The Stag Lord (40 page)

“Sam?” He slowed to a jog, not wanting to scare the puppy into hiding from him. “Here, boyo.” He made a kissing sound as he made his way into the jumble of boulders. The memory of chasing after Max a few weeks earlier into that same maze of rock during a snowstorm just as unbeknownst to him, the Fir Bolgs were massing for an attack on Shay's home—with Shay and Cor inside—mocked him. Looking down, he spotted tiny pawprints in the sandy soil. As he trailed after Sam, he wondered how something so small could move so fast. He rounded the next boulder and stepped into a clearing, eyes locked on the ground. A soft whimper made him look up.

Two men and a woman stood at the far end of the clearing. The remains of a campfire sat a few yards off to one side. A pile of wood was stacked next to it.

The strangers were armed with bronze hunting knives and wearing the torc. One of the men, his brown hair shorn in a pseudo-military crew cut, held Sam in his arms, a hand clamped around the pup's muzzle. Something about him seemed familiar to Bann.

“Remember me?” Crew Cut asked. Before Bann could answer, he continued. “I was at the party where you beat the shit out of my friend.”

Recalling the evening, Bann shifted his feet under him, fingers tightening on the haft. “Good times, eh?” His gaze flickered over to the others. “I take it Quinn Tully was a friend of yours as well?”

“He was.” The woman answered. “As well as a clan member.” Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a braid so tight, Bann wondered how she was able to blink.

“And we Tullys protect our own.” The other man spoke. A scar puckered one side of his upper lip, giving him a permanent lopsided grin.

“This your dog?” Crew Cut asked. At Bann's nod, he hoisted the pup up to eye level. Sam hung limply, tail tucked between his legs, trying not to call attention to himself. “Cute. Looks just like a toy I had as a kid.” His eyes, a cold blue, slid past Sam to Bann. “I used it as a football with a bunch of my friends until we kicked the stuffing out of it.”

Bile flooded Bann's throat. “Ye son of a bitch,” he said softly. He started toward the man, then jerked to a stop when the other two raised their knives in warning.

With a grin, Crew Cut took a step back and lifted Sam to shoulder height, setting his feet and cocking his arm back in a quarterback stance.

The female Tully made a movement toward him. “Dude. No.”

“Yeah, really.” Scarface added. “Not cool.”

Crew Cut ignored them. He pointed behind Bann with his free hand. “Go deep!” he shouted gleefully. Then he threw the puppy.

Spinning on a heel, Bann dropped his knife and ran. Both arms extended, he kept his eyes fixed on the small body clawing the air. Legs pumping, he leaned forward, past the angle of being able to stay upright, knowing he only had to break Sam's fall. He stretched further, willing another inch to his arms. With a gasp, he caught Sam with one hand. Pulling the pup in close, he scissor-kicked himself around in midair as he cradled the young one against his chest. He hit the ground with a grunt and skidded a few feet.

Even as he lurched to his feet, a rage swept through him that was so pure he almost went deaf from the high-pitched squeal in his ears, like a public address system gone awry.

The warp spasm. The ancient battle rage of the Celts.

Blinking through the haze tinting the world around him in a crimson wash, he nodded as the warp spasm began whispering to him, urging him to rip the man's skull from his neck.
Mayhaps use it as a fokking football
, the voice added. Bann agreed.
Three against one. An even match
.

The sudden
chk-chk
of a shotgun being racked. He noted movement out of the corner of his eyes, then a quiet “Bann.”

Shay appeared next to him with a shotgun aimed at the Tullys. Cor was at her side. “Take Sam and go back to the house, kiddo. It'll be okay.” After the shaken boy had gathered the pup in his arms and disappeared, she shifted the gun to one arm and handed Bann's dropped knife to him. Then she pointed the shotgun's muzzle at the woman and Scarface. “I keep
this
,” she hefted the gun, “for coyotes. And you guys certainly qualify. Now, over by that rock. Move!” As they shuffled over to the boulder, Bann noticed they seemed relieved. “Okay, the asshole's all yours,” Shay said. “Try not to kill him—it'd just make things worse. But you can
bloody
him all you want.”

Curling his fingers around the handle of his knife, he gave a curt nod, then started toward Crew Cut. “Just the two of us, eh?”

Crew Cut curled his lip. “If you've got the balls.”

As Bann stalked the younger Knight, the battle rage murmured more suggestions.
Slice off each finger, one by one, from his hands. Look, there's a flat rock you can use as a cutting board. Think of them as little sausages. Sausages. Hmm, that gives me a better idea. Cut a slit in his belly and pull out his intestines with the point of your knife. You can wrap them around the blade like spaghetti, then force them down his throat
.

He smiled.
Why, ye're a clever one, ye are
, he thought.

Without breaking stride, he plucked one of the heavy branches from the dead campfire. Club in his left hand and blade in his right, he charged.
“Faugh a ballagh!”

Crew Cut attacked, as well. His knife whistled through the air; the rising sun danced an orange reel along its blade.

