The Sword of Feimhin (2 page)

Frank P. Ryan
is a multiple-bestselling author, in the UK and US. His other fiction includes the thrillers
Goodbye Baby Blue
and
Tiger Tiger
. His books have been translated into over ten different languages. The first two books in the Three Powers series,
The Snowmelt River
and
The Tower of Bones
, are also published by Jo Fletcher Books. Born in Ireland, he now lives in England.

Also By Frank P. Ryan

The Snowmelt River

The Tower of Bones

For Catherine and John

Strangest of all are the suggestions that Tír is linked to a sister world, variously known as Geb, Jörd, Gaia – or even Terra, a name akin to that of our world, Tír. Manifold are the references to this sister world in the legends of Tír, notably those of the warrior races such as the Fir Bolg and Shee. In both traditions the two worlds are spoken of as twins – as if worlds, like infants, might share a single cosmic birth. Communication and even passage between worlds is said to be possible through Dromenon or the power of the Fáil. This same passage is said to have allowed the seeds of war to be carried from one world to the other, though such history is uncertain and largely denied. Most intriguing is the suggestion that the fates of the two worlds might also be entwined, as is occasionally seen, even dramatically so, in living twins. The implications are unknown, perhaps even unknowable. Yet one is tempted to question if the answers to the afflictions of one world might be discovered in the struggles and tribulations of the other?

Ussha De Danaan: last High Architect of Ossierel

‘Smoke!' Nan exclaimed in surprise, as she performed a small pirouette while still holding on tight to Mark's left hand, lifting it to duck under his arm.

‘Try not to draw attention to us.'

‘What is this smoke in the air?'

‘We call it smog.' Mark watched her from the corners of his eyes, aware of the nervousness that had consumed her since their arrival here on Earth from Tír. ‘There are power shortages. I think people must be opening up the old blocked fireplaces. They're burning coal and wood – and probably any old rubbish they can lay their hands on.'

His old leather jacket, the jacket he had worn on leaving Earth perhaps two years earlier, had proved to be too small for him on his return. He had been no more than a youth on leaving Earth but he had grown and matured to a young man. Back in Clonmel, the southern Irish town where the Temple Ship had brought them on their return, he'd been
obliged to buy new trainers, jeans, several T-shirts, a new black leather jacket – artfully scuffed so it didn't appear too new – and a navy beanie to hide the oraculum in his brow. As for Nan – she had had a field day becoming acquainted with popular fashions for teenage girls. And now, kitted out in black leather boots that rose to mid calf, a chunky-weave purple pullover and blue jeans under a thick navy woollen overcoat, she twirled around again, then gazed into the distance. ‘But I can see plumes. There are buildings on fire.'

‘Yeah – maybe.'

Somewhere not too far away, judging from what he had gathered on the news, some buildings would still be smouldering from the recent riots. Anarchy appeared to be endemic in London these days.

It was mid-afternoon in a dank October; the light was poor, cloaked by dense cloud and smog. People just thirty or forty yards away looked like ghosts moving through a mist. Even Mark felt nervous about their situation. He sensed, as Nan did, that they were surrounded by danger. They were walking through a thickening smog that might have harked back to the pea-soupers of half a century ago, the ones they had learned about in school. And smog was not the only reminder of more primitive times when poverty was rampant and life was cheap.

It was important that they didn't draw attention to themselves. But that was proving to be a problem with Nan. On Tír she had been queen of her own dominion: the Vale of Tazan. A teenage queen, but a queen nevertheless. That
royal heritage showed in her face, in her eyes, in her bearing and it made her stand out. He glanced at her, worried.
She must be feeling lost and confused here at every step
, he thought. Only yesterday, at the airport in Dublin, she had stood and stared at the queue working its way towards passport control. ‘These women,' she'd exclaimed, ‘have painted their lips as red as cherries.'

He had squeezed her lightly. ‘Try not to stare – it's just a fashion.'

‘On Tír, it was only the recusative priests who painted their faces – they painted them black, along with the palms of their hands.'

Mark chuckled. ‘There – you see, it's just their fashion.'

‘Fashion? These women – they should ride six miles a day for exercise.'

‘They do. They ride six miles or more, on buses, and tubes, cars and trains.'

‘But this is just sitting on their bottoms with no exercise, other than their lazy imaginations. I suspect, upstairs – is that what you would say, upstairs? – they are as lazy and complacent as they sit on their – how do you say …?'

‘Bottoms?'

‘Arses.'

‘That word is considered impolite.'

