There was no wind and the sea water in the estuary was calm. The day was sunny. Had they not been at war, it would have been a perfect day for hunting.
The ships were anchored in a shallow bay, while they had camped on the shore, waiting for news from the Rock of Alt Clut. Neiton map Guipno had promised Lord Áedán that he would let him know soon if the election had ended well for him.
Erc was taking a walk along the shore, to try and relax: he needed that, sometimes, and this was one of the rare moments he could do it. Lord Áedán was busy speaking with Prince Morcant map Tutgual and he didn't need his presence. Erc couldn't understand why Lord Áedán was taking such a risk engaging with Morcant, even knowing that they were brothers-in-law: saving him from sure death, curing him and striking a deal with him, all of this against King Conall's orders. He had even bothered to move Morcant to the ships with a stretcher, and then again from the ship to the new camp on the shore, while the seriously injured Dalriatan soldiers had been left behind in the camp close to the Rock, exposed to a potential retaliation by the Britons. Lord Áedán had sent voice around that the injured man on the stretcher was one of his most important officials and he didn't want to lose him, but Erc heard the soldiers questioning that voice, and stories were going around and around about who that man might really be.
Meanwhile, walking near the shore he reached the last tent of the camp. He carried on, he wanted to stroll far from other people, for a little while at least.
After a few feet, he stopped: a man had appeared in the distance, walking at a fast pace towards his direction. Instinctively, Erc walked back. When he was safely within the limits of the camp, he turned and looked again at the person who was getting closer. A few soldiers saw the man too, and they prepared their swords, just in case.
Now, even though the man was still at some distance, Erc thought he could recognise him. After a moment he had no doubt: he was one of the informers Áedán had left in Alt Clut. When he was close, the informer recognised him too: "Lord Erc, I bring news from Neiton map Guipno, would you deliver them to Lord Áedán?", he said, out of breath for the fast stride.
"No, you can come with me and deliver the news yourself to him", Erc answered, "after you have quenched your thirst".
The informer drank some water from the barrel in the soldiers' pantry, then they walked together towards Lord Áedán's tent. The man was short and lean, overall unimpressive: the perfect type for a spy. Erc tried to ask him what were the news, but he only answered that Lord Áedán had to be the first one to know. Erc thought that the informer reacted in that way after he had told him to deliver himself the news to Áedán...
When they entered through the open flap of the tent, they found a massive soldier inside, guarding the entrance.
"Erc, here you are", Áedán exclaimed from the opposite corner. He was sitting on his stool with a cup in his hand, and next to him, on a comfortable camping bed, was lying Morcant, still partly bandaged.
When the huge soldier stood aside and let them pass, Lord Áedán saw the informer: "Ailbe, you are here! Come, come!", he exclaimed. He looked tipsy. "So, what are the news from Alt Clut?".
The informer named Ailbe looked around suspiciously and asked him: "M'lord, am I allowed to speak in their presence?".
"If I don't tell you otherwise, of course you are allowed!", the Dalriatan leader reproached him.
"Well", Ailbe answered, clearing his voice, "Neiton map Guipno has been proclaimed as the new King of Alt Clut. He told me to communicate to you his commitment to keep his part of the agreement, if our warband will pull back to Dál Riata".
"Yes, yes. Anything else?", replied Lord Áedán, visibly annoyed.
"Nothing from him, no. But strange things happened during his proclamation: an old druid officiated the rite and a human sacrifice was performed, like in the old times. The sacrificial victims were the widow and the two orphans of Morcant map Tutgual. The executioner slit their throats in front of the crowd that was gathered there...".
In that very moment, Morcant erupted with a piercing scream: "No! Noo! You are lying!!". The Briton prince managed to stand up on his feet and, showing unexpected energy, he jumped on the astounded informer and he hit him on the face. They both fell on the ground, Morcant tightening his hands around the informer's neck until his strenght faded away and the latter easily managed to move him away. Morcant, panting exhausted on the ground, looked on the verge of passing out.
"What the...?", grunted the informer standing up, dumbfounded.
Lord Áedán had stood up from his stool, staggering and still holding his cup. "This is very bad", he muttered darkly. And, like speaking to himself, he added: "I think... that this will change many things". He sounded almost scared.
"No", wheezed Morcant from the floor, "nothing must change...".
Everyone in the room was staring at him, now.
Morcant, struggling, pulled himself up on his elbows. With painful effort, he teared off the bandage which still covered his face, showing disfigured features, that made him look like a demon. A stench coming from his wound filled the space.
"Enough with waiting, enough with hiding. This is the new me now", he said. Even his voice was distorted, due to the wound on his mouth. "My family is no more. I knew that was going to happen... The old Morcant map Tutgual died with it, fighting against the aggressors". His voice seemed to break, but then he spoke again, shuddering with rage: "The plan must be carried out. The aggressors will be exterminated".
Then, after a short pause, he added, with a mad tone in his voice: "I will overcome all the enemies and I will enter Alt Clut as its legitimate ruler. Vengeance will be my path! Forget Prince Morcant... From today... I am no longer him. My life will no longer be the same as before... I have no family. I have a new face... and I will have a new name: from now on, you all call me just Morken".
An ominous silence fell among them. Morken was a bad name: even in Dál Riata people knew about some Briton legends of evil madmen named Morken.
Everyone stared at him: his deformed face and horrifying glare, and his sudden unexpected energy, fitted even too well that name. A sense of fear and uneasiness pervaded each one of them, inside the tent.
