by Brom
Ulfger narrowed his eyes at her.
“Think about it, you big oaf. The wound does not bleed. The sword does not burn him? Why, Ulfger? What must that mean? Come now, you can do it.”
Ulfger’s eyes went wide. He shook his head.
“Yes,” the witch said. “You see, don’t you? Yes you do, my big stupid nephew. You see very well.”
“No,” he said. “NO!”
“Seems the Horned One had more than one little bastard running around,” the witch laughed. “Oh this is truly delicious.” She shook the Lady. “See, Modron. I told you you wouldn’t want to miss it.”
Ulfger glared at the witch, pointed Caliburn at her. “You lie, witch! You are full of lies!”
Peter made for his feet and Ulfger turned the black sword on him, held the jagged, broken point an inch from his heart. “Tricks. Lies. I will not—” Ulfger’s eyes flared, he cocked his head sideways, again as though listening to some unseen phantom. His face twisted into a mask of despair and pain. “Why?” he mewled. “Why must you forever torment me? Why do you hate me so? I have been the good son—ever the good son.” Peter tried to ease away and Ulfger’s eyes came into sharp focus, blazed with unfathomable hate. “You!” His face pinched into a knot. “You are an abomination!” he screeched, and shoved Caliburn into Peter’s chest, drove the blade all the way through Peter’s ribs and out his back.
Blinding pain—Peter tried to scream, managed only a strangled gasp. Ulfger twisted the blade sharply left, right, then yanked the weapon free. Peter dropped, rolled in the dirt, clutching, clawing at the deep wound, his mouth working, trying to breathe. He felt air escape between his fingers, heard—felt—a horrible sucking come from the wound as the air left his punctured lung.
Ulfger laughed, a high, strained sound almost like wailing. He reared back for a second thrust when the Devils rushed in.
Rex dove in low, recklessly, going for Ulfger’s knee, forcing Ulfger to switch his thrust from Peter to him. Ulfger missed, the blade driving into the dirt. The boy slashed Ulfger’s leg. Dash drove his spear into Ulfger’s stomach, the spear punched through the mail, sunk deep into Ulfger’s gut. Ulfger let out a loud grunt, stumbled back. Drake and Huck were there, attacking from behind, Huck hacking low while Drake cut high.
Even through his pain, Peter admired their bravery, cunning, and coordination. For a moment it looked good for the Devils, looked to Peter like they might stand a chance, might be able to stop this monster, or at least drive him back. Then Ulfger yanked Caliburn from the ground, spun around—the sword seemed to weigh nothing in his hand—and his speed caught them all by surprise. He struck Rex in the side of the head, cleaving the boy’s skull open; blood and brains followed the sword’s wake as it cleaved through Huck’s arm, then neck. Both boys collapsed into lifeless heaps. Drake ducked back, the sword missed his head but nicked his shoulder, the slightest scratch, yet his face showed he knew his fate, knew what that one scratch meant. An instant later, a dark patch bloomed, crawled up his neck, across his chest. Drake screamed, but did not stop fighting; even as his skin smoldered and peeled away from the bone, he rushed Ulfger. Ulfger knocked the boy away with his fist, leaving him to burn.
“No,” Peter said in a strained rasp, almost out of his mind with pain, anger, and frustration. Ulfger was killing the Devils, his Devils, murdering every one of them while he lay in the dirt. “Fuck,” he spat. Tears squeezed from his eyes as he forced himself to his hands and knees. He clutched his chest—there was no blood. The pain turned slowly to warmth, and he realized he could breathe again, that the wound was healing. The sword. That cursed sword.
Only Dash and Cricket were left. Dash jumped between Peter and Ulfger. Cricket slid over next to him. She looked so small before Ulfger’s towering mass. Peter could see her fear, the utter terror in her face, yet still she stood, spear ready just as Sekeu had shown her.
Peter pushed slowly to his feet.
Ulfger laughed and came for them.
“DEVILS, DEVILS, DEVILS FOREVER!” Dash screamed and charged Ulfger, swinging with all his strength and speed. Ulfger met the attack with a crushing blow, cutting through Dash’s sword and forearm, catching the boy in the stomach, almost slicing him in two. Dash flew back into Cricket and Peter, knocking them over. Ulfger raised Caliburn above his head. “JUDGMENT COMES!” he screamed.
