Gideon's Spear

by Darby Karchut

  he slowed and risked a peek back.

  The trail was empty.

  Skidding to a halt, he whirled around, gulping for air, sweat stinging his eyes as he strained to catch a glimpse of his master. Off in the distance, a voice, scarcely heard over his pulse thundering in his ears, shouted once.

  Finn hesitated. He glanced back at the line of backyard fences dividing the suburban neighborhood from the woods. Their own house sat tucked away by itself on the end of the street. Just one section of the roof and Finn’s dormer bedroom window showed over the treetops.

  Rubbing the back of his hand across dry lips, Finn turned his face westward. I know he told me to go home. But there’s no way I’m leaving him to face all those Amandán by himself. What if they drag him into their cave? The early supper they had eaten churned in his gut at the thought of crawling into that black hole. Wiping sweaty hands on his jeans, his palm brushed against the lump in his pocket. He reached in and pulled out his own moonstone. Cupping it in his hand, he looked down at it. Wish it would light up for me like it does for pure-blooded Tuatha De Danaan—just in case I have to go in there. “Being a halfer sucks,” he muttered to himself. Shoving it back into his jeans, he clutched his blade and started back up the trail.

  * * *

  Face streaked with goblin residue and sweat, Gideon lifted his blade higher, a red flame in his hand. Mounds of ash overlapped each other on the ground between the Knight and the remaining goblins. He eased back against a rocky outcropping and bared his teeth, his eyes glowing battle blue.

  “Come along, you manky beasts. My blade is growing cold.”

  “Nar,” one of the goblins snarled back. “It be yer bones growing cold when we be through with ye.” It licked its lips in anticipation.

  “Too bad yer whelp turned tail and ran,” spoke another one. “I likes me Fey young and fresh.”

  “I just likes mine dead,” a deep voice growled. “The day will come when ye high and mighty—” it stopped to spit out the name “—Tuatha De Danaan will be nothing but a pile of leftovers. And Eire will be ours once more.”

  “Not that old grievance again,” Gideon said, tedium in his tone. “You think the death of all Tuatha De Danaan will return the Green Isle to the likes of you?” He raised his chin. “Ireland will never be yours again. The Goddess Danu gave it to us to hold.”

  “We hads it first,” the first goblin hissed. “We be the true heirs of Eire. Us the Bog-born, not the feeble offspring of some upstart goddess.”

  Gideon curled his lip. “Yet here you are. In Colorado. Not Ireland.”

  “We could says the same thing about ye Tuatha De Danaan—”

  “Bah,” the second Amandán interrupted. “Too much talking, not enough killing. Let’s get him, mates.” The pack closed ranks.

  Bracing himself, Gideon began singing the first lines of the Song, lifting his voice to rise above their grunts. As the first goblin cracked its knuckles in preparation, he dug his feet into the earth, then wagged the weapon in defiance. “And who would like to be the next to die?”

  The pack swarmed him.

  * * *

  Finn gritted his teeth against the stitch in his side and the burning in his legs as he sprinted up another hill toward the sound of battle. Growls of rage mingled with shrieks of agony. The fear of being too late whipped him along.

  Coming to a junction in the trail, he slowed to a rubbery-legged jog. After a few steps, he stopped and listened, trying to hear over his wheezing breath. A shout yanked him northward; he took off at a dead run.

  He crested the next hill. Ahead of him, lumpy shapes milled back and forth at the foot of an outcropping of rock. Howls of laughter filled the woods as they closed in for the kill.

  Out of breath and out of time, Finn skidded to a halt a few feet away. He raised his knife.

  And slashed it across the palm of his left hand.

  “Son of a goat!” White-hot pain punched him in the gut. Before he lost his nerve, he switched hands, his blood making the leather grip slippery. He cursed when he dropped the knife; snatching it up, he drew the blade across his right palm. Hissing from the pain, he tossed the knife to one side and threw himself into the fray.

  Slapping his right hand on the back of the hindmost goblin, he waited a moment, terrified that his strategy wouldn’t work. When the beast threw back its head and screamed, froth spewing from its mouth, Finn lunged for the next one. A quick swipe of his left hand and another goblin died in a convulsive fit.

