by Brom
Peter screamed and launched himself into the nearest Flesh-eater, slicing completely through the man’s neck. The severed head flipped back and smacked the next man. Peter thrust his blade into that man, the next, then the next, eyes mad with bloodlust, weaving, ducking, kicking, slashing, dodging, cutting a path of death and dismemberment. The Devils and elves charged in right behind him, their screams and cries filling the park like a battalion of insane cats.
Nick heard girlish laughter, caught sight of the three girls as they skipped across the pond, only they were girls no longer, their hands twisted into claws and their mouths into fanged snouts. They fell upon the two Flesh-eaters nearest where the Lady had been. On the far side of the bank, the witch appeared, flanked by four barghest, her single emerald eye glowing. She walked casually across the pond toward the fighting as though on her way to a picnic.
The Flesh-eaters didn’t know which way to turn, which flank to defend, and fell back in a confused tangle. The Captain did his best to further their confusion, leaping forward, striking down the nearest Flesh-eater from behind. Nick and Cricket followed his lead, and the three of them pressed into the Flesh-eaters.
The Flesh-eaters lost their spirit, lost any coordinated defense, stumbling into each other as they retreated. Nick hacked and slashed, Maldiriel biting and cutting through limbs. Nick saw their fear and realized with horror that he was smiling. Their screams and cries punctuated his howls, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to kill every one of them, to cut them open and crush their beating hearts in his bare hands. His eyes gleamed as he stepped over the dead and dying to get at the next soul.
The static of a bullhorn, then a deep, booming voice cut through the night. “DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!”
“DROP YOUR WEAPONS NOW!” Sergeant Wilson shouted again and fired his revolver twice in the air. The crowd stopped then, breaking apart, clumping largely into two main groups. All eyes, all those strange eyes, fell on him and the half-dozen officers around him. In the sudden pause, the wails, screams, and groans of the wounded, the maimed, and the dying filled the air.
“What the good goddamn is going on?” the sergeant said as he surveyed the blood and gore, the severed limbs, the dozens of bodies writhing about on the ground. Men? No, he realized. Look at their skin, their horns. Monsters? The sergeant decided that was the best description: monsters decked out in armor and rags, carrying swords, axes, and spears. They were backing away from the small people. Wait. Are those—? No, they can’t be. Yes, kids! Those are kids. Wild kids wielding swords and spears of their own, and—he lost his train of thought. “What the hell is that?” He pointed at some sort of huge, goat-headed beast. It had actual horns curving out of the side of its skull and was carrying a tree limb as though it weighed no more than a baseball bat. Blood and what looked like part of someone’s scalp hung from the end of the limb.
A white flash caught the sergeant’s attention and there, on the far bank, three little girls knelt over a prone body, their hands and mouths drenched in black gore. “Holy fucking shit!” And, just as the sergeant was ready to call it a night, he saw a green woman standing, yes, standing on the water and looking at him like she would eat his liver.
“Mother Mary Jesus all to fuck and back!” he cried. This didn’t make any sense, none of it. Not a bit. We’re in some deep shit here, the sergeant thought and shared a quick, fretful look with the other officers, then glanced back toward the ferry terminal. Where was backup? Where the fuck were the ESU team, the special response guys, the dudes with the heavy calibers? He hit his mic. “Need backup now!” he called, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice. “East side of Battery Park. Men down. Multiple armed suspects! Need backup right now! Right fucking now!”
All at once, several of the monster men began to walk away, rather casually even, like they’d just decided they didn’t want to play anymore. “HOLD UP!” the sergeant yelled, pointing his gun from one creature to the next. “EVERYONE JUST SIT TIGHT!”
But no one was listening. The black-skinned men continued to withdraw, slipping away into the park in small groups and clusters.
“What d’we do, Sarge?” one of the officers asked while jabbing his gun at the monsters as though to ward them off.
The sarge didn’t answer. He had no idea. This shit hadn’t been in the manual. He only knew he couldn’t let these guys get away. Gonna have to shoot someone. Gonna have to start blasting these creeps away. He squared his sights on a man wielding an ax, began to squeeze the trigger, when he noticed something weird, weirder even than all these monsters and little devils. The pond…it was glowing!
