Darcon stared in surprise at the defiant tone of the girl. He frowned in anger and then Eis Enchenn started to cackle shrilly.
‘Darcon must crouch in terror before this slip of a girl,’ she cried. ‘Darcon the powerful is challenged by a girl without weapons, a slip of a girl who is an unarmed prisoner in his hall.’
A nervous ripple of laughter at the wit of the crone came from those gathered.
Darcon sat back, nodding.
‘You frighten me, indeed, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach,’ he sneered. ‘But, out of your own mouth, you have convicted yourself of actions that are antagonistic to me. For that you must die.’
The girl’s jaw came up but she said no more.
Then Aife leaned forward and whispered something to Darcon. The dark man frowned and appeared to disagree with her but the High One of Lethra spoke more insistently. Darcon finally shrugged and turned back to Scáthach.
‘My sister tells me that you have pretensions to being a warrior?’ he spoke scornfully.
‘I am Scáthach of Uibh Rathach,’ replied the girl simply.
‘Then I am in mind for some amusement. So is my sister, Aife of Lethra. She tells me that earlier you challenged her to single combat. She accepts that challenge and will fight you.'
There was a gasp of astonishment around the hall. The man who stood just behind Aife bent forward and whispered urgently to her but she waved him away.
‘Enough, Droch!’ Scáthach heard the girl say.
Even Eis Enchenn stared up in surprise as Aife rose from her seat and threw off her black cloak.
Scáthach felt her heart leap in a surge of hope.
‘If I am defeated, I shall die,’ she said, controlling her emotion. ‘What if I win?’
Darcon chuckled.
‘That will not be,’ he assured her.
‘But if I do?’ insisted Scáthach.
Darcon raised his arms and let them fall. There was a broad smile on his face.
‘Then you shall go free.’
Instinctively, the girl did not trust him. Her eyes narrowed. At least combat provided her with a chance where she had no chance before. But if she defeated Aife then she would have to get to Darcon’s side before he turned his guard on her for she knew he would not honour his promise. Her only hope would be to force him to keep it.
‘And that which was stolen from me, my shield and spear?’
‘They shall be returned,’ Aife assured her, cutting in before Darcon could reply.
‘And Flann Mac Fraech? Will you release him?’
Darcon was growing angry now.
‘No. He is mine to sell to Aintiarna of the Cruithne. Enough of this bargaining. Let the combat commence.’
Scáthach bit her lip. It was useless pressing further. Anyway, promises made by Darcon and Aife were worthless. She would have to rely on her own cunning to extract herself should she win the combat.
Aife walked slowly down from the dais and came to stand within a few feet of Scáthach, examining her with a strange probing gaze.
‘Shall it be swords and shields, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach?’
The girl shrugged indifferently. She knew the extent of her prowess with all weapons and had no preference.
‘Very well,’ Aife smiled. ‘Swords and shields.’
She turned to one of the guards.
‘Bring us weapons.’
A moment later a warrior came forward holding the weapons which he proffered to both women.
Scáthach frowned as she examined the weapons which she had been given.
‘I would prefer my own weapons,’ she said.
Aife chuckled.
‘Doubtless. I have heard that they possess magic propensity. No, Scáthach. You will fight with these weapons. You would not claim advantage over me, would you?’
The girl shrugged and took the shield, balancing it for weight before putting it on her arm. Then she took the sword and, once again, weighed it in her hand.
‘I am satisfied,’ she said.
Aife took her weapons indifferently and stood ready.
Darcon raised his hand to quiet the murmur which had been running through the onlookers as they bunched around the walls of the great hall.
‘Let this be a combat to the death,’ he called. ‘No quarter must be asked nor given.’
‘Agreed,’ responded Aife, smiling at her opponent.
‘Agreed,’ echoed Scáthach hollowly.
‘Then Eis Enchenn will ensure that the combat is conducted by the rules of such engagements.’
