Island of Shadows

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Many prisoners come to the city,’ the warrior replied indifferently.

  ‘This was this morning,’ pressed the girl. ‘A young warrior from Éireann.’

  ‘It could be so. I am not aware of it.’

  He turned and walked hurriedly away, thankful to be out of her presence, but leaving Scáthach suppressing a sigh of annoyance.

  ‘Come on, Ruacán, let us find this High One … ’

  She trotted her horse along the paved streets wondering that in so large and magnificent city there seemed so few people and they only warriors. There were no children, no women and no sign of any workers other than warriors. And another thing, she realised curiously: everyone seemed to move around morosely, as if without purpose to their lives. They came to the large circular green on which a great monolith stood. It dwarfed them, being twelve feet in height and some four feet wide, but it was the material from which it was made that caused both of them to pause and stare in amazement, for the construction seemed to be of solid gold. Slipping from her mount, Scáthach moved forward to inspect it more closely and found that it was, indeed, the case. Solid red-gold on which was inscribed the curious triskele motif which she had come so far to trace the meaning of. Yet again her hand went to the golden medallion and fingered it nervously as she contemplated the similarity of the design. Below was a curious writing, nothing like the simple strokes of the Ogham script of Éireann; more decorous, more devious.

  ‘Ruacán, do you know the meaning of this writing?’ she asked.

  The old druid shook his head.

  ‘Alas, few are privileged to know this language for it is the secret speech of the gods themselves.’

  The girl frowned.

  ‘Then why is it inscribed on this monolith for all to see?’

  The old man smiled softly.

  ‘It is not for me to say, yet it is for you to find out.’

  The girl frowned in impatience and turned towards the towering marble palace buildings beyond.

  ‘Let us find out from this High One,’ she commented dryly.

  A warrior stood regarding them with nervous curiosity at the head of the steps leading to the palace.

  Scáthach was wearing her helmet and he was clearly uncomfortable at the grim visage.

  ‘What do you wish, warrior?’ he asked softly, anxiously tugging at the handle of his sword.

  ‘Take me to your High One.’

  He shrugged and spread his arms, impossible!’

  The next second he found the girl’s sword point at his throat.

  ‘Nothing is impossible, warrior,’ she said in a pleasantly even tone.

  The warrior was clearly unhappy.

  ‘This request is,’ he stammered. ‘For the High One has left here.’

  ‘Left?’ snapped Scáthach.

  ‘Just before noon, the High One left the palace to go on a journey.’

  ‘Where?’ demanded the girl.

  ‘I know not,’ replied the warrior and added, with a flash of spirit, ‘The High One does not confide in me.’

  ‘Then in whom does the High One confide?’

  The man shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Who would know the confidences of the High One? Perhaps Droch but he has gone with the High One. Perhaps Maor the Steward … ’

  ‘But he has gone with her also?’ sneered the girl.

  ‘Oh no, he is in the palace.’

  Scáthach brightened.

  ‘And would this Maor know if a prisoner was brought here this morning?’

  ‘He would know everything that happens here, warrior,’ replied the man. ‘He is the Steward.’

  ‘Then take us to this Maor.’

  The warrior hesitated.

  ‘I am not supposed to leave the entrance unattended … ’ he began but a gentle pressure of her sword point against his throat made him obey the girl’s order.

  Maor the Steward was a pudgy, pale-faced individual with shifty eyes and flabby lips. He stared up with pale, devious eyes, as they entered the room in which he sat; apparently he was examining accounts spread on a table before him. He half started from his chair and then, seeing how well armed the girl was and that she held one of the palace guards at sword point, he sunk back. He was also clearly alarmed by the sight of the fierce headgear of Scáthach.

  ‘What does this mean?’

  The girl smiled.

  ‘It means, Maor, that you will tell us if a prisoner was brought to this palace this morning? A young warrior of Éireann.’

  Maor’s eyes narrowed more in cunning than any other consideration.

  ‘Will I?’ he muttered.

