‘That is our chieftain, Laoch,’ observed Bracan.
The fair-haired man swung aboard and saluted Bracan.
‘What news, Bracan,’ he asked, coming forward from the well of the ship.
‘Not good,’ replied the sea-captain. ‘We lost Each and three of the crew in a storm off Gallia. A man named Goll, from Éireann, who replaced Each as mate, was drowned on the way here.’
The chieftain’s face clouded.
‘Bad news, indeed.’ He suddenly glanced at Scáthach with Ruacán at her shoulder. His eyes asked a question.
‘These are travellers. They took passage with us in Gallia,’ explained Bracan.
The chieftain frowned.
‘Travellers, eh? Where do you travel to? Aird nan Murchan is not on the route of most travellers.’
Scáthach smiled.
‘Greetings, Laoch. I am Scáthach of Uibh Rathach and this is Ruacán. We travel to Dun Scaith.’
Laoch took an involuntary step backwards in surprise. ‘A place of evil! What can you seek there?’
‘We go to rescue a friend of ours who was taken there as a prisoner by Aife of Lethra.’
‘Better lament your friend as one dead,’ replied the chieftain of Aird nan Murchan. ‘If he has been taken to the Island of Shadows then he is already beyond hope.’ Scáthach stuck out her chin.
‘That I shall never believe until it is a fact, Laoch.’ The chieftain gazed at the girl for a moment or two. ‘You speak bravely, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach; as brave as your name is a proud one. Oh yes, even here in Aird nan Murchan the bards sing songs about Uibh Rathach and of the might of Eola.’
‘I am the daughter of Eola,’ replied the girl.
The chieftain nodded.
‘I thought that might be. And by the way you name yourself, I believe that the grave of your father has been measured.’
Scáthach inclined her head.
‘It is so. And he was slain by those bearing the symbol of Lethra. From Éireann to Gallia has my search led me in pursuit of his slayers and those who forced my mother, Buimech, into an early grave. I will not be put off from my search until it is completed.’
Laoch looked at the girl with respect.
‘Then I will not attempt to,’ he replied simply, instead, allow me to extend to you the hospitality of Aird nan Murchan for this night and on the morrow I shall accompany you across the pass through the heights of Murchan,’ he waved to the mountains beyond, ‘and set your feet firmly on the path which leads to your destiny.’
Scáthach smiled.
‘We accept the hospitality of you and your people, Laoch.’
‘Excellent.’ The chieftain turned to Bracan. ‘I will conduct our guests to my dun. Join us there also, Bracan, when you have finished here.’
Bracan nodded assent.
‘I will have your horses disembarked,’ he said to the girl, ‘and bring them to Laoch’s fortress.’
‘And here is the rest of the money I owe,’ returned Scáthach, reaching into her purse and extracting the remaining gold pieces.
Bracan looked uncomfortable. He took the coins as if unwillingly.
‘If it were not to pay my crew, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach, I would refuse these coins. Alas, we were unable to take on a cargo at Lethra and we have four widows and their families to feed in Aird nan Murchan.’
The girl smiled.
‘You are an honest man, Bracan. I do not grudge you as we made a fair bargain.’
She turned with Ruacán and followed the chieftain, Laoch, from the ship onto the quayside.
People gathered round curiously, and the girl, for the first time in days, was able to take off her helmet and sling it at her side.
Laoch gazed at her attractive features in open approval.
‘Tell me, daughter of Eola,’ he said, falling in step with her, ‘why is it that you carry a war-helm the like of which I have never seen before; so fierce and yet so beautiful? Why is it that you carry a sword that might have been made by the gods? Why is it that you carry a javelin that warriors might fight over for possession of such a weapon. Why do you carry such weapons and yet do not carry a shield?’
Scáthach smiled ruefully.
The answer lies in Dun Scaith,’ she replied. ‘When Aife took my companion, Flann Mac Fraech, a prisoner, she also stole my shield and my battle-spear.’