  When a third Amandán crashed to the ground at his feet a second later, Finn staggered a step. A wave of dizziness washed over him. The sounds of the battle faded as a humming began in his ears. His bones became concrete. Shaking his head, he swallowed, trying to focus. He dug his nails into the wounds. With a whooping sound, he sucked a deep breath, then yelled as loud as he could.

  “Faugh a ballagh!” A tiny corner of his mind rolled its eyes when his voice broke.

  The remaining Amandán jumped. They whirled around at the boyish voice screaming the dreaded war cry. Tripping over each other to face this new threat, they forgot about the Knight now behind them.

  Bad mistake.

  The rearmost goblin exploded with a shriek as Gideon sank his blade between its shoulder blades. Charging through the cloud of ash, he lowered his shoulder and plowed into the next two, knocking them off their feet. With a quick strike right and then left, two more vaporized.

  Caught between anvil and hammer, the Amandán panicked. They tore off up the trail. Some of them bypassed the path and crashed through the underbrush. One hesitated and looked back at the dead goblins sprawled near Finn’s feet. It curled its lips before following the pack into the woods.

  The last wisps of leftover goblin drifted away, leaving a reeking stench. In the distance, the snapping and breaking of branches faded as the Amandán fled back to their cave. Blinking against the growing wooziness, Finn searched around until he located his knife; bending over and picking it up took all his strength. Gravel crunched nearby. He looked up.

  “And just what are you doing here?” Gideon walked toward him, cleaning his weapon on his jeans with quick, vicious swipes. “I ordered you home.”

  A dozen excuses crowded Finn’s mind. For some reason, the lamest one came out. “I…I turned around. And you weren’t there. So I came back.” He found it harder and harder to focus. He blinked again. Without warning, his legs folded beneath him.

  Three

  Finn crashed to his knees. Black dots danced across his vision as he watched the knife tumble from his hand in slow motion. Staring at it, he wondered why the handle was covered in blood. A pair of workman’s boots appeared in front of him. Hands grabbed him under the arms and hauled him upright.

  “On your feet, boyo. Quickly, now, before those Bog-born return.”

  Finn gestured at the blade still on the ground. “My…my knife,” he whispered.

  Keeping one hand on the apprentice to support him, Gideon snatched the weapon off the ground and tucked it into Finn’s belt.

  On legs that seemed to want to walk out from under him, Finn stumbled down the path beside his master, grateful for the supporting arm around his waist. Each rock and root seemed to catch the toes of his shoes. Master’s and apprentice’s shadows lengthened before them like inky advance guards. They faded when the final ray of the sun gave up and went to bed.

  As they made their way through the woods, Finn’s head began to clear. Feeling the anger coming off his master like a sunburn, he tried to speak. To apologize. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth. A do-not-even-bleedin’-think-about-it look from the Knight snapped it closed again.

  Twenty minutes later, he sighed in silent relief at the first glimpse of rooftops signaling the end of the foothills and the beginning of their neighborhood. Picking up the pace as best he could, he hurried alongside the Knight, now under his own power. They followed the path to the back gate, set in a thick stone wall. Sheets of bronze capped the top layer of sto
nes.

  Nudging the gate open with his knee, Gideon ushered Finn through first, then kicked it shut behind him. The master hustled him over to the picnic table near the back door and pushed him down on the one of the benches.

  “Gideon, I—” Finn let the rest of the sentence die when Gideon raised an eyebrow. Without a word, the Knight disappeared inside.

  Finn slumped forward and propped his elbows on his knees. The stench of goblin ash and blood on his T-shirt assaulted him. Wrinkling his nose, he straightened back up. The evening breeze, July-warm, brushed against his face. Resting his hands palms-up on his lap, he closed his eyes from the pain. Each thump of his heart mimicked the throbbing of his hands.

  A few minutes later, a sound pulled his gaze over. He watched as his master walked out balancing a large bowl; a bundle of rags was tucked under one arm. He set the basin and cloths on the table. A rich, tangy aroma, like coffee blended with peppermint, rose from the bowl of sláinte nettle potion.

  Gideon took a seat next to him. “What in the name of all the gods were you thinking?”

  “What do you mean?” Finn asked, playing the innocent card.

