The Child Thief

by Brom

  “You need only climb upon Mag Mell Hill to see,” Tanngnost said.

  “That can’t be,” Peter said. “The trees in Whisperwood can’t be burned.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Tanngnost said. “But somehow they are burning. And need I tell you, once Whisperwood is gone, there’s nothing to hold the Flesh-eaters back, this swamp or maybe Devilwood will be next. Soon they will be burning your precious bog, Ginny.”

  The three little girls looked up at their mother with worried faces.

  The witch seemed to diminish somewhat, the fire gone from her eye.

  Tanngnost took a deep breath. “Hear me and hear me well. You must put past grievance aside and join together. If not, all of Avalon will be lost.”

  “What?” The witch’s eye flashed. “Are you suggesting we fight alongside these thieving brats? These human children? Why, they’re no different than the Flesh-eaters. A taint on the land. They too must be driven out.”

  Tanngnost slammed his staff down again, his eyes flared. “How dare you!” he growled, his words harsh, cutting. “They’ve earned their place among the faerie fold. Paid with their blood and lives fighting alongside the Horned One at Merrow Cove. And where, Ginny, were you that terrible day?”

  The witch waved him away as though she didn’t hear, but Nick caught the pained look on her face.

  “Avallach’s gone, the Horned One is gone,” Tanngnost said. “It is up to us now. The fate of Avalon is on our shoulders.”

  “Oh, stop your ranting, old goat. I’ve had all the preaching I can stomach.” She inclined her head toward Peter. “Tell me, Peter, does your precious Lady own your soul yet? Do you dream of suckling at her teat every night?”

  Peter’s eyes squeezed down to slits. “Watch how you speak of her.”

  “Ah, I see that she does.” The witch let out a knowing laugh. “Now, be gone, the lot of you. I’ll not tolerate thieves in my swamp. And you, Peter, the next time I see you, I will have your eye.”

  Peter pointed his knife at her. “Why wait? Here, I’ll bring it to you.” Peter cut the air with his knife and started forward.

  The troll grabbed him by the collar. “Peter, don’t be an imbecile.”

  “Tanngnost,” the witch said. “You ask too much. I shall never fight alongside such rabble.” She spun around and started away.

  “But Mother,” one of the little girls said. “Aren’t we going to eat them?”

  “Hush up and come along,” the witch hissed and left, melting away into the trees and brambles. The bugs lost their purpose and began skittering away in all directions. The barghest leaped up into the trees and made a noisy exit. The little girls stayed a moment longer, staring at Peter and the Devils with wide, blinking eyes, then shrugged and skipped away.

  “THERE,” THE TROLL said, pointing down the valley at the billowing smoke rising from the trees far below.

  Peter stared. “I don’t understand. I don’t see how—” He stopped. “The Captain. The barrels.” He spat. “The fucking barrels.”

  “What?”

  “The Captain must have brought up oil. They’re using oil.”

  Nick sat against a stump. He could smell burning wood, but all that mattered to him at the moment was being out of the swamp and away from Ginny Greenteeth. The troll had led them across Cusith Creek and to the top of this small rise to survey the fires.

  Nick took another swig of water from the pail, but no matter how much he drank, his throat still felt parched and raw.

  Cricket was sitting up now, propped against a stone. Danny lay next to her in the grass. Cricket didn’t look so well, but she was better off than Danny. His neck and face were red and swollen and he was floating in and out of consciousness. His glasses hung around his neck by the strap, one lens cracked and the frame bent.

  The troll had said that they’d be all right, that the Red Tails liked their blood warm and their poison was meant to paralyze, not kill. He’d told them that other than the puncture wounds, there should be no lasting effects, and in a couple of hours they’d be good as new. Nick didn’t feel like he’d ever be good as new. His head hurt, his face felt hot and swollen, and the cut on his arm burned.

  Peter and the troll had been arguing ever since they left the swamp, something about the Flesh-eaters, about the witch, about the elves. All of it about fighting and killing and Nick didn’t like the sound of any of it. As far as he was concerned, he was done. He wasn’t fighting with or against anyone. He intended to get well and make Peter take him back.