‘Hah! Yet is it not so? They sit on their arses in their buses and trains. And surely those arses would be a deal less padded if they could desist from eating this execrable fare you call fast food.'

He grinned. ‘It would be difficult to ride horses here in the city.'

‘There are machines – iron horses. I have seen them.'

‘Motorbikes.'

‘Well then?'

‘It is thought a little unladylike – though some do.'

‘I would like to try that – to ride an iron horse.'

He laughed. ‘I'd love to see it.'

‘And as to the appalling drink you call tea …'

‘Hey, don't let anyone hear you criticise tea!'

‘And no servants – you are sure?'

He nodded. ‘I'm sure.'

‘It is no wonder they are consumed with despair.'

How lovely she looked, with her olive skin and her cascade of blue-black hair. Mark hugged her to him. He kissed her eyelids, first one and then the other.

He loved her deep chestnut eyes, which contrasted so sharply with the faintly blue-tinged whites. He loved the umbrage in them right now.

‘I'm sorry,' she whispered.

‘Don't be sorry.'

‘I grumble too much?'

‘Grumbling suits you.'

It was hardly surprising that Nan felt uncomfortable here. She came from an utterly different world, closer in its customs to Earth in medieval times. Her lips moved as she spoke, but they didn't pronounce the words in any Earth-based language. She was speaking one of the many
languages of Tír and Mark, a native Londoner, heard her words as though spoken in English; not through his ears, but mind-to-mind, a gift of her power. Right now, walking the smoggy streets of the city, he wanted them both to appear as normal as possible. She said, ‘I shall desist from grumbling.'

‘I feel like doing some grumbling myself. This Church of the English Martyrs – we need to find it.'

‘Yes, we do.'

Bridey, the housekeeper of Kate's family back in Clonmel, had given Mark instructions on where to find the church where Bridey's uncle – Father Touhey, a retired Roman Catholic priest – was expecting them. But the church was small and obscure and Bridey had never been to London in her life. Her instructions had been vague, to say the least, and thanks to the destruction brought about by months of rioting, travel had proved to be difficult in the inner city, now a maze of roadblocks and impassable side streets. Their only hope was to find some helpful local, a shopkeeper or a policeman, who might be able to give them directions. Mark shook his head, directing Nan into a side street away from any curious gazes.

He had difficulty in coming to terms with the shocking anarchy and violence that was now commonplace here in London. He had even more difficulty coming to terms with all that had happened to him in the last two years – a passage of time that had felt much slower on Tír. He had crossed, with his adoptive sister, Mo, and his American and
Irish friends Alan and Kate, into an alien world ravaged by war and dominated by an extraordinary and very dangerous spiritual force known as the Fáil.

When he had kissed her closed eyes a moment ago, he had found himself gazing into Nan's jet-black oraculum, startled by the metamorphosing matrix deep within it, tiny arabesques that appeared and disappeared in time with her heartbeat.

Although he couldn't pretend to understand how, he believed that the power conferred on him and Nan through their oracula was linked to the same Fáil. On Tír the triple goddesses of the Holy Trídédana were incredibly powerful, especially Mórígán, the goddess of death. The black crystal triangles they bore in their brows were oracula empowered by Mórígán herself. He had wondered if that force would still prevail back on Earth. But now, walking these dystopic streets, the very fact that they were able to communicate through their oracula suggested that it did – at least to some degree. And that was as surprising as it was disturbing – even frightening.

‘It'd be nice if we could test the situation, Nan. We need to know how strongly Mórígán's power extends to Earth.'

He felt a tremble in her as she kissed him softly.

At Dublin Airport, Mark had steered the inquisitive Nan further along the crocodile queue of prospective passengers, praying they would get through passports and boarding cards without drawing attention to themselves. The passports had been a bit of a problem, even with the
help of a certain Mr Maguire, a useful acquaintance of Bridey's. He had registered them with what looked like genuine green-covered Irish passports, with false names and dates of birth. It might have proved hilarious had he registered Nan's true date of birth, which, if he translated Tír to Earth years, would have placed her birthday somewhere back in the Bronze Age.

As they had passed under the bilingual signs, heading for the X-ray machines, her eyes, round with amazement, had been darting everywhere, from other people, to the ‘painted' women, to the overhead monitors and television screens.

Worried that air travel would terrify her, he had offered to take her across the Irish Sea by boat but she had insisted on flying. Then in the departure lounge she had pressed her face against the plate glass windows, twirling a strand of hair in her right hand, staring out in open astonishment at the aeroplanes landing and taking off into the cloudy grey skies.

‘Flying for the first time can be a frightening experience.'

