The Hound at the Gate by Darby Karchut Page A

the nearest box and grab whatever weapon he could find. Behind him, Lochlan kept watch.
    â€œFinn, they’re getting closer!”
    Cursing under his breath, he began flinging boxes aside, trying to remember the size of the carton Gideon had used. Muted clinks sounded from many of them as bronze blades rattled against oneanother. Suddenly, his master’s handwriting jumped out at him. Clawing at the tape, he ripped the flaps open and began pawing through wads of newspaper and plastic. A knife, still encased in its leather sleeve, tumbled free. “Here.” He thrust blade and sheath at his friend.
    â€œHurry!” Lochlan yelled again. Holding the hilt with his good hand, he slapped the sheath against his leg, freeing the knife from its case.
    Finn tore through the papers. His fingers touched something cold and hard and oh-so-welcome. Gideon’s antler-handled dagger. He yanked it from its nest.
    At that moment, Ennis and his gang burst into the barn. Finn whirled around. Scrambling over the boxes, he tripped and fell. Cursing, he lurched to his feet and hurried to take a stance next to Lochlan.
    The mob fanned out around them. He could hear Lochlan chanting softly under his breath. An odd feeling, like he was watching himself from a distance, swept over him. He swiped at the slowing trickle of blood from his nose, then pointed the dagger, willing his hand not to tremble.
    Flanked by the others, Ennis stalked closer, hurley held in both hands like a club. An egg on his temple was already turning purple. Without a word, he raised his stick higher, followed by everyone on his team.

Eight
    Finn stared at what seemed like a forest of hurleys. He glanced down at the weapon in his hand. The handle was darkened with age, the bumps on the antler worn smooth by the years in Gideon’s hand. He could almost see his master’s fingers curled around it. His own tightened. He set his feet and threw back his shoulders in an unconscious imitation of his master, right down to the cocky grin. Anger seemed to have taken over his common sense as well as his body.
    Ennis halted in surprise. “What are you laughing at?”
    â€œYou.” Finn shook his head in disbelief. He gestured with his blade. “Only a mad Celt would bring a hurley to a knife fight.”
    A couple of the other boys guffawed. Ennis narrowed his eyes. Without turning his head, he spoke over a shoulder. “You guys think that’s funny?”
    A deep voice spoke from the doorway. “Aye, I do.”
    Toryn Mull.
    Stepping into the barn, he shouldered through the pack of boys until he stood between them and Finn and Lochlan. He glanced around, keen eyes taking in the scene. “Ye know the rules, boyos. Ye have a problem, then ye settle it man to man and fist to fist.” He shotan icy stare at Finn and Lochlan. “Ye’re to never draw a weapon against another Tuatha De Danaan—’tis one of our most severe laws.”
    â€œYes, sir.” He lowered his blade; Lochlan followed suit.
    The head of the
Rath
swung around to the others. “Six against two, Ennis MacCullen? And older boys against younger, as well?”
    Ennis shrugged. “If that halfer can’t handle what goes down at the Festival, then maybe he should just leave.”
    â€œHarsh words for family kin.”
    â€œ
Family kin?
” Ennis spat to one side. “More like
family shame
. We never wanted him—we just got stuck with him when his loser of a father and half-breed of a mother got killed on a hunt.”
    Finn willed himself to not even twitch. He knew the rules to the game. Never let them see the hurt. Act as if being punched, being insulted, or shoved aside didn’t matter.
    Mull shook his head. “Back to yer game.” With a flick of a hand, he waved them away. He waited until the older boys left the barn before turning to the two friends. “What are ye doing in here?”
    Lifting the dagger still