by Brom
“THAT’S BULLSHIT!” Nick cried. “You people are insane!”
“Take them to the post,” the Reverend commanded.
The post? Nick thought. What now? A moment later he found out, as three men dragged him over to a field on the far side of the pond. There stood several scorched posts with blackened logs and ash scattered around their bases. The men bound Nick’s arms behind him and tied thick ropes around his neck, ankles, and midsection, then proceeded to do the same to Leroy. Leroy hardly seemed to notice or care, his eyes distant, confused, lost.
The crowd had followed them over and now made way for two men carrying an iron pot, the same one that had sat next to Peter. Nick could see the smoldering coals and brands.
Nick’s legs began to tremble. I can’t take this, he thought, I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here now! He fought his bonds, quick, frantic movements, hardly feeling the pain as the rough rope bit and tore into his skin, unaware of the small, whimpering sounds that escaped his lips or the spittle running down his chin.
The Reverend Senior grabbed Nick’s jaw in a hard, viselike grip, holding the boy’s head still. He glared into Nick’s eyes and hissed. “I see you, demon. I see you very well. I see your fear. Now leave this boy,” he shouted. “Leave him and save yourself the pain of God’s mark!”
“You’re crazy,” Nick shouted. “You’re fucking insane! Can’t you see there’s no demons here but you?”
The good half of the Reverend’s mouth turned up in a smile. He obviously took Nick’s words as vindication. Nick couldn’t help himself at this point and screamed, “YOU FUCKING LUNATICS!”
The Reverend spun away from Nick and raised his long arms skyward with a dramatic flourish. “SEE THE DEMON!” he shouted. “It can’t hide. Not from us. Not from GOD!”
“We see,” responded the crowd.
The Reverend nodded to the giant bald man holding the brand. “Place the mark of our Lord on these boys. Place it so the demons cannot hide from it.”
“HOLD!” called a voice from the crowd.
The Reverend spun around as though he’d been stung. The Captain stepped forward. The man with the brand hesitated, looking toward the Reverend. The Reverend held up a hand, to indicate that he should wait, and glared at the Captain. Nick could see he was making an effort to control his anger.
“Captain,” the Reverend said, then his lips moved but he said nothing. He seemed to be searching for the right words.
“My apologies, Your Grace, but I have urgent news I believe you wish to hear.”
The Reverend clamped his jaws together and spoke through clenched teeth. “Speak.”
“The boy has agreed to take us to the sorceress’s hideaway.”
No, thought Nick.
The Captain stepped aside and Nick saw that Danny was behind him. Nick hardly recognized him. They’d cut his hair, washed and dressed him in what Nick could only think of as pilgrim clothes. Danny kept his eyes firmly on the ground.
“Child,” the Reverend said. “Is this true?”
Danny didn’t look up, just nodded in agreement.
The Captain moved up and spoke low to the Reverend. “They’re not so many as we’d feared, Your Grace. They’re not organized, and more, they fight amongst themselves. If we gather every able-bodied man and make one hard push…we can take her.”
“Can we trust him?” the Reverend asked.
“Yes, I am certain.”
“You’re risking a lot on this boy’s word.”
“As you well know our stores are at an end. What few crops the demon children didn’t destroy have withered in the field. We’re facing starvation. Now is the time to make a bold move while still we can.”
“I see,” the Reverend said and appeared to contemplate this.
“We would need to leave right away, before they have time to regroup. Your Grace, we could have her tonight…tonight.”
The Reverend’s head nodded slowly up and down. “Yes, I believe this is what the Lord wants. Yes, right away then.”
“Good,” the Captain said and turned to go.
“Captain,” the Reverend called.
The Captain looked back. “Yes?”
“I am coming with you.”
The Captain couldn’t hide his surprise or, Nick thought, his displeasure. Apparently, the Reverend saw it too. “Is there a problem?”
The Captain shook his head. “No problem.” But it looked to Nick like there was.
