Island of Shadows by Peter Tremayne

Author:Peter Tremayne [Tremayne, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Venture Press
Published: 2017-05-10T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Flann sat up and gazed around the encampment. The first thing he noticed was that Ruacán was missing. His bed roll was still stretched beside the fire but of the old druid there was no sign. Frowning, Flann rose and reached for his sword. It was dark, very dark. The fire had died down to mere embers and cast little light. He saw that Scáthach appeared to be still sleeping soundly and he moved carefully over to her and touched her gently on the shoulder.

She did not move.

He drew his brows together and shook her, this time more roughly, and hissed: ‘Scáthach!’ in her ear. ‘Scáthach, wake up. All is not well.’

There was no movement. Her breathing was deep, perhaps a little too deep for normal sleep? He shook her for a third time. Her body rolled limply this way and that as if she had no control over it. Not even her eyelids flickered. Truly, he realised with horror, she must have been drugged.

Compressing his lips, Flann gazed around. He could see nothing in the darkness.

Where was Ruacán? Had the old druid betrayed them in some way? But why? For what?

Once more he heard the soft moaning sound from far off.

He rose from the recumbent form of Scáthach, turned and set off in the direction of the sound.

An early morning breeze was now rising through the trees and above them the clouds were being chased across the sky. Now and then the silver disc of the moon shone momentarily through the clouds, lighting the woods and casting strange pale shadows.

Flann had not gone far before he heard whispered voices. He paused and listened, trying to catch the sense of the sounds.

‘May the Fomorii take the accursed object … ’ A voice came clearly from nearby. ‘How can we muffle it?’

‘Wrap your cloak over it,’ came another voice.

‘Why should Aife want such a thing anyway? It is unnatural.’

Flann crept closer and saw three warriors crouched around something which lay between them, something which let forth a pitiful moaning sound.

‘It was your idea to rob the woman of this,’ one of them was saying to a fellow. ‘Let us get on the right side of Aife, you said. She would like the shield and spear carried by the stranger woman.’

The other man grimaced.

‘We would have had them earlier had you not fled when we sought to attack them.’

Flann’s eyes narrowed.

So these were the three warriors who had attacked them earlier! What were they crouching over? What was it that was moaning softly. Surely it was not Ruacán? But who else could it be?

The moon shone momentarily and by its ethereal silver light he saw Scáthach’s shield on the ground with the gae-Bolga, her terrible spear, next to it.’

For a moment he felt a strange tingling against the nape of his neck. The shield was moaning! What was it the old druid had said? This was An Seancholl Snidheach, the strong-ridged hazel, given to the ocean god by The Dagda, father of the gods.

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