by Darby Kaye
Shay beamed. “That’s my boy.”
Bann hurried after the dog. Several yards behind him, the rest of the Knights jogged in single file, their movements as silent as the hound’s. The vegetation and the snow muted the sounds of the nearby city. Here and there through the trees, Bann caught a glimpse of the tallest rocks and cliffs of the Garden of the Gods less than a mile away, the orange-colored sandstone surreal amongst the grays and browns and whites of the surrounding land.
After a half hour of slogging down a slope, gradual but treacherous with hidden rocks and deadfall, Bann emerged onto a little-used dirt service road bordering the western edge of the Garden. Hoodoo rocks and slabs of red sandstone were iced in vanilla. Nearby, Max waited for him, tongue lolling out; steam rose from his mouth.
Pausing to let the others catch up, Bann felt a cold kiss on his face. He looked up. Flakes landed on his eyelids and cheeks. Damn. Max may lose the trail in this. We need to hurry. He laid a hand on the dog’s neck.
At that moment, Max stiffened. Ears pricked, he stared at a grouping of massive boulders about ten yards away. Through his palm, Bann could feel the beginnings of a growl. “Quiet,” he breathed, tightening his fingers in warning. As the Knights neared, he caught their attention, then made a slashing motion across his throat.
Approaching on silent feet, Shay reached his side first, both blades out. Her cheeks were pink with cold and exertion. A desire to order her straight home to safety flared up inside of him. Not a good idea, he thought, thinking of the fight he would have on his hands if he tried.
“Max has found them,” Bann whispered instead. “Keep him with you while I scout ahead.”
Snagging the dog’s collar, Shay nodded. She looked back and motioned for her family to wait.
With every molecule of his body on high alert, Bann crept closer to the jumble of rock. Tracks from heavy boots crisscrossed each other, disappearing around the largest one. Moving with more than a hunter’s care, he pressed himself against it and peered around.
A cave, its black maw half-hidden by a juniper tree, penetrated the side of a hill. The snow in front of it was muddied and tramped down. Bann cocked his head; voices echoed from within.
Fir Bolg voices.
So, it begins. An odd feeling, like he was watching himself from a distance, filled him like it always did before a fight. He shook it off. Keep yer wits about ye. Catching Shay’s attention, he jerked his chin toward the rocks. She nodded back, then signaled the others before creeping over to Bann, Max on her heels.
“What is it with caves and our enemies?” she said, her lips close to his ear. “Is it like some kind of rule? If you’re a foe of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, you have to live underground or something?”
Before he could answer, Hugh and the two younger Knights joined them. “What’s your plan?” Hugh’s beard was dotted with frozen condensation.
“We need to draw them out,” Bann said in a low voice. “Once they’re above ground, strike fast. Do not let them retreat back to the cave.”
“‘You shall not paaasss,’” Rory whispered, stabbing the ground in front him with a two-handed, melodramatic thrust. At Bann’s frown of confusion, he added, “I’ll explain later.”
“Look, we know what we need to do,” James said with a grin. “You just do your part and kill that son of a bitch so we can get home in time for the game. Avalanche drop the puck at two-thirty.”
“Dude.” Rory elbowed his cousin. “He’s from Pennsylvania. He’s probably one of those die-hard Penguins fans.”
Hugh reached over and smacked the backs of both their heads with a growl. “The next one who speaks gets a boot up their arse.” He turned to Bann. “How are we going to draw them out?”
Bann looked at Shay. “I still haven’t decided about you being the bait for—”
“You’re kidding, right?” Sliding one of her knives free, she strolled over to the open space in front of the cave and whistled. “Max?” She called, leaning over to make sure her voice carried into the cave. “Where are you, fellow? Here, boy. Oh, Maaax!”
Hugh knelt in the snow, both arms locked around the dog’s neck as he struggled to hold him. Shay called again, then waited.
Silence. Then, the echo of booted feet. They grew louder, mingling with hoots and cheers. Shay gave a fake scream. Then she scurried over the edge of the clearing and sat down, secreting her knife behind her and pretending to hold her ankle. Glancing over at the hunters, she waved and blew a kiss, an actress accepting applause.
