The Hound at the Gate (7 page)

Gideon slowed, allowing some space between Mac Roth and Lochlan. Finn slowed with him. “Martin O'Neill. He's in a fair way of getting his son killed just to earn the torc.”

Finn nodded. “He's a jerk.”

“Mind your tongue. He's also a Knight and Lochlan's father. You'll be respectful of him, for those two reasons at the least.”

“Yes, sir.” He added something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said,” Finn repeated, “he's not respectful of
you
. Or me.”

Gideon nailed his apprentice in place with a stern expression. “You are only responsible for your own actions in this round world, Finnegan MacCullen. Remember, every word and deed is a reflection of your parents, your clan, and of yourself. Always conduct yourself in such a way that others will say ‘here comes a true MacCullen.'”

“And you too.”

“Sorry?”

Finn shuffled his feet and looked away. “I'm a reflection of you, too. You know—'apprentice to the Knight, Gideon Lir' and all that.”

Gideon found himself speechless for a moment. His voice seemed to have forgotten how to work. In a rare gesture, he laid a hand on the back of Finn's neck and gave a gentle squeeze. “Ye are a good lad,” he said roughly. “And I thank ye for yer fine words.”

Side by side, they continued in Mac Roth's wake, strolling between other tents. At one of them, Mac Roth and Gideon paused to speak with another Knight and his family. As the conversation continued, Gideon waved Finn and Lochlan over.

“Go on ahead,” he instructed them. “The weapons are stored inside the barn. Ask the Knight in charge—
politely
—if you may fetch our blades, then meet us back at our tent.” He shooed them away.

Grateful to be finally doing
something
, Finn and Lochlan headed toward the barn. They hurried along, trying to trip each other with every other step. The sun, higher in the sky, set the aspens aglow up and down the valley. Splashes of gold, so brilliant they watered the eye, intermingled with the almost-black of the pines on the hillsides, all under a dome of blue.

Autumn in the Rockies—a different kind of gold rush.

A shout from the open field next to the barn caught their attention. They stopped at the edge of the meadow. A dozen boys and girls were charging up and down the grass in a rough-and-tumble hurling match, a game that resembled a mix of rugby and lacrosse. They all carried wooden sticks in their hands.

It's called a hurley, not a stick
, Finn reminded himself. Like hockey sticks, but less curved and more axe-shaped at the head, the hurleys were about the length of Gideon's leg. As Finn and Lochlan watched, one boy broke free. Chased by the others, he raced toward the end of the field, balancing a small, white ball with the flattened end of the stick. The other players pounded after him, yelling or cursing. With a flick, he tossed it into the air, then swung his hurley like a baseball bat
at the ball.
Crack!
He sent it sailing between a pair of slender aspens serving as natural goal posts. His team howled in triumph.

“Do you play?” Lochlan asked Finn.

“I did a little with my cousins, but it was more just messing around in the back yard. You?”

“Some. It's hard to find enough guys to make two full teams.”

As they continued on to the barn, a voice called Finn's name. They looked back. One of the boys was walking toward them, scything the grass with his hurley as he approached. Beyond him, the rest of the players milled about. Finn noticed one of the girls, slightly shorter than the others and with long hair as blue-black as the midnight sky, watching intently from the edge of the field.

The boy drew nearer. For a moment, Finn brightened at the sight of his oldest cousin, Ennis. His grin faded when the older boy promptly reminded Finn why he had been so relieved when Ennis left a few years ago to begin his apprenticeship.

Copper-haired like all MacCullens, but taller and stockier than Finn, he poked the end of the hurling stick into Finn's chest. “What are
you
doing here?”

Finn knocked the stick aside. “Same thing you are.”

Ennis started to say something, then stopped and peered more closely at Finn's neck. “Where did you get that torc?”

“Where did you think?” He shifted his feet, ready for the inevitable fight.

“No way.” He poked Finn again. Harder.

“Wanna bet?” Lochlan stepped closer to Finn. “He
earned
it. Like, two months ago.” Unable to resist, he looked Ennis up and down. “Funny. I don't see
you
wearing one. Maybe if you ask nice, he might give you some pointers.”

Blood rose in Ennis's face. Without warning, he whipped the stick up, striking Lochlan on the right arm with a resounding
thwack
. With a stifled cry, Lochlan slumped to his knees, cradling the limb. Ennis laughed and hit Lochlan again.

A volcano erupted, splashing molten lava across the inside of Finn's skull. With a hoarse scream, he launched himself at a stunned Ennis, knocking the hurley out of his cousin's grip. Ennis stumbled backward.

Finn attacked again. Forgetting everything he'd learned about boxing, he swung wildly and missed, half-blinded by a fury that was bordering on the warp spasm, the ancient battle rage that transformed all Tuatha De Danaan into Celtic berserkers. He kept swinging. His fists whistled through the air as his opponent skipped out of reach.

“I forgot how much you suck at fighting,” Ennis taunted him.

“And I forgot how much you just plain suck,” Finn growled back.

He threw another punch. Ennis ducked, then danced backward, making a come-along gesture. Swearing, desperate to pound that sneering face, to pound away the years of having to live with the bullying, the taunts, the always-being-the-outsider, Finn threw himself at Ennis.

Bad mistake.

Stars exploded in his vision when Ennis socked him in the nose. Blood began running down his lip. Stunned, he gagged at the warm, salty taste. Before he could move, a hand reached out and grabbed his shirt.

