The Sword of Feimhin by Frank P. Ryan

challenging the Tyrant’s vainglorious rule. And now here you are, Mo Grimstone, one of four friends who have journeyed far – from another world, no less – accompanied by Turkeya, shaman of the stout-hearted Children of the Sea. Already you have destroyed the Tyrant’s most dangerous ally, the Great Witch Olc, in her Tower of Bones.’
    Mo couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘You’ve been waiting all this time – for us to come here?’
    â€˜Indeed.’
    Magtokk was himself again, a robust shaggy figure with a great rounded dome of a head atop burly sloping shoulders. He leapt into the air, landing atop a projection, where he hung upside down, holding on with his feet, his fur dangling at all sorts of improbable angles. He didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps care, how ridiculous he looked.
    â€˜This war into which you are heading will be bitter and dangerous.’
    â€˜I think that Alan understands the danger. We all do. That’s why we need every bit of help we can find.’
    Turkeya was staring at Mo, as if he couldn’t believe that she was trusting the creature. The organutan leaped again, discovering another equally precarious perch, this time holding on with one hand.
    â€˜On that we are agreed.’
    â€˜So, will you help us, Magtokk?’
    He was more interested in traversing a section of wall, swinging from one precarious perch to another, all the while humming a tune. ‘Forgive my need for exercise. It really does help me to think. I worry, you see, that my help might prove more of a hindrance – even a potential danger to your brave purpose.’
    â€˜Oh, Magtokk, please stop this capering. You’re making me feel so dizzy I can’t begin to think.’
    â€˜Surely it is you, young lady, whose very presence is bedazzling me.’
    Turkeya was looking sideways at Mo, baffled by the behaviour of Magtokk the Mischievous.
    Mo pressed him, ‘Why does the Tyrant hate you so much?’
    â€˜That is a very long story. Long …’ Magtokk leaped clean across the atrium from one wall to another. ‘Long, long …’ He leaped again, this time performing a somersault before he came to rest, patting his drapery of fur back into a comfortable blanket around his shoulders, and taking a seat on a stone immediately opposite Mo. He brought his huge faceup close to hers, exposing two scary horseshoes of teeth in a yawn. ‘So long,’ he concluded, ‘that it will have to keep for another time – a time perhaps when we are not so hard-pressed.’
    â€˜But we are not in the least hard-pressed.’
    â€˜You think not?’ A shaggy hand had curled around an ear as if anticipating the warning horn that sounded out from far below in the clearing before the beach. ‘Alas, it would appear that we must think of today and forgo worrying about what will happen tomorrow.’
    â€˜What are you hinting at?’
    â€˜Ach, my two young friends – Iyezzz has brought you here so I can impart a secret. One that your friend Alan should know – a secret that you might use to your advantage with the reluctant King Zelnesakkk and the wily High Shaman Mahteman.’

The Scalpie
    Mark ushered Nan and Penny through the side door into the modest nave of the Church of the English Martyrs. A tall, colourfully-dressed black woman, who was carrying a candle in a tall brass candlestick, slammed the door shut behind them, confining them to a gloom as deep as twilight.
    â€˜Thank de good Lord! Fadah Toowee is expectin’ you.’
    There was the flare of a match in the near distance – Mark saw a yellow flame appear a short distance away. In the feeble light of the newly-lit candle, he could make out a diminutive stooped figure which, closer-to, revealed itself to be a white-haired priest, clad in heavy gold-brocaded vestments over his black soutane. He was standing by a coffin, set on trestles in