“What a ham.” James shook his head.
What a woman, Bann thought. He held his breath, wondering how he could be sick with worry and impressed by her courage at the same time. He took a deep breath, shifting his feet under him. Behind him, he could hear the other Knights move into position, Hugh murmuring to Max to hold on one more minute, there’s a good boy. “Then, my fine fellow, you can have all the Fir Bolg to eat that you desire.”
“If they fall for this, they must be dumb as dirt,” Rory muttered.
Fir Bolgs burst out of the cave, shoving to be first. One held a spear, the rest, knives.
“Nope,” James whispered back. “Dumber.”
Bann did a quick count. Good. Only five. An even fight. When they spotted Shay on the ground, one leg twisted beneath her, they slowed, grinning like sharks as they circled her.
“Hey, it’s that Fey bitch’s bitch. What are you doing out here all by yourself?” A Fir Bolg sauntered closer, spear in hand. He stood towering over her.
“Stay back!” Shay yelled with just the right amount of panic. “I’m armed.” She waved her knife at him. She kept her other hand behind her back.
He snorted. With the butt of his spear, he knocked the weapon out of her hand, sending it spinning away into the snow. “No, you’re not.” He moved closer, his pelvis crowding her face.
Shay tipped her head back. The look of fear faded, replaced by one of glee. “Why, yes, I am.” With a smile, she whipped out her other knife and planted it to the hilt in his groin.
Bann winced.
Mouth stretched wide in a silent scream, the Fir Bolg fell back, the blade jutting out like an erection. His companions stared at their friend writhing on the ground.
“Faugh a ballagh!” The war cry burst from Bann’s throat as he charged the Fir Bolg nearest to Shay, his blade flashing. In a desperate twist, the Fir Bolg scrambled to one side, his own knife whipping around, trying to catch Bann in the ribs. Or heart. Or guts. Bann deflected the blow with a downward slash. Shifting to a two-handed grip, he pressed the attack, forcing the creature back, his blade singing through the air.
“Boru! Leave off!” Out of nowhere, Hugh was shoving him away. “Follow Max! He’s still on the Stag Lord’s trail!”
Bann whirled around in time to see Max’s hindquarters disappear along a path winding away into the rocky maze. He sprinted after him.
Running through the snow, he struggled to keep up, his feet slipping on invisible snags. He labored along, one eye on Max’s pawprints, the flat light and falling snow making the prints difficult to see; he frowned when the dog’s tracks turned west and began climbing back up the hill they had just descended, snaking around trees and rocks. Leg muscles burning, he clambered to the top of the ridge and paused, gasping for breath. Below him, he could hear the faint sounds of fighting. Danu, he prayed, keep her safe.
Movement out of the corner of his eye.
He turned.
30
BANN HIT THE GROUND as the spear whistled past his head, the point passing so close he swore it took some hair. Snow showered down when it struck the pine behind him. Rolling to his back, he brought his blade up just in time to block a curved knife from slicing into his face.
Sreng leaned over him, pressing down on his own weapon with both hands. Muscles straining, Bann pushed back. A foot kicked him in the ribs with a whump that jarred his entire body and drove the air from his lungs.
The blade inched closer to Bann’s throat.
“Another day, another Knight.” Sreng bared his sharpened teeth in amusement. “Get it? Another day, another—”
With a roar that was almost a scream, Max barreled into Sreng. The Fir Bolg rolled twice, then scrambled to his feet. Pressing the attack, the dog slashed at the creature’s legs, his teeth snapping in a blur. Drawing blood, he leaped to one side, twisting and dodging, avoiding the Fir Bolg’s wild swings with almost playful gestures.
Bann lunged to his feet. “Sreng!”
The Fir Bolg whirled around at the new threat. Bad mistake. At Bann’s signal—the same command Cor had taught the dog—Max leaped, cat-like, on Sreng’s back, his claws gouging out chunks of meat as his weight drove the creature forward.
Onto Bann’s blade.
Surprise widened Sreng’s left eye. The other eye had Bann’s knife in it. The Knight yanked it free as the Fir Bolg folded to his knees, black blood oozing from his lips. He flopped facedown in the snow.
