The Child Thief

“Peter,” Sekeu said. “This is madness. You must not go to Lady’s Wood. Elves will kill you.”

Peter glanced at Tanngnost; the troll waited for him at the trail head. Peter let out a long breath and smiled. “I have to. You know it. We’ve only days left. The Flesh-eaters are on their way. The magic is failing. The scourge is eating up the last of the forests. What do we have left to eat? Soon we’ll be eating each other, like them.” He nodded toward the smoke.

“We’ll all go then,” Redbone said.

Peter shook his head. “Can’t. Elves would never allow it. Only chance I have to convince them of my allegiance to the Lady is to go alone.”

“Ulfger will never fight beside you,” Sekeu said.

Peter nodded. “Yeah, and I’ll never fight alongside him either. But that doesn’t mean we can’t coordinate our efforts. He’ll have to see this. All of us are at the end. If we fall, so do they.”

“Well, at least let me come,” Redbone said. “Y’know, as your official diplomatic dignitary. To carry your cane and top hat.” He grinned.

“Nope, but you can help carry Danny back.” Peter returned his grin.

Danny was sitting up now, but didn’t look like he could walk yet or anytime soon. His eyes were puffy and his swollen neck made him look like a bullfrog.

Tanngnost thumped his staff impatiently.

“Later alligators,” Peter said and sprinted up to the troll. Together they entered the Lady’s Wood.

“Okay Peter,” the troll said. “The very life of the Lady and Avalon depends on this. You must, must, be on your best behavior.”

“I’m always on my best behavior.”

“Promise me you’ll leave the past behind.”

Peter’s face hardened. “Some things can never be left behind.”

Tanngnost sighed. “Peter, that feud was all so long ago.”

Peter fell quiet; it had indeed been so long ago. He’d only seen the great oaks shed their leaves twenty times by then, yet still, he hadn’t grown into adulthood and not a single whisker grew from his chin. But he had grown into a lean, rangy youth. Tanngnost called him the wild boy of Myrkvior, told him it was his human blood that kept puberty at bay, told him he would never be able to grow into manhood. Tanngnost explained this in grave terms, as though it were a curse—a dreadful vexing. But Peter had danced about the troll’s hut, overjoyed to know he’d never have to turn into one of those horrible, hairy, brutish men. He’d spent those days delighting in his eternal youthfulness, all the great forest his playground—at least, that is, until Ulfger found him.

PETER RECALLED HOW hard his heart had raced. He’d known better than to enter the Lady’s Wood. How many times had Tanngnost warned him, told him that Ulfger had given the elves orders to kill him on sight? He’d contemplated turning back, then caught sight of the Spriggan. The nasty little goblin was in the brush, just across the creek. It waved its prize: a knife—Peter’s knife—taunting, teasing, well aware that Peter wouldn’t dare follow it into the Lady’s Wood.

“You little thief,” Peter cried, and leaped up, splashing across the creek, forgetting all about Ulfger and his murdering elves. The Spriggan’s eyes popped open in surprise. It turned tail and dashed up the trail.

Peter lost sight of it in the thick underbrush. He scanned the pine needles, tracking the goblin’s trail, so intent he didn’t notice the figures slipping up on him from behind.

Peter caught the soft crunch of pine needles, turned, expecting to find the Spriggan, instead saw a spear flying directly for his chest. Peter threw himself backward. The spear shot past, nicking his shoulder and bouncing down the thin path. He hit the dirt, rolled, and was back to his feet all in a blink. His instinct was to run, but then he froze. There were three of them, two were elves, but it was the third that held him in his tracks.

The figure towered over the elves, taller even than most men Peter had ever seen, thick through the chest and arms, but it was his eyes that held Peter. Peter would never forget those dark, brooding eyes.

“Ulfger,” Peter hissed, as he tried to comprehend how the tall boy had turned into this huge, brutish man. The Ulfger before him sported a bristling goatee tied into a knot, and thick, dark eyebrows. He wore a red-and-gold tunic with a black elk head emblazoned upon the chest, black leather britches, knee-high boots, and a long broadsword at his side. He’d let his hair grow long, parted it along his crown, letting it fall straight down the sides of his head to cover his ears. Or his one ear, Peter thought.

