Always Forever (48 page)

It was also one of the most rundown sections of the ship. The walkway was
creaking and bowing, and in some areas vital planks were missing so they had
to jump gaps, or edge along a strut with their backs to the wall.

Two Fomorii who had pursued them down there entered the tank when
Church and Baccharus were about a hundred and fifty yards along the walkway.
Church felt the chill rippling out from them long before he looked back to see
the looming shadows. "This better work."

The Fomorii closed the gap quickly. Baccharus could move faster, but he
was holding back to stay with Church. Church was feeling the strain of the exertion; his chest hurt and his legs occasionally felt like jelly. A bout of weakness
overcame him just as he was jumping one of the gaps in the walkway; his toes
caught the edge, but began to slip back on the slick, broken boards.

"Bacch-" was all he had time to shout before he slid off the edge and
plummeted through the gap. At the last moment he jammed out his elbows and
wedged himself between the two supporting struts. Peering down, he could see
his boots were dangling only two feet above the water. The Fomorii were
coming up like a train, now only thirty yards away.

Suddenly there was a frantic splashing in the water sweeping towards him.
A second later golden fish with enormous jaws and twin rows of razor-sharp
teeth were leaping from the bilge, snapping at his feet. One came within half an
inch of his toes; if those monstrous jaws closed on him, the thick leather of his
boot would amount to nothing.

He kicked out wildly, but before any more of the fish had a chance to go for
him, Baccharus's iron hands closed on his shoulders and hauled him effortlessly
out of the gap. Lacking the breath even to gasp thanks, Church drove himself on. He did not have to run far. The walkway came up against the end of the
bilge tank with no sign of any other exit.

Church and Baccharus turned to face the approaching Night Walkers, who
slowed as they realised their prey was cornered. The walkway creaked beneath
their bulk. In their shadows, Church could see armoured plates and bony spikes,
constantly shifting. They carried the cruel serrated swords favoured by Fomorii
warriors, rusted and bloodstained.

"No way out now," Church said. He didn't take his eyes off the approaching
warriors.

Baccharus dipped into his pocket and pulled out a lump of clinker from the
furnace, which he tossed over the side. It splashed loudly in the dark waters,
sending out ripples and wild echoes.

The Fomorii paid no attention. Church watched as their centre of gravity
shifted, ready to strike.

The water beneath them began to boil. Big white bubbles, rainbowstreaked, burst on the surface. Church would have been forgiven for thinking it
was more of the razor-toothed fish, but it was soon obvious whatever was rising
was much, much bigger.

The Fomorii gave it only a cursory glance. They realised the mistake they
had made when they saw the grin break across Church's face. An instant later, a
long, rubbery object lashed out of the water at lightning speed, smashing
through the walkway between the Night Walkers and Church and Baccharus.
The Fomorii teetered on the edge, but before they could regain their balance,
the enormous bulk of the Llamigan-y-dur burst from the water on its batlike
wings and smashed into them. One of the warriors was clamped in the jaws of
the grotesque toad-creature, while the other toppled into the tank where there
was the sudden white water of a feeding frenzy.

Church had a brief glimpse of the first warrior being ripped apart by the
Water-Leaper, named by Cormorel at the banquet before his death, and then the
toad disappeared back beneath the waters. The fish finished their meal soon
after, and then there was stillness once more.

"How did you know it wouldn't go for us?" Church said, eyeing Baccharus
suspiciously.

Baccharus smiled. "It is not only the Golden Ones who detest the Night
Walkers. Low beasts like the Malignos may walk the same path, but most
denizens of the Far Lands despise those foul creatures."

Church leapt the gap in the walkway before pausing to look back at the oily
waters. "A giant toad. With wings. And a tail. Yes, the Age of Reason is well
and truly dead."

They spent the next hour probing the darker recesses of the lower decks. As a
member of the Tuatha De Danann, Baccharus commanded a respect amongst the
other travellers that Church would never have had alone. Arrangements were
made. Some refused; many agreed.

