Unholy Blue

Coming December 2015
from Spence City

A metallic clang, followed by a yelp of pain, had Bann out of the bed and on his feet. Eschewing his clothes, he grabbed his iron knife from where he had placed it, unsheathed, on the floor next to him. Panting from the shock of being yanked out of sleep, he flung the door open and raced down the dim hallway to his son’s room and threw himself inside.

Cor’s bed was empty.

Panic walloped him in the gut, making his exposed testicles draw up good and tight. His eyes flew to the window. The curtains were still drawn; the first light of dawn illuminated the cloth panels.

A gasp of pain jerked his head down and around.

Cor was sitting inside the crate, rubbing the top of his head while he tried to keep Sam from jumping on his lap. Bann noticed a blanket and pillow were shoved to one side.

“What the hell are ye doing in that thing?” He walked over as his son scooted out, hampered by Sam, who was doing his best to chew on Cor’s hair. Bann reached down and scooped up the pup, wincing when claws scratched his bare torso.

“Sam was lonely. And Shay said he couldn’t sleep in my bed.”

“So, you decided to sleep inside the dog’s kennel?” My child is an idiot.

Cor nodded, still rubbing the top of his head. “I had to pee and I forgot where I was. I hit my head on the top of the crate.”

“What’s going on?” Shay appeared, belting her robe around her.

Even in the dim light, Bann could see Cor glancing at his father’s naked body—more specifically, at his father’s groin—then at Shay. He could almost hear the confusion roiling around inside of the boy’s head. He’s seen me nude almost every day. And on more than a few occasions, in front of his mother. But this is different.

“Cor. Go on to the bathroom.” He stepped aside as Cor scurried from the room, then placed the pup back in the kennel and secured the door. He looked at Shay, who shrugged.

“It’s only awkward if we act like it is,” she said.

After dressing, Bann ushered Cor and Sam out the back door to allow the pup to relieve himself, father and son bundled up against the early morning chill. The cold turned them into dragons with white smoke coming from their mouths. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets, Bann studied the full moon hanging over the western mountains; it seemed reluctant to give up its kingship of the sky. Nearby, Cor played with Sam. Boy and puppy scampered from one end of the fenced yard to the other, engaged in some sort of tag with rules that changed depending on who was winning.

Bann noticed that the woodpile, stacked to one side of the back door, had spilled out of its cradle. Shaking his head, he walked over to it. She should not have this so close to the house. Picking up the logs, he started to restack them.

“Dad! Help!”

Bann whirled around. Cor was crouched on the ground by the fence, holding one of Sam’s back legs as the dog tried to crawl through the puppy-sized gap between the bottom of the fence and the ground. Before the Knight could reach them, the pup squirted free of Cor’s grasp and disappeared.

“Shite!” Still a few feet away, Bann broke into a sprint. Without thinking, he started chanting lines from the Song, the ancient words that gave the Tuatha Dé Danaan speed and strength and endurance. “‘I am a bull of seven battles, I am a hawk on the cliff.’” A surge of power rushed through him. He cleared the fence with a foot to spare, as if a giant hand had pitched him over the top of it.

Landing on the other side with a grunt, he shouted at Cor to stay put, then sprinted after the small yellow blur that had whisked behind the nearest boulder in a puppy game of hide-and-seek. Behind him, he could hear Cor yelling for Shay. He wondered what the chances were that the woman and boy would actually remain within the safety of the wards instead of following him. In Cor’s case, slim. In Shay’s case, none, he thought, pulling his weapon free.

“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.”