Unholy Blue (31 page)

The Fir Bolgs all stepped back and widened the circle around the combatants with the Doyles at one end and Cernunnos at the other. Puffs of breath floated away on the cold breeze busy cutting through clothing and chilling skin.

Bann looked at the knife in Tully's hand, then pointed at his iron knife in Lebor's belt, already sure that he would not be allowed a weapon. He tried anyway. “My blade.”

Cernunnos smiled. “As my ancient, although inept, allies, the Norsemen, were fond of saying: ‘You came into this world weaponless and fighting and covered in blood—you should leave it the same way.'”

And take you with me, ye son of a bitch
.

The Fir Bolgs brayed with laughter. Grinning along with the others, Lebor pulled the weapon free and wagged it at Bann. “You want this, don't you?” His smile faded when Cernunnos hissed at him.

“Keep that cursed thing away from me!” The god bared his teeth. “Or you'll find yourself with your throat ripped out.”

“Yes, Lord.” Lebor edged away.

Lips still curled, Cernunnos gestured toward the Knights. “I said, begin.”

Even as Bann turned, Tully lunged for him. His knife slashed air, then shirt and skin. Searing pain ripped through Bann's chest and shoulder. He staggered back. Tully lunged again, this time stabbing at his gut. Bann twisted to one side, then grabbed Tully by the wrist holding the knife. With his other fist, he hammered his opponent in the ribs, putting every ounce of fury he could into each blow. Blood exploded in his mouth when Tully punched him in the jaw. Fighting one-handed, both Knights wrestled for the weapon while trying to inflict as much damage to each other as they could.

Unable to breathe enough to chant the Song, Bann snapped his head forward and butted Tully between the eyes. Stars burst across his vision. He staggered, almost falling himself when his enemy folded to his knees. The knife tumbled from Tully's numbed fingers.

Bann dove for it. With a strangled cry, Tully threw himself after Bann, both men scrambling on their hands and knees. Fingernails, knees, and teeth came into play as they wrestled, the snow around them turning to slush. Bann jerked his head away as Tully clawed him, trying
to gouge out eyeballs. With his free hand, Bann scrabbled for the blade an inch away—a mile away—and half-covered by the snow and muck. Tully did the same.

In a desperate stretch, Bann curled his fingers around the blade and lurched to his feet even as Tully grabbed the handle and tried to yank it free. Fire exploded where the fingers met the hand. He wondered if tendons had been severed. He held on tighter.

At that moment, Tully let go of Bann and grasped the knife's haft with both hands. With a vicious twist, he jerked the knife free.

The top half of Bann's little finger went flying through the air.

At first, there was no pain. Then, when the cold air hit the severed digit, screaming agony.

Along with the warp spasm.

Crimson droplets splattered them both as Bann pounded Tully, no longer caring as his opponent opened up slash after slash along his arms and torso. A high-pitched hum filled his ears, like the shriek of a beast caught in a trap. Once, the tip of the knife kissed the side of his face, leaving a red line along his cheek. Blood ran into his mouth from the cut; he swallowed and kept attacking. Lowering his head, he rammed into Tully with a roar.

The Knight went flying, the blade spinning away from his hand. Even before Tully hit the ground, Bann leaped for the weapon. Catching it up with his uninjured hand, he spun around and charged again. A hoarse scream filled the air. It took a split second to realize it was his voice.

As Tully lurched to his feet, Bann stabbed, driving with his legs and putting his entire weight behind the thrust. With a moist
twock
, he buried the knife to the hilt in the Knight's body.

Mouth gaping, Tully stared down at the blade jutting out of his chest. He started to reach for it, then choked when blood gushed out of his mouth and bubbled down his chin. With a sigh, he crumpled to the ground.

Gasping for air, Bann stared down at the body. Steam rose from the hot blood around Tully's mouth and head. The warp spasm faded away, leaving his muscles quivering with a residual mix of fury and testosterone. And a dark, visceral pleasure.
One enemy down
. Ignoring the throbbing in his maimed hand, Bann lifted his head and glared across the dead Knight at the shapeshifter.
And one to go
. “Satisfied?”

