They chimed and jingled at him in fits and starts.
“Yes, well, never mind who’s in charge,” Peter said, flipping the sword upside down so he could cross his arms over his chest. “Who are you supposed to be helping?”
Two or three jingled a reluctant reply, and they all turned a much more bluish shade of purple, looking rather sullen.
“That’s right. Me. So if I say I’m going to fight in an epic battle, then you can’t stop me.” He turned to Tigerlilja while the innisfay began to argue amongst themselves. “They don’t want me to leave,” he told her.
“I’m the one who needs to leave!” she protested, her voice tense with frustration. “Just tell them to send me back, and then you can argue with them all you want!”
“It isn’t that simple, or I would,” Peter replied easily. “The door is up there, and I need them to show me how it works.” He pointed over his head, up into the cloudless sky.
“There’s nothing up there, you fool! Stop playing around! What’s wrong with you? Lives are at stake! How do we get back?”
“I’ve told you how,” Peter began, but he stopped speaking when a single innisfay turned and addressed him, its chimes sounding firm and determined.
“We’ll see about that,” Peter replied, and then he turned to Tinker Bell, whose hair had turned the color of the winter sea. “Come,” he said.
He held out his left hand, and the innisfay flew to him immediately, kneeling on his palm and staring up at him with huge, soulful eyes.
“Oh, here,” he said to Tigerlilja, apparently as an afterthought. “Hold this for me, would you?” He held the sword out to her, and she snatched it back from him, muttering something unintelligible under her breath.
Peter turned to the innisfay and covered his palm carefully with his other hand, leaving only one small opening, directly in front of him, so he could still see and speak to her.
“You are my family,” he told her, “You are the one I can always count on. The first one. And I need you. I know they don’t want her to leave—”
“What?” Tigerlilja exclaimed.
“It’s not personal,” Peter told her. “It’s a hidden island. People outside aren’t supposed to know about it, and now you know about it.”
“But I have to—”
“I know,” Peter said, cutting her off. “I’m working on it, and you’re not helping.”
Tigerlilja thrust her jaw forward angrily and expelled a heavy sigh.
“So,” he said, turning back to Tinker Bell. “They don’t want Tigerlilja to leave, and they’d rather I didn’t leave either. But I want to have an epic adventure. And I want Tigerlilja to be able to go home. And, most importantly, I want you to come with me. Because we’re family. So, will you help me? If you do, you will be my family forever. My first family. I swear it on my own heart.”
Tinker Bell looked up at him from the safety of his cupped hands, and through the thin cracks between his fingers, Tigerlilja saw the golden glow return.
“Then fly!” Peter shouted.
He tossed his hands into the air, and Tinker Bell shot straight up, bolting furiously into the sky.
“Hold on!” he told Tigerlilja.
“What?” Before she fully understood what was happening, he darted behind her, placed one arm beneath her shoulders and another beneath her knees, and lifted her into the air, sword and all, speeding after Tinker Bell. By sheer instinct, as the world fell away beneath her, she wrapped her left arm tightly around his shoulders, still grasping the sword with her right.
“Think of home,” he told her. “And we’ll be there before you know it.”
As Peter continued to follow Tinker Bell, heading for some imaginary door she couldn’t see, Tigerlilja closed her eyes and prayed to all the gods she knew. Take me home. Please, let us get there in time.
She imagined her village, and the docks, and the boats, just as she had left them. She remembered Vegard, shouting her name. She thought of Father and Mother and Amma. And then, even through her closed eyelids, everything went impossibly dark. And cold. And there was only the feeling of Peter’s arms around her and the weight of the sword in her hand.
hey burst out of the darkness into another bright blue sky—above a hill, overlooking the village. Plumes of smoke rose from the burning buildings, spreading into a grayish-brown haze that had settled over everything, including the docks. But Tigerlilja could see well enough to know the clan was in trouble.
Most of the arrows had long been spent, and the bulk of the fighting was now hand-to-hand, with just a few clan archers standing up in the boats, using the last of their ammunition sparingly, waiting for killing blows. What remained of the village’s warriors now fought along the piers, blocking the access to the docks while their children and their elders were loaded onto boats.
Tigerlilja searched in vain for any sign of her family. Was that Father fighting on the far pier? Was that Mother who had just sunk an axe into a skull-man’s leg? She was too far away to tell, and she leaned forward in Peter’s arms, unconsciously trying to get closer.
The clan was holding back the remaining horde, for now, but they were vastly outnumbered. Even as she watched, one of her clansmen took a death blow, cleaved through the neck. He toppled off the dock into the shallows, and another stepped forward to take his place. Was it Vegard who had just fallen? Or was he the man who now stood on the front line?
Tigerlilja tried desperately to reach the bow and quiver that were still slung across her back, but Peter’s arm was in the way. She couldn’t fight like this, and, in any event, they were still too far away.
“Hurry!” she screamed. “They’re dying!”
But instead of flying faster, he let her go.
One minute she was soaring through the air, cradled in his arms, and the next she was falling toward her death, her stomach lurching into her throat. Her eyes opened wide, but she made no sound. In her shock, she didn’t even curse him. She just fell, silently, watching the ground scream toward her, faster and faster.
