Scáthach peered at the shadows, recognising the tired voice.
‘Twenty-Seven?’
From the shadows a tall, grey-haired man emerged. In spite of his age and long years of imprisonment the man was still muscular, nearly seven feet tall, a giant of a man, who must have once been possessed of amazing strength. His skin was black, his face strong and handsome, although it bore the years of his confinement in lines. His lips were fixed in a determined line.
‘I am … Twenty-Seven.’
Flann turned to the tall man.
‘We have shared a cell these last few hours, he cannot remember who he was, yet he must have been a powerful chieftain.’
‘Will you come with us to test the mettle of the evil which governs this fortress?’ asked Scáthach.
The black man nodded.
‘With all my heart.’
Ruacán leant forward suddenly, reaching up with a frail hand and brushing the man’s forehead.
The man who called himself Twenty-Seven frowned in surprise.
‘There,’ smiled Ruacán. ‘There, my friend, your memory should return.’
The man blinked, his face bewildered and then his expression suddenly cleared.
‘I am … I am,’ his features suddenly stretched in a broad smile. ‘I am called Dubh and I was … I was ruler of Ophir. Twenty years have I been a prisoner here.’
‘How did you become a prisoner?’ demanded Flann.
Dubh rubbed his forehead.
The details are as yet vague. I came trading from my land of Ophir, bringing valuable stones from the mines we quarry. I came to Darcon … and rather than trade honestly with me, he took the precious stones and threw me in prison where my people and I were enslaved. I alone have survived of my people. I, alone.’
Scáthach reached forward and laid a hand on the giant’s broad forearm.
‘You will be revenged and compensated, Dubh of Ophir.'
The ruler of the far-off land of Ophir smiled at the girl.
‘Your soul shines in honesty, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach.’
Ruacán sighed impatiently.
‘We must be on our way before our escape is discovered. Surprise is our greatest weapon before Darcon can plot our end.’
Flann nodded.
‘You are right, druid. But before we go, let me give you my hand. I have long been suspicious of you and your intentions. I am sorry for thinking ill of you. You were right: I must not blame the song on the singer. There are good druids and bad for they are but mortals.’
Ruacán brushed the young man away, almost embarrassed.
‘Had I been you, Flann Mac Fraech, I would have been suspicious also. Now let us move, quickly.’
‘Not so quickly, scum!’
The high-pitched voice of Cuar caused them to freeze.
The hunchback came sliding forward at the far end of the corridor, unwinding his whip as he came, a grotesque smile on his ugly features.
‘Well, well, well … thinking to escape from Cuar’s domain? Well, you answer to Cuar first, my friends. And this is the opportunity I have been waiting for. Now there is no one to stop me from slicing the flesh from your putrid bodies.’
He cracked the air with his whip and began to chuckle.
Scáthach slid the visor over her face and said: ‘I will deal with the little one.’
But to her surprise, Dubh of Ophir pushed her gently aside.
‘He is mine, lady,’ he whispered. ‘For twenty years he has been mine.’
The giant moved forward.
For a moment or two Cuar frowned and then, recognising the giant, his features took on a fearful expression for a moment before he regained his look of confidence. He slashed at the air once again.
‘Why, Twenty-Seven! So they have released the sewer rats?’
‘I am Dubh of Ophir, jackal’s spawn,’ hissed the giant, moving forward. ‘Remember that name when you go shrieking down to the underworld of the Fomorii who will feast on your immortal soul.’
Cuar’s eyes widened and he drew back his whip.
‘Back in your cell, dog!’ he shrieked.
But Dubh moved forward still.
Back went the whip hand. They saw the whip flashing through the air at the giant but, astonishingly, it did not seem to land. The next moment Dubh had the whiplash held in a vice-like grip in his hand and he jerked the hunchback towards him, as if the grotesque little man was a feather-weight. The hunchback let out a piercing shriek. Then Dubh reached forward and picked the struggling manikin up. One giant hand grasped the other’s throat, cutting off his wind, the other was held against the base of Cuar’s spine. The little man’s legs waved helplessly. Then, with his muscles rippling, Dubh raised the sadistic jailer to the full height of his arms and threw him head first against the stone walls.
