The Hound at the Gate (14 page)

“His dad?”

“Aye.”

Reaching their campsite, Finn noticed a fire was already lit in the stone ring. The popping and snapping seemed to echo back from the surrounding trees, the trunks appearing and disappearing in the flickering light. Mac Roth sat next to it, legs stretched out toward the flames. He gestured at the small kettle dangled above the fire. “Water should be boiling soon, Lir, if you would care for tea.” As Gideon took a seat nearby, Mac Roth caught Finn's eye, then cocked his head toward the boys' tent.

Finn walked over. Pausing for a moment, he steeled himself, then ducked inside. By the light of the fire shinning through the half-open tent flap, he could see Lochlan sitting cross-legged on his cot, staring straight ahead. His face was hidden in shadow.

Finn edged further in. “Hey.”

“Hey.” With a sigh, Lochlan slumped over sideways, then rolled onto his back and lay staring up at the canvas ceiling.

“Look, Lochlan…”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“You know what really sucks about all this?” Lochlan began almost immediately.

“I thought you didn't want to talk about it?”

Lochlan snorted and continued. “What really sucks is that Dad acts like it's all about
family honor
and all that crap when it's really about
him
.”

Finn nodded, not sure what to say. When Lochlan started getting ready for bed, he followed suit. Leaving clothes piled on the floor, they stripped down to boxers and T-shirts and burrowed into their sleeping bags. A few moments later, Gideon stuck his head inside.

“
Gle mhaith
—I was about to order you two to bed.” He started to add something, then backed out, closing the flap against the night's chill.

Finn could hear him moving around to the side of the tent closest to his cot. Scarcely heard over the rustle of Lochlan shifting in his bag, a whispered
codladh sumh
drifted through the fabric wall as the Knight walked past.

Finn smiled to himself in the dark.

The next morning, Finn jerked awake, thinking Gideon was shouting at him from the kitchen for him to get his arse out of bed before he came up there and dragged him out. By his ears.

Lifting his head up, Finn listened to the faraway bugling of a bull elk, signaling to its harem.
At least I think it's an elk. But it might be Mac Roth snoring
.

Yawning, he looked around the tent in the predawn light. Lochlan's bag, with Lochlan inside of it, formed a lumpy mound in the center of the other cot. Remembering his promise to the Knights, he crawled out, hissing softly between his teeth from the cold.

With his breath ghosting around him, he scrambled to dress, pulling on a thick, hand-knitted sweater. He recalled Gideon handing it to him while they were packing. Although clean, its creamy color was dulled with age, the cuffs and neck frayed.

“Here,” his master had said, placing the folded garment on his bed while Finn was wadding up clothes and stuffing them in his duffle bag. “The weather is unpredictable in the mountains during autumn, so take this for extra warmth.”

Something in the way Gideon's fingers had lingered on the garment made Finn bite back the joke about hand-me-down clothes. “Is it yours?” he asked instead, pretty sure he knew the answer
.

“Kean's. I do not know why I've kept it all these years.” He made a slight motion with his shoulder. “Although glad I am, now, that you can make use of it. 'Tis worn, but still has plenty of service in it.”

Finn sniffed the arm. The faint scent of peat and wool and smoke and the sea filled his nostrils. A feeling of homesickness swept over him. But not for Gideon's home. Another home. Another land.

How can I miss a place I've never been to
?

Shaking his head clear, he shoved a knife into his belt sheath. After locating gloves and fleece cap, thankful his master had insisted he bring them, he slipped sideways through the canvas flap and pulled it tight together.

A thin layer of hoarfrost iced the campsite; the cold made his eyes water. Zipping his jacket to his chin, he tugged his cap lower and picked up the kettle where it squatted in the dead ashes of the camp fire. He peeked inside. Empty.

With a sigh, he glanced over at the Knights' tent. A rumbling sound that was definitely Mac Roth snoring made Finn wince.
Poor Gideon
. Kettle in hand, he headed toward the center of the camp ground, trying to remember where the spigot, attached to a well dug deep into the underlying aquifer, was located.

As he walked, the frost crunched under his shoes. Most tents, scattered about to take advantage of the shelter of trees and boulders, were closed tightly against the chill. A few here and there glowed from within like giant moonstones as their occupants switched on lanterns or clicked on flashlights.

Singing softly to himself, he began swinging the kettle by its handle in rhythm with his stride. “‘A shield in battle and a string in the harp.'” The scent of wood smoke, quite possibly the best smell in the world on a raw, chilly morning, filled the air.

There was something about the forest and the dawn and the cold and the wood smoke that made his whole body almost vibrate with
something
. Like every sense was on high alert, so that he wouldn't miss the tangy perfume of pine needles as he brushed past an evergreen. Or the
scribble-scrabble
of a squirrel hiding another acorn in a soon-to-be-forgotten pile of leaves.

Or the sound of his own heartbeat, announcing to the world that Finnegan MacCullen was alive and eager for whatever adventures might come his way.

A few moments later, he spied a campfire ahead, its orange flames brilliant in the gray dawn. Nearby, a domed tent sat under a tree. A figure stood next to the fire, hands stretched over it for warmth. Opening his mouth to greet the fellow dawn riser, Finn snapped it closed when he spotted a familiar mop of red hair. Ennis.
Just ignore him
, he told himself. Speeding up, he kept his eyes locked in front of him as he passed.

“Hey, halfer,” a voice called as he walked past.

Ignoring the footsteps behind him, Finn continued. The footsteps sped up. A hand grabbed his elbow and yanked him around.

“Heard you bagged another Amandán,” Ennis said, his breath morning-mouth sour. “What's wrong? Afraid they might take your torc away if you don't keep performing?”

