by Brom
PETER CLIMBED TO the top of the ledge and looked back. The shifting mist clung to the shore, giving no sign or clue to the magical kingdom hidden in its midst. His first instinct was to head back into the Lady’s Mist, to return to the safety of Avalon’s forest. He shook his head, grimaced. There’s no safety there, he thought. Not for me. Not anymore. Ulfger will hunt me relentlessly.
He looked up the coast, the endless miles fading into the winter grayness—a world of men. What’s here for me? he wondered, and again grimly shook his head. Death, or at best a life of hiding in holes, like Goll. Peter fought back the tears. Is there no place for me? He wiped angrily at his eyes. I have to go somewhere, at least for a while. Maybe one day Ulfger will grow tired of hunting me and I can return. Maybe, but not now, not this day.
Peter headed over the rise, felt a tugging on his heart, and stopped. It was her, the Lady. Even here, he felt her. It was as though she was part of his soul, and the thought of never seeing her again was almost too much to bear. “I will come back.” And if I have to kill Ulfger, I will find a way.
He moved inland, crested the ledge, and a wide, sprawling valley opened before him. Peter caught a telling trail of smoke far below, could just make out a cultivated field and a cluster of buildings. The old fears snuck up on him. He could almost still hear the sounds of the men and their dogs chasing him through the woods, surprised by the intensity of those long-ago memories. He suppressed a shudder, took a deep breath, and pushed his chest out. “They’d best be wary of me,” he stated. “I’m a creature of Faerie. A shadow in the dark. I will cut their throats as they sleep.”
He clutched his belt and remembered he no longer had even a knife and that the world of men was full of wolves, bears, and hill cats. His lips tightened into a thin line and he started down the slope.
The shadows were growing long by the time he found the road. The dirt overturned with fresh horse tracks, plenty of them, and Peter heard Tanngnost in his head, the old troll warning him of his foolishness. But Peter trailed the road, keeping to the bushes, slipping soundlessly from tree to tree, the way he did when trying to sneak up on the wild faeries. He smelled smoke and then stumbled upon the body.
It was a young woman. She lay on her back in the ditch, the torn remnants of her dress trampled into the mud. Her legs splayed wide apart, the horrible wound between her legs crusted with blood and bared to the world. Deep slashes riddled her small breasts and dark bruises stood out against the pale skin of her thin neck.
Peter clenched his jaw and stared into her unblinking eyes. Looking closer, he could see she was barely more than a child. He wondered what sort of games she’d liked to play, wondered what a child could’ve ever done to deserve such a death. Peter felt his dread give way to anger, to hate. He remembered why he never wanted to grow up, never wanted to turn into one of them.
The rays of the late-afternoon sun cut across the tops of the pines and the shadows began to deepen. Peter left the girl and continued to trail the road.
The next body Peter found was that of a man hanging from a tree. He was badly burned and a crow pecked at the charred flesh hanging from his cheek. A sign hung around the man’s neck, painted with a white cross. Tied to his feet were the heads of a woman and two children. Peter saw no sign of their bodies.
He could see the village now, could just make out the gray shapes in the deepening shadows. The acrid smell of smoke saturated the air.
He came upon a man lying in the middle of the road, the side of his head crushed, his blond hair clotted with blood. He still clutched his spear. Peter crouched next to him and pried the spear from his stiff fingers and a knife from his belt. Across the road lay a scorched pasture; in its center, a smoldering pile of burned bodies. Peter guessed there were close to fifty bodies and every one that he could see had been decapitated. A company of crows cawed and pecked at the choicest morsels. He heard Tanngnost again, telling him to leave now, but Tanngnost had also told him that curiosity would be his undoing. Peter smiled at the memory of the fretting old troll, stood, and headed toward the village.
Peter crept along the ditch, keeping low and to the shadows. He slipped past a burned-out barn, only its blackened framework still standing, then came upon three wolves feeding on the body of a woman. Her protruding belly had been slit open and their snouts were wet from gorging on its contents. As Peter neared, the wolves lifted their heads and gave him a warning growl. A tiny infant’s leg hung from the jaws of one of them. Peter gave them a wide berth and continued into the village.
