The Hound at the Gate Read Online Free PDF Page A

one-handed, he fastened the belt. “There. Safe as if my mum cradled me in her arms.”
    Finn tried to imagine the Knight as a youngster. A picture of a toddler with black stubble on its chin and a dagger clenched in a chubby hand popped up. Shaking his head clear before the next image involving a diaper could take root, he rolled down the window. The wind roared in, filling the cab with the rumble of the engine and the cold of a high mountain dawn. His pulse sped up when they turned another bend. Gideon switched off the headlights as, behind them, the first rays of the sun cleared the rim of the earth.
    A valley opened up before them, surrounded by rock-strewn hills. Looking westward, Finn could see a snowcapped range protecting the vale. A river chasm, narrow and deep and running west to east, split the valley in half. He caught glimpses of churning whitewater gleaming in the new sun as it flowed from the mountains. North of the river, a haphazard cluster of tents was tucked amongst groves of pines and aspens.
    â€œGideon, what are those?” He pointed to lights gleaming in the shadows of the trees. “I thought there wasn’t any electricity and all that.”
    â€œMost likely lanterns or even campfires. Some, like Mac Roth and Lochlan, arrived yesterday evening.”
    Gideon pulled off to one side and parked the truck alongside a handful of other vehicles. Finn brightened when he caught a glimpse of Mac Roth’s red Jeep a few cars away. A foot trail led westward from the parking area before disappearing into a stand of pines.
    Peering out the back window, Finn noticed an archway, crafted from fresh-cut boughs and still dotted with pinecones, straddling the path. The apex rose higher than Mac Roth’s head. His mouth went suddenly dry when he spied a shadowy figure standing motionless in the middle of the archway, blocking the way through the trees.
    â€œIs that
him
?” Finn asked, pointing to the figure. Apprehension of what was about to happen twisted his gut into knots. Celtic knots, at that.
    â€œAye.” Gideon peered at him. “Nervous, are you?”
    â€œYes, sir. A little.”
    The Knight nodded in understanding. “Nothing to fear, boyo. ’Tis but a tradition. Remember what I told you earlier—there’ll be some parts of the Festival that’ll seem a bit…medieval.” He climbed out and pulled on his canvas hunting jacket. Its dark green color was faded with age.
    Swallowing, Finn followed. Grateful for the warmth of the puffy ski jacket that Gideon had purchased at a second-hand clothing store, he zipped it up to his chin, then took a deep breath and fell in behind his master. The grass, wet from the previous night’s rain, soaked shoes and cuffs of jeans as they walked across the meadow grass toward the piney gate. Around them, the daylight grew. A bird called a sleepy note, then stilled.
    A few feet from the grove, Gideon halted. He held up empty hands. Finn mimicked his master.
    The figure emerged from the shadow. About the same height as Gideon, the man walked closer, movements slow and formal. Dressed in the colors of the Festival with a russet shirt and brown pants, the man sported a wild mane of brown curls reaching to his shoulders. A torc gleamed faintly around his neck. A horn, taken from some massive bull years upon years ago and curved like a crescent moon,hung from a strap across his chest. In one fist, he held a long, curving prong from an antler. It shone ghostly pale in the early light. As he drew nearer, Finn noticed the tip was sharpened to a nasty-looking point. And stained black.
    Taking a stance in front of Gideon, the man pointed the antler tine first north, then west, then south, then east, making a circle. He then directed it at the waiting Knight. “I am the
C
ú,” he proclaimed, pronouncing it like
Coo
. “The Hound that Guards the Gate. Declare yourself.”
    â€œI am Gideon Lir of Clan Lir.