Page 9 of Queen of the Shadow

“Exactly, which is why his third attempt will fail,” answered Scáthach. She’d seen it many times before. Some warriors, usually the ones with the biggest egos, refused to believe the truth of the Bridge of Leaps—that it had been created by a goddess as a test meant to defeat all but those most worthy of her daughter’s training. Many of them looked for the trick, for a way to cheat the bridge, but there was no way to cheat. It could only be defeated by strength and tenacity, talent and sweat.

Cuchulainn turned from the bridge for a third time. He jogged slowly back to the monoliths, past them, and then farther back almost to where the raised path met the boggy field that stretched around the south side of the castle.

He searched the ground until he found two flat rocks, each about the length and width of his forearm. He drove the rocks into the ground, staggered one before the other so that they stuck up like bizarrely positioned teeth.

“What is he doing now?” Uathach asked, squinting to try to see him better.

“He’s a strange one,” Tabiti muttered.

Cuchulainn took a stance in front of the two rocks. Then he bent so that he could place his hands on the ground. He pressed one foot against the first rock and then the other against the second.

Scáthach felt a jolt of understanding. “He’s using the rocks to push off, so that he can gain speed quickly.”

Cuchulainn exploded from the crouch, racing toward the bridge so fast his arms and legs blurred. He sprinted up the first half of the bridge and did not pause at the arch but allowed his momentum to carry him over it and down the far side.

For a moment Scáthach thought he would make it. She’d never seen a warrior so swift, and it wouldn’t have surprised her if he raced down the bridge and straight up the stairs to the door above which they watched.

But the Bridge of Leaps was wily and not so easily defeated. It twisted as if it were made of rope and not rock, turning itself upside down. Cuchulainn fell. The watching warriors gasped as he grabbed the side of the bridge. While it rolled and bucked, he swung his legs up onto it and then tumbled, head over feet, from it and didn’t stop rolling until he was back at the monoliths.

The students on the battlements laughed and jeered.

“You think he’ll try again?” asked Tabiti.

“I see the stubborn set of those broad shoulders,” answered Uathach. She jerked her chin in the direction of the man with the harp, who still sat beside Cuchulainn’s fire. “And his bard is observing, no doubt already composing a ballad about the great Ulsterman Cuchulainn and how he leaped like a spawning salmon, conquering the bridge easily. That tune will have to be revised if he doesn’t make it.”

“He can’t stop without his failure being set to harp song for generations to laugh at,” said Scáthach, shaking her head. “It was foolish of him to bring a bard.”

“What by all the gods is he doing now?” Tabiti squinted, trying to make sense of the warrior’s actions.

Cuchulainn had retrieved a short riding crop from the saddlebags that rested beside his campfire. His horse and the bard’s were tethered just off the raised castle walkway. The horses remained close, as the boggy field was filled with sucking mud.

Tabiti’s gaze narrowed. “Shall I stop him if he tries to ride his horse over the bridge?”

“Definitely,” Scáthach said.

But Cuchulainn did not retreat to where the horses grazed. He pulled off his tunic top, exposing his naked chest.

“Heisnice to look at,” said Uathach.

Tabiti snorted. “And I would wager he knows it.”

He carried the crop with him to the entrance of the bridge where he paced, back and forth, and as he paced, he lifted the crop and brought it downon his chest, his ribs and stomach, his thick biceps and his back.Cuchulainn flogged himself mercilessly. Even from the sentry platform, Scáthach could hear the terrible crack of whip against flesh and see the long strips of welts he raised on his skin, which soon split and wept blood. In addition to the self-flagellation, Cuchulainn growled and shouted, snarled and shrieked. The only word that could be understood was when he called out to the God of the Sun, Lugh, over and over, between snarling animalistic, subhuman noises.

“Has he gone mad?” asked Tabiti.

“I do not understand this at all,” said Uathach.

“I do.” Scáthach’s voice was sharp. “I need a spear. Quickly!”

Tabiti sprinted down the stone stairs and raced across the practice field to the armory.

“Are you going to put him out of his misery?” her daughter asked as they stared at the snarling warrior whose body was dripping with blood, though he still paced and flogged himself.

“I hope I don’t have to kill him. I would rather not explain to the king of Ulster why I ended the life of his hero instead of training him,” said Scáthach.

Tabiti returned, handing Scáthach a spear. “He’s still at it? Are you going to kill him?”

Scáthach was so focused on watching the warrior that she said nothing, so Uathach responded. “She said she doesn’t want to, but...” Uathach shrugged.