Chest heaving and his ribs creaking with every breath, Bann stared down. Then, with a curse, he spat on the body. Raising his head, he looked over at the dog waiting a few feet away, tail wagging at their coup. Bann snapped his fingers. Max trotted over.
“Gle mhaith, boyo.” He ruffled the dog’s ears.
Max wagged harder, wiggling his rump like a novice whore. Then, he stilled and pricked up his ears, nose pointed east.
Shay burst out the trees. Blood and something that looked like smears of hamburger meat stained her hands and vest. She hurried toward him, panting from her sprint up the hill. Seeing her alive and well was like seeing the sun rise, the promise of a new day.
“Bann!”
“I’m all right, thanks to the hound.” He wrapped her in a one-armed embrace that made his ribs protest. She squeezed back, pressing her cheek against his. After a moment, they stepped apart and stood beaming at each other as the others emerged from the trees.
Rory walked over. “What? No hug for me?” Blood covered half his face from a gash on his forehead.
Spotting Sreng’s body, Hugh clapped Bann on the shoulder. “He slipped past us while we were fighting the others.” He glanced around. “And the shapeshifter?”
“No sign. But I’m hoping Max can still follow the scent.”
As if hearing his name gave him permission, Max lowered his snout and began casting about, snuffling puffs of snow. After a long minute, he wheeled about and headed westward.
Ignoring the dull pain in his side, Bann jogged after the dog, Shay right behind him, the others behind her. Max paused now and again, biting the snow as if he could taste the scent of his prey. Overhead, the clouds thickened. Heavy flakes pushed each other aside as they fell to earth, trying to be the first one down.
“He may lose the Horned One’s trail in this storm,” Hugh called from the back of the line.
Bann nodded absently. A foreboding chilled him even more than the lowering temperatures. The feeling intensified, becoming ice in his bowels when he realized they were tracking in a direct line back to the house.
“They’re okay. Cor and Ann.” Shay came up beside him. “The wards, remember?”
“Aye, I do. But…” The skin on his scalped prickled. Instinct whispered to him to move his arse before it was too late.
Bann broke into a sprint. His feet flew over hidden logs and rocks. Ahead, grateful that the two-legged hunters were finally picking up the pace, Max trotted faster, snow dusting his coat and forming a saddle of white on his back.
Chanting the words to the Song between breaths, Bann surged ahead, ignoring Shay’s shout to wait, goddammit.
It seemed to the man that he ran forever through a monochromatic landscape that never changed around him. Each tree, each bush, was identical to the next one. Muscles and lungs screamed for relief. He told them to shut up and work harder. After an eternity, he spied a twinkle of lights through the trees. Suddenly, the house loomed up in the storm, a towering bulk.
A feral stench. Then, something hard and cold and sharp punched him in the stomach. The force hurled him backwards into a tree, driving his elbow against the trunk. His knife spun away and disappeared into the snow. Legs folding beneath him, he fell to his knees and looked down.
Antlers. The prongs were buried in his body, leaving the main stem looking like some obscene growth. Black dots swam around the edge of his vision. Unable to breathe from the pain, he braced a hand against the tree and lurched to his feet. He wrapped both hands around the stem. Then, with a cry, he yanked it out. Blood gushed from the multiple holes and flowed down his belly in a hot flood.
A branch snapped. “You should have given me the child,” said a thin, high voice.
Cernunnos.
The manlike creature stood a few yards away, naked, concentration-camp thin, and covered in a layer of fine hair like a deer’s pelt. His features were distorted, as if a hand had grabbed the chin and stretched it out, elongating the skull and forcing the enormous eyes so far apart that they seemed able to look backwards at each other. The forehead bulged, making the shapeshifter look like he was wearing a helmet; the ears were elf-pointy. An old scar—a thousand-year-old scar—ran at a diagonal across the creature’s chest. An antler, a twin to the one Bann had pulled from his body, dangled from one hand, the prongs sharpened to needle points.
With the blackness closing down his vision, Bann crashed to his knees again. He forced himself to look up as the god raised his weapon and walked toward him.