Laoch had pursed his lips in surprise.
‘Did you say that your companion’s name was Flann Mac Fraech?’
Scáthach inclined her head in assent.
‘You know him?’
Laoch shrugged.
‘I know that there is a man who calls himself chieftain of the Cruithne of Éireann, one Aintiarna, who has sent envoys along the seaboard of the Gael with news of a reward for the head of Flann Mac Fraech. A reward of one hundred gold pieces.’
The girl bit her lip. She had almost forgotten the reason why Flann Mac Fraech had left Éireann.
Laoch smiled grimly.
‘Have no fear for most people along this coastline know that Aintiarna is a cruel tyrant and that Flann tried to free his people. There will be none who will accept Aintiarna’s reward … ’
‘Except?’ prompted Ruacán as the man hesitated.
Laoch grimaced.
‘Except those who now hold him prisoner.’
‘You mean Darcon of Dun Scaith?’ pressed the girl, her face pale.
‘Aintiarna and Darcon are two of a kind,’ replied the chieftain of Aird nan Murchan. ‘They are both spawned from the same egg; evil and powerful men who seize power and wield it for their own ends, not for the good of the people.’
Scáthach turned to Ruacán.
‘Then we must press on immediately,’ she said. ‘Flann is at their mercy.’
The old druid smiled.
‘The greater the haste, the less speed we will make, my child,’ he admonished. ‘Food and rest is what is required before we set out on this journey. Without food and rest we have no chance in facing the perils before us.’
‘In that there is wisdom,’ Laoch added. ‘Let me and the chosen of my warriors come with you for you will not be able to storm the ramparts of Dun Scaith alone.’
It was Ruacán the druid who shook his head.
‘While an army has to storm ramparts, Laoch, a single person can walk through the gates. While your offer is a sign of your bravery and honesty, it cannot be accepted. We must continue our journey alone.’
Laoch glanced uncertainly at Scáthach.
The girl smiled.
‘The old man is right, Laoch of Aird nan Murchan. Our task is better fulfilled alone.’
Laoch looked worried.
‘How can a girl and an old man hope to reduce the fortress of Darcon the Tyrant?’ he demanded.
Scáthach bridled.
‘Why, do I hear prejudice in your voice, Laoch? I can outfight any warrior, or any three warriors you care to send against me at the same time.’
Laoch raised a pacifying hand.
‘I do not doubt your ability, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach, but it is said that Darcon is the son of the Mórrigú, the goddess of death and battles. He can raise legions from the Otherworld to defend his ramparts.’
The girl eyed him steadily.
‘Knowing this, you still want to enlist yourself in my cause?’
Laoch shrugged expressively.
‘Can I let you go forth to face such odds alone?’ Ruacán intervened again.
‘Yes,’ he said shortly.
The girl glanced at him.
‘Would it not be better to have Laoch and his men to help us?’
The old druid’s brows drew together.
‘Have I let you down with my counsel yet, daughter of Eola?’
Scáthach thought a moment and shook her head.
‘Then we will continue our journey alone,’ said the old man firmly.
The girl sighed.
‘I am in your hands, Ruacán.’
The druid’s face re
laxed.
‘That is so. Now let us feast and rest and tomorrow, as the sun rises over the eastern mountains of Alba, Laoch will show us the pass across the heights of Murchan to the Plain of Ill-Luck.’
He turned and strode firmly before them up the path to Laoch’s fortress.
Laoch watched him for a moment, hesitated and sighed.
‘Who can know the mind of a druid?’ he said diffidently.
Scáthach smiled thinly.
‘This druid has stood me in good stead with his wisdom until now.’
The chieftain inclined his head.
‘May he continue to do so,’ he said softly.
Chapter Fifteen
Whoever had named the place the Plain of Ill-Luck had named it well. Since Scáthach and Ruacán had parted from Laoch at the top of the mountain pass on the heights of Murchan, they had entered another world. Twisting down from the brilliant lit mountainside, they had descended onto a plain which was shrouded in mist, a thick, swirling green vaporous cloud which stretched from the feet of the mountains as far as they could see which was not far.
