inch of its prey into a thick paste.
Church and Baccharus left it there, slamming its fists over and over again into the floor.
Church and Baccharus had considered playing a part in the map room and library, but there didn't seem much point. Instead, they secreted themselves behind some enormous volumes heaped on the floor where they could watch the proceedings unobserved.
Hundreds of torches and lamps lined the walls or sat in the middle of the reading desks, but even the smell of oil and smoke couldn't stifle the warm aroma of old, dry paper and papyrus. After the gloom of the store and the bilge tanks, it was refreshingly light and airy.
The room was oddly detached from the storm that raged without. There had been so many of them in recent times; certainly the Fomorii had something to do with it. Windows along one wall allowed a vista on waves rising up higher than the ship. Lightning filled every corner of the room with brilliant illumination while the rain slammed in a constant, violent rhythm.
Yet the charts and books covering every table, desk, chair, shelf and most of the floor were not thrown around. It was almost as if they were watching the storm from some distant place, which Church suspected was probably true.
The Fomorii came in about ten minutes later. They acted unnerved by the light, wandering around the room with uncharacteristic caution, prodding potential hiding places with their swords. Church was surprised to see that in the glare of the torches they looked diminished; quite literally. They were smaller, their gleaming sable forms no longer holding so many surprises: two legs, two arms, a head.
As one of them passed a bookshelf packed with maps, it didn't notice a column of mist, fading in and out of the light. The haze curled around the Fomor, then moved away as if it had been caught on a breeze. For a second or two the beast froze. Then slowly it threw its head back and released a terrible cry that was immediately and surprisingly recognisable as despair. The Night Walker lashed out wildly, demolishing the bookcase with one blow, then began to run backwards and forwards in a frenzy, tearing at its eyes and ears. Black gunk splashed on to the pristine white of the charts.
'What's happening?' Church whispered.
Baccharus shrugged slightly. 'The Spriggan has whispered a secret.'
'Christ, what kind of secret?'
'One that can drive anything insane.'
What this could possibly be disturbed Church so deeply he decided not to consider it further.
The other Fomorii grew as animated as monkeys in the jungle at their fellow's demise by its own hands, but they didn't back off. Opting for a tight defensive formation, they moved cautiously through the vast room in search of the invisible enemy. Church couldn't identify the Spriggans either, and he had suggested areas where they could secrete themselves. He knew of the legends surrounding them long before Cormorel had pointed them out. The ghosts of giants, supposedly, haunting the standing stones of Cornwall, but in actuality they had the shapeshifting abilities of many denizens of T'ir n'a n'Og. Often they appeared as insubstantial as morning mist, but when they took on substance they were even more grotesque than the Fomorii.
Despite their fearsome reputation, they respected Church for his links with the Blue Fire, which apparently calmed their violent natures.
The Fomorii were growing irritated with their inability to locate the enemy and had taken to hacking randomly at shelving and piles of books. But as they passed near heavy purple drapes flapping in the breeze from one open window, there was sudden movement. The drapes folded back and out of them-out of the air itself-came the Spriggans, now solid, and monstrous in their rage. They descended on the Fomorii like frenzied birds, intermittently fading so the Night Walkers could never get a handle on them.
If there had been fewer than the eight Spriggans Church counted, the Fomorii might have stood a chance; as it was the Night Walkers managed to bring down one with a lucky blow while he was solid. But the white-hot rage of the Spriggans drove them on relentlessly. Soon the torn bodies of the Fomorii lay heaped in the centre of the room.
In the light of what he had seen, Church was wary of emerging from his hiding place, but Baccharus was quickly out to thank the Spriggans with a taut bow. They were shifting anxiously around the corpses, as if they were considering feasting. Rather than see what transpired, Church thanked them from a distance and quickly exited.
For the next hour and a half, the attacks proceeded relentlessly. Here the tearing claws of the thing that resembled a griffin, there the ferocity of the Manticore analogue. Losses amongst the ship's passengers were relatively few-a couple of Portunes crushed by a falling Fomor, something that had a body covered with sharp thorns, like a human porcupine-but the Night Walkers were decimated. Once Church and Baccharus had convinced themselves no others roamed the corridors, they moved speedily towards the deck.
They emerged into the face of a gale as sharp as knives. The rain was horizontal, bullet hard, and mixed with sheeting salt water. Lightning tore the sky ragged with barely a break between strikes. Below deck, they had been aware of the ship's movements on the waves, but had somehow been protected from it. There in the open they faced the full force of the wild pitching that almost tipped Wave Sweeper from end to end. Even shouting, they could not be heard above the explosive force of the thunder. Purchase on the streaming boards was almost impossible to find. They skidded from side to side, clutching on to rigging or railing to prevent themselves being thrown overboard. At one point, Church was hanging on by only his arms, his legs dangling out at near right angles to the deck. Strangely unaffected by the yawing, Baccharus hooked a hand in Church's jacket to keep him anchored until the boat began to turn the other way, and then they hurried to the next safe point.
After fifteen minutes, the door to Manannan's quarters loomed agonisingly close. Church clung to a spinnaker, ready to make the final dash. Just as he was about to put a foot forward, lightning painted the deck a brilliant white and from the corner of his eye he caught sight of an incongruous shadow. He whirled and dodged with a second to spare. Talons like metal spikes turned wood to splinters where his head had been.
Another flash brought a face into stark relief only inches from his own: slit pupils turning to a black sliver in the glare, reptilian scales, a flickering tongue, flaring nostrils steaming in the storm's chill, the bone structure of the skull ridged and hard.
Church thrust hard and the Maligna flew on to its back and rolled down the deck. But he was not alone. The lightning flashes created an odd strobe effect, freezing then releasing, before freezing again, as the rest of the Malignos attacked. It was a surreal scenario, the creatures leaping like lizards from railing to rigging, caught in the light, untroubled by the wild swings of the ship. And at the back, clutching the jamb of the door that led below deck, was Callow, his face as furious as the storm.
The Malignos were flitting shadows until the lightning caught them, and then it was apparent why they were so feared. Their bodies were lithe yet packed with muscle, efficient machines with only one brutal purpose in mind. The speed with which they moved made it impossible for any prey to avoid them in open pursuit, while their reputation as flesh eaters made them even more fearsome.
Church was caught between running for cover and standing and fighting his ground, but in the violently tossing ship it was impossible to do either; the most he could do was hang on to the spinnaker for grim life.
There must have been six or seven of the Malignos, but it was impossible to pin down the exact number because of the speed of their movement and the force of the storm. They were coming at him from both sides, but shifting around rapidly to confuse him like a pack of hunting wolves.
Baccharus was yelling something, but Church couldn't hear above the wind. In that instant, the Malignos struck. A ball of flailing, wiry limbs slammed into Church head-on. He lost his grip on the spinnaker and went down hard. Another Maligna flashed by just close enough to rake him with its talons. Warm blood seeped out through the tears on his jacket. The first one planted itself astride him, raising up one arm ready to tear out his throat. Church frantically tried to throw him off, but the creature was too strong. The talons curled; the arm came down.
Baccharus caught the Maligna with the back of his hand, a blow of such force Church felt the vibrations in his bones. The beast flew down the deck. Baccharus managed to get Church to his feet. The god was still trying to tell Church something, but before Church could decipher it, another Maligna crashed into his back. The deck tipped, his feet left the boards and he was flying down the length of the ship, careening off the rigging, bouncing off the railing, inches from going overboard into the savage sea. He slammed into the wall next to the door leading below deck, and for a second lost consciousness.
When he came to, Callow was over him, a rusty razor blade clutched between thumb and forefinger, ready to