  Abraham walked over and joined Leroy by Cricket and Danny.

  “You know,” Abraham said. “You saved their lives. That’s something to be mighty proud of.”

  A coy grin crossed Leroy’s face before he shrugged self-effacingly. “It just happened, y’know. Don’t remember even thinking about it.”

  “And that there’s the true test. When you’re willing to risk life and limb for your fellow Devils without so much as a thought about yourself.” He placed a hand on Leroy’s shoulder. “You know what this means?”

  You could tell by Leroy’s grin he knew exactly what it meant.

  “You’ll be gettin’ your own sword and knife now. You’re gonna be accepted as clan, gonna be a Devil!”

  Leroy smiled like a crocodile and cut his eyes over to Nick. He caught Nick watching and his smile faltered. Leroy picked up a bucket and walked over to Nick.

  “How’re you doing on water, buddy?” Leroy asked and squatted down next to him. “You feeling better? Had me worried for a bit there.”

  “You 1—” Nick croaked and winced, his throat still too swollen and raw to speak.

  “Don’t worry about it, Nicky,” Leroy said. “You can thank me later.”

  Fuck you, you son of a bitch, Nick thought and glared at him.

  Leroy glanced over his shoulder; the rest of the Devils had all drifted over by Peter, studying the smoke. Leroy leaned closer to Nick. “Look,” he whispered. “Don’t go getting worked up. A lot happened fast. It was all really confusing. You might remember things a bit different than me. That’s all. Nothing to make a big deal over, right? Are we good?”

  Nick narrowed his eyes to slits and gave Leroy the finger.

  Leroy’s nostrils flared, his mouth puckered like he’d bitten into something sour, the same face he’d made when he’d stomped the pixie. He grabbed Nick’s hand and squeezed his fingers together. “You better listen,” he hissed. “I waited too fucking long for this. Put up with way too much shit. You say or do anything to fuck this up for me, I’ll kill you.” He twisted Nick’s fingers. Nick winced, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  “I’m not kidding. I’ll come to you while you’re sleeping and stab you in the face. Slit your fucking throat!”

  Nick could see he wasn’t kidding.

  “You got it? You got it?”

  Nick nodded and Leroy let him go.

  Nick turned away, staring down at the grass through a blur of tears. Let it go, he told himself. Doesn’t matter. He was getting out of here. Right? Leroy could call himself a Devil, could wear a feather and call himself Yankee Fucking Doodle for all he cared. Nick was done with him, done with all of this madness.

  “I’LL CATCH UP with you at Deviltree,” Peter said.

  “Peter,” Sekeu said. “This is madness. You must not go to Lady’s Wood. Elves will kill you.”

  Peter glanced at Tanngnost; the troll waited for him at the trail head. Peter let out a long breath and smiled. “I have to. You know it. We’ve only days left. The Flesh-eaters are on their way. The magic is failing. The scourge is eating up the last of the forests. What do we have left to eat? Soon we’ll be eating each other, like them.” He nodded toward the smoke.

  “We’ll all go then,” Redbone said.

  Peter shook his head. “Can’t. Elves would never allow it. Only chance I have to convince them of my allegiance to the Lady is to go alone.”

  “Ulfger will never fight beside you,” Sekeu said.


  Peter nodded. “Yeah, and I’ll never fight alongside him either. But that doesn’t mean we can’t coordinate our efforts. He’ll have to see this. All of us are at the end. If we fall, so do they.”

  “Well, at least let me come,” Redbone said. “Y’know, as your official diplomatic dignitary. To carry your cane and top hat.” He grinned.

  “Nope, but you can help carry Danny back.” Peter returned his grin.

  Danny was sitting up now, but didn’t look like he could walk yet or anytime soon. His eyes were puffy and his swollen neck made him look like a bullfrog.

  Tanngnost thumped his staff impatiently.

  “Later alligators,” Peter said and sprinted up to the troll. Together they entered the Lady’s Wood.

  “Okay Peter,” the troll said. “The very life of the Lady and Avalon depends on this. You must, must, be on your best behavior.”

  “I’m always on my best behavior.”

  “Promise me you’ll leave the past behind.”

  Peter’s face hardened. “Some things can never be left behind.”

