Aoife and Scathach, Shadow Twins
Page 8
Ophois was in the center of a group of heavily armed villagers when Scathach strode into their midst. One, a squat male with classic Bolg features, attempted to stand in her way; Scathach knocked him down without even breaking stride.
“I say we burn them out,” someone shouted.
“Knock them out with marsh pods, then kill them all,” another villager said.
“No!” Ophois’s voice was a harsh bark, but Scathach could hear the desperation in it. “We have no evidence that the Fir Dearg are behind this. None!”
“Only they know of our existence. It has to be them. Who knows what foul poisons they cook up in their deep mines. They have brought down this curse of pestilence on us,” a huge Torc Arzh Gell were-bear shouted.
“None of them are sick.”
“I say we burn them, burn them out.”
“Burn them!”
“Burn them!”
“No!” Ophois shouted. “You either stand with us or you’re siding with the Fir Dearg—”
Scathach knew that Ophois was losing control of the mob. At any moment, they would simply ignore him and march off to attack the Fir Dearg settlement.
“The Dearg are not your enemy.” Scathach used her battlefield voice, projecting it so that her words could be heard all across the village.
“No one asked you!” The speaker was a thickset Torc Allta holding a studded metal club.
Without hesitation, Scathach kicked him in the soft flesh beneath his chin, dropping him to the ground writhing in agony. Another were-boar reached for her, and the sound of his snapping arm shocked the mob into silence. The sudden shock sent the boar flickering between his human and animal forms. Scathach calmly stepped over him. “If the Dearg wanted to destroy you, they could have done so at any time. And if you go up against them, then they will obliterate you.”
A huge Bolg warrior carrying a war hammer almost as tall as himself took a step toward Scathach.
“Know me. I am Scathach the Shadow. The Daemon Slayer and the King Maker. One more step and I will take that hammer and beat you over the head with it,” she promised.
“I don’t believe you,” he growled.
“Ask your boar friend about his arm, then.” She smiled, deliberately showing her fangs.
For a moment he looked as if he was about to risk it, but he took a step back, retreating into the crowd.
Scathach stood alongside Ophois and faced the mob. She looked at each member in turn, staring until they had backed down or looked away. “If you come with me, I will show you what has brought pestilence to your village.”
Pushing through the crowd, she strode through the village, not once looking back. Ophois hesitated a moment before he ran after her. The rest of the villagers followed more slowly.
Scathach led the villagers through the gathering gloom along the banks of the stream, refusing to answer any of the Anpu’s urgent questions, simply because she had no answers.
If she’d had the time, she would have investigated her suspicions, but the mob had gathered too quickly, forcing her to act. She was aware that if she was wrong, then the mob would turn on her and she’d be forced to fight them all—which would certainly brighten up her evening—or they would race off to attack the Fir Dearg.
“Where are you taking us?” Ophois asked a little breathlessly. “They’ll not follow for much longer.”
Just as the hum of discontent was beginning to rise from the mob behind her, and at the precise moment when she thought that she might have been mistaken, she caught the faintest hint of foulness on the evening air. She knew, in that instant, that her supposition had been correct.
“Smell that?” she said.
She saw Ophois’s nostrils flare. His golden eyes widened, and she knew that he too had caught the odor.
And then they rounded a bend in the stream.
Into a scene of primal horror.
5
The entire village gathered in a circle on both sides of the stream.
In the middle of the circle, in the center of the river, were the rotting remains of two monsters.
“A Caorthannach wyrm,” Scathach said, using her nunchacku to point to an enormous lizard-like creature whose flat head was encircled by a fleshy frill. Spikes—many of them broken—ran the length of its spine. “I’ve never seen one so far north. And, I should note, this is a small one,” she added.
“I thought they were legend,” Moriath said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“At the heart of every legend, there is a grain of truth.” Scathach moved to the second creature, which resembled a huge brutish horse. “This is a full-grown Dullahan.”
“Where’s its head?” someone asked.
“They don’t have any,” Scathach said. “Once, a long time ago, they were the preferred mounts of the Epiphagi, the headless men.”
“Headless men on headless horses.” Ophois nodded. “Part of the Legion of the Damned.”
