The foul weather had abated somewhat while we were in the O’Connell homestead, making our journey back to the center of town a peaceful one. I worried for my boys’ safety, though I had faith in John to ward off any foe that they might come across in daylight. Drunks and maniacs were the most of their problems near as I could determine.

Indeed, they had been fine, and we found them standing in front of St. Peter’s having a spirited discussion. It was so enrapturing that they did not even notice me as I approached with Thomas and Sir Lucas.

“Boys!” I shouted to gain their attention.

They turned toward me as though they had seen a ghost.

“Father!” John gasped in shock. “Robert and I were worried something had happened to you.”

Robert shook his head.

“I was only beginning to worry,” he declared. “It is merely the case that in circumstances such as ours, with so many odd dealings, one should be vigilant when people are an hour or two later than they said they would be. I—”

“Robert, please,” I said with a stern though happy smile. His pomposity was too much to absorb at that moment, though I was delighted that both were safe. “There were a number of documents at Mr. O’Connell’s house and it took us some time to read through them. How fared your efforts?”

Robert and John glanced at one another with grimaces. John made a deferential wiggle of his head toward Robert.

“It was a rhythmic chant, one they kept repeating even as they ate and drank. John tried talking to them while they repeated it to see if we could interrupt the spell under which they labored,” Robert muttered, his face tense and his eyes looking slightly down and away from me.

“Go on. What were they saying?” I asked.

“Cerrig fel pren. Ar dân yn y nos. Tŷ'r duw ffug. Eglwys gadeiriol o fflam,” Robert mimicked a deranged lyrical tone. “Stones like wood. Alight in the night. The false god's house. A cathedral of flame.”

Sir Lucas almost fell backwards as he heard those words. While some of the Welsh verses we had encountered on this entire demented adventure were cryptic, that was not. I looked up at the strong stone edifice of St. Peter’s and realized that it would be there, that night, we would see the next crisis.

“We haven’t a moment to lose,” I said. “We must prepare to defend this place.”

Inside the church, preparations were being made for a Christmas Eve mass that was to come a couple of days later. A nativity decoration had been placed in the vestibule and festive decorations adorned the lamps and candleholders there as well. Father James wore a bright red cassock with a gold stole around his shoulders, but his countenance did not match his vibrant garments. Rather, the lines of his face better approximated a man about to conduct a funeral than one preparing to celebrate the birth of our Saviour.

When we explained the situation, he was only able to mildly nod his head in concurrence.

“I had dark dreams last night presaging such a thing,” he murmured. “Against a spawn of Caorthannach’s, we have few weapons except that faith provides us. Blessed water is as fine a weapon as any.”

“You have experience with that?” Thomas chuckled with incredulity.

“No, but I have read about it. The sword used to drive Caorthannach into the sea was nothing more than an ordinary blade doused in blessed water,” Father James said politely, admirably tolerating Thomas’ impertinence. “God’s power, like God’s truth, are simple things.”

“That’s fine enough,” Thomas riposted, “but do you have some swords we can use? Maybe some blessed musket balls?”

Father James further forgave Thomas his misbehaviour, and instead summoned us down to his vault again. There we looked over a variety of blessed artifacts, including three swords that dated back to the 7th Century.

“The Papists will often speak of incorruptible bodies being signs of saintliness. These swords, their steel is similarly incorruptible,” Father James said, running his finger along their broad sides. “Think of it. Eleven hundred years they have been in the damp climate we have here and they are still as strong as the day they were forged.”

“I say…” John gasped, gawking at the blades. He picked up the longest among them. “These are rare finds.”

“Not as rare as one might think. This is hardly the only church in the realm housing such artifacts,” Father James corrected him. “This island, Great Britain, has historically been inundated with this Celtic pagan scourge and it has been an effort across the whole island to keep those forces at bay. One day, we hope they will be utterly vanquished.”

“Hasn’t happened yet, though,” Thomas sighed, grasping the shortest sword, which was only as long as a man’s forearm. “Almost makes you wonder what the point is.”

“Thomas, the point is we keep up the fight to save those who would otherwise fall victim to these foes,” I declared. “That is our mission. It’s just like ordinary medicine. People still die of the things we try to cure, but we keep trying. So it is with this.”

He looked at me with a slight smirk and nodded.

Robert, meanwhile, grudgingly took the sword of middling length. He carefully inspected its every inch for any information he could glean from its crafting. Indeed, he found an inscription at the base of the blade right near the pommel.

“God’s foes all fall,” he said, quoting it.

Father James smiled and gently touched his finger to the point of the blade.

