The sound of the Inver Colpa carnyx rips through the ranks, heralding an end to war. All fighting ceases when the druid Ruis sings her proclamation at the fallen gates of An Caisal. As quickly and quietly as they appeared on the bonnie shores of the Boinne, the elusive Deirfiúrachas Sgáith sheath their bloodied swords and slip wraithlike from shadow to smoky shadow toward the keep. Those closest to Death's door are likeliest to catch a glimpse of these legendary Pictish warriors. What they see is an army of fierce feline battle-fili. Naked, they shimmer with Imbas and hints of gold, silver and bronze. Though invisible to most, their weapons flash like lightening on the horizon and their sliver-tongued songs are heard by all on the whispering wind. This day they sing for the dead and dying to the accompaniment of Cèudach Mòr's cruit, its crooning strings a heady mead to sooth their souls and ease their passage to Tír na Marbh. He leads the way along the edge of two worlds, his plaid mantle and bright gold and russet brat a tangled beacon of hope against a drab landscape of near-leafless trees, burnt out husks and cackling crows. I follow close by, adding my voice to the eerie chorus of my shadow sisters. No brave deed escapes our honed poetic eye, nor goes unsung. One lament rises above the rest. The keening of a lone wolf tugs at my heart strings. He sings for Dobhar! I suck in my breath and quicken my pace toward a grove of Idho (Yews). I am first to venture across the sacred threshold. What I see tears me in two. The ashen face of the Niafer warlord and consort to our Brude stares blindly at the grey sky above. Across his chest is stretched a great Highland wolf with tears of sorrow running down his snout. He is familiar to me. Loyal to a fault, Conall MacRoth mourns his friend and guards his carcass from the carrions. A horrific screech freezes me in place. The Badb? I look around, but see only my startled companions wiping tiny rivulets of blood from their ears. Cèudach throws his mighty arms around me and forces his hand over my mouth. He holds me close until I gain control of my passionate response lest I do permanent damage to those I love. I come to my senses and order the Deirfiúrachas Sgáith to form a protective circle around the grove. We bang our shields in rhythmic pace to Cèudach's sweet cruit and continue lamenting the dead. Each battle feat committed to memory is described in detail. The severed heads of a thousand heroes add their mournful strains, accompanied by the cacophonous chorus of the Morrigan's children. Our vigil lasts two days and a night. The next day, at sunset, a funeral procession led by the pristine druid Ruis wends its way toward the grove. The wolf relinquishes his watch and the war chief is made ready for his final journey. Cèudach takes his rightful place as Amlaidh among his Filidh Rua brethren, while the Deirfiúrachas Sgáith and I join the Rian and her keening women. By torchlight, cruit and bodhrán, we solemnly escort an old friend to his resting place on Amegin's Hill. There we construct a magnificent cairn, each humble stone a tribute to Dobhar's many herioc deeds.