Island of Shadows

by Peter Tremayne

  The other girl chuckled sourly.

  ‘No way you can purchase Flann Mac Fraech’s freedom. My brother Darcon seeks service from Aintiarna of the Cruitin and by giving your boy-warrior to the chieftain he will secure that service.’

  ‘It means Flann’s death,’ cried Scáthach.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted the other calmly.

  It was no use wasting time pleading with Aife.

  ‘And what is my fate?’

  ‘Your fate?’

  ‘Am I to be imprisoned for ever?’

  The girl with the silver helmet shook her head.

  ‘So long as you are alive you are a threat to me, Scáthach.’

  ‘But how?’ cried the girl in exasperation.

  ‘Know that and you would know all … and know my weakness,’ responded the other.

  ‘So you plan to kill me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Am I to be allowed to know how and when?’

  The High One of Lethra shrugged, ‘I must think about it.’

  Scáthach took a step forward.

  ‘You are clad in the accoutrements of a warrior. Is that for show and can you wield a sword?’

  The other responded sharply.

  ‘No man nor woman can gain victory over me,’ she said.

  ‘Then give me my weapons and let me meet you in fair fight,’ Scáthach cried. ‘Let us end whatever it is between us by honest and fair means. Let us try the matter in single combat.

  Aife held her head to one side and examined the girl, it would surely be an interesting sport,’ she conceded after a while, ‘I will give some thought to the matter. It would be stimulating to match one’s mettle with a worthy opponent.’

  ‘Then meet me, if von h not fear my sword,’ pressed Scáthach.

  ‘You seem anxious to throw away your life so quickly.’

  ‘Perhaps. But if I win … do you promise that I shall go free with Flann Mac Fraech?’

  Aife hesitated.

  ‘You will not win. I am Aife the High One of Lethra and no one has ever bested me in single combat.’

  ‘There is always a first time,’ countered Scáthach. ‘Anyway, if I win I shall have my freedom and the freedom of Flann Mac Fraech, Is it agreed?’

  Aife was quiet.

  ‘I shall give the matter thought,’ was all she said. For a moment or so she stood looking at Scáthach as if weighing up her character and physical prowess and then she turned and vanished down the corridor.

  With a deep sigh, Scáthach flung herself back on the wooden cot. She felt annoyed at the lack of response she had provoked in Aife. If only the woman had been provoked, perhaps she could have escaped from this tomb like imprisonment. It was so hard to tell what the woman thought when her face was hidden behind the mask of her helmet. Many thoughts now flew through the girl’s mind. Why was Aife of Lethra scared of her? What was the prophecy she had mentioned? What was Scáthach’s connection with Lethra? Why had Aife lured her to this Island of Shadows? Just to kill her? Why not have her captured and killed in Lethra? She felt frustrated that her mind produced so many questions and no answers.

  Angrily she stood up and went to the bars.

  ‘Twenty-Seven,’ she called urgently. ‘Are you there?’

  There was a pause and then the tired, elderly voice of the prisoner came echoing back.

  ‘I am here.’

  ‘It is I, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach. I am in a cell not far from you.’

  ‘I know. Cuar has said he will punish me if he catches me talking with you again … ’ there was a hesitation and then the voice said firmly: ‘I do not care. I hate Cuar.’

  ‘Good man,’ replied the girl. ‘Tell me, Twenty-Seven, what do you know or remember of this place?’

  ‘This place?’

  ‘What do you know of Dun Scaith, of Darcon and Aife, his sister.’

  ‘Ah,’ there was a long pause.

  ‘Are you there, Twenty-Seven?’ called Scáthach after several moments of silence.

  ‘I am here.’

  ‘What do you know?’ pressed the girl.

  ‘Darcon is the son of the Mórrigú, goddess of death and battles. He is the spawn of darkness and evil and leads his life accordingly. He seized this island from its people and constructed Dun Scaith to exploit and oppress them.’

  ‘And Aife of Lethra?’

