GASPING, COR TRIED TO ignore the stitch under his ribs as he flailed through the woods in Gideon’s wake. It seemed like forever since the Knight had dragged him into the sheltering trees. Cor had managed to get one last glimpse of his father and Shay fighting side by side before the Knight had shoved Cor in front of him and ordered him to “run, boyo!” Every molecule in his heart had screamed at him to stay with his dad.
He ran anyway.
Clambering over a fallen log, he jerked free from the snag that had caught his pant leg, then landed on the other side, only to discover that his muscles had decided to take a break. He fell to his knees. A hand grabbed his arm and yanked him upright.
“Up you get.” Gideon scanned the area, his head cocked. Listening. Distant yelling drifted through the forest still wrapped in a cold fog. “You can rest when we’ve reached safety.”
“Is Dad coming soon?”
Gideon hesitated, then answered. “As soon as he and the Healer are able. For now, best foot forward.”
“I want to go back,” Cor said even as they jogged deeper into the woods. The damp cold penetrated Shay’s T-shirt and fleece and mingled with his sweat, making him shiver. Or was it the fear of what might happen to his father and Shay?
The Knight didn’t answer. Instead, he continued along, taking a winding course. The minutes passed in silence. It seemed to Cor that they hiked and jogged and went uphill and downhill too many times to count. He licked his dry lips, aware of a raging thirst. “Um…Mr. Lir?”
“A simple Gideon is fine with me.”
“How much farther?”
“Oh, a way and a bit.”
The way and a bit turned out to be another hour. Cor found himself stumbling every other step. Tears prickled his eyelids when he tripped over a root again, this time sprawling on his hands and knees. White-hot pain lanced through one of his palms. “Son of a…” Choking down the rest of the curse—in case he tells Dad I said a bad word—as well as a sob, he sat back on his heels. Blood welled up along his palm from a stinging scrape. He blinked back hot tears, determined not to cry in front of the Black Hand.
Gideon squatted beside him. “Let me see.” He examined the cut, then pulled out a handkerchief. Folding it on the diagonal, he wrapped it around Cor’s hand and tied it in place. “Bit of a battle wound, eh, lad?”
Cor nodded. With Gideon’s hand on his elbow, he pulled himself to his feet and fell in behind the Knight. Their flight continued. It seemed like Cor had been walking through this stupid forest all his life. The fleece jacket was soon sodden and cold from the fog. Watching the Knight’s boot heels, he found his eyelids drooping as he stumped along. He scrubbed the back of his hand across his face. Grit scratched his cheeks. Wincing, he glanced down, then frowned at the well-used footpath beneath his shoes. Where did this trail come from? He opened his mouth to ask when he noticed the sound of traffic—invisible engines and wheels. I wonder where we are? Without warning, Gideon halted. Unable to stop in time, Cor bumped into him.
“Why did we—”
“Wait here. Keep still. Keep silent.” He motioned for Cor to crouch behind a large boulder, then slipped into the mist.
Hunkering down, Cor remembered his dad explaining to him once that newborn fawns survived in the woods because of their ability to stay quiet and motionless when their dams left them hidden in a thicket. I am the fawn in the woods. A voice, his own, but older, spoke the words in his head. For some reason, it made him feel…not better, but less afraid. “I am the fawn in the woods,” he whispered to himself.
Sighing, Cor tugged the collar up over his cold nose, then pulled his hands inside the sleeves of Shay’s jacket. I bet Shay’s cold. I hope Dad gave her his jacket. His eyelids drooped. He burrowed deeper, wishing the fleece wasn’t so wet, and closed his eyes.
He dreamed that he was floating. Gravity pulled at his clothes as he rose, his feet dangling. It was the best dream ever. He floated higher and began flying along in a rhythmic up and down movement, the ground slipping along beneath him. Then the dream faded into a sweeter one of nothing.
Gideon was carrying him, cradling him against his chest with Cor’s legs wrapped loosely around the Knight’s waist. Cor raised his head. Something delicate, but cold, touched his face. Snow.
“Awake, are you?” Gideon paused and let him down.