The Reverend pointed at Nick and Leroy and addressed the guards. “Put them in the hold. We will deal with them upon my return.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Old Scabby
The Captain raised his hand and the long line of men came to a halt before the trees. He removed his hat, beating the gray dust from its brim, then studied Danny, giving the boy a hard look. They’d never before dared such a venture, to drive into the very heart of this wicked forest and its dark secrets. Now here he was, putting his life and the lives of his men in the hands of this boy, trusting not only the truth of the boy but that the child knew of the things he spoke.
The Captain took in a deep breath. His ability to take the measure of a man had meant the difference between life and death more than once over his long years at sea. He trusted his instincts. There was no deceit in this child. He simply wanted this nightmare to end, same as the rest of them. And should this day lead us to our deaths? the Captain thought. Then what of that? He’d grown weary of this game. Better a quick death in battle than to starve as the last of their potatoes rotted in the dead soil. But the Captain didn’t believe the day would end in their deaths. He had over seventy well-armed men. Peter and his demons had been crushed, and now his brave men were ready to find the sorceress and finish this mess.
The Captain signaled the men to form up and they marched silently into the trees, two abreast, weapons at the ready. They worked their way up a steady incline until they found a spot of high ground in which they could survey the gray land around them.
The Captain saw two wide, muddy creeks snaking through the marshland below. He sat a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Which one, Daniel? The one just below?” The Captain pointed. “Or the wider one farther north?”
“Farther north,” Danny said without hesitation.
The Captain was relieved that the boy was confident in the path, but it troubled him that the boy was so quiet, so withdrawn. The Captain understood why, he just wished there was a way he could make Danny see that he was doing the right thing. Well, he thought, there’ll be time for healing once we’re off this island, once we’ve left all the evil behind. Then maybe he could start to heal as well. A wry grin pushed at the Captain’s mouth. How long, he wondered, did it take a man to put centuries’ worth of nightmares behind him?
It wasn’t long before they came upon the creek, and still no sign of resistance; in fact, they’d found no sign of life whatsoever. The woods were gray, seemed dead. The Captain signaled them onward and the company fell silent, listening and watching as they resumed their march along the muddy bank.
The Reverend slipped, the second time in less than a minute. His personal guard, the thick-necked brute Ox (whose true name was Oxenburg; he had been the gunnery sergeant on the Creed before finding God), tried to lend the Reverend a hand, only to cause both men to slide into the knee-deep creek. The Reverend, the live side of his face now a nasty snarl, slapped Ox’s big hands away.
The Captain was very careful not to let any sign of his smile show. Even out here, even among his own troops, the Reverend’s influence was strong enough to have him flogged or killed at a word.
The Captain couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the Reverend outside the compound, much less in the wilds. The Reverend’s cape was flamboyant and dramatic when he strolled about the village, but out here, among the brambles and mud, it caused considerable annoyance, collecting mud along the hem and—much to the Captain’s delight—the Reverend was reduced to hiking the cape up like a wom
an carrying her skirt as he tried to navigate the thorns and muck.
It was as the last light of the day began to fade that Danny halted. The shadows had grown deep and impenetrable, and the woods seemed to close in about them.
“There,” Danny pointed.
The Captain peered ahead, tried to see what the boy was pointing at. “What is it?” he asked.
“The stones. That’s where we cross. That’s the Lady’s Wood there.”
“Oh,” the Captain said. “And her tree? Is it much farther?”
“No, not really.”
After all he’d been through this long day, the Captain knew he should be weary, but instead he felt wide awake; his heart raced. After untold decades, would all finally end? It was all he could do to keep from sprinting up the trail. “Move out,” he ordered. The men crossed the stones and marched into the forest, toward the Lady and her tree.
ULFGER HELD CALIBURN out before him, examined the runes running along the broken blade. The sword had drunk plenty of blood this day, yet no stains marred its dark steel. How many had he tracked down—ten, a dozen?