  ‘She is Darcon’s half-sister. They do not share the same father but their mother is the Mórrigú, the same evil one. Aife rules in Lethra and a miserable place she makes it, so they say. Anyone who stands against them perishes or is incarcerated, just as I have been all these years … so many years that I cannot remember. I am … I am … Twenty-Seven!’

  The crack of a whip ended the frail voice’s recitation with a cry of pain.

  ‘Dog! Spawn of a dog!’ came the harsh cry of Cuar, the hunchback. ‘Did I not warn you? Now I will peel the skin from your bones with my whip to show you that you cannot defy me!’

  ‘Stop, little man!’ cried Scáthach, pressing forward. ‘If you harm that man I shall kill you before another day passes.’

  There was a silence and then the evil hunchback came scuttling down the shadowy corridor, his lips drawn back in an evil grin.

  ‘What’s that you say, my pretty?’

  Scáthach drew back from the range of the threatening whip.

  ‘Unlock the door and step in here, little man, and I will repeat what I have to say to you. You spawn of a maggot!’

  Cuar blinked, holding his head to one side as if he had not heard correctly.

  ‘I think that it is time you were taught a lesson, my pretty,’ he hissed venomously.

  ‘Are you man enough to try?’

  Scáthach was deliberately provocative, stepping back into the shadows, her muscles tensing. So much depended on what reaction Cuar had.

  With a sudden stream of curses, the hunchback had seized a key from his belt and was unlocking the cell door.

  He was still fumbling when Scáthach launched herself at him, throwing herself from the ground and landing feet first on the chest of the vicious little man. The dwarf staggered backwards, dropping the key, his tiny malignant eyes blazing in anger at being knocked off his guard.

  The girl was on her feet again, springing upwards, both hands reaching towards the handle of the whip he held.

  She was surprised at how strong the little man was. She tried to twist the whip from his grasp but his short arms were full of hardened muscle. To and fro they struggled for mastery of the whip and then, with an explosion of strength, Cuar flung the girl from him so that she landed on the far side of the cell.

  Back went his arm to bring the whip into play, but before he could strike, the girl was bounding towards him once again, twisting her body into the air and smashing down with both feet against his chest.

  This time it was his turn to sprawl backwards, landing full-length on the stone paving, yet still holding tightly to his whip.

  Scáthach was up in a thrice. There was no time to conduct this fight with the honour code of a warrior. She stamped one foot firmly into his ugly face. He cried aloud in agony. As she made to stamp again, he grasped her ankle in one powerful hand and twisted it aside so that she lost her balance. For a moment or two she tottered, struggling to regain her balance and then fell crashing down. One of his short legs kicked out, catching her in the side of the head.

  She grunted and rolled away, not a moment too soon, for the whip smashed down, cracking like a serpent on the floor where she had been a split second before.

  Once more she rolled upwards, onto her feet.

  Cuar was prepared, holding his whip and grinning fiendishly.

  Scáthach glanced round desperately and snatched the wooden cot as a shield. She raised the wooden frame just as the leather tongue of the whip smashed towards her, cracking so hard against the wooden planks that one of them splintered immediately.

  ‘I’ll teach you a lesson, my pretty,’ breathed the dwarf, chuckling hoarsely.<
br />
  He lashed out again.

  Once more the girl used the wooden cot as a shield and once more the tip of the whip bit so strong at the wood that more splinters broke away.

  Then, with a cry, the girl went charging towards the little man, trying to time her run while he was recovering from his stroke. She crashed the wooden frame against him, driving him backwards.

  This time he was driven against the bars of the cell.

  Scáthach dropped her hold on the wooden cot and once more caught his whip hand, bending it backwards through the bars, using them as a fulcrum in order to wrest the whip from his grasp. He cried out in pain but the little man’s wrists and arms were very strong. They struggled determinedly but the girl realised that for all his smallness the dwarf possessed the strength of several men. It was a matter of time before he would overcome her.

  There was only one way out and that was to try to trick him, gain time enough to seize the key from where he had dropped it on the floor and shut him into the cell.

