, like a man unable or unwilling to believe what he had just heard. He glanced from Erin's hard face to the face of his silent companions and, finding them equally as hard, turned to Wickam. The large blond giant however had moved in behind the aid and engulfed the much smaller man in a rather less than fond embrace.

Look not for help from your bum-boy, 'commander', for none shall be forthcoming. Just tell me about my uncle --- now!

Drass opened his mouth to object, but what came out was a startled scream, for the strange dagger/letter opener had suddenly blossomed from the back of the commander's left hand, pinning the appendage to the wooden desk beneath it.

Blood flowed like wine over a parchment map, pooled and dripped onto the floor. With his other hand Drass went to pull the dagger free, but Erin clamped down on top and pressed hard. Drass stifled a scream that welled up from the soles of his boots, for he instinctively knew that if he cried out for help, he would be the first to die.

I-don't-know! Drass hissed, each word coming out like steam from a boiling kettle.

Erin twisted the strange Rill blade. Are you sure?

Ahhhh --- yesss! It-was three-years-ago!

Erin paused, then swiftly pulled the knife free.

Drass yanked his hand back and held it protectively against his chest. More blood flowed, but the commander kept his dark eyes fixed on the blade before him. As the point came towards his face, Drass shrank back in his elaborately carved chair.

Erin suddenly grabbed the man's hair and pulled him towards the point. Drass fixed on the crimson drips falling from the curved tip --- the tip that was coming directly towards his eye.

No! Not that! Please not that!

Where is my uncle?

In Ravenscliff! I heard that he's a prisoner in the tower --- or at least, he was! They may have moved him --- or he may have died. I don't know!

Erin yanked harder on the hank of hair. "And just what and where is this quiffing 'Ravenscliff'?!

Drass, unable to tare his gaze away from the dripping knife point, sucked in air like a bellows. Ravenscliff is the High Protector's new capital! Built on the heights above the Chalk Cliffs!

Erin frowned. The white cliffs by the River Weir? Where the old Rill ruins stand?

Drass nodded agreement. Sallic had them torn down and build a great hall on top!

Erin, all wolfish smiles now, pointed the horse-headed blade at the door to the great hall. If you are a very co-operative fellow, I shall trade you for my uncle. Now, let's go!

Drass nodded, willing himself not to wet his pants.

***

Chapter 2: Fighting A Fickle Wind

Am I dead?

Am I alive?

Or am I dreaming?

And then the realization hit him --- he was all three at the same time!

He was 'dead' to the physical world; adrift in an endless 'dream' and yet 'alive' in the essence of his own mind!

But how can my mind exist when I have no body?

Lucfelian was confused, disoriented. But then it was always thus. Each time his spirit was 'adrift on the ether' it took some time for him to get his bearings ---days, months, sometimes years. The problem however, was that if it took too much time, his spirit, like smoke on the wind, could float away in a thousand different directions!

I have to find a body!

Human, preferably,

but any living creature would do for now!

Once long ago, after being captured, tortured and buried alive by his human enemies, Lucfelian had been forced to remain in the body of an earthworm. It had taken forever for the blind, pathetic thing to eat its way to the surface! From there he had eventually 'transferred' to the bird that had eaten the worm; then to the falcon that had eaten the bird; and from the falcon to the humble trainer who cared for the lord's falcons and finally to the lord himself. The 'lord', unable to understand why, had then made an unusual and unrequested 'appearance' at the King's court --- and from there Lucfelian's 'essence' had transferred to the monarch himself.

So goeth the noble birth of a king --- through the guts of a worm!

But the great problem always had been that humans burned out so quickly! The king had lasted less than a week before fevers boiled him alive and Lucfelian once again had to seek out another 'suit of living flesh'. Highborn or low, humans seemed to be such poor 'hosts' for his overwhelming presence.

At least they used to be! But this last one; the greedy, volatile High Gnash of Slathland, had somehow co-existed with him! In a subservient role, naturally, but the insane creature had still somehow retained its own self!

And more importantly, the body had not burnt itself out or shat itself into a dehydrated coma!

I must admit, it was much more satisfactory than living in a rotting, puking husk like all the others!

I must find another human of that quality!

Perhaps it has something to do with a lust for power?

Or perhaps I am simply evolving into something --- else?