Nodding while he yawned, and feeling better for the nap, Cor looked around. Flakes swirled about like white confetti at a wedding. Nearby, a stone wall, higher than Cor’s head, loomed out of the fog now mixed with snow. It was capped in sheets of bronze molded over the top layer and beaded with moisture. “Where are we?”
“Home.” Gideon led the way along the wall. Reaching a wooden gate near one end, he pushed it open and ushered Cor into the yard. Even as Cor walked through the gate, he could feel the burr of magic. “’Tis well warded,” the Knight said.
A few tall trees were tucked in the corners, while an odd contraption, a pair of tall posts with a wire strung between them, stood guard in the center of the yard. A lumpy burlap bag dangled from the wire.
“What’s that?”
“’Tis a practice dummy.”
“Oh.” Cor eyed it as they continued toward a two-story house in a cottage-y style that reminded him of every fantasy story he’d read. He followed the Knight to the back door.
Entering the small kitchen, Cor paused in the doorway, not sure what to do about his muddy shoes. He looked down at the dirty linoleum floor, already marred with dollops of reddish clay from Gideon’s boots, then at the breakfast dishes, with breakfast still on them, on the round table tucked in the corner. With a shrug, he walked inside.
After filling a drinking glass with water, Gideon handed it to him. Cor chugged half of it down in one long gulp, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Thank you,” he said, remembering his manners. He sank down on one of the kitchen chairs near the table when the Knight waved him over, grateful to give his weary legs a rest. He took another drink.
“Hungry?” Taking a drink of water himself, Gideon leaned against the counter.
“No, sir. Not really.”
A corner of the Black Hand’s mouth twitched. “An old-fashioned father, your da is.”
Not sure what that meant, Cor nodded and shifted in his seat. He looked out the kitchen window over the sink at the falling snow. “When are we going back?”
“Going back?”
“To help Dad and Shay.”
An eyebrow lifted. “You’ll aid them more by staying safe here.”
Cor looked down at his mud-speckled jeans. He picked at a drying patch, peeling it off like a scab. “Please?” He already knew what the Black Hand was going to say, but he had to try. A silence filled the kitchen. After a long moment, he looked up.
Gideon was studying him. “Brave lad for one so young, Cormac Boru. And this be yours.” He dug into a pocket and pulled out Cor’s switchblade.
“Oh!” Cor’s heart lifted in relief and delight. He clicked it open, examined it, then closed it again, and thrust it into his front pocket, the weight on his thigh comforting.
“You know how to use a weapon, then?”
“Dad showed me how to kill those…F-Fir Bolgs.” Saying their names left bile in his throat.
“You’ve fought them before.” Something, like a mix of anger and pity, flickered across the Knight’s face, then vanished.
“Yes, sir.” The memory of what they had done to him made him want to pull his arms and legs inside of Shay’s jacket and hide. “Me and Dad. They…” he stopped and swallowed. “They hurt Dad, and then they…they…” The rest of the words formed a dam in his throat. He looked away, eyelids burning.
Gideon pulled a chair closer and took a seat next to him. “Cormac Boru.” The Knight’s voice was soft. “Look at me, lad.”
Blinking hard, Cor obeyed. He’s going to think I’m a crybaby.
“Your da is a fine warrior. As is the Healer. They know when to stand, and better yet, when to flee to stand another day.”
Wanting to believe those words more than anything in the world, Cor nodded. He sucked in a shaky breath, then wiped his runny nose on a wet sleeve. He shivered again, the sodden fleece cold and clammy against his skin.
Gideon’s black brows pinched together. “We best find some warmer clothing.” He rose. “Come.”
Wearily, Cor followed him out of the kitchen and into the living room. A fireplace, crafted from river rocks, took up most of one entire side. Rows upon rows of bronze weapons, as well as a few iron ones, rested on pegs above the mantel. Across the room, a small desk was tucked under the stairs, while shabby furniture, consisting of a sofa covered in cracked leather and several worn armchairs, was clustered in the center of the room. Two large windows looked over a wooden porch. Through them, Cor saw that Gideon’s home was tucked at the end of a cul-de-sac. Like our home, he thought as they climbed the stairs.