Bann feinted to one side, then smashed the club down on Crew Cut's forearm, shattering the bones with a wet snap. The younger Knight's knife tumbled to the ground from nerveless fingers. Cradling his arm, Crew Cut stumbled backwards, Bann matching him step for step.

Crowding closer, Bann pressed the tip of his knife on the underside of Crew Cut's chin, the point digging into the soft skin. Blood welled up. “Afraid, are ye?” He could feel on his cheek the moist heat coming from the man's gaping mouth; it stank of pain and fear and knowledge of pending death. Holding his broken arm, the younger Knight made a strangled sound. “Would that be a yes?” Crew Cut nodded with an upward jerk of his head, desperate to keep his throat away from the point of the knife.

Bann smiled. “Good. Then, ye know how that wee one felt when you pitched him into the air, ye shitty piece of Bog-born arse. Now, there was no reason for ye and yer friends to be near our home. Unless ye were up to no good. Am I right?”

“We were just hiking by when—” Crew Cut's voice died away as Bann dug the tip of the blade deeper into skin as soft as Sam's belly. Feeling the prick of the blade, Crew Cut stood on tiptoe, more blood trickling out. Bann let him struggle like a fish on the end of a spear for a long minute before relenting, then he lowered his knife. Crew Cut staggered back a step, ashen-faced with pain. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

“Ye tell Weston Tully,” Bann tapped the man's broken arm with the end of the club, eliciting a strangled cry, “and the rest of yer clan to leave off. Next time, I'll not be as generous. Next time, ‘twill be
his
blood that is spilled.”

Author's Note

For those readers who are familiar with my middle grade series (
The Adventures of Finn MacCullen
), as well as my young adult series (
Griffin Rising
), it would be fair to say this book is quite the departure from what you're accustomed to getting from me.

*Cough—
understatement
—cough*

Except that it isn't.

I am continuing to draw upon the ancient myths of the Celts, or, at least,
my
version of those myths, a version that would have the Tuatha Dé Danaan alive and well and kicking both god and goblin butt in High Springs, Colorado. However, Bannerman Boru's famous sire, the High King Brian Boru, was actually a real person and ruled Ireland from 1002 to 1014 AD until his death—his
supposed
death—at the Battle of Clontarf near modern-day Dublin. I say
supposed death
because, in one variation of the Boru story, he is linked to the Goddess Danu, which links him to the Tuatha Dé Danaan.

As you now know, Celts are hard to kill.

And shapeshifters are not my invention. Many cultures around the world believe in the ability of humans to magically take the forms of various animals for various purposes—some good, some not so good. My version of the Stag Lord is somewhat darker than the demigod is usually portrayed, for my Cernunnos is more like the spiteful shapeshifter of the Navajo cosmology.

In addition, I must give credit to the idea of a healer being accompanied by her faithful hound to the Bronze Age peoples of Europe, who believed that dogs could heal themselves with their own saliva, thus making them the natural companion of healers.

But what makes
The Stag Lord
similar to both my Finnegan and my Griffin series is my continued fascination with the father/son relationship. This time, with a “real” father and son. Bannerman's love for Cor (and Cor for his dad) provided me, as a writer, with many a melt-the-heart moment.

Now, more than ever, we need to honor and celebrate men who are also fathers. For they are warriors in their own right.

Acknowledgements

I wish to thank all the people who helped shape the book you now hold in your hand:

Vikki Ciaffone, editor-in-chief of Spence City, who told me she wanted my first adult novel before I ever wrote it; Richard “Shecky” Shealy, editor extraordinaire and master wordsmith; Rich Storrs, whose humor and demand for perfection has delighted me since the first days with
Finn Finnegan
; Kaci Guthrie and Trisha J. Wooldridge (Trish was really the one who started this whole thing), my friends and beta-readers who saved me from tumbling down many a plot hole; and Errick A. Nunnally, the cover artist who captured the heart and soul of the book with a single image.

Another big thanks to Starr Griggs, Leisha O'Quinn, Michele Swindle, Beverly Archer, Tom Sanchez, and Deb McGuire for joining the Street Team so early on. Especially Leisha. She may not know that I “used” a part of her last name because I liked it so much. But, then again, she just might.

The words that Bann recited in Chapters Sixteen and Eighteen, and throughout the book, are a portion of the famous early Irish “Song of Amergin.” This translation is from the article “Echoes of Antiquity in the Early Irish ‘Song of Amergin'” by Lloyd D. Graham, 2010. Thank you, Dr. Graham, for allowing me and the Tuatha Dé Danaan to continue to use your words.

A very special thank you to Kelly Hager, friend since the first Griffin book, and publicist (co-worker!), who read an early draft and told me I had something. And then helped turn the “something” into something more.

And to my husband, Wes…

About the Author

Darby Karchut (Darby Kaye) is an award-winning author, dreamer, and compulsive dawn greeter. She's been known to run in blizzards and bike in lightning storms. When not dodging death by Colorado, Darby writes urban fantasy for tweens, teens, and adults.

Visit her at
www.darbykarchut.com
.