Three stones.

Three demons.

A missing Chieftain.

A call to war.

The events hovered over Adharca Cathair as a storm. Villagers looked about with unease. Whisperings quickly traveled. The plague was seemingly cured. Villagers were leaving the Tower of the Sages - some who had looked to be on their last moments even. The rumors could not be quelled - not by the Shaman, nor the Elders. The plague was cured, but with a heavy sacrifice. Blood for blood. A pound of flesh. Pain, and misery. Rumors of Riorach's sacrifice of flesh were the first things to reach the villagers ears - followed by the most dire of news - the Chieftain vanished in a blinding light, as did the shaman from his birth clan - the Pict Killers.

Some held onto the hope that he would return. He had to return. He must return. He was the Chieftain, he was invincible. But others... others panicked. Was the Chieftain even alive? And if not, who would be the Chieftain? Some voiced their whispers. They wanted Amaroq to lead, while others pointed their fingers towards Oelric, one of the senior Elders of the Clan. Others tried to claim they were worthy, while some simply began to doom say.

Then came the council. Amaroq Warchief, Oelric Forgemaster, Keelyn of the Wolfskins, Fearghus mac Finnegan, Athalwulf, Kuthgal, Aidanna, Valgrad, Malise, Svannah, Aesling, Keltin, and many others decided that the best course of action was to go before Crom's Rock - the Field of Chiefs. And so they did, and the villagers waited with baited breath. The arguing was constant. Some among them believed Fearghus should lead. Others put forth Amaroq, and even Keltin put his name forward. The bickering continued, and would not cease.

Then the Bloody Spear was raised by Fearghus. The symbol to get the clans aid. Amaroq stepped forward and made his claim - he would lead the warband to find the Chieftain, thought to be in Khitai, whisked away by the demons in the stones. Oelric would lead the village, and defend it. And Athalwulf, Fearghus, and any other who knew other clans well - they would take the bloody spear. They would rally the clans aid.

Yet the villagers doubted. They knew why the spear was raised. The Hyperboreans were responsible for the plague, for binding the demons to the stones. The Hyperboreans would notice the Cimmerians moving east, and would no doubt stop them. So why not raise the bloody spear? Why not call upon the Clans of Cimmeria? Why not strike at the people that dared try to invade Cimmeria over and over again?

The villagers still yet doubted. Their Chieftain was missing.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I... apologize."

He blinked. He glanced around, no longer in the sage tower. Neither were his cousins from the Pict-Killers. They too were with him, in the dank and musty hall. Before him stood two men... Hyperborean. Yet not Witchmen. Ahearn growled, and unstrapped his hammer. Witchmen or not...

"Stop."

Ahearn restrained himself at the voice. He turned, as did the rest of the shaman, both seething along with the Chieftain. The third figure came closer, a man wearing the robes of a priest. The Chieftain of the Elkhorn recognized the robes. The vestments of Bori.

"What do you want with me?" Ahearn snarled.

The priest shook his head, "Who do you think cured you? Not your riddles, or your blood sacrifices. You Cimmerians... you were toying with forces you cannot even imagine. Cannot even BEGIN to imagine. Had we not intervened and found a solution, you would have all died. The... feisty lass... Aidanna is her name? She was right. A demon is a demon, no matter what they were in life."

"Then why did you cure us?"

The high priest moved to the head of the room, where an altar lay. Standing before it was a bowl. He made a motion, and Ahearn and the two shaman made their way forward. The priest did not speak, but merely traced his finger in the bowl - in the water. The ripples made it stir, and an image projected itself infront of them.

Jungles, dense jungles. A yellow skinned people, tending to their lands. Bandits, approaching... horse archers. A boy, shuddering... before moving towards one of the bandits, and punching a hole in the bandit's chest. Ripping out the heart.

Then... the dark forest. An old man. And then... Tholgrim. The Blackheart. Ripping the old man's heart out. Crushing it. Howling pain... anger... blackness.

"Do you see now, Chieftain of the Elkhorn?" The priest asked. "Tholgrim lives. He lives but with the aid of a child remaining alive... but he lives all the same in the dark of night. You must stop him."

"Where?"

"The east. Khitai. You must go there. You and your two shaman must go. You must stop him."

Ahearn glanced at the two Pict-Killer shaman and then at the priest. "Why do you want him dead so much? And why not the entire clan riding at my back?"

"Because," the priest said. "Your Clan has other matters to worry over. Alone, you will get by without notice. Your Clan would attract the rest of the horde that serves Tholgrim. You must go alone. And you must stop him. There are many sorceries in Khitai. Far worse then here, in Hyperborea. If he absorbs the magics as he did here... he will truly be a god."

Ahearn frowned and glanced about. The Pict-Killer Shamans - mute as was tradition for the most powerful among them - nodded their heads.

"When do we leave?"