The Child Thief

Chapter Twenty Samuel Carver

Bedbone 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.

The Captain stood, strolled in front of the table, and pulled at his chin hairs. He looked down at the boys. What were their stories? It’d been a long time since he’d managed to capture one of these wild children, and longer since he’d actually gotten one to talk. He’d not heard word of the outside world since Billy. How much time had passed since then? Billy had claimed that not only had the colonies broken away from England, had formed a country of their own called the United States, but that these so-called united states were now at war with each other—over slavery, of all things. Were they still at war? The Captain didn’t think so, but he wanted to know the answer to that and so much more. But there’d be time for that later, he consoled himself. For now, he had to convince at least one of them that it would be in their best interest to assist him.

“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” he said and meant it. These boys, even the savage one with the wild hair and scars, had all been ordinary children before that demon got a hold of them. It was only bad luck that’d put them in the path of that golden-eyed spawn of Satan. The Captain took another sip from his cup and smacked his lips. “I’d like to share my water. But I only invite friends to my table. Who among you will be my friend? Will come have a drink with me?”

None of them moved nor spoke, but they all eyed the cup.

“Loyalty is an honorable trait. But loyalty based on lies is loyalty misplaced. You’ve heard only half a truth, I warrant, from this Peter. Would you be so inclined to allow me to fill you in on the whole truth?” The Captain raised his eyebrows and glanced from face to face. “No objections? Good, we’re off to a fine start then.

“A long time ago, I agreed to bring these good people,” the Captain swept his arm toward the two Reverends, “the Saints, to the New World. A group of pilgrims that wanted nothing more than to escape religious persecution and find a place of peace to practice their beliefs.” The Captain made a slight bow to the two humorless, stoned-faced men, and for the millionth time wondered what brazen act of blasphemy, what horrendous carnal sin he’d committed that could possibly have been so bad as for God to condemn him to spend not one lifetime but several with these fanatics. Was it the time he hired those four wenches in Portugal to share their delights, three being sisters and the last their mother? Was it the time he stole a casket of communion wine from the monastery, or maybe taking the good Lord’s name in vain as many times as there were stars in the sky? He couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t think of any sin so great as to merit being marooned with this lot. It must have been something he’d done in a past life. He pushed the thoughts aside and continued: “Two storms sent us far off course, our supplies were dangerously low. Sickness had already claimed the lives of many. We were sea-weary and down to the last rations of rainwater when these shores showed themselves. I got down on my hands and knees and kissed these beaches that day. Ne’er had I been so relieved to have land back beneath my feet.

“The Saints were intent on making Jamestown before the weather turned. So we set camp, planning to stay only long enough to gather fresh water and replenish our stocks. Then the demons came.

“Several women came running into camp, terror-stricken and screaming of demon men. I’d heard of the native peoples of the Americas and their wild ways and thought it was just the womanly hysteria, but what I saw chilled me to the bone—not Indian tribesmen but demons indeed. Abominations with horns and tails, pointed ears and golden eyes, half-beasts and half-men, creatures that could’ve only crawled from the pits of Hell itself and they were coming for us. We shouted at them to leave yet still they persisted. We’d no idea what manner of sorcery they possessed: hexes, poxes, plague? When they wouldn’t turn I shot the lead creature and almost wept to see that they were indeed mortal. We drove them off that day.

“We realized that these lands were bewitched and we made to leave right away. But even as we were bringing down the tents, the fog came. Like nothing I’d ever seen in twenty years on the seas, fog so thick it felt palpable. And this fog was alive. It swam with the faces of the dead, with horrible things that I could never describe with mere words. It rolled out of the forest and surrounded the ships. You couldn’t see from bow to stern. To have tried to sail in that soup, with all the rocks and reefs, would’ve been to throw your life to the sea. And it was then that I began to suspect that we might’ve sailed into purgatory itself.

“The drums started, day and night, relentless. I saw brave men, men who’d gone toe to toe with pirates without batting an eye, fall down to their knees and beg God to show us a way out. But there was no way out. Not in that fog. So we hid the women and children aboard the vessels, dug trenches, prepared our defenses, and tried to make peace with our souls.

“They came for us in the earliest hours of dawn, a horde of demons. I fought to remain steady as they burst from the tree line, but in my heart I wanted to run into the sea, almost preferring to drown than face such monsters. The very ground trembled as they charged, filling the air with their awful screams and howls. I would stand against any man, but these weren’t men. These were Satan’s own children. My legs trembled so bad I could hardly keep my musket fixed. I saw many a man openly weeping. But God spared us that day. Why? I know not. I cannot say it were a mercy. All I know is we fought off the demon horde and that is all that matters.”

The Captain cleared his throat and took a swig from the cup.

“Some would argue it would’ve been better to have died that day. I believe many would’ve laid down their muskets and surrendered if they’d any idea what horrors lay in store.” The Captain paused to consider how many times he’d contemplated letting the blood out of his veins in those early days. It was only the fear for his immortal soul and the hope that he might see his sons at least one more time before he died that stayed his hand.

“Day after day we waited for the fog to lift. Women, children, and grown men even feared to leave the ships. Life on board became unbearable, so when the fog didn’t lift, we were forced to try and live on the island.