“Exquisitely so.” Cernunnos waved the decanter at the body at Bann's feet. “As I am certain
you
are, Bannerman Boru. To end that particular threat, yes? I salute your victory.” He took another drink, studying the Knight over the lip of the bottle. “I had planned on executing you and the others no matter the outcome of this contest, but now, I might find it more amusing to…” His voice faded as a breath of wind swirled through the yard from the north.

Bann shivered. His clothing, soaked with sweat and wet snow, and sticky with blood, clung to him, chilling his skin. Or was it something else that sent a thrill down his spine?

Like a coyote when it catches a whiff of a well-oiled shotgun, the shapeshifter stilled and stared at the back
wall, as if trying to see through the stones. With a dog-like motion, he raised his chin and sniffed the air, head cocked to listen. The carafe fell from his hand onto the sodden grass. It lay on its side, bleeding whiskey from its throat. “Lebor.”

“Lord?”

“Take the prisoners back inside.”

“What is wrong, Lord?”

Cernunnos stood up, hands braced on the arms of the chair and eyes locked on the open gate. “I thought I heard something. Smelled something…” He stiffened, then bared his teeth, exposing the canines.

At that moment, a small figure appeared in the gateway.

I
T WAS
C
OR
.

NO!
The silent yell reverberated inside Bann's skull and down his spine. Finally finding his voice, he shouted. “Cor! Run!” To his eternal horror, his son stepped into the yard and waved his arms over his head.

“Hey! HEY!” he screamed, his boyish voice shrill. “Come and get me!”

He whirled around and darted back through the gate in a twisted game of
tag, you're dead
. Before Lebor could stop them, half the Fir Bolgs bolted after the boy like a pack of wolves after a lamb.

Bann tore after them. He got in three or four strides. Then, something that felt like his new truck struck him in the back. He crashed to the ground, managing to hit all of his injuries, including the severed finger. Fresh, hot pain almost made him throw up.

Lashing out with fists and feet and cursing himself for not retrieving the knife from Tully's dead body in time, he struggled to break free from Lebor and another Fir Bolg who had tackled him, his captors' hands slipping on his bloody skin. A blow to the head stunned him. A moment later, he found himself face-down on the ground, his arms pulled behind him and a knee
drilling into his back. Around him, booted feet ran to and fro. Yanked upright, he spotted Shay and the other Doyles being forced back to the house by the remaining creatures, each Knight fighting the guards with a ferocity that made Bann fear for their lives. He looked over at the makeshift throne. It was empty.

Dimly, he became aware of shouting and the ring of metal on metal from beyond the wall. The shouting grew louder, voices rising in unison and sending the war cry rolling through the foothills like thunder.

“
Faugh a ballagh
!
Faugh a ballagh
for the Red Boar!”

Then, it changed, swelling even more. Changing to words not heard on a battlefield for a thousand years. A cry that tightened Bann's throat. He blinked, his vision blurred.

“Boru! Boru! Knights for the Boru!”

With a roar, warriors poured through the open gate. A second later, something whizzed past Bann's ear. A knife sprouted from the guard's neck. Letting go of Bann, the Fir Bolg dropped his weapon and clutched his throat, black blood coating his hands.

With a grunt, Bann threw an elbow backwards into Lebor's nose. The
crunch
of shattered cartilage made him grin. He twisted, ripped his knife free of the groaning leader's belt, then silenced the groans with a thrust up under the chin and into the brain cavity. Yanking it free, he spun around.
Where the hell is Cor
?

Throughout the yard, Knights and Fir Bolgs battled, screams and shouts filling the air, as did blood. And guts. And body parts. On the porch, Hugh and Ann were fighting shoulder to shoulder, James next to them. Nearby, Rory was wrestling on the ground with a Fir
Bolg, hands wrapped around each other's throats; they rolled over and over, heedless of the feet trampling them.

And, as the Doyles killed, they sang the Song, sending their enemy to oblivion accompanied by a chorus of death. A few creatures tried to escape, with Knights on their heels. Fewer made it past the gate.

A new horror swamped Bann.
Shay
!

“Bann!” As if hearing his silent call, Shay appeared out of nowhere, a knife in each hand, still wearing Bann's jacket, covered in leftover Fir Bolg. “He's getting away!” She pointed across the yard.

A familiar dog shape was slinking along the ground, darting in and out of groups of fighters, and heading toward the gate. Tightening his grip on the iron weapon—and thanking the Goddess he had it back—Bann sprinted after the god, Shay on his off side. His shield side.