‘You promised me it would be exciting.'

Mark had tickled her waist, his free hand fingering the battered old harmonica he had somehow managed to retain: the only physical possession that linked him to a man who he assumed was his biological father. A fleeting memory passed through his mind, of standing close to Nan, sharing the view of their reflections in the window, gazing out on the planes soaring into the sky.

When they got to London, she had told him what she'd thought of flying. ‘All through the flight I was close to fainting with terror.'

‘But you made it – you're here!'

‘Yes, I'm here! And you told me London will be interesting. Instead I find myself fearing for my life.'

‘Oh, come on – let's not—'

‘You tell me' – she tapped him on his leather-coated shoulder – ‘you will protect me from whatever danger we encounter. So what is the likelihood I shall end up saving
you
?'

He laughed, squeezed her mildly resisting body close to his own. ‘I'm sure you will do it with elegance and aplomb.'

‘You might forgive my thinking that anything that could possibly go wrong will go wrong – and I shall be picking up the pieces.'

It had been that journey from Ireland that had created today's immediate problem. He had been unable to bring along the Fir Bolg battleaxe bestowed on him by the dwarf mage, Qwenqwo Cuatzel, back on Tír. A twin-bladed war battleaxe, almost three feet long, would hardly pass unnoticed through the obligatory X-ray machines. Vengeance, he had named it – and now he sorely missed his weapon. Even during his imprisonment in Dromenon he had imagined it, sensed it, always there strapped to his back. He had never otherwise been parted from it since it had been conferred on him – not until the day before yesterday when Bridey's contacts had arrived to smuggle it across by
truck and ferry, concealed among a consignment of agricultural machinery. Since being parted from it he had felt himself incomplete. Even now, he was consumed by the paranoia that he would never get it back.

*

They headed past tall office buildings and apartment blocks with broken windows into Soho. People were sitting in doorways, smoking and staring. Mark asked a passing woman if she knew the way to the Church of the English Martyrs. She ignored him, hurrying on by with an averted gaze. Mark found it hard to believe that this was his native city. The London he had grown up in had the confident and attractive hustle and bustle of one of the greatest cities of the world. In more normal times he would have enjoyed strolling along here with Nan, like any other couple.

Nan linked her arm in his. ‘I have the sense that we are being followed.'

‘I feel it too.'

‘In an hour it's going to be dark. We need to find the church.'

They ducked into Archer Street, passing the boarded-up shell of a theatre that still had the tattered shreds of its posters hanging from the walls. Mark decided he would try a dingy pub on the corner. He slid a ten pound note across the bar and asked again.

The barman glowered. But he took the note.

‘Keep going the way you're headed. You'll come to Peter
Street. It's a small church off to your right – close to the end of the road.'

When they came to it, the shops and houses on either side of Peter Street were boarded up and the street itself was blocked by a ten-foot barrier. Across the barrier was a giant poster with a central logo. The logo was a triple infinity. The poster read:

DISCOVER THE PROTECTION OF THE
INFINITE TRINITY
DISCOVER STRENGTH, LOVE, SANCTUARY
BE WELCOME TO THE ISLINGTON CHURCH OF THE SAVED

The Islington Church of the Saved was the church founded by Mark's adoptive father, the Reverend Grimstone. There had never been much Christian love in Grimstone's theology, any more than in his treatment of his adoptive children. Now Mark stared, speechless, at the clever way the poster had warped the Tyrant's symbol of the triple infinity into the Christian concept of infinite trinity.

Now that Mark considered the poster, there was no mistaking its significance. That same sigil had decorated the hilt of the twisted cross Grimstone had used as the foundation emblem of his church here in London. And it had decorated the hilt of the great sword that Padraig, Alan's grandfather, had shown the four friends in the barrow grave in the woods behind his sawmill. That grave was the burial chamber of a Bronze Age prince, called Feimhin. But
when Mark and Nan had revisited Clonmel, they had found the sawmill burnt to the ground, with Padraig missing, believed dead. The barrow grave had been desecrated, the Sword of Feimhin stolen. Mark and Nan did not believe that Padraig was dead. They believed that Grimstone's followers had kidnapped Padraig and stolen the Sword. The robbery had to be important. Padraig's family, over countless generations, had been keepers of the Sword. Padraig had explained a little of its history – and the danger it carried. When that ancient prince, Feimhin, had originally wielded it in the Bronze Age, it had led to bloodshed on a colossal scale. Padraig's term for it had been ‘endless war'. He had also shown them that its dark magic was unchanged, even today. And so it was in search of Padraig and the sword that they had now arrived in London.