The Child Thief (41 page)

Nick closed in on the line of trees, could smell the soggy burned wood beyond. A spear slapped off his thigh, the shaft tangled in his legs. Nick went sprawling into the grass.

PETER HEARD SHOUTS
in the distance. Sounds were tricky in the thick fog. He stopped and cocked his head from side to side as he tried to locate their direction.

He’d found what he thought were Nick’s tracks just before dawn and followed them. But the tracks had run 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, the blades scissoring into the face of the man holding Danny, cutting the entire front of the man’s face off, exposing his eye sockets, nasal cavities, and an open hole where his mouth had been. There came a horrible gargling cry; the man’s tongue flapped like a windsock. He fell away from Danny, clutching what was left of his face.

Peter landed behind them. The men all tried to spin at once, but in different directions, crashing into one another and getting tangled in each other’s weapons. Peter shoved his swords into the backs of the men on either side of Danny and snatched the boy free. Hauling him away, pushing him up the trail. “
RUN!
” he screamed. “Run, for the Lady’s sake!”

Danny took off with Peter right behind him, and made it about four paces, then tripped, taking Peter down with him. Peter got one foot back under him when something hit him on the back of the skull.

Peter was still lucid enough to feel his face slap the hard earth, to feel the air go out of him, to see the men with their wicked grins and deadly spears circle him. Then he saw something else. There, far up on the hill, looking down, stood a tall figure in a woolly cape; a helmet with great antlers sat on its head.

Peter smiled. The Horned One had come to guide him to Otherworld.

B
edbone slipped again, jerking the rope against Nick’s neck. Nick winced as the prickly cords bit into his flesh. He fought to keep his footing and could only watch helplessly as Redbone struggled to regain his feet. There was a terrible gash in Redbone’s side; blood oozed out and ran all the way down his leg. And even though Redbone had been trying to kill him only an hour before, Nick still hated to see him suffer like this.

Just ahead of Redbone, Danny was blubbering and wouldn’t shut up. In front of Danny was Leroy. Nick wished Leroy was the one with the wound in his side; he’d have no problem watching Leroy choke. Peter was in the lead, plodding silently forward. Nick had no idea what was going to happen to them, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.

The men strung out in a long procession both in front and behind the boys, their dark, leathery flesh glistening beneath a coat of oily sweat. Directly ahead trudged a group of pike-men with the heads of the dead Devils sitting atop their pikes. Dirk’s lifeless eyes stared at Nick as his tongue lolled back and forth to the rhythm of the march.

Now that they were out in the open landscape and well away from the forests, the men had dropped their guard, staring at the trail with empty, soulless eyes, and dragging their spears as they tromped down the long, gray road. Nick did his best to avoid looking at them, at the thick veins running beneath their skin like worms, the bumps, scales, and horns. Apparently, the magic had twisted each man differently, and Nick found himself confronted with an endless variety of tortured bodies and the faces of men weary to their very souls.

The air was warm and humid, especially compared to the forests. Sweat rolled down Nick’s face and into his wounds, stinging the raw flesh where the ropes cut into his neck and wrists. Nick’s tongue felt swollen. He couldn’t remember ever being so thirsty. Down here, in the flatlands, the earth was dried out. They kicked up a cloud of dust as they marched along, and soon were covered in the claylike powder. Nick tried to spit to clear his mouth of the grime, but his mouth was too dry.

Their guard, a short, one-armed man with a sour face and a festering of warts along his brow, whacked Peter on the shin with the butt of his spear. Peter stumbled but somehow managed to keep from falling. “Stop dragging your feet, you ugly cunny. Move it.”

The man caught Nick looking at him and shoved his face into Nick’s; his breath smelled like rotten meat. “He be a demon, y’know. That one.” He whacked Peter with the blunt end of his spear. “Tell me you can see it?”

Nick didn’t answer.

“Little fool,” the guard spat. “How can you be so blind? Do you not see his pointy ears? He be Lucifer’s own son, that one.”

Nick turned away from the man.

“You see this,” the guard pressed his scarred stump right into Nick’s cheek. “It were him that done this.” The guard took the blunt end of his spear and whacked Peter in the ribs. Peter let out a grunt and the guard laughed, then whacked Peter again.

“Beasley, enough,” came a rough, weary voice. The voice came from the tall man with a thin mustache and goatee, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, what Nick thought of as a pirate’s hat.

“Aye, Captain,” the one-armed man sneered, then gave Peter a shove for good measure.

CAPTAIN SAMUEL CARVER
pulled at his goatee and scanned the line of captives. They’d captured five boys alive and had the heads of close to a dozen more to decorate the fort walls with. Though they looked like children, the Captain knew better and had made doubly sure their hands were tightly bound and their necks strapped to the pole before beginning the long march back to the fort.

