The Hound at the Gate by Darby Karchut

Finn. “He
earned
it. Like, two months ago.” Unable to resist, he looked Ennis up and down. “Funny. I don’t see
you
wearing one. Maybe if you ask nice, he might give you some pointers.”
    Blood rose in Ennis’s face. Without warning, he whipped the stick up, striking Lochlan on the right arm with a resounding
thwack
. With a stifled cry, Lochlan slumped to his knees, cradling the limb. Ennis laughed and hit Lochlan again.
    A volcano erupted, splashing molten lava across the inside of Finn’s skull. With a hoarse scream, he launched himself at a stunned Ennis, knocking the hurley out of his cousin’s grip. Ennis stumbled backward.
    Finn attacked again. Forgetting everything he’d learned about boxing, he swung wildly and missed, half-blinded by a fury that was bordering on the warp spasm, the ancient battle rage that transformed all Tuatha De Danaan into Celtic berserkers. He kept swinging. His fists whistled through the air as his opponent skipped out of reach.
    â€œI forgot how much you suck at fighting,” Ennis taunted him.
    â€œAnd I forgot how much you just plain suck,” Finn growled back.
    He threw another punch. Ennis ducked, then danced backward, making a come-along gesture. Swearing, desperate to pound that sneering face, to pound away the years of having to live with the bullying, the taunts, the always-being-the-outsider, Finn threw himself at Ennis.
    Bad mistake.
    Stars exploded in his vision when Ennis socked him in the nose. Blood began running down his lip. Stunned, he gagged at the warm, salty taste. Before he could move, a hand reached out and grabbed his shirt.
    Ennis pulled him close until they were nose to nose. “Want some more?
Halfer
.”
    Finn forced a grin. Then he spat a bloody glob into his cousin’s face.
    â€œYou son of a goat,” Ennis snarled. One hand still gripping Finn, he drew back his fist.
    WHACK!
    The hurling stick whistled through the air and caught Ennis on the side of the head. Boneless, he crumbled into a heap on the grass.
    Finn looked around in astonishment.
    Lochlan stood there, white-faced with pain, but with a blue fire in his eyes. Ennis’s hurley was clutched in one hand. His other arm dangled limply by his side. Studying the boy groaning and stirringfeebly at his feet, Lochlan shook his head. “Bummer—he’s still moving. Guess I didn’t hit him hard enough.”
    Shouts from the playing field whipped their heads around. Ennis’s team was racing toward them, most of them brandishing their sticks. Finn and Lochlan looked at each other.
    â€œRun!” Finn shouted. Grabbing Lochlan by his uninjured arm, he sprinted toward the barn.
    Lochlan dropped the stick, making sure it landed on Ennis’s head. “Why the barn?”
    â€œTo get our weapons!”
    Side by side, they pounded toward the building that towered over them like a rustic cathedral offering sanctuary. Its doors stood wide open. Gasping for breath, they threw themselves inside and skidded to a halt.
    Shafts of light, filled with giddy dust motes, angled from windows set high in the two-story structure, illuminating the spacious interior. A long, narrow loft, almost like a catwalk, ran along one side. Under it, a makeshift camp kitchen filled the entire side of the barn. Tables, made from boards placed across hay bales and sawhorses, held a selection of propane camp stoves and canned goods. Ice boxes were shoved underneath.
    In the far corner, a pile of crates and boxes was stacked haphazardly, blocking a smaller back door. “That’s gotta be the weapons,” Finn panted. He led the way to the pile and hovered at the edge of it, eyes darting from box to box, trying to spot theirs. He glanced once at the back door as a means to escape, but shook his head when he noticed an enormous wooden crate jammed against it.
    In desperation, he waded further into the jumble, fighting the temptation to simply tear into