  ‘Indeed,’ nodded the girl, swinging her sword point towards him. ‘And quickly.’

  The pudgy steward’s eyes batted for a moment and he swallowed.

  ‘True enough. A prisoner was bought here this morning early.’

  The girl gave a smile of relief.

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Flann was the first name, I think. I know nothing more.’

  ‘Take us to him.’

  The bulbous lips sneered.

  ‘That I cannot.’

  Scáthach’s sword point moved dangerously.

  ‘Wait!’ the pudgy man almost shrieked. ‘It is true. I cannot. The High One and Droch, her advisor, have taken the young man with them and left the palace.’

  The girl bit her lip in disappointment.

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘They left on the noon tide in the High One’s fastest ship.’

  The girl leaned closer with her sword point at the Steward’s neck.

  ‘Where have they gone?’ she demanded again, raising her voice a tone.

  The Steward's eyes moved as if seeking some escape.

  The sword point pricked his skin and a pinpoint of blood showed.

  His mouth fell open, his white face began to colour.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please … ’

  ‘Tell me!’ snapped the girl.

  ‘They have gone to the court of Darcon.’

  Scáthach frowned and glanced at Ruacán.

  ‘Do you know of this Darcon?’

  The druid nodded.

  ‘Darcon the Tyrant rules the Island of Shadows which lies in the northern regions.’

  Maor cast a disapproving look at the old man.

  ‘Darcon is brother of the High One,’ he said with an air of rebuke.

  Scáthach ignored him for the moment.

  ‘Where is the Island of Shadows exactly?’ The question was directed at Ruacán.

  The old druid paused for a moment and then grimaced.

  ‘Three to four days’ sail to the north. It is an island off the coast of Alba.’

  ‘Then we must go there.’

  The girl’s chin came up determinedly as she made the statement without thought or hesitation.

  ‘You will not find it so easy to deal with Darcon or the High One,’ sneered Maor. ‘Go there and you will be killed.’

  Scáthach turned back to him and eased the sword point again at his throat.

  ‘I might just kill you, kitchen rat.’

  The pudgy-faced man winced.

  ‘Killing me will not alter your future,’ he replied with some degree of spirit.

  ‘True,’ laughed the girl after a moment’s reflection, ‘but it may bring me satisfaction.’

  ‘Do not play with him,’ interposed Ruacán. ‘It is a long journey to Dun Scaith.’

  ‘What is that?’ asked the girl.

  ‘That is the fortress of Darcon in the Island of Shadows.’

  The girl turned back to Maor.

  ‘And where might we find a ship to take us to this land of Darcon?’

  The steward shrugged indifferently.

  It was the warrior who had stood mute since they had entered the room who replied.

  ‘Down by the river are ships, ships from several lands which trade with us.’

  ‘Thank you, warrior,’ said Scáthach gravely
.

  ‘No need to thank me. I am going there myself to seek passage away from here. After what I have done this day I am a dead man in Lethra.’

  ‘But you could not help yourself,’ pointed out the druid.

  ‘The High One makes no allowances,’ replied the warrior. ‘I will go to the land of … ’ He paused and glanced at Maor. ‘I will go away from here.’

  ‘Begone then, warrior. May your gods go with you,’ said Scáthach. The warrior saluted her and was gone in a thrice.’

  ‘The vengeance of the High One is terrible and stretches everywhere,’ warned Maor. ‘He will not escape punishment and neither will … ’

  He stopped as his eyes focused on the point of her sword moving towards his throat.

  ‘Silence.’

  He was silent.

  ‘Now tell me, as well as the warrior from Éireann, was anything else taken by Aife?’

  Maor pursed his lips.

  ‘Speak quickly,’ whispered the girl, pressing the point gently.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ grunted the steward. ‘I saw the High One examining a shield and spear which were brought in with the warrior. She was especially interested in these weapons.’

  ‘And did she take the shield and spear with her?’ demanded Scáthach.

  ‘She did.’

