Island of Shadows

by Peter Tremayne

  Scáthach counted her dwindling collection of coins and handed several to Bracan who took them and recounted carefully before announcing himself satisfied with the deal.

  ‘My mate is currently ashore trying to round up extra hands which we need for the voyage,’ explained Bracan. ‘We will not delay when he returns and will be on the open sea before nightfall.’

  He left them to their own devices and they found an easy seat in the stern of the ship, on the raised quarter deck by the great tiller.

  Scáthach, with a sigh, was about to remove her helmet, when Ruacán put out a hand to stay her.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

  ‘Have you forgotten how people reacted when they saw your face on our journey through Lethra?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Scáthach, ‘but no one has since behaved so peculiarly.’

  ‘That is because your face has been disguised by your helmet. Best keep it on until we reach the shores of the Gael in Alba.’

  ‘But why?’ demanded the girl. ‘Why should people fear my face?’

  ‘Why indeed. We have yet to learn that mystery. Until we do, it would be better not to imperil our journey.’ Scáthach shrugged.

  ‘Very well, Ruacán. I will accept your guidance for you have proved a good friend and guide.’

  The old man grinned, somewhat cynically.

  ‘That is not what your friend Flann thinks. He suspects that I am engineering some devious plot.’

  ‘Flann has many qualities,’ replied the girl. ‘He is brave and steadfast. But … ’

  Ruacán smiled softly.

  ‘He is not at one with the world and seeks to fight that which he does not understand.’

  Scáthach bowed her head in assent.

  ‘Well, no crime to that,’ went on the druid. ‘In that he shares the fault with most of mankind. They are fearful creatures not opening themselves to the fact that they are part of creation, at one with creation. Instead, in their fear of it, they seek to dominate it. Until they learn to live in harmony with it, indeed with themselves, then they will be unable to make progress.’

  The old man raised his eyes and glanced at the quayside.

  ‘Ah, I think Bracan’s mate is coming aboard now.’ Scáthach followed his gaze to where a seaman was coming aboard the vessel. He was a swarthy complexioned man with a shock of black hair which almost covered his face. He wore an eye-patch over his left eye.

  Her blood ran cold as she stared at him.

  His sharp, almost ugly features and sneering mouth had been burnt into her memory.

  Ruacán frowned.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Goll!’ she whispered. ‘That man is Goll of the Nemhain.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The low, dim coastline of mist-shrouded Alba lay on the port bow. The seas were grey and restless and the sky was mirrored in its slate-coloured surface. The winds were fresh and blustery and cold. For three days the Feannog had ploughed through the waters from the more pleasant coastline of Gallia towards the colder northern waters. And now, after what seemed an age, the ship was nearing the seaboard of the Gael which lay through the narrow sea-passage which divided Alba from the land of Éireann.

  At Ruacán’s instigation, Scáthach had made no move to contact Goll or make her presence known on board the ship. Bracan had not asked her name and so she had never volunteered it. And whenever she appeared out of her cabin, she wore her visored helmet to prevent the evil former captain of the Nemhain from recognising his erstwhile passenger whom he had attempted to rob and kill. It was, in fact, Ruacán who managed to learn the story from Goll’s own lips of how his own ship struck a rock and foundered off the coast of Gallia. Goll had been carried to the coast on a spar and eventually found himself in Lethra where he had persuaded Bracan to take him on as a mate. Bracan’s own mate had died of a fever on the voyage to Lethra so the captain was willing enough to take on extra hands.

  Goll was surly and angry at the loss of his own ship and crew. Ruacán warned the girl to stay out of his way as much as possible.

  ‘The man tried to murder Flann and me for gain,’ the girl told the druid. ‘He has barely begun to pay his debt.’

  ‘If you desire retribution,’ replied the druid, ‘wait until we get to the shore of Alba.’

  She had agreed. And now here was the shore of Alba off their beam. The Feannog was turning its bows towards the rocky coastline.

  ‘An hour before we anchor,’ smiled Bracan agreeably from the tiller where he was instructing his helmsmen.

  ‘Excellent,’ the girl replied. ‘At what point do we land?’

