The Stag Lord (14 page)

Terror drove a spike through Bann. Keeping low, he sprinted to the side of the cabin and flattened himself against it. The rough-hewn planks dragged at his clothes as he inched around the corner.

In front of a wooden shed on the verge of collapsing in on itself, a Fir Bolg held Cor captive. With one hand, the creature had the boy's arms pinned behind him. The other hand pointed a deer-hunting knife at the boy's face. The tip rested on the outside corner of Cor's right eye. Nearby, four other Fir Bolgs leaned against the Hummer's grill, three armed with knives. The fourth carried a club; an antler prong hung from a cord on his belt. Spotting the Knight, the one with the club bared his teeth—his fangs—and waved Bann forward.

“Join the party, Fey.”

Bann forced his feet to walk instead of charging the Fir Bolg who held his son. Cor's eyes were stretched wide with terror. Even from a few yards away, he could see the small body trembling. “D-Dad?”

“Cor.” Bann locked gazes with the boy, willing that contact to hold the gibbering fear swamping his son at bay. “‘Twill be all right.” He walked closer, unconsciously relaxing his muscles in preparation for battle. The knife in his hand sang a solo of vengeance. He longed to unleash the choir in it.

After a few more steps, the leader held up a hand. “Close enough.” The Fir Bolg waggled his club. “Just so we understand each other. Make the wrong move and…” He stepped over and backhanded Cor across the face. Cor staggered, breathless with shock and pain. Only his captor's hands kept him from falling to the ground. He hitched back a sob.

The warp spasm exploded in Bann's chest. It flared outward, swelling muscles and tightening tendons so much, he felt his spine bowing. His vision narrowed until he could only see his enemies. Each whorl and notch of the scars on their faces stood out as if lit from behind by the fires of Hell. A corner of his mind whispered to him to wait. To not endanger the child.

A voice that was not his spoke through his mouth. Because there was no way his voice could sound that calm. “What do you want?”

“Why, retaliation, of course,” Club said. “For our friend you killed earlier.”

“And what will Sreng, or your master, do to you if you kill us?”

“Oh, we're not going to kill you. We're not suicidal. But we can make you suffer. On many levels.” Club nodded toward the one holding the knife on Cor.

The tip pressed into the innocent skin. A drop of blood welled up like a ruby tear. Cor cried out again. Bann lunged forward, only to yank himself to a halt when the knife moved to the boy's throat.

“I don't think so.” The Fir Bolg lifted the blade to his mouth and licked it clean, tongue flicking like a snake's, then returned the tip. “Lose the weapon, or I start popping eyeballs. Do it!” he yelled when the Knight hesitated.

Bann forced his fingers apart. The knife fell with a
tink
on the rock-strewn soil already dusted with snow. The sound of Cor's whimpers mingled with the wailing of the increasing wind.

“Down.” Club gestured toward the ground.

Bann dropped to his knees in the swirling flakes. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the remaining Fir Bolgs produced a length of baling wire and walked around him. He noticed with a detached satisfaction that they took care to approach from behind. Yanking his arms back, they tied his hands with the wire, making sure to tighten the strands until they cut into his wrists.

The leader pointed his club toward the cabin. “Let's get started. Take the whelp inside while we take care of the Knight.”

12

F
ACE THROBBING,
C
OR GASPED
when his guard shoved him through the empty doorway of the shed. Losing sight of his father hurt worse than the blows. Another shove sent him stumbling forward. He tripped, landing on his hands and knees on the dirt floor. The sour reek of animal droppings mixed with the road-kill-baking-on-hot-asphalt stench of Fir Bolg burned his nose and mouth.

“Get up.” Fingers dug into his arms and dragged him to his feet. The creature hauled him into the far corner, then spun him around to face the door. He flinched when the Fir Bolg bent closer, almost cheek to cheek. “I want you to see what my friends did to your daddy,” he whispered. His lips brushed along Cor's ear. Cor stopped breathing when the Fir Bolg licked him, tongue probing deeper, the saliva chilling in the cold air. Something crashed against the exterior. The building shuddered in sympathy. Straightening, the Fir Bolg laughed. “Damn. Looks like my friends started without me.”

