Three hoots of an owl announce the return of our small war band. Anxiously, I search the misty moonlit darkness to see who is coming back. Fedelm runs to meet the light-footed Drust, who arrives first. He is wounded but I leave him to Fedelm's tender care. With a sinking heart, I see Oswald dragging something behind him. Please, dear gods, don't let it be Gorma!

As they come closer, the pale lamp of a nearly full moon shows the grim scene. Oswald has done his best to honor the two dead MacRoths, having laid them on his own giant cloak to carry them back to us. They are wrapped in their own blood-soaked brats, nestled together like two sleeping children but for the gore around them.

"Two lost," Oswald says quietly, setting my mind at ease.

I look past him to count the other shadows that are emerging from the night. They are all there!

Then one of the shadows becomes two. There is Cinaedh - and, by the blessing of the stars above, Gorma! They were walking so close together that I thought they were one. Then who is this extra one staggering along beside Dobhar?

The man is limping badly but Dobhar prods him with the tip of his sword. I strain to see through the midnight fog. Slowly, painfully, they approach.

"Take a look at this one," Dobhar growls, pushing the captive towards me. "Two MacRoths for four of theirs. The rest of them ran off. They had the skywatcher. She's frightened but not harmed."

Dobhar's voice seems far, far away. Staring at the markings on the skin of this captive, I am thrown back to another place, another time. Numbly, I reach out to trace the blue crescent tattoo that is fitted perfectly to the hollow of his cheek. My fingers touch cool, damp flesh. This is no phantom. His eyes are rimmed red with pain yet he meets my gaze with bold pride. A rush of joy surges through me.

"They still live on!" I whisper in awe. Shaking my head, I try to clear away the confusion that surrounds this surprising situation. "We must see to his healing and comfort - but keep his hands tied until we know his intent."

Fedelm and I attend to our wounded warriors. Drust's brow is badly cut but Fedelm mends it in such a way that if there is a scar, it will only make him look even more fierce and mysterious. Gorma shakily tells us of her misadventure while she sips some soothing tea.

"Why do you think they did this to you? Who would treat a druid with such disrespect?" Fedelm questions her while stitching up Cinaedh's gashed sword arm. The Bear-slayer grimaces and grits his teeth, courageously making a mock grin for Gorma's sake.

The skywatcher giggles. "Och! They thought I was someone else. They were looking for markings on me and I heard them say Verica's name."

A stunned silence falls heavily upon us as each one considers what this could possibly mean.