The kitchens were a relief after the stink of the bilge tanks, rich with the aromas
of spices and herbs, the smells of cooking meats and roasting fish drifting. The
room stretched the size of four football pitches; Baccharus told Church it was
only one of several. Clouds of steam rose from abandoned pots bubbling on the
iron ranges that crackled and spat from the well-stoked fires roaring in each one.
Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, releasing scents as they brushed
against them, mingling with the wood smoke from the fires. Pots and pans
gleamed brightly in the light of scores of torches. The most unnerving thing
about the spacious room was the way it magnified even the smallest echo as they
crept down the aisles.

They knew it was only a matter of time before the Fomorii found them
there, and sure enough, three entered at the same time, two through one door,
another on the opposite side of the room. The Night Walkers made no attempt
to approach cautiously. They launched into a charge, smashing over bins of vegetables, sending pans and cooking implements flying; the sound of crashing
metal was deafening. They didn't waste time following the aisles, instead
jumping on to the ranges, filling the air with the stink of their searing flesh.

It was a terrifying sight, but Church stood his ground coolly. He loaded the
star in the thong, whirled it round three times and loosed it, taking out one of
the pair in a shower of black rain. It was too late to reload for the others who
bore down on them with swords raised.

The Afanc rose up from where it had hidden itself in one of the aisles. The
half-sea beast had mistimed its entrance so it was too close to one of the attacking Night Walkers. The beast swung its sword in an arc, slashing the Afanc's
chest to the bone. It should have been a killing blow, but as quickly as it
appeared, the wound closed. Cormorel had been right: the Afanc could not be
killed by normal means.

The Night Walker paused in surprise at this revelation. The Afanc grinned,
although it was more like a grimace on its extended face. It brought up the
strange, twisted spear it had been carrying low and with its powerful arms
thrust it right through the Fomor's body, from the gut to the top of the spine. The Afanc backed off quickly while the Night Walker yanked at the spear.
Although it looked mundane, it was another item from the secret weapons store.
There was a soundless burst of blue light and the spear clattered to the floor as
burning chunks of Fomor rained across the room.

Church and Baccharus ducked the smoking missiles as the last Night
Walker launched its assault. It leapt on to the range and swung its sword at
Church. There was no time to use the star; the Afanc was too far away.

Baccharus grasped a large clay jug from the side and hurled its contents at
the warrior. The golden oil sprayed the Night Walker from head to toe,
splashing on to the range where the flames licked through the hole in the top.
A second later the beast was burning with a furious heat. It fell backwards off
the range, then blundered clumsily around as it feebly attempted to damp the
conflagration. Before long, it crumpled into the aisle, filling the kitchens with
an oily black smoke and an unbearable stench. Church and Baccharus hurried
for the nearest door, covering their mouths.

"There are weapons," Baccharus said brightly, "and there are weapons."

"Smokin'," Church added in his best Jim Carrey impression. "You do realise
I've got a humorous saying for every eventuality? That won't be very irritating,
will it?"

The wine and beer store was cool and musty, long and thin and low-ceilinged, with
enormous oak barrels in lines on opposing walls. The floor was stained with a million wassails; it smelled sour and sweet at the same time, reeking of happier times.
There were too many deep shadows, too many places to hide. It was perfect.

Church and Baccharus made no attempt to disguise their entry from the
three pursuing Fomorii. As they sprinted between the barrels, the echoes of their
footsteps took on a strange deadened tone, like nails being driven into hard wood.
Halfway along the store, they loitered briefly in a puddle of light from one of the
few flickering torches, just to make sure they were seen. Once they had slipped
into the encroaching folds of darkness, they dropped to their knees and crawled
under the barrels, scraping their hands and face on the rough wood, drinking in
the even more potent aroma. As the Fomorii thundered over the boards, they
wriggled like snakes under the next few barrels until they reached a point where
they could clamber up the back and lie on top of one for a better view.

The Fomorii hadn't seen them. The Night Walkers knocked the taps on several casks as they passed so the beer and wine foamed out into the gulleys. When
the two leaders were about twenty feet from Church and Baccharus's hiding
place, there was a sigh and a faint breeze. The two Fomorii continued, only now
they were missing the top third of their heads. It took them several more feet before they realised this important fact and then they crashed down hard in the
aisle, sizzling like cooking bacon where their blood met the beer and wine.

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.