“This one slew a Dullahan centuries ago,” he said. “The tip here? Gold. It’s one of the reasons that Dullahans today fear gold.”

“Keep that one close, Robert,” I said with a smile.

The good Father James turned to me and gave me a curious glance.

“And you, Doctor Willis, or Brother Francis if you would prefer to go by your old title?” he asked.

“Doctor, please,” I said. “And I shall use Saint Augustine of Canterbury’s cudgel. It served me well once. It should serve me well again.”

I opened my coat, allowing him to see the cudgel held in a strap in my coat’s inside lining. He nodded and smiled. He then turned to Sir Lucas, who nervously kept adjusting his glasses and muttering quietly to himself.

“You, Sir Lucas, do you wish to be armed?”

“No, no,” Sir Lucas mumbled. “I am not much use at this sort of thing. I could maybe, that is, I could perhaps, help carry blessed water as necessary?”

Father James appeared amused at the meagerness of Sir Lucas’ offer of assistance, but I suspect he had not expected much as he accepted it. We all were only able to offer what we could. It was all that could be expected.

As night fell upon Ruthin, we noticed that the townsfolk almost all retired to their homes earlier than normal. The market square was empty. Even the inn and tavern were essentially deserted, save for the most committed of drunks. Rumours had spread throughout the town that the fire spitter was coming. The chanting of the afflicted townsfolk had been enough to convince the whole town to take shelter.

From one of the northeasterly windows on the church’s second level, I looked up toward Moel Famau, waiting for the first signs that something would indeed happen. I do not know how many minutes passed before I saw the first burst of flame shoot skyward from the mountain. Crackling red and orange flames tickled the vaults of the sky before subsiding. What appeared to be, at that great distance, a single cinder, began trudging down the mountain. With each step it took, a small wave of flame flowed out around it, illuminating the snow nearby before melting it.

“It’s coming,” I said.

My boys, standing down in the nave below looked up with horrified expressions on their faces. Even though we all expected this to happen, there was always that naïve hope that, somehow, we might be spared. Every second that had passed without incident had provided the promise that we might make it until morning without such a calamity. Those hopes were dashed the instant those flames lit up the sky above the mountain.

“Be true to God and He will be true to you,” Father James declared as he stood beside my boys. “It was in Christ’s name and by Christ’s power we claimed this island from these monsters in the first place. It shall save us again now.”

I turned to Sir Lucas, who was a window further down from me. He had kept his eyes on Moel Famau the whole time, watching the descent of the fiery beast.

“Will you keep watch here?” I asked.

“Yes, yes,” he weakly answered, his lips quivering. “I didn’t know such things existed. I would be a happier man if I still thought they didn’t.”

“Hopefully by the time we are finished here they won’t exist anymore,” I said.

I tapped my fingers on the cudgel and watched for some moments more as the fire spitter descended low enough that our view was obstructed by trees and a smattering of buildings. A few seconds later, however, a burst of flames rose from the north side of town. Wooden planks were blasted in each direction, arcing into the sky before falling across the town.

“I pray Mr. Jones is alright,” I murmured as I turned to descend the stairs.

My head throbbed as my heart beat so forcefully that my eyes shook. My legs felt as though my bones had been removed. I had to grasp the railing for balance as my apprehensions surged. I prayed for strength but I was as frightened as I had been any time in my entire life.

As soon as I set foot down in the nave with the others, hard knocking fell upon the church door.

“Open the damn doors, ya shits!” Mr. Jones’ muffled voice came through.

Thomas ran forward to the vestibule and swung open the heavy wood door. Mr. Jones stood with his hands on his hips, gasping for air.

“That damn thing blew up my house!” he shouted, pointing northward. “What’re ya doin’ ‘bout it?!”

My boys all brandished their swords, which dripped in blessed water.

“You think yer gonna stab it to death?!” Mr. Jones burst out laughing. “It’ll melt those damn things.”

“Adam,” Father James said. “These are not ordinary swords. They’re—”

“Ah, those holy things ya’ve locked away down there?” Mr. Jones groaned, mockingly. “That’ll ‘elp, I’m sure.”

“More than your sarcasm, Mr. Jones,” I scolded him.

“A little sympathy fer a man who’s lost everything,” he cried, dropping to his knees in a mocking manner. He then stood back up, albeit wobbling as he did from his astonishing levels of inebriation. Even from some feet away I could smell the fumes of gin on his breath. “Anyway, I wanna help kill it. Tell me what I’ve gotta do!”

Father James stepped forward and handed to Mr. Jones two glass vials of blessed water.

“Holy water, eh?” Mr. Jones chuckled. “Never did much good on me. O’course, I’m a bigger fan of the wine.”

