The Sword of Feimhin (18 page)

‘A beer might be more conducive.' Mark smiled.

‘A beer then – boys?' She patted the shoulder of Bull, who now dangled the heavy machine gun across his thighs. ‘Okay?'

Bull shrugged.

She glared at Cal. ‘I hardly need to ask you – a beer?'

Cal snorted.

Mark glanced over at Nan, who shared his thoughts. It was going to take more than a beer or two to get Cal and his crew to trust them.

Awake soon after dawn, Mark listened to the sounds of restless activity around the camp. The crew had risen early, considering that one beer had become several the night before. It was perhaps just as well – sleep didn't come easy on the thin camp mattresses Tajh had provided them with, stretched out on the hard and lumpy floor of the barn. Touching minds with Nan, he found that she too was awake.

‘What do you think?' she whispered.

Mark snorted. ‘We did our best to explain.'

‘I'm not sure that any of them believed us.'

‘No.'

How could they expect the crew to believe their story? They had offered no convincing explanation of their arrival: a Belizean witch in London had arranged their trip through an invisible ship in the sky? Neither Mark nor Nan had felt able to offer that. All they'd been able to say in explanation
was that it was ‘magic', which had provoked Sharkey into fits of laughter. ‘You sure you guys haven't been tripping on magic mushrooms?'

‘I wish it were that simple.'

‘You really come from an alien world?' Tajh had looked every bit as incredulous as Cal.

‘My world,' Nan agreed. ‘One that has been torn apart by war for more than two thousand years.'

‘A world,' Sharkey had difficulty controlling his lopsided grin, ‘where you're a queen two thousand years old?'

‘Queen of a sacred island only, The Isle of Ossierel. And I am now in – oh, I'm not sure whether it is my eighteenth or nineteenth year. I was frozen in time, and age, for two thousand years.'

‘Hey, that's cool, I'm into the notion of hobnobbing with royalty, however ancient.' Cogwheel had joined them over a makeshift plank table, sipping beers. He'd told them he had achondroplasia, a cause of dwarfism, but that had been further complicated by an accident that had made him wheelchair bound.

Mark shrugged. ‘I don't blame you folks if you don't believe a word we're telling you. I'd be just as sceptical in your place. But you asked for an explanation and we've given it.' He took a swig from his beer then continued. ‘Four of us went into Tír from Earth: Alan, Kate, my adoptive sister Mo, and me. We were helped by Alan's druid grandfather, Padraig. From the moment we arrived there, we were caught up in that war.'

Cogwheel whistled. ‘With an enemy who has lived for thousands of years?'

‘A very formidable enemy indeed,' Nan added. ‘One that cannot be understood in human terms. We know this enemy as the Tyrant of the Wastelands.'

Mark emptied his bottle with one big swig. ‘I met up with Nan during a terrible battle to take her island fortress. She saved my life, but it was at a heavy price.'

‘Yes, it was.' Nan nodded. ‘Mark was subsumed by the same power that had subsumed me two thousand years earlier, also during a terrible battle for that same fortress. And now you know how we came to acquire our oracula. We share the Third Power – the power of the goddess of death, Mórígán'

Cal snorted for the umpteenth time. ‘What I'd like to know is the relevance of this cock and bull story to what's happening here in London.'

Mark looked over at Tajh. ‘Could you find a sheet of paper and a pen so Nan can draw the symbol of the Tyrant of the Wastelands.'

Tajh provided a blank sheet and a black felt-tip pen, which Nan used to sketch out the triple infinity.

The crew stared at her drawing in bemused silence.

‘But that's Grimstone's logo – the symbol of his church.'

Mark let them think about it.

Cal exploded. ‘What are you implying? That just the fact they have some symbol in common we should all become buddies?'

‘Before we crossed into Tír, Padraig, Alan's druid grandfather, took us to see a barrow grave. He, and his ancestors have been the hereditary guardians of the grave for thousands of years. Within the grave were the remains of a warrior prince from the Bronze Age. That prince's name was Feimhin. But what Padraig was actually guarding wasn't the barrow, or the remains, but the prince's sword – the Sword of Feimhin. Padraig told us that the Sword was the repository of a dreadful dark magic. While Feimhin wielded the Sword, it led to endless war, not merely in Ireland, but in all of these islands, and across all of Europe. So terrible was the potential of the Sword that Padraig's ancestors were commanded to guard it for all time. The same symbol that Nan has drawn, and the one you recognise as the symbol of Grimstone's church, is embedded in the hilt of the Sword of Feimhin.'

