The Sword of Feimhin by Frank P. Ryan Read Free Book Online Page A

laughter. ‘Alas, Kate Shaunessy, foolish girl-thing, still more do I worry.’
    â€˜Then tell me what to do.’
    Those huge eyes gazed back at her.
    â€˜Rest a while. Take time to consider what you will face in the challenge. Though you possess the Second Power ofthe Holy Trídédana, you are not ready for what you will face in the city of the Momu. You are naïve. Beware the trap of kindness.’
    Kate experienced a sense of déja vu: the Momu herself had said something very similar when they had first met.

A Murder of Tramps
    Mark and Nan continued to explore Soho, straying into a narrow street lined with crumbling four-storey Georgian buildings. The lower storeys consisted of small shops, few of which retained intact windows. Those without broken windows were readily identified by their steel-mesh protective screens.
    After a few twists and turns they emerged onto a famous street, the giveaway sign straddling the upper stories, supported by metal brackets but riddled with what looked like bullet holes. A third of the black lettering was missing so it read, WEL-C--E TO -A-NAB- S-RE-T. Carnaby Street. The fashion boutiques had been replaced by dusty caves selling second-hand clothes, bags of coal, candles and staple war foods such as corned beef and condensed milk. Mark found himself blinking at one surprise after another, hardly daring to think who might inhabit the upper stories. He turned to Nan.
    â€˜Can you still sense the girl?’
    â€˜I think so.’
    â€˜But you’re not sure?’
    â€˜My instincts tell me that she’s leading us to the church.’
    â€˜I hope you’re right.’
    At the top of the street they turned right onto a broader lane overhung with concrete and glass offices. These sheltered small pavement cafés where jack-booted men in camouflage uniforms of light grey dappled with ochre and brown, were sitting around, drinking coffee and stubbing out cigarettes on the plastic table surfaces. Paramilitaries. Mark didn’t bother to ask them for directions. Further on they passed tall office buildings and apartment blocks, many with peeling plaster and broken windows.
    They arrived at another obstruction, which forced them to enter a narrow street to their left where an office block carried a dangling fragment of a blue-and-white circular sign: a historic marker that meant somebody famous had been born or worked there. Most of the street was boarded and grim, invaded by squatters lounging in doorways. They hurried on through, eyes averted, and emerged into an open market. ‘You think your adoptive father, Grimstone, is behind all this?’
    â€˜I don’t know. I don’t understand what’s going on here. Last I saw him he was gathering a church of toadies about him.’
    â€˜You could approach him – confront him.’
    Mark had a childhood memory of Grimstone standingwith his back to him, staring out into the town of Clonmel. Evening faded through the wide round-topped window of one of his make-do churches. He was coming down from the high of a service; his black silk shirt stuck to him with sweat, sculpting his heavily-muscled body, reminding Mark of a panther ready to spring. Mark recalled the sense of danger, of impending hurt.
    â€˜Grimstone is not the sort you would want to confront – unless you were sure you were going to win.’
    They ambled, single file, between rows of vegetable stalls. There was a scattering of overripe fruit, cheap clothes, spices, shoes, the occasional offer of flowers and one surviving newsagent. On either side of the market were boarded-up cafés and restaurants.
    Nan clasped Mark’s arm and whispered, ‘We’re being followed again.’
    â€˜Not the girl?’
    â€˜No.’
    Glancing around, Mark caught sight of a tall leather-coated young man with short-cropped dyed blond hair. He sported a tattoo of a triple infinity on a shaved patch of scalp above his left