  ‘That headland there is called Aird nan Murchan. That is where we land for it is our home port.’

  ‘And how far is that from Dun Scaith?’

  Bracan’s face turned pale. He jerked around to stare at the girl.

  ‘Dun Scaith? Why do you want to know about that place?’

  The girl smiled under her helmet.

  ‘Is that not my business?’ she said softly.

  ‘Dun Scaith is the domain of Darcon the Tyrant, the son of the goddess of death, who rules the Island of Shadows. It is an evil place; the gods of light between it and me!’

  Scáthach was bemused by the fear in the red-haired sea-captain’s voice.

  ‘Is it far?’ she insisted.

  The man hesitated a while and then shook his head sullenly.

  ‘Not far,’ he said slowly. ‘A short distance northwards, but if you are going there, you must encounter many dangers before you see the ramparts of Dun Scaith.’

  ‘Dangers?’ the girl swung round to Bracan. ‘What dangers?’

  The seaman bit his lip.

  ‘I have said too much.’

  ‘You have not said enough,’ replied the girl sharply. ‘Tell me what business you have with the Island of Shadows first,’ insisted Bracan. is it right that I put myself in danger even to speak about the land of the son of the goddess of death without knowing to whom I speak? Since you have come aboard you have been visored behind that fierce helmet. Why, you might be the Mórrigú herself for all I know.’

  Scáthach shook her head.

  ‘No fear of that, Bracan. I go to Dun Scaith in search of a friend who was kidnapped and taken there by the High One of Lethra.’

  The sailor’s eyes widened.

  ‘You mean to rescue your friend from Dun Scaith?’ he asked in a tone of incredulity.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But the High One of Lethra, Aife, is the half-sister of Darcon. You have no hope against them.’

  ‘Yet how do I get to this place?’

  The sailor shook his head stubbornly.

  ‘You will be killed … or worse.’

  ‘And what of my friend?’

  ‘Your friend is as good as dead.’

  ‘I do not think so. And if … if he is, then there shall be a price to pay.’

  The sailor looked at the girl with some degree of awe creeping into his eyes.

  Truly, you must be a great warrior or a greater fool if you would seek vengeance against Darcon.’

  ‘How do I reach Dun Scaith?’ she insisted.

  ‘Northward, across the Plain of Ill-Luck and through the Perilous Glen and the Valley of the Shadow to the Bridge of Leaps. On the far side you will find Dun Scaith.’

  ‘How many days’ journey?’ she pressed.

  ‘If any have succeeded in making it then they have not returned to tell,’ replied Bracan.

  Scáthach’s chin came up firmly.

  ‘I will succeed and I will return.’

  ‘And the old one … ?’ asked Bracan, indicating the druid. ‘He goes with you?’

  ‘We go in search of our friend.’

  ‘Then the gods go with you.’

  ‘Set us ashore and you need have no more fear for us,’ replied the girl.

  ‘Tell me who you are so that our bards may at least compose laments at your hopeless endeavour.’

  Sc
áthach squared her shoulders.

  ‘Should your bards compose verses at my endeavour then they will be songs of the downfall of Dun Scaith. And they will remember Scáthach of Uibh Rathach.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘So it is you!’ grunted an ugly voice.

  Scáthach swung round to see that Goll had moved quietly near them, close enough to have heard her thoughtless and proud declaration of her name.

  Bracan stared at his mate.

  Goll’s ugly face was creased in anger.

  ‘I thought there was something familiar about you, girl. And the way you kept your face visored … I should have realised.’

  ‘What does this mean?’ demanded Bracan.

  ‘It means that Goll was the captain of a ship which brought me and my friend to Gallia,’ explained the girl facing the evil-looking mate. ‘He took our gold and then, observing we had more, tried to kill and rob us. In the struggle, his crew lost control of their ship and it foundered. We were saved, and so was this sea-vermin.’

  Goll’s face was terrible.

  He moved forward a pace with a threatening gesture.

  Scáthach laughed.

  ‘You don’t like to hear the truth?’ she sneered.

  ‘Is it the truth, Goll?’ demanded Bracan.

