The Sword of Feimhin (36 page)

Mark and Nan woke in the dark, aware that something was amiss. For a moment they stared at one another in the pulsing light of their oracula, as if astonished by their appearance; the evening before, in the interests of hygiene in the squalid conditions of the camp, they had shaved off each other's hair, rendering them crew cut. In the next moment, the same cry came from both their mouths.

‘We're under attack!'

They threw on clothes and trainers and Mark grabbed the mobile he had kept switched on around the clock in the hope of a call from Gully.

Nan had ferried the frightened youth to the St Martin's Lane exit off Piccadilly with Mark covering her tail to make sure they weren't followed. It was still raining heavily, but there was no place they could find shelter. It was important that they had the opportunity to talk with him.

‘It's okay. Nobody is going to hurt you. All we want to do is to talk to you. What's your name?'

‘Gully.'

Gully had already wriggled off the pillion of Nan's bike. He looked ready to run. Mark put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You're a friend of Penny's, aren't you?'

‘I don't know nuffink about no Penny.'

‘We know you're friends. Just tell me the truth, Gully.'

‘Don't you go jangling with me 'ead.'

‘Time's short and we don't have time to explain it all, but we're your friends. We know about Penny, we know she's special, we know you want to protect her – we can protect you and Penny.'

Gully had torn himself out of Mark's hands. He was shaking his head, as if unable to believe he had been so stupid. ‘You don't get it. I got to find 'er.'

‘You're both in a lot of bother, Gully. The paramilitaries and the Skulls are looking for you.'

Nan motioned Mark to hush. She put her hand lightly on Gully's shoulder. She looked him eye to eye. ‘It's really important we talk to Penny.'

He shook his head. ‘Uh-huh.'

‘She really is in danger.'

‘Wot you want to talk to Penny about?'

‘She knows something of what's going on. We know she's been drawing a map. We're looking for a friend who might be somewhere underground.'

‘How do you know about her maps?'

‘Because we saw them, Gully, inside Penny's mind. That time when we met her – when she helped us find the church.'

‘Bleedin' 'eck!'

‘Penny helped us – she knew we were on the same side.'

‘Nah. I don't believe you.'

‘It's true, Gully.'

‘Let me see 'em. Let me see them fings in your 'eads, wot Penny told me about.'

They showed him their brows, then Mark had spoken. ‘I'm Mark – and this is Nan.'

Gully had stared at the oracula through his rain-spattered spectacles, muttering their names.

‘It's just like Penny told you, isn't it, Gully?'

He said nothing, but his silence was enough confirmation. Nan had patted his shoulder, gently, comfortingly. ‘It's grown really dangerous, Gully. You and Penny – you're not safe any more.'

‘It'll blow over – always does.'

‘No, Gully, it won't blow over. Those people are looking for you and they'll never stop looking until they find you.'

‘Oh, Penny – Penny, gel!'

Mark handed Gully a mobile phone. ‘All Penny needs to do is to call me. We'll help you – we'll protect you. Just call me.'

Gully's eyes had opened wide as saucers, staring at the mobile phone. ‘It's a trick, innit?'

‘No – it's no trick. You keep the phone. There's a number
preset into speed dial 1. Find Penny. Even if you can't find her, call me.'

A confusion of emotions had swept over Gully's face. There was a lot of fear in him as he wiped his nose with his sleeve then shoved the mobile phone into the top right-hand pocket of his rain-soaked jacket.

That call had never materialised and it was very likely it never would. Mark no longer had time to worry about it. They were springing out of the tent and sounding the alarm through the camp in a moment, alerting the others to the fact they were under attack.

‘How the hell do you know we're being raided?' Cal demanded, in the pandemonium of getting ready to run.

‘We both sense it – it's coming.'

‘What's coming?'

‘We figure there's a truck full of paramilitaries out there, but they're holding fire, or else they're circling around us.'

The camp had been on continuous alert so there was little in the way of packing to do. Bull was already mounting guard on the bikes and Cogwheel was hoisting himself up into the cab of the Mamma Pig. Cal and Sharkey, who had armed themselves with an RPG and the smaller of the Minimi machine guns, were debating a plan of defence when Nan interrupted them. ‘There's something else.'

