The Child Thief

we wanted.” The man grinned.

The other two soldiers took an appraising look at the tall girl and returned his grin. A wiry man with a black cap and a toothless maw said, “No harm in a little sport while we wait for the baron.”

The men chuckled.

A fifth man came out of the woods from the south and met up with them. He was shorter than the others, but with thick, muscled arms and a dark, bristling beard. He wore a helmet, while the other men did not, a white plume stuck up from its crest. “No luck south,” he said. “I’m done hunting these brats. It’s a waste of effort, I say. Why, they make terrible servants anyway. You can whip them till your arm falls off and still not beat the wildness out of them. If the baron wants the rest of them, I say he can root them out of the woods himself.”

They all nodded.

“Aye, sir, they’re like rats, the way they hide in holes and under rocks. Spend a month and not find them all.”

“Truth be, the winter will get the rest of them anyway.”

“Where’s the baron and the guard, sir?” the toothless man asked. “Where’d they get off to now?”

“They’ll be back soon enough,” the bearded man said. “The scouts located another heathen village in the hills. Just a few huts really. The baron took the guard. They intend to do a bit of converting.”

They all laughed.

“Perhaps, sir, some fun while we wait?” the bald soldier said, and shoved the tall girl forward.

The bearded man looked the girl up and down, nodding. He pulled off his helmet, then his gloves, dropped them to the ground. He gently touched her cheek with the back of his finger, then grabbed a handful of her long, auburn hair, and tugged her head back. Peter got a good look at her face. Her eyes were light green and full of fear, her mouth wide and thick-lipped.

“Little witch child,” the bearded man said, and ran a hand down her neck, squeezed her shoulder. “Do you drink blood and dance around your horned god? You do, don’t you?”

The girl said nothing.

His hand trailed down her waist, down her leg. He squeezed her thigh. “Why I bet you crawl around on your hands and knees before him, naked and grunting like a pig. Then bare your ass to the forest beasts, don’t you?” He shook her. “Don’t you?”

The soldiers all snickered, and the toothless man pawed at his own lips.

The bearded man smirked and pushed his hand under her dress, shoving it hard up between her legs.

The girl let out a cry and slapped at him, raking her nails across his face. The man let go of her hair, tried to grab her wrist. She tore loose and ran for the trees.

Peter jumped to his feet, hands tight around his spear. Demons, he thought, men-kind are all demons.

The toothless man leaped after the girl, caught her by the hair, spun her into the dirt. Two others fell upon her, pinning her arms to the ground.

The bearded man touched his face, looked at the blood on his fingers, and spat, “You little cunt.” He strolled over to where they held her on the ground, undid his belt, letting his trousers drop. He knelt between the girl’s legs, pushing her dress up over her hips.

Peter slipped from his hiding place, crept toward the men in a low crouch, knife in one hand, spear in the other.

The girl spat at the bearded man, tried to kick him away from her. He struck her twice in the face, splitting open her lip, then punched her hard in the stomach. She let out a choked gasp and stopped kicking. “That should take the devil out of you,” he said. “Now, two mugs of mead to the man who can make her squeal the loudest. Who’s in?”

They all grinned and grunted.

Peter hefted his spear, gauging the range as he prepared to throw, then saw a figure come running out from one of the houses, heading right toward the soldiers.

It was a boy, one of the pagan folk. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, carrying a spear at waist level and rushing the men at a full run. The boy’s eyes were wide; Peter could see he was terrified. Yet still he came.

The bald soldier saw the boy, let out a shout of warning, but a second too late. The spear drove into the bearded man’s back, punched out his chest.

The bald soldier made his feet and struck the boy, knocking him down. He yanked out his sword, brought it up, and that was when Peter threw his spear. The spear hit the bald man in the back of the neck, tore out through the front of his throat, driving the man face-first into the mud.

Peter let out a howl and was on the next soldier before the man could free his sword of its scabbard. He jabbed his knife into the man’s side and ripped it across his gut, tearing upon his stomach. The man’s entrails poured out from the wound, steaming in the winter chill. He let out a low groan and dropped to his knees.

The two remaining soldiers came for him. Peter easily ducked a swing meant for his head, and another for his chest. These men were big and strong, but Peter was faster, so fast that these lumbering giants seemed to be moving in syrup. He drove in beneath one swing, bringing his knife up into the man’s crotch, felt the blade punch deep into the man’s groin. The soldier let out a horrified wail and Peter’s eyes gleamed. He liked the sound, craved it.

There was only the toothless man left. He looked from his dead and dying comrades to Peter, stared at him as though he were a demon, some pagan god seeking vengeance.

A wicked grin spread across Peter’s face. These huge, brutish men who had struck such terror in his heart, had haunted his nightmares for an age, turned out to be little more than blundering beasts. The battle had turned into a game, the most exciting one he had ever played. Peter licked his knife and let out a low growl.

The man turned and ran.

Peter whooped and raced after him. He caught up to him in a heartbeat, leaping upon his back. He plunged the knife into the soldier’s neck, tore open his throat, and rode him into the dirt. Peter watched the man’s lifeblood gurgle and bubble from his open throat, watched until the man’s eyes glazed over.

A weak whimpering drew Peter to his feet. One of the soldiers still lived. The wounded man was clutching his groin, trailing a wide swath of blood as he tried to crawl away. Peter picked up a fallen sword, and advanced. To his surprise, the pagan boy snatched up a spear and rushed the wounded man. Peter stopped, watched as the boy drove the spear into the man’s back, not once, but over and over. The boy kept jabbing well after the man had stopped moving. “BASTARDS!” the boy screamed. “FUCKING, WICKED BASTARDS!” Finally the girl made him stop. The boy began to cry, his whole body racked with sobs.

The girl looked at Peter. “Who are you?” she asked.

The boy stopped crying, pushed the girl behind him, and pointed the spear at Peter. His red-rimmed eyes were laced with fear, but the spear was steady. “What do you want?”

Peter studied the boy. The boy might be scared but he was ready to fight him to the death, it was plain on his face. Together they’d just killed five men. Peter glanced over to the children tied to the horse. They had the same hard eyes as the boy. Eight of them there, he thought. Ten all together, maybe a handful more hiding in the hills. Desperate, dangerous children without a home. Plenty of swords and spears lying about. Peter tapped his chin. Wonder what Ulfger would think if a clan of wild kids sprouted up in his forest? Peter grinned.

Peter dropped his knife and stuck his sword into the dirt. He took a step forward and planted his hands on his hips. “My name’s Peter. I’m looking to make some new friends.”

The boy stared at him in wonder.

The girl spoke up. “I’m Wendlyn.”

Peter walked right up to the point of the boy’s spear. Stuck out his hand. The boy looked from Peter’s hand to Wendlyn. She nodded. The boy lowered his spear and slowly stuck out his own hand. Peter took it, shook it mightily, and smiled, and the boy and the girl and the other children all smiled back, because Peter’s smile was a most contagious thing.

“Say,” Peter said. “I know a place we can go. It’s a heck of a lot nicer than here.”