  “This.” He grabbed one of Finn’s wrists and held it up between them. “Cutting yourself to battle the Amandán.”

  “But I had to—”

  “NEVER do that again. It’s too hazardous. Twice now, you’ve used your blood to kill the beasts, and look what happened. You became as weak as a newborn lamb and vulnerable to attack. Besides, I don’t want anyone knowing about you and your ability.”

  “Why? Is there someone who—” He swallowed his question when Gideon squeezed his wrist in an iron grip. “I mean, yes, sir.”

  Gideon let go. Plucking one of the rags from the pile, he dipped it in the brew and began silently removing the blood and dirt from Finn’s wounds.

  Finn hissed at the nip of the healing potion. While Gideon worked on the other one, he blew on his cleaned palm. “I know sláinte nettle helps us heal, but does it have to sting so much?” His heart drooped when his master didn’t respond. Guess he’s still pissed. Well, he can be mad all he wants. I’m not going to just stand around sucking my thumb while he gets killed.

  After finishing the other hand, Gideon bandaged them both with strips soaked in the brew. He poured the remaining liquid out on the grass and tossed the rags into the empty basin. When Finn started to rise, his master motioned him to remain seated. Uh-oh. Here it comes. He steeled himself.

  Pushing to his feet, Gideon stalked away a few feet and stood gazing westward at the sky, which formed a cerulean backdrop for the Rockies beyond.

  “When I was a young and rebellious apprentice,” he began without preamble, gaze still fixed on the sky. “Me master,” he paused, then tried again. “My master would toss me arse over teakettle into the river. To school me in the meaning of obedience. And the Aille River was a cold teacher, to be sure.” He stabbed a finger at the ground next to him.

  Finn gulped. Dragging his feet, he walked over to the Knight. He tensed when Gideon leaned closer.

  “I’ve a strong right arm when it comes to throwing things. Such as insubordinate apprentices. And High Springs has its share of snow-fed rivers. You might want to remember that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The rumble of an engine broke the quiet of the evening, followed by the sound of tires crunching on their gravel driveway. A minute later, a knock echoed from beyond the open kitchen door.

  Gideon gave him a nudge toward the house. “Get the door. And put the weapons away while you’re at it.” He slid his knife free and handed it over.

  Eager to escape, Finn hurried through the small house to the living room. He paused in front of the massive stone fireplace that took up most of one wall. Stretching above the mantel, he hung Gideon’s hunting knife in its customary spot on the rack, which already sported a number of knives, daggers, and even a few hatchets, all of bronze. His own knife he placed on one of the lower brackets. He picked up the pace at another knock, winding his way around their second-hand furniture. More like third-hand, Gideon had once joked. Nearby, the Knight’s battered desk sat tucked under the stairs.

  “I was beginning to think I was no longer welcome here,” boomed a voice when Finn opened the door.

  “Fáilte, Mac Roth.” Finn beamed up at the redheaded giant—fellow Knight and Gideon’s oldest friend—standing on their porch. He swung the door wider and moved to one side.

  Ducking his head, Mac Roth stepped inside. Smiling back through a fiery beard, he cocked his head. “And now where did ye come by that fine torc?”

  Finn’s grin widened. He raised his chin to show it off. “Thank you for this. You didn’t have to replace my old one.”

  “A joy to do so, lad. Ye were generous to lay yers in the grave with Asher.”

  “Well, he earned it. Bagging his first Amandán with a knife throw like that.” Guilt tore through Finn as he recalled Mac Roth’s apprentice, Asher O’Neill, saving Finn’s life at the forfeit of his own on a hunt earlier in the summer.

  “Aye, that he did. For all his faults, Asher was a fine apprentice. ‘Tis a pity ye two could not walk the road of friendship, but I understand why.

  He had a sharp tongue and never missed an opportunity to cut someone with it.”

  Not sure what to say, Finn nodded. For a moment, they both stood in silence. Then Mac Roth seemed to shake the sadness off his broad shoulders. He looked down at Finn’s bandaged hands. His eyebrows asked the question.

  When Finn finished explaining what happened, he declared in a low voice, “But I’m not sorry I did it. No way was I letting him get killed.”

