Ronan raised his eyebrows as he sat down. 'You can tell?' Kit looked surprised. 'It sticks out all over you.' 'Your partner couldn't.'
Nita went hot with embarrassment at that. Kit shrugged. 'It's always easier for guy wizards to tell guys, and girls to tell girls. Anyway, Neets has other things to think about. Besides, she's in a weird place. You get thrown off. I didn't know her aunt was one until she was pointed out to me.' There was tension in the air. Nita had thought this would be a good idea, at first; now she was beginning to regret it. 'I was just telling Ronan,' she said to Kit,'that I was sorry I dumped the drink on him the other night.'
Ronan looked bemused. 'Watch out for her. She's got a temper.'
'I've noticed,' Kit said. 'Just hope you never see her sister lose hers. Whoo. But Neets is no prize either.'
'Will you two stop talking about me as if I'm not here?' Nita said, annoyed. Then they both grinned at her, and she went hot again. Bad enough being teased from just one direction. 'Shove over, Kit,' she said, sat down next to him, and started working on her Coke again. Then she said to Ronan, 'How was your day yesterday?'
There was an abrupt sound of breaking glass from outside. All three of their heads jerked up at the same time. 'What on earth. .!' Kit said.
'Probably an accident,' Ronan said, getting up hurriedly. 'The corner next to here is a bad one. People are always coming around it too fast. .'
The next sound of glass breaking was the shop's own window, and it was not a car that broke it. Something big, dark and blunt slammed into it from one side, and plate glass rained in. The ladies behind the counter cried out in surprise and headed for the back of the shop in a hurry. The shop's three other patrons followed them, leaving Kit and Nita and Ronan standing there. Something stepped in through the broken glass. If you had taken a human being, and coated it with tar, and rolled it in gravel, and then turned it loose to walk around blindly smashing things, it might look something like this. At least, it would if it were nearly two meters tall, and more than a meter broad, with arms and thighs as thick as a man's waist, and a round ugly face like a boulder. They looked at it in shock as it came towards them. 'It's a drow,' Ronan whispered. 'Fomori.' They could see others like it stalking past, out in the street. The sounds of breaking plate glass were spreading down the road; cars screeched to a halt, horns blasted. There was one long screech followed by the sound of more breaking glass, and the crunch of metal too, this time. 'Someone's hit one,' Kit said. 'I feel sorry for their car,' Ronan said. 'Come on.' 'How do you stop them?' said Nita.
'Stop them? You don't stop them. You run away!' Ronan said. He grabbed Nita's arm with one hand, and Kit's with the other, and hustled them out the back door.
They ducked out the back of the chicken place and into Castle Terrace behind it. Nita looked down to the end of the street, towards the remains of the old castle. Several of the drows were busily throwing down the last few stones. They appeared to be made of good Wicklow granite, and to dislike everything they saw. Several of them, a little nearer down the street, were punching holes in the walls of the Bank of Ireland: its alarm bell was ringing disconsolately. Another one, in Herbert Road, was busy turning a car over, while people struggled and screamed and tried to get out of it. 'This is not good,' Nita muttered. 'We can't just leave these things running all over the place!' 'There's no wizardry that can deal with these,' Ronan said, 'not with overlays all over the place! You've just got to get away! If they. .'
That was when the heavy hand fell on Ronan's shoulder. 'No way!' Kit said. He said three words, very short and sharp. The drow screamed, a high thin whine, and reeled back, mostly because it had no head left. Rock dust sifted down past Ronan as Kit pulled him away. 'You were saying?' Kit said, breathing hard.
The drow kept screaming. A great crack or fissure ran down it, from its head straight down its centreline. It staggered, and the crack spread. But something else happened as well. The drow got wider. It seemed to have two heads. Then six arms; then eight. It fell to the ground with a terrible crash, and broke in two; and got up. twice. It had twinned. 'I was saying that,' Ronan said. 'Run!'
The way westward down Herbert Road was blocked by more drows. They dodged around the formerly single drow and ran into Main Street. People were running and screaming in all directions. Cars were being overturned, windows and walls being bashed in or pulled down. Two drows were in the process of overturning the monument in front of the Royal Hotel. 'What on earth are these things?' Nita said. 'It's not a re-enactment. They're Fomori.'