  Goll shook his head vehemently.

  ‘No,’ he blustered. ‘She lies, captain. She is the pirate who tried to take over my ship. She killed a passenger named Eccneid and tried to take control of the ship … I shall kill you for the loss of my good ship and crew, the loss of my livelihood.’

  ‘You brought that on yourself, pirate!’ snapped Scáthach.

  Goll reached towards his sword but the girl’s hand was already defensively on her sword’s hilt.

  Bracan looked uncertain as he gazed from one to another.

  ‘There must be a judgement on this matter,’ he muttered. ‘I cannot let you or your companion go on your way, nor can I let Goll go on his way, until the matter is brought before the Brehons of Alba.’

  Ruacán moved forward and nodded approval.

  ‘A wise decision, captain. It is according to the law,’ he said.

  Scáthach raised an indifferent shoulder and let it fall.

  ‘It shall be according to their judgement.’ She glanced at Goll, who stood glowering at her. ‘What do you say, Goll? Do you dare accept the judgement of the Brehons?’

  ‘No!’ he cried, suddenly drawing his sword and swinging it at the girl. ‘You will not escape my vengeance.’

  Scáthach had been given a split second warning of the other’s intent by a slight narrowing of the eyes and clenching of the muscles. She leapt aside as Goll’s blade swung and her own sword was drawn in a moment.

  'Stop!’ cried Bracan.

  But Goll was seething with anger and flaying at the girl with his sword. His face was a mask of hatred as he tried to close with her.

  Bracan moved to intercept him but Ruacán laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘I think Goll has demonstrated the truth of the matter by his fury and hatred,’ he said quietly. ‘Let them decide the matter.’

  ‘But that is not right,’ protested the sea-captain.

  In spite of himself, he stood back and watched the two combatants circling each other.

  It became obvious that Goll lacked the finesse and training of the girl in weapons although his strength and cunning were of equal match. It was inevitable, however, that he could not sustain his attack against the agile mastery of the sword displayed by Scáthach. Soon he was tiring; and, in tiring, he became desperate. He made several lunges that a more discerning mind would have kept him from. Once or twice the girl actually drew back to allow him to recover instead of finishing the bout there and then.

  Finally, Scáthach moved forward and with seeming ease engaged him in such a way that Goll’s sword went flying out of his hand and into the air, and stuck into the deckplanks, quivering from the impact.

  With her sword held a few inches from his throat, Goll stood gasping, his eyes still blurred in fury.

  ‘Do you surrender, Goll?’ Scáthach demanded.

  He stared at the girl blankly.

  She had to repeat the question and this time the point of her sword pressed close against his chest.

  ‘Yes,’ he grunted.

  She lowered her sword.

  ‘Then the judgement is still with the Brehons,’ she said, half turning towards Bracan.

  The warning came from the shadowy reflection in Bracan’s eyes, a slight movement. Scáthach leapt aside, twisting round on one foot as a dagger hissed passed her head and embedded itself into the nearby masthead. Before she had come to a halt, Scáthach had brought her sword into a defensive position with a swift wrist-action, its point aimed firmly towards the chest of Goll. The one-eyed seaman hesitated only a moment, his eyes wide and staring at the girl with such malignancy that it seemed that he was unaware of the sword aimed at his chest. Then he jumped sideways, staggered, recovered his balance and launched himself across the rail of the ship and into the turbulent waves beyond. Bracan moved forward with Scáthach and Ruacán at his shoulders and stared at the white-crested waves. They saw a black bobbing head for a moment or two and then nothing. For a long while they stared, trying to catch sight of the man.

  ‘Drowned,’ Bracan said laconically. ‘A stupid man.’

  Ruacán sighed.

  ‘He has convicted himself.’

  Bracan bit his lip.

  ‘Aye, so he did,’ he assented and then repeated: ‘He was a stupid man. While the channel is narrow here, this is the Caol Muile, the seas run swift and fierce. There was no hope of him swimming ashore. A wasted life.’ The sea-captain hesitated. ‘You still want to be put ashore at Aird nan Murchan?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Scáthach.