The Captain studied the red-headed boy in the lead, a clot of blood drying on his scalp. The Captain resented that this demon child should have red blood. It wasn’t right, not when his own pure English blood had turned black. Of course, what
was
right anymore?
It’s him
—
the pointy ears leave no doubt.
This had to be the one they called Peter, the leader of this pack of heathens. How many times had this demon taunted them? Now, they not only had him, they had him alive. The Captain still couldn’t believe it, would never have guessed it could be so easy.

The demons had come early, right on the heels of yesterday’s success. The Captain
had
guessed that one right and marshaled every able-bodied man in preparation, intending to catch the demons by surprise. His plan was to hide his main body among the trees and draw Peter into an ambush with a smaller force. But no such plan had been needed. The demon children came straight to them, as though God had handed them over. The Captain almost felt disappointed, cheated. He’d come to expect more from this devilish creature. He moved up alongside Peter. “Tell me something, boy,” the Captain asked in a deep, rough voice. “Did you give up? Is that it? Just tired of the game? Tell me, son. So I can put my mind to rest.”

The red-headed boy met his eyes and held them. Even beaten and tied, the creature managed a sneer.

Captain shook his head. “Well, it’s over now, at least for you.”

One of the boys stumbled. The kid had a wild mop of hair with a red bone tied into it, a long scar that ran across his eye, and a nasty-looking wound in his side. The rope strangled him as he struggled to regain his feet. The Captain knew he had a right to hate them all, but found it hard to feel anything other than pity. Beneath the scars, the paint, the savage sneers, they were just children, or at least had been once. He knew a bit about Peter, how he stole these poor lads from the outside, bewitched them to do his bidding, turned them into savages. But no matter how savage they appeared, they all cried for their mothers once the Reverend started in on them.

Three of them looked to be fresh recruits; they had no scars, none of the tattoos and other wicked markings. The Captain dared to hold out a little hope. With these, there might be a chance. Maybe he’d be able to win them over, get them to talk, to help.

He’d rescued children before, and they’d all died badly, with their secrets undivulged, all except Billy. Billy had been fresh, like these boys. A little kindness and putting the fear of the Reverend in him, and the boy had come around. It’d been from Billy that he’d learned about Peter, about the Lady and the legend of her precious apple tree. But Billy hadn’t known where the Lady and her tree were hidden.

It pained the Captain to think of Billy—he had been a sweet-natured child. But then the change took Billy, and it had driven him mad. The Captain had had to cut the boy down and it still grieved his heart.

The wounded boy continued to struggle for his feet, continued to strangle. The Captain sighed and pulled the boy back up. The boy gasped for air, all but snarling as he glared at the Captain. The Captain shook his head and wondered why he even bothered, why they’d even brought this one along. There’d be no hope for the likes of him. It would be an act of mercy to kill him now and spare him the suffering to come.

A BRISK WIND
chased a devil duster through a field of beaten-down cornstalks. Just beyond the withered crop, the fort rose from the sooty earth. The tall, spiked timbers of the outer wall were the same dull gray as the land and leaned against each other as though in need of support.

The procession clomped across a dilapidated log bridge spanning a small brook. The sound of gurgling water tortured Nick. He tried to wet his lips but his tongue was still too dry. Crosses lined either side of the road, made from bleached wood and bones, some jutting out of the ground at odd angles, others had fallen over, lying broken and half-buried in the parched dirt.
Graves
, Nick realized, hundreds of them, all the way to the fort.

Nick heard a moan escape Peter. At first, he thought the guard had hit him again, but then he saw and gasped. Abraham’s head sat atop the wall of the fort. Nick looked away, but not before seeing Abraham’s dead eyes, not before seeing the other skulls, dozens of them lining the post.
How many?
he thought.
How many boys have died for this island?

A shout came from a tower near the gate and the gates swung outward. They were led into the compound and Nick got his first look at the village. The cabins were little more than huts, composed of straw roofs and crumbling sod and log walls. There were a few gardens here and there, sparsely populated with withered vegetables. He saw dried fish hanging from a line, then looked again: there, hanging among the fish, were several pixies, gutted and splayed. Everywhere Nick looked, crosses: big, small, made of twigs, made of thorns, made of bones, painted white, red, or black, some with hair, lace, shells, skulls, tied or nailed to them. They stuck up from the ground, hung along the roofs, along the walls, and from every doorway.

Most of the men were dismissed and drifted away. A handful of guards remained and steered them toward the center of the compound.