“Captain Williams of the Foresight and most of his party decided they’d rather risk the fog than set foot back on that shore. They left the harbor and disappeared into that swirling wall of gray. We never knew their fate for certain, but shortly thereafter we heard their screams, horrible sounds, like people being eaten alive. Those screams eventually turned to wails, fading to plaintive pleas, then, after many a long hour, just drifted away altogether. But sometimes at night, when the mist comes in from the sea and crawls beneath our doors, we still hear them, along with all those that have fallen, wailing and begging us to come into the evil mist and save them.

“We began to clear the land and build the fort. We planted crops and bred our livestock. We did our best to survive, hoping that each new day would be the day we could leave. But the island vexed us at every turn,

blighted our crops, plagued our livestock, and cast spells on us that covered our skin with scaly pox, twisting our bodies and turning us into monsters. The change drove many mad, corrupted them into villainous murderers, and many had to be killed.

“I’d not yet learned of the Lady and her black arts, but all knew there was a source of great evil out there, plaguing us with its sorcery. The forests teemed with wicked creatures, the very trees themselves were possessed by demons. We began to burn them down, to push the evil back. We were determined to raze the entire island if we had to, whatever it took to rid us of this deviltry. And it worked, the forest began to die, the wicked people began to disappear. We saw less and less of the evil ones. I began to have hope.

“Later, once I’d learned of the Lady from Billy, it made more sense. It became obvious that the forest and creatures were indeed all a part of her sorcery, that our efforts weren’t in vain. We swore never to stop until either we found her or we erased all traces of her sorcery from this land.

“So there lies the truth. You can plainly see how we’ve been trapped, tortured, vexed, and plagued at every turn. And if that weren’t suffering enough, on top of all that wickedness, the sorceress has summoned that demon, Peter, to trick and steal children. To bewitch children to do murder! To force us to kill children to protect ourselves!” The Captain took a deep breath. “See me for who I am. Beneath this horrible skin I am a man, father of two boys. Do you believe I should ever wish to harm a child? Have you any idea of the horror in this? Can you not see what Peter is? How he and the Lady are using you? How willing they are to sacrifice your lives? Surely you can see? Yes?”

The Captain gave them a moment to think, to let what he had said sink in.

“All we wish is to leave this Godforsaken island. Look into your hearts. Who among you will help me?” The Captain clasped his hands behind his back, strolled behind the table. He put two cups in front of himself, poured the water, taking his time, letting the water dribble into the cups. The Captain pushed one of the cups across the table. He looked from face to face. “Now who will come and share a cup of water with me?”

The boys remained silent.

The Captain hadn’t expected any of them to accept. Not yet anyway, not until they understood just what was at stake. He glanced over at the two Reverends. Men who’d once challenged popes and kings in their pursuit of religious purity, now reduced to little more than superstitious fools. “Reverend Senior,” the Captain inclined his head toward the crooked-faced man, “believes each of you is possessed by a demonic spirit. As a man of God, it is his sworn duty to try and free your soul. Exorcism is a highly skilled undertaking. Your Grace, if it’s not too much to ask, would you be willing to inform these boys of the more delicate nuances of your craft?”

The Reverend Senior nodded and stood. The boys eyed him warily.

“We’ve come to find,” the Reverend stated clinically, “that in a case of demonic possession, the possessed must undergo a series of tortures in order to drive the demon out. The host body must become so inhospitable that the demon can no longer bear to stay within. We start with drowning, as this does the least damage to the possessed. Here you’re merely held under water until you drown—several times if deemed necessary. If this, in our judgment, doesn’t free the possessed, we move to branding, or burning of the extremities. If there is still no success, we try breaking bones, starting with smaller bones in your fingers and working up to the leg and arm bones. And in the end, if all else fails, we burn the possessed to death. As this is the one sure way to cleanse the soul.”

The Captain was still amazed, even after all these years, that the Reverend could discuss torturing children with no more emotion than if he were describing the process of churning cream to butter. But that was what made his words so effective, and the Captain was pleased to see that the Reverend’s words weren’t lost on the boys. He caught their quick, furtive looks, could plainly see the fear in their eyes.

“There’s another way,” the Captain added. “A way in which you could avoid all of these unpleasantries. Some simple act to prove you’re not Satan’s pawn. Perhaps one of you could tell us the whereabouts of the Lady? Of the magical tree? This simple act would prove that you were indeed the master of your own soul and there’d be no need to go through the painful rigors of an exorcism.”

The Captain waited, and when none of the boys spoke, he added, “Oh, you should be aware that once this exorcism starts, there’s little chance it will stop. For the Reverends know well that demons are full of tricks and cunning. That a clever demon will pretend to talk as the child, will say anything to try and stop the tortures. So think hard, boys, once you leave my cabin, you’re in God’s hands. Now take a moment and consider. For this will be your last chance.”

The Captain strolled over to the window and pulled aside the curtain. The sound of hammering came into the room. “Are they readying the drowning cage already?” the Captain asked, addressing the Reverends.

The Reverend Senior nodded. “The Lord’s work should never wait.”

