The Child Thief

would’ve been dead for certain, but the hunchback shifted his attention to stopping Leroy. He swung the ladle, catching Leroy in the back of the head and sending the boy sprawling into the dirt.

Nick snatched up his sword and swung as hard as he could, hitting the man in the shoulder, the elven blade opening a nasty gash and knocking the hunchback off balance. His peg leg caught a root and he tumbled down the steep incline, cursing all the way to the bottom.

Nick dove for the barrel, ramming his shoulder into it. It barely budged. “SHIT!” he cried, and tried again. It didn’t move.

A spear slammed into a stump next to Nick. The guards were almost on them, a few even now scrambling their way up the steep, muddy slope. Nick was about to give up and run when Leroy reached the barrel. They both shoved. The barrel tipped but fell back. “AGAIN,” Nick cried, and together they rammed their shoulders into the barrel. This time it tipped and over it went, splashing the hillside in slick oil as it careened down the incline, taking several of the guards with it.

Leroy and Nick leaped for the second barrel, only to be confronted by a thick-set guard. Red eyes blazing, he raised a huge cutlass and came at them. Nick tried to run, only to collide into Leroy, knocking both of them to the ground. The guard let loose a victorious whoop, then a sword blade tore through his throat from behind. The man dropped his weapon, clasped his neck, and crumpled to the dirt. And there, behind him, stood Abraham. “THE BARREL!”

Nick and Leroy jumped up and slammed into the remaining barrel. Half-empty, this one rolled right over, almost taking Nick with it. It bounded and spun down the slope, knocking down at least three guards and dousing several others in the oil. But the men were quick to their feet and at least a dozen of them were scrambling up the hill right through the patch of oil.

Abraham kicked the cauldron over, sending the hot oil right into the face of the foremost guard. Nick could hear the man’s skin sizzling as the oil burned out his eyes, hear the man’s choking gargle as he tried to scream through a mouthful of boiling oil.

Abraham snatched up a timber from the fire and stood over the slope. The guards saw the flame, the oil clinging to the hillside and to themselves, and at once understood their fate. Abraham tossed the flaming timber onto the oil-drenched hillside.

There was a moment when nothing happened. Everyone, Devils and guards alike, were frozen for a prolonged heartbeat, then a blue flame bloomed, dancing across the surface of the oil. Nick saw the horrified looks in the men’s eyes, the look of knowing one’s ultimate demise, and knowing it would be bad. The oil burst into bright red flame and Nick was running, running away from the twisting, burning men, running away from their horrible screams.

THE FLESH-EATERS WERE almost upon them.

“Positions,” Peter cried, and the Devils and elves melted back into the forest, shifting from swords to spears, taking cover among the trees and ledges. Peter was well aware that the Devils would never stand a chance against the Flesh-eaters in open-field combat, not against the long pike axes, thick armor, and heavy weapons of their enemies. But if they could draw them in among the smoke, among the trees, where maneuverability was key, they could play a lethal game of hide-and-seek until every last Flesh-eater was dead.

The Captain halted about thirty yards out, just shy of effective spear range, and quickly formed his men into four rows of ten. Peter had hoped for a chaotic mob of Flesh-eaters mindlessly charging into the woods. He hadn’t counted on the Captain rallying his men so quickly.

“What are you waiting for?” Peter whispered. “Come get us.”

But the Captain seemed in no hurry. He scanned the terrain. Peter could see he was carefully planning his next move. Peter didn’t like it. If given the chance, he knew, the man would turn the situation to his advantage.

The Captain barked a quick succession of orders, and two lines of men broke away from the main body, heading outward, toward Peter’s flanks.

Peter leaped up, strolled boldly out into plain sight, and set his foot upon the breastplate of one of the dead guards from the skirmish.

The Flesh-eaters halted, all eyes on Peter. Peter brought his sword down, cleaving the dead man’s head from his shoulders. He snatched the head up by the hair and raised it for all to see, then spat into its face.

Curses and shouts of outrage rose from the lines. The formation wavered as several Flesh-eaters broke ranks and came for Peter.

“HOLD,” cried the Captain. “HOLD I SAY!”

All but one of the guards halted; a shirtless man with a large ax.

“STAND DOWN, BOYLE!” the Captain cried. “STAND DOWN! ” But the man kept heading toward Peter.

“YOU’LL PAY FER THAT ONE!” the crazed-eyed man screamed. “YE LITTLE DEMON BASTARD! AYE, YOU’LL PAY!”

Peter swung the head and launched it toward the man. An instant later, one of the elves slid out from behind a tree and flung his spear. The Flesh-eater dodged the head, but not the spear. It caught him in the neck. He slid to his knees and sat there clawing at the shaft, gasping and gurgling until he finally fell over.

Peter showed them his teeth, then let out a long, hooting laugh like a wild monkey.

“Back in line, before I flay your hides!” the Captain yelled. “Form—”

A low thud rolled across the field, and a bright glow bloomed over by the barrels. A plume of dark smoke billowed upward and the screams of men burning alive filled the air.

The Captain’s controlled composure lit up with outrage. He gave Peter one last look that promised he would make the boy pay, then raised his sword and shouted, “FOOTMEN, TO THE CENTER! TRIPLE TIME. BEFORE ALL IS LOST!” Forgetting about Peter and his band, the Flesh-eaters disintegrated into a ragged line and ran back toward the barrels.

A cheer went up behind Peter. The Devils broke cover, yelling and shouting, exchanging high-fives and laughing like schoolboys.

“We did it,” Peter said breathlessly. He tried to see beyond the smoke and flames, searching for any sign of Sekeu and her group. There was nothing more they could do for them now other than wish them luck.

“AWAY!” Peter shouted. “To Red Rock.”

ANGRY SHOUTS CHASED after Nick as he wove his way through the tangle of roots and branches. He dared a glance back and saw the flaming hillside, black clouds mushrooming into the air, and men engulfed in fire clawing at their own flesh. At least six guards had made it through the flame and were rushing down the path after them not a hundred yards behind. Nick recalled Peter saying they were slow. Slow must mean something different in Avalon, Nick thought, because these men were covering some ground. He heard shouts and saw another group of men, at least a dozen strong, trying to cut them off.

Nick’s foot snagged on a root, he stumbled and slid to one knee. Sekeu caught up to him, yanking him back to his feet. Their eyes met for the briefest moment and Nick caught her smile, and that smile was worth more than all the praise, back slaps, and cheers he could ever receive. It told him that he’d done good—no, that he had done great, and that he was one of them now. She shoved him on his way and together they ran hard for the tree line. And there, among the screams, the confusion, the terror, Nick realized he was grinning. He was starting to like being a Devil, like it very much.

Redbone made the trees first, Leroy and Abraham darting in right behind, followed by Sekeu, then Nick. There came a sense of relief upon entering the woods, but as Nick crashed into the brambles, as the vines and thorns slowed him to barely a jog, his relief turned to dread. Too soon he heard the men crashing into the woods behind them, their large bulks bulldozing through the underbrush and gaining quickly.

The ground began to soften underfoot, turned to mud, then Nick was splashing through ankle-deep marsh, trying hard to keep up with the rest of the group. The scourge-ridden trees began to knot around them, their mossy limbs blotting out the sky above. Redbone led them onto a thin trail of firmer ground and they wove their way around treacherous pools of muckish black water.

The trail led into a ledge of crumbling clay and overhanging roots. Redbone, Abraham, and Sekeu leaped high, caught hold of the roots, and scrambled up out of the ravine, disappearing over the ridge. Leroy ran up the