Scáthach reached down to where her helmet, An Cruadin, was slung from her belt, and put it on her head. She made sure that her shield and javelin were slung easily on her back and that her sword was by her side. Then she began to follow the young warrior upwards, climbing from one step to another. Each step was chiselled into the granite at about three feet in distance so that the climb was not an easy one in spite of the steps. They had to push themselves from one step to another, following the almost vertical face of the mountainside.
After a while they were both forced to rest, lying on a narrow ledge of a step and gazing out across the dark valley.
‘I wonder who this crook-back is?’ Flann reflected after a while.
‘We will soon discover,’ Scáthach replied, sitting up and peering upwards.
Storm clouds were beginning to chase each other across a lowering dark sky. They could hear the far-off rumble of thunder. But there was no sign of lightning around.
‘Let’s move on. Quickly,’ urged the girl.
Flann agreed. It was no place to be caught in a storm.
He began to haul himself up the granite steps again, moving upwards slowly and painfully, for by now their arms and legs ached from the exertion.
The heavens erupted without warning. Rain torrented down on them and made the granite rocks slippery and dangerous.
‘Shall we halt?’ cried Flann, raising his voice above the noise of the hissing rain.
Scáthach shook her head.
‘Let’s keep on until it is too dangerous to go further,’ she replied. ‘Be careful, the rocks are as if they are covered in grease.’
‘We will move slowly,’ agreed Flann.
Once more they began the upward climb, carefully, slowly, step by step. It seemed a hundred years had passed since they had begun to make the precipitous journey. Then they found themselves on a granite platform sticking out from the side of the mountain, and the stairs had come to an end. There was one exit and that was into the black maw of a cavern.
‘At least we will be out of the rain,’ breathed Scáthach with some relief.
They sheltered for a moment or two in the mouth of the cave in order to recover their breath and wring the worst of the rainwater from their clothes.
‘I suppose this cave leads on to the fortress of the dark one?’ Flann observed, whispering so that his voice did not carry in the echoing cavern.
‘Yes, there is certainly no other way leading upwards from here,’ replied the girl.
Flann peered into the gloom.
‘It is going to be dark in here. I’ll see if there is anything lying about with which I can make a torch.’
There was a deal of debris around the mouth of the cave and it did not take him any great amount of time to put together a firebrand which he lit from the spark of an improvised flint and tinder.
From its flickering light it became obvious to them that the cave was well used and was, in fact, the entrance to a passageway which wound upwards into the interior of the mountain. Bric-a-brac which seemed like the discarded remnants of booty from numerous raids and forays was scattered along this path.
‘Do we follow it?’ asked Flann, pointing to the passage.
‘Is there any other route?’ asked Scáthach.
He drew out his sword and, holding it in his right hand and the firebrand in his left, he began to move slowly upwards, following the cleft in the rocks which provided the path. It was not musty and the floor, so Scáthach noticed, was well trodden as if by generations of users. Now and then, when they hit a rise which was steeper than in other parts, someone had chiselled steps in the incline, making it easier to ascend.
Twice Flann had to stop to forage for more fuel for his torch. At least there was no lack of such materials among the debris which lay scattered. Once he had bound them and the flame had grown strong again, they proceeded on their way. It seemed to take ages, and several times, as with their procedure up the granite steps outside, they had to pause to recover their breath. Scáthach wondered how long they had been in the ascent. Hours or days? She had no way of telling here in the darkness.
Then, without warning, they emerged into a large cavern. So large that not even the flickering glow of the torch could reach its vault-like roof. It was a cavern of immense proportions. They peered around in curiosity.
‘I think we may be just below the fortress of Cruitin,’ Scáthach said, observing that there were great piles of arms and weapons, stacks of chests and other boxes and receptacles littering the place.
‘Maybe this is where he keeps the lantern,’ Flann suggested hopefully.
‘Perhaps,’ replied the girl but without echoing the young man’s expectation.
‘Which way?’ asked Flann.
‘One way is as good as another until we have discovered exactly where we are.’
They began to move in a direct line across the room towards its far side.
Scáthach wondered where the piles of booty had been looted from and what sort of warlord was the man known as Cruitin the crook-back. By the look of the horde gathered in this vast cavern, he was successful by any standard.
They were halfway across the cavern floor when a strange screeching cry stopped them in their tracks. It was a strangled cry, like the shriek of a woman ending in a curious half bark.
The gods between us and harm!’ whispered Flann, trying to hold the lantern as high as possible to spy from which direction danger threatened.
Scáthach had unslung her javelin and brought her shield round to protect her.
The cry came again, this time close, very close.
‘What is it?’ whispered Flann.
In the gloom two lights blinked. A dark shape gathered. It was a moment or two before Scáthach realised that the two blinking lights were baleful eyes staring at them. The dark shape was low on the ground and seemed to be hunching itself together.
Once again there came a low growling sound which rose to a terrifying scream, ending with the coughing bark.
Then the thing had launched itself towards them.
