The villagers had gathered again for the monthly meeting. Even though it was summer you still expected winter weather this close to the northlands.
The chief of the clan, Iain MacNeill, stood, and spoke over the howling wind coming off the Irish sea "A few days back, some of the lads were comin' over from An Gearasdan when they saw some lights comin' from one of the small islands. It bein' night they dinna see much, when they came back the next day to have good look they found unnatural symbols and markings in the burned shrine. I would conclude that they have found the place of worship of some of the Dubh Luchd. We haven't been able to go across since, because of the haar. Once the sea fog has gone, I'll take some of the men across with me, and finish what we started some years ago."
One of the older men stood, and after getting permission to speak, explained that he thought that nothing need be done - they were not interferring with the village after all. Why risk the lives of young men when there is little to be gained?
"Uncle, they won't stop at controlling one island. Don't you remember how those men controlled our lives - until we threw them off? We leave for the island in a few days. And that, is final." Even the wind did not dare compete with Iains sudden temper. Not even those that thought that they tempted fate by attacking the Dubh Luchd in their lair.
For the next few days, weapons were cleaned and oiled, Sealskin padded armour was cleaned and repaired. Pyres were prepared. Boats made seaworthy. Prayers were sent to peoples assorted deities.
That night, after the fog cleared and the children put to bed, the men set sail for the small island in their longboats, the stormy sea attempting to overturn their small boats - but the men(and one woman) would not be deterred from the task ahead, no matter how hard the task would be.
The beach was lit in the light of the setting moon as the boats rode the crashing surf onto the black sand. The island was grimly dark - not a light to be seen, by man nor beast.
As they made their way up, through the dark forest, to the island's crowning set of ruins the shieldmaiden muttered that it was too quiet. Not even the midges were out this foul night, the wind had died and the half moon had set. As the summit drew near, the incoming sea fog forced them to light torches, for without them they could not see a hand in front of their faces.
Although they had the dark cover of night, they needed to make haste - dawn was only hours away. Slowly the warriors approached the summit, where they discovered that the surrounding heather was blackened and burned - evidence of the original fire that had gutted the small shrine here a few years before. No one survived the fire, so no one would rebuild the shrine. It was easy, in hindsight, to see that the Dubh Luchd had fired the shrine and the islands few inhabitants...
Years before the Dubh Luchd had controlled the whole area - only to find their control waxing as the people threw off the priests foul domination. As their numbers dwindled through age, or pestilence, or poison they had resorted to sheer terror to keep the sheep in line. Peoples families were burned or worse, children blinded, horrors born. Eventually all of the clerics had been burned, drowned or cooked by vengeful folk.
The scouts entered the ruin with an understandable caution - expecting to be burned or bewitched. They found that the ruin had been smeared with blood and guts - presumably from the dead disciples who had been eviscerated by the use of the gae bolga - the weapon never used in honour. Its recurved sharklike teeth preventing its easy removal from a victims stomach.
From the plentiful evidence it would seem that all the clerics disciples had been sacrificed for some reason. There were no signs of a struggle, so they seemed to have gone willingly. It is always surprising what people gripped with religous zeal will do. Their will must have been washed away before the presence of their god.
At one end of the ruins, an altar was found. In the center of the altar a small fire had burned - the tiny heart of a small child had been burned here. Nearby, in the center of the hexagram they found the leader, the cleric - still alive - babbling about revenge. He seemed to have sacrificed his sanity as well as his followers. Only after he had been swiftly dispatched was it realised that it was he that had tried to stop the cleansing mission.
A short time later they realised that the red light streaming through the sky was not the early summer dawn, but their town burning into the night sky. The clerics had had their revenge, the towns newborn had been slain.