He looked at the charred remains on the ground before him. The sword had found the two elves guilty, had worked its vengeance. Ulfger inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of Avallach’s justice. He bent, picked up one of their fallen torches, then stepped toward the elven barracks. He rapped the hilt of Caliburn against the barred door.
“I give you one last chance,” Ulfger shouted. “Come out and face Avallach’s judgment honorably or burn alive as cowards.”
He could sense them, five of them, they’d barred and barricaded the door and hid within. He knew they wouldn’t come out, their fear was too strong.
Ulfger strolled to the corner of the entranceway and set the torch to the shingles over the archway. The ancient wood caught easily and it wasn’t long before smoke began to billow out from the cracks of the walls and windows.
He drank in their desperation, their panic, closed his eyes and watched them move to the back of the structure. He strolled around the building and waited beneath an oval window. Avallach, he thought. You make this too easy.
Ulfger heard them choking and coughing. The shutters sprang open and smoke poured out. An elf leaped through the smoke, landed hard, wiping frantically at his eyes as he stumbled to his feet.
Ulfger brought Caliburn down upon the elf’s neck, but he didn’t cut the elf’s head off as he so easily could have. He merely nicked the elf, just enough to break the skin. He’d learned it was far better to let the sword decide who lived or died, who was honorable and who was a traitor. So far, it had condemned all it had touched. The elf let out a wail as his skin blackened and sizzled away from the bone.
A sharp pain drove into Ulfger’s side. He let out a cry, fell to one knee. He was shocked to find a spear hanging from his ribs.
The remaining four elves sprang from the window and raced past him.
Ulfger grabbed the shaft and yanked it free with a loud grunt. There was no blood, but the wound was deep and there was a moment when it was hard to breathe. Then the pain receded, his breath returned. Ulfger tossed the spear to the ground and followed the elves. They headed north, toward the mountains, toward the Hall of Kings.
“Run rabbits, run,” Ulfger called and smiled. “You’ll never escape Avallach.”
NICK DRIFTED IN and out of sleep. The cell that he shared with Leroy was little more than a hole dug into the side of a hill, barely larger than the two of them. It smelled of sweat and urine. Leroy lay crumpled in a tight ball in the deepest shadow, and hadn’t spoken a word. Nick pressed himself against the plank door of the cell as far away from Leroy as their small confines would allow.
The fading glow of the day shifted through the slats, letting in just enough light that Nick could make out fingernail scores on the inside of the door. He let his fingertips trace the jagged marks and wondered how many other damned souls had spent their last days cramped in this pit.
The cell was on a slight rise; Nick could see into the village about fifty yards below. Torches burned around the town square. He could see the back of the cross, could see one of Peter’s hands hanging limp and lifeless. Small groups of women occasionally drifted by, shouting taunts or throwing clods of dirt at Peter. Two men stood guard in the square, but they did nothing to discourage the tormentors.
“What a pisser,” growled the guard leaning in front of Nick’s cell. He tugged his cloak tighter around him. “Damn fog be thick tonight,” he groaned, his voice rough as driftwood. He limped about, getting a fire going. The guard was missing his right eye, an ear, his right arm near the shoulder, and had a peg leg starting just below the knee.
He set a torch to blaze and carried it over to the cells. He leered in at the boys with his good eye. “It makes me bones hurt. This fog. Chills me down to me gullet.”
Nick leaned away. He could hardly stand the sight of the scarred eye socket.
“Not pretty, aye?” the guard said, grinning toothlessly. “It were your kind done this to me.” He jabbed at the open socket. “First time they got me eye. Not so bad. God gave me a spare y’know. Second time they’s got me arm. Still, I ain’t the sort to let a measly maiming bugger me, nay. But I stepped in one of them little demon traps you boys is so good a-fixin’ and it cut me leg off at the knee. Then well, then I started to slow down a wee bit.” The old guard set his head back and hee-honked like a donkey. When Nick only stared at him, he finally stopped. “Err…have to excuse me carrying-ons. If you don’t learn to laugh at life it’ll surely kill you, that I know.” He looked Nick up and down. “You’re a pretty sour looker yer’self. Bet ya could use a drink, aye?” He hobbled over to the fire and poured water from a clay pitcher into a crumpled tin cup. He pulled a small slat across the planked door and handed the cup to Nick.