The Captain sighed. “No. No indeed.” He studied the boys. The wild-haired one, the boy with the scar on his face, he’d be lucky if he made it through the day, but there’d been no hope for that one anyway. The two in the middle looked scared, but stubborn. If only they could truly appreciate what was at stake. But the round-faced boy didn’t look stubborn. His eyes danced back and forth from the Reverend to the cup to the other boys. That one seemed to understand.

The Captain walked over, picked up one of the cups, and stood before the boys. “So who will drink with me?” He spoke to all of them, but his eyes were only on the round-faced boy.

The boy’s lips trembled as though he were trying to make himself speak. The Captain sat the cup down in front of him and untied his hands. The round-faced boy held his wrist to his chest and rubbed the rope burns as he stared at the water.

“Go on,” the Captain said. “There’s no harm in it.”

The boy bit his lip, his face tight as though in pain, then, slowly, he extended a dirty, trembling hand.

“Danny, no!” the boy next to him hissed.

Danny jerked his hand back as though bitten.

But the Captain smiled. He had his boy and knew it. The Captain picked the cup up, pulled Danny to his feet, and led the boy to the table, pulling out a chair and seating him. He put a hand on his shoulder and handed him the cup. “It’s all right,” he said, his voice soft, comforting, like when he used to talk to his own children. “It’s all over. The nightmare. The horrible things they made you do. All over.”

Danny clasped the cup in both hands and put it to his lips. He took a big gulp, then another, and another until he gasped and choked and finally broke down and began to sob. The Captain refilled the cup.

“YOU LITTLE FUCK!” screamed the boy with the red bone in his hair.

The Captain nodded and one of the guards took a quick step over and kicked the wild-haired boy hard in the stomach. The boy doubled over, groaning, but still managed to glower at Danny.

The other two boys looked on with a mixture of confusion and despair.

It’s done, the Captain thought, and sighed. “I have my soldier.” He bowed to the Reverend Senior. “I thank you, your Grace. I leave the rest of them in your fair and compassionate hands.” As the two Reverends led the other three boys from the room, the Captain thought, And may God be merciful, because these twisted men will not.

Chapter Twenty-One Drowning Cage

Move along,” the Reverend Senior spoke in his cold, detached tone as the guards herded the boys back toward the town square. The second Reverend, a short man with a pinched nose and a protrusive overbite of jagged teeth—which made him look like a mole to Nick—trailed along beside them, his hands clasped together as though in prayer, staring at them with wide, pitying eyes.

Nick heard the commotion of the crowd. He tried to swallow and winced from the sharp pain in his parched throat. He found himself wishing he’d taken the water. All this talk of torture, it was a bluff, surely? A ploy? Then why was he so scared? Was it too late to change his mind? To fall to his knees and beg a cup of water? He wanted to hate Danny, but he’d almost given in himself. Would have, if he’d thought for a minute he could actually trust the Captain or any of these men. Because this whole situation was beyond hopeless, it was ridiculous. If not so tragic, it would be laughable. Both sides so blinded by their fear and hate of each other that they couldn’t see they were all fighting for the same thing—for the men to leave this island. Insanity!

Nick couldn’t fathom how many had died on both sides because they couldn’t do as simple a thing as talk to each other. And if they had, would it have helped? Nick didn’t believe so. The Lady would never have lifted the Mist, because she would’ve never trusted the men to leave, would only have feared the coming of more men. Both sides had been doomed the moment the men had set foot on Avalon, and that was the simple, tragic truth of this whole nightmare.

Nick heard a cry ahead, followed by a cheer. Oh, no. What now?

The guards pushed them into the square. Nick was confronted by sullen-faced men and women gathered in front of the church, but none of them paid him any heed, all their attention fixed on the large cross set atop a platform. “Oh, God,” Nick gasped. Strapped to the cross was Peter.

They’d crucified him, binding his hands, feet, and neck tightly to the post with rope. They’d stripped him down to his waist, and Nick saw several angry welts across Peter’s arms and chest and a fresh gash across his brow. Blood ran down Peter’s cheek and dripped onto his chest. The giant bald man stood beside him, a short lash in his hand. Peter’s eyes were closed, his face tight, lips pursed.

Nick, Leroy, and Redbone were left with the guards as the Reverend Senior went forward and gained the stage. Low murmurs ran through the crowd. The Reverend Senior stepped up and raised his staff. The crowd quieted. There was an atmosphere of excitement in the air like before the main event at a carnival.

“We’ve been plagued for far longer than an age by this child of Lucifer.” The Reverend swept a hand toward Peter. “But now we have him. Proof that God has not abandoned us. Proof that our sacrifices are not in vain. Proof that we are God’s chosen warriors. Lucifer has sent his own son to harry us, to test our faith. Today we send his son back. Back into the fetid pits of Hell from whence he came!” The Reverend smacked his staff on the platform and the crowd erupted in a jovial cheer, with several shouts of “Praise God” and “Amen.”

The Reverend looked over to the giant bald man. “Ox, we are ready?”

The giant man pulled on a thick leather glove, stepped over to a black pot, and plucked an iron brand from a bed of red coals. He held the end up, for the crowd to admire a glowing cross. The crowd murmured its approval. The Reverend Senior nodded, then left the platform. Ox moved toward Peter.