A spear tore through the side of Ulfger’s neck. His eyes went wide with surprise.
Peter blinked—there was Nick, his face hard, focused, no trace of the confused, scared boy he’d found in the park such a short time ago. This boy was lean and dangerous, his cold, piercing eyes the eyes of a killer.
Nick shoved the spear deeper into Ulfger’s neck and shouted, “GET AWAY FROM HER!”
Ulfger dropped Caliburn, clutched the spear in both hands, gagging and strangling as he tried to wrestle it from Nick’s grasp. Nick gave the spear a final, hard thrust and leaped over to Cricket. He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her to her feet, and cried, “CRICKET, RUN!”
Ulfger pulled the spear from his neck and fixed on Nick. Peter tried to shout, tried to get up in time. Ulfger threw the spear, catching Nick in the back, just below his shoulder blade. The spearhead sprung out from the front of Nick’s chest. Nick looked at it for a moment, then collapsed to his knees.
“NICK!” Cricket screamed.
“Run,” Nick said weakly, and fell over.
Ulfger and Peter locked eyes across the bodies of the dead and dying, the heat of their hate boring into each other. Peter’s chest heaved, his lips peeled back, his golden eyes flared, his fingers ached to rip away Ulfger’s flesh, to tear his eyes from their sockets. Caliburn, the deadly, black blade, lay in the dirt between them. The two half-brothers stared at it as one. Peter was quicker. He dove for the sword, snatching up the blade and coming up in a roll. He swung for Ulfger—the sword weighed nothing in his hands—it sliced through the giant’s armor like paper, cutting deep into Ulfger’s thigh. Ulfger stumbled back, fear in his eyes.
Peter felt the bite of the sword’s spiked hilt, felt its heat, felt its pulse within him, felt its power. He heard the Horned One then—calling his name. Peter could see that Ulfger heard it too.
“No,” Ulfger cried. “I am the one. Me, Father. Me!”
Peter hefted the blade and moved in, circling, stalking the giant.
Ulfger backed away, his haunted eyes rolling wildly in their sockets, frantically searching for some escape. His heel caught on Huck’s body and he tumbled over backward.
Peter was at him.
“NO!” Ulfger cried.
Peter brought the black sword high over his head and down with all his strength. Ulfger put up his hands, tried to block the strike, but Caliburn sliced through his wrists, leaving two steaming stumps. Ulfger wailed with outrage and pain. Peter brought the sword down again. This time, the blade bit deep into Ulfger’s neck. Ulfger’s face twisted in agony. An awful, strangling sound gurgled from the deep gash across his throat. Peter grinned, letting the sword take him, reveled in its song as he brought the blade down over and over. Ulfger’s wounds tried to heal, but Peter kept hacking and hacking, chopping and re-chopping, until, at last, Ulfger’s head rolled away and his body fell limp.
The Mist swirled and danced around Peter. He felt the Horned One’s wild blood—awakened by the sword, by the death and carnage—pumping in his veins. Peter’s golden eyes blazed. He set his foot atop Ulfger’s chest, pointed Caliburn heavenward, threw back his head, and howled.
The call echoed across the park.
PETER CLOSED HIS eyes, listening to his own heartbeat. He heard men shouting in the distance and the warbling sirens growing louder, and knew the Mist was thinning again. The Lady’s voice came to him, softly, but pushing all other sounds into the background. “Peter.”
Peter opened his eyes, saw the Lady. She appeared a little stronger now, and some of the color had returned to her eyes. She beamed at him. “Peter,” she whispered. “You are my champion—foreve
r.”
Peter glanced from Ulfger’s body to the bodies of the Flesh-eaters. He jabbed Ulfger’s head with the tip of Caliburn. Ulfger’s lips quivered and his eyes flickered. Peter wondered if the head was still alive somehow, if the sword’s spell could do that. He hoped so as he kicked the head into the pond. He stared at the bubbles as it sunk below the water and disappeared from sight. Then Peter strolled toward the Lady, a triumphant smile spreading across his face as his heart swelled. Yes, I am your champion.
A ragged sob cut the silence. Cricket cradled Nick in her lap; there was blood trickling from his mouth, but the boy was still alive, his eyes were on Peter—watching him, judging him. Peter’s smile faded.
