The Sword of Feimhin by Frank P. Ryan Page A

and into a side door of what had been a shopping centre. Unwashed faces peered out at them from more holes in the walls as they hurried past.
    But then the two thugs appeared behind them. They separated to block their exit then they closed in on them from both sides. Mark concentrated on the shorter of the two, the one with the pickaxe handle, waiting until he came closer. Taking a couple of running steps forward, Mark kicked him hard on one knee. The thug dropped back, limping and cursing. Mark was on the point of turning when he felt a heavy blow to his temple from the lead pipe in the blond’s fist. As Mark toppled sideways, the blond’s elbow came back at his face and hammered against his teeth. Half conscious, he couldn’t stop his shoulder and head hitting the wall next to him.
    Still limping, the shorter of the thugs grabbed Penny by the hair and she screamed. From a pocket he took out a half bottle of vodka and, still holding onto Penny, took a swig then tossed the bottle to his partner, who was grinning at Nan, wiping a furred tongue over his cracked lips.
    There was a blur of movement and the feral girl was standing over Mark in a protective crouch. The thug was down, blood spurting from a hole in his thigh immediately above the knee. It took a moment for Mark’s brain to catchup: Penny had taken the shorter one out and was now crouching just in front of Mark like a wild animal, making cat-like snarling sounds and facing off the blond with something long and metallic clutched in each hand. As Nan helped Mark struggle back onto his feet, the blond moved in to attack Penny, swinging at her head with the lump of lead.
    But every time he swung the weapon, she ducked and swerved out of the way, as sinuous as a ballet dancer.
    Mark must have blinked, because he missed her strike with the long narrow blades; she was already back in that defensive crouch as the taller of the two thugs fell onto his knees, blood pumping from the side of his throat. Mark saw that the blades in Penny’s hands were as slender as needles – sharpened meat skewers, perhaps. The narrow blades, now beaded with blood, moved about Penny’s fingers as if they were extensions of her arms.
    â€˜Come – quickly!’ she said, running ahead.
    They emerged into a small street of three-storey brick buildings. The girl was pointing to twin oak doors in a gable end of a church. The sign next to the doors read CHURCH OF THE ENGLISH MARTYRS. For ‘Enquiries’ they were directed away from the main entrance. Mark began to search around, but Penny shook her head and headed down a narrow cobbled mews, one wall of which connected with the church. Mark attempted to read what she was thinking, mind-to-mind.
    â€˜No!’
    She really had sensed his attempt at mental contact. And she clearly hated it. She hated it just as she hated contact skin-to-skin.
    â€˜It’s okay. I understand – I won’t do it again.’
    Nan was already hammering on the door.
    Mark took his cue from Nan and he pushed in the letter box and shouted through it. ‘Father Touhey! Father Noel Touhey! Bridey sent us here to find you.’

First Light
    Standing on a desert island, just one of the archipelago of a thousand islands that was the equivalent of the Garg royal city, Alan Duval watched the welcoming of the dawn by Shah-nur-Kian, mother of the Garg prince Iyezzz and queen of the Eyrie Gargs. He would never get used to the fact that Gargs had no use for roads or houses, or towns and cities for that matter. They revered all that was natural, inhabiting a metropolis of sand and rock and caves which, to a human without the ability to fly, was a labyrinth. In the sand, by his bare feet, Alan noticed the zigzag trails left by some sort of sidewinder snake. He wondered whether a Garg would avoid treading on that imprint, imagining its natural origin might be sacred to them in some way. He returned his attention to the silhouetted