Ennis pulled him close until they were nose to nose. “Want some more?
Halfer
.”

Finn forced a grin. Then he spat a bloody glob into his cousin's face.

“You son of a goat,” Ennis snarled. One hand still gripping Finn, he drew back his fist.

WHACK!

The hurling stick whistled through the air and caught Ennis on the side of the head. Boneless, he crumbled into a heap on the grass.

Finn looked around in astonishment.

Lochlan stood there, white-faced with pain, but with a blue fire in his eyes. Ennis's hurley was clutched in one hand. His other arm dangled limply by his side. Studying the boy groaning and stirring
feebly at his feet, Lochlan shook his head. “Bummer—he's still moving. Guess I didn't hit him hard enough.”

Shouts from the playing field whipped their heads around. Ennis's team was racing toward them, most of them brandishing their sticks. Finn and Lochlan looked at each other.

“Run!” Finn shouted. Grabbing Lochlan by his uninjured arm, he sprinted toward the barn.

Lochlan dropped the stick, making sure it landed on Ennis's head. “Why the barn?”

“To get our weapons!”

Side by side, they pounded toward the building that towered over them like a rustic cathedral offering sanctuary. Its doors stood wide open. Gasping for breath, they threw themselves inside and skidded to a halt.

Shafts of light, filled with giddy dust motes, angled from windows set high in the two-story structure, illuminating the spacious interior. A long, narrow loft, almost like a catwalk, ran along one side. Under it, a makeshift camp kitchen filled the entire side of the barn. Tables, made from boards placed across hay bales and sawhorses, held a selection of propane camp stoves and canned goods. Ice boxes were shoved underneath.

In the far corner, a pile of crates and boxes was stacked haphazardly, blocking a smaller back door. “That's gotta be the weapons,” Finn panted. He led the way to the pile and hovered at the edge of it, eyes darting from box to box, trying to spot theirs. He glanced once at the back door as a means to escape, but shook his head when he noticed an enormous wooden crate jammed against it.

In desperation, he waded further into the jumble, fighting the temptation to simply tear into the nearest box and grab whatever weapon he could find. Behind him, Lochlan kept watch.

“Finn, they're getting closer!”

Cursing under his breath, he began flinging boxes aside, trying to remember the size of the carton Gideon had used. Muted clinks sounded from many of them as bronze blades rattled against one
another. Suddenly, his master's handwriting jumped out at him. Clawing at the tape, he ripped the flaps open and began pawing through wads of newspaper and plastic. A knife, still encased in its leather sleeve, tumbled free. “Here.” He thrust blade and sheath at his friend.

“Hurry!” Lochlan yelled again. Holding the hilt with his good hand, he slapped the sheath against his leg, freeing the knife from its case.

Finn tore through the papers. His fingers touched something cold and hard and oh-so-welcome. Gideon's antler-handled dagger. He yanked it from its nest.

At that moment, Ennis and his gang burst into the barn. Finn whirled around. Scrambling over the boxes, he tripped and fell. Cursing, he lurched to his feet and hurried to take a stance next to Lochlan.

The mob fanned out around them. He could hear Lochlan chanting softly under his breath. An odd feeling, like he was watching himself from a distance, swept over him. He swiped at the slowing trickle of blood from his nose, then pointed the dagger, willing his hand not to tremble.

Flanked by the others, Ennis stalked closer, hurley held in both hands like a club. An egg on his temple was already turning purple. Without a word, he raised his stick higher, followed by everyone on his team.

Finn stared at what seemed like a forest of hurleys. He glanced down at the weapon in his hand. The handle was darkened with age, the bumps on the antler worn smooth by the years in Gideon's hand. He could almost see his master's fingers curled around it. His own tightened. He set his feet and threw back his shoulders in an unconscious imitation of his master, right down to the cocky grin. Anger seemed to have taken over his common sense as well as his body.

Ennis halted in surprise. “What are you laughing at?”

“You.” Finn shook his head in disbelief. He gestured with his blade. “Only a mad Celt would bring a hurley to a knife fight.”

A couple of the other boys guffawed. Ennis narrowed his eyes. Without turning his head, he spoke over a shoulder. “You guys think that's funny?”

A deep voice spoke from the doorway. “Aye, I do.”

Toryn Mull.

Stepping into the barn, he shouldered through the pack of boys until he stood between them and Finn and Lochlan. He glanced around, keen eyes taking in the scene. “Ye know the rules, boyos. Ye have a problem, then ye settle it man to man and fist to fist.” He shot
an icy stare at Finn and Lochlan. “Ye're to never draw a weapon against another Tuatha De Danaan—'tis one of our most severe laws.”

“Yes, sir.” He lowered his blade; Lochlan followed suit.

The head of the
Rath
swung around to the others. “Six against two, Ennis MacCullen? And older boys against younger, as well?”

Ennis shrugged. “If that halfer can't handle what goes down at the Festival, then maybe he should just leave.”

“Harsh words for family kin.”

“
Family kin?
” Ennis spat to one side. “More like
family shame
. We never wanted him—we just got stuck with him when his loser of a father and half-breed of a mother got killed on a hunt.”

Finn willed himself to not even twitch. He knew the rules to the game. Never let them see the hurt. Act as if being punched, being insulted, or shoved aside didn't matter.