The mole-faced Reverend leaned over. “Pay close attention, children. Let the demons amongst you see this very well. Let them see what awaits and maybe they will run off and your souls will be saved.”

The painful knot in Nick’s stomach told him what was going to happen and begged him to turn away. But Nick couldn’t, and when the giant pushed the brand into Peter’s chest, Nick saw Peter’s eyes flash open, saw him clench his teeth and struggle not to scream as his flesh sizzled beneath the brand.

The mole-faced Reverend grinned, and what Nick saw was not the face of the devout, but the simple lewdness of a sadist.

Peter writhed against his bounds, his breath racing in and out of his chest as fast as a bird beats its wings. And somehow, through it all, Peter didn’t scream. When Ox finally pulled the brand away, Peter’s eyes rolled up into his head.

It was then, as the smell of burned flesh took Nick back to Marko, to the kitchen, that Nick knew it was all real. Knew that before this day was over, he’d wish he was with Marko, wish he was anywhere but in this nightmare.

“No,” Nick moaned and began to tremble all over. “No.” His small voice was lost among the cheers and taunts of the crowd.

THE CAPTAIN WATCHED but didn’t watch. He’d come to the branding only because it was expected. But he was sick of this charade. Sick of watching people lose a little more of their humanity each day, and sick to death of seeing people tortured in the name of God. What had happened to these people? The Reverend Senior had once been an inspiring leader, a moral compass for his flock. Rarely had the Captain ever met such a fair-minded man. This island has taken so much, he thought. Has stolen our very souls.

Another cheer, and the Captain could stand it no longer. Demon or not, it didn’t matter, suffering was everywhere he looked. He didn’t care to witness more. He’d made his appearance, surely that was enough. The Captain turned and began to walk away.

“Captain,” a thin, strained voice called. The Captain knew even before he turned who it was. The Reverend Senior stood with his arms crossed, scrutinizing him.

The three boys, held under guard, were just behind the Reverend. Witnessing the branding of the child demon had stripped them of any savageness; all that was left were the wide-eyed faces of terrified, confused children. Against his best efforts, the Captain still couldn’t help but think of his own boys in such a situation, and the thought all but brought tears to his eyes. Given time, he thought, I could bring a few of them around. There’s no need to torture them.

“You find this act distasteful?” asked the Reverend.

The Captain didn’t miss the underlining tone of the question. Always watching, the Captain thought, always vigilant for the stray sheep. The Captain’s keen survival instinct had been sharpened not only in the forest but, even more important, here, in the village, where these men of God had become more obsessed with finding demons than with getting off the island. Men who fear demons see demons everywhere, the Captain thought. “No, Your Grace,” the Captain said, and forced his eyes back upon Peter. “If you’re referring to branding that demon up upon the cross, then no, it matters not.”

The Reverend’s good eye bored into the Captain’s own until the Captain feared he might be reading his thoughts. “But, Your Grace…” the Captain said and hesitated—one misstep and he could find himself branded a heretic. “I do wonder if there might not be a better way for the children?”

The Reverend’s eye narrowed and he cocked his head. “Better way?”

The Captain realized he’d made a poor choice of words.

The Reverend took a step toward the Captain. “You believe you know a better way than the Council?”

Better than a group of men that flogged themselves, a group of men who raced to denounce their own neighbors, brothers, sisters, wives? Yes, I most certainly do. But the Captain also wished to stay alive, so on this, like so many matters, he kept his true thoughts to himself. “Your Grace. None know better than the Council on these matters. My concern is only about how these boys might best serve the Council. If I could but have some time with them?”

The Reverend eyed him contemptuously. The Captain worked to keep his true emotions veiled, well aware that one word from this man and he would be on the cross next to Peter.

“Captain, God has been most gracious to provide you with fruit for your labors. Do not ask for more than you need.”

The Captain bowed slightly. “Of course, Your Grace. The Lord has been more than generous today,” he said, knowing he’d already gone too far.

The Reverend addressed the guards, “Take them to the pond and prepare them.”

The Captain saw the terror on the boys’ faces. Knew he’d be seeing those faces again, at night, when the mist came to haunt him.

THE CAPTAIN PUSHED into his hut, pulling the heavy tapestry across the door behind him, hoping to block out as much of the sounds from the square as possible. He leaned against the door post and let out a long breath trying to clear his mind and heart.

Domitila, one of the few people he could trust—thankfully, not everyone had lost their minds—was combing the tangles out of the boy’s hair. The Captain was surprised at what a difference simply washing the boy’s face and combing his hair made. It was obvious from Domitila’s eyes that she was deeply moved by the presence of this child, and he found himself moved as well. When was the last time any of them had a child near, or any person, for that matter, whose flesh was not twisted and blackened?

Danny had finished the last bit of potato and gravy. He drank the cup dry and set it down. A muffled cry of pain came through the curtain. Danny stopped eating and pushed the plate away as though he didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d done. He put his face in his hands and began to weep again.

The Captain signaled Domitila to take the plate away and moved over next to the boy. He laid a hand on his shoulder. “I understand your name to be Daniel,” the Captain said. “A good Christian name.”

Danny didn’t look up.

