‘Ha!’ grunted the smith. ‘You have come to the most beautiful and precious of my creations. You have a fine eye for a weapon, girl.’
Scáthach wheeled round, angry at the condescension in the smith’s voice.
‘I am Scáthach of Uibh Rathach! I wear a warrior’s tore.’
The red-headed giant stamped his foot and roared with laughter again.
‘A fine name, girl. But are you entitled to bear it and that twisted gold around your neck? A warrior’s tore can be picked up and placed on a neck, it does not mean to say that the wearer is a hero.’
Flann moved forward, slapping his hand to his side before realising that he did not possess a weapon. All their weapons, saving the shield and javelin which Scáthach had recovered from the underwater cave, had been lost when the Nemhain had struck the rocks.
‘By the gods, smith, loan me but one of your swords and I will teach you how a warrior replies to an insult.’
Ruacán had taken himself to a seat by the cabin door and had seated himself, watching the proceedings with a faint smile.
The smith, Goibhniu, stood grinning at Flann, who barely came to his chest height.
‘By the powers,’ he chuckled, ‘I have no quarrel with a boy.’
‘You have a quarrel with me, smith,’ intervened Scáthach, ‘for you have insulted both my name and honour.’
Goibhniu turned to her, blue eyes wide, his faced creased in a broad smile.
‘Ah, this is warrior’s talk, girl. Are you up to it?’
‘As you see, I am without a sword. Loan me but one of yours and I will show you whether I am entitled to wear a warrior’s tore.’
‘No!’ cried Flann. ‘He insulted me. I will make this ugly brute apologise.’
He rushed forward and grabbed the nearest sword and went towards the smith, swinging dangerously.
The giant stood his ground, laughing. With one sweep of his hammer, he simply knocked aside the weapon, closed on Flann and with one giant hand reached forward, grabbed the luckless warrior by his shirt front, and lifted him several feet bodily from the ground. Then he threw him several yards across the clearing.
Flann landed with a thud and lay winded for a moment.
‘You brute!’ cried Scáthach, grabbing at the sword nearest to her. It was the one she had been admiring. It seemed to fit into her hand as if it were made for her. The balance was perfect. But anger dominated her mind now and she did not seem to notice its perfect extension of her own right hand. She closed on Goibhniu who still stood grinning and making no attempt to reach for a sword nor shield.
She made a lightning thrust, but the smith merely swung his hammer, knocking the blade aside with a resounding dang. Scáthach felt the vibration all the way down the sword, into her arm and body.
She halted. Her anger suddenly faded. Her eyes met the wide blue orbs of the smith and she realised that here was no ordinary artisan. The man wielded his hammer as a warrior might handle a sword and shield. She approached him more carefully now, crouching low, her sword point darting about for an opening.
Goibhniu chuckled.
‘Well done, girl. You learn quickly.’
He stood waiting for the attack and when it came, he turned aside and struck out with his hammer.
The sword almost flew from her grip with the ferocity of the blow.
‘Excellent,’ commented Goibhniu as she hung on and regained her balance.
She turned, biting her lip in perplexity. How was she to overcome this confident, lazily smiling giant?
She attacked again.
Another blow on the sword blade with his mighty hammer sent her reeling back.
It became clear to her that Goibhniu the smith was possessed of a tremendous strength and skill. Nevertheless, she renewed the attack, almost, at one point, getting through his guard.
He chuckled and again the hammer found its mark.
Her arm, indeed her whole body, began to grow weary and weak. Her head began to ache from the vibration of the hammer blows through her body. She began to stumble and her attacks grew more clumsy. She refused to give up. She became aware of Flann calling out to encourage her and she clenched her teeth and attacked again.
This time the giant dealt a powerful blow which, while she still clung to the sword, sent her reeling backwards. She stumbled and measured her length.
Face red with mortification, she crawled back to her feet, tears welling in her eyes in anger. She rushed for the smith. Yet again she found herself on the ground staring up at the giant from a prone position.
‘Enough!’ Goibhniu suddenly said, casting aside his hammer and reaching one great arm forward to grip her by the hand and lift her to her feet as if she had been as light as a feather. She stood feeling dazed and puzzled. ‘Enough!’ repeated the smith. ‘You have proved yourself worthy of a warrior’s tore and of the name you bear. Welcome to my forge, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach. Accept the hospitality of Goibhniu.’
The girl stared at the smith curiously.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘I have told you,’ grinned the giant. ‘I am Goibhniu the smith.’
‘You are no ordinary smith,’ insisted the girl.
‘You may be right,’ Goibhniu assented humorously.
Scáthach stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. She peered down at the sword in her hand and then smiled.
‘Well, since you offer your hospitality, Goibhniu, I have a mind to take this sword.’
The red-haired smith raised an eyebrow and his grin broadened.
‘You may have proved that you are warrior enough, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach, but are you worthy to take Goibhniu’s sword?’
She drew herself up haughtily.
‘Have I not proved that?’
‘No,’ replied the smith flatly and the assertion took the breath from her.
She drew her brows together and started forward angrily but Goibhniu held up his hand to stay her.