Ulfger stared at him, looking like a man who has just discovered a pot of gold. He let out a low laugh. “It can’t be. Avallach has brought me a gift. And look at you.” He laughed again, louder. “Still a miserable snot-nosed brat.” He shook his head, sneered. “It’s your human blood. Avallach curses those who don’t belong here.”

Ulfger signaled and the two elves slid out long knives and ducked into the woods on either side of the trail.

Peter backed away, keeping a close eye on the elves and searching for a path of escape.

“It is plain you have no sense,” Ulfger called. “Or you would have left Avalon long ago. Though I have to admit, it pleases me deeply to find you here, to find you still alive. Otherwise I would not have the pleasure of killing you.”

Ulfger drew his sword and strolled toward Peter. Peter couldn’t miss the way the muscles rippled along the giant’s arms, the way he carried the massive broadsword as though it weighed nothing. Peter suddenly felt small and vulnerable, and for the first time found himself envious of growing up, jealous of such strength and might.

“Keep to his flanks,” Ulfger shouted in a deep, thunderous voice. “Don’t let him around us. Remember, he’s my kill!”

Peter caught sight of the spear, the one the elf had thrown at him. It lay on the trail near his foot. He caught it under his toe and kicked it into the air, catching it and sending it hurtling for Ulfger.

Ulfger hardly blinked, simply slapped the spear out of the air with his sword. The giant let out a laugh. “Good, a bit of sport will make this more enjoyable!”

Peter turned and ran. He lost sight of the elves in the brush, but knew they were keeping pace. He heard Ulfger crashing along the trail behind him. Peter’s heart drummed in his chest; again he felt the fear, that of the hunted deer. The same fear as when the men had chased him back to Goll’s hill—it was almost as though he’d never stopped running.

The trees thinned on one side of the trail. Peter could see a swamp and reeds below, down a sharp ravine. The reeds, Peter thought, I can lose them in the reeds. He left the trail, sprinted toward the drop. An elf leaped into his path. Peter didn’t have time to do anything other than crash directly into him. Peter heard a wounded uff as the two of them tumbled. Peter came out on top and tried to break away. The elf grabbed his arm and clung on. Peter jabbed a thumb in the elf’s eye, tore his arm free, got one foot under him when a big, black boot connected with his midsection. Peter left the ground, slammed up against a tree. He heard Ulfger’s laugh, caught sight of the giant’s grin, then Ulfger punched him in the face, right between the eyes. Peter reeled, lost his feet, and sat down squarely.

Ulfger snatched Peter up by the hair. He pulled out a notched hunting knife, held it up to Peter’s face. “Let’s start with an ear, shall we?”

Peter grabbed Ulfger’s hand, and bit deep, felt cartilage crunch beneath his teeth, and tasted blood.

Ulfger yowled, yanked his hand away, lost his grip on both the knife and Peter. Peter snatched up the knife and slashed out wildly. Ulfger stepped back, had his sword in his hand in a flash. The two elves fell in on either side, knives ready.

Ulfger flicked the blood off his thumb, glared at Peter. “Enough games.”

Peter threw his knife. The blade bounced harmlessly off Ulfger’s shoulder, but bought Peter a needed second. He leaped for the ledge, slid, and rolled down the ravine, crashing into the mud and reeds. He glanced up, saw the elves skidding down after him, Ulfger following.

Peter splashed into the reeds, pushing between the tall, misty stalks, trying to lose himself within the maze of stems and shallow black pools. Pushing farther and farther until he could no longer hear Ulfger’s curses.

The mist thickened and Peter began to question his way; he’d done a very good job indeed of getting lost. He kept moving and his instincts paid off as the terrain began to change, the ground became gray and firm, and the reeds thinned out. But the mist continued to thicken and Peter found himself within a wall of swirling fog, unable to see farther than twenty paces in any given direction, afraid to take another step lest he became lost forever.