Peter stuck the deadly sword into the earth, came and knelt beside them. He clasped Nick’s shoulder. The boy’s skin was clammy. “Nick, you fought bravely. You’re a true Devil. You saved—”
“Cut the bullshit,” Nick snapped.
Peter flinched.
Nick caught hold of his arm. “How can you continue to play this game?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Are you truly that blind?” He pointed at the smoldering husks of Rex, Huck, Drake. “Look! Look at them! They’re all dead, all your Devils. Don’t you even care? Or do they no longer matter?”
Peter tried not to look, but there was no escaping the wide, staring eyes of the dead, the stink of guts, blood, and burned flesh hanging in the Mist. Nothing noble or romantic, just death. He tried to pull away, but Nick held him, his face tight with anger and pain. “Don’t you dare look away from them. Not after they gave their lives for you, stood by you when no one else would.”
“No,” Peter said. “They died for the Lady. They died honorably, defending their queen.”
“She’s not their queen, you stupid fuck.” Nick coughed and blood spattered his chin. “It was you they worshipped, you they followed, and look where you led them. Look! You traded their lives for the Lady, your goddamn precious Lady. Was it worth it? Was she worth all their lives?”
Peter knocked Nick’s hand away. “No,” Peter growled. “It’s not like that. You’re always twisting things around.” But even as he shook his head, he saw their faces, not in death, but in life. Those vibrant children who had followed him through the Mist on a promise—had laughed, cried, played, fought, and died alongside of him.
Peter caught sight of Danny and the Captain climbing out from the far side of the pool. He leaped to his feet, reached for Caliburn, then stopped, glanced back at Nick—at Nick’s hard, cold eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” Nick said. “Go on. Kill them too. More blood for your goddamn queen. Right?”
Peter let out a hard breath and just stood there, watching as the Captain and Danny disappeared into the trees.
“Peter,” the Lady called. “Come to me.” She sounded stronger. Tanngnost carried her in his arms. The elves, the witch, the three girls, and the barghest all surrounded her. She smiled at him. “It is time to go.”
Nick coughed, spat up a mouthful of blood. Peter looked, as though for the first time, at the spear protruding from Nick’s chest. The boy was so pale; pain creased his eyes.
“Hold on, Nick,” Peter said. “You’re going to be all right.” He dashed over to the Lady. “Modron,” Peter called. “Hurry, help him before it’s too late.”
The Lady reached for Peter, took his hand, and smiled sadly at him. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for him.”
“Of course there is. You can heal him. You can try.”
“Peter,” she said sternly. “We’ve no time for their kind, not now.”
Their kind? Peter stared at her.
“Peter, please don’t look at me that way. I know the human children are dear to you. But they are back in their place now. It is up to their gods to help them. We have to look after our own.”
“Nick is our own. He’s earned his place a thousand times over. You owe it to him.”
The Lady’s eyes flared. “Enough of this,” she said sharply. “Would you have me risk everything for him? I must conserve my strength; there are many trials ahead.”
Peter grabbed the Lady’s hand. “Please,” he said. “Just do what you can. Anything. Please, I’m begging you.”
Her face softened. “Peter, don’t fret so. You need to let go, put their kind behind you. You are my warlord now. Your place awaits. Now, I will hear no more of this. Tanngnost, we need to leave before all is lost.”
Peter looked from face to face: the witch’s smirk, the girls’ wicked smiles, the cold eyes of the elves. Only Tanngnost seemed genuinely saddened by the dying boy. “I’m sorry, Peter,” the old troll said. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“Now come, Peter,” the Lady said. “We must make haste.”
They all turned away, leaving Peter standing there, the slain bodies of his Devils scattered around him.
NICK FELT A chill, a numbing coldness crawling toward his heart. I’m not going to make it, he thought. I’m never going to see my mother again. Tears rolled down his cheeks. I have to tell her I’m sorry. Tell her how much I love her. Have to.
“Peter,” Nick called weakly. Peter didn’t hear him.
“Peter,” Cricket called. “Peter.”
Peter slowly pulled his eyes away from the Lady, walked over, and knelt down next to them.
“I need you to do something for me,” Nick said.
Peter nodded, distractedly.