Cal glared at her, looking impatient in the freezing rain, the weight of the RPG yanking at his arms. ‘What?'

‘Listen – listen carefully.'

The two men listened. Sharkey had the better hearing. ‘A chopper!'

‘Incoming,' Mark agreed.

Cal shook his head. ‘Shit and piss! It's an Ugly.'

‘What's that?'

Sharkey spoke softly, tapping the barrel of the machine gun against his bony knee. ‘That's heavy-duty shit – a battlefield hunter-killer. We try to run for it and we're done. They'll pick up the heat of the exhausts like they're beacons. The Mamma Pig will be a sitting duck.'

Cogwheel cursed out of the window of the Pig.

Cal said, ‘It's even worse than that. The paramilitaries don't have Uglies, it's the regular army.'

Mark was reminded of the hooded figures at Grimstone's meeting at Wembley, one of whom, if Jo Derby was right, was a field marshal.

Sharkey gripped the machine gun between his legs in order to free his arms. He tied a red bandana around his head to contain his straggle of greying hair. ‘Now we know what's killing off the crews: we're looking at a wipeout strategy. They truck paramilitaries in, but they don't attack right away; the heavy ordinance does the hit. Then the truck comes in to finish off and record.'

‘Sounds organised,' Tajh called down from the passenger window of the Pig. ‘What do you reckon, Cal?'

Cal had put down his weapon to slip an MK-5 up to her through the open window. He picked up the RPG again,
weighing it thoughtfully with both hands. ‘I agree with Sharkey. It's professional – regular forces.'

‘What's the plan?'

‘They know by now that we've heard their approach. They're out there watching us on infrared. They're expecting us to run.'

Sharkey muttered a whole string of curses.

Cal shrugged. ‘You ask me, we might as well stop and fight. At least we can take some of 'em out before they take us.'

Mark shook his head. ‘Nan and I will see what we can do.'

‘What can you do?'

‘We can give you people the chance to clear out. Save the Mamma Pig.'

Cogwheel was shaking his head at them through the open cab window. ‘You expecting us to just drive out of here in the dark? We won't know where we're going – no lights in that downpour!'

‘You know your way well enough around here. You could maybe get a mile or so clear before you need lights.'

Cogwheel started up the heavy motor. ‘Come on, Tajh. You're going to have to navigate.'

‘Shit – okay!'

Cal motioned with the barrel of the RPG. ‘Bull – you ride shotgun with the heavy Minimi. Cogwheel – head south, but keep off the proper roads if you can. Sharkey and me, we'll cover your arses.'

Mark saw Bull grunt, then climb into the back of the pig where he could fit the belt-driven machine gun. Cal turned to face him and Nan. ‘I want to know – what are you planning?'

Mark took a BMW and Nan had mounted the Harley. He heard her start her bike and Mark followed suit, free-wheeling around to face the opposite direction to the Pig, which was now revving up. ‘We're better equipped to take the fight to them. We'll deal with the chopper.'

The sound of the rotors was growing louder.

‘Are you guys insane?' Cal said.

Behind him, Mark heard the Mamma Pig rising through the gears. As he was sliding the Fir Bolg battleaxe into its harness over his shoulder he saw Sharkey stuff something into his backpack. In the poor light Mark couldn't see what it was, but through the assisted vision of his oraculum he saw a small, fat sausage shape poking out from under the flap: the frayed leg of Big Ted.

Mark nodded to Cal. ‘Good luck with the truck. Nan and me – we'll do what we can to give you a little time with the chopper.'

‘Even without lights they'll pick up your exhausts.'

‘That's what we're hoping, but we'll give them lights as well for the time being. Just to make sure they spot us.'

All four waited until the Mamma Pig was lost to sound. Then Sharkey pushed the safety button on the heavy machine gun. ‘Better hang fire a minute or two.' Mark said.
‘Me and Sharkey will head out on foot. That way we'll fool them into thinking we're travelling with you.'