  Tanngnost sighed. “Peter, that feud was all so long ago.”

  Peter fell quiet; it had indeed been so long ago. He’d only seen the great oaks shed their leaves twenty times by then, yet still, he hadn’t grown into adulthood and not a single whisker grew from his chin. But he had grown into a lean, rangy youth. Tanngnost called him the wild boy of Myrkvior, told him it was his human blood that kept puberty at bay, told him he would never be able to grow into manhood. Tanngnost explained this in grave terms, as though it were a curse—a dreadful vexing. But Peter had danced about the troll’s hut, overjoyed to know he’d never have to turn into one of those horrible, hairy, brutish men. He’d spent those days delighting in his eternal youthfulness, all the great forest his playground—at least, that is, until Ulfger found him.

  PETER RECALLED HOW hard his heart had raced. He’d known better than to enter the Lady’s Wood. How many times had Tanngnost warned him, told him that Ulfger had given the elves orders to kill him on sight? He’d contemplated turning back, then caught sight of the Spriggan. The nasty little goblin was in the brush, just across the creek. It waved its prize: a knife—Peter’s knife—taunting, teasing, well aware that Peter wouldn’t dare follow it into the Lady’s Wood.

  “You little thief,” Peter cried, and leaped up, splashing across the creek, forgetting all about Ulfger and his murdering elves. The Spriggan’s eyes popped open in surprise. It turned tail and dashed up the trail.

  Peter lost sight of it in the thick underbrush. He scanned the pine needles, tracking the goblin’s trail, so intent he didn’t notice the figures slipping up on him from behind.

  Peter caught the soft crunch of pine needles, turned, expecting to find the Spriggan, instead saw a spear flying directly for his chest. Peter threw himself backward. The spear shot past, nicking his shoulder and bouncing down the thin path. He hit the dirt, rolled, and was back to his feet all in a blink. His instinct was to run, but then he froze. There were three of them, two were elves, but it was the third that held him in his tracks.

  The figure towered over the elves, taller even than most men Peter had ever seen, thick through the chest and arms, but it was his eyes that held Peter. Peter would never forget those dark, brooding eyes.

  “Ulfger,” Peter hissed, as he tried to comprehend how the tall boy had turned into this huge, brutish man. The Ulfger before him sported a bristling goatee tied into a knot, and thick, dark eyebrows. He wore a red-and-gold tunic with a black elk head emblazoned upon the chest, black leather britches, knee-high boots, and a long broadsword at his side. He’d let his hair grow long, parted it along his crown, letting it fall straight down the sides of his head to cover his ears. Or his one ear, Peter thought.

  Ulfger stared at him, looking like a man who has just discovered a pot of gold. He let out a low laugh. “It can’t be. Avallach has brought me a gift. And look at you.” He laughed again, louder. “Still a miserable snot-nosed brat.” He shook his head, sneered. “It’s your human blood. Avallach curses those who don’t belong here.”

  Ulfger signaled and the two elves slid out long knives and ducked into the woods on either side of the trail.

  Peter backed away, keeping a close eye on the elves and searching for a path of escape.

  “It is plain you have no sense,” Ulfger called. “Or you would have left Avalon long ago. Though I have to admit, it pleases me deeply to find you here, to find you still alive. Otherwise I would not have the pleasure of killing you.”

  Ulfger drew his sword and strolled toward Peter. Peter couldn’t miss the way the muscles rippled along the giant’s arms, the way he carried the massive broadsword as though it weighed nothing. Peter suddenly felt small and vulnerable, and for the first time found himself envious of growing up, jealous of such strength and might.

  “Keep to his flanks,” Ulfger shouted in a deep, thunderous voice. “Don’t let him around us. Remember, he’s my kill!”

  Peter caught sight of the spear, the one the elf had thrown at him. It lay on the trail near his foot. He caught it under his toe and kicked it into the air, catching it and sending it hurtling for Ulfger.

  Ulfger hardly blinked, simply slapped the spear out of the air with his sword. The giant let out a laugh. “Good, a bit of sport will make this more enjoyable!”