He lowered his gun for a better look. His brow furrowed. What the hell? Some sort of radiant mist was forming on the top of the pond.
Chemical agents? The sergeant’s skin prickled. He’d slept through most of the lectures on bioterrorism, but had perked up once they’d started talking about the effects of chemical and biological attacks on the human organism. And the one thing he had learned was that he had no desire to spit up dissolving lung tissue or drown in his own body fluids.
The sergeant started backing away. Then something weirder happened (his definition of weird was expanding by the second) that made him forget all about chemical agents. There was something in this mist, lots of somethings. He heard sounds, strange, eerie echoes, like women weeping and children singing, caught sight of shadowy, eyeless children with pumpkin-size heads and deformed mouths that peeled back, exposing rows of prickly teeth, and crawling up behind them hunchbacked women with emaciated arms and legs, shriveled flesh and black holes for eyes, their distended abdomens swollen and pulsing, giant stingers dripping black, viscous goop protruding from the tips of their sagging breasts. They extended their arms to him, smiling sweetly, inviting him to dance.
The sergeant turned to run and ran right into a member of the special response unit. Behind the specialist was a squad of at least twenty well-armed ESU team members, hard, well-trained men who knew their business.
“What’s going on—” the specialist started, but the sergeant didn’t have time to answer questions. The sergeant had to go, had a doctor’s appointment, needed to feed his goldfish, left his toaster oven on, something. The sergeant hauled ass out of there, leaving behind one very bewildered ESU squad.
A moment later, right about the time the swarm of disembodied heads flew screeching past, and the naked old women with the scabby raven heads started to dance merrily around the squad, to weave their cold fingers along their necks and scalps, the special response unit turned tail and followed the sergeant rapidly from the vicinity.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Horned One
The Mist blanketed the park in a luminescent silvery glow, muting the shouting men, blaring horns, even the sirens. Peter felt as though he were in a dream; the whimpering and groaning of the wounded and dying echoing along with the sad song of the Mist.
The Mist? The Mist could mean only one thing. The Lady’s alive! Peter thought. There in the pond. She must be in the pond!
The pond’s glow faded, slowly returning to black. Peter jerked his swords free from the dead Flesh-eater at his feet, not even bothering to wipe the blood off, just shoving the blades back in their scabbards as he sprinted for the pond. He pushed past two wounded Flesh-eaters—supporting each other as they hobbled away—giving them not so much as a glance, focused only on the pond—on the Lady.
“Where is she?” Peter whispered, scanning the pool. He needed to find her, needed to see for himself that she was indeed alive. He saw Danny, standing knee-deep in the pond, the rope still tied around his middle. The rope was taut and sank below the water. Peter leaped into the pond, splashed out to Danny, and grabbed the rope, following hand over hand until he found the Lady. He gently pulled her to the surface, cradling her.
Peter saw her face, her half-open eyes—blank and lifeless, completely void of any color—then saw the angry gash in her collar. “Oh, no,” he whispered
. “No. No.” He pulled her to shore and laid her on the bank.
She slowly opened her eyes and smiled at Peter. “Mabon, you found me.” She touched his cheek.
The witch was there, beside them. “No Modron, you silly teat. It’s just the boy. Your Mabon is dust and bones.” She took the Lady’s hand in hers. “Now, no more gibbering. Concentrate on your wound.”
The Lady’s eyes closed. She seemed to stop breathing altogether.
“Do something,” Peter said to the witch. “Please, do something.”
“Oh, stop your blubbering,” the witch said. “There’s little I can do. Avallach gave his healing touch to Modron, not me.” She sneered. “Little bright and sparkly here was always his favorite. Look, she’s stopped the bleeding at least.”
“She’ll be all right then,” Peter insisted.
“Maybe. She’s weak. She used herself up bringing on the Mist. She needs water. Pure, fresh water, not this stinking, stagnant pool. We have to get her out of here. Take her someplace where—”
“PETER!” Huck called. “Behind you!”
Peter whipped around, sword in hand in a mere blink. There, next to Danny, the Captain! He stood knee-deep in the pond, the rope in one hand, a long knife in the other.