There was an ominous crack and Cuar’s body slithered to the floor and lay still, his head twisted at an awkward angle.
The giant gazed indifferently at the carcass.
‘His death was too merciful for what he inflicted on others,’ he said disdainfully.
Ruacán sighed softly.
‘Blood cannot always wash out blood, my friend.’
Dubh’s eyes narrowed.
‘In my country we have a saying, wise one. The gods will not punish the man who makes return for injury.’
Scáthach had moved to the dead body of Cuar, bent down and removed her golden medallion, which he had taken from her. She placed it around her neck once again and turned to the others.
‘Come,’ she called urgently. ‘Let us find our way out of these dungeons.’
She led the way, followed by Flann and Ruacán with Dubh taking up the rear, now carrying Cuar’s whip.
They surprised three warriors sitting playing the board game of brandubh, ‘black raven’, in the outer chamber of the cell complex. Before they had time to fight or sound the alarm, they had been overcome and bundled into a cell Flann availed himself of the opportunity to arm, while Dubh picked up a sword and shield.
The girl found a spiral stone staircase leading upwards and seemed to recall it was this passage that led into the great hall of Dun Scaith. She turned and motioned to the others to follow her quietly.
They encountered no one as they climbed up and finally reached a long gallery which was curtained at the far end.
Moving softly forward, Scáthach reached the curtain and found the join, moving it gently aside so that she could see through a crack.
Whereas before the great hall had been filled with people, now it was empty save for two figures seated on the dais: Darcon sprawled in his seat, his pale face anxious, while seated slightly forward in the other chair, her features dark and brooding, was Aife. Scáthach cast an anxious look around the hall. There was no one else revealed in the glow of the numerous torches which lit it.
‘Why did you give your word to that old man?’ Darcon was demanding of his half-sister.
Aife shrugged.
‘It is the law and well you know the fact, Darcon.’
‘The law,’ sneered the other. ‘Our mother is all-powerful. She makes the law for these mortals to obey, the mortals do not make laws for the obedience of the gods.’
Aife bit her lip.
‘Yet we are all under the law, immortals and mortals alike. It must be so.’
‘You may choose that it is so, but not I. Let us have no more of laws. The prophecy must not come to pass. I will send Cuar to silence her.’
At that moment, Scáthach chose to push aside the curtain and enter the hall.
Aife saw her first and came swiftly to her feet.
‘Cuar is dead, Darcon,’ said Scáthach evenly.
Darcon’s mouth hung open a moment in surprise. Then he rose from his chair.
‘Well, then, we must finish the job ourselves.’
He gestured to Aife.
‘Destroy her,’ he cried.
Scáthach’s twin sister hesitated.
'The law,’ she protested. ‘I am under the
sacred geis not to raise my sword against her.’
‘Droch!’ cried Darcon angrily.
From behind the curtaining at the back of the dais Aife’s wily adviser came forward.
‘Since your mistress will not kill her sister, you must do it,’ snapped Darcon.
Droch nodded; drawing a slim throwing-knife from the sleeve of his robe, he moved forward grinning.
It was then that Ruacán, followed by Flann and Dubh, moved out from behind the curtain to stand behind Scáthach. Droch paused, staring unhappily from one to another.
Darcon uttered a profanity.
‘Kill her!’
Droch’s eyes moved speculatively. Then, before anyone could guess what he was doing, his throwing arm came up, and the knife was speeding with unerring accuracy towards Scáthach’s throat. It was Flann who reacted with speed, leaping forward and throwing up his shield so that the knife impacted into it. A split-second later, Dubh’s sword embedded itself into the chest of Droch, who fell gasping onto his knees, blood pouring from the wound. The servant of Aife groaned and slipped sideways and was still.
‘A wasted life,’ Scáthach murmured softly. She raised her eyes and gazed questioningly at her twin. ‘Would you also waste your life, Aife?’
Aife held her arms outward from her body, her hands open.