  She glanced round, her eyes anxiously searching the floor for the key. She saw it near the doorway. How could she divert Cuar’s attention long enough to gain the key, slam the door and lock it?

  She was holding onto his whip hand for dear life, while the little man, grunting and groaning in the effort, was slowly pushing her hold back.

  She moved her head forward and sunk her teeth into the little man’s wrist, biting with all her might into the stinking, putrid flesh.

  The little man gave a squeal of agony and suddenly his hand opened, in an attempt to shake her off, and the whip dropped from it.

  In an instance, she had seized the chance, bounding away from him and scooping up the key.

  But as fast as Scáthach was, the little man was faster.

  With a yell of rage, he rolled after her, grabbing at her ankle and jerking it with such force that the girl went sprawling, her hand a good yard from the precious key. Not loosening his grip on her leg, the hunchback drew her painfully across the stone floor. Then, chortling with a malignant glee, he jumped to his discarded whip and gathered it up.

  Scáthach, desperate now, scrambled up.

  Cuar, however, had placed himself between the open doorway of the cell and her, forcing her back against the rear wall of the cell.

  He was smiling and cooing, like a mother to a baby, as he gathered the long, leather thong of the whip in his hand.

  The girl glanced round desperately. She was being pressed back against the wall.

  She made a move to one side but the length of rawhide shot out, its black tongue striking at a spot just inches from her eye and dislodging the plaster. She darted in the other direction to be met with a similar warning.

  ‘Now, now, my pretty,’ breathed the little man. ‘We have played enough games, haven’t we? And soon you will beg me to put an end to your misery.’

  He moved backward, his close-set eyes measuring the distance, the whip straight and ready for the cut.

  Scáthach set her mouth in a grim, determined line. She was not going to cry out nor beg mercy of this evil little creature. She had made up her mind on that score. She tried to gather her remaining strength for one final onslaught on the hunchback jailer.

  Back went the whip.

  She closed her eyes, prepared to meet its painful sting.

  ‘Stop!’

  The voice was a familiar high-pitched wheeze.

  She opened her eyes. In the doorway of the cell crouched the harridan, Eis Enchenn, her thigh bone thrust out towards Cuar as if indicating her authority. Behind her stood half a dozen black coated warriors, their swords drawn.

  Cuar stood uncertainly. He made no move to put down his whip.

  ‘I said, stop!’ the crone demanded again.

  ‘The girl needs punishment,’ the hunchback said sullenly.

  ‘She will get it, but by another hand than yours,’ the crone snapped waspishly. ‘Now put down your whip unless you want to find yourself whipped to death,’

  Muttering sullenly, the little man gathered his whip and hung it on his belt. Then he suddenly reached towards the girl’s neck and snatched the chain and gold medallion with a flick of his wrist, causing a red weal to appear on her flesh where he dragged it from her.

  She could not repress a cry of pain.

  Cuar smiled.

  ‘This will go towards paying me for the trouble you have caused me, pretty one,’ he sneered, placing the medallion around his own thick neck. Then he turned to Eis Enchenn. ‘Is she to be executed?’ he demanded, gesturing to Scáthach.

  The crone wheezed with laughter.

  ‘She might wish that was her fate after a while. No, she is to be taken to the great hall to face Darcon and Aife.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Scáthach stood in the centre of the great hall of Dun Scaith. While she had not been bound, two warriors with drawn swords stood at her side, slightly behind her. The hall was lit with innumerable glowing torches, and its size and magnificence had caused the girl to catch her breath in awe. Great pillars of stone stretched upwards, supporting the roof which was so high that it was shrouded in gloom for the light did not penetrate so far above. The walls were covered in hanging tapestries of exquisite workmanship, many bearing designs and symbols the like of which she had never seen before. The floor itself was of large stone flags polished by constant use to a curious sheen in which the torchlight was reflected. However, in spite of the torchlight, the atmosphere was one of gloom and dankness. And in spite of the fact that the hall was filled with people, there was an oppressive quiet permeating the place, a sense of despondent, joyless melancholy among those grouped around the edges of the great hall who stared nervously at the girl as she entered with her guards and stood waiting.