‘Sounds like a plan.'

Sharkey came alongside so he could high five Nan. ‘I like the thought of them lazy bastards hanging fire out there thinking we're sitting ducks. But instead of waiting for the chopper to hack us to pieces, we become the hunters.'

Nan was grinning in Mark's direction. He caught the gist of it: she thought that Sharkey fancied her.

‘Okay, we'll catch up with you later.'

Cal grinned. ‘Maybe.'

Mark waited until the two men had faded into the shadow of the trees before he spoke to Nan. ‘Got your homicidal tendencies in gear?'

‘I'm looking forward to it.'

‘You're one bloodthirsty queen.'

‘Affirmative.'

Mark barked a laugh.

‘There's a small hill in the direction they're coming. We can take advantage of it to use our lights to get as near as we can.'

‘The ground in between is covered with scrub – and trees.'

‘We'll have to cut through it as best we can. Use the oracula to burn through it if necessary. We'll let them see our lights – so they think we're coming right down their gun barrels, then cut the lights when we climb the hill.'

They waited until they were at least a hundred yards
from the campsite before roaring through the rain-filled darkness with the bikes' headlights on full. Mark found himself heading straight into an oak coppice. He swerved, his right foot tearing through the rain-soaked ground, to avoid the collision, then he was side by side with Nan, tearing through brambles and nettles, jerking and bumping over uneven ground scored by rocky outcrops.

Nan's voice came mind-to-mind:

The truth was that his right hip and thigh stung like shit. The heavy fabric of his coat had saved his upper body, but his jeans felt shredded and his knees and thighs were laced with scratches.

They sensed they were maybe 200 yards from the hunter–killer, which showed no lights, but made the air throb with the clatter of its rotors.

He directed Nan.

The throbbing of the heavy rotors was closing quickly, the noise became deafening. His headlight burned a tunnel through the trees. It would be a beacon to the incoming pilot. A hail of machine gun fire ripped through the foliage only feet to Mark's left. He cut his lights, swerving to his right. Nan had to be a good thirty yards away by now. They would have followed her on their infrared, but he had given them such an easy target he could assume they were
specifically targeting him. He slid to a halt under the dripping cover of a hawthorn cluster.

Mark stared up into the night sky, feeling the downdraught from the rotor blades on the skin of his face. The hunter-killer was directly overhead, but was still almost invisible. He revved up the throttle, then slotted the gears into neutral and let it run before hurling himself out of the saddle and letting gravity take the machine down the slope on the other side of the hill. He pressed his head and body down into the muddy ground, the smell of mulch and grasses filling his nostrils. He could hear, and sense, Nan closing down her engine at the same time. She was, maybe, a hundred yards away. He saw the trajectory of the missile as it struck the bike, which was wobbling perilously, but still rolling, maybe twenty-five yards from where Mark lay panting amid the scrub. The night exploded. He could hardly breathe because of the sulphurous hot gases and the stink of high explosive. The chopper was still hovering perilously close to him, the cockpit now illuminated, but hopefully they'd assume he was dead. They were operating something on board: a belly-mounted camera swivelled, capturing the carnage around where the heavy bike had been blown to smithereens. Mark figured that he had maybe half a minute before they turned around and searched for Nan.

Mark climbed to his feet, reaching over his shoulder as he did so. He hauled the Fir Bolg battleaxe into his left hand. The oraculum pulsed strongly in his brow. For the
first time since he had pledged his life to the Third Power and goddess of death, Mórígán, he called on her for help.

With the chopper beginning to move off to his left, Mark stared up, looking for the cabin area that contained the pilot. He glimpsed a blurry triangle of white – the pilot's face – through the windscreen. Less clearly, but still obviously enough, he could see the gunner, his head bent over the machine gun with its circular metal sights. Mark brought down the power from the oraculum into his shoulder and then let it flow into his arm and out into the blade. He felt the intensity of it build. Where the Fir Bolg runes should have been glowing, white as molten iron, it was the blade that now glowed white while the runes flashed black, the promise of death.