Outside, voices hooted and snarled in a mix of taunts and commands. Through the cracks in the planks, Cor could see dark shapes moving back and forth, followed by the fat smack of something hitting flesh, over and over. Once, he heard his father, cursing with rage. Another flurry of movement. Another crash. Dust drifted down, barely discernible in the gloom of the windowless hut, the darkness made darker by the sound of the beating. With each blow, a grunt. Cor wanted to cover his ears.

Finally, it ceased.

A long minute later, the other Fir Bolgs appeared, two of them dragging Bann between them. They dropped him facedown a few feet from Cor. He lay motionless for a moment. One foot shifted, scraping along the dirt, as if its owner was trying to get to his feet. Cor couldn't see his father's face in the shadow. For some reason, he didn't want to.

Club strolled in. Satisfaction twisted his face, a caricature of a jack-o'-lantern. He wiped the end of the bludgeon along Bann's jean leg. “Get him up. He can't see from down there.” The Fir Bolgs hauled the man to his knees, facing Cor.

Cor's stomach heaved at the sight of his father. Bloody streaks masked Bann's face. One eye was already swelling shut. The other blinked sluggishly. His father's lips moved soundlessly, forming Cor's name.

Grabbing Bann by the hair, Club yanked his head higher. “You awake? Good. I wouldn't want you to miss the show.”

Cor whimpered when his captor ran a hand down his stomach, then gouged fingers into his side. Panic and a fear so primal he almost blacked out swamped him. He lurched backwards as the creature tickled him in a way that was meant to embarrass, to
hurt
. “Don't touch me,” he screamed, his voice high and thin as a baby bird's. He twisted and kicked out, trying to knock the hand away.

The Fir Bolg slapped him. Once. Twice. By the third time, points of light danced on the edge of his vision. Head swimming, he gagged on the blood from a cut lip. Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear his father's hoarse cries. Thrashing sounds. The thump of the club. Cor moaned in terror.

It seemed to last forever. Then, the hands let him go. He dropped to his knees. Huddling on the dirt floor, he curled into a ball, certain the hands would be back. Or worse. He squeezed his eyes shut. A keening seemed to swell his skull.

Voices hooted and laughed. One barked out an order. Another thud, followed by a gasp of pain, echoed through the room. Footsteps shuffled past him. A few moments later, car doors opened and closed. The deep-throated rumble of an engine rose, then faded away in a crunch of gravel.

Silence filled the shed. It was the silence that jerked Cor out of his nightmare and lifted his head.

His father lay sprawled on his side, eyes closed. Filth and muck mixed with blood caked his face. Uncurling, Cor rolled to his hands and knees and crawled over. Laying a hand on his father's side, he hitched in a breath when it landed on something warm and sticky. He looked down. Blood gloved his palm and fingers. More blood soaked his father's entire right side.

“Dad?” He shook his father. “Dad, wake up.” A strangled sound made Cor breathe again. He scurried around the still form and began untwisting the wires. He froze at the whisper, then leaned over and placed his ear next to his father's lips. “What'd you say?”

“You…all right?”

Cor shuddered at the memory of the Fir Bolg's attack. “Y-yeah.”
No
. He attacked the wire again, freeing his father. “There's blood all over your shirt.”

“Stabbed.” Bann rasped. “Help me…up.” He pushed himself to his knees with a grunt of pain, one hand holding onto Cor for support.

Cor wedged a shoulder under his father's armpit on the uninjured side. He shifted his feet, straining to stand under the dead weight. Over his head, he could hear his father mumbling or chanting, his voice weak in a way that Cor had never heard before.