The old woman came forward, croaking with glee and waving her thigh bone totem above her shaggy grey head.
‘Are you ready?’
Both women nodded and brought their weapons to the guard position, crouching in preparation for the combat.
‘Then … to the death!’
The other woman’s voice was raised in a scream and she brought the thigh bone down as if it was a cudgel on a head.
Both women did not move for a moment, eyeing each other warily. They were frozen into their crouching pose.
It was Aife who made the first feint, taking in a deep breath and thrusting forward, stamping her right leg before her to give force to her action. The blow was easily parried by Scáthach with an upward turn of her shield, causing the sword point to slither harmlessly up and over her shoulder. Before she could counter, Aife had jumped backwards beyond reach.
It was clear to Scáthach by the movements her rival demonstrated that Aife had been trained well in the art of combat and that the fight would not be a foregone conclusion.
The girl decided to test her opponent’s skill to the limit.
With a sudden flurry, she moved forward briskly, shield to the fore, sword swinging in rapid motions, the smashing of metal against metal causing the great hall to reverberate with noise. No sooner had Aife parried one blow than Scáthach struck the next. Backward in a circle was Aife driven as Scáthach smashed blow after blow against her, so quickly that many of the spectators could not even see them before they struck. Yet Aife parried them all with either sword or shield, her teeth barred at the effort of countering the onslaught.
Eis Enchenn watched the fight with her one tiny red glowing eye full of venom, hissing angrily each time Scáthach appeared to take the advantage and smiling and chortling each time Aife took command.
The druid, Droch, watched with a frown and, not being a warrior and thereby understanding the nature of the combat, he let forth a wail of despair as he saw Aife apparently being pushed back around the hall by the fierce attack of Scáthach.
Darcon, too, was watching with a worried frown as the two girls fought. His face was concerned and it was obvious he was wondering whether his sister had taken on more than she could handle in accepting Scáthach’s challenge. Once he rose in his chair and raised a hand as if to summon the guards.
Scáthach saw the movement from the corner of her eyes and knew what to expect even if she won the combat. She would have to move swiftly and ensure that Darcon was in her power before he had time to act against her.
She had paused in her onslaught against Aife. The purpose of the attack had been to discover just how skilled her opponent was. Now she had ascertained that Aife was as skilful as she was. It would be no easy task to bring the combat to a quick close.
Suddenly, it was Aife who was attacking, moving forward viciously with quick, slashing strokes, her full body-weight behind the effort. Now Scáthach was hard pressed to defend the weighty blows from landing; only one blow need land and the contest would be over. With shield first, then sword, she countered the flashing steel. Now it was the turn of Eis Enchenn to chuckle and shrill in delight, waving her thigh bone totem in encouragement. Darcon had sunk back into his chair, nodding approval and grinning as his sister seemed to be gaining the upper hand. Droch, too, was smiling broadly in pleasure. It was, indeed, the turn of Scáthach to be driven backward and appear to be in trouble. But only a trained warrior would notice that in
spite of the fierce onslaught of Aife’s blows, Scáthach was not over-reaching herself in her defensive counter measures.
Deep in the dungeons of Dun Scaith, Cuar the hunchback jailer spat on the floor in disgust. A guard had informed him of the combat going on above.
The girl should not have been accorded the privilege and honour of being slain in combat,’ he muttered. ‘I would have given her the slow death, peeled her skin piece by piece from her body.’
He patted his whip and smirked.
The warrior who had brought the news gazed at the little man uncomfortably for, like many in Darcon’s fortress, he held the little hunchback in fear.
‘I was also to tell you that a ship from Aintiarna of the Cruithne has dropped anchor in our harbour and you are to prepare the man from Éireann, Flann Mac Fraech, for embarkation.’
Cuar sniffed.
‘Am I to be left no pleasures?’ he whined, protestingly. ‘Are there no prisoners with whom I can have some sport?’
