Always Forever taom-3

by Mark Chadbourn

  Church was stunned. When Baccharus had described the Whisper-Line's abilities, he couldn't quite grasp how something as thin as cotton could cut through any object. Even the demonstration-remote-triggered from what appeared to be a yo-yo to whisk out and slice an anvil in two-hadn't wholly convinced him. But here it was.

  The Night Walker who was a little behind came to a halt when he saw his fellows drop. Slowly it sniffed the air currents, its rough breathing like the rumble of an old engine. Church was convinced the thing knew exactly where they were.

  He needn't have worried. The cry that echoed along the store was enough to jar even the Fomor. Part bird, part animal, part human, Church realised the dread it must have invoked when it had been heard echoing amongst the lonely hills of Skye.

  From out of the shadows at the other end of the store emerged a large, lumbering, human figure, the torso heavily muscled, the arms like the branches of an oak. Bloody furs of goat and sheep hung from its waist where they were bound by something that Church didn't want to examine, but had definitely started out as human. The smell was as vile as the first time he and Baccharus had spoken to it.

  Roaring, the Fomor launched an attack. Unconcerned, the Baiste-nascoghaigh stepped into the light; the lethal-looking horn protruding from its forehead cast strange shadows. It waited, yellow eyes glowering. At the last moment it ducked down beneath the cleaving sword, drove forward like a bull and buried the horn deep in the spot where Church presumed the Night Walker's belly to be.

  The battle was furious, the noise of roars and squeals and shrieks deafening. Barrels were smashed, drink flooded everywhere. The Baiste-na-scoghaigh took several nasty wounds to its arms and chest before it smashed the sword in two, but they didn't seem to bother it. The Fomor then proceeded to change shape in the unnerving manner that always reminded Church of stop-go animation, adopting razor-sharp thorns, snapping jaws and at one point what appeared to be giant lobster claws. But the Baiste-na-scoghaigh was so ferocious it simply powered through every offence, tearing with its horn, its enormous fists coming down unceasingly with the force of jackhammers. The Fomor was soon trailing most of its innards, but still fighting on, even when it collapsed. The Baiste-nascoghaigh didn't relent, not even when the Night Walker was unmoving: it proceeded to pound every last inch of its prey into a thick paste.

  Church and Baccharus left it there, slamming its fists over and over again into the floor.

  Church and Baccharus had considered playing a part in the map room and library, but there didn't seem much point. Instead, they secreted themselves behind some enormous volumes heaped on the floor where they could watch the proceedings unobserved.

  Hundreds of torches and lamps lined the walls or sat in the middle of the reading desks, but even the smell of oil and smoke couldn't stifle the warm aroma of old, dry paper and papyrus. After the gloom of the store and the bilge tanks, it was refreshingly light and airy.

  The room was oddly detached from the storm that raged without. There had been so many of them in recent times; certainly the Fomorii had something to do with it. Windows along one wall allowed a vista on waves rising up higher than the ship. Lightning filled every corner of the room with brilliant illumination while the rain slammed in a constant, violent rhythm.

  Yet the charts and books covering every table, desk, chair, shelf and most of the floor were not thrown around. It was almost as if they were watching the storm from some distant place, which Church suspected was probably true.

  The Fomorii came in about ten minutes later. They acted unnerved by the light, wandering around the room with uncharacteristic caution, prodding potential hiding places with their swords. Church was surprised to see that in the glare of the torches they looked diminished; quite literally. They were smaller, their gleaming sable forms no longer holding so many surprises: two legs, two arms, a head.

  As one of them passed a bookshelf packed with maps, it didn't notice a column of mist, fading in and out of the light. The haze curled around the Fomor, then moved away as if it had been caught on a breeze. For a second or two the beast froze. Then slowly it threw its head back and released a terrible cry that was immediately and surprisingly recognisable as despair. The Night Walker lashed out wildly, demolishing the bookcase with one blow, then began to run backwards and forwards in a frenzy, tearing at its eyes and ears. Black gunk splashed on to the pristine white of the charts.

