The Child Thief

together with those of the Devils and since then he’d been racing along, hoping to catch Nick before the Devils did. He’d also found other tracks, large, deep imprints. It would take someone of substantial weight to make such tracks. A lone Flesh-eater? That didn’t seem likely. There was only one other possibility, and he didn’t want to think of it. Whoever it was, they were tracking the boy.

More shouts. They’re near the burning fields, Peter thought. He heard yelling, the calls echoing up and down the valley in the early morning quiet. Peter was horrified. Don’t they know where they are?

“Avallach be merciful,” Peter pleaded, and took off at a hard run. Had not enough gone wrong?

NICK SAT UP. They had him, fanning out, circling him. Is this how I’m going to die? he wondered. Not killed by monsters, not by some drug dealer, but at the hands of a bunch of kids, kids that had just yesterday called him their brother. Not even his fear of death was so terrible as the looks he saw on their faces, the feverish glee that ran beneath the bloodlust, a murderous joy only experienced by lynching mobs. “I DIDN’T DO IT!” Nick cried. But no one was listening, they all had murder—his murder—in their eyes.

Dirk leaped for him, his sword pulled back, his eyes on Nick’s neck, his face no different than that of a boy about to score a touchdown. A spear—a thick, heavy spear—hit Dirk in the middle of his chest, driving deep into his ribs, knocking him off his feet.

A loud cry filled the air. Flesh-eaters, a long, ragged line of them, burst from the trees. Men in armor and heavy boots came screaming into the grassy glade, brandishing swords, spears, and pike axes.

Nick made for his feet, felt thick, powerful fingers grab his arm, yank him into the air, then slam him to the ground. All the breath left Nick’s body. A Flesh-eater shoved his face into Nick’s. The man’s lips peeled back into a mockery of a grin, exposing white gums and black teeth. His eyes, little more than slits of red, glared at Nick. “Gonna be all right, lad. Aye, we’re here to save you.”

Nick tried to break away, then felt a jagged blade against his neck.

“There, now,” the man chortled. “You should stay put if you be wanting to keep your ears attached to the sides of your head.”

NICK SAW A spear hit Redbone. It went through the boy’s side, the point protruding out of his back. Redbone grasped the spear in both hands, screamed through clenched teeth, and collapsed to his knees.

The Devils were spread out across the glade. They stopped in their tracks; their faces, which only seconds before were those of bloodthirsty predators, were now wild with shock and terror.

“NOW!” commanded a tall man wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and more heavily armed men, at least thirty or forty of them, came rushing into the glade down off the east slope.

“RUN!” screamed Redbone. “GET OUT OF HERE!”

The Devils broke and ran, scrambling in all directions. The men gave chase. Spears flew from both sides, men and Devils alike falling to the ground. Nick saw the big blond Bear take two spears in the back. Bear didn’t fall, just kept stumbling away, weaving like a drunk, wheezing and coughing up blood until finally a man hit him in the back of the skull with an ax. Another kid, a black boy from Brooklyn whose name Nick couldn’t remember, was hit in the leg, a spear going all the way through his thigh. The boy fell to the ground and began dragging himself forward, clawing at the soft earth. Five men set to him with ax and sword.

Another group of Flesh-eaters came running into the clearing from the west side. They slung nets weighted with rocks at the Devils, bringing many down in a tangle then stabbing them to death as they fought to free themselves.

Nick caught sight of Danny and Cricket, they stood at the farthest end of the glade, frozen in place, their eyes wide with horror. Run! What are you waiting for?

A Flesh-eater gave a shout, pointed at the pair, and over a dozen men started toward them. Danny turned and ran back into the trees, followed a second later by Cricket.

PETER RACED DOWN the path. The din of battle, the screams of pain echoed eerily up the foggy valley. Those are Devils dying! his mind screamed at him. Peter leaped recklessly across a wide, rushing creek, careened down a steep path, heedless to the danger as he half-fell and half-slid down the loose stones to its bottom. He landed in a roll and was up again, running onward, determined to get to the fight before all was lost.

Peter skidded around a clump of thick oaks, and there, down the ledge below him, were Cricket, Danny, and a Devil by the name of Trick. They were surrounded by a wide circle of Flesh-eaters. The Flesh-eaters moved in, tightening the ring. Trick was doing his best to hold them off, yelling and slashing the air with his spear. Cricket and Danny both clutched their spears, all but paralyzed with fear.

Four Flesh-eaters rushed in at once, knocking Trick’s spear aside and running him through. Pain twisted the boy’s face and blood spurted from his mouth as he slid to the ground.

Peter snarled, leaped forward, and launched his spear. The weapon flew true, finding its mark in the breastplate of the forward-most man, piercing the thin metal and knocking the man to the ground. Peter yanked both of his swords from their scabbards and ran all out, launching himself off the ledge and into the air from almost twenty feet above the fight. He howled and the men looked up, their eyes going wide with surprise as a screaming demon came hurtling onto them.

Peter crashed into them feet-first, the men collapsing like bowling pins. Peter bounded up off the first man, leaving him headless. He landed on the second man and thrust his sword into his face before the man could even push his helmet from his eyes. Then he was away, cutting one man’s arm off at the elbow with one sword while thrusting the other sword into the throat of another. He leaped and spun, his twin blades weaving a dance of death and dismemberment, leaving severed arms, legs, and necks in their wake.

When there was no more flesh to cut in front of him, Peter whirled, eyes blazing, not even bothering to wipe away the splash of black blood that ran across his face. Six men lay dead or dying at his feet, their moans music to his ears.

Danny let out a cry as the Flesh-eaters grabbed him and closed ranks. Peter spotted Cricket halfway up the embankment. She stopped and looked back at him.

“GET OUT OF HERE!” Peter cried.

Cricket hesitated, then scrambled to the top of the ledge and disappeared.

Peter glared at the eight remaining men, grinning as black blood dripped from his blades.

The men watched him as though he was possessed. But these were seasoned fighters, not new recruits, and they spread out into a defensive formation. One man drifted too far, and Peter was on him in a heartbeat. There came a quick clang of steel as Peter knocked aside the spear point, rolled, and cut the man down at the ankle. The man collapsed, screaming and clutching his spurting stump. Peter was up and away before the next man in line could come near.

Peter circled and they followed him with their swords and spears.

Shouts came from down the trail. More men were coming, a lot more men. Now it was the Flesh-eaters that grinned. Peter knew he had to end this fast. He took a step forward, and when he did, the man holding Danny thrust his sword under the boy’s throat. “You move again and the boy dies.”

Danny whimpered as blood trickled from the edge of the sword at his neck.

“I’ll cut him. Cut him wide open, I will.”

But there was more going on here than the men realized. Peter meant to save Danny if he could, but the darker truth was that Peter couldn’t let the men take Danny, not alive. Not under any circumstances. Danny knew where the Lady was.

“Danny, say your prayers,” Peter said, his voice like cold steel.

The men exchanged a nervous glance.

Peter came at them, running all out. The men tightened their ranks and leveled their spears. But this was what Peter had wanted. At the last second, he faked left, drawing their weapons to bear, then leaped right, launching himself from a large root, bounding up, and cartwheeling over the men. He struck out with both swords,