The warrior shrugged and, having delivered his message, he turned and scuttled away, out of the gloom of the dungeons and up into the bright sunlight above the ground, thankful to be gone from the vicious little dwarf.
Cuar turned down the passageway and then hesitated outside a cell door.
‘Are you still there, Twenty-Seven?’ he called.
There was a rustling within the pitch black cell and then a tired voice said: ‘What is it that you want?’
Cuar chuckled grimly.
‘You do not sound happy, Twenty-Seven. Perhaps it is because I have not given you enjoyment today. Perhaps you need exercise … to dance, dance at the end of my whip, eh?’
There was no sound of reply.
The hunchback cursed. Sometimes it was not fun when the prisoners did not respond. Well, he would … his hand was halfway to the cell door when he remembered his errand and sighed, turning on down the passageway until he came to a small flight of stairs which led to a lower level. It was dark as a tomb at this level and he was forced to pause and light a torch. By its light he continued down to a cell at the foot of the stairs.
At the sound of his key in the lock a voice called out.
‘Who is there?’
Cuar smiled and drew his whip, cracking it in the darkness.
‘I am Cuar the jailer, man of Éireann. Remember that. I hold you in my power.’
‘What is it you want?’
Flann Mac Fraech blinked in the light of the torch. It was the first time he had seen light since he had arrived in this awesome place several days ago. In fact he was not sure how long he had been entombed in the lower dungeons of the fortress.
‘Why should I come with you?’ he demanded, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands and blinking to adjust to the light.
Cuar’s whip cracked out and Flann yelped in pain, catching at his shoulder where the weapon had cut through his jerkin.
‘Because I say so, whelp of a dog!’ hissed the hunchback.
He prodded Flann from the cell and pushed him, stumbling in his weakness, up the steps to the upper level.
‘Your companion arrived today,’ the hunchback said slyly.
Flann frowned.
‘What do you mean, little man?’
‘Why, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach, she called herself.’
Flann’s mouth opened in surprise, a wild hope gleamed in his eyes. He half turned. Once more Cuar’s whip cracked and the young warrior felt the pain of the lash.
‘Keep walking, scum,’ snapped the jailer.
‘Where is she?’ Flann demanded.
The jailer laughed harshly.
‘Dead or dying by now,’ he said shortly.
Flann halted, a feeling of despair and sadness sweeping over him.
‘Move!’ cried the jailer.
Flann whirled round, the despair turning to anger. He moved towards the jailer, his hands outstretched as if to throttle him. Cuar sprang backwards and struck out with his whip. Flann halted; for a moment or two he did not feel the sting of the whip, so great was his anger and sorrow at the news. Then he moved backwards, a step or two.
‘Back, you dog!’ hissed the little jailer, ‘or else I shall carve you into pieces,’
‘Better to do that if Scáthach is no more,’ muttered Flann.
Cuar bit his lip.
He knew it was hopeless to control a prisoner if that prisoner had no desire to live.
He fumbled for a key and opened the door to the nearest cell; it was the cell of Number Twenty-Seven.
‘Get in there!’ he commanded, lashing the air above Flann’s head with his whip.
Flann moved automatically, head hanging as he contemplated a world without Scáthach of Uibh Rathach.
The jailer swung the door shut and turned the key.
‘You will wait there until I send warriors for you,’ smiled the little man. ‘A ship has been sent for you from your friend Aintiarna of the Cruithne.’
‘It makes no difference to me,’ replied Flann. it makes no difference to me what happens now.’
Then it should,’ smirked the hunchback. ‘For your friend Scáthach is fighting a single combat in the hall above with your freedom as the prize.’
‘You said she was dead!’ Flann cried out, angrily gripping the bars of the cell.
‘I said she was probably dead or dying. And so she might be. She is matched against Aife. No one can best Aife of Lethra. And if they do … why Darcon will have her slain. She is doomed anyway.’
Flann cursed the hunchback with all the fluency he could muster.