The Captain pulled up a chair next to the boy. “Daniel, you must not torture yourself over this. You need to understand right now…you had no choice. No one understands this better than me. We’re very similar, you and I. We’re both trapped by circumstance and we’ve both been forced to do things that we don’t want to do. Things we’d never have done otherwise.”

The Captain lowered his voice. “Daniel, we need each other to get out of here. I need to be able to confide in you, to be able to trust you.”

Danny raised his head and looked at the Captain, confused but curious.

“There’s information I’d like to share with you. Information I couldn’t mention in front of the Reverend. Can I trust you, Daniel?”

A trace of hope crossed Danny’s face; he nodded cautiously.

“There’s insanity all around us. It’s like this place breeds it, both with the Reverend and with the Lady. You’re a smart boy, I know you see it. You hear what’s going on out there. It’s madness, but it’s out of your control—out of my control. Nothing either of us can do to change it. All we can do at this point is try to survive it.”

The Captain sighed. “The others are in the hands of the Reverends now, in the hands of fanatics. There’s no hope for them. I wish it were otherwise, but you were there. I gave them their chance and they made their choice. You cannot blame yourself for that.

“All I want is to get off this island. We both know that this Lady holds the key. If we can put a stop to her sorcery, the mist will go away and we can finally escape this hell.

“I spoke earlier of my sons; the oldest, he was around your age when I left. I cannot help but think of him when I look upon you. It’s beyond me to do anything but try and help you. Daniel, if you can help me, I promise that together we will get off this island.” The Captain laid a hand on the boy’s arm. “Will you help me find the Lady?”

Danny nodded his agreement, then thrust himself against the Captain, wrapped his arms tightly about his waist, pressed his face against his chest, and began to sob.

It had been decades since the Captain had been embraced by anyone; to now have this young boy cling to him exactly as his own sons had once done overwhelmed him with heartsickness. The Reverend will not have this child, he thought. No, I’ll kill every one of them first.

NICK SAT IN the cage with Leroy and Redbone, next to a small, dark pond. The cage was more of a basket, woven together from large strips of bark, bamboo, and twine. The basket was suspended a few feet off the ground from a long pole with a ballast attached to the far end. The villagers still had not bothered to give them water, but they had unbound the boys’ hands. Nick rubbed his raw wrist and pressed his face against the weave. He could see past the crowd into the square where Peter hung listlessly from the cross. They’d branded him until he’d stopped moving, which meant he was either unconscious or dead. Nick was unsure which to hope for.

The crowd had migrated over to the pond, their faces tight, tense, many looked hungry for more suffering, but others seemed troubled. Nick took in a deep, quivery breath, well aware that he was the show now. He realized his whole body was shivering, but not from any chill.

A weak moan escaped Redbone. Nick leaned over to him and said, “Hang in there, man.”

One of Redbone’s eyes flitted open. He managed a weak smile, a shadow of his former ferocious grin. Then his eyes fell shut. Nick would’ve thought him dead except for the faint rise and fall of his chest.

“What’re they gonna do?” Leroy asked, his voice high and strained. It seemed less a question and more just words coming from a scared boy. Nick wanted to pretend he didn’t know, but he did. The Reverend had said they would drown them. From there, it wasn’t too hard to figure out. He tried not to think what it would be like to be trapped in this basket beneath the dark water of that scummy pond. Did it hurt to drown?

The Reverend Senior walked over to the basket. He held a tattered Bible in one hand and his staff in the other. He faced the crowd. “Let us pray,” he pronounced, and the crowd fell silent. “Lord, we are grateful for the faith you have placed in our hands. Give us strength that we may do your bidding. And bless these children and make them strong for the trials ahead. Amen.”

“Amen,” the crowd murmured.

The Reverend laid the Bible on the cage and closed his good eye. The crowd fell silent. “Demon,” the Reverend called in a low, stern voice. “Hear me for I call you out in the name of the Lord Almighty. Leave these children. Return to the pits of Hell from whence you came.” Slowly, he raised his head, his eye opened, and he glared at the boys. “DEMON!” he shrieked, his voice filled with wrath. “LEAVE THESE CHILDREN!” Spittle flew from his lips. “I demand it in the name of the Heavenly Father!” To Nick, it seemed that the Reverend was the one possessed. The Reverend slapped the side of the cage with his staff and locked his wide, fanatical eye on Nick. “I see you, demon! I see you very well. Leave now, or face the pain of drowning!”

The Reverend leaned in close. “Boys,” he whispered, his voice suddenly gentle, kind. “If you can hear me call on the Lord to give you strength. Let Him hear your voice.” The Reverend looked deep into Nick’s eyes, searching. Nick saw a different person then, a soul overcome with compassion and pity. Why, the man was near tears. The Reverend reached through the bars, grasped Nick by the shoulder. “Please boy, please hear me.” And at that moment Nick saw that this man truly believed he was helping them, and somehow knowing this made the situation even more horrifying. “Children,” the Reverend called. “For the love of God, find the strength, break free. Defeat these demons. Lift up your voices. Let Him hear you!”

This was followed by many in the crowd, shouts of “Let Him hear you!” and “Call to the Lord!”

The Reverend stepped away, watching, waiting.

