Free The Hound at the Gate by Darby Karchut Page B

rule?”
    â€œThere are no other rules. The other team can do whatever it wishes to steal the ball. The first team that earns five points wins.”
    Ye gods!
“Are you sure that’s
hurling
? It sounds more like out-of-control lacrosse and rugby combined. With a little bit of football thrown in.”
    â€œOh, aye. ’Tis grand fun, to be sure, when played the Tuatha De Danaan way. The humans of Ireland stole the sport from us centuries ago and watered it down to the version the world knows today.”
    That’s because they wanted to survive the game
, Finn thought.
    â€œNow.” Gideon studied Finn for a moment, then gestured at the boy’s face. “Are you
certain
you’re up to boxing after getting walloped earlier?”
    Finn wiggled his still-tender nose, then winced. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” He sighed, then tossed the gloves back in the crate. “
Sláinte
nettle heals us pretty fast, but not that fast.”
    They left the campsite and followed the path winding through other tents toward the open field next to the barn. Gideon carried his hurley over one shoulder. Reaching the area, they paused and looked about.
    A crowd had already gathered. Knights and apprentices milled around in clusters. To one side of the barn, an archery competition was getting underway. The outline of a life-size Amandán was drawn in chalk across the building’s weathered planks. A padded straw target formed its chest and belly. Someone had added a bubble coming from the goblin’s mouth with the words
Kiss me, I’m Irish
inside of it. Finn spotted Kel O’Shea giving instruction to a cluster of apprentices, including Tara, who held a bow of her own. Near the open doors of the barn, Toryn Mull stood comparing swords with another Knight.
    At the edge of the field, a group of Knights, mostly men, but a few women and girls, too, were standing around, hurleys by their feet or resting across their shoulders to form useful hand rests. While Finn watched, some of the apprentices began tossing the ball back and forth, flipping it from stick to stick. Near them, the Knights talked, pointing to one end of the field, then the other. One of them looked up.
    â€œGideon!” Dennis O’Donnell waved at him. “Good timing—we’re getting ready to choose teams,” he shouted. “And bring Finn with you—we need numbers.”
    â€œLeave your things here, Finn.” Gideon pointed at the Council’s platform. Piles of jackets, sweaters, knives, daggers, and water bottles littered the space around the feet of the three chairs. After dumping their stuff, they jogged over to the playing field.
    â€œYou’re on my team,” O’Donnell announced to Gideon. “And grab yourself a stick, kid.” He pointed to a pile of spare hurleys lying a few yards away.
    Finn hurried over. He bent down for a stick when a foot stomped on its handle, almost pinching his fingers. He looked up.
Son of a goat, not again!
    Ennis stood there. A bruise darkened his temple. “Get your hands off my stuff.”
    Finn straightened. Before he could speak, a man wearing the mark of Knighthood on his shoulder and the torc around his neck appeared behind Ennis.
    â€œThere a problem here?” the Knight said. About the same height and build as Gideon, but younger and with sandy-brown hair long enough to pull back into a ponytail, he took a stance next to Ennis. Finn tried not to stare at his flattened nose and the scar running across his left eye and halfway down his face, causing the lid to droop in a permanent wink. Tattoos depicting knives and fantastical beasts covered both his bare arms like sleeves.
    â€œHe was stealing my hurley, sir,” Ennis announced with a smirk.
    â€œNo, I wasn’t! I was just going to borrow one for the game.” Something about the way the man eyed him made Finn’s gut tighten. He reached for another one and picked