by Darby Kaye
Arms pinned behind his back, Bann struggled not to flinch from the stab of guilt at the clan leader’s words. Weston Tully stepped closer until they were nose-to-nose. He almost missed Tully’s next words over the pulse roaring in his ears.
“It’s a good thing Cernunnos wants you alive.” Tully’s breath stank of treason. “Or I would kill you right here and now.”
“Tully, Tully.” The god snorted in disbelief. “You must be remarkably slow of wit if you truly believe that the Black Hand will blindly follow your directive and hand over the child. No, Lir will try to free the hostages whilst keeping the child safe.”
“With what army?” Tully turned toward the god. “The only ones who might have helped him are the other Doyles. And my source in the clan told me that most of them want nothing to do with all this shit.” He waved his knife around the room. “Plus, that same source also told me that Gideon Lir has a special…fondness…for the Healer. Trust me—he’ll choose her life over the kid’s.”
No. No, he would not. A tiny flame of hope flickered in Bann’s heart. Lir will find a way to keep Cor alive and help me save the others.
“You Tuatha Dé Danaan,” Cernunnos curled a lip, “place too much value on your females and your offspring—it is your greatest failing.”
“No, it is not.” The thought of Shay and Ann on the rock, mocking him and Hugh during the goblin skirmish, filled Bann with a fierce love. “’Tis our greatest strength. For we are the people of Danu. And we esteem the Goddess, and our women, who are the reflection of Her in this round world. We honor the wisdom of the Crone, the vigor of the Mother, and the fire of the Maiden. For within that triad, we can be men.”
The shapeshifter barked a laugh. “Irish blather. I had forgotten how tedious you Fey can be when you prattle on.” Waving a hand of dismissal at Bann, he turned toward the other Knight. “Weston Tully, you are wrong about my desire to keep the Boru alive. For now that the child is practically mine, I have no need for the father.”
Tully’s face brightened. “Are you planning on killing him, then?”
“That would delight you, would it not?” Cernunnos paused, studying both Knights. “Well, never let it be said that I do not reward my followers. As a prize for finding the boy, you may have this one,” he gestured toward Bann, “to do with as you please.”
Tully bowed his head. “Thank you, Lord Cernunnos.” He sauntered closer to Bann. “I would be pleased,” he said, mimicking the shapeshifter’s words, “to cut his throat and bleed him dry.” Sighting along his blade, he pressed the ball of his thumb on the edge, then sucked off the bead of blood that had welled up. “Hold him.”
The Fir Bolgs tightened their grips on Bann’s arms. A third one grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. Tully smiled as he placed the knife against Bann’s jugular. “This is for my dead clan members.”
The edge of the blade bit into Bann’s throat, a hot burn from cold metal. On the edge of his vision, he could see Tully tightening his grip. Desperate not to die like a sacrificial animal, to leave his son alone in this world, to leave his beloved, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “So, ’tis true what they say about you.”
Tully paused. “What are you talking about?”
“That your courage comes from having a fair number at your back, not from skill. You wouldn’t last a minute against me in a fair fight.”
Tully paused, his eyes narrowed. “Are you challenging me?”
“I am. If you have the sack.”
“A duel? To the death?” Out of the corner of his eye, Bann saw the shapeshifter sit up, rubbing his hands with glee. “Why, I would enjoy watching that. Entertainment whilst we wait for the Black Hand to surrender the boy.”
“No!” Weston Tully whirled around. “You gave Boru to me!”
“And his life is still yours. I’ve simply changed the borders of your possession.” Cernunnos cocked his head in a Max-like gesture. “Or is Boru right? Do you fear to face him in battle?”
Tight-lipped, Weston Tully’s mouth worked as he glared at Bann, who stared back. “I do not,” he finally rasped.
“And if I win?” Bann yanked his head free of the guard’s grip. His throat stung where the blade had sliced into him; warm wetness trickled down his skin. “What then?”