Lift up my voice? Nick thought. And say what? What was he supposed to say? Nick tried to find some words, but all that came out was, “God help me.”

The Reverend slowly shook his head, then nodded toward the two men at the ballast and they swung the cage out over the pond. Leroy let out a weak cry. Many among the crowd jockeyed for the best spots along the bank, their faces eager, like a crowd’s before a prize fight. Nick stared into the dark water.

“Children,” the Reverend called. “Raise your voices to God!”

“OH GOD!” Leroy screamed. “Jesus, God, Lord, help us for Christ’s sake! Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, help us!” Nick didn’t think that was what they were looking for, but he joined in just the same. “Jesus, please help us.”

Then a strange laugh cut the air, causing all of them to fall silent. It was Redbone, his laugh hearty and piercing.

The Reverend’s good eye squinted down to a mere slit. The crowd took a step back.

“TELL YOUR ANGELS TO GO FUCK THEMSELVES!” Redbone cried, then laughed again, and for a brief moment, it was the old Redbone, his wild, crazy grin in place. “You can all go fuck yourselves,” he yowled, followed again by that mad laugh, then he choked, and coughed. Nick saw several specks of blood spray from his mouth and land on his chest.

The Reverend’s face clouded; he pursed his lips as he waved to the men beside the ballast. The cage began to drop.

Nick searched the crowd, found hate and fear, faces eager to see him drown, but he also found many that appeared mortified, their faces full of pain and sorrow—pity. Many who held their hands clasped tightly together in prayer. These Nick reached out to. “Stop,” he begged them. “Please make them stop.” But none stepped forward, their eyes fell away from his, down to their feet or to the heavens above.

The water was warm, slimy, and smelled like a clogged sink drain. It was to his waist, then his chest, then his neck. Redbone’s head sank below the surface. Nick saw the boy’s eyes flash open, scared and confused. Nick splashed over and lifted him in his arms, trying to get Redbone’s head above the water, but it was too late—for all of them. Nick took in a deep lungful of air. He heard Leroy scream, “Oh God!”—then they sank below the water.

Stay calm, Nick thought; he knew there was no way out of the cage. If he could remain absolutely still and calm, he might survive. But a darker thought came to him: survive for what? Wouldn’t it be better to drown now than to have to go through the torments ahead? What had the Reverend said: breaking bones, branding, burning? He felt Redbone’s body convulse once, then go limp. Nick thought the boy must have finally died, actually hoped so, hoped Redbone at least was free from this nightmare.

As the pressure mounted in Nick’s lungs, he watched the surface light filtered down through the murky green water, a world of air so close but impossible to reach. The pain increased and soon began to overwhelm him. He’d heard stories that drowning was almost peaceful. If that were so, then why was he in such agony? Why did his chest feel like it was about to burst? His pulse thundered in his ears. White spots began to bloom then explode across his vision until a bright spectral light filled his head. The last of the air escaped his lungs in a convulsive burst of bubbles. He tried to inhale, but when the water entered his mouth, his throat closed up, choking him, gagging him, causing him to swallow several mouthfuls of the stringy brackish water. He grasped the bamboo cage, squeezing so hard he felt the strips cutting into his hand. Then his head broke the surface, and he was trying to suck in air. He got one lungful, then the contents of his stomach came pouring out of his mouth and nose in a painful, convulsive wretch. He fought to suck in air between heaves, only to choke and gag. He heard a distant, watery wail, like a baby’s first cry, and realized it was him. Finally, he began to breathe again, huge lungfuls of air—sweet, sweet air.

Nick wiped the slimy water from his eyes and found Redbone lying in the bottom of the basket, his eyes open, his face pale and peaceful. The wild boy was dead. Nick turned away and spat to clear his mouth of the taste of his own bile. He heard someone else gagging and saw Leroy clinging to the side of the cage, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to suck in breath. And despite all that he’d gone through, Nick found he still had room to wish Leroy had drowned.

“Lord, deliver them from their demons,” the Reverend called. “Speak, children. Call out His name. Now is the time to disavow your demons.” And on and on the Reverend went. Demons, and angels, and God, and the Holy who-gives-a-fuck, Nick thought. Nick now understood what Redbone must have realized: that they were screwed, that the only demons were these men in their long, black capes, that there was nothing they could say or do that was going to keep these twisted, sadistic men from torturing them to death.

Someone grasped Nick’s hand. It startled him. Leroy had moved over and was staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.

“N-n-nick,” Leroy stuttered. “Dude, I…gotta tell you something.”

Nick yanked his hand away.

“Hey Nick…please don’t be like that,” Leroy begged, his voice rising and breaking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a fuck. But I need you to listen…please. It’s about my dad. Something that happened. I gotta tell someone. Nick, please you got to listen.”

No I don’t, Nick thought, because he had no intention of spending what might be his last moments alive hearing anything Leroy had to say. He turned away.

“Nick,” Leroy sobbed. “Don’t do this. Okay, okay, I lied. I lied about everything. There, now will you listen to me? Please?”

Nick said nothing.