“Leave me alone.” Finn yanked free, wishing he had a few of his cousin's inches and even a few more of his pounds.

Ennis's eyes narrowed; they slipped downward to Finn's throat. “Speaking of which—where
is
your torc?” Without waiting for an answer, he reached for the jacket zipper.

Finn knocked his hand aside. “Around my neck. Where most apprentices wear them.” He couldn't resist adding, “Well, those of us who've bagged their first Amandán, that is.”

As he turned and started to walk away, Ennis shoved him. Hard. Finn staggered. Before he could recover, the larger boy reached behind and whipped out his knife.

Regaining his balance, Finn pulled his free as well, but kept it close to his thigh. He stepped back to give himself room to fight.

Ennis poked his knife at Finn. “Scared?” He laughed, then jabbed it again.

Finn swung the teakettle still clenched in his left hand. With a
clang
, it hit Ennis's knife. The blade flew out of his cousin's hand and spun away into the bushes. Raising his own weapon, he pointed it at the other apprentice. “You know we're not supposed to—”

“Finnegan MacCullen!” A roar broke the quiet of the morning. Both boys jumped and spun around.

Toryn Mull.

The Knight stormed toward them, eyes blue ice and breath trailing out behind him like a dragon. “Lower yer weapon. Now!” Heads began popping out of the surrounding tents, including Ennis's tent.

“Can't a guy get some sleep around here?” Jack Tully growled as he emerged. His long hair hung about his face like a dark wizard wannabe. “What's going on?”

“Finn pulled a knife on me, sir,” Ennis said with a smirk.

“I did not!” Finn's heart lurched when he realized he was pointing a weapon at a weaponless apprentice. He lowered it. “Well, not before you pulled one on me!”

Ennis held up empty hands. “What knife?”

“Sir, I—” Finn started to protest when Mull reached down and plucked the blade from his hand.

“What did I tell ye yesterday about never drawing a weapon on a fellow Tuatha De Danaan?”

“But, sir, Ennis is lying.” The bitter taste of desperation filled Finn's mouth. “I can prove it. His knife is right over there in the bushes.” He pointed.

Mull frowned. He walked over and dug through the vegetation for a few moments before finding it. “And how did it get here?”

“I knocked it out of his hand with this.” Finn held up the pot.

“You used a teakettle as a weapon?” Sauntering over from a nearby tent as he pulled on a jacket, Dennis O'Donnell joined them. “Wow. Gideon's going to be so proud. Or ashamed. It could go either way.”

“Here.” Mull handed the knife back to Ennis, then turned to Finn. “Fetch water, then back to camp. And no more of this kin squabbling.”

“Wait a sec!” Tully glared at the chieftain. “That's it? That's all you're going to do? That halfer pulled a knife on my apprentice!”

“They were just being lads.”

“You're being easy on him because he's Lir's apprentice. If it was anyone else, you would—” Tully paused when Ennis stepped closer and murmured something. A sneer twisted the Knight's face as he leaned over to listen. When Ennis finished, the Knight straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “I think these two should have it out. Once and for all.”

“As in
a fight
?”

“Sure. Isn't that what you told them yesterday? Settle their problems fist to fist?”

Mull looked from one apprentice to another, then sighed. “Right. But 'twill be with gloves. And a judge. I'll not have this turn into another brawl.” He gave Tully a hard look.

“Excellent.” Ennis cracked the knuckles of his right hand. “It won't be the first time I beat the crap of him.”

“Finnegan?” Mull turned toward him.

“Just name the time and place.”

“Time and place for what?” said a voice behind him. Finn turned.

Gideon was walking toward him. While Mull explained, Finn waited, heart banging away. His guts did a loop the loop when his master agreed.

“Right.” The chieftain motioned for both boys to stand before him, then turned to O'Donnell. “As the Hound, ye'll be both witness and judge for the fight, for I cannot have either master do so.”

“Of course.” O'Donnell joined Mull. He gazed down at the boys, his usual jovial expression gone.

“Finnegan MacCullen. Ennis MacCullen.” The chieftain's voice rang through the morning air. The other Tuatha De Danaan who had gathered around hushed at the solemnity of the moment. “Ye
gave yer blood oath to abide by the laws of the
Rath
. Therefore, as chieftain and head of the Council, I command ye to settle yer grievances in hand-to-hand battle before our people at midmorning.” He pinned them in place with a glare. “And once
that
fight is over,
yer
fight is over. Do ye ken?”

Throwing his shoulders back, Finn raised his chin. “Yes, sir.”

“I'll be there.” Ennis had scarcely gotten the words out before he spun around and disappeared inside of his tent.

“Well, there goes the hunt this morning,” O'Donnell said. “I better get busy, since I'll be refereeing the match. See you two later.” With a wave at master and apprentice, he headed back to his tent.

“And I best go inform the
Rath
.” Mull left.

After filling the pot with water, Gideon and Finn returned to their camp in silence. Once back, Finn placed the pot near the fire his master had started. Balancing on one of the large stones ringing the pit, he stared into the flames, trying not to think about the upcoming fight. He found he wasn't being very successful.

Nearby, Gideon had pulled a chair closer to the fire. He sat running a thumb along his jaw. Finn's heart sank at the expression on his master's face.
He's probably wondering how he ended up with a knucklehead for an apprentice
.

At that moment, Mac Roth appeared. His shoulders strained the tent door to its limit as he pushed through. Dressed against the cold, his heavy jacket made him look even bigger. “A fine morning to you,” he said, eyeing the kettle hopefully.

“Mac Roth, there has been a change of—” Gideon began.

The giant held up a hand. “Not before my morning tea, Lir.” He looked over at the boys' tent. “Lochlan O'Neill!” His bellow caused Gideon to wince. “Up and greet the sun! We've beasties to hunt!”