Stooping, Melcorka lifted a handful of loose stones from the ground. She peered into the mist, seeing only the slithering greyness until a flash of something green appeared.
“Get away, you hound of hell!” Melcorka threw the first of her stones. It flew beyond her sight, to rattle on a rock somewhere in the distance.
The Cu Sith appeared again in a rift of the mist. Melcorka had a brief glimpse of a massive jaw, gaping open, and a row of sharp white teeth. She threw another stone, saw it bounce off the ground at the dog's feet, threw a third and heard it thud against the creature's leathery skin.
“Come on, then!” Melcorka shouted, moving towards the Cu Sith with her feet sliding on loose scree, wondering if she should draw Defender or rely on the stones.
The Cu Sith loomed above her as it moved silently on the slope. Red eyes glared at Melcorka as she grabbed another handful of stones and threw them in a steady stream, one after the other, towards the green dog. It stood on a slab, staring down at her until one of her stones bounced off its broad nose.
“Got you!” Melcorka said. “Now run!”
Yelping, the Cu Sith turned tail and vanished into the mist without disturbing a single stone.
“Aye, run,” Melcorka said, just as the grey men appeared, as silent as the Cu Sith and much more menacing. Forming a semi-circle above Melcorka, they stood still, with their hoods up and their arms loose by their sides.
“Who are you?”
Again, Melcorka”s voice echoed, without response. Turning, she tried to retrace her steps, but the mist was denser than before, coiling around her with a chill so intense it seemed to penetrate to the bone. Rather than descending, the slope levelled out, then rose in front of her, whichever direction Melcorka walked.
“You were right, Bradan,” she mused. “There is something uncanny about them, and they have led me away.” She stopped, unsheathed Defender and moved on, slowly, waiting for an attack. None came.
“Mel!” Melcorka heard Bradan's voice through the cloying mist. “Mel! Down here!”
“I can't see you!” Melcorka swung Defender. “Where are you?”
“Move to your right!”
Melcorka did so, feeling the ground solid under her feet. When the slope inclined steeply in front of her, she stopped. “I'm going the wrong way!”
“No!” Bradan”s voice was clear. “Trust me! Keep moving, but slowly. The ground descends steeply before you.”
Bradan was correct; and following his instructions, Melcorka walked on, until Bradan's face loomed through the mist and his hand was on her sleeve.
“What happened up there?” Bradan asked. “You were staggering around as if you were drunk.”
“I could not see in the mist,” Melcorka said.
“What mist?” Bradan asked. “It's clear as midsummer.”
Melcorka blinked. Bradan was right again – there was not a trace of mist. The glen smiled in the sunshine and the sound of cattle lowing mingled with women singing as they worked. The five grey men were back, watching and saying nothing. As always, the woman was apart. In the sunshine, she looked different, with the blonde tinge to her hair more evident.
“Let's talk to some of the people,” Bradan said. “They might help us understand this place better.”
The first group of women continued to sing as they cut weeds from the ground with long hoes.
“Good morning to you,” Bradan said. “God bless the work. Could you tell us the name of this place?”
The women looked up together. The oldest could not have been more than 35. “Good morning, stranger,” she said. “Welcome to the glen.”
“Thank you,” Bradan said. “Does the glen have a name?”
“It is the Grey Glen, of course,” the woman said as if everybody should know its name. “Strangers call it Glen Tacheichte, the Haunted Glen.”
“Who lives here?” Melcorka asked.
“We do,” the woman said, smiling as if at some secret joke. “We all live here.”
“Who are you?” Melcorka asked.
“We are the people of the Grey Glen,” the woman said. “We don't get many strangers here. Who are you?”
“I am Melcorka Nic Bearnas and this is Bradan the Wanderer.”
“Oh; you have strange names. May I look at your sword?” The woman held out her hands.
“I do not let anybody see my sword.” Melcorka prepared for an argument, but instead, the woman returned to her work, with all the others following her. They sang as they worked, the same song, endlessly repeated.
“We are the people of the Grey Glen
We will be happy within our home
We know it is better here than there
We are the people of the Grey Glen.”
“Are you Norse,” Bradan asked, “or Alban?”
The women straightened up again, still smiling. “We are the people of the Grey Glen.”
“Who is your chief, your lord?” Bradan tried, “who owns this land?”
The woman's smile did not falter. “Nobody owns this land. We all own this land. We are the people of the Grey Glen.”
“They are the People of the Grey Glen,” Melcorka said. “I think it is time we moved on, Bradan, and left this Grey Glen to its people.”
“Aye. No offer of hospitality, you'll notice.” Bradan said. “That's unlike anywhere I've been in Alba, Erin or the Norse lands.” He tapped his staff on the ground. “Onward, Melcorka.”
Saying goodbye, they moved on, exchanging greetings with other groups of women, returning the waves of men in the outfields and always with the five grey men shadowing them from the flanks of the hills.
The road unwound before them, straight between the fields, with no visible end to the valley. “Something is very wrong here,” Melcorka said. “We've been walking for hours and we're no further forward.”
“I thought that myself,” Bradan said. “Nothing has changed. The hills look the same, the people are still working, and even the sun has