Peter’s lips peeled back. “YOU!” he snarled and pointed his sword at the man.
“Hold!” the Captain called, raising his hands, holding the knife up. “I just want the boy.” He gestured to Danny. “Just want the boy, nothing more.”
Peter couldn’t believe his ears. This demon, this monster, dared ask to take a child—from him. After all the Devils that lay dead at this man’s hands? “Never,” Peter growled, and leaped into the pond, charging the Captain with a wide swing. The Captain parried the blow with his knife and fell away, causing Peter to barrel past. The Captain snatched out his own sword, readied himself.
“PETER, NO!” Nick cried, and jumped into the pond, splashing between them. “STOP!” Nick carried a spear, one of the large Flesh-eaters’ spears. He brought the shaft up, blocking Peter.
Peter leveled his sword at Nick, placed the blade directly under his throat. “I’m warning you, Nick,” Peter said coldly. “You’ve come before my sword too many times. Get out of my way. Now!”
“Just free Daniel,” the Captain said calmly. “Send him with me and we’ll go.”
“WHAT?” Peter cried. “You will never take another child from me, not ever. All you will get from me is the edge of my sword.”
The Devils splashed into the pond, spears and swords pointed at the Captain, holding him in check. The Captain didn’t waver. He kept his guard steady.
“Peter, stop this!” Nick cried. “Look, open your eyes and look.” He pointed at the bodies around the pool, to Ivy, her unblinking eyes staring up into the mist, to Carlos, lying on the bank, his throat open, a ribbon of blood feeding into the pond. “How much is enough? How many must die? You have your precious Lady, just let them go.”
Peter tried not to look at the dead Devils. They’d died honorably, heroically. He wouldn’t let Nick muddy their deaths, twist things around. Nick had it backward, that’s all. “There’s only one bastard to blame for their lives. One.” Peter pointed at the Captain. “Him.”
“No, Peter,” Nick said. “The Captain fought with us. He saved your Lady. Does that mean nothing to you?”
Peter narrowed his eyes at Nick.
“It’s true,” Cricket called.
Peter let out a long breath, then set his glare on the Captain. “Leave now. Right now and I’ll spare you. But the boy…that traitor. He stays. He owes me a debt.”
The Captain shook his head slowly. “I will not leave the boy. Not with you.”
The Devils tightened their grips on the spears, glanced to Peter.
Peter shrugged. “Then you will die, here and now.”
Nick spun the point of his spear toward Peter. “No, not this time. I won’t watch you murder this man. Not like Leroy. Never again.”
Peter saw the conviction in Nick’s eyes. He’s not bluffing. He means it. By all the gods, this stupid kid means it. He glared at Nick. “Nick, you’re going to get hurt, bad. This is your last—”
A scream cut through the Mist. Peter spun, ready for anything but what he saw. “Ulfger,” Peter exhaled in a wounded breath.
Ulfger stood near the far end of the pond. His head cocked to one side as though hearing voices, his hair frayed, soot smeared across his face, his dark, brooding eyes haunted, crazed. The Mist swirled away from him and there at his feet lay—Drael!
“Oh, no!” Peter said and started forward, stopped. Something was wrong. Peter squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The old elf cradled his arm to his chest. It was turning black, the blackness crawling up his shoulder, then his neck, along his cheek. Drael’s face cinched up in pain, and his skin began to smolder.
“What madness is this?” Peter hissed.
Drael let out another cry, a cry that made Peter’s skin crawl. The elf rolled onto his back, began writhing in the grass, blood poured from his eyes, nose, mouth. His back arched, his fingers tore at his chest. He let out a final strangled cry, then lay still.
Peter stood frozen in place, could do nothing more than stare at the smoldering corpse of his old friend. “No,” Peter murmured. “This isn’t possible.”
An elf darted forward, sent his spear shooting across the ground, catching Ulfger in the chest, punching through his chest-plate and deep into his heart. Ulfger stumbled back, looked at the spear like he was just—curious. He grabbed the spear, grunted, and yanked it out. No trace of blood touched the blade.
“What’s going on?” Peter whispered.