“I am afraid there is no record of sacramental wine being effective against any of these—”

“I wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout… Never mind, you ass,” Mr. Jones sighed, as he slapped Father James on the shoulder. “Now, let’s get out there. It can’t’ve been that far behind me.”

I wanted to object to the notion of fighting this flame spitter out in the open, but then again I considered that it could likely roast us alive within the church without us ever having a chance to strike out at it. We all agreed to follow, except for Sir Lucas, who remained inside the church.

Outside, the wind had died down entirely and the night sky was clear as could be. We looked in each direction and saw only empty streets at first.

“Now where’s that shit?” Mr. Jones growled, punctuated by a foul, gin-tainted belch. “Sorry ‘bout that, Father.”

Father James shuddered and said nothing.

I then heard what sounded to be a banshee’s wail on the air. Down the street to the north, a red mist swept past the houses on either side.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

Robert, standing to my left, both nodded and shook his head.

“I did, but couldn’t make it out. Far too wispy,” he whispered.

A warm gust swept down the road toward us. It felt like the glow of a fireplace, but smelled of sulfur.

Heavy, crashing steps sounded out next. The ground rumbled. I stood with my legs wide to brace myself. From around the corner of one of the stout stone homes at the end of the street emerged the creature. Tall and broad, it was covered in alternating patches of black and red and orange, like a pile of burning coal. It had a face of sorts. Malformed and twisted, it glowed at us as bright embers. There was only something vaguely human about it, enough to unnerve us all the more.

It stopped for a moment.

“GROUAGH!” it roared in a deafening blast.

From just behind us, I felt a wispy presence. It felt like a series of long hairs brushing up against my back. The wispy wails of the banshee sounded out again. I turned to look, but all I saw again was that red mist. My heart quivered. Twice the banshee had wailed. Once more and a man’s death was certain. I feared that the Dullahan might be close by, too, though I had no evidence of that.

The fire spitter began walking forward toward us again, its thick legs crawling forth. Its breaths were heavy and tortured, sounding the belches of a blacksmith’s furnace melded with a dying man’s coughs. I had never heard anything like it. Mr. Jones walked forward, one vial of the blessed water in each hand.

“Alright, ya ugly bastard!” he spat, standing around thirty paces from the approaching beast. “Yer gonna pay fer burning down my ‘ome.”

“RAROUGH!” the beast answered, its skin flashing brighter. The snow all around the fire spitter melted, even on the roofs above. Water spilled over the gutters and onto the street.

It gradually wobbled forward, its embers getting ever brighter.

“That’s it, ya shit!” Mr. Jones shouted. He hurled the vial in his left hand at the creature. It shattered on the beast’s knee, causing it to sizzle and crackle. The embers on its skin darkened. “Ya like that?”

The beast’s eyes flashed the brightest we had seen yet. A third wail of the banshee sounded out from the east, this one so loud that it felt as though a knife had been jammed through my head. The fire spitter took in a heavy breath, all of its embers glowing fiercely.

“Christ’s blessings upon ya, ya shit!” Mr. Jones yelled, hurling the second vial right toward the fire spitter’s chest. Again, it sizzled and crackled.

A spike of flame shot forward from the creature toward Mr. Jones.

It pushed through his mouth and into his body. For an instant, Mr. Jones’ entire body glowed orange. He burst, exploding into flaming pieces of flesh, bone, and viscera. Gruesome remnants of his body flew in every direction, covering the ground, my sons and me, Father James, and many of the buildings around us.

The fire spitter’s glow had diminished following its foul deed. It took in deep breaths to recuperate its strength. I wiped Mr. Jones’ remains from my face and looked in both directions toward my sons, who had still not recovered from the shock of what they had just seen.

“Boys! Now!” I shouted.

Father James joined us, hurling his own vials of blessed water at the beast. They fell on its head and shoulders, causing it to recoil and howl in agony. John lunged forward with his sword, pushing it through the monster’s belly. Thomas aimed higher with his blade, piercing near its neck. The fire spitter flailed its arms, knocking the two of them away. They coughed and groaned as they fell back upon the road. The creature tumbled to the ground, bracing itself with its hands.

Robert approached the beast, his sword drawn. He paused for but a moment and then swiped the blade down upon its neck. Its black head tumbled to the ground and all of its embers were snuffed out. All that remained where it had stood was a crumbling pile of coal and rocks.

It was only then, when the creature had been slain, that I could smell the nauseating and overwhelming smell of Mr. Jones’ burnt remains. It was a poignant mark for our Pyrrhic victory that night.