“You have to find my mother.” Nick coughed, it was getting hard to speak. “Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry. And Peter.” Nick clutched Peter’s arm, pulled him close. “Kill them. Kill Marko and his friends. Will you do that?”
Peter didn’t answer, he glanced to the Lady—Tanngnost was carrying her away, the refugees of Avalon following them toward the harbor.
“Peter, look at me. You made me a promise. You swore. No games this time. You have to do this for me. Okay?”
“I’ll do what I can, Nick.”
“No, swear it! Fucking swear it. Put your fingers out where I can see them and swear.”
Peter’s eyes dropped. “Nick, I can’t. Not now. There are still things left to do.”
“Goddamn you,” Nick cried. “Listen to me. She lives near the park, where you found me. It’s on Carroll Street, just off Fourth Avenue. The blue house. The only blue house on the street. Did you get that? Carroll Street. The blue house. You can’t miss it.” Nick coughed, spat out a mouthful of blood. “Go there, kill Marko. You owe me. You fucking owe me.”
Peter nodded, but said nothing more.
Cricket was sobbing.
Nick’s hands went numb; Peter’s arm slid from his grasp. He wanted to say more, wanted to make Peter swear. To see in his eyes that he would indeed kill Marko. But it was too hard to speak. He smiled weakly at the golden-eyed boy. “The Lady,” Nick whispered. “She has stolen your soul.”
Nick’s vision blurred. So cold, he thought and wished his mother was here. Wished he could see her one more time, feel her warm arms around him. That would be so nice, so good. He closed his eyes.
PETER WATCHED NICK’S hand drop lifelessly to the dirt.
Cricket stared at Nick. She was no longer crying, just staring. Her eyes were distant—lost.
The Lady’s voice drifted to Peter across the last remnants of the Mist. “Peter, come to me.” The troop waited for him in the shadowy trees.
“Cricket,” Peter said. “Let’s go.”
Cricket looked at Peter as though he were a stranger, then into the shadows, to where the Lady waited. Cricket shook her head. “No, I’m not going.”
“So much awaits, we must—” Peter stopped, let out a weary sigh. He touched Cricket’s shoulder. “Good-bye, Cricket.” She didn’t look up.
Peter stood, pulled Caliburn from the dirt, studied the black broken blade. I was there, he thought. When this blade was broken. I stood by his side, the Horned One—my father, when he carried it into battle.
He tugged Ulfger’s cape from
his stiff body, used it to wrap the deadly blade. He took a last long look at the dead, a hard look into each of their faces, then into Nick’s face. “I won’t forget.” He turned and followed the Lady.
PETER CAUGHT UP with her at the Battery. The Mist had drifted away and he could see the Statue of Liberty glowing green in the harbor. One of the elves leaped up onto the sea wall, pointed down the way. “There, a vessel.” The elf squinted his narrow eyes and said with surprise, “It’s the longboat.”
Peter helped Tanngnost carry the Lady down the rocks to the blackened hull of the great boat. One by one, the last refugees of Avalon boarded: the witch, her daughters, Tanngnost and the Lady, the elves, finally the barghest, scampering up the bow and perching like gargoyles along the magnificent dragonhead. When it came Peter’s turn, he hesitated.
“Hurry, Peter,” the Lady said.
Peter set a hand on the rail, started to pull himself aboard, then stopped.
“Peter?”
He clenched his jaw and slowly shook his head.
The Lady gave him a stern loo
“I can’t.”
“Don’t jest,” the Lady said.
“There’s something I have to do first.”
“You don’t mean the silly promise you made that boy?”
Peter nodded.
“Come aboard, Peter,” the Lady commanded. “This is no time for games.”
Peter opened his pouch and pulled out three apples.
The Lady’s eyes grew round. “Avallach’s seed,” she said in awe. “How?”
Peter handed her the apples. She cradled them to her breast like newborns.
“Peter, do you know what this means? Why, Avalon can truly be reborn!”
Peter nodded again.
“Peter,” her voice dropped low, seductive. “Everything you ever desired awaits.” Her piercing, cerulean eyes glowed. “A new world, my champion. And you will sit by my side, sharing all the magical delights.” Her voice deepened. “See it, Peter. See your rightful place. See your destiny fulfilled.”