Nick hesitated.
“Go on now, take it. I ain’t gonna bite you.”
Nick took the water and drank it dry, wiped his arm across his lips, then handed the cup back. “Thanks.”
The guard cupped his hand around what was left of his ear. “Eh?”
“Thanks,” Nick repeated, louder.
“Aye. Not a big deal. Don’t know why they gotta treat you boys so mean. I say just chop off your heads and be done with it, aye. But does anyone listen to Old Scabby? Nay. They all got their airs. Too busy calling each other sinners. Trying to out-God one another. Bunch of silly douches, the lot of ’em.”
The guard pushed his hand through the open slat and ran his scaly fingers lightly along Nick’s arm. Nick pulled away.
The guard looked up and frowned. “Eh, sorry. A mangy sod like me-self shouldn’t be putting his craggy mitts on a boy.” He hesitated, looking suddenly embarrassed. “Weren’t trying to be fresh with you. No. Me Jolly Rodger ain’t been good for much more than a hot piss for a half hundred years now and even that’s been giving me trouble of late, aye, it has. When you’ve been covered with scales as long as me, you just tend to forget what a person’s skin s’pose to feel like. That’s all.”
The guard was quiet for a while as he stared up into the cloudy night sky. “Tell me, boy. What’s it like out there now?”
At first Nick didn’t understand, then he realized the guard meant in the world of men.
“Are there still stars in the sky?”
Nick nodded.
“I wish I could fly. I dream about it sometimes. If I could fly, why, I’d soar out of this damnable fog, right up through them clouds right now. I’d just float up there and stare at them stars all the night long. I used to be a sailor and I know them stars better than me own wife’s breasts. Just to see them one more time…err, them stars, don’t rightly know if I’d be wanting to see me wife’s breasts these days, just to see them stars one more time would be enough for me. I could die a happy soul.”
The guard slid the slat back in place. Double-checked the chain holding the door shut, then stood and wandered back over to the fire. He lay down next to the fire, proppi
ng his head up on a blanket roll, and stared up into the clouds. Nick guessed Old Scabby was searching the sky for a flicker, a glimmer, or any other trace of a star.
And with all Nick already had to feel so bitter and bad about, he still found room to pity this old man whose only wish was to see a star. But it was easier somehow to feel bad for this man than to think about his mother, about Abraham, Sekeu, Redbone, or himself. Those thoughts were too painful. Nick wanted to cry but found he didn’t have the strength, and fell into the merciful bliss of a dreamless sleep.
NICK CAME OUT of sleep with a start. Something had flitted across his cheek—a spider? He sat up fast. A faint bluish light caught his eye and there, standing between the slats of the door, was a blue pixie—and not any blue pixie, but the girl from the privy, the one with the wispy white hair.
What’s she doing here? Nick wondered, and rubbed his forehead, trying to massage his muddled gears back into action.
She fluttered her wings and blinked softly. She looked terrified, glancing around in every direction as though unseen hands might grab her at any second.
Nick was glad she was all right. He managed to smile at her and when he did, to his surprise, she cocked her head and smiled back.
Again he wondered what she was doing here. She fluttered just out of sight. Nick pressed his face against the wood and understood. A chain, hooked onto a long, bent nail, was all that held the slat across his door in place. It would’ve been impossible for Nick to reach it, but the pixie was trying her best to pull it loose. Nick suddenly dared to hope.
But the chain was heavy for such a small creature, and she could barely get it to budge. She planted her feet against the plank and yanked over and over again. The chain inched up the nail, but each time she tugged the chain, it clacked loudly against the slat.
Nick glanced over to where the crippled guard lay next to the fire. The embers had burned down, giving off an eerie glow in the heavy fog. The guard’s chin rested against his chest; it was hard to tell if the man was awake or asleep.