Chapter Ten
Scáthach was aware of the dark mass of muscle launching itself straight at her. She swung her shield round and brought her javelin into position just as the shape made contact. The force of the impact knocked the girl backwards to the floor. She had the presence of mind to keep her shield in front of her and felt the screech of rending talons, hard nails raking the metal of the protective covering.
Dimly, she heard a yell of dismay from Flann. She was aware that something was weighing on her javelin so that she could not use it. She let go, grabbing for her sword while trying to scramble away from the great weight which lay on her.
‘It’s all right,’ came Flann’s reassuring tone, ‘the beast is dead. You stuck it with your javelin.’
The young warrior bent down and held out a hand to her. She heaved herself up and looked down. In the darkness she could not distinguish it and so she took off her helmet to look more closely at the creature.
She had seen wild-cats before but none as big and fearsome as this jet-black creature which lay stretched on the floor, her javelin piercing its body. A dark stain of blood was oozing from it while its fighting fangs, incisors of sharp yellow, were still bared for the death grip which she had just avoided.
Flann was frowning at the beast.
‘A cat of some sort,’ he said.
‘True enough,’ replied the girl, placing one foot on the carcass and using it as a lever to draw out her javelin. ‘A nice house-guard this is. I wonder if our host has other such creatures about?’
‘We must be on our guard from now on.’
Scáthach peered round the great cavern but nothing seemed to be stirring. She slung her helmet from her belt.
‘Let’s continue this way,’ she said, moving onwards again.
They walked on in silence, passing the stacks of caskets and boxes and piles of booty which lay in dust-covered heaps. At the far end of the cavern
they came to some steps cut in the stone leading upwards to a great wooden door.
Scáthach led the way, ascending them quickly.
A great iron ring handle worked the mechanism of the catch. It grated as she twisted it and swung the door open. Its hinges gave a protesting shriek.
The girl hesitated and listened for a moment.
‘Come on, Flann,’ she hissed. ‘This must lead into the fortress itself.’
Flann followed silently.
They entered a corridor, a broad stretch of stone-block passage with only one door at the far end, another door of stout wooden beams fastened with large iron strips.
Scáthach reached out her hand to take the handle. It was a similar type to that which had been on the first door.
Her hand closed on the iron ring and twisted.
There was a shrill noise behind them. They turned just in time to see an iron grating drop from the ceiling of the passageway halfway along and give an echoing clang as it crashed to the concrete of the floor.
With an oath, Flann had run back along the corridor and flung himself on the grating with violence. It did not budge, nor could he sense any movement as he tried to raise it.
‘We’re trapped,’ he said unnecessarily.
Scáthach shook her head.
‘It may only be a safety precaution for the mechanism seemed to work when I twisted the door catch.’
‘Then try the catch again,’ urged Flann.
The girl did so but made no impression on the grating.
‘There is no way to go but forward,’ she said.
Flann compressed his lips.
‘Forward it is,’ he said.
She swung open the door.
They were in a large hall, lit with flickering torches slotted in holders around the high, vaulted, granite walls.
Here and there a tapestry hung to alleviate the grey stone of the walls and ceiling. There was no furniture in the hall at all.
They moved on cautiously.
‘Welcome!’
They started at the unexpected sound of a shrill human voice. It echoed in the chamber like a phantom sound.
They looked about.
It was Flann who spotted the window, high up on the far wall. He pointed. About fifteen feet above the level of the floor was an aperture about three feet by two. In it a figure stood looking down at them.
Scáthach’s eyes narrowed.
The figure was that of a man of indeterminable age, completely bald with a white parchment-like skin. He was bent forward slightly and they could see that he was possessed of a crook-back making one shoulder higher than the other. He was clad in a black robe with a cowl but with the cowl flung back behind him. The features were deeply etched, the eye sockets sunken and dark as if the man were ill or had not slept for some time. The eyes themselves seemed to glow red, although this must surely have been a trick of the light. They moved restlessly, as watchful as terriers at a rat-hole. The red slits that were the man’s lips were a thin hostile line.
‘Who are you?’ cried Scáthach.
The thin lips moved.
‘I am Cruitin, lord of this fortress, lord of the valleys beyond.’
Flann eased his hand nervously to his weapon. He felt a cold sensation tingle on his spine as he viewed this merciless figure.
‘And who are you, who dare enter my domain?’
Scáthach glanced at Flann and smiled encouragement.
‘At least he is not omnipotent,’ she whispered.
‘What’s that you say?’ shrilled Cruitin.
‘I am Scáthach of Uibh Rathach,’ she shouted defiantly. ‘I come with my companion, Flann Mac Fraech, to restore something you have stolen to its rightful owner.’
There came a trilling sound from the black-robed figure which made them frown until they realised that it was the sound of the man’s laughter.
‘Stolen? Rightful owner? These are concepts that I do not know.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ replied the girl firmly. ‘The thief has no understanding of such concepts until he is visited by a thief.’
‘And you come to steal from me?’
‘No. There is a difference between what one seizes and what one really possesses.’
‘You speak in riddles, girl.’
‘You appear to make yourself rich by theft.’
‘What is wrong in that? All property is theft from someone. And possession is truly the sweetest of emotions. The spirit of possession doubles a man’s strength.’