Cal exhaled and turned his face away.

‘I realise how implausible it must sound, Cal. But all Nan and I can do is to tell you the simple truth of what we experienced. You're going to have to believe or disbelieve it, as you think fit.'

Sharkey reached out to brush his fingers over the inverted black triangle in Nan's brow. He had tattoos of what looked like dragons, witches and warlocks on his deltoids and forearms, extending onto his shoulder blades at the back and to his collarbones at the front.

‘Hey, man – there really is a buzz going on here. That felt awesome.'

‘Knock it off, dopehead!' The beefy one that Tajh had confirmed as Bull slapped Sharkey's hand away.

Tajh took a swig from her bottle, deep in thought. ‘So – if I'm to understand what you're implying, and to answer Cal's question – you really believe that the Tyrant, on Tír, and Grimstone, here in London, are linked.'

‘We suspect that it goes deeper than that. We're beginning to think that Earth and Tír are linked because our oracula still work here. Don't ask us how, or why, because we don't know ourselves.'

‘And this enemy – the Tyrant – he's got hold of this magic whatyamacallit?'

‘We believe he has access to the Fáil, yes.'

‘Which is dangerous'

‘Which,' Nan cut in, ‘is more dangerous than you could possibly imagine.'

Mark agreed. ‘I think that the power of the Sword is also linked to the Fáil. It's the only thing that could make it so darkly potent. And given what Padraig told us about it.' He paused. ‘Never-ending war has devastated Tír for two thousand years!'

Tajh was silent for a moment or two. ‘So, where is this magical sword?'

‘We believe that Grimstone stole it. His followers burnt down Padraig's sawmill and they knew about the barrow grave. We went back there to find it vandalised and the Sword gone. We believe Grimstone has the Sword. We also
believe that he has taken Padraig prisoner and that they are somewhere in London.'

Cal sneered. ‘And you expect us to help you find them?'

Nan answered him. ‘It doesn't matter whether you believe us, or you don't. We offer an exchange of potential: we help the Resistance, you help us.'

‘What have you got to offer that we don't have already?'

‘We might detect when you are about to be attacked. I have had two thousand years of experience in this. And as our undetected arrival amongst you has amply demonstrated, this is a telling deficiency in your defences.'

Cal was chagrined into silence, which caused Mark to smile. Nan had taken advantage of a weakness in the crew to overturn a weakness in their own explanations.

Tajh asked, ‘Why's Padraig so important?'

Mark took advantage of Nan's ploy to press home their otherwise weak case. ‘Are you guys even beginning to realise the potential importance of all this? Grimstone is our common enemy. He has the Sword of Feimhin. He also has its keeper. If anybody understands the Sword's power and purpose it's going to be Padraig. We really have to find him
and
the Sword.'

‘You don't even know if he's still alive.'

Nan said, ‘I believe we do know. Our power is the power of death. We believe that we would sense it if Padraig was dead.'

‘London is a very big place.'

‘Yeah – we know that.' Mark fell silent.

Tajh helped him by changing the subject. ‘What happened to your sister, Mo?'

‘She's still over there, on Tír.'

‘Aren't you worried about her?'

‘Of course I'm worried about her. I'm worried about all of them, Alan, Kate and Mo.'

Sharkey whistled through his teeth. ‘Hey – I don't know what you folks think about this, but I kind of believe them.'

‘Button it, Sharkey!' Cal finished his bottle with one swig and uncapped another one.

‘No, I won't button it,' Sharkey replied. ‘So, Mark, if I get this right, what you're saying is that whatever is happening right here in London is linked to the war and all that horror you encountered in Tír?'

‘That's what I'm thinking. And now I'm wondering about something else – what if the best thing I can do to help my friends in the war on Tír, is to try to stop whatever he's planning with Grimstone on Earth?'

