The Sword of Feimhin by Frank P. Ryan Page B

candlestick apiece. The air within the entrance now buzzed and swarmed with Grimlings, their wings a whirring blur; but the repellent faces moved more slowly, more purposefully, assessing the situation within the church. Mark and Nan turned back to back, waving the heavy candlesticks to best ward off attack.
    
    Mark followed Nan’s alert. Through his oraculum he invaded the mind of the feral girl, to be startled by the strangeness of what he discovered there. He recognised that he was looking around himself at the nave of the church, in which the headlights threw everything into lurid contrasts of light and shadow. But there was an additional, astonishing perspective. It took him a moment or two before he could even begin to grasp what it might be.
     It was too complex for Mark to follow in detail.
    Penny screamed. ‘Watch out!’
    Within her mind Mark saw that the seemingly random movements of the vicious little brutes was coordinated into a purposeful weave. She was predicting their impending attack. He had the disorientating sense that it was Penny who was directing his mind and not the other way round.
    
    
    
    
    Mark found himself testing her predictions, moving the heavy candlestick towards an incoming Grimling head with its snarling maw of teeth. The crunch of contact was satisfying. In seconds he and Nan killed a dozen of them, but then the gaping main doors were flung wide open. An enormous man, built like a Sumo wrestler, strode into thechurch. His head was smooth-shaven, and embedded in the left side of his skull was the glowing silver sigil of the triple infinity. The Grimlings changed their pattern of attack to flow about him, like the shoal of pilot fish about a hunting shark.
    â€˜Grimlings bite – Scalpie kills,’ hissed Penny.
    â€˜Shit!’ Mark felt the oraculum take fire in his brow. He shouted to Nan. ‘I’ll deal with the Scalpie if you can deal with the Grimlings. Look after Penny!’
    The Grimlings had altered their pattern, extending out into a dome enclosing all five of their prey. But they kept their distance, deferring to the giant warrior. The Scalpie was in no hurry to attack. His behaviour suggested ritual. He lowered himself to a kneeling position on the floor, placing a casket of polished ebony on the tiles in front of him and making a bow before opening it. He took out a single gauntlet, made out of articulated matte black metal, and drew it onto his left hand. With his mailed hand he lifted a dagger from the casket. It was heavy and ornate and the Scalpie handled it reverentially. The blade was a tapering spiral; it too was black – darker than the mere absence of reflection – and the handle gleamed with inlaid silver. There was a sigil of the triple infinity embossed on the hilt.
    Mark stared at the dagger with disbelief.
    Alan had described exactly such a dagger back on Tír. It was the weapon of a priestly caste known as preceptors, who fulfilled some darkly spiritual role within the armiesof the Tyrant of the Wastelands. Mark guessed the Scalpie was the equivalent of a preceptor here on Earth. When the burly warrior spoke it was in a guttural alien language, he didn’t recognise, though he heard the meaning of the words through the oraculum.
    To the clay shall I sacrifice such dung as irritate my Lord
.
    Thus, in a spirit of humility do I consecrate my unworthy offering
.
    In blood shall I honour Thee, my life and soul unworthy, at your call
.
    Spare me not!
    Tear the still beating heart from my breast, if it pleaseth thee,
    Oh blessed and everlasting Master!
    Mark felt a shiver pass through him at a reminder from Nan of where their own