  "What's happening?" Church whispered.

  Baccharus shrugged slightly. "The Spriggan has whispered a secret."

  "Christ, what kind of secret?"

  "One that can drive anything insane."

  What this could possibly be disturbed Church so deeply he decided not to consider it further.

  The other Fomorii grew as animated as monkeys in the jungle at their fellow's demise by its own hands, but they didn't back off. Opting for a tight defensive formation, they moved cautiously through the vast room in search of the invisible enemy. Church couldn't identify the Spriggans either, and he had suggested areas where they could secrete themselves. He knew of the legends surrounding them long before Cormorel had pointed them out. The ghosts of giants, supposedly, haunting the standing stones of Cornwall, but in actuality they had the shapeshifting abilities of many denizens of T'ir n'a n'Og. Often they appeared as insubstantial as morning mist, but when they took on substance they were even more grotesque than the Fomorii.

  Despite their fearsome reputation, they respected Church for his links with the Blue Fire, which apparently calmed their violent natures.

  The Fomorii were growing irritated with their inability to locate the enemy and had taken to hacking randomly at shelving and piles of books. But as they passed near heavy purple drapes flapping in the breeze from one open window, there was sudden movement. The drapes folded back and out of them-out of the air itself-came the Spriggans, now solid, and monstrous in their rage. They descended on the Fomorii like frenzied birds, intermittently fading so the Night Walkers could never get a handle on them.

  If there had been fewer than the eight Spriggans Church counted, the Fomorii might have stood a chance; as it was the Night Walkers managed to bring down one with a lucky blow while he was solid. But the white-hot rage of the Spriggans drove them on relentlessly. Soon the torn bodies of the Fomorii lay heaped in the centre of the room.

  In the light of what he had seen, Church was wary of emerging from his hiding place, but Baccharus was quickly out to thank the Spriggans with a taut bow. They were shifting anxiously around the corpses, as if they were considering feasting. Rather than see what transpired, Church thanked them from a distance and quickly exited.

  For the next hour and a half, the attacks proceeded relentlessly. Here the tearing claws of the thing that resembled a griffin, there the ferocity of the Manticore analogue. Losses amongst the ship's passengers were relatively few-a couple of Portunes crushed by a falling Fomor, something that had a body covered with sharp thorns, like a human porcupine-but the Night Walkers were decimated. Once Church and Baccharus had convinced themselves no others roamed the corridors, they moved speedily towards the deck.

  They emerged into the face of a gale as sharp as knives. The rain was horizontal, bullet hard, and mixed with sheeting salt water. Lightning tore the sky ragged with barely a break between strikes. Below deck, they had been aware of the ship's movements on the waves, but had somehow been protected from it. There in the open they faced the full force of the wild pitching that almost tipped Wave Sweeper from end to end. Even shouting, they could not be heard above the explosive force of the thunder. Purchase on the streaming boards was almost impossible to find. They skidded from side to side, clutching on to rigging or railing to prevent themselves being thrown overboard. At one point, Church was hanging on by only his arms, his legs dangling out at near right angles to the deck. Strangely unaffected by the yawing, Baccharus hooked a hand in Church's jacket to keep him anchored until the boat began to turn the other way, and then they hurried to the next safe point.
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  After fifteen minutes, the door to Manannan's quarters loomed agonisingly close. Church clung to a spinnaker, ready to make the final dash. Just as he was about to put a foot forward, lightning painted the deck a brilliant white and from the corner of his eye he caught sight of an incongruous shadow. He whirled and dodged with a second to spare. Talons like metal spikes turned wood to splinters where his head had been.

  Another flash brought a face into stark relief only inches from his own: slit pupils turning to a black sliver in the glare, reptilian scales, a flickering tongue, flaring nostrils steaming in the storm's chill, the bone structure of the skull ridged and hard.