‘Do not wander from the road,’ Laoch had warned, ‘for it stretches through mires and bogs which will swallow you and your horses within moments.’
In fact, after a mile or so, Scáthach realised that the only way forward was to dismount and lead her horse, with Ruacán following behind leading both his own mount and Flann’s horse which they had brought with them. The pathway was so narrow that two could not go abreast upon it. It was a restricted strip of stone-laid pathway which twisted and turned like a serpent. On either side, in spite of the green vaporous clouds which wafted over it, the girl was aware of steamy, muddy boglands, belching with gasses and filled with strange noises which made her shiver in spite of herself.
‘This is truly an evil place,’ she called to the old druid.
‘It is a place of testing,’ replied Ruacán.
‘Testing?’ queried the girl. ‘Testing of what?’
‘Of oneself, daughter of Eola.’
The girl sniffed disdainfully and turned her attention back along the path. The swirling mist seemed to distort sounds in the eerie gloom. Now and then she would pause and listen as a strange noise caught her attention. What creatures inhabited the boglands? Once she was so intent on listening to curious noises, an odd chirping cry, that she slipped from the path and had she not been holding the bridle of her horse would have fallen into its cold, eager, soft hands which clawed at her legs almost vice-like in their embrace.
Ruacán came shuffling forward along the pathway to help extract her. The smell of the green-black mud which clung to her body was putrid. As the old druid helped pull her out of the sticky mess, the mud let her go with a sound almost like a human sigh.
For a moment or two Scáthach sat on the pathway, shivering a little.
She raised her eyes to the old man and her thanks were silent.
‘We should not remain here longer,’ advised Ruacán.
She nodded and climbed to her feet.
Once more they moved off slowly through the swirling mist.
It was an hour later that the thickness of the mist began to dispel, becoming more low lying and patchy. But the sky above, when they had a glimpse of it, was grey, almost black, and offered little cheer. They were still passing through swampy bogland from which the gnarled fingers of dead trees poked, black and gaunt, from the stagnant waters. The path twisted on through the perilous swamp.
Once or twice Scáthach had the feeling that they were being watched. Once she thought she saw a movement beyond the trees of some vast dim form from the nightmare-spawning shadows. Her hand went to the hilt of her sword and her mouth pressed into a thin grim line.
Her thoughts began to fill with a chill fear.
‘This is the place of testing, daughter of Eola,’ came Ruacán’s whisper as if he felt her fear.
‘I am not afraid of anything which is real and of this earth,’ replied the girl.
‘Nor must you be afraid of shadows,’ responded the old druid. ‘Clear your mind. Clear it as your mother, Buimech, taught you, and do not fear the unseen. If you fear, then you have lost.’
Scáthach frowned. Her greatest fear, as a child, was of creatures from the world of shadows. She had hoped that she had been able to dispel such fears but she knew that they were being dredged into her mind once more.
‘How can I not be afraid of that I do not see?’ she demanded.
‘How can you be afraid of it when it does not exist?’ countered the old man.
She bit her lip. Across the bogland, with its swamps and mires, she could feel hostility, a hostility to her and humankind such as she had never felt before. The misty plain swarmed with entities which were inimical to her, semi-sentient things which were an ever-present danger to her physical and spiritual wellbeing. There was no logic in this. No gods of lightness had set foot here. This was not their domain. Here the world was dying or dead, and in its gloom there crouched creatures of darkness and evil, waiting to pounce and strike, attracted by the humans as they moved through the frightening vista, for whom only spiritual integrity was their armour.
Scáthach suddenly halted and smiled.
She half turned to Ruacán.
‘I think I understand now,’ she said. ‘I will try to make my spirit worthy of this test.’
From the surrounding murkiness there came the terrifying roaring of creatures in rage and anger.
‘Yes. I understand,’ she repeated with a soft smile.