Most of the structures had been burned to the ground. Here and there, a few timbers still smoldered; other than the distant cawing of crows, the village was still and quiet.
Peter slipped within the burned hulk of a stable, crouched in the shadows, surveying the town from between the slats.
A huge cross of freshly hewn timber had been erected in the center of the square. A man hung limply from its beams, a rope stretched taut across his neck, chest, and beneath each arm. Great iron nails had been driven into his hands and feet. He wore a long robe adorned with dancing animals and swirling symbols of the sun, moon, and stars. His robe had been slit up the front. Thick rivulets of congealed blood ran down the insides of his legs, forming a dark pool on the ground. Peter could see that his genitals had been butchered and stuffed into his mouth. No less than thirty heads hung from the cross: men, women, and children. In the deepening shadows, several of them appeared to stare at Peter, as though they might start talking to him at any moment. Peter didn’t like it, didn’t like anything about this place, decided there was nothing here for him, after all, decided it was time to leave. But he heard the heavy tromp of hooves heading his way, then the deep voices of men, and ducked back down.
Two men came into view, leading a horse. The horse pulled along a line of tethered children. The men were wearing chain mail beneath matching blue tunics with white crosses on their chests; short swords hung from their belts. Peter counted eight children; older children, for the most part. Their hands were bound behind their backs and a rope was looped around each of their necks. They were covered in soot and mud; several were bruised and bleeding from ugly wounds. They had despondent, haunted eyes, the eyes of children who’d seen too much.
“So, there you are,” came a man’s call from somewhere behind Peter. Two more soldiers came out of the woods, heading right for his hiding spot. Peter felt sure they were talking to him. He froze, not so much as breathing. But they tromped right past. There was a girl between them. She was tall, long in the leg, but still a girl. She wore a simple, rose-colored dress, spattered in mud, one sleeve torn away. They pushed her roughly along ahead of them and joined the men by the horse.
“We found a few of them hiding up on the hill,” one of the soldiers said. He was stout and bald, one of his legs was shorter than the other and he walked with a pronounced lurch. “The others got away, but we got the one we wanted.” The man grinned.
The other two soldiers took an appraising look at the tall girl and returned his grin. A wiry man with a black cap and a toothless maw said, “No harm in a little sport while we wait for the baron.”
The men chuckled.
A fifth man came out of the woods from the south and met up with them. He was shorter than the others, but with thick, muscled arms and a dark, bristling beard. He wore a helmet, while the other men did not, a white plume stuck up from its crest. “No luck south,” he said. “I’m done hunting these brats. It’s a waste of effort, I say. Why, they make terrible servants anyway. You can whip them till your arm falls off and still not beat the wildness out of them. If the baron wants the rest of them, I say he can root them out of the woods himself.”
They all nodded.
“Aye, sir, they’re like rats, the way they hide in holes and under rocks. Spend a month and not find them all.”
“Truth be, the winter will get the rest of them anyway.”
“Where’s the baron and the guard, sir?” the toothless man asked
. “Where’d they get off to now?”
“They’ll be back soon enough,” the bearded man said. “The scouts located another heathen village in the hills. Just a few huts really. The baron took the guard. They intend to do a bit of converting.”
They all laughed.
“Perhaps, sir, some fun while we wait?” the bald soldier said, and shoved the tall girl forward.
The bearded man looked the girl up and down, nodding. He pulled off his helmet, then his gloves, dropped them to the ground. He gently touched her cheek with the back of his finger, then grabbed a handful of her long, auburn hair, and tugged her head back. Peter got a good look at her face. Her eyes were light green and full of fear, her mouth wide and thick-lipped.
“Little witch child,” the bearded man said, and ran a hand down her neck, squeezed her shoulder. “Do you drink blood and dance around your horned god? You do, don’t you?”
The girl said nothing.