  Church thrust hard and the Maligna flew on to its back and rolled down the deck. But he was not alone. The lightning flashes created an odd strobe effect, freezing then releasing, before freezing again, as the rest of the Malignos attacked. It was a surreal scenario, the creatures leaping like lizards from railing to rigging, caught in the light, untroubled by the wild swings of the ship. And at the back, clutching the jamb of the door that led below deck, was Callow, his face as furious as the storm.

  The Malignos were flitting shadows until the lightning caught them, and then it was apparent why they were so feared. Their bodies were lithe yet packed with muscle, efficient machines with only one brutal purpose in mind. The speed with which they moved made it impossible for any prey to avoid them in open pursuit, while their reputation as flesh eaters made them even more fearsome.

  Church was caught between running for cover and standing and fighting his ground, but in the violently tossing ship it was impossible to do either; the most he could do was hang on to the spinnaker for grim life.

  There must have been six or seven of the Malignos, but it was impossible to pin down the exact number because of the speed of their movement and the force of the storm. They were coming at him from both sides, but shifting around rapidly to confuse him like a pack of hunting wolves.

  Baccharus was yelling something, but Church couldn't hear above the wind. In that instant, the Malignos struck. A ball of flailing, wiry limbs slammed into Church head-on. He lost his grip on the spinnaker and went down hard. Another Maligna flashed by just close enough to rake him with its talons. Warm blood seeped out through the tears on his jacket. The first one planted itself astride him, raising up one arm ready to tear out his throat. Church frantically tried to throw him off, but the creature was too strong. The talons curled; the arm came down.

  Baccharus caught the Maligna with the back of his hand, a blow of such force Church felt the vibrations in his bones. The beast flew down the deck. Baccharus managed to get Church to his feet. The god was still trying to tell Church something, but before Church could decipher it, another Maligna crashed into his back. The deck tipped, his feet left the boards and he was flying down the length of the ship, careening off the rigging, bouncing off the railing, inches from going overboard into the savage sea. He slammed into the wall next to the door leading below deck, and for a second lost consciousness.

  When he came to, Callow was over him, a rusty razor blade clutched between thumb and forefinger, ready to slice into Church's jugular. His hideous face glowed white in the lightning, the black veins standing out in stark relief. Church suddenly flashed to Callow's attack on Laura in the back of the van, to what he had done to Ruth in Callendar, and he was overcome with fury.

  Church came up sharp, catching Callow on the jaw with the top of his head. Callow stumbled back; the razor blade was washed away. Spinning round, Church faced the Malignos and knew what Baccharus had been telling him to do. From his side, he pulled up the Wish-Sword that he had been saving for the final assault on Manannan's captors; Baccharus had warned him the effect it had on his spirit would mean he could only use it once in a day, but there was no other option. He thumbed the gem in the handle and waited as the blue fire crackled between the twin blades, building from the handle towards the tip.

  The Malignos were almost upon him. They leapt as one from different directions, but they were a second too late. The energy leapt from the blade in a sapphire flash; lightning brought down to earth, it jumped from one Maligna to the other, seizing them in a coruscating field so bright Church had to look away. When his eyes cleared, all of the attackers were gone, with not even the slightest remains to indicate they had ever existed.

  Weary, Church slumped back against the wall. He felt as if a vital part of him had been lost, but Baccharus had told him the debilitating sensation would pass.

  Nearby, Callow was shakily making his way to his feet. Church didn't know if he would have the energy to repel another attack.

  When Callow saw Baccharus approaching, his expression grew sly and he pointed accusingly, mouthing something over and over. The insistence in his face suggested the importance of his unheard words, but they were snatched from his lips the moment they were born. Church was drawn magnetically to the shaping of that mouth, divining the syllables. Again. And again. He almost had it…

  The wave must have been twenty feet high, the water as grey and hard as stone. It came down with the force of an angry god swatting flies. Church grabbed hold of the door jamb the moment he saw it rushing towards him, screwing his eyes and mouth shut tight. For a brief moment a new universe closed around him and he was convinced his arms were going to be torn from his sockets. He held fast while his fingers felt like they were breaking, and when the rush passed and he opened his eyes, Callow was gone.