The thought of their home made him think of his best friend. “Sam ran away.”
“A wise pup,” Gideon said over his shoulder. “Wise enough to return when the threat is no more.”
“That’s what Shay said.”
“Ah. Then it is gospel.”
Walking along the upper corridor, Gideon entered the first room on the left. As the Knight walked over to a dresser, Cor glanced about. A double bed took up most of the room. Through the window, he could see the upper floor of a tall brick house across the street.
The Knight rummaged through one drawer, then another, before pulling out a couple of thick sweaters. He gestured for Cor to step closer and held a cream-colored sweater against him, measuring the fit. “Too large by about five years.” Tossing it on the bed, he tried the other sweater. Smaller and hand-knitted, its dark green was faded with time and wear to a soft sage. “Better.”
Unzipping Shay’s fleece, Cor shrugged it off and dropped it to the floor, then pulled the sweater on over his head and tugged it in place. “It fits me. Is this your sweater?”
“No.”
Cor waited for more. “Your son’s?” he guessed.
“Aye.”
“Is he here?”
“No.”
“So, where is he?”
“Gone.”
“When is he coming back?”
“Never.” Gathering up the other sweater, Gideon folded it up with a care that seemed out of place before tucking it back in the drawer. Cor got the message loud and clear. “Right,” said the Knight. “Now to plan what to do—”
A telephone rang from downstairs. Gideon trotted down the stairs, boots punishing the wooden treads. Cor scurried behind him. They hurried back to the kitchen.
Grabbing the phone from the cradle sitting on one end of the kitchen counter, Gideon snatched it up. “Lir.”
While Cor knew the other voice was male and somehow familiar, he also knew it wasn’t his father’s. Fidgeting, he kept his eyes locked on Gideon’s face. Please let them be okay. Please let them be okay, he babbled to himself. Panic welled up in his chest when the Knight abruptly turned away and hissed something in Gaelic. A pause, then he slammed it down.
“Um…Gideon?” Cor spoke to the rigid back.
The Black Hand turned. His expression made Cor edge back a step. He tensed when Gideon shoved past him to the living room. From the doorway, he watched as the Knight dropped his weapon on the desk, then selected two fresh knives, one bronze, the other iron, examined their edges with a grunt of satisfaction, and then grabbed a third one. Bending over, he thrust that one into his ankle sheath. As he tightened the straps, he spoke to Cor over his shoulder. “Your blade. Is it sharpened?”
“Yes, sir. Dad sharpens it every day for me.” Cor held his breath when Gideon fixed him with a keen glance.
“Good.” The Knight straightened. His expression sent a thrill through Cor; Gideon’s next words almost made him shout aloud. “For we are going into battle.”
Several hours later, Cor was holding tightly to the door handle as the station wagon, driven by one of the Knights he had seen at Hugh’s house—the same night he’d first seen Max—skidded around another corner. The wiper blades squealed along the windshield, slapping at the snow. In the front seat, Gideon Lir was talking in a low tone to the driver.
Cor turned around and looked out the rear window. More vehicles, of all makes and models, followed. Each was filled with Knights of the Doyle clan. All going to war to protect their clan leaders.
As they had waited for the others to assemble at his home, Gideon had fed Cor a hasty lunch of cold roast beef, slathered with spicy mustard and served on slices of brown bread so thick, Cor was sure he had popped his jaws getting a mouthful. Hot tea and cookies—what the Knight had called biscuits—rounded out the meal. Not a fruit or vegetable in sight.
Cor couldn’t wait to be a Knight.
“You go not only to fight for your chieftains,” Gideon had said to the large group crammed into his house, “but also for your Healer, who has dedicated her life to all of you. For the long-son of our High King.” He had placed a hand on Cor’s shoulder, beside him. “And for a child’s father.”
“Do you have a plan, then, Lir?” one of the Doyle’s Knights had asked.
Gideon had smiled. Something in his expression had reminded Cor of a wolf.
“Oh, aye.”