Drust and Oswald hurry ahead, trailing the impetuous Cinaedh. Flanked by two of the MacRoth's men who joined our fellowship from Dunadd, I follow. We three spread out behind the others.

Gorma's disappearance is worrisome. From Verica's tellings, I know that the skywatcher has lived outdoors for most of her life. Her instincts are always in harmony with the land, sea and skies. I cannot believe she would lose her way, even if these hills are not familiar to her. The strange and gentle Gorma walks with one foot in this world, one foot in the other, perfectly balanced between the two. I sniff the air, getting a whiff of someone's fire - and a scent of danger.

I spy a clearing ahead, a flicker of motion and the crackle of flame. We all crouch down and move forward on our stealthiest tread. Through the thick curtain of woods, I can just make out a cluster of men, ten or perhaps fifteen in all, and a vague gleam of weapons. Gorma's dark clothing makes her stand out in the midst of them. We are outnumbered, two to one. Trusting the skills of my companions, the odds are not bad at all.

Cinaedh whistles like an osprey. We creep closer. At the warble of a nightengale, we spring our snare, rushing into the grove from all sides. Instantly we clash with a vicious defense. The closeness of combat makes the fight quick and bloody. There is no room to swing my sword, for fear of cutting down one of our own. The first thrust of my blade is thwarted by a powerfully shouldered shield and then answered with a lightning flash of metal that nearly strikes me blind. Giving fire for fire, I reward the warrior's talent by returning his brilliant move and gashing open the side of his skull with a two-handed smash of my sword. Before he falls, another comes at me with a wicked spear. I whirl around, roaring with laughter, leaping high into the air and kicking out with one leg, sending him flying backwards to crumple lifelessly against a tree. Now there is room enough to swing! I raise the sword over my head and whirl it in a circle. The smell of blood mingles with the scent of trampled flowers. Ah, already it is over.

Gorma is weeping in Cinaedh's arms. The Bear-slayer is bleeding badly but doesn't seem to notice. Drust is also shedding red from his brow and thigh. Several men now sprawl dead in this green grove. I am saddened by our loss of the two MacRoth lads. "We must send word back to Dunadd so that they can be properly honored," I mutter to Drust. Those who haven't been slain have fled into the forest except for one whose leg has been cut too badly for him to run away.

I put my sword under his chin. "Who are you? Who is your leader?"

He glares at me, defiantly silent.

I tie the hands of our speechless hostage and drag him by his hair, forcing him to stumble painfully along as we return to our camp. Mournfully we bring back the bodies of the two MacRoths. Gorma is badly shaken but unharmed. I overhear her promising Cinaedh, over and over, that she will not stray from us again.

As we trudge away from the bloodied glade, I think there will be much more to come from this incident.