Everyone, from servant to druid to warrior to noble, pitched in to help. They carried bundles of hazelwood sticks and buckets of clay to build new walls. They hauled wagonloads of oats and wheat straw from the freshly harvested fields to make new roofs. And as the buildings took shape, the craftsmen and spinners and weavers went to work creating new tools and cushions and boots and cauldrons and cloaks and tunics and gowns to replace those damaged and destroyed by the fires. The pens went back up along the inner stone wall, and the horses and the cattle and the sheep were safely inside once more. New gates were built from strong oak timber and hauled up into place by twenty strong men. And then one morning, the gates stood open. The leaves on the oak, willow, and rowan trees had begun to turn to the reds, golds, and deep purples of early autumn. The blackberry bushes were heavy with clusters of berries; the apple trees dropped fresh green fruit to the windblown grass. The newly rebuilt dun, its buildings gleaming white with new clay, their straw roofs shining like gold in the morning sunlight, sat waiting for its people to return. But on this particular morning they all stood gathered together on the top of the hill beside the great fortress, beside the open space of sand and ash that once again held a great stack of wood awaiting sunset and torches. The bonfire would be even larger this time, for among the wood was much of the debris from the night the fortress had burned.