Flann gave a bark of anger.
‘There is a saying among my people, the Cruithne of Éireann: where there is no property there is no injustice.’
‘And no pleasure nor joy,’ added the dark figure. ‘Yet I presume you are not of some holy order come to sermonise me and convert me to your hypocrisy and cant? You have stated that you come to rob me.’
‘We have come to retrieve … ’
‘This conversation is pointless. You have trespassed on my hospitality for too long. Now you shall pay for your effrontery.’
With that the man vanished from his vantage-point. Flann shot Scáthach a look of puzzlement.
There was a faint noise behind one of the tapestries. It moved. Abruptly there spilled into the hall four heavily-built warriors, armed with shields and swords, vicious-looking men with close-cropped hair and body scars which denoted they had survived numerous combats.
‘Let’s try Goibhniu’s weapons,’ cried Scáthach as she reached for her helmet, set it in place and grabbed for the sword, discarding her javelin for there was no room to use it in such a confined space against four attackers.
Flann was already engaging one of the warriors, who had rushed quickly upon him, obviously believing in surprise and weight to gain an easy victory. But the young man was not so readily overcome and stood his ground, exchanging blows.
Two of the attackers turned to Scáthach and hesitated, exclaiming in fear.
The helmet of Goibhniu appeared to work its strange aura, causing them to see the girl as some threatening vision.
Scáthach seized the opportunity by rushing on her numbed opponents and despatched one with her first sword thrust. The second one, screwing up his courage, began to engage her. It was obvious that he was not an unworthy swordsman for he had a quick blade and muscles to press home the attack. Scáthach, though never in real danger from the man’s dexterous sword, was hard pressed to keep the man’s attack away from her.
Flann was also finding his opponent to be of equal talent and it took some time before an opportunity presented itself to slip under the man’s guard with a lightning thrust.
‘Two against two is a more equal figure!’ yelled Flann, seeking to detach the fourth warrior from sneaking up behind Scáthach in an attempt to take her by stealth.
The man swung round and they closed just as Scáthach was able to rid herself of her opponent.
The fourth man, seeing himself alone, relaunched his attack with desperation in spite of calls to surrender from both Flann and the girl. He only desisted from his fierce onslaught when Flann finally came in under his guard with a quick lunge.
Panting somewhat from their exertions, Scáthach and Flann stood back to back waiting and watching for a further attack. There was a silence. There was no sign of Cruitin at his window. Eventually it became obvious that the dark-cowled man had gone.
‘What now?’ gasped Flann.
‘We find a way out of here to wherever the crook-back has hidden the lantern of Solas.’
‘I don’t think Cruitin would allow us to take it so easily,’ Flann warned. ‘He will be preparing something.’
Scáthach inclined her head in agreement.
‘Be wary. Now let us find out how these warriors entered this hall.’
Flann gestured towards one of the tapestries.
‘There must be a door behind that,’ he said.
They moved to the wall and pulled aside the tapestry. A bare granite wall confronted them.
‘I am sure that they emerged from behind this tapestry,’ protested Flann.
‘Perhaps through some secret door,’ Scáthach muttered and began to tap her way along the wall.
‘There!’ cried Flann as her sword hilt began to resound hollowly.
Indeed, they could hear what must be a secret entrance into the hall but, try as they might, they could find no means of opening it, no mechanism, no spring to swing it open even a crack.
‘This is hopeless,’ muttered the girl, turning away. ‘There must be some other method of exit.’
They explored all the walls behind the tapestries but the same stark granite faced them each time.
Scáthach turned to face the window from which Cruitin had gazed down on them.
‘It seems that’s our only route,’ she murmured.
Then again they heard the faint sound from behind the tapestry. It billowed. They turned, crouching, their weapons to the fore, ready to face more of Cruitin’s burly warriors. This time, however, something else spilled into the hall: something more evil and vicious than a horde of warriors.
Flann stepped back with a gasp.
A great twisting serpent spilled forward, its giant flat head raised, two bead-like eyes staring unblinkingly at them. Its maw was partially opened, showing tiny, sharp white teeth, between which flicked a long red thin tongue. It looped and rotated in great rings across the floor towards them, hissing as it came.
Scáthach’s eyes narrowed as she measured the sinuous rolls of the serpent’s body, muscles that could crush its opponents without effort.
Flann’s jaw dropped in surprise as he saw the girl suddenly turn and run away down the hall.
He could not believe that Scáthach’s nerve would fail her against this creature, frightening as it was. After all, she had withstood so many perils and now …
He felt stupid and guilty as he saw her pause and pick up her discarded javelin, turning back to his side.
In slow writhing motions, the creature edged nearer. Its raised head was about six feet from the floor, so large and muscular was it. Suddenly, without any warning, the giant flat head lunged for Flann. He tried to leap sideways, tripped and fell. He scrambled away, keeping firm hold on his sword and shield; away from the open, drooling maw. The creature raised itself to strike again. It was fully thirty or forty feet in length and like no other serpent that Scáthach or Flann had ever beheld.
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