Trusting Shay to guard his back, he barreled along, ramming into fighters, trying to force his way through the fray, Cernunnos always just out of reach. Each wound and injury pulled at him, his limbs concrete-heavy.

A young Knight, her hair Doyle-red and her face impossibly young and impossibly brave, leaped in front of the shapeshifter. She stabbed and missed and stumbled forward, off-balance. The creature leaped up and buried its teeth in her throat. Even as she pulled at the ears, the monster gave a savage whip of his wolfish head and snapped her neck. He dropped her to the ground like a dead sparrow and sprinted for the gate.

Cursing both friend and foe who kept him from his enemy, Bann struggled harder through the melee. Shay
fell back, engaged with two Fir Bolgs who didn't have the sense not to fight a Celt when she was in the throes of a warp spasm. He swore when the god reached the gate and paused to look over his shoulder, his muzzle parted in a parody of Max's joyful smile. Red eyes gleamed with the promise of another day. Another battle.

Cor reappeared, blocking the gate. With a mingled look of fear and anger, he stepped in front of the shapeshifter. “Max!” he shouted. “No! Bad dog! Stop it!”

At the sound of the boy's voice, the shapeshifter lowered his head, ears flattened to the skull. Cor said his name again. With a low moan, he shuddered, jerking his head back and forth and snapping at the air. Dropping his muzzle, he attacked his own legs, tearing chunks from the limbs.

Even as Bann wrestled free of the crowd, the shapeshifter turned around and faced him. For a moment, it was Max. Shay's beloved dog. And Cor's as well. The dog that Bann once said would love his son unto death.

Lowering his knife, Bann hesitated. “Max?”

At that instant, flames rose in the dog's eyes, turning the creature back into a hound from hell. “No!” Bann threw himself between the beast and his son. With a roar, the beast lunged at him. Teeth chomped down on his forearm. The bones began to bend from the pressure of the powerful jaws. Stabbing with his free hand, Bann punched hole after hole into the dog god's side.

“Leave him alone!” Cor's scream was almost a sob.

Bann wasn't sure who the child was screaming at. Maybe he didn't know himself. But, at Cor's cry, the creature let go. He staggered back; hot blood soaked his
sleeve and ran down his arm to a hand useless with pain. To his horror, Cor started stumbling toward them.

A man burst out of the crowd and grabbed the boy.

Gideon Lir.

As Cor fought the Knight's hold, Gideon caught Bann's eye and nodded. “Do it, Boru,” he called over the boy's shrieks of
let me go
. “Quickly, now.”

Bann stepped closer. The creature continued to wind and coil, savaging himself with his own fangs. Max protecting Cor the only way he had left. “True-hearted hound,” he whispered in Gaelic.

Ignoring the pain, and wielding his iron knife in a two-hand grip, he whipped the blade across the creature's neck, the impact jarring every cut and bruise. The head dangled by a hank of skin and fur. With a cry, he slashed again. The head tumbled off. The rest of the dog fell to the ground, blood spraying from the severed neck in a crimson mist. Paws clawed at the dirt. A moment later, the creature seemed to fade, swirling like smoke, then reformed into the man-like shape of the naked god. Sans the head—which lay a few feet away, eyes staring at eternity.

Pulse humming in his ears, Bann blinked the sweat away, staring down at eyes that gazed into nothing. Working moisture into his mouth, he spat on the carcass. “And this time, ye fokking bastard,” he rasped, “
stay
dead!”

With a
whoosh
, the body and the head burst into flames. Bann flung up an arm. Taking another step backwards from the fire, he staggered, his legs deciding they were finished for the day. He slumped to the
ground, head sagging, and only just managing to keep his amputated digit out of the muck.

“Dad!”

He raised his head. Cor was running toward him, with Gideon Lir right behind. The Black Hand carried an iron dagger in one hand and a bronze hatchet in the other. His keen gaze swept the area.

Bann captured his son in an awkward embrace. He held his arm—fang-ravaged and minus half a finger—stiffly to one side as the boy buried his face in Bann's neck. “It's all right, now,” he crooned, rocking him when Cor burst into sobs. Not sure if the tears were from Max's second go-round with death or from the horror of the day's events, he tightened his hold.