The Stag Lord

by Darby Kaye

  “I’ve not hunted for close to a year—I might be a bit out of form. And I don’t know what to do with Cor.”

  “Shay can watch him.”

  “Hard to do,” she said coolly, “when Shay’s coming on the hunt, too.”

  “Bring Cor along.” Hugh strolled up the walk, a cardboard box under one arm. He, too, was dressed for hunting, in a faded flannel shirt and jeans. “There’s more than enough Knights here to keep an eye on one small boy.” He passed the box to Shay. “Ann sent this over. She thought Cor might find a use for them. Just a few odds and ends from when Robbie was his age.” A faint shadow crossed her uncle’s face at the mention of his middle son, killed years ago on a hunt gone wrong.

  So many of us die young. “Thanks, Hugh.” Impulsively, Shay leaned forward and kissed the man on the cheek. “Are you sure?” she whispered in his ear.

  “We are, lass. ‘Twill be a twice-blessing. Once for the giving and once to see these things used by another child.” He looked past Shay at Bann. “Will you accept them? It’s not charity, you know. I do not wish to give insult,” he hastened to add.

  “And none taken. Thank you, Hugh Doyle.” Bann took the box from Shay and stepped aside as the clan gathered in the living room.

  While the three Doyles headed for the kitchen in hopes of a free cup, Bann and Cor set the box on the coffee table and began rummaging through it. Shay hovered nearby.

  A couple of sweaters, out of fashion and a size too big but hardly worn, appeared first. A pair of hiking boots, with the price sticker still attached to one sole, followed. The bottom of the box was heavy with books. They were mostly paperbacks, although Shay spotted a few hardback copies, ranging in subjects from fiction to history to natural science, all geared toward young boys. Shay noticed a few of them were brand-new and bore the titles of classic dog stories. Pretending to study the cover, she picked up Old Yeller before Cor noticed it and hid it behind a couch cushion. I hate books where the dog dies.

  While the boy clomped around the living room, trying out his new footwear just like Dad’s, Bann repacked the box and carried it into their room. Shay trailed behind. “You okay with Cor going along?” She leaned a shoulder on the doorframe. The thought of hunting with the Knight set butterflies a-fluttering in her stomach.

  Setting the box on his bed, Bann shrugged. “Most of us begin accompanying our parents around this age. To get a feel for the hunt. And, as Hugh said, there are five of us to watch over him,” he said, as if trying to convince himself.

  “True.”

  “I tend to be a bit protective of him.”

  “You have a reason. Look, if you want, I could stay behind and baby-sit.” Please say no. “He’s safer here with the wards than out in the woods.”

  “Aye, he would be. But still…”

  Shay could see the indecision on Bann’s face. “It’s hard to know when to risk and when to play it safe,” she added softly.

  “It is. I wish I knew—”

  “Dad!” Cor burst into the room, boots making a satisfying clump-thump with each step. “James and Rory said I get to be their partner on the hunt! The three of us are going to kick goblin butt.” He beamed as he began digging through his backpack and yanked out a grungy T-shirt. “James told me to change clothes because we’re gonna get dirty,” he added with an eight-year-old boy’s glee.

  Shay and Bann exchanged a smile over the boy’s head. “I’ll let you two get ready, then. C’mon, Max.” She called the dog, who had followed Cor into the room. Closing the door behind her, she punched a fist into the air, then hurried to her own room.

  After slipping into a pair of worn jeans, the hems frayed and the knees ripped out, she changed into a sports bra and heavy, long-sleeved T-shirt. Over it she pulled on a black fleece vest with zipper pockets; in those, she stored her moonstone, cell phone, a few bandages, and a tube of lip balm. Darting into her bathroom, she peed, brushed her teeth, tied back her hair, and finished with a quick slather of sunscreen to her face and neck. I wonder if Bann and Cor want some, she thought, holding the bottle in her hand. Although they’ve both still got a bit of summer tan to them. The memory of Bann’s naked body flitted through her mind.

  Tanned. All. Over.

