The Hound at the Gate (8 page)

Mull shook his head. “Back to yer game.” With a flick of a hand, he waved them away. He waited until the older boys left the barn before turning to the two friends. “What are ye doing in here?”

Lifting the dagger still clutched in his fist, Finn answered. “Getting our weapons. Gideon sent us to get them.”

“Are ye injured?” The Knight asked Lochlan.

Lochlan grimaced as he raised his arm up and down. “It's okay. More numb than anything.” He bent over carefully and picked up the sheath he had discarded earlier.

“Finish yer errand, then.” He waited while Finn and Lochlan located the rest of Mac Roth's weapons and consolidated them into one box along with Gideon's, then followed them out of the building. “Straight back to yer masters now. And no picking another fight on yer way.”

“We didn't start the last one,” Finn protested, hoisting the box in his arms. “Ennis did.”

The chieftain cocked an eyebrow at Lochlan. “And this one here dinna say anything to make the situation worse?” He shot Lochlan an I-thought-so glance when the boy blushed. “‘Deadly with blade, deadlier with tongue' is the auld saying about the O'Neills.”

“That's for sure,” Finn said, giving his friend a wink.

“Oh yeah?” Lochlan nodded at Finn. “So, what do they say about the MacCullens?”

“‘Tempers as fiery as their hair.' Now, away with ye.” With a final stern look, Mull waved them away.

Taking a wide detour around the field, Finn and Lochlan headed back to their campsite. As they walked along, Finn spotted the black-haired girl he had noticed earlier walking ahead of them toward the campsite, her ponytail swaying side to side as she marched briskly along, and her hurley over one shoulder. Reaching the trees, she stepped around a stand of pine and vanished from sight.
I wonder who her master is
.

His thoughts were interrupted by a hiss from Lochlan. His friend was flexing his injured arm, wincing.

“Hurting?”

Lochlan hesitated, then nodded. “Don't tell Mac Roth, okay?” He pressed his lips together into a thin line. “I've
got
to go on that hunt tomorrow morning.”

Then maybe his dad will get off his back
. He thought back to the scene between Lochlan and his father outside the diner, then to what had just happened with his cousin. “Families suck,” he blurted out. His face burned when he realized he had said the words aloud. “Sorry. I didn't mean
your
family.”

His expression carefully neutral, Lochlan kept his eyes fixed before him. “Sometimes, I…I hate my dad.” It came out in a croak as if guilt choked him.

I would, too
. “Yeah, I can't stand most of my cousins.” He shifted the box, easing the strain on his arms. “Well, Liam's okay.”

“He's the one that's the same age as you?”

“Yeah. His master got hurt on a hunt, so he's not here this year. And my aunt and uncle are okay, too.” He snorted. “When they remember I'm alive.”

Reaching their campsite, Finn spotted Gideon bent over the wooden crate, one hand holding its lid open. He turned around at the sound of the boys' approach. “Did ye find the—Ye gods, what happened?”

Finn began to explain, leaving out the parts where he had missed his punches. Meanwhile, Gideon took the box from him and set it on the ground next to the crate. He opened it, retrieved one of his more simple hunting knives, and slid it into the empty sheath hanging from the back of his belt. The Knight then pointed to a pair of nearby camp chairs.

“Sit,” he ordered, then disappeared into his tent. A few moments later, he emerged with a handful of clean rags and a Mason jar filled with a greenish-brown solution. It sloshed when he swirled the
sláinte
nettle potion to mix it. He opened the jar, wetted down one of the rags, then handed it to Finn. “You know what to do.”

Finn held the soaked cloth to his bruised face; the familiar sting meant the healing brew was doing its job. He watched as Gideon next turned to Lochlan.

“Your arm, eh?”

“Nah, it's all good.” Lochlan grinned up at the Knight with a look of pure innocence that fooled no one.

As Finn watched over the top of the rag, Gideon tilted his head, studying the other apprentice's face. “You lie as well as Finn does.” His gaze moved down Lochlan's arm, held stiffly across his lap. “Move it for me.”

“It's fine, Gideon. Really.”

“Prove it.” The Knight cocked an eyebrow in disbelief when Lochlan winced as he tried to raise it above his head. Taking the injured limb between his hands, he poked and prodded. Lochlan hissed between his teeth when Gideon pressed a thumb into the apprentice's upper arm. “I do not believe it is broken, but you most likely have some bruised muscles. It'll be sore for a few days.”

“Great,” Lochlan grumbled. “It
would
be my throwing arm, too.”

Gideon soaked another cloth in the jar and wrung it out. Then, pushing Lochlan's T-shirt sleeve up higher, he wrapped the arm, tying the ends off.

At that moment, Mac Roth strolled into camp. “Would you look at that—scarcely the first day of Festival, and we're already dipping into a
jar of potion.” He looked at his apprentice. “Did you start something with your overactive mouth?”

“Why do you think it's always me?” Lochlan protested.

“Because, more often than not, it usually is,” the master pointed out. “What happened?”

“Finn's cousin Ennis was being a jerk.”

As Lochlan recounted the events, Finn slumped in his chair. The morning's events paraded through his head, making it seem like an eternity since he'd dragged himself out of bed. His warm bed in his cozy bedroom in a house that had come to feel like home.

Weariness pulled him further down in the chair. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back.
And it's not even lunchtime yet
. A foot nudged his. He peeled open one eye.