“Ten days ago, by my reckoning, judging from the decomposition, the two creatures met and fought here. Neither survived. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the sounds of the battle. It would have echoed through the forest.”
“Ten days ago, a ferocious storm rolled down from the mountains,” Ophois said. “The thunder was so fierce and so close that it rattled some of the huts apart, and there were hundreds of lightning strikes. Luckily, the torrential rain doused the fires.”
The Shadow nodded. “That’s probably why you did not hear them fight. And who knows, maybe the storm itself precipitated the battle. Both creatures are incredibly sensitive to noise.”
Scathach walked to the edge of the river and prodded an ivory horn with the tip of her boot. Bones made brittle and soft by the rushing water gave way, dipping the Caorthannach’s rotting head beneath the surface. Pale fluids swirled in an oily pattern before they dispersed.
“There is your pestilence,” Scathach snapped. . “No Dearg poison, no magical disease, just nature.” She looked at the villagers, “You would have gone to war—and been wiped out—over a pair of rotting carcasses.” Shaking her head, she walked away. “You owe me a mount,” she called back, “and supplies and water. Though not from the stream,” she added.
6
Ophois led a tall, prancing Aonbheannach to Scathach. The creature stabbed at her with its single horn, and its slablike teeth snapped close to her fingers.
She rapped it between the eyes with her knuckles. “Behave.”
“Our gift to you,” the Anpu said. “Food and water—though not from the stream—enough to last you ten days. He watched her sling her saddlebags across the Aonbheannach’s back and cinch the straps. “You prevented a lot of bloodshed, Shadow. My people would have raided the Fir Dearg mines; the Dwarfs would have retaliated. Within the month, the entire Northlands would have been ablaze. By year’s end, the entire continent would have been at war. And this”—he spread his arms and looked around—“our little experiment would have been forgotten.”
“Our world is very fragile,” she said quietly. “Easy to break, hard to mend. A long time ago, I learned the dangers of rushing to judgment.”
“How did you know the water was poisoned?” Ophois asked.
“I looked at the pattern of sickness and death. Villages farther up the river, closer to where the monsters had battled, were hardest hit. Those farther south, less so. This village was almost right in the middle, so the water still carried enough of the Caorthannach and Dullahan blood to poison the villagers. I noticed bird and animal tracks approach the water’s edge but turn away before they got to it. When I smelled the water, I caught the faintest hint of foulness from it.”
“Moriath has been working through the night on a remedy. Once she knew the cause, she was able to formulate a potion. She’s brewing it now.” Ophois stretched out his right hand.
Witho
ut hesitation, Scathach grasped it, gripping his wrist as he caught hers.
“There will always be a place for you here,” Ophois said. “A place to rest, to recuperate. A place to hide if you need it.”
“I will remember that,” she said.
“Take care of yourself, Shadow.” He turned and strode away, nodding to Moriath, who was hurrying toward Scathach.
“You will come and see us on your return journey?” she asked a little breathlessly.
“If I can, I will,” Scathach said. “Though my life is sometimes adventurous, and often unexpected roads and byways open up.”
“We will be here. Thanks to you.” She reached beneath her cloak and produced an ornately carved amber bowl. “I made you some salve. With one or two ingredients of my own. And some extra oil,” she added. She handed over a tight curl of parchment. “I wrote out the recipe for you. I thought you might share it with your sister.”
Scathach smiled. “What makes you think I will see her again?”
“I think you will. You have much to talk about,” Moriath said gently. She turned away quickly, but not before Scathach had seen her eyes brighten and sparkle with liquid. “Come back to us someday, Shadow; you are now, and will forever be, a member of the Clan of Eriu. Bring your sister.”
“I will do that,” Scathach promised. When she rubbed her cheeks, she discovered that her fingers were red with tears.
What is lost will be found.
Discover another Lost Story from the world of the New York Times bestselling Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series
Coming December 2020
Perry Hagopian
An authority on mythology and folklore, MICHAEL SCOTT is one of Ireland’s most successful authors. A master of fantasy, science fiction, horror, and folklore, Michael has been hailed by the Irish Times as “the King of Fantasy in these isles.” He is the author of the New York Times bestselling Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series: The Alchemyst, The Magician, The Sorceress, The Necromancer, The Warlock, and The Enchantress.
DillonScott.com
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.