  “If I tried something like that, I’d be one giant freckle.” Making a face at that image, she pulled on her new pair of cross-country runners, sacrificing the sturdiness of hiking boots for the speed and agility of running shoes. “Okay, Max.” She opened the crate. “In you go.” The dog hesitated, then walked in slowly, circled once, and lay down with a huff. “I know you want to go, but I need to keep a close eye on Cor. I don’t want to have to worry about two of you, okay, big guy? It’ll just be a few hours.” The gate clanged like a jailhouse door when she shut it with the twinge of guilt she always experienced. After checking that he had water and a few toys, she tossed him a doggy treat and left.

  Hugh and her cousins were still lounging at the table. Nearby, Bann worked at the counter. Dressed in jeans, work boots, and a cheap gray T-shirt that looked like a million bucks on him, he was sharpening an unusual blade, almost too big to be a knife, with Shay’s whetstone. A bottle of oil sat next to his elbow, and his worn canvas barn coat was draped over the back of a chair. As she walked closer, she noticed he wore a double sheath belt; one holster already held a simple bronze knife. Speaking over the sweesh-sweesh of blade on stone, he indicated the supplies. “I dinna think ye would mind.” He kept his eyes fixed on the blade, occasionally checking each side to prevent a burr from building up. She knew from experience how difficult it was to put a lethal edge on a bronze weapon.

  “Of course not.” His brogue comes out at the oddest times. I wish he wouldn’t try to hide it, but I understand why. Shay remembered her own parents, whose accents were still distinct even after more than a century of living in America, cautioning her and her brother to keep a low profile. Foreigners are not exactly welcome. And we Tuatha Dé Danaan need to keep our identities secret, her mother had said. Mortals outnumber us. And if they discover that they share this world with beings other than themselves, they would hunt us down. We may be some of the finest warriors in the world, but we can be killed. “Interesting weapon, that.”

  He held up the knife. The handle was wrapped in leather and designed with a slight curve that fit perfectly into his hand. The bronze blade, straight and long and with a wicked sharp point, gleamed. A Celtic rope pattern ghosted from tip to hilt like ribbons of flames along both sides. It reminded Shay of a miniature sword. “A gift from my master. He presented it to me on the day I became a Knight.” Bann smiled in fond memory as he examined it. “He was the only one willing to apprentice me, the old sod.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head as he wiped the blade clean of oil, then slid it into the empty sheath. “We never knew when the shapeshifter would appear, so my family was shunned. Oh, a few were friendly enough, but most avoided us as if we carried the plague. The legend of Cernunnos’s madness had many convinced that they would be killed if they had anything to do with us.”

  Like Weston Tully and his clan’s attitude, Shay thought.

  “Incredible that they’d turn their backs on the royals of our people.” James, dressed in a puffy vest over a hoodie, was busy sliding a leather sheath onto Cor’s belt. The boy hovered by him, jiggling from foot to foot. “There you go, squirt.” He passed it over and waited until Cor threaded it through the belt loops before giving the boy the small, plain hunting knife Bann had handed him a few minutes earlier. “Now, you stay right with Rory and me, got that? We’re going to need your help.” James leaned forward and said in a loud whisper, “Especially Rory. He sucks at hunting.”

  “Hey!” Rory leaned across the table and threw a mock punch at his cousin. Coffee sloshed from mugs when his hip caught the edge and scooted it a few inches.

  “Enough of your shenanigans,” Hugh growled. “Outside. All of you.”

  After a debate on which vehicle to take, th
ey decided on Shay’s SUV. Hugh squeezed into the backseat between James and Rory. Bann took the front seat with Cor in his lap. He grimaced when the boy shifted about, having trapped his sheathed knife at the worst possible angle between himself and his father.

  “Mind what you’re about, son. You’re a bit close to the family jewels with that blade of yours.”

  “Hugh?” Shay looked back in her rearview mirror as she drove along the state road leading into the foothills west of the city. “Why didn’t Ann come this time?” Would’ve been nice to have another female along.

  “Book club meeting.”