And then he was beneath her, grabbing her thighs, ramming her legs into his shoulders. Her body snapped backward, and she slammed into a flurry of beating wings. She struggled to sit up, yelling with the effort as she fought against gravity and acceleration. Without thinking, she grabbed at the leading edge of feathers for leverage, and the sword, which she still held in her hand, fell dangerously close to his head.
“Watch it!” he snapped.
He jerked away, twisting his wing from her grasp, and the world spun wildly again as they rolled in midair. But, this time, he did not let her go, and when they turned right side up, she found herself sitting on his shoulders, lodged safely behind his neck, with both arms free.
And they were almost in range.
She reached behind her back, and her left hand found an arrow. Her quiver was miraculously still in place. But her bow…
“Here,” he said. “You dropped this.”
He let go of her with his right arm just long enough to hand the weapon up over his shoulder. She snatched it back in a flood of relief and handed him the sword in its place.
Together, they rained terror down from the sky.
She killed the first skull-man with an arrow through the neck and gravely injured a second before the invaders had any idea that death had come for them from behind. And then, once they recognized the danger, they wasted precious moments scanning doorways and stone walls and even burning rooftops, trying in vain to find the man or woman who had escaped their wrath.
Two more fell before anyone bothered to look up. And then they screamed.
Dragon!
Run!
Buri, help us!
The two-headed monster bellowed its rage, and the closest of Buri’s minions dropped their weapons, fleeing toward the relative safety of the trees.
Their terrified shouts alerted the other skull-men, and a few brave souls hurled their axes into the air, hoping to kill the beast. But Peter either dodg
ed them or caught them and threw them back, laughing at the game.
“I’m out of arrows,” Tigerlilja told him, slinging her bow back over her shoulder. “Give me the sword and put me down.”
“Are you sure they’re all gone?” Peter asked, sounding disappointed. “I rather liked being a dragon.”
“Now!” she told him.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
He tossed the sword over his shoulder, and she caught it neatly. Then he dove toward what remained of the horde, causing a new wave of panic. As he neared the ground, he suddenly ducked and caught the air with his wings, throwing Tigerlilja forward over his head. She fell to one knee when she landed but sprang back to her feet in an instant, the sword glowing in her hand.
Peter’s wings disappeared with a sound like a small thunderclap and he fell to the earth behind her. He pulled his own swords from their sheaths on either side of his waist—a matching pair of thin, curved blades. Without any discussion, he and Tigerlilja stood back-to-back, ready for battle, but then a voice as deep as Gjallahorn itself bellowed from the edge of the forest.
“Stop! He’s mine!”
The sound reverberated through Tigerlilja’s chest and belly, and everything around her fell still. The skull-men dropped to one knee where they stood, the battle immediately forgotten.
“What magic is this?” Tigerlilja whispered.
“I don’t know,” Peter replied, even though she hadn’t really been asking.
He turned around to face the same direction she did, but the forest lay beyond the village, hidden from view by the buildings and the smoke. He arched his back and cupped his hands to his mouth.
“No!” Tigerlilja hissed at him. “I didn’t mean—”
“What magic is this?” Peter called out, matching the resonance of the original bellow with his own clarion tenor.
Before he had even finished the first word, Tigerlilja dropped the sword and clapped her hands to her ears, glaring at him. “What is wrong with you?”
But then a new sound echoed through the village—thunderous footsteps pounding the earth.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
As the steps grew closer, Tigerlilja peered through the haze, and a huge form began to appear out of the chaos. At first it seemed nothing more than a darker patch of smoke, where some building or other had just now caught fire and spewed a new burst of filth through the rest. It was the only way her mind could make sense of it.
It was too big to be a person.
But the smoke continued to condense, taking on shape, coalescing into hands. And feet. And a face, with eyes black as coal. Until she could no longer deny it—this was a man. A giant of a man.
He stood taller than a house, his head towering over the roofs of the nearest buildings as he came fully into view. He stepped out of the village and moved into the field that stood between the settlement and the river, lumbering toward them.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
He stopped when he had reached the center of the wide, open space, and he lifted a tremendous wooden club, choked with spikes, settling it carefully on his shoulder.
“Peter Pan,” he said, his voice so deep that it carried across the field without effort. “I am so glad to find you here. I had heard rumors that you were still alive. I didn’t see how it was possible, and yet here you are. Imagine my delight, knowing I will have the pleasure of killing you myself.”
“A challenge!” Peter shouted back. “Excellent! I accept!”
“Peter? Who is this?” Tigerlilja murmured, bending slowly to pick up her sword and trying not to attract the giant’s attention. “Why did he attack us, and why does he want you dead?”
Peter shrugged. “I don’t know,” he told her. “If he kills me, maybe you can ask him.”
“Wait, what?” Tigerlilja looked up and tried to grab his wrist, but it was already too late.
In the space of a single heartbeat, his wings snapped out behind him, and he launched himself into the sky.
igerlilja held her breath as Peter hurled himself toward the giant. He crossed his swords in the air ahead of him, preparing to slice through the monster’s neck, but the tremendous creature only laughed, swatting at him with the spiked cudgel, which was easily as thick as a man’s leg. Peter rolled up and away at the last possible moment, barely dodging the blow in time.
