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any other life form than that of the void. He reached out to the entities that made up the universe. There was none. Realisation at last began to sink in; his mortal body began to tremble with trepidation.
    Not since the war against his father and his uncles, aeons before, had the storyteller known fear like he now experienced. A prophecy that even the gods feared was finally coming true.
    It was Junives. The god that the gods prayed to had returned and with it marked the end of everything.
    The storyteller retreated from the vision and looked to the young man Bairre. He reached out to look at his two futures. In one, he saw him older as Ay’den burned around him. He was racing to the front gate at the head of several warriors to repel invaders dressed in Roz’eli-styled uniforms. They were of the same cut as the men that Meuric and Bradán had charged into earlier in his other vision, as they stood on the side of evil. The dead people of Ay’den littered the ground around Bairre. The sounds of battle filled the air.
    In the second vision, he saw Bairre as a man displaced leading a column of refugees out into the hills in the Great Wood. What he did notice this time was that in the background was a pinprick of oblivion. Already Junives seemed to be watching.
    Waiting.
    He looked to the figure by the door.
    The man Meuric had felt power swell from the storyteller as he had searched for the visions of the future. He watched now how the warrior’s eyes narrowed into a squint as he was forced to hold up a hand as if to shade himself from a great light. The storyteller cocked his head to one side, amused. He can see the truth of me, he realised. In a sense, he felt peculiarly relieved by that.
    The storyteller focused, searching for something within his mind. Where was the newcomer from, he wondered. Abruptly it came to him. Isle Gla’es. It was an island village many leagues to the southeast of where he was now. He repeated the name of the village over and over in his mind. Gla’es. Isle Gla’es. There was something familiar about it. He cursed his slow mortal mind. All of a sudden, he remembered what it was.
    Gla’es was an island settlement that was totally wiped out to the man almost one hundred years earlier. He remembered that day. The whole of the Kel’akh Nation had been blocked from the view of the gods. It was only when they were able to see their people again that they had discovered the atrocity that had occurred. It was said that that the attack was led by one man accompanied by a large band of warriors. His identity was obscured by a dark cowl from any who might have observed him. Moreover, he had never been seen since though there had been rumours. The Dark Druid, the people of Daw’ra had called him. Search parties had been sent out, some even led by the storyteller’s son Mittere, but the man of magick and his army had vanished.
    Was that the hidden mortal from his vision?
    My Lord, I would speak with you.
    The storyteller sighed. Would he never know peace? I trust that it is important, Wis ?
    It is, my Lord King .
    The stranger’s shoulders sagged. He so loved these days, partly due to the fact that they were always so short. “Forgive me, my friends,” he roared above the volume of the townspeople. “I have a need to empty my bladder.”
    â€œOne more story,” yelled one man.
    â€œOne more tale,” shouted young Bairre from the storyteller’s feet.
    â€œShortly,” answered the man as he shakily stepped down from the table, pretending to be drunk. “I will be back soon.”
    He made his way through the horde quickly, all signs of the effects of alcohol immediately leaving him. Men offered him more beer. Others wanted to ply him with stories of their own deeds. Politely but firmly he refused them all. All the while, he could feel the eyes of Meuric boring into him as he moved closer to thedoorway. As he opened the door, he