The Stag Lord Read Free

back, whacking Bann on the head as he landed on one knee on the concrete floor. Even as he scrambled to his feet, the boy was clawing at his arm like a tomcat gone berserk, gibbering in terror. His fingernails gouged Bann’s skin, leaving stinging lines.
    A shadow flitted past just outside the opening.
    Cor screamed.
    Whirling around, Bann whipped the knife from its sheath as he placed his body between his son and the monster, straining to hear over a heart trying to punch its way free of his ribs. Out of sight, the hiss-whisper-crunch of gravel being displaced, possibly by a foot— or a hoof —made his testicles tuck up good and proper between his legs, huddling for protection much like Cor was now huddled in the corner next to the toilet. A corner of Bann’s mind noticed that the boy was weaponless.
    Tightening his fingers around the hilt of his blade, he shifted his stance, finding his center. Unbidden, the Song of his people began to whisper in Bann’s head. It sang an offering of strength and speed for the warrior who followed the Old Way.
    He told the Old Way to go screw itself. I don’t need your help. I don’t need my people’s help. I don’t need anything but for the world to leave me and mine alone .
    The shadow ghosted past again. Even as his mind registered the shape, a magpie landed a few feet away with a scrape and a flutter. It cocked its head at the outhouse and the man hovering in the doorway before mincing about, searching for scraps of food.
    Bile flooded Bann’s throat in relief. Forcing his muscles to relax, he hawked and spat at the bird, which hopped to one side with a squawk-ka-ka . “Just a bird. Just a gods-be-damned bird.” He spat again, then turned to the boy.
    Taking his father’s proffered hand, Cor pulled himself to his feet, face pale and smeared with tears. He glanced over as the bird strutted past again.
    â€œAnd just where was your knife?” Bann hated himself for stomping on the boy while he was still white-lipped with fear. He did it anyway.
    Cor pulled the switchblade from his pocket and held it up. He stiffened in anticipation.
    Bann raised a hand, then relented with a light cuff on the head. More caress than chastisement. “Next time, I best see that weapon out and in use.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Cor sniffed. He dragged the back of his hand across his nose, leaving a snail’s track of mucus along his upper lip.
    â€œHere.” With his free hand, Bann stretched out his T-shirt and wiped Cor’s face. Wrapping an arm around the boy, he pulled him close, wishing he could somehow suck the child inside of his skin, his father-body a fortress. “All right, now?”
    â€œYeah.” Still shaky, Cor wobbled outside. He kicked a rock at the magpie, missing the target as Bann knew he would.
    He gets his affection for animals from you , he said silently to his wife.
    His dead wife.
    His slaughtered wife.

2
    J OINING HIS SON OUTSIDE, Bann took a cleansing breath, trying to slow his pulse. Adrenaline surged through his body like a shot of good whiskey after bad sex. Or was it bad whiskey after good sex? Not that he had much desired either in over a year. A breeze picked up, flowing down from the western foothills, chivvying the storm clouds along and drying sweat-soaked clothes and bodies.
    â€œCome.” Bann led Cor back across the street and over to the picnic table. They hopped up on top and sat side by side, the top of the boy’s head level with Bann’s shoulder. He remembered when he would balance his firstborn— and now my only —along his forearm, the infant’s head supported by the father’s cupped hand.
    While the man examined the surrounding rock formations, the boy spoke to the toes of his shoes. “Sorry I freaked out.”
    â€œAs am I for speaking carelessly.” Bann laid a hand on Cor’s neck, the skin still slick with fear-sweat. He tightened his hold and