The Child Thief (32 page)

PETER

THE WITCH

SEKEU

THE LADY

THE TROLL

ULFGER

THE CAPTAIN

THE REVEREND

PETER WATCHED SEKEU
and her crew slip away through the brambles and disappear into the ground fog, then led his own group down the west slope toward the burning fields. The going was slow and treacherous as they wove their way silently around the wet rocks, mud, clingy briars, and roots.

Near the bottom of the valley, just as the land began to level out, Peter caught the distant shouts of Flesh-eaters at their labors. While trying to decide the best path forward, he heard it: a click, somewhere to their flank. Peter signaled and the Devils dropped to a crouch.

Another pop, coming from somewhere toward their front. He heard it again, then again. He scanned the drifting grayness in front of him, searching for movement, but saw nothing. He was sure someone was heading their way, a scout or a sentry, maybe even a small troop.
No
, thought Peter.
Not now
. If they were discovered before Sekeu could get into position, all would be lost. Their only chance would be to try to make short work of any enemies before they blew their cover. Peter reached for one of his swords, then stopped, suddenly feeling cold steel against the back of his neck.

“What have we here?” came a sharp whisper.

Peter slowly turned, expecting to look into the eyes of his executioner. Standing behind him at spear’s length was the old elf, Drael. Drael lifted his spear and smiled. “You weren’t going to go play without me, were you?”

Peter’s face lit up with disbelief and pleasure. “Drael, you came! By the gods, you came!” Peter couldn’t grin any wider. He leaped to his feet and embraced the old elf. “It’s good to see you again!”

Drael clucked his tongue and five more elves materialized out of the smoky woods, each armed with three throwing spears. They’d traded their traditional green tunics for gray and had their long hair tied back, out of their slanted icy eyes.

“I heard word you entered the Lady’s Wood seeking allies. I bring five of the Guard’s finest.” He extended his hand toward the elves. “I just wish I could have convinced more to join with us. The elves find it hard to break an oath, even in the face of madness. I am afraid the rest of the Guard will follow Ulfger to their doom. My allegiance lies with the Lady, not a crazed Lord. I’d rather die here today, among warriors, than cower within the Lady’s Wood. What do you say, do we fight this day?”

Peter clasped the old elf’s shoulder. “You are a true friend.”

“And you, my friend, are a crazy devil.”

“Then we go?”

“Yes, Peter. We follow your lead.”

Peter moved out and the Devils and elves fell in line. Peter had to blink back tears. Not just from seeing the face of an old friend, but because they’d come to fight with
him
, to follow him against such hopeless odds; this in itself was a victory. They weren’t enough, he knew, but he felt better knowing he had six elven swords at his side. He bit his lip.
We must win this day
.

THE CRY CUT
through the fog, a sound of pain, agony, and helplessness. A sound so human that Nick found it impossible to believe it could be a tree. Tree or not, Nick wanted to run as far from the cry as he could get. But he didn’t run; instead, he gritted his teeth and forced himself onward against every instinct, following Sekeu as they slithered on their bellies through the mud and brambles toward the clearing.

Nick stopped to wipe a clot of mud from his mouth. He glanced back, and though Redbone was only a few paces behind, Nick could barely make him out. Sekeu had them cover themselves from head to toe in a greasy muck of mud, leaves, and bark. Now they blended into the land, all but invisible among the ash and smoke. They’d circumvented the clearing and were now creeping forward from the east side. As they neared, Nick could hear rough shouts and make out movement through the brambles.

Sekeu signaled them up and Nick slid forward with slow, steady movements, as she had instructed, avoiding any quick moves that might draw attention. Abraham and Leroy crawled into position on one side of Sekeu, and Nick on the other. A moment later, Redbone, his absurd grin in place, slipped in next to Nick.

Black clouds rolled across the clearing, obscuring their view. Nick strained to see while fighting not to cough on the thick smoke. It smelled of burned wood, but there was another smell, a sweet, sickly smell like cooking meat.

The rough voices of men barking orders came through the murk. Suddenly a bright flame lit up the smoke, followed by a long, horrible scream. Nick put his hands over his ears.
How can a tree make such a cry?
The wind shifted, blowing the smoke away from the forest, and there, not fifty yards away, stood a dozen Flesh-eaters.

Nick’s heart drummed in his chest. They were men, not monsters, and somehow seeing their humanity made them all the more ghastly. Some horrible disease had infested their very core. Their skin was scaly, shriveled, and black like that of a burn victim, and their faces were distorted as though in great pain. Their bodies were emaciated, their ribs and hips jutted out in sharp contrast to their shriveled waists. Yet Nick could see lean, ropy muscles and veins rippling across their chests, shoulders, and arms. Their eyes were blood-red, sunken deep in their cadaverous sockets and with only a tiny black speck of a pupil, their noses little more than slits, their lips peeled back, revealing white gums and yellow teeth.

A chill ran down Nick’s spine. These men, their skin, their eyes, they were the same as the creature he’d become in his nightmares. Was he turning into one of these? Is that what the magic was doing to him?
No! I’ll risk the Mist before I become one of these horrors.

Sekeu poked Nick and pointed to a large cauldron set upon a slight rise about a hundred yards out. A fire smoldered beneath. Nearby were two barrels with stringy black oil dripping down their sides. Nick wondered how they could possibly cover that much ground before the Flesh-eaters caught them.

There were at least ten guards stationed around the cauldron itself, heavily armed men carrying swords and spears, wearing breastplates or studded doublets and metal helmets with high combs like a rooster’s crown. Dozens more were spread out, grim-faced men who looked alert and dangerous, patrolling the tree line in intervals in both directions.

Two barefoot men, dressed in ragged knee-length breeches and filthy, tattered shirts, tromped up the rise to the cauldron, carrying a bucket in each hand. A hunchbacked man with a peg leg stirred the oil. When the men stepped up, he scooped out the oil with a large ladle and dumped the slick goo into the buckets. The men watched balefully until the buckets were full, then hoisted their burden and slogged back toward the tree line. Men with straw brooms awaited them. They dipped the brooms into the oil and swabbed it onto the tree trunks. As they stepped away, another man stepped forward, bearing a torch.