  “Oh.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they turned off the highway and onto a graveled road. Heading south, they followed the contour of the steep hills higher and higher with each switchback. The dirt road was a red slash through the pines and dried scrub oak. Shay winced every time her SUV slammed into another rut or pothole. After ten minutes of teeth-clacking travel, she sighed in relief and pulled over to a wide spot on the shoulder.

  They spilled out of the vehicle, Hugh complaining about the tight quarters and declaring Rory could ride on the roof on the way home. While the Knights double-checked weapons, Shay watched as Cor whispered something to his father. Bann glanced around, then pointed to a thick stand of pines a few yards away.

  “Quickly, now.” He made a gesture of apology when Cor jogged over the trees and disappeared. “Nervous piss.”

  “We’ve all been there,” Rory said.

  James clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “In your case, last week.”

  “Okay, I’m ready!’ Cor dashed back, still zipping up. He started for the younger Knights when Bann snagged him by the shirt and reeled him backwards. He handed the boy a pullover hoodie and some last-minute instructions.

  “You’re to stay with one of us at all times, Cormac Boru,” Bann said, bending down to lock eyes with his son. “I find you ahead or behind or not obeying when a Knight gives an order, and I’ll tan your backside. In front of everyone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do not drop, lose, or break that blade.”

  “No, sir, I won’t.” Cor practically turned himself inside out trying not to fidget.

  “Right, then.”

  Shay melted when the Knight leaned over and pulled his son into a rough hug, kissing him soundly on one cheek, and then the other. “Good hunting.”

  “Daaaad!” Cor wiggled free, swiping at his face with the back of his hand, unable to hide a grin. The other Knights chuckled.

  Walking across the road, they all took a few minutes to enjoy the view. Below them to the east, High Springs spread out like a miniature toy city under a sky the shade of blue found only at high, dry elevations. Beyond the city, the plains stretched to the horizon—next stop, Kansas. At their feet, a dirt path, treacherous with scree, plunged downhill and disappeared into the woods.

  In single file, they started down the slope, their footsteps silent from years of training and hunting, blades drawn. After about twenty yards, the trail leveled out. Hugh led the way while James and Rory, with Cor between them, followed a few feet behind. Shay and Bann took the hind end.

  “I’ll play rear guard for now.” Shay shooed Bann ahead of her. To her astonishment, he simply nodded. “What? No Knightly protests about how dangerous the rear position is or how ladies should go first?” She scanned the forest shadows for any sign of goblins, with the occasional glance ahead to admire the view of Bann—or rather, Bann’s butt—in faded jeans.

  “You’re carrying a weapon. I thought it prudent to agree with you.”

  “Wise man.”

  For half an hour, they hiked in silence, weapons held at the ready. Around them, scrub oaks, their leaves the exact shade of bronze as the hunters’ blades, mingled with the darker green of pine and fir. Massive granite boulders, leftovers from the last ice age, were scattered about, ignoring the trees and bushes trying to grow around them.

  A scrabbling sound yanked Shay’s head to one side. She slowed, pulse quickening as she tried to locate the source.

  “A squirrel, nothing more,” Bann said over his shoulder. “It just moved to the far side of the trunk of that large pine on your left.” He kept walking.

  Shay lengthened her stride to catch up. “I knew that. I was just…” Her voice faded when a crow cawed twice from an upper branch of the pine. She froze, then looked up and scanned the sky for more of the birds. “Just the one,” she whispered to Bann, who had also stopped a stride ahead. “Must be a small pack of Amandán.”

  “Perhaps. Those trickster birds sometimes sound a false warning just for sport.” Bann cocked his head, listening. Ahead of them, the other Knights had paused, facing outward and forming a defensive circle around Cor. A second crow soared in and joined the first one with a clap of ebony wings. Cawing in tandem, they peered down their beaks at the Tuatha Dé Danaan.

  “This could get interesting.” Turning, Shay took a position back to back with Bann, leaving a few feet between them. She raised her weapon. A thrill, not unlike the thrill of sex, shot through her body. For a moment, the forest held its breath. So did she.

  Then the forest exhaled goblins.

  18

  STANDING ON TIPTOE, COR strained to see over the shoulders of the three Knights surrounding him. Only a moment ago, they had shoved him inside the protective ring, Hugh growling at him to keep still and keep quiet.