The shapeshifter ignored him. “Take Boru to the yard,” he ordered. “No need to dirty my new abode any further.”
“And fetch the other prisoners,” Tully added. “They can watch me gut their hero.” He grinned in triumph when the shapeshifter gave a nod of consent.
Stumbling as his guards dragged him away, Bann tried again to sing the power of the Song into his body. Nothing. He was herded through the kitchen and out the back door and over to the center of the yard. The snow had stopped, leaving behind a mottled layer on every horizontal surface. Clouds were stalled overhead, forming a gray ceiling. Along the far wall, bodies of the dead Fir Bolgs had been stacked, like cordage, along the far wall. The gate still hung open, askew.
His guards let go and stepped away. Freed from their hold, Bann wiped the trickle of blood off his neck. As he walked around in a circle, swinging his arms to warm up, a Fir Bolg wrestled the wingback chair through the back door and carried it over to a nearby Ponderosa pine. There, he set it under a projecting bough that formed a natural canopy. Other Fir Bolgs were filing out and forming a circle around the yard.
An image from his boyhood rose in his mind. A memory of watching two Knights dueling dagger to dagger in the mud—more like slicing little bits off of each other—while the clan chieftain watched from a chair set high in the back of a wagon. The blood had flown freely that day, leaving contrasting red streaks in the blue woad on the warriors’ naked bodies.
A few minutes later, Shay stepped out on the porch, with the rest of her family behind, in a crowd of guards. Rory kept a hand on James’s arm, steadying his injured cousin. He saw the flashes of relief when they spotted him.
“Bann?” Shay started down the steps toward him, then was jerked back by one of the Fir Bolgs. “You okay?”
“I’m all right, darlin’.” For now.
“Hey, Bann!” Rory called. “Thanks for saving some of these butt-uglies for the rest of us.” He grunted when a nearby Fir Bolg punched him in the stomach. Even from several yards away, Bann could hear the fat smack of the blow. Bent over, the young Knight staggered a step, almost knocking James down. Shay launched herself at the guard.
Hugh snagged her arm just in time and yanked her back. “Save it, lass. Now is not the time.”
The guards herded them down the steps and past Bann. As Shay was pushed past him to the opposite side of the yard, she stretched out a hand. So did Bann. Their fingertips brushed briefly.
“Mo chara.”
“Mo shíorghrá.”
Reaching the opposite side, the Fir Bolgs posted two guards, both holding drawn weapons on the Knights. “I hear any of you Fey whisper so much as a single word of that fokking Song,” one of the guards said, “and I shove my knife so far down your throat, you’ll have to shit to get it out.”
“And that,” Rory said to James, standing next to him, “would be awkward.”
“And painful,” James pointed out. “Do you think the whole shitting thing would include the Fir Bolg that’s holding the knife—”
“Shut up, both of ye,” Hugh snarled.
Tully appeared a moment later. Stripped down to a T-shirt and jeans, he walked down the steps and stopped a few yards from Bann. His pleased expression sent warning flags fluttering in Bann’s head as the other Knight made a show of examining the edge of his knife. Ice formed in his gut when he realized that Tully was armed.
And he was not.
The Fir Bolgs straightened, snapping to attention, when Cernunnos strolled out, a cut-glass decanter filled with an amber liquid in one hand. The old guilt—Shay darlin’, I know what you would say, but in the end, ’twas me that brought the Stag Lord here—seared him at the
memory of Hugh pouring shots for the family from that very decanter. Lebor walked behind him as an honor guard; he wore Bann’s iron blade thrust through his belt.
Still naked and apparently impervious to the cold, the shapeshifter sauntered over to the ersatz throne. As he walked past, his bare feet melted the snow, leaving a trail of foot-shaped pools of slush. With a flourish, he sat down. Lebor took a position on the god’s right-hand side.
“Proceed.” Cernunnos raised the carafe in a salute, then took a drink.
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.
24
IT WAS COR.
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 ti
ghtened 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.