The Child Thief

“ULFGER!” someone cried. “What are you doing?” It was the old elf. “Lord Ulfger, he is the Lady’s guest!”

Ulfger pointed the play sword at Drael. “Have you forgotten your place, old man? Has everyone forgotten their damn place today?” Ulfger struck Peter another vicious blow.

The old elf rushed forward and grabbed the sword.

Ulfger stood up, jerking the sword out of the elf’s grasp. “Are you mad?” Ulfger’s eyes flared. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” He struck the elf in the face with the butt of the sword. The elf stumbled back, clutching his nose, and sat down hard.

Peter glared at Ulfger. Goll had taught him there was only one way to deal with a wolf. A low animal growl came from deep in Peter’s throat, and the children backed away.

Ulfger prepared to strike the elf again when Peter howled and charged. He leaped upon the bigger boy’s back, screeching and shrieking as he dug his claws into Ulfger’s face. Ulfger tore at Peter’s arms and spun around, trying to dislodge the wild boy. Peter bit into Ulfger’s ear and Ulfger screamed as blood spurted down his neck.

Peter snarled and shook his head back and forth until he tore Ulfger’s ear free.

Ulfger slung Peter from him. Peter hit the ground and came up in a roll, his eyes wild, blood smeared across his face, his fingers twisted into claws, ready for more.

“WHAT IS GOING ON!” The Lady stood at the courtyard entrance, Tanngnost and Hiisi by her side. Several of the dinner guests came up behind them, all of them staring in wide-eyed bewilderment at the two boys: Ulfger with his hand clasped to the side of his head, blood pouring through his finger, and Peter in his loincloth with Ulfger’s ear still clamped in his mouth, blood running down his chin and chest.

Peter spat the ear onto the ground.

Ulfger stared at the ear, at his ear. “Guards,” he called weakly, then, at the top of his lungs, screamed, “GUARDS!” He shoved past the Lady, into the hall. “GUARDS! GUARDS!”

Hiisi helped the old elf to his feet.

“Drael,” the Lady called, and put an arm around the elf. “Drael. You’re bleeding.”

The elf clutched his nose, trying to stifle the blood. “My Lady, I’m not sure what happened. The boys had some sort of a spat. Ulfger was set to kill the boy—to truly kill him.”

The Lady looked at Peter. “My poor child.” She went to him, wiping the blood from his face with her robe, then taking him into her arms. When Peter felt the warmth of her embrace, he began to cry.

“We have to get him out of here,” Hiisi said. “Ulfger will have him killed.”

The Lady didn’t answer, just held Peter. Hiisi gave Tanngnost a fretful look.

“I can take him,” Tanngnost said. “But we must hurry.”

They heard the distant call of guards.

“Out the back way,” Hiisi said. “Through the gardens. I can delay the guards. My Lady, you have to let him go now.” Hiisi and Tanngnost gently pulled Peter from the Lady’s arms.

The Lady shook her head. “No, I wish him here, with me. He’s mine. He belongs to me.”

“He’ll be in good hands,” Hiisi said. “Peter, go with Tanngnost. He’s a grouchy old goat, but has a good heart.”

The Lady clasped Peter’s hands in hers. Peter saw the tears in her eyes. She hugged him one last time and Peter inhaled deeply, determined to never forget her sweet scent. Then the troll took him away into the night.

ALL THE COLOR of that long-ago memory evaporated, replaced with the endless gray, the mud, the rot. Peter tried to remember the sweet scent of the Lady but could not.

He stood and headed north, toward the witch’s marsh, leaving behind Avallach’s head forever listening to the earth. As he made his way down the trail, through the burned-out remains of the great apple orchard, he dared to dream of a day when the Flesh-eaters—those twisted, murderous demons—would at last be driven from the land. Then the apple trees could come back, the hills would again be green, the forest alive with the song of wild faeries, and he’d be able to sit alongside the Lady once again.

He decided to follow the dark waters of Cusith Creek, skirting along the western edge of the swamp; this would allow him to swing by Tanngnost’s hut. If there was any news, Tanngnost would know; the old troll never failed to be in everyone’s business. But there was more to it than that. Something Peter hardly recognized, and would certainly never admit. He’d come to rely on Tanngnost, his advice, his knowledge of history of the Avalon. He was the one fixture Peter could count on, the only stable element in his life over the long, tumultuous years in Avalon.

He reached the lowlands and the ground became soft. The witch’s land had fared better than others so far, but even in the short time he’d been away, the deadly fingers of the scourge had crawled deep into her bogs. Peter moved stealthy, carefully darting from stump to stump. He didn’t want to meet the witch, not today.

Peter heard approaching footfalls, someone coming fast. He slid out his knife and ducked down behind a clump of bulrushes.

A tall, hunched figure came into view, strolling right down the trail, swinging a gnarled staff. “Tanngnost,” Peter said under his breath, and grinned. The troll bore a thunderous frown.

Peter waited until the troll was almost upon him, then leaped out. “BOO!”

Tanngnost swung his staff around, quicker than Peter had anticipated. Peter dove to the ground to avoid getting hit.

“Peter! You…you…you impish little shit!”

Peter laughed, laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach.

Tanngnost gave him a furious look, grunted, snorted, huffed, and smacked him soundly on the rump.

“Oww!”

“Someone needs to beat some respect in you. Despicable mongrel. And just what has taken you so long. Had me worried sick.” He glanced behind Peter as though looking for someone. His face softened. “It didn’t go well.”

Peter sobered up. He shook his head.

The troll let out a long, deep sigh. “Peter, I’m sorry. And I hate to add to your misery, but I’ve ill tidings of my own. It seems Avallach has deserted us this day. The Flesh-eaters are burning—”

“Shhh,” Peter said. “Did you hear that?”

“Peter, the Flesh-eaters—”

“Shhh, listen.” Peter took a few quick steps down the trail, cocked his head left then right. That’d been a scream, he was sure of it.

Tanngnost followed him.

Again, from somewhere in the swamp. Shrieking. It sounded like a boy. Peter’s blood went cold. The only boys on the island were his Devils. He took off at a full run, leaping heedlessly across bogs, and roots, and mud— knife out, eyes wild, a deadly grimace across his face.

Chapter Thirteen Men-kind

The fog swirled around them. The howls came closer.

Nick picked up his spear and used it to push himself to his knees, trying to breathe through his burning throat, trying his best not to fall over.

Sekeu, Abraham, Redbone, Dirk, Dash, and Leroy formed a loose ring around Cricket’s and Danny’s limp bodies.

Howls and moans circled them, coming from all directions. Dark shapes with orange eyes shot past. He braced the end of his spear in the dirt and aimed the point outward.

Giggling—it sounded like little girls—came from all sides of them.