  Giving up, he hunkered down and peered between their bodies. He caught a glimpse of his father standing in the middle of the path a few yards away. Even though the dappled shadows hid his face, Cor could tell from his father’s stance that something was not right. Not right at all. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. There was no sign of the Healer.

  “Where’s Shay?” he whispered.

  “She’s behind your dad,” Rory whispered back.

  “Why is she—?”

  Yowls ripped the air as forms burst out of the undergrowth around them. Cor jumped with a squeak he hoped no one heard. His knife tumbled from his fingers. Dropping to the ground, he scrabbled for it, snatching frantically at the hilt as boots rampaged around his fingers. “No!” He groaned when Rory stomped on the blade and snapped it in half. Grabbing the maimed weapon anyway, he rose into a half-crouch, dodging knees and flying elbows. His bladder gave a little squirt as he caught his first real glimpse of the beasts.

  Apelike and man-size, the creatures were covered in mossy green pelts. Square yellow teeth flashed in open maws while black-tipped fingers scrabbled and clawed at the hunters. ‘Tis their touch that kills, his father’s voice echoed in his head. The poc sídhe, also known as the fairy stroke. One touch of a black-tipped finger can kill instantly, be you Fey or mortal. And while the beasties still fear humans, they have sworn to kill every Tuatha Dé Danaan in order to regain control of Ireland. The reek from their hides and mouths, a stench that reminded Cor of burnt rubber, made his breakfast rise in his throat, trying for an encore appearance. Vaguely, he could hear his father shouting something, Shay answering back. It sounded like they were arguing.

  He staggered a step when James bumped into him. The Knight’s knife traced a pattern in the air as he repelled the creature. Dodging the paws seeking to scramble his brain, James set his feet and buried the blade in the goblin’s chest with a shout, then yanked it free. The sound of knife puncturing skin reminded Cor of the leather dummy in Shay’s backyard. The Amandán exploded into a gray-green dust cloud. It coated James, then drifted back over Cor. He gagged at the taste of goblin ash on his lips. Another cloud drifted through the air as Hugh and Rory scored their own hits. Bending over, Cor spat to one side, then straightened.

  Screaming like some New World banshees, a mob of Amandán barreled into the Knights, their thick skulls battering rams. Rory flew backward with a grunt. While James reached for his cousin sprawled in the dirt—the downed Knight with a what the hell look on his face—Hugh held back the mob, knife whirling in a blur. Both James and Hugh were laughing so ha
rd at Rory, Cor wondered how they could breathe and fight at the same time.

  Looking around, he moaned in panic. Dad’s going to kill me! He realized he was now outside the circle of Knights. It’s not my fault! I stayed right where they told me to, he screamed in his head. Before he could move, a hand grabbed his hood and yanked him backward so hard, his guts took a moment to catch up.

  “Cor! What the hell?”

  Shay pushed him against a granite boulder. Breathless, but still clutching what was left of his weapon, he gasped. “It’s not my fault.”

  Face streaked with sweat and goblin ash, she glanced past him at her uncle and cousins. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Sorry.”

  “S’kay. Um…” He held out the broken blade.

  “Actually, this worked out—you really should watch this.” She pointed at Bann standing a few yards away.

  With a blade in each hand, the Knight stood in the center of a pack of Amandán with an almost casual attitude, arms loose by his sides. A smile played around the corners of his mouth. All around him were molehills of ash. Tendrils of powder floated on the breeze, adding more goblin stink to the air as they drifted away into the woods like the smoky haze from a wildfire. Shifting their feet nervously, the creatures snapped and growled at each other, trying not to be the first to charge.

  As he watched, his father began chanting. Goosebumps broke out on Cor’s arms as the deep voice rose in Song:

  I am a wind on the sea,

  I am a wave of the ocean,

  I am the roar of the sea,

  I am a bull of seven battles,

  I am a hawk on the cliff,

  I am a teardrop of sunlight,

  I am a gentle herb,

  I am a boar enraged,

  I am a salmon in a pool,

  I am a lake in a plain,

  I am the vigor of man,