A woman peered out at Nick from within a dusky doorway. When their eyes met, she raised her crucifix, crossed herself, and withdrew into the shadows. She waited until they’d passed, then followed. Soon there were several women following them, creeping along but keeping their distance. These shriveled black-skinned women all looked the same to Nick, wearing faded, tattered, long-sleeved, ankle-length dresses, their stringy hair stuffed under bonnets, their red eyes wide and ominous.

The Captain brought them to a halt in front of a building with a cross set atop a leaning steeple. This building had been whitewashed at one time but now the boards were faded and as gray and grimy as the rest of the fort. The Captain left them in the yard with the guards and entered the building.

As they waited, a crowd gathered, surrounding them, glaring, pointing, and murmuring among themselves. They kept their distance, their eyes full of hate and fear, until a woman pushed her way to the front. She wore about her neck dozens of small crosses made of twigs. Unlike the other women’s, her hair was loose and hung down in her face. She pointed a long, bent finger at Peter. “It be he!” she cried, in a frayed voice. She walked up to Peter and spat in his face.

When this woman didn’t spontaneously burst into flames, the crowd became bolder, and their taunts grew louder and more lively. Someone chucked a clump of dirt at Peter, hitting him in the face. Soon dirt flew at them from all quarters. A woman pushed past the guards and managed to rake her nails across Peter’s cheek before they could knock her away. Nick felt hard fingers bite into his arm and found himself looking into the single angry eye of a hunched man. “Demon!” he spat. “You all be demons.” A guard no sooner knocked the man away than a woman pushed in and grabbed Peter by the hair, yanking his head back and forth. “You took me John! You shall pay! By the Lord’s own hand, you shall pay!” It took two guards to pull her off.

The crowd surged forward and several scuffles broke out with the guards. The guards couldn’t contain them and Nick realized he was about to be beaten to death.

A sharp voice, like the crack of a rifle, cut through the rumblings. “
ENOUGH!
All of you.
NOW!
”

Heads turned and the crowd wavered.

“Move aside,” the voice commanded.

The crowd grumbled but fell back. Nick saw the tops of black hats pushing up. The crowd parted and three men followed by the Captain strode purposely forward and stood before them. Two of the men were dressed in capes and long coats. They wore tall, wide-brimmed felt hats, what Nick thought of as pilgrims’ hats, and both wore black wooden crosses around their necks. The third towered at least a head above anyone, a giant, square-jawed, bald man. He wore an armored collar and steel armbands over a studded leather doublet.

One of the caped men stepped forward and looked Peter up and down. One side of his face was dead, like that of a victim of a stroke, the dead eye milky and unblinking, that side of his mouth turned down into a perpetual frown. He carried a black staff capped with a simple gold cross. “It is truly he,” the man exclaimed and pointed the staff at Peter. “The son of Lucifer himself.”

A low gasp escaped the crowd and as one they fell back.

The crooked-faced man cocked his head to glare at Peter with his good eye. “God has brought you here to be punished. Has set this task in my hands. I do not intend to let our Lord down.”

The man then moved on to Danny, Leroy, and finally Nick. He spied the blue rabbit’s foot around Nick’s neck and snatched it away with a hard yank. “Satan’s toys,” he spat and threw it to the dirt, grinding it into the mud as though snuffing out a cigarette butt. He grasped Nick’s jaw in his hard hands and held his face to his own. “Tell me child. Do you remember the name of your father?”

Nick didn’t trust himself to speak; he just nodded.

“We’ll see,” the crooked-faced man said. “Take them to the Captain’s quarters.”

CAPTAIN SAMUEL CARVER
picked up the pitcher. He held it high and poured the cool water into his cup. He watched them, four filthy, miserable children sitting on the dirt floor of the cabin. They stared at the cup. Nothing makes a man thirstier than the stress of combat, and these boys hadn’t had a drink since this morning, probably before. He brought the cup slowly to his lips and drank deeply, loudly, letting the water dribble down his chin and puddle onto the table. He finished the cup, smacked his lips, then poured another one. He pushed the pitcher across the table in their direction.

“Would any of you lads care for a drink?” he asked. “Just pulled from the well. Cool and sweet. One thing you have to give this godforsaken island. The water’s very sweet.”

Of course, none of them answered, but their eyes spoke, saying, “Yes, yes we would. Why, we’d gladly trade our left legs for a cup thank you very much.” The Captain didn’t want their left legs, and—he glanced at the two Reverends seated beside him at the table—he sure as hell didn’t care a damn about saving their souls. No, all Captain Carver wanted, wanted more than the whole world, was to know where the Lady and her goddamned apple tree were hidden so that they could get the hell off this accursed island.