Ruacán nodded slowly.
‘That is good, daughter of Eola. For those who smile at the darkness will not succumb to it dangers.’
They pushed on through the chill swamps, the quiet of their journey punctuated now and then by the shrill cries of rage and disappointment, by the splash of unseen things sinking into the muddy depths of the mires through which they picked their way.
Three times they halted as they came to the remains of whitened bones — human bones, with skeletal hands clutching vainly at rusting swords and shields. They marked the places where others had succumbed to their fears. The girl stepped carefully over the grim remnants that strewed their path and proceeded without a backward glance.
Then the ground started to rise, away from the swampy lowlands. The pathway began to grow broader and more easy to travel. It rose gently, rose away from the Plain of Ill-Luck and pushed its way through the mist into clearer air. They followed the pathway over another range of mountains but, Scáthach noticed, the sky was almost black, like night. Dark storm clouds scudded low in the sky and now and then came an occasional ominous rumble of thunder, but they could see no flash of lightning. By the time they reached a fork in the peaks through which the path took them into the valley beyond it the world was as black and chill as night.
‘Where is this place?’ demanded Scáthach.
Ruacán smiled gravely.
‘We have emerged from the Plain of Ill-Luck and now we must traverse the Perilous Glen.’
‘What manner of evil shall we encounter?’ demanded the girl.
The old druid shrugged.
‘What manner of evil do you fear, daughter of Eola?’
She frowned, was about to press him for a further explanation, and then shrugged.
They moved on down the pathway into the valley beyond. There was no sun. Now the sky was so black with low storm clouds that the visibility was limited. Threatening thunder rumbled constantly and ice-cold rain began to patter on them chilling their bones. All around the glen the mountain sides rose steeply with high ragged tops that were like shadows in the gloom. There was no colour in the glen, no vegetation; the earth was burnt like a wasteland. No trees nor flowers carpeted the muddy flats and where the gnarled branches of a tree stretched imploringly to the heavens it was as if the wood was rotten and crumbling. Here and there a pool of stagnant water lay with foul-smelling odours. It was a scene of utter desolation.
Unlike the swamp and its mires, th
e path was fairly visible in spite of the blackness of the day and they mounted their horses. However, in case of danger they walked them slowly along the pathway, Scáthach keeping a careful watch in the chill gloom for any menace which might emerge.
This is well named, Ruacán,’ she smiled. The Perilous Glen.’
‘But we have yet to see its perils,’ replied the old druid.
As if in reply there was a sudden flash of lightning. So close did it strike to them that Scáthach was momentarily blinded. She blinked her eyes for a moment and opened them just in time for the crash of thunder to shake the ground around them. Her horse shied nervously, and she bent forward to coax it and quieten its skittishness.
It was then that she saw the beast.
It stood to a height three times that of a tall man, a great creature sitting on its haunches on two powerful legs. Its great body tapered from its huge thighs upwards to a tiny snake-like head with serpent eyes and flickering tongue. Its forelimbs were short, much shorter than the muscular hind feet, yet with talons that could obviously tear its prey without effort. It squatted on the road ahead, its black eyes watching them with malevolence.
Scáthach swallowed hard as she took in the powerful beast.
When she was a child, listening to the stories of the bards, she had heard of such creatures which dwelt in the grim, dark lands of the Fomorii, the lords of evil. Heroes had gone forth to do battle with such creatures and never returned. For some time, as a child, she had nightmares of such creatures, of being alone and unarmed as they moved down on her. Now the nightmare was a reality.
She swung her war-helm from its thong and placed it on her head, and then she took the Corr-Bholg,, the javelin which The Dagda, Father of the Gods, had given to his son Manánnan Mac Lir, the ocean god. It was light and quivered in her hand. Yet she wished she had the more powerful gae-Bolga which would enter with one wound and open out into thirty barbs once it had penetrated the flesh. With that she could face this fierce beast which barred their path.
‘Stay back, Ruacán!’ she called, making ready to meet the beast.
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