Nita looked up Main Street towards the old beam-and-plaster building that had been the town's market hall, and was now the tourist centre and museum. It was still fairly clear up there. 'Come on,' she said.
They ran up that way, accompanied by a lot of other people who apparently had the same idea. They didn't get much further than the little arcade of shops in the middle of the main street before they saw the first squat, grey forms appearing down at the other end of the road. One of them began pulling at the gryphon-topped granite fountain in front of the heritage centre. They stopped. 'No good,' Nita said. 'We don't dare use wizardry in case it backfires. We've got to do something else.'
'Such as?' Ronan said, desperate. 'There's no river to throw them in!'
She smiled at him, rather crookedly. She was beginning to shake. 'Let's try this,' she said.
There was a format for these things. She called the name once; she called it twice. The second time, it made her throat hurt — more in warning, she thought, than because of the sound of it. Something was saying to her, Are you sure? Very sure? She gulped, and said the name the third time. It shook her, and flung her down.
She sat up on the pavement, slightly dazed. It took a swallow or two to get her throat working again. Then she shouted in the Speech, 'Pay me back what you owe me — and do it now!' It being wizardry involved, she expected immediate results. It being wizardry involved. she got them.
Over the screams and the breaking glass, over the crashes of cars and the howling of the sirens of the Gardai, came another sound: bells. Not church bells. It was as if someone had taken the sound of hoofbeats, and tuned them; as if what came galloping did so on hooves of glass, or silver, a clangour of relentless and purposeful harmonies. Other bells were the sounds that bridles might make if each one were built like a musical instrument, made to be carried into battle and shaken to frighten the enemy — a sharp, chilly sound. The galloping and the sound of the bells came closer together, and were joined by a third sound, a high, eerie singing noise, the sound that metal might make if you woke it up and taught it how to kill. The faces of the buildings up near the heritage centre flushed bright, as if a light came near them.
And then the tide of colour poured itself down into Main Street from both sides of the Heritage Centre, and the first of the drows fell away from the gryphon fountain, screaming as a crystal sword pierced it. The horses shone, the riders shone; not with any kind of light. They were simply more there than the main street was, more there than the broken glass, and the crashed cars, and the grey things; more vivid, more real. Everything went pallid or dull that was seen in the same glance with them — the crimson of cloaks and banners that burned like coals, the blues and emerald greens like spring suddenly afire amid the concrete, the gold of tores and arm-rings glowing as if they were molten, the silver of hair burning like the moon through cloud, the raven of hair burning like the cold between the stars. The riders poured down into Main Street, and the drows fled screaming before them — not that it helped. Two of them took refuge in the smoked-glass-and- aluminium phone booths down at that end of the street; the faery horses smashed them to splinters with their hooves, and the drows afterwards. Down past the Chinese restaurant, down past the estate agents and the electrical shops, the riders came storming down between the cars, or through them, as if the cars were not real to them: and perhaps they were not. The riders' hands were not empty. Their swords shone and sang where the sunlight fell on them, that high, inhumanly joyous keen of metal that will never know rust. The riders had spears like tongues of fire, and sickles like sharpened moons, and bows of glass which fired arrows that did not miss. The grey things went down like lumps of stone when the weapons struck them, and lay like stone, and didn't move again. The only screams left were those of the drows, now; everything mortal was hiding, or standing very still, hoping against hope it wouldn't be noticed by the terrible, deadly beauty raging down through the main street of Bray.
The riders swept down the street to where Nita and Ronan and Kit stood, backs against the wall next to the pub by the arcade; and swept on past them, towards the Dargle, driving a crowd of the drows before them. A Garda sergeant in his blue shirtsleeves stood astounded on the corner and watched them pass, too dumbfounded to do anything at the moment but cross himself; and several of the riders bowed to him as they passed, and smiled as they did it.
One of the riders turned aside from the bright tide, and paused by them, looking down at Nita. He said, 'Are you repaid, then?'