***

A driving wind harried him greatly. It came howling over the distant ridge and beat against him. It pushed him like an angry parent and probed him like a jealous lover. It twisted him and turned him and threatened to tear him asunder. It stove to break not only his non-existent body, but his eternal being as well.

Like a gnarled and withered tree Lucfelian leaned into the wind and continued eastward --- ever eastward --- towards distant Loamin. As he went he vowed that THIS time things would be different!

He would not make the same mistakes in Loamin as he had in Slathland!

He would not fall afoul of his own impatience and his vaulting ambition!

He would not underestimate his enemy!

His faceless face formed an invisible smile and he went over again the most cunning part of his plan --- that he would not start at the top as he had with the High Gnash, for that had alienated all the 'lesser beings' around him and they had hatched plots and brewed dissension in a royal court already ripe with hatred and jealousy.

No, this time I will start off with a lesser being; a minor noble or a court official.

I'll get the 'lay of the land' first, find out who secretly works for who; who can be tempted and who must be killed.

Slowly working my way up to whatever pompous fool rules the land.

And then and only then will I find a way to reek my revenge!

He vowed to start with the pathetic 'instruments' of his latest downfall. Bramblethorn Higgs, the overproud, cocky little Kirkwean and so called Swordbearer, the 'guardian of Shard'. Lucfelian made a faceless frown as he thought about the black blade.

Shard! My greatest folly!

Vain and foolish of me it was to put so much of my power into a mere object!

An object that was stolen from me by the hated Wee'ns!

But I will have it back! And they all will pay dearly for their thievery!

After he'd taken Shard back and killed the impudent little Swordbearer, he'd then move on to the others; friends, followers, loved ones. And finally Erin Ap Conn himself --- the vain, arrogant, self-centered weaponsman. The one that had not only dared to face his wrath, but had laugh in his face, cut off his head and spit on his dying body!

Oh how I will make them pay!

But in order to DO all this, first I needed a body!

His eyeless eyes suddenly saw water all about him.

Perhaps a fish? Then I could swim there!

But then how to leave the water for the land once arrived?

Wait eons for some fool fisherman to 'catch me'?

Suddenly a northern blast of wind tore at him and he felt his essence 'stretching'.

I can't last much longer like this! Must find something quickly!

Then, riding on the northern wind, came the rakish cry of a hooked beaked gull.

Like a striking cobra, Lucfelian's windblown 'feka' snapped forward and penetrated the unsuspecting bird's breast.

BLACKNESS!

Shot through with a million shooting stars.

A sensation of falling, drifting, panic!

And then a heart beating wildly.

Blood once again pumping!

Once again actually

feeling something!

Then, suddenly gliding free,

sailing, like a leaf on the wind,

yet with some notion of control.

A flap of a wing, a turn of a tail feather.

And finally, utter, complete, control!

Lucfelian luxuriated in the sheer 'pleasure' of it all! He raised his feathery head to the empty heavens and screeched out a raucous laugh.

In the physical world, a rather startled seagull suddenly cried out, checked itself in mid flight, blinked its beady black eyes several times, thought briefly about the 'other' that now seemed to be doing all the 'thinking' in its small bird-brain, shrugged mentally and then, totally unconcerned, altered its course to now fly eastward towards the rising sun --- and towards the distant isles of Loamin.

Chapter 3:'Ravenscliff'

Dornish Farsail was at the tiller of his own ship as it came within sight of the Chalk Cliffs. He'd been here before; the last time a little over two years ago, on a trading voyage to the Frozen Isles, a group of islands far to the north-east of Loamin. Reindeer meat of all things! It had been the latest 'fad' on the northern mainland of Oma-Var. All the noble's wives of Amon Hepp and Jurr just 'had to have' quiffing reindeer meet at their next Lunar Feast or the whole bloody 'season would be ruined!'

Personally, Dornish Farsail didn't give a goat's fart if those pampered bitches ate reindeer meat or skunk's asshole, as long as they paid him for delivering the cargo in his ship's hold.