“I know I’m always fucking up. Just like back home. Just like with my dad.” Leroy was quiet a moment. “But that business with Sekeu though…that was different. Everything’s just so weird here. Y’know?” Then low, barely a whisper. “It…that thing, was in my head. I was just so scared. So fucking scared.”

And Leroy didn’t have to say any more than that. Nick knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Those eyes, they burned into me. It made me do it. Made me. You saw it, right Nick? You were there, in the woods. I know you saw it.” The terror still showed on Leroy’s face. “Felt its eyes, those burning eyes.”

And Nick knew then, without a doubt, that the horned monster had been in Leroy’s head, just like it had been in his.

“Look,” Leroy said. “I need to tell you something. Gotta tell someone. Please, man. Please just listen to me.” Tears were running freely down his face. “Something I did, something bad. It’s about my dad.”

God, Nick thought, he won’t quit.

“Remember when everyone was talking about why they’d run away?” Leroy went on. “Because their parents or stepparents treated them crappy. They ran off ’cause they didn’t have anyone that loved them. Anyone who’d look out for ’em. And how I agreed with them and all. Well that wasn’t the case. My parents, they loved me. They loved me more than anything. Did their damndest to keep me out of trouble. But I kept fucking up, lying to them, stealing from them, arguing, fighting. And every time, no matterwhat, my folks tried to work things out, tried to fix things, to give me one more chance.” Leroy was bawling now. “One day, I just went crazy and…you know what I did?” Leroy couldn’t seem to get the words out. “I killed him. My own dad. I killed my dad.”

Nick stared at him, horrified. This was just too much.

Leroy grabbed Nick’s hand. Nick tried to pull free, but this time Leroy held tight. “You want to know why? You want to know why I killed my own dad?”

Nick didn’t. Nick didn’t want to hear another word. He could still hear the Reverend ranting on, and on, and on about God and Satan, could see the crowd glaring at him and Leroy like they’d personally nailed Jesus to the cross. Nick had had enough of this nightmare. He just wanted this whole mess over with and done.

“Over a beer. I stabbed my own dad over a beer. A dumb-ass beer. I tried to take it out of the house and he wouldn’t let me. I don’t even like beer. Just wanted to impress some stupid dudes on my street. Can you believe it? We got in a fight and I stabbed him, shoved a kitchen knife into his chest. I didn’t mean to. I swear to God I didn’t. I don’t even remember how it happened. But it did. He’s on the floor then, blood everywhere. Is he cussing me, does he look like he wants to kill me? No, he’s just shaking his head slowly back and forth and looking at me with the saddest eyes you ever saw. He was sad for me, Nick, not him. Him, lying there dying and all he’s thinking about is me! God!” Leroy made a sound like someone had just stabbed him. “I can’t get his eyes out of my head.” Leroy let go of Nick’s hand, rolled into a ball, hugging his own legs, and began to sob uncontrollably.

Nick turned away. Tried to go away, to withdraw within himself, and when he did, it was his mother’s face, her smile he saw, her voice he heard.

The basket began to sink back into the water. Nick clutched the bamboo, clenched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and pressed his forehead against the weave. “Mom,” he whispered as he sank beneath the water. “I’m so sorry I left you. Please forgive me, Mom. Please.” And the dark waters swallowed him.

NICK CAME OUT of the darkness. It was not like waking, more like coming back from nothing. He heard muffled voices. He blinked; blurry, dark shapes leaned over him. Where am I? he wondered. He was cold and wet. His chest hurt. His stomach felt bloated, his throat burned—he retched violently and someone rolled him over on his side. He pulled his knees up to his chest and retched again; what felt like bucketfuls of salty water erupted from his throat. He felt like he was heaving out his very guts. He kept retching until nothing would come up but thin strings of bile.

“Come forth, my child,” came a man’s voice. And when he heard that voice, everything came back to Nick. He let out a long moan. So he’d not died. He’d tried. This time, when the black waters came he’d welcomed them. But it had been for nothing, for he was still here.

Nick wiped the water from his eyes and saw he was on the bank of the pond, with Leroy sitting next to him. Leroy’s eyes were red and his face deathly pale. Redbone’s body was laid out on the ground before them, his hands folded across his chest. Two women were wrapping him in a dingy sack cloth.

“Show yourself,” the Reverend Senior demanded. He glared into Nick’s eyes as though trying to see into his soul. He turned to the crowd and waved a thin wisp of a woman forward. “Eva.”

The woman approached Nick and Leroy cautiously, the way you would approach a pair of poisonous snakes. Nick recognized her instantly as the woman who had spat on Peter. She wore the same long, chaste dress of all the women, but her hair was wild and unkempt, hanging down across her face in long, greasy strands. She leaned over Nick and he got a closer look at the dozens of crosses hanging from her neck. He could see they were made of bones—they looked human in shape, only tiny, and Nick realized they must be from the small people, the pixies and faeries and such.

“Eva,” the Reverend said. “Are they free? Are the demons gone from these children?”

Eva thrust out an open palm, letting it hover just in front of Nick and Leroy. She pressed her other hand against her cheek, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she started to moan. Her hand began to tremble, her tongue fluttered in and out of her mouth, and a clucking came from her lips.

The crowd fell silent, watching her every move.

Suddenly she clutched her throat. Her eyes went wide as though someone was strangling her. She managed a few faltering steps backward before collapsing.