The giant’s swing seemed to break the spell his men had been under. Their god fought, so they, too, would fight. They rose to their feet and turned toward the docks, their axes held high, but Tigerlilja was ready. She snatched up a shield from the ground, trying not to see the body that lay near it. There would be time for grieving later. This was the time to protect what remained.
The first skull-man to approach her was tall and broad-shouldered, and although Tigerlilja was not a small woman, it was not an even match. He swung at her head with a long axe, trying to cleave it through in a single blow before she could reach him. She ducked away, but not far enough. The impact would have crippled her shoulder if it hadn’t been for the shield. She felt it through the sturdy wood, her entire forearm singing with pain, but the shield held.
She screamed and kicked at his belly to push him back, but he didn’t even budge. Chain mail protected his torso, and his cold, skull-hollow eyes laughed at her from beneath the teeth of a wolf’s head. He raised his axe again, but this time when the blow fell, Tigerlilja pushed the falling weapon inward, spinning around her own shield to backhand her sword into his hamstrings.
He howled in agony as the leg buckled beneath him, and she ran her sword through his neck.
She stepped onto one of the two wooden piers and saw an archer, still standing tall in the nearest boat, his bow drawn and ready, waiting for a clean shot. With a muffled cry, she recognized him, and she shouted his name.
“Vegard!”
He turned at the sound, as did the skull-man closest to her on the docks.
“That was a mistake,” she told him, tilting her head to one side, just to hold his attention. Vegard’s arrow flew straight and true, piercing the man’s neck, and Tigerlilja used her shield to push him off the dock into the water.
The skull-men on the pier were cornered now, fighting the clan ahead and Tigerlilja behind. But a woman turned to her next, and Tigerlilja narrowed her eyes, watching her carefully. The men had stood tall, overconfident, but the skull-woman crouched low—too low for Vegard’s arrows, blocked by the bodies of her own men behind her. She grunted and swung at Tigerlilja’s legs, forcing her back, and then Tigerlilja heard Vegard scream her name in terror.
She dropped to the ground on instinct as an axe flew through the air where her head had just been. A skull-man had come up behind her, surprising her for the second time that day, and she cursed herself even as she rolled onto her back and drove her sword into his thigh. That distracted him enough for another of Vegard’s arrows to finish him, and Tigerlilja whipped her attention to the woman—just in time to see her eyes widen in shock, as she fell to an axe blow through the back of the neck.
“You always were a bit too vicious for your own good,” said the man who had delivered the fatal blow.
Tigerlilja looked up to see Argus, the boy she had bitten when they were children, now a man of twenty-one years. He grinned and clasped her arm, hauling her to her feet.
“Go help your brother,” he said before she could reply. “Let’s finish this.”
She clapped a grateful hand to his shoulder and then raced past him.
But there was no time for reunions. Vegard nodded to one last quiver, lying at his feet. It held only two arrows, and the quiver on his back was almost empty.
She picked it up and slung it over her shoulder, then stood next to Vegard in the boat on the next seat over, for the extra height, taking her bow into her hands and surveying the field. Most of the skull-men had fled. A few still fought on the other pier, but even as she watched, Vegard killed another, and a second fell to a clansman’s blade. Tigerlilja raised her bow, screamed in
fury, and loosed an arrow straight through the forehead of the only invader who remained.
Then everything fell still, and all eyes turned to the battle that still raged in the field between the village and the river—the battle between Peter and the giant.
“Give me your arrows. Whatever you have left,” Tigerlilja told her brother.
“I will not,” Vegard replied, his voice just as even. “Where you go, I go. Besides, I only have the one.” He crossed his arms, and they stood for a long moment, shoulder to shoulder, watching in silence.
Peter darted around the giant, ducking in and out of reach, sticking him now and then with one of his swords, but never seeming to do much damage before flitting away. The tiny innisfay that had followed them sat precariously on Peter’s shoulder, cheering him on in tiny jingle chimes that wafted faintly across the distance, rising and falling as Peter charged and retreated.
Every time Peter flew near, the giant swatted at him furiously, catching only the air. The brute finally swung his club so wildly that he almost tipped himself over, but Peter didn’t take advantage of the opening. He just flew up in the air and laughed, looking back at Tigerlilja across the field as though to say, Did you see that? Did you see how clever I am?
“He’s on our side then?” Vegard asked. “The flying man?”
“For what it’s worth,” Tigerlilja commented, raising a critical eyebrow. “But there’s something wrong with that one.”
Vegard grunted. “So, what’s the plan? What good are two arrows against that?”
“I don’t know. Through the eyes, maybe.”
“Maybe,” Vegard allowed grudgingly.
“I’ll take the left. You take the right,” she said, nocking her arrow to the bow.
“Wait,” Vegard said, raising an arm from his chest just enough to splay his palm in the air. “You have his left? Or our left?”
“The left eye. I have his left eye. How many left eyes do you see on him?”
“Well, forgive me for asking,” Vegard muttered.
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