  “Well, Lir has fought and hunted alone for too long, and has decided, in his stubbornness, that he needs no help. But ye did the right thing, lad. So, continue to guard yer master’s back, no matter how much he rages at ye. However, ye bring yer weapons and yer training and the Song to the field of battle, not this,” he said, pointing at the bandages with a stern look on his usually jovial face.

  “Yeah, that’s what Gideon said, too. He’s really angry about it.” Finn looked down and shuffled his feet. “Seems like he’s mad at me all the time.” He blinked in surprise when the Knight clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh, he has a temper, to be sure. But he is also one of the finest Knights of our age. As was yer father. And he has much to teach ye, so learn well.”

  “I’m trying, but I never seem to do anything right.” Finn blew out a long breath. “He wants me to be as good as he is, and I never will.”

  Mac Roth shook his head. “He doesn’t want ye to be as good. He wants ye to be better. And he wouldn’t have taken ye on as an apprentice if he didn’t think ye had it in ye.”

  “Even though I’m half human?”

  “Now, ye know that doesn’t make a wee bit of difference to him, don’t ye?” At Finn’s nod, he continued. “Then cease yer fretting, boyo.”

  “And just what are you two whispering about over there?”

  Finn whirled around at Gideon’s voice. He glanced up at Mac Roth, praying he wouldn’t tell his master about their conversation. Relief flooded him when the Knight winked down at him.

  “Why, we’re discussing this fine piece of Irish workmanship around the boyo’s neck. Whilst sharing our fond memories of young Asher.”

  Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Gideon looked from one to the other for a long minute. “Of course you were.” Then, with a wave of his hand, he invited them back to the kitchen. “Tea?”

  “Aye, thanks.” Mac Roth took a seat at the table squeezed into a corner of the small kitchen. He nodded in appreciation when Gideon plunked down a pot of tea and slabs of warm, buttery brown bread a few minutes later. Finn carried over plates and mugs for three, then joined them. He waited until the Knights had helped themselves before selecting the smallest slice, hoping his master would notice. No such luck.

  “I’ll place a fair bet this isn’t a social call?” said Gideon. A corner of his mouth
twitched. “Although, knowing you, it could very well be.”

  Mac Roth shrugged. “Like most of our people, I enjoy the company of others. Unlike a certain Knight I could name who lives only for the hunt.”

  “Gadabout,” Gideon said.

  “Recluse.” Mac Roth fired back. “And, by the way, why are ye speaking like the man on the six o’clock news?”

  Gideon shrugged. “I’m simply trying to ‘get the times.’”

  At Mac Roth’s look of confusion, Finn elaborated. “‘Get with the times,’ he means.”

  Mac Roth chuckled, then licked crumbs from his fingers. “Well, back to the reason for my visit—I’ve come with good news. The O’Neill family paid me a visit a few days ago.”

  “Asher’s parents?” Finn was careful to speak before popping the last bite of his bread into his mouth.

  “His uncle’s family. By and by, did you hear Martin O’Neill has a place on the Council at this autumn’s Festival?” When Gideon made a face, he added. “As well as Kel O’Shea.” Mac Roth’s eyes twinkled.

  “Kel O’Shea? Why, she’s naught but a girl!”

  Mac Roth laughed. “Ye best not say that in her presence. Knight O’Shea’s been ‘naught but a girl’ for over a century, Lir. I hear she has taken on her first apprentice, too—young Tara Butler. ‘Twill be grand seeing her again, eh?” Gideon ignored the comment. “You were going to tell us why Martin O’Neill contacted you.”

  Mac Roth relented on the teasing. “It was to ask me if I would be willing to take their son as me apprentice. The lad turns thirteen in just a few days, and the Knight who was to have apprenticed young Lochlan was recently killed on a hunt near Steamboat Springs.”

  “And what did you tell them?” Gideon reached over and slipped another piece of bread onto Finn’s plate, his face neutral.

  “I told them I was grateful they did not hold Asher’s death against me, and I would be honored to take the lad. They’ll be hosting a small dinner party Friday evening at Jack Quinn’s. And I’ll be expecting ye two to join us. ‘Twill give Finn a chance to get to know Lochlan.”