‘I will not break the sacred geis. No mortal may do so with impunity. I can never meet you in single combat for I was raised in obedience to the will of the gods as were you, my sister. No, I will not break the law. But, my clever sister, there is one who has been washed upon our shores who will quite happily serve the purpose.’ She half turned her head over her shoulder and called: ‘Goll! Now is the time you seek your vengeance.’
For a moment Scáthach stared in surprise at the figure of the sea-captain, as he emerged from behind the dais. It was obvious that the sailor had been well rested and fed and recovered from his leap overboard from the Feannog. He had been more than lucky to survive the tempestuous seas. He wore a warrior’s harness now, bore a shield and carried a javelin.
‘Quick, man! Throw!’ yelled Aife, realising that Goll was no trained warrior to meet the girl in single combat. She had staked everything on the man surprising everyone and killing Scáthach by a swift cast of his spear.
However, Goll was stupid enough to want to savour his revenge and came forward grinning, his javelin raised to take better aim.
Dispassionately, Scáthach seized the weapon nearest at hand, the gae-Bolga, and before Goll knew what she was about, she had drawn and cast it with a movement which left everyone surprised by its swiftness. The terrible spear point entered Goll’s chest, sending him flying backwards across the hall with surprise on his evil face. Then his one eye widened, he opened his mouth and gave out a soundless scream before collapsing. The terrible thirty sharp barbs had opened in his body and send his soul speeding to the Otherworld.
Darcon stared at the body indifferently.
‘I knew the man was a fool. He had not skill in facing a trained warrior.’ He glowered at Scáthach and her companions. ‘Where is Eis Enchenn?’ he asked Aife. Scáthach’s twin looked worried now.
‘She went to find Cuar.’
‘Get the guards!’
Flann stepped forward.
‘Signal the guards and you are dead,’ he said evenly.
‘By the gods of Fomorii!’ cried Darcon, reaching forward and drawing his sword. ‘If no one else has courage to rid me of this girl,’ he shot a malevolent glance at Aife, ‘then I will do so myself!’
Flann started forward to meet him, sword in hand, but Scáthach motioned him to stand to one side.
‘No, do not shed his blood, Flann. This is my destiny.’
‘But the sacred law,’ protested Flann. ‘If Darcon is Aife’s brother, then he is your brother also, and the law applies …
‘We are not bound by any law,’ cried Darcon. ‘We may have shared the same mother’s womb but our fathers were of different stock. The law' does not apply. And no sacred geis binds me.’
Then prepare to defend your life, evil one,’ cried Scáthach.
‘And prepare to have your life taken!’ returned Darcon, moving forward, his sword blade swinging.
Chapter Twenty
Scáthach divested herself of her javelin, which she gave to Flann, and drew her sword, moving forward to meet Darcon in a fighting crouch. She was aware immediately that Darcon was no mean swordsman, which could have been expected from a son of the Mórrigú. He had decided to make his attack a fierce and immediate onslaught and for a moment or two sheer weight drove the girl backwards across the great hall while her companions looked on anxiously.
Aife, her sister, sat back on her seat on the dais, a curious thin smile on her lips as she watched her sister and half-brother battle it out.
Flann and Dubh stood anxiously, weapons in hand, ready to intervene if Darcon’s warriors came spilling into the hall.
Only the old druid, Ruacán, seemed unperturbed and stood watching the contest with a critical eye.
Scáthach’s mind was full of cold anger as she matched her skill with the tyrant of the Island of Shadows. He, she felt, was the evil behind the events which had led to Eola’s death at Uibh Rathach, and who had made countless others go to unhappy ends or live in perpetual slavery to his will.
Sword blade clanged against sword blade, shield smashed against shield as the two fought in ever tightening circles across the great stone-flagged floor of the hall of Dun Scaith.
Finding the girl no easy victory, and his craft of swordsmanship matched by one as knowledgeable as himself, Darcon’s volatile nature began to display itself. His face was flushed with anger and he began to take chances. His attacks took on a more wild form rather than considered moves to outwit his opponent. At one point, moving forward, and swinging his sword, he was met by a strong counterattack and, with a sudden back-handed thrust, Scáthach smashed the sword out of his grasp and sent it flying across the hallway.