‘I have said that you have proved yourself a warrior, but whoever carries that sword must be possessed of more than courage. Even a wolf has courage.’
‘I will pay you for the sword,’ snapped the girl.
The smith examined her speculatively.
‘Indeed, you may. You shall pay me by answering three questions. If your answers are right then you shall not only have the sword but a helm as well. You may have the best helmet that I have fashioned.’
Flann came forward with suspicion on his face. He had not forgiven the smith for the easy way the giant had defeated him. It was a blow to his dignity.
‘Who will judge the fairness of such questions and the veracity of the answers?’ he demanded.
The smith nodded to the old druid who was still seated, an interested spectator.
‘There sits our judge.’
Flann frowned at Scáthach.
‘I do not trust this,’ he whispered to the girl. ‘Like as not the two are in league.’
Scáthach looked questioningly at the young warrior.
‘But for what purpose?’ she asked.
When Flann could not frame an answer she turned to the giant smith and shrugged.
‘Very well. I assent. Three questions and if I answer correctly then this sword and a helmet of my choice shall be mine.’
The red-haired giant grunted.
‘And, as fair is fair, if you answer wrongly, you and the boy there will remain here and work as my unpaid helpers in the forge for nine months and nine days.’
This brought forth a cry of protest from Flann.
The smith feigned surprised.
‘Is it not fair, boy, that I should have some gain out of the wager if I win?’
Flann was about to protest again when Scáthach said: ‘That seems fair enough. When will you be ready with your questions, Goibhniu?’
‘Ready I am,’ grinned the smith.
Scáthach turned to Ruacán.
‘Are you ready to judge in fairness, old one?’
The old man did not rise but nodded his head.
‘I am ready, by the will of the gods.’
‘Then ask your questions, Goibhniu the smith.’
‘Then first tell me this — what is swifter than the wind?’
Scáthach frowned. ‘And your second question?’ she asked-
‘The second question is — what is sharper than a sword?’
‘And the third?’
‘What is whiter than snow?’
The girl stood gazing at the grinning face of the red-haired giant.
Goibhniu said: ‘I cannot give you a great deal of time. You must have your answers within nine hours. That shall allow you three hours to ponder each of your three answers.’
Scáthach sniffed.
‘I want little time to find your answers. Give me a drink of crystal water and you shall have the answers as soon as I have drunk of its contents.’
The smith roared and slapped his thigh.
‘By the gods, I like your confidence.’
He turned to a nearby spring and brought a cup of clear water to the girl.
She drained it in one gulp.
Goibhniu looked surprised.
‘Are you prepared to tell me the answers now?’ Scáthach smiled with self-assurance.
‘I am. Thought is swifter than the wind, Goibhniu. Understanding is sharper than a sword. And truth is whiter than snow.’
Flann looked across to the old druid who sat smiling and nodding his head.
The red-haired giant was giving a deep throaty chuckle.
‘Truly, you are well tutored of Buimech,’ he said.
The girl frowned.
‘What do you know of my mother?’
‘You are Scáthach of Uibh Rathach,’ countered Goibhniu. ‘Therefore you are the whelp of Eola and Buimech. And you have answered well.’
Flann had seized the girl by the hand. His joy was apparent on his face.
Ruacán rose to his feet and came forward.
‘I expected no less from you, my child,’ he said softly.
‘May I take the sword?’ asked Scáthach.
Goibhniu the smith nodded.
‘With that sword, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach, you are invincible. That sword was made with the fire from the Plain of Nia. It is called An Chraobh Ghlasach, the cold champion. No mortal warrior will be able to withstand you. That sword was made for you and no other.’
Scáthach could not fathom the meaning of the red-haired giant’s words. She was about to press him further when Flann interrupted.
‘And you owe her a helmet!’
Goibhniu turned into his forge.
‘I shaped this helmet out of the fires of Hy-Falga at the hour of the birth of one fitted to wear it. Here. Take it. It is called An Cruadin, the hard helm. Once it is placed on your head, to the sight of your enemies you will be transformed into a terrifying vision. None shall prevail against you.’
The silver helmet with its plumes and visor was breathtakingly beautiful; the craftsmanship was that of an artist of rare talent.
Scáthach placed the helmet on her head. It fitted well and was comfortable to wear.
Goibhniu surveyed his handiwork.
‘It is well, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach. Had these others harboured ill against you then the sight of you in that battle-plume would have caused them to cry out in dismay at the terrible spectacle you would have appeared to them. But they truly wish you well.’
Flann sniffed.
‘It needed no conjuror’s trick to deduce that I wish Scáthach well.’
Goibhniu shook his head sadly.
‘One day, and that day will soon be here, you will thank the gods for such conjuror’s tricks.’
Flann’s face bore an expression of contempt.
‘Not I.’
‘We will see. And on that day you will hear a smith’s hammer ring thrice to remind you of your doubt.’ Goibhniu turned and waved his hand to his forge. ‘And in the meantime, to show you no ill-will, young warrior, as you are without weapons, take a sword, javelin and shield from my store and let it be with the compliments of a conjuror.’
Flann stood uncertainly.