His hand trailed down her waist, down her leg. He squeezed her thigh. “Why I bet you crawl around on your hands and knees before him, naked and grunting like a pig. Then bare your ass to the forest beasts, don’t you?” He shook her. “Don’t you?”
The soldiers all snickered, and the toothless man pawed at his own lips.
The bearded man smirked and pushed his hand under her dress, shoving it hard up between her legs.
The girl let out a cry and slapped at him, raking her nails across his face. The man let go of her hair, tried to grab her wrist. She tore loose and ran for the trees.
Peter jumped to his feet, hands tight around his spear. Demons, he thought, men-kind are all demons.
The toothless man leaped after the girl, caught her by the hair, spun her into the dirt. Two others fell upon her, pinning her arms to the ground.
The bearded man touched his face, looked at the blood on his fingers, and spat, “You little cunt.” He strolled over to where they held her on the ground, undid his belt, letting his trousers drop. He knelt between the girl’s legs, pushing her dress up over her hips.
Peter slipped from his hiding place, crept toward the men in a low crouch, knife in one hand, spear in the other.
The girl spat at the bearded man, tried to kick him away from her. He struck her twice in the face, splitting open her lip, then punched her hard in the stomach. She let out a choked gasp and stopped kicking. “That should take the devil out of you,” he said. “Now, two mugs of mead to the man who can make her squeal the loudest. Who’s in?”
They all grinned and grunted.
Peter hefted his spear, gauging the range as he prepared to throw, then saw a figure come running out from one of the houses, heading right toward the soldiers.
It was a boy, one of the pagan folk. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, carrying a spear at waist level and rushing the men at a full run. The boy’s eyes were wide; Peter could see he was terrified. Yet still he came.
The bald soldier saw the boy, let out a shout of warning, but a second too late. The spear drove into the bearded man’s back, punched out his chest.
The bald soldier made his feet and struck the boy, knocking him down. He yanked out his sword, brought it up, and that was when Peter threw his spear. The spear hit the bald man in the back of the neck, tore out through the front of his throat, driving the man face-first into the mud.
Peter let out a howl and was on the next soldier before the man could free his sword of its scabbard. He jabbed his knife into the man’s side and ripped it across his gut, tearing upon his stomach. The man’s entrails poured out from the wound, steaming in the winter chill. He let out a low groan and dropped to his knees.
The two remaining soldiers came for him. Peter easily ducked a swing meant for his head, and another for his chest. These men were big and strong, but Peter was faster, so fast that these lumbering giants seemed to be moving in syrup. He drove in beneath one swing, bringing his knife up into the man’s crotch, felt the blade punch deep into the man’s groin. The soldier let out a horrified wail and Peter’s eyes gleamed. He liked the sound, craved it.
There was only the toothless man left. He looked from his dead and dying comrades to Peter, stared at him as though he were a demon, some pagan god seeking vengeance.
A wicked grin spread across Peter’s face. These huge, brutish men who had struck such terror in his heart, had haunted his nightmares for an age, turned out to be little more than blundering beasts. The battle had turned into a game, the most exciting one he had ever played. Peter licked his knife and let out a low growl.
The man turned and ran.
Peter whooped and raced after him. He caught up to him in a heartbeat, leaping upon his back. He plunged the knife into the soldier’s neck, tore open his throat, and rode him into the dirt. Peter watched the man’s lifeblood gurgle and bubble from his open throat, watched until the man’s eyes glazed over.
A weak whimpering drew Peter to his feet. One of the soldiers still lived. The wounded man was clutching his groin, trailing a wide swath of blood as he tried to crawl away. Peter picked up a fallen sword, and advanced. To his surprise, the pagan boy snatched up a spear and rushed the wounded man. Peter stopped, watched as the boy drove the spear into the man’s back, not once, but over and over. The boy kept jabbing well after the man had stopped moving. “BASTARDS!” the boy screamed. “FUCKING, WICKED BASTARDS!” Finally the girl made him stop. The boy began to cry, his whole body racked with sobs.
The girl looked at Peter. “Who are you?” she asked.
