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front of Finwald. The offender was swiftly removed and (as Finwald learned later that day) his fingers ceremonially fed into the gear mechanism of the nearest watermill, but the whole reaction was totally unexpected by those sitting at the head table.
    Finwald the priest looked over to Nibulus and his father for support, but they too seemed to be in some confusion. Even Methuselech shrugged in bewilderment. What was so funny or provocative? Everyone was familiar with the legend of Drauglir’s second coming. It was true that nobody knew how this legend began, but there were now persistent rumours circulating the markets and taverns of Wyda-Aescaland regarding a resurgence of terrible Evil in the Maw. And for many years now, it seemed, various groups of reckless adventurers had actually been journeying there.
    They had their reasons, these people, some not as virtuous as others. Off to the North they would go, and often that was the last ever seen or heard of them. These disappearances had piqued the imagination of the skalds and gossipmongers, for filling in the blanks with creative fantasy is ever the job of the storyteller, and that which is not known is the blankest page of all. But what had really caused excitement during the last few years were reports of the few groups of travellers that had actually returned . Tales of ‘soured’ people in the Far North, dead men walking, and unspeakable horrors that stalked in dark places, all now added authenticity to the burblings of the skalds.
    So what was the problem here?
    One man stood up and shouted above the din: ‘Horse manure! Have you brought us all the way here just to tell us bedtime stories? Come off it! We all know Drauglir died that day, burned into a heap of bubbling jelly!’
    ‘Yeah!’ cried another. ‘Even if he were to come back, what danger would we be in from that?’
    Then Appa stood up. He was not a natural speaker, not with a voice so weak and croaky, but it was the surprise of seeing him dare to stand up at all that stilled the crowd.
    ‘I can endorse my brother Finwald’s claim, for I too am a Lightbearer and have known this man beside me for many years. I can assure you therefore that he does possess powers – as do all true followers of Cuna.’
    Unfortunately, such confirmation from just another Cuna priest, and a senile one too, proved less than helpful in convincing them. But eventually there did arise support of a kind from unexpected quarters. For a number of Peladanes from the most northerly regions now made themselves heard, and it seemed that there were indeed stories rife in their villages about the ‘escape of the hell-hound Drauglir from his icy fastness’.
    One such soldier, from the village of Wrache on the northern fringes of Wyda-Aescaland, began. ‘There came from the North one night a storm o’ such violence and fury that the whole village fled to the temple, for within its stony fortitude we did hope to find sanctuary. And there, as the tempest scream’d outside carrying upon it diabolic voices that no wind nor rain should ever make, we came to realize that this was no storm born o’ the heavens, but rather from the reeking mouth o’ Hell itself. The smashing o’ slates, the felling o’ trees, the ripping-up o’ fences, all could be heard as the tempest went about its destructive task.
    ‘But within the House o’ Pel-Adan we was safe . . . or so we’d believ’d. For anon rose, above the havoc o’ the winds, an utterance that brought a terror into our hearts such as none gather’d there had ever thought possible; ’twas the clamour o’ demons, like as the baying o’ the Black Dog itself, and round and round the shaking building it tore in its ire. Great rending sounds as of some terrible talon could we hear upon the door, and a hammering upon all the shutters so strong it was only Faith that held them from splintering asunder.
    ‘’Course it could not get in as long as our faith held fast. But there was those