  Then she ordered him not to move and, with rapid motion, quickly bound the pudgy steward into his chair and gagged him. She stood back a moment and critically surveyed her handiwork before turning to Ruacán.

  That should hold him for a while. We must go down to the river and find a ship sailing for the Island of Shadows.’

  The old man sniffed.

  ‘Easier said than done, my child. Few ships sail for those waters. It is an evil place. Darcon is said to be the son of the Mórrigú, goddess of death and battles. He is not called Darcon the Tyrant for no reason. An evil one.’

  ‘Then all the more reason to follow and rescue Flann,’ said the girl determinedly. ‘Anyway, I was originally told no ship would sail to Lethra, yet here I am. Now you say that no ship will sail to this Island of Shadows. Yet I say we will soon be there.’

  The old man sighed.

  ‘What is to be, will be,’ he said with a shrug.

  ‘Come, then.’

  She turned and preceded him from the great, silent palace of the High One, back into the graceful, though empty, thoroughfares of the city. Remounting their horses, they walked them through the deserted streets towards the area which lined the river. Here the city lost its well-laid avenues and tall buildings and carefully attended monuments. With an almost startling abruptness they moved into a shanty town of wooden buildings, mainly rotten and ill-kept, with narrow streets piled high with rubbish and debris. Here for the first time they began to see the citizens of Lethra, dirty, ragged children, playing in the refuse of the street, women of all ages, backs bent under burdens, old men, begging bowls in hand and young men minus limbs, some on crutches, wandering with seeming purposelessness, eyes blank and dead.

  Scáthach drew in her breath sharply.

  ‘What does this mean?’ she whispered to the druid.

  ‘It is the price of the city,’ replied the old one. ‘This is Lethra’s glory. Look well on it, my child. When you hear someone preach of the greatness of a place, of a city or a country, then remember the suffering and mangled flesh which went into creating that greatness. Ask yourself whether such suffering truly means greatness.’

  The girl stared about her at the poverty and misery with distaste. Never had she seen such a sight before. In Éireann the old and impoverished were not allowed to suffer thus. The sick and ailing poor were provided for by the laws of the Brehons; the clans supported the welfare of all its members. To allow people to suffer thus was immoral — criminal! Her heart burnt with a consuming rage as she stared at the suffering around her. And for what purpose? To raise the marble halls of Lethra for the glory of the so-called ‘High One’.

  Eventually they found themselves on the narrow quaysides of the river where half a dozen ships of varying sizes were moored. Groups of sailors were loading and off-loading cargoes watched by sullen groups of people held at bay by warriors with drawn swords. Scáthach could feel the discontent and anger seething among the people.

  Ruacán caught her gaze and smiled grimly.

  ‘You are right, my child. One day all this will erupt. It is the law of nature.’

  ‘The sooner, the better.’

  She turned her gaze speculatively on the ships, not forgetting the main purpose of their being there.

  The old druid laid a hand on her arm.

  ‘If you are inquiring for a ship, better to name your destination as Alba rather than Dun Scaith, for the very name of the Island of Shadows will put fear into the bravest man.’

  ‘Very well.’

  She paused and hailed a burly sailor overseeing the loading of a cargo.

  ‘Where is your ship going?’

  The bearded man gazed up at the slightly-built girl, her head clad in the fierce war-helmet, and with the accoutrements of a warrior, and frowned.

  ‘We go to the land of the Cantii, in southern Britain.’

  Scáthach was disappointed but she pressed: ‘Do you know of a ship heading for Alba?’

  The bearded man raised a gnarled hand and ran it through his tangled black beard.

  ‘They say that Bracan takes his ship there,’ he said after a moment or two. ‘He is from the land of Alba.’

  ‘Bracan? And where might I find this Bracan?’

  The burly man turned and indicated a nearby tavern with a wave of his arm.

  Scáthach raised a hand in acknowledgement and nudged her horse over to the quayside tavern. She and Ruacán dismounted and found a boy willing to take charge of their mounts for a few coins.

