Oswald and I pursue like wolves with the rich smell of stag's blood in our nostrils. Our footfalls land into the path Cinaedh has made, several paces behind. I remember the sound of the music. It is a familiar strain, but one that I cannot place. Through underbrush at the edge of a birch copse, Oswald and I make an assessment of what we see. I have yet to prove myself worthy of the Blue Feather warrior fraternity, or any other for that matter, but I am confident that I will be able to hold my own among such talented fianna companions. Any one fennid is a match for nine ordinary men. Time to test my mettle. I grit my teeth and unsheath my claidheamh mòr, envisioning my own Fedelm bound, enslaved and beaten by this enigmatic enemy. My blood boils and I feel the tremor of the riastrad upon me. Our attack will not unsettle the unification of the Seven Tribes for we act in the name of the Ard-Bruidei, the heir of Celyddon - Pictland's most ancient and noble tribe - Manannán's own choice. Screaming oaths and war cries, we enter the camp with a blood-fever. Gorma's captors meet us with their own unsettled battle-frenzy, and we crash together like the warring bulls of the Tain. Our great iron blades cut spirals and arcs, hewing head and limb. Showers of crimson vitality paint the encampment with the color of rage and revenge. Gorma, Nature's peace-loving child, even paints a canvas in red this night. The battle ends quickly, and Gorma is safely in the arms of the bear-slayer. I find myself having won three heads, the ensanguined skulls hanging from my hands by blood-soaked manes. My sword is sated after the feast, and the fire in my heart cools. I count those of us that followed Cinaedh, and find that we have lost two - brave young sons of Dunadd whose devotion to Verica must be told to the MacRoth and tearfully sung by his youngest daughter, Una. Those of us left standing account for ourselves and assess our wounds. I, myself, have suffered a blow that has opened my brow and a nasty slash across the thigh. Others have received similar injuries. When we are all accounted for, I look over our fallen enemy. Good Lugh. These are no common brigands. They are the ancient tribe of Celyddon, a race the Cruithni have believed long gone from Alba. How is it they have suddenly returned? And made camp within a mile of our fellowship's! This is a grave misfortune indeed, for we march across Alba under the guidance of the queen of the Celyddon, herself. What will news of this battle mean to Verica? What will it mean to our cause? I sway on my feet as the riastrad fades and my body weakens. Our quiet company wraps its wounds and returns to the fellowship's camp. No matter the tragedy, my sweet Fedelm's gentle touch and loving words never fail to bring me cheer, calm my soul, and enrich my life's every moment.