Shifting from foot to foot, Cor waited by his bedroom window, keeping watch. Every possible scenario of what could happen to his dad kept looping through his skull like a series of horror-movie previews. He wanted to punch himself in the eye to stop the scenes from playing.
Earlier, Ann had offered to play a game with him. He had shut that idea down with a look that would have gotten him a smack from his father or, at the very least, a dressing-down that would have left him breathless. He could hear her moving around her bedroom at the far end of the hall.
He sighed and pressed his nose against the glass. Fog spread out. He exhaled deeper, making a larger patch. With a finger, he drew a stick figure holding what looked like a banana. It faded. Breathing on the pane again, he started to draw a dog when movement in the woods, half-hidden by the falling snow, caught his eye.
Horror beat black wings in his chest as he stared at the two figures.
Before he could even think, he spun around and ran for the stairs, the switchblade in his front pocket banging against his thigh. Stumbling once, he barely saved himself from tumbling arse over teakettle down the steps by a frantic grab of the banister. Dimly, he could hear Ann shouting for him to stop.
He couldn’t. That would be like asking his lungs to stop breathing or his heart to stop beating.
He sprinted across the kitchen. Skidding into the door, he clawed at the knob, cursing until it opened. He flung himself across the yard, sprawling twice in the snow. The second time, pain exploded in his right knee when it cracked against the brick border of a flowerbed.
Sobbing between frantic gasps of air, he reached the back gate. His hand grabbed the latch even as his mind screamed at him. Don’t touch it! The wards, remember? Cor froze, waiting to die. He gritted his teeth as the familiar pain spiked his head. Like after I’ve been asleep.
After a long moment, the pain faded. With shaky fingers, he fumbled with the latch, yanking it back and forth before it would unlock. He tugged, the metal biting him as the gate dragged on the snow. Opening it just wide enough to wiggle through, he plunged into the woods, trying to remember where he’d seen them.
His dad and the horned monster.
He choked back a scream when a dark shape suddenly emerged from the forest.
Max. The dog skidded to a stop with a sharp yip, then whirled around, heading back into the trees. Cor sprinted to catch up. He wrapped his fingers around the dog’s collar and let Max half-lead, half-drag him along through the woods.
As they struggled on, hindering each other as much as
helping, Cor felt himself grow smaller and smaller with each step, a mouse hesitating on the yellow line a split second before a semi truck smears it across the asphalt. The terror of facing that monster turned his bowels into hot, wet liquid.
Remember, Cormac Boru, Shay’s voice whispered in his skull. You’re a descendent of the High King of Ireland, and Tuatha Dé Danaan to boot. You know what that means?
“That I’m one tough son of a bitch,” Cor whispered. Slowing, he fumbled for his knife and pulled it out. He thumbed the button; the blade opened with a snick.
At that moment, Max hopped over a fallen log. His back struck Cor’s hand, sending the knife flying through the air. It disappeared in a snowdrift. Moaning, Cor threw himself down and began digging frantically. Tears blurred his vision as he pawed faster. He gave up when Max snagged his sleeve with his teeth, pulling at him, urging him to follow. To hurry. With a sob, he rose to his feet and ran after the dog.
Cursing at himself, Bann lurched to one foot before falling back down again. Get up, you bastard. Get up for your son’s sake. He tried again and failed. His limbs felt like lead pipes, stiff and heavy.
Cernunnos stopped a few feet away. Examining the antler in his hand, he spoke. “I find it rather disappointing that the long-son of Boru would not have put up a better fight, as they say.” The shapeshifter chuckled. “Why, you practically impaled yourself. And all those stories about how only a descendent of the High King, armed with an iron weapon, can kill me.” He glanced around. “It appears all those stories were wrong on both counts.” He raised his arm, mad eyes aglow. With a shout of triumph, he brought the weapon down.
A black and tan shape—a shield wall of heart and muscle and fur—threw itself between Bann and the Stag Lord.
In a tangle of arms and legs and fang and horn, they crashed to the ground, the antler buried in Max’s chest. With a scream of fury, the Stag Lord kicked clear of the weight and staggered to his feet. He yanked the antler free. Crimson droplets splattered the snow in all directions.