  ‘Very well.’ Bracan turned and went back to the helmsman to give his full attention to the course changes to bring them through the surging channel of Caol Muile, a sea channel between the low hills of the island of Muile to the west and the high mountains of the mainland of Alba to the east. At the end of the channel lay the heights of Aird nan Murchan.

  Scáthach turned to Ruacán, sheathing her sword. She felt no sorrow for the death of Goll. He had been an evil man, a man with much blood on his hands. At least he had chosen his own path to the fate which awaited him in the Otherworld.

  ‘And so to the next part of our journey,’ she said quietly.

  The druid nodded.

  ‘Across the Plain of Ill-Luck, with its mires and bogs, and through the Perilous Glen, where monsters and ravening beasts and serpents lay in wait for the unwary,’ he recited softly. ‘Through the Valley of the Shadow to the Bridge of Leaps which spans a deep ravine above a boiling sea. Once you have passed these obstacles then, only then, will you come to Dun Scaith.’

  The girl gazed at him with a frown.

  ‘Do you know these places?’

  Ruacán smiled enigmatically.

  ‘I would make a bad guide and advisor if I knew nothing of these places.’

  She stared hard at the old man.

  ‘Tell me, old one, as you are of the knowledge. Do you know if Flann lives? Is he well? Can we rescue him?’

  The druid shrugged.

  ‘That is too much to ask and for you to know, daughter of Eola. Sometimes I can see shadows of what might be but that is not to say they will be. Nothing is preordained. There are possibilities written in the heavens at our birth but, like the gods, mortals are possessed of free will and what they do can change the path they tread if they use a firm step and do not wish to be the prisoners of fate. However, I can tell you this, my child: Aife, the High One, has no plans to kill Flann Mac Fraech yet.’

  Scáthach’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Yet? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing that you are not able to work out already, my child. Stay a while and meditate on events … so far you have been too busy reacting to events to seek to understand
them and by so understanding to control them. Think about them, for most of what you need in order to reason out their mysteries is before you.’ Scáthach made a gesture of impatience.

  ‘Do not speak in riddles, old one.’

  ‘I do not,’ replied Ruacán calmly. ‘Think.’

  Scáthach frowned and then shrugged.

  ‘I cannot understand.’

  The druid smiled softly.

  ‘That is because you are trying too hard, my child. Let yourself relax. Do not tense your thoughts. Relax and soon all will become clear to you as it is to me.’

  Still frowning, the girl turned away to lean by the rail of the ship, staring at the approaching shoreline. Sometimes she could curse the equivocation and smoothness of a druid’s tongue. She tried hard to fathom the old man’s meaning, turning events over in her mind, but no explanation came to her. All she knew was that Flann, with her new-won shield, the ocean god’s own ‘hard ridged hazel’ — An Seancholl Snidheach — as well as the gae-Bolga, the fearsome spear of Bolga, had been taken. According to the druid, they had been taken for a purpose by Aife, the High One, ruler of Lethra. The reason was there to see, so the old man had told her. But there was no reason that she could understand. She thought about the matter a little more before, with a sharp sigh of impatience, she gave up and concentrated on watching the Feannog approaching the shore of Aird nan Murchan, the gateway to the route to Dun Scaith.

  Bracan edged the ship towards a wooden quayside underneath the shadow of tall mountains, the heights of Machan after which the place was named. It was a tiny settlement which reminded Scáthach of some of the coastal settlements in Mumhan. The dwellings were built of stone against the harsh winds and there was a circular dun or fortress which stood above the settlement and guided it.

  Groups of people had come down to the quay to greet the Feannog as it docked. Cries of greeting were exchanged between some of the sailors and those on the quayside. This was the ship’s home port and Scáthach gathered it had been some months away on a trading cruise. Among the people hurrying down to the quay she saw a tall, fair-haired man; he was ruddy of cheek and well muscled, yet his weather-tanned face had humorous creases and the eyes shone with a hidden laughter. He was dressed in the accoutrements of a warrior. His gold tore around his neck gleamed dully in the cloudy daylight and his multi-coloured cloak denoted his high position in the settlement.