The boy stopped crying, pushed the girl behind him, and pointed the spear at Peter. His red-rimmed eyes were laced with fear, but the spear was steady. “What do you want?”
Peter studied the boy. The boy might be scared but he was ready to fight him to the death, it was plain on his face. Together they’d just killed five men. Peter glanced over to the children tied to the horse. They had the same hard eyes as the boy. Eight of them there, he thought. Ten all together, maybe a handful more hiding in the hills. Desperate, dangerous children without a home. Plenty of swords and spears lying about. Peter tapped his chin. Wonder what Ulfger would think if a clan of wild kids sprouted up in his forest? Peter grinned.
Peter dropped his knife and stuck his sword into the dirt. He took a step forward and planted his hands on his hips. “My name’s Peter. I’m looking to make some new friends.”
The boy stared at him in wonder.
The girl spoke up. “I’m Wendlyn.”
Peter walked right up to the point of the boy’s spear. Stuck out his hand. The boy looked from Peter’s hand to Wendlyn. She nodded. The boy lowered his spear and slowly stuck out his own hand. Peter took it, shook it mightily, and smiled, and the boy and the girl and the other children all smiled back, because Peter’s smile was a most contagious thing.
“Say,” Peter said. “I know a place we can go. It’s a heck of a lot nicer than here.”
“PETER, THIS IS madness. You must take them back!” Tanngnost said.
“No,” Peter replied and crossed his arms. “They’re my friends.”
“You’ve no idea what you’re doing. No idea. The Horned One will never allow their kind here.”
“Come see our fort,” Peter said, waving for Tanngnost to follow him down the trail.
“I will not. I’ll not have anything to do with this folly. Peter, if Ulfger finds out, the elves will hunt you down. They’ll kill all of you.”
Peter whistled and five kids dropped from the trees, spears in hands, teeth bared. Their wiry nude bodies were covered in war paint. They surrounded the troll, growling and glaring at him with wild golden eyes.
“Let them try,” Peter said. “We’ll feed them their own noses.” He raised his spear and howled.
The kids howled back, began to clack their teeth together and jab the air with their spears.
The troll rolled his eyes, then batted one of the spears away. “Don’t point that at me you little wart,” he snapped at a small boy wearing a raccoon skin over hi
s head like a mask.
“These are our woods now,” Peter said sternly. “They belong to us, the Devils. From here to Goggie Creek is now Devilwood. Any who enter risk our wrath.”
Tanngnost let out a sigh and shook his head. “Devils? You mean halfwits. Peter, there’s so much here you don’t understand.” The troll glanced at one boy a bit older than the rest. “The magic of faerie can be poison to their kind. If any of these children are too old, they’ll turn. Have you any idea what that means?”
Peter gave the troll a suspicious look.
“The magic can twist them, turn them into murderous demons.”
“Don’t try to scare me. It won’t work. Not this time.”
“Peter, you have enemies enough. People with too many enemies don’t live long. I’ll not stay around to see you hanged.” Tanngnost stomped away.
PETER HEARD THE whistle, snatched up his sword, and leaned around the tree. The whistle meant Ulfger was coming. Peter did a quick check; the Devils were all in place and well hidden.
We’re ready, he told himself, and realized his hands were shaking, but not from nerves—from excitement. He listened to his heart pounding away. I’m alive, more alive than I’ve ever been. The game is on, the greatest game ever. I’ve thirty Devils now. Thirty brave, deadly warriors. How long had they practiced and prepared for this very moment? Two seasons, three? These children were done with drills, done with living in fear—of men, of elves, of Ulfger. These feral children would run no more. They were ready to fight, ready to kill. They were Devils now, and this scrap of scraggly wood was their forest.
Ulfger came into view, leading a squad of eight well-armed elves. They strolled right down the main trail just as Peter knew they would, Ulfger no doubt believing he was about nothing more dangerous than a fox hunt. Well, Peter thought, this fox intends to bite.
When they were within twenty yards, Peter stepped out into the trail and leveled his sword at Ulfger.