  Inside, the tavern was noisy as it was crowded but the sailors inside fell silent at her appearance and begrudgingly made way for the slight figure of the girl in warrior’s harness, helmet still on her head, hiding her countenance.

  Just as Goibhniu had said, in battle it gave a terrible vision to her enemies; and still it gave to those who gazed on her without battle-fever a formidable appearance. They moved away from her as she, followed by the old druid, marched to the bar where a sweating and nervous-looking host watched her coming.

  ‘What can I do for you, warrior?’

  ‘I seek Bracan.’

  There was a murmur among the sailors and the silence which had fallen at her entry was gone. Having ascertained the object of the strange warrior’s coming, and realising it was not for them, they fell to their talking and laughter again. Only one man, a tall, thin, red-haired man, moved forward. He wore a permanent scowl on his thin face which proclaimed his profession by its tanned and weather-beaten skin.

  ‘I am Bracan,’ he said stiffly. ‘What business have you with me?’

  ‘I hear you sail to Alba.’

  ‘Then you have heard correctly.’

  ‘I am in mind to take passage there with my companion,’ Scáthach nodded towards Ruacán.

  Bracan glanced at the old man and turned back to Scáthach speculatively.

  ‘It might be arranged,’ he conceded after a moment or so.

  ‘Where do you travel in Alba? To what port?’

  Bracan did not answer immediately but motioned to the host to fill his mug again.

  ‘I go to the seaboard of the Gael on the western coast of Alba,’ he said when the mug had been handed back with a frothy head of beer crowning it.

  Scáthach glanced towards the druid who nodded imperceptibly.

  ‘That is good. We would go there.’

  Bracan’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘It is a voyage of three, maybe four days.’

  ‘We will pay.’

  ‘Ah … ’ the thin lips of the captain drooped a little. ‘But how much will you pay? It is a hard voyage, a rough voyage.’

  ‘What is your price?’ asked the girl.

  ‘A gold coi
n per day for each of you,’ said the sailor.

  Scáthach knew that the price was a reasonable one for had not Goll demanded nine gold pieces for her passage alone from Éireann to Gallia?

  ‘That is agreed.’

  Bracan raised his eyes in surprise for obviously he had been expecting some protest and bargaining.

  ‘When do we sail?’ demanded Scáthach.

  ‘With the evening tide,’ replied Bracan. ‘Our ship is the Feannog.’

  Scáthach hesitated.

  ‘What cargo are you carrying?’ she asked abruptly.

  The sailor looked at her blankly and was clearly puzzled by the question. Then he said quietly: ‘Little cargo comes out of this place and we were beaten to that which there was. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Have you room to take three horses?’

  ‘Ah. That will cost more.’

  ‘How much more?’

  ‘Three horses? Food for them during the voyage? Another gold piece per day per horse.’

  ‘That is expensive.’

  ‘It is my price. And the voyage money must be paid before we set sail.’

  Scáthach hesitated and then shrugged.

  ‘I agree.’

  Once more Bracan looked surprised at how easily the girl gave in to his demands.

  ‘You must wish to reach Alba in a hurry, warrior,’ he observed.

  That is my business.’

  ‘Agreed.’ He put down his empty mug and turned. ‘If you want to bring your horses on board now and settle.’

  ‘Very well.’

  They followed the tall man from the tavern and collected their horses from the boy who had been looking after them. Bracan led the way along the quays to where a sleek-looking ship was moored. Even Scáthach had to admire the low black racing lines of the Feannog. It was a clean vessel, obviously well crewed and well looked after. It was not like Goll’s Nemhain which had been ill kept, its decks unscrubbed, the sails needing repair and with an atmosphere of dirt and desolation.

  ‘A good choice,’ muttered Ruacán, as his eyes travelled around the vessel. ‘This Bracan runs a professional ship, at least.’

  At Bracan’s orders, planks were raised in place from the quayside onto the vessel alongside so that they could walk their horses onto the ship, and then by means of pulleys and stays a group of sailors lowered the unprotesting animals into the hold and made them comfortable for the sea voyage ahead.