After several attempts, his father gave up and sank back to the floor. He lay on his back, panting. Cor squatted down next to him. The wind picked up, spitting snow through the cracks between the weathered planks. He shivered. He felt his dad shivering, too, eyes closed. Blood continued to seep from the wound and darkened the soil around him.

“Dad, what do I do?” No answer. Cor leaned closer. “Dad?” He pressed his forehead against his father, the old gesture. “Wake up. Please.” He slumped back, longing for Max's warm coat. Max made him think of Shay.
I wish she were here. She could help Dad
—“Oh!”

He fumbled in his rear pocket.
Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease
. He pulled out a folded piece of paper. With trembling fingers, he unfolded it.

Shay's cell phone number leaped out at him.

Jumping to his feet, he bolted for the doorway, then skidded to a halt.
What if they're still out there? Like a trick
. Hugging the doorframe, he peeked out.

Snow ghosted around the empty yard in mini-tornados, the wind struggling to find its way through the surrounding trees. Tire tracks from the Hummer were already half-hidden. Taking a deep breath, Cor ran to the cabin and crept along its side, legs muscles quivering. He peered around the next corner. Their truck and camper sat by themselves in the front yard.

Holding tight to the paper, he ran to the passenger's side of the truck, climbed inside, and began digging in the glove box for their seldom-used cell phone. Finding it under a bunch of napkins his father stored there in case of Cor's notorious motion sickness, he pulled it out.

He flipped it open and sat looking at it, studying the buttons, then the paper. He punched the numbers into the keypad. Nothing. He frowned, summoning up the memory of his dad flipping it open the few times he had used it; the man's thumb pressing the… “Green means go,” he whispered to himself. He held the green button. The screen lit up, followed by the words “No Signal.”

He dialed Shay's number anyway.

No. Signal.

Remembering his father's solution, he kicked the door ajar and stood on the seat, the phone held as high as he could into the air. Squinting through the growing storm, he looked up at the screen. “Yes!” Using the open door like a ladder, he clambered onto the hood of the truck, his shoes slipping on the wet metal. Sitting down for traction and ignoring the cold damp seeping into his jeans, he dialed again.

A pause, then: “Shay Doyle.”

For a moment, Cor couldn't speak. The sound of Shay's faint voice made him want to start bawling like some crybaby. He punched his thigh to get his emotions under control. “S-Shay?”

“Cor? Cor, is that you? I can barely hear you.”

“Dad's hurt. Can you come—”

“Cor, you're breaking up. Did you say Bann's hurt?” Her voice faded in and out. The wind didn't help either, whistling in his ear. “…where…are you?”

“In the mountains.” He tried to remember the wooden sign at the gas station. “Badger something.”

“…Basin? Did you say Badger Basin?”

“I think. We're by a cabin. There's trees and…”

A few sputters of static. Cor rose to his knees, then listened. “Shay?” He closed the phone, then opened it again and dialed once more. Nothing.

Tears prickled his eyelids. He looked around. The snow, blowing at an angle from the west, blotted out all but the nearest trees. Teeth chattering, he clambered back down. Dropping into the cab, he leaned over and grabbed the keys, then hurried to the camper. His cold fingers fumbled as he tried to unlock the door, dropping the keys twice. “Son of a bitch,” he swore in an unconscious imitation of Bann. Finally unlocking it, he heaved himself inside, eschewing the steps.

The camper was cold. And empty. And not-home. Not that it had ever been
home
.

Dad
was home.

Locating his heavier winter jacket, he pulled it on, then tugged the cover free from his bunk. Hugging the bundle to his chest, he jogged around the cabin, slowing as he approached the shed.
What if Dad is…
Before the rest of the thought could take root, he shook his head and forced his feet to walk inside. The rise and fall of his father's chest made his knees weak. “Dad? I called Shay. I don't know if she heard me.” He draped the blanket over the man.

No answer. Not knowing what else to do, Cor crawled under with his dad.

He screamed when a wet tongue dragged along his cheek. Lashing out with fists and feet, frantic to keep the hands from touching him again, he struck something solid. A yelp.