“His blood is one with the sword,” the witch said. “He cannot be stopped. Not by mortal sword and spear.”
Ulfger’s eyes fell on the Lady. He smiled at Peter. “I will have her head. Come, you runt. You little freak.” He waved to Peter, as though inviting him to a hand of cards. “Come see if you can save your queen.” He kicked Drael’s smoldering corpse. “Come taste Avallach’s judgment.”
Peter snarled, sprang out of the pond, and charged Ulfger. He let out a howl and swung high with his left sword and low with the right. Ulfger smashed Caliburn against one sword, shattering the blade and knocking the weapon from Peter’s grasp. But Peter’s second blade sliced into Ulfger’s thigh just above the knee. Ulfger stumbled and Peter slashed him across the back of the neck. A savage light flashed in Peter’s eyes at the feel of steel biting flesh. For Drael! Peter spun around to finish Ulfger, but to his horror, to his total disbelief, he found Ulfger still on his feet. The giant seemed hardly affected by either strike. Peter fell back a step as the wounds healed right before his eyes. Ulfger pressed in, swinging for Peter’s chest. Peter brought his sword to bear at the last second, but was off-balance and the blow knocked the sword from his hand and him to his knees.
Cutter rushed forward, jabbing his spear into Ulfger’s stomach. Ulfger grunted, grabbed the hilt, and used it to knock Cutter into Peter, then stabbed the boy in the back.
Peter struggled to pull Cutter up when the boy screamed. Cutter’s skin burned, actually sizzling and turning black right beneath Peter’s hands. Peter let out a cry of horror; did not even see Ulfger swing at him. A huge gloved fist slammed into Peter’s brow. Everything went very bright for an instant, then viselike fingers clamped around his throat, yanking him off his feet.
Peter struggled, kicked, and clawed at Ulfger’s hand and arm, but Ulfger’s grip was like steel.
The elves fell back, surrounding the Lady, leaving Peter to his fate, but not the Devils, they rushed in: Rex, Drake, Huck, Dash, and even Cricket came splashing out of the pond. They circled Ulfger, no clacking teeth, or wild war cries, only grim, resolute eyes.
Ulfger sneered at them, held Caliburn before Peter’s face. “One touch,” Ulfger shouted. “And your precious chief here is ash.”
The Devils glanced at each other, unsure, their helplessness stri
pping them of their savagery.
Ulfger tightened his grip. Peter let out a strangled cry, felt the bones in his neck would snap at any moment. “Back,” Ulfger said.
The Devils fell back.
“Ulfger,” the witch called. “Heed me Ulfger. If you taste his blood you will not like what you find.” The witch smiled and wet her green teeth with her tongue.
Ulfger dismissed her with a sneer. “Modron,” Ulfger commanded. “Look at me. Look at me!”
The witch lifted the Lady into a sitting position. “Here now, dearie. Let’s not disappoint Ulfger. Do take a look. You won’t want to miss this. That I promise.”
“Modron!” Ulfger called.
The Lady opened her eyes.
“Look what I’ve caught. Something dear to your heart.” He shook Peter. “Does he remind you of your little Mabon? Watch, Modron. Watch your precious boy burn.”
The Lady shook her head and raised a quivering hand.
Ulfger grinned, his eyes flashed. He took the black blade, set it against Peter’s cheek, and slowly slid the edge down, cutting a long gash into the side of the boy’s face.
Heat bloomed across Peter’s cheek. He cried out and Ulfger tossed him to the ground.
Cricket screamed; the Devils, Tanngnost, the elves, all froze, all stared in wide-eyed dread.
Peter clutched his cheek, his heart thudding in his chest. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run, not from the poison. It was in his blood; he felt its heat course through his veins. He waited for the pain, for the burning, but the burning never came, only the warmth, spreading through his body. Peter pulled his hand from his face, found no blood. Touched the wound, felt it growing smaller, shrinking—disappearing.
Ulfger’s smile faded; he looked on, confused.
A laugh, a cackling laugh came from the pond. It was the witch. “Oh, Ulfger, you big stupid ass, if you could see your face.” She laughed again. “I tried to warn you. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? This can mean only one thing.”