Then the bloody civil war had broken out on Loamin and the rest of the Rill Isles and reindeer meet and skunk's asshole all fell by the wayside when compared to not having your innards 'drawn and quartered' by the new High Protector and his bastard 'Inquisitors'! '

'All hail great Lear the Skyfather --- and spit on Lady Quent!' was the new song, though many, like Dornish, still secretly preferred The Lady of the Seasons. For a great deal of the northern part of Oma-Var and virtually all of the Rill Isles, Lady Quent had always been the welcoming hand into this world of pain, and the gentle touch upon leaving it. Compared to that, the High Protector's hard, demanding and vengeful 'Skyfather' came up lacking indeed!

Yet now Dornish found himself in yet another kettle of fish! Against his better judgment he had hired his ship and crew out to this cold-hearted sonovabitch Erin Ap Conn and sailed him and his outlandish companions to Loamin. Loamin of all places! Right into the middle of a quiffing civil war! For three long years it had been Loamin against Rill! The White flower against the Red! The Pure against the Bloody. The new so called 'Good' against the old so called 'Bad'

'They're all quiffin' mad as March hares!' Dornish muttered as he steered his ship closer to the Chalk Cliffs. 'And now this crazy bastard has kidnapped a dunn commander and plans to trade the bugger for his 'uncle'! Quiffing mad I tell you! Get all our heads on pike he will!'

Yet for all that, not for one moment did Dornish even think of saying 'no' to the tall weaponsman. Those wolf grey eyes, cold stare and explosive temper saw to that! 'Sweet Quent!' Dornish swore to himself. 'Little Timin told me what he did to the commander's hand! Pinned it to his own bloody desk he did! And smiled while doing it!' Despite himself, Dornish gave a little smile of his own when he thought of how Erin and the big Nim had thrashed the harbormaster and his guards. 'Give the bugger a little taste o what he's been doing to honest smugglers like myself for years!'

Dornish! a rough voice used to command called out. Bring her alongside the end of the wharf, her bow facing out, and have a crew ready to hoist sail soon as you see me coming back!

Expecting some trouble? Dornish asked and he expertly guided his craft up to the wharf.

That wolfish grin washed over him. Always! It's one of the things that gives Life it's spice!

Oh, the smuggler captain grinned back. And what's the 'other' things? Money?

Piss on money! Erin replied. "Wine, women n' song', Dorn old son!

Tis money that buys all three, lad, the old sea-dog chuckled. And everything else!

Erin was suddenly beside him, a muscular arm draped over the smaller man's shoulder. That, or our devilish good looks, eh captain?

Dornish, a far cry from even being called 'handsome', chucked louder and shoved hard on the tiller. The battered but solid ship, its forward jib the only sail still up, swung round and slid alongside the dock like an eager lover. Deckhands fore and aft leapt ashore and had her snugged down and tied off just as the gangplank was run out.

Erin, all serious again, motioned for Calon Gwailith to bring Drass, and within moments the three were making their way along the crowded wharf and up the winding, cobblestone road. The castle, like a great brooding bird of prey, loomed above them and seemed to watch their approach. Erin, prodding Drass in the back with his own knife, grinned up at the watching beast, eager to come to grips with an impressive foe --- for even above wine, women and song, Erin Ap Conn loved to fight.

***

Chapter 4: An Invitation To A Party

Erin had insisted that both Kirkweans stay back on the ship. Thorn had at first refused to be left behind, but had finally agreed when Erin explained that the two smaller Kirkwean would be more hindrance than help. Though no-one doubted their bravery, it was their smaller size that the tall weaponsman pointed out.

There's no shame in it, lad! Erin had gone on. We all know that you and Timin have the hearts of lions!

But the size and strength of puppies, is that it?! Thorn had demanded.

Well, Erin had grinned. I wouldn't say 'puppies' exactly.

Thorn had leaned in and punched the much taller and heavier man on his mailed bicep. Having put on his Raven Armor, Thorn hurt his hand far more than Erin's arm. Quiff! the shaggy headed Kirkwean swore, working his bruised fingers. But if I use Shard ---'?

Then you'll probably kill the whole bloody garrison! Along with the Drass, this High Protector --- and perhaps me and Gwailith as well! Erin had spoken sharply --- far more sharply than he had intended, but he was feeling the stress of what deep in his heart he considered a desperate, even foolish plan! But his foster father might still be alive, rotting away in some dungeon, waiting for help that he probably thought would never come.

Erin had looked up at the castle towering above the tops of the white cliffs, pushed aside the feeling of