Desperately, Darcon backed, as if seeking escape, and collided with the body of Goll.
At once, Darcon’s face twisted into a grin of triumph. He whirled round and, with both hands, gripped the gae-Bolga and made to tug it from the body. Had he succeeded, he would have turned to cast it at Scáthach, taking advance of her. But Scáthach stood and watched him, smiling in her knowledge.
Darcon wrenched at the spear, his grin of evil triumph turning to puzzlement as he could not wrest the spearhead from the body.
‘Do not waste your efforts, Darcon,’ said Scáthach softly. ‘That spear will not leave his body without being cut out. When it enters, the blade opens into thirty great barbs; each one must be cut out in order to leave the body.’
Darcon whirled round desperately, searching for a weapon.
‘Help me!’ he cried to Aife.
‘Don’t worry,’ Scáthach intervened. ‘I would not kill you as an animal would be butchered. Flann, throw him his sword … gently, Flann. Let him have a chance to defend himself before I despatch his soul to the Otherworld … or to the land of the Fomorii!’
Flann hesitated, then shrugged. Picking up Darcon’s sword he flung it towards the tyrant so that the man could catch it hilt first. Darcon caught it and, without pausing, came running back to Scáthach, striking with vicious savagery. He struck with rapid blows which told the girl that her opponent was full of anger and fear, striking almost without thinking, hoping that the weight of his attack would win the day for him.
It was then that Scáthach knew she had the upper hand, and in that moment she smiled at the knowledge.
Seeing the smile, fury ripped across the features of Darcon and he drew his sword back, letting forth a cry of intense ferocity which would have poleaxed many an opponent. Not so Scáthach. She saw his sword arm go back, leaving his right side undefended, and then she dropped to her knee, thrusting her sword forward just as Darcon ran in to make his cutting stroke.
For a moment or two Darcon stood stock
still, sword still poised. No one moved. Then Darcon, his eyes wide and staring in disbelief, lowered his rigid gaze to the blade which protruded from under his rib-cage, spurting blood. His sword dropped from his nerveless hand, yet summoning his remaining reserve of strength he gave vent to a cry which froze the limbs of the onlookers. Before its echoes had reverberated through the great hall, Darcon of Dun Scaith toppled forward and fell dead on the stones.
Dispassionately, Scáthach knelt by his body and pressed her fingers to his pulse.
‘He is dead, Scáthach.’ It was Ruacán who spoke. He had no need to examine the body.
The girl rose and nodded.
Aife, still sitting in the chair on the dais, seemed indifferent, sunk into her own thoughts.
‘The prophecy has been fulfilled, my child,’ went on the old druid. ‘The Mórrigú’s son is dead. Darcon will no more extend his tyranny in this world and may his soul be damned in the Otherworld.’
Slowly Scáthach drew her sword from Darcon’s body, wiping it on his clothes before replacing it in its sheath.
‘It means we are free,’ whispered Dubh. ‘Free!’
Flann was grinning from ear to ear.
Scáthach was about to speak when a terrible shrill-shrieking cry reached them, causing them to stare in horror as the fierce noise resounded through the rooms and halls of the fortress.
The great wooden doors of the hall smashed inward and the revolting harridan, Eis Enchenn, came scuttling in, her one red eye blazing, her dirty yellow-white hair flying about her head. She came forward in a crouch, keeping so low to the ground it was impossible to tell whether she moved on all fours. Her stinking skins made her seem animal rather than human and she still clutched her human thigh-bone totem. Her mouth gaped wide and from it there came the terrifying despairing shriek which rooted them to the floor.
She paused but a moment before her red eye saw Darcon’s body, and with a renewed screech the old woman flung herself on the dead ruler of Dun Scaith. She gathered his head and shoulders to her and rocked to and fro, like a mother holding a baby, crooning in her shrill voice, pausing now and then to wail and lament in such tones that Scáthach tried to suppress the shiver which tingled along her spine up to the nape of her neck. Even Flann and Dubh took a step back as they gazed in disgust at the old woman.
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