  There was little point searching overboard; even if Church could spot him in the turbulent waters he would have had no way of getting him back on to the ship. He didn't feel any sense of victory at the loss; he didn't feel anything at all. The weariness that had afflicted him since using the Wish-Sword reached into his very bones and although it had eased slightly in the passing moments, he wondered if he had any reserves left to face what lay ahead.

  They paused at the door to Manannan's quarters briefly before stepping inside. There was no guard waiting for them; the remaining Fomorii still expected their forces to be swarming on deck.

  A moment later they stood outside Manannan's private room. Through the thick wood came the muffled growls of the Fomorii, but there was no other recognisable voice. Church wondered if Manannan was still alive, and Niamh too, but his real thoughts were for Ruth.

  "Give me the Wish-Sword," Baccharus whispered, pulling Church a few paces back from the door.

  "What am I going to do?"

  "Rest, and watch my back. What I can provide the Wish-Sword will not be as powerful as you, but it should suffice."

  "So, what? We just barge in there?"

  "An act of surprise may win the day."

  They exchanged a look that underlined their mutual respect and trust, paused to gather their thoughts, and then rushed the door.

  The scene inside the vast cabin was shocking enough to take the edge off their charge the moment they crossed the threshold. The Tuatha De Danann had been herded to one end of the room, where they were guarded by several prowling Fomorii. The Golden Ones were on their knees, humbled, eyes fixed dead ahead. The scene reminded Church of old pictures from the Second World War, of Nazis guarding brutalised POWs. Niamh was at the front, pale and worried, but there was no sign of Ruth.

  The attention of the gods was fixed on Manannan-at least Church presumed it was Manannan-and at the glowing geometric shape he had seen when he had probed the mind of the Night Walker. Three Fomorii had Wave Sweeper's Master bound across the enormous desk, where several monstrous implements appeared to have been used to torture him. It was impossible to tell the exact use of the instruments, which resembled bear traps and hand drills, but they had obviously had a profound effect on the Master. He had lost his familiar shape. The body was blurred and pulsing, leaking light in dazzling beams, and the face was like a running mixture of oil and water.

  Church couldn't believe the Fomorii had overwhelmed Manannan, one of the most powerful of the gods. The only explanation was that he had been forced to succumb
because of the Wish-Hex; yet he had still patently resisted attempts to coerce him to take Wave Sweeper to the Court of High Regard.

  Even to glance at the Wish-Hex made Church feel queasy. It looked like a system of interlocking cubes and triangles and pentagons made of light, hovering in midair, but at some point all the elements seemed to disappear into a different dimension.

  By the time he took this in, the Fomorii were aware of their presence. Five of the Night Walkers rushed at once, the others preparing to follow.

  Church looked to Baccharus to use the Wish-Sword. To his horror, he saw the god's thumb wavering over the gem. Why is he holding back? Church thought until a shocking thought ripped through him. Perhaps Baccharus was a traitor. In the pay of the Fomorii. He was going to give Church up to the enemy. Was that what Callow had been trying to tell him?

  At the last moment, Baccharus did thumb the trigger. The blue fire built quicker than it had with Church, but it did not burn so brightly. It surged through the Fomorii, creating a chain of blue balls of light where it passed through the Night Walkers' chests. Four, five, six, all writhing in the brilliant arc light. But with each one it possessed, the light grew a little dimmer, and then Church realised Baccharus's strategy: he had been waiting for the Fomorii to get close enough for the force to strike them all. Eight, nine, ten. The light dying now.

  Come on, Church prayed silently. Only five more.

  Twelve, thirteen. But after it had passed through the fourteenth, the light faltered, then died. The corpses of the Fomorii fell to the ground, crumbling into a black dust.

  The single surviving Night Walker was already moving. He reached the Wish-Hex before anyone in the room could react.