Mark gauged that Sharkey, like Cogwheel, couldn't possibly be ex-military. He looked and talked like a hippy. He was maybe six foot four and lean with a straggly moustache which merged with exuberant sideburns. He had gold studs in both ears and some of his tattoos, from what Mark could see, might have been Hindu gods. It was incongruous to Mark that someone with so peaceful a nature was also the guy who looked after the armaments of the heavy vehicle in the barn, the Mamma Pig. His weapon of choice was the submachine gun they had already seen, which he called an H-K MP5.

All of them, other than Cogwheel, were bikers. Mark had counted four heavy bikes within the camp: a Harley FLHTP and three BMW R1200s. According to Tajh, the BMWs were ex-police. The same model was popular with the Skulls, which might make them additionally useful if they were travelling in disguise.

Bull was built like the Hulk. He was extraordinarily broad-shouldered and was bald, with a few days' worth of brownish frizz over his beard area. There was a puckered scar on the left side of his face and the ring and little finger of his left hand were missing. His weapon was a belted machine gun called a Minimi, that was a lighter version of the Minimi mounted in the Mamma Pig. Bull rarely spoke. His eyes, which were blue and curiously gentle, never held Mark's for long. Mark doubted that Bull's silence was the result of shyness. The whole bunch of them were misfits – dangerous misfits.

In the morning, as Mark and Bull breakfasted on bacon and eggs and Sharkey and Cal were busy rigging something up in the adjacent field, Mark continued to probe for information about the crew.

‘Tajh – is that her real name?'

Bull shovelled a forkful of bacon, egg and beans into his mouth, then shook his head, offering no reply.

‘So everyone goes by a nickname?'

‘Safer that way.'

‘Safer, how?'

‘Safer for the crew – and safer for our friends and families. They get hold of one us, living or dead, they go hunting for contacts, relatives.'

‘Sounds grim.'

‘Uh-huh.'

Mark digested that. ‘What's the story behind Big Ted?'

Sharkey had a teddy bear he called Big Ted. Mark had glimpsed it on his knee when he was listening to ambient music. Big Ted was a very small teddy bear with a tartan dickey around his neck. His fur was badly worn around what was left of his triangular snout and his left ear was partly chewed off. There were stains on the bear that could have been blood.

‘You'd have to ask Sharkey about that.'

With each answer Bull's eyes would lift to confront Mark's, then glide away from direct contact. Behind the banter, when Cal and Sharkey were also around, they and Bull seemed to have some unseen channel of communication. As far as Mark could see, their common interests were guns and bikes.

Mark stared at the nearby cluster of big bikes. ‘Bull – could you do me and Nan a big favour?'

‘You can ask.'

‘We want to become active members of the crew. It would help if we could learn how to ride the bikes.'

He laughed.

‘Hah!' Cal interrupted the conversation from behind them. Mark hadn't even heard his approach. ‘Okay. You
want to learn how to ride the bikes? First you get the chance to convince us of your trustworthiness.'

Mark saw, now, what he and Sharkey had been doing in the field. They had set up three conventional targets perhaps sixty yards away, affixed to trees.

Cal handed Bull the lighter of the Minimis. ‘You want to show our friends what this baby can do without the help of magic?'

Bull climbed to his feet. He aimed and let off a rattle of fire that tore into one of the targets, scattering shreds into the air.

‘Okay!' Cal said. ‘Now you go ahead magic man!'

Mark went back to the barn to get the Fir Bolg battleaxe. He stood in the same place Bull had. ‘It's a tiring thing to do and I'm half way to being exhausted already, but I'll attempt a single throw.' He shifted his feet in a search of better balance and hefted the battleaxe in his left hand. Then he stretched back, taking a firm grip around the central stock. He focused on the distant target and his arm tensed, every muscle standing out. Then, in a streamlined movement that involved his entire body, he hurled the battleaxe, chanting a low-pitched mantra as he did so.

The battleaxe made a humming noise as it whirled, streaking through the air with astonishing speed. When it struck home the target disintegrated, as if struck by an explosive missile, but still the battleaxe continued to spin. It wheeled around in a wide arc and returned once more to Mark's upraised hand.

With grunts of awe, the crew gathered around him.

‘I believe it is my turn,' Nan spoke clearly.

If they expected her to borrow Mark's battleaxe they were mistaken. She confronted the third target, then closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, her pupils and whites had expanded so her eyes were black, filled with tiny arabesques of silvery light that pulsated and changed.

‘You had better step back,' Mark cautioned the crew.