The little man went on his way chuckling. He would call the warriors from Aintiarna’s ship to escort him. Flann was their responsibility now.
Flann paused for breath.
A tired voice said: ‘That is no use, my friend. I, too, cursed the little one night and day when I was first brought here. Now it is as much as I can do to move across the cell to get my food.’
Flann turned into the darkness. All he could see was a shadowy form at the back of the cell.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
The man shrugged.
‘I have been here so long that I have forgotten. I am known only as Number Twenty-Seven.’
‘Have you no idea of your identity, of where you came from?’ Flann said in disbelief.
‘I recall I was a chieftain in my young manhood. That I came from a far-off sunny land. I came in peace to trade on behalf of my people who were sore afflicted by drought and was taken prisoner by Darcon the Tyrant. I have been a prisoner here for many, many years.’
Flann moved forward.
Then you may be lucky, my friend. I am soon to be taken back to my own country, the land of the Cruithne, ruled over by my arch-enemy, Aintiarna. I am being taken there to be killed.’
Then it is you who are lucky, my friend. For that means that soon your troubles will be ended. I exist here in a living death.’
Flann hesitated and realised that what the other said was true. Better to die in freedom than live in slavery.
He felt his way to the cot on which the other man sat and in the darkness held out his hand.
‘You are right, my brother. You suffer the heavier fate. Ah, but if there was a way to escape from this place.’
The other man sighed softly.
Twenty years ago I would have jumped at those words. I have sought escape for so long that I have despaired of it. There is nothing to do, my friend, except to wait for the resolution of one’s destiny.’
In the great hall, high above the dungeons of the fortress, Scáthach and Aife crouched, facing each other. Their movements were a little more sluggish now as their bodies weakened from the exertions of the combat. Sweat poured freely from their faces and their lunges and parries were slower and more cautious.
Darcon, sitting on his chair, began fretting with impatience. Once he cried out: ‘Come, Aife; cease playing with her and finish the combat.’
It was easier said than done, for every ma
noeuvre and stratagem Aife started was encountered and parried by Scáthach. Time and time again she struck forward, sometimes in cunning attack and at other times in a desperate attempt to overwhelm her opponent by sheer swiftness and strength. Time and again, her moves were countered.
Then came attacks from Scáthach, as fast and as furious as her own, but the girls were so evenly matched that Aife was able to stop them pressing home.
The combat was a stalemate. Had it not been for the determination of the combatants, for the hostility of Darcon and Eis Enchenn, then the combat would have been stopped and the contest declared a draw. But it was to be a combat to the death.
Slowly they circled, warily watching for an opening, a chance to rush forward.
It was a slow business and the crowds gathered in the great hall were growing restless as they saw that the contest could continue for ever.
Just as it seemed that no progress would be made at all, Aife suddenly lunged forward, her sword point aiming for Scáthach’s midriff, left unguarded by a change of position. Swiftly Scáthach brought her shield down to ward off the blow and, had it landed, the shield would have easily deflected it. But the blow did not land. Somehow Aife’s foot slipped and she toppled and lost her balance.
A great gasp went up from those gathered in the hallway as they saw the High One of Lethra go down.
At once Scáthach moved to take advantage of the position.
Aife, however, swung to one side just as the other girl raised her sword and brought it down with a fierce crushing blow. The effect of her moving was to miss the swinging blade, which passed no more than a hair’s breadth from her cheek and nicked the leather thong which held the girl’s helmet in position.
Once again Scáthach drew back her blade and struck at her opponent, who tried to slide out of reach. The blade crashed against the helmet and sent it rolling across the floor.
For the first time Scáthach stared at the face of her opponent. Her sword hand dropped and a look of amazement crossed her features, her mouth dropping, eyes bulging as if she could not believe her eyes.
She was staring back at a mirror image of herself. Aife was her twin, even more than her twin for there was not a jot of difference between them.
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