half. The crack echoed through the silent forest. The kite’s trembling ceased. Lord Gilbert threw the shattered spar to one side, then hurled the kite to the floor, where it lay crumpled and still.
Oliver screamed and lunged at Lord Gilbert.
Oliver reached for Lord Gilbert’s throat.
Halfway through the lunge, he froze and crashed to the balcony deck. He found himself looking at one of Lord Gilbert’s exquisitely polished shoes, unable to move a muscle. The shoe reached out and tucked itself under his shoulder, then flipped him onto his back.
He stared up at Lord Gilbert, whose smirking face was framed by the branches of his oak tree. “Naughty, naughty,” said Lord Gilbert, lifting a finger from the HM IV and wagging it at Oliver. “Mustn’t attack your legal guardian—rule number two.” Whistling, he retrieved the crimson kite from where it lay in a crumpled heap. He spread it on the railing and examined it. He seemed cheerful again after his brief bout of fury.
Out of one corner of his eye, Oliver could see the wounded hunter, still sputtering and sparking on the balcony floor.
“Prop him up against the wall. I don’t like him lying there,” Lord Gilbert said. Two’s face came into view. Oliver felt hands under his shoulders. He was dragged to a wall and propped awkwardly against it. Two would not meet his eyes.
Two crept over to the injured hunter and knelt beside it, stroking it gently as it lay writhing on the deck. A breeze blew over them all, bringing a swirl of dead oak leaves that pattered against Oliver’s skin. His skull buzzed with pain.
He fought to speak, but this time he could not even move his jaw.
“Hmmm,” muttered Lord Gilbert as he handled the crimson kite. “Perhaps that was a bit hasty.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” said Two, sounding upset. He was cradling the hunter in his hands. “You didn’t have to kill the kite.”
“It damaged my beautiful machine,” said Lord Gilbert calmly. “Punishment was required.” He shot a wink in Oliver’s direction.
He crumpled the kite in his fist and gathered the broken pieces of spine. Then he strode to the edge of the balcony and surveyed his machine.
“A broken hunter was just what we needed,” he said over his shoulder to Two. “Oliver One can begin his training by learning how to fix it. Take it inside for now, and fetch my helmet. I have to repair the machine. And you,” he said to Oliver, “you may get up, once your ability to move returns. But my hunters are watching, so resist thoughts of mischief, unless you’d like a nice scratch.”
Oliver lay against the wall, bursting with rage and despair. There was also a terrific itch on his left leg that he was trying to ignore. The hunters were lined up together on the balcony rail, perfectly unmoving. Oliver could see their eyes, made of dead, black glass, staring out fixedly at nothing.
Across the balcony, Two was murmuring to the hunter. His face was twisted with its own rage and despair.
Then the other boy rose, cradling the hunter gingerly, and walked past Oliver into the treehouse. He muttered as he passed, his voice trembling, “It’s not their fault they’re like this. He forces them to obey him.”
Oliver lay motionless, not sure if he ever really wanted to move again.
Lord Gilbert, swinging the remains of the crimson kite and whistling happily, strolled along the line of hunters. “Beautiful, are they not?” he said to Oliver. “I suppose they must seem like magic to your primitive mind.”
Oliver struggled to work his tongue, but the most he could manage was a strangled moan.
Lord Gilbert frowned. “What’s that, boy? You want to know more about my hunters? Of course! They are magnificent creations, much superior to your great-uncle’s primitive kites, as you have seen.” He grasped the nearest hunter by its wing. “Wings made of a synthetic fiber I developed, far tougher than silk! Watch!” He pinched the wing hard and pulled. The hunter shrieked and struggled. “Can’t be torn!” gasped Lord Gilbert, pressing a button on the HM IV. The hunter quieted.
He moved to the next kite and ran his finger along one of the metal spars that formed the hunter’s wing. “This alloy, also my invention, is lighter and stronger than steel.”
“Mlp!” gulped Oliver. It looked to him like the hunter shuddered at Lord Gilbert’s touch.
“And, of course, the brain,” said Lord Gilbert, touching the next hunter between its eyes. “My second- proudest creation.” He stroked the hunter’s head, just above the blank, glassy eyes. “I take the brain straight from the living hawk, with its predatory intelligence completely intact. The perfect hunter.”
Oliver would have shivered, if he could.
“I conceived of the hunters while watching Two waste his time with those ludicrous bamboo kites. I knew his talents could be put to far better use. And so they have, and so yours will as well!”
Oliver would have laughed. Lord Gilbert was going to be very disappointed with his talents.
There was a loud bang, and lights on the machine began flashing. “Two!” shouted Lord Gilbert.
Two reappeared. “Your helmet, sir.”
Lord Gilbert jammed the helmet onto his head. The thing included a big pair of protective goggles and several thin metal spines pointing straight up. He looked perfectly ridiculous, and perfectly pleased with himself, as he strutted to his machine and opened a flashing-light panel next to the mirror disc. He soon had his arms deep within, working, and he barked orders to Two, who scurried about with a screwdriver, obeying.
“I need to run a test,” announced Lord Gilbert after a few minutes. “Get onto the disc, boy.”
“What?” said Two in disbelief. “I can’t!”
“What?” said Lord Gilbert. “Why not?”
“I’m—” Two coughed. “I’m—”
“You’re what?” snapped Lord Gilbert impatiently. “Sick? You’re not sick, you’re just weak. You can easily make several more trips before you expire. My machine is nearly perfect! Get onto the disc.”
Two’s eyes flashed to Oliver’s, who looked away. There was nothing he could do, even if he wanted to, though a tingling feeling was covering his scalp, and he felt he might be able to move his neck.
“Now!” ordered Lord Gilbert.
Two limped reluctantly toward the riven oak, stepping onto the mirror disc.
Lord Gilbert jabbed a button on the HM IV.
A blinding flash of light.
A deafening
Oliver’s ferocious headache surged, and he shut his eyes against the pain. When it faded, he opened his eyes. His view was obscured by a rustling cascade of dead oak leaves showering down. When the leaves cleared, he looked at the disc.
Two had vanished.
Lord Gilbert seemed unconcerned, coolly manipulating controls and whistling his jaunty whistle.
Then, with a flourish, Lord Gilbert reached out and twisted a large knob. There was another
Standing—but not for long. The boy swayed, leaning against a railing at the back of the disc, then collapsed onto his knees, clutching his stomach.
“Well?” shouted Lord Gilbert tensely, pulling off his goggles.
Two shook his head and muttered something that Oliver could not hear.
Lord Gilbert pounded a fist on the flashing panel, then went back to fiddling with knobs as Two rolled onto his back in what looked to be terrible agony.
Oliver craned his neck. The leaf cover was evaporating with each flash and bang. The autumn oaks were becoming winter oaks, rapidly, and not from the gentle, natural fall of the seasons but from the ruthless, artificial violation of Lord Gilbert’s machines. The sinister black strings and sap-filled tubes and metal spikes—these were what was causing the oak leaves to fall.