  At one end of the hall there rose a dais to which a series of stone steps lead. This platform was covered in rugs and placed on it was a great chair of carved oak, inlaid with what appeared to be gold and silver. It was an imposing chair. A smaller chair of similar design stood a little to one side. Behind the chairs stood a row of grim-faced warriors, shields and javelins in hand. Before the larger chair, squatting on the steps, crouched the grinning harridan, Eis Enchenn, clad in her stinking animal skins and crooning softly to herself as she gazed on the girl with a speculative expression in her one malignant eye. She stroked the giant thigh bone with her skeletal hand as she made a weird humming noise in her scrawny throat.

  There was a movement behind the dais and in came the lithe figure of Aife, clad as Scáthach had seen her in the dungeons, her face covered by her visored silver helmet, her long black cloak flowing from her shoulders but not disguising her long-limbed attractive figure clad in her warrior’s harness. She walked to the smaller of the two chairs and lowered herself gracefully into its comfortable embrace. Scáthach could see her full red lips under the visor, drawn back and smiling.

  Standing a little to one side of Aife was a plump man of middle-age, wearing rich robes and jewellery which seemed to indicate that he carried the office of a druid.

  There was a shuffling movement among the people now, a slight increase of tension and then a tall man entered. He was clad from neck to ankle in black, a black tunic, kirtle and cloak fastened with trappings of black leather. His face was thin and swarthy and his hair matched the blackness of his dress for its was almost blue-black and shone like a raven’s wing. His eyes were black and restless, his lips thin and red. Under his left eye there appeared a nervous tic, causing his face to twitch every so often like a horse shying. There was only one relief to his black garb and that was a silver half-moon which hung on a silver chain from his deck. Scáthach’s eyes narrowed as she saw the strange druidic symbols on it. The man was not old, nor could it be said he was young. Even before he sank into the great chair, Scáthach had realised that this was Darcon the Tyrant, reputed son of the Mórrigú, goddess of death and battles.

  She gazed on him in curiosity; openly, defiantly. At once she detected in his featu
res a meanness of character and a cruel streak which supported the stories she had heard of his tyranny. In turn she found him staring at her with an inquisitive look, a look akin to amazement. Twice he glanced at Aife by his side and turned back with a shake of his head.

  For a long while no one spoke and then Eis Enchenn raised her thigh bone, shaking it in the air, and cackling in her shrill voice.

  ‘Woe to the enemies of the great king, Darcon. May they wither and perish at his glance. All powerful is the king. Avert your eyes lest his magnificence blind you. Woe to those who would think evil of him.’

  Darcon turned his brooding dark gaze from the girl to the crone and his face grimaced with annoyance.

  ‘Is there any here that would question my power?' he said slowly, his voice an ominous growl.

  Eyes were turned on Scáthach. She remained silent.

  Darcon waited a moment, his eyebrows rising as if in surprise.

  'You do not speak, woman.’

  He addressed the remark directly to the girl.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Do you not question my power?’

  Scáthach smiled.

  ‘Your power? No. I do not question that you have power.'

  The subtlety of her response escaped him and he sat back frowning in perplexity.

  ‘Why did you come to my fortress?’

  ‘I came in search of that which was stolen from me,’ replied the girl, gazing steadily at Aife who was continuing to sit back with a smile on her face.

  ‘What was stolen from you?’

  ‘My friend and companion, Flann Mac Fraech, my shield and my hunting spear.’

  Darcon gave a dry chuckle.

  ‘You must value these things highly to cross the seas in search of them.’

  ‘I do. I have no quarrel with you, Darcon, save that you give shelter to she who took Flann prisoner and stole that which belonged to me. I have no quarrel with you, Darcon, save when I came to your fortress your doorkeeper took me captive by stealth and your jailer used me ill. For this, I now have a quarrel with you.’