  Peter turned and ran. He lost sight of the elves in the brush, but knew they were keeping pace. He heard Ulfger crashing along the trail behind him. Peter’s heart drummed in his chest; again he felt the fear, that of the hunted deer. The same fear as when the men had chased him back to Goll’s hill—it was almost as though he’d never stopped running.

  The trees thinned on one side of the trail. Peter could see a swamp and reeds below, down a sharp ravine. The reeds, Peter thought, I can lose them in the reeds. He left the trail, sprinted toward the drop. An elf leaped into his path. Peter didn’t have time to do anything other than crash directly into him. Peter heard a wounded uff as the two of them tumbled. Peter came out on top and tried to break away. The elf grabbed his arm and clung on. Peter jabbed a thumb in the elf’s eye, tore his arm free, got one foot under him when a big, black boot connected with his midsection. Peter left the ground, slammed up against a tree. He heard Ulfger’s laugh, caught sight of the giant’s grin, then Ulfger punched him in the face, right between the eyes. Peter reeled, lost his feet, and sat down squarely.

  Ulfger snatched Peter up by the hair. He pulled out a notched hunting knife, held it up to Peter’s face. “Let’s start with an ear, shall we?”

  Peter grabbed Ulfger’s hand, and bit deep, felt cartilage crunch beneath his teeth, and tasted blood.

  Ulfger yowled, yanked his hand away, lost his grip on both the knife and Peter. Peter snatched up the knife and slashed out wildly. Ulfger stepped back, had his sword in his hand in a flash. The two elves fell in on either side, knives ready.

  Ulfger flicked the blood off his thumb, glared at Peter. “Enough games.”

  Peter threw his knife. The blade bounced harmlessly off Ulfger’s shoulder, but bought Peter a needed second. He leaped for the ledge, slid, and rolled down the ravine, crashing into the mud and reeds. He glanced up, saw the elves skidding down after him, Ulfger following.

  Peter splashed into the reeds, pushing between the tall, misty stalks, trying to lose himself within the maze of stems and shallow black pools. Pushing farther and farther until he could no longer hear Ulfger’s curses.

  The mist thickened and Peter began to question his way; he’d done a very good job indeed of getting lost. He kept moving and his instincts paid off as the terrain began to change, the ground became gray and firm, and the reeds thinned out. But the mist continued to thicken and Peter found himself within a wall of swirling fog, unable to see farther than twenty paces in any given direction, afraid to take another step lest he became lost forever.

  His head throbbed. His brow was swollen and sore from where Ulfger had punched him. His
ribs hurt with every breath. He gently probed them and winced, wondered if they might be broken. The mist felt as though it were moving in on him, suffocating him. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, trying to figure out what he should do, and it was then he caught a familiar scent. He inhaled deeply—just a trace of honeysuckle and pond water. The Lady?

  Peter felt a slight warmth against his chest and opened his eyes. The necklace—Mabon’s star—began to glow and Peter caught a faint glimmer ahead in the mist. He approached; before him, a dusting of gold glittered just above the clammy gray earth, gently weaving and flowing, like a lazy creek. Peter remembered the Lady spoke of her Mist. Is this her doing? He followed the Path.

  Peter found thoughts of the Lady dominating his heart; at one point, he could swear he heard the distant echo of her voice calling, only it wasn’t his name, it was—Mabon.

  How many times had he snuck up to the Lady’s Garden? How many times had he lain hidden near Avallach’s shrine in hopes of a single glimpse of her? And in all those years, only once had he seen her, there in her courtyard, talking and laughing with Hiisi. When she’d laughed, Peter had smiled while tears fell from his eyes, his desire to be near her so vast his whole body ached.

  The mist began to thin and Peter heard the lapping of waves and got his first whiff of the sea. The gray earth and mist gave way to a drizzly, pebble-littered beach. He stood facing a rocky ledge. The ledge was topped with scraggly spruce and pine. Peter saw no sign of tropical lushness, no sign of faerie kind whatsoever. The air here was cold and damp, sharp smells bit at his nostrils. He heard strange birdcalls. Yet, somehow all of it was familiar and it dawned on him just where he was. He felt a chill, and not from the harsh wind. Peter realized he was back in the world of men-kind.