Gideon stood gazing down at him. “Go rest a while.” He poked a thumb over his shoulder to the boys' tent.

“I'm not tired,” Finn protested out of adolescent habit.

His master simply stared at him, doing that stoic I-can-outlast-a-rock thing that Finn secretly vowed
he
would never do with
his
apprentice. After a long minute, he rose. “Fine.” He headed to the tent, relieved to have an excuse.

He pushed his pack off the cot and stretched out. With a long sigh, he folded his hands behind his head and let his body sink into the softness of the sleeping bag.

A moment later, Lochlan slipped inside in the tent. Groaning with pleasure, he sank down on his own cot and closed his eyes. Within seconds, he was fast asleep.

For several minutes, Finn lay listening to the sound of Lochlan's soft breathing. Trying to follow suit, he closed his eyes. The images from the last five hours kept his brain hopping and muscles twitching. Giving up, he rolled off his cot and slipped outside.

Mac Roth sat in front of his tent, tightening the shaft of his favorite hatchet. Flickers of sunlight flashed from its blade like signals from an old-fashioned heliograph as he turned it to and fro. He smiled as Finn walked over to join him. “Unable to sleep, eh?”

“Yeah. My head's too full.” He plopped down on the ground. Fallen aspen leaves were scattered like coins from a leprechaun's pot.
Not that leprechauns are real or anything
. Tilting his head back, he took a deep breath. The aroma of pine trees warmed by the sun, mingling with the musty hay-like scent of dying grass, filled his nose.
And the gentle fall of the bright year in the woods
, he quoted to himself.

He grinned to himself when he recalled sharing that line with his master one evening just a week ago. Sprawled on the sofa, he had been rereading a book Savannah had pushed on him with a maniacal glint in her eye when they had first met. Now it was one of his favorites. Nearby, Gideon had worked at his desk.

“And who is the author?” his master said after Finn recited the lines
.

“Tolkien.”

“A fine way with words, he has. I take it he is Irish, then?”

“English. I think.” Finn dog-eared the page, then flipped the book over and studied the back cover. “Yeah, English.” He chuckled at Gideon's muttered “bleedin' Brit.”

Finn looked around. “Where's Gideon?”

“He went for a stroll in the trees,” Mac Roth said with a meaningful look.

“What do you mean—Oh.” Finn nodded in understanding. He leaned back on his elbows, enjoying the easiness he always felt around the red-headed giant. “You and Gideon have been friends a long time, haven't you?”

“Since we were about the same age as you and Lochlan. Why, I can still remember the first time I met your master. 'Twas a few days after my apprenticeship had started. My master had sent me to the nearby village for supplies. Halfway there, I rounded the foot of a hill and came across a group of boys in the middle of the path. Older apprentices, I could tell. One even wore the torc. They were clustered in a circle, cheering as several others were hammering away on a younger boy.” Mac Roth paused to examine his hatchet. “Now, I've never held four against one as a fair fight, so I waded into the middle of it. Even at the age of thirteen, I was bigger than those older apprentices. After
flinging two of them arse over teakettle into a nearby gorse bush, and sending the third one to kiss the grass, I turned to help the younger boy. And what do you think I saw?”

Caught up in the story, Finn leaned forward. “Gideon beating the crap out of the last one?”

“Aye, that would be putting it mildly. And when he was through thoroughly pummeling the one, 'twas all I could do to hold him back from having a go at the others. Even then, his warp spasm was a right fearful thing to behold.”

Still is
, Finn thought. The Knight's next words took him by surprise.

“But know ye this, Finnegan MacCullen, in all the times I've seen Gideon Lir in the grip of the warp spasm, he's never taken a swing at an innocent. His anger is a righteous sort.”

Finn nodded, then asked. “Have you two, you know, ever…” His voice trailed off.

“Fought with one another?” Mac Roth barked a laugh. “Why, to be sure. We've had many a brawl as lads.” His eyes twinkled as he held up a massive fist and examined it. “Although I have come out the victor.”

“Have you been to a lot of Festivals together?”

“We have. Although there was a span of years where your master dinna attend. And it was during those years that I had the opportunity to hunt with your da on a few occasions. As I told you the day we first met, Fergus MacCullen was a cunning hunter and a fine warrior.” He gave Finn a wink. “Proud he would be of you, lad.”

“For earning my torc so early?”

“Aye. But even more so for the young man you are becoming.”

Warmth filled Finn's chest, along with the old sadness.

Mac Roth glanced up at the sun. “I'd best rouse Lochlan for lunch.” He rose and tucked his hatchet into his belt. “With his arm injured, 'twould be a good time to practice some tracking.”

T
he Journal of Gideon Lir: Thursday, September 19

It appears Ennis MacCullen is following hard and fast on the heels of his master. If I had known…

“Hello the camp!”

Squatting by the crate, Finn was busy putting away leftover food from their simple lunch of tart apples, creamy cheeses, and slabs of nutty, brown bread warmed over the fire and slathered with butter and blackberry jam. Mugs of tea had followed. He looked up at the voice calling to them. Nearby, Gideon rose from his seat by the fire, journal in one hand.

Kel O'Shea strolled into the clearing, dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a leather jacket the same shade of mahogany brown as her hair. She carried her bow over a shoulder. At her side was the black-haired girl from the hurling match Finn had noticed earlier.