‘If this is a means to try to make me feel guilty about my beliefs then you will not succeed.’
Once more the red-haired giant laughed, striking his large hand against his thigh and shaking his head.
‘By The Dagda, you are a stubborn young man. But in that quality lies your strength. Soon there will be need of your stubbornness. Come, take your choice of weapons. I ask nothing in return from you.’
Still suspicious, Flann went forward and carefully made his choice of weapons.
Scáthach was smiling.
‘Now we are properly accoutred for our journey,’ she said. ‘We can go on in confidence, Ruacán.’
The old man shrugged.
‘We can go on. But never in confidence, my child. The road to Lethra is still fraught with dangers.’
Scáthach raised her shield and javelin.
‘With these weapons, there is naught to fear,’ she said. ‘You yourself have told me so.’
‘My child,’ the druid said softly, ‘there is more to fear than physical danger. Indeed, physical danger is a matter of small moment. The worst dangers to be feared are not in strength of arms.’
Flann came forward, once more his suspicion and cynicism displayed on his face.
‘How is this so, old man? My people, the people of the Cruithne, are the slaves of a petty tyrant who has imposed his will by force. In mind they are strong and rebellious but what can they do when encountering a greater might, a more formidable strength? Would you preach to them that there are greater dangers that the strength of arms?’
‘I would,’ replied the druid calmly.
‘Such as?’
‘There is no danger as bad as that which strikes at men’s minds. You may rob people of their houses, you may destroy their health and you may ruin their character. Yet so long as the mind remains intact they are still human. There is a hope that their houses may be regained, that their health may be restored and their characters vindicated. There is a hope that their persecutors may be brought to justice. But if their minds be destroyed, there is an end to all such hopes!’
‘Do you tell me that the Cruithne will one day be free?’ asked Flann.
Ruacán nodded firmly.
‘I do so tell you. As long as their minds are not shackled, they will eventually overcome their physical constraints. That is the pattern of the world.’
‘What dangers will we face on this path to Lethra,’ intervened Scáthach, ‘if they are not physical dangers?’
That is not for me to say,’ the old druid told her. ‘I can only advise and warn. It is not for me to guide your future.’
Goibhniu, who had been watching, and listening to the interchange, now intervened.
‘Come, enough of this talk of gloom and doom. Feast with Goibhniu the smith and rest here a while before continuing your journey.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Scáthach. ‘Today has been hot and tiring.’
‘Then,’ said Goibhniu, ‘you shall feast and rest and refresh yourselves.’
He turned and led the way into his cabin.
Scáthach and Flann paused on the threshold and stared in wonder at the room beyond. It bore no resemblance to the outside of the building. It was a long, richly decorated room in which a table stood laden with dishes of exotic quality and amphora, two-handled pitchers of wine.
‘Be seated,’ cried the giant, gesturing to richly upholstered chairs. ‘Be seated and eat.’
Once more Scáthach gazed curiously at the red-headed smith.
‘Who are you?’ she repeated.
The giant roared with laughter.
‘I have told you. I am Goibhniu the smith. Now eat.’
Flann needed no second bidding and was soon tearing into a dish of fowl with gusto.
It was a feast such as Scáthach had never eaten before. And,
after a while, drowsiness overcame them. Goibhniu, still chuckling, led the way to couches of embroidered tapestries. Uncaring at the mystery of such fine furnishing in a poor smith’s home, they fell on the beds and were soon asleep.
Scáthach awoke first. She was lying on a green sward in a clearing in the forest. Not far away, Flann was stretched out, still snoring gently, while beyond was the recumbent figure of Ruacán. She sprang up warily. There was no sign of the smith’s forge nor cabin. She stared around at the silent forest hardly believing her eyes.
Then she saw, lying nearby, her weapons. The strange helmet, the exquisitely crafted sword, the javelin and shield of the ocean god, Manánnan Mac Lir. She turned. The weapons Flann had taken from the smith lay near his sleeping form.
She shivered slightly as she pondered the mystery.
Chapter Nine
The glen was dank and silent, a narrow passage between high mountains that seemed to stretch endlessly upwards, dark and remote, into the skies. The silence was oppressive. Scáthach paused, listening. There came no sound of bird song out of the surrounding woods, nor the faint scuttle of animals in pursuit of their food, nor even the soft sound of the breeze through the branches of the trees and grasses. The silence was omnipresent.
Scáthach turned to Ruacán the Wizened.
‘What place is this? It is a doleful spot.’
‘Yet through it lies the road to Lethra,’ replied the old man.
‘Is there any way around it?’ asked Flann.
Ruacán smiled.
‘Do not tell me that you are nervous of travelling the dark glen. I thought you did not believe in superstition nor in conjuror’s tricks?’
Flann flushed.
‘No more do I, old man,’ he said in bad temper. ‘I would prefer not to travel through this glen because it is the sort of territory where one might expect an ambush. That is all.’
‘Ah.’ The old druid made no further reply.
It was Scáthach who had to repeat the question.
‘No,’ Ruacán replied. ‘There is no other way, my child. To travel to Lethra you must travel through the dark glen.’
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