Nick stared on in disbelief.

Two women rushed forward and lifted Eva to a sitting position. Eva stuck a long, ragged finger out at Nick and Leroy and spoke in a harsh rasp, “The demons burn me! They burn me throat!”

As though on cue, the two women supporting Eva both clutched their throats, wailed, and fell to their knees. An anxious murmur flowed through the crowd as other women glanced uneasily at each other, then another woman fell to her knees, also clutching her throat, then another, and another. Soon most of the women that Nick could see were clutching their own throats and moaning as though in great pain.

“THAT’S BULLSHIT!” Nick cried. “You people are insane!”

“Take them to the post,” the Reverend commanded.

The post? Nick thought. What now? A moment later he found out, as three men dragged him over to a field on the far side of the pond. There stood several scorched posts with blackened logs and ash scattered around their bases. The men bound Nick’s arms behind him and tied thick ropes around his neck, ankles, and midsection, then proceeded to do the same to Leroy. Leroy hardly seemed to notice or care, his eyes distant, confused, lost.

The crowd had followed them over and now made way for two men carrying an iron pot, the same one that had sat next to Peter. Nick could see the smoldering coals and brands.

Nick’s legs began to tremble. I can’t take this, he thought, I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here now! He fought his bonds, quick, frantic movements, hardly feeling the pain as the rough rope bit and tore into his skin, unaware of the small, whimpering sounds that escaped his lips or the spittle running down his chin.

The Reverend Senior grabbed Nick’s jaw in a hard, viselike grip, holding the boy’s head still. He glared into Nick’s eyes and hissed. “I see you, demon. I see you very well. I see your fear. Now leave this boy,” he shouted. “Leave him and save yourself the pain of God’s mark!”

“You’re crazy,” Nick shouted. “You’re fucking insane! Can’t you see there’s no demons here but you?”

The good half of the Reverend’s mouth turned up in a smile. He obviously took Nick’s words as vindication. Nick couldn’t help himself at this point and screamed, “YOU FUCKING LUNATICS!”

The Reverend spun away from Nick and raised his long arms skyward with a dramatic flourish. “SEE THE DEMON!” he shouted. “It can’t hide. Not from us. Not from GOD!”

“We see,” responded the crowd.

The Reverend nodded to the giant bald man holding the brand. “Place the mark of our Lord on these boys. Place it so the demons cannot hide from it.”

“HOLD!” called a voice from the crowd.

The Reverend spun around as though he’d been stung. The Captain stepped forward. The man with the brand hesitated, looking toward the Reverend. The Reverend held up a hand, to indicate that he should wait, and glared at the Captain. Nick could see he was making an effort to control his anger.

“Captain,” the Reverend said, then his lips moved but he said nothing. He seemed to be searching for the right words.

“My apologies, Your Grace, but I have urgent news I believe you wish to hear.”

The Reverend clamped his jaws together and spoke through clenched teeth. “Speak.”

“The boy has agreed to take us to the sorceress’s hideaway.”

No, thought Nick.

The Captain stepped aside and Nick saw that Danny was behind him. Nick hardly recognized him. They’d cut his hair, washed and dressed him in what Nick could only think of as pilgrim clothes. Danny kept his eyes firmly on the ground.

“Child,” the Reverend said. “Is this true?”

Danny didn’t look up, just nodded in agreement.

The Captain moved up and spoke low to the Reverend. “They’re not so many as we’d feared, Your Grace. They’re not organized, and more, they fight amongst themselves. If we gather every able-bodied man and make one hard push…we can take her.”

“Can we trust him?” the Reverend asked.

“Yes, I am certain.”

“You’re risking a lot on this boy’s word.”

“As you well know our stores are at an end. What few crops the demon children didn’t destroy have withered in the field. We’re facing starvation. Now is the time to make a bold move while still we can.”

“I see,” the Reverend said and appeared to contemplate this.

“We would need to leave right away, before they have time to regroup. Your Grace, we could have her tonight…tonight.”

The Reverend’s head nodded slowly up and down. “Yes, I believe this is what the Lord wants. Yes, right away then.”

“Good,” the Captain said and turned to go.

“Captain,” the Reverend called.

The Captain looked back. “Yes?”

“I am coming with you.”

The Captain couldn’t hide his surprise or, Nick thought, his displeasure. Apparently, the Reverend saw it too. “Is there a problem?”

The Captain shook his head. “No problem.” But it looked to Nick like there was.

The Reverend pointed at Nick and Leroy and addressed the guards. “Put them in the hold. We will deal with them upon my return.”

Chapter Twenty-Two Old Scabby

The Captain raised his hand and the long line of men came to a halt before the trees. He removed his hat, beating the gray dust from its brim, then studied Danny, giving the boy a hard look. They’d never before dared such a venture, to drive into the very heart of this wicked forest and its dark secrets. Now here he was, putting his life and the lives of his men in the hands of this boy, trusting not only the truth of the boy but that the child knew of the things he spoke.

The Captain took in a deep breath. His ability to take the measure of a man had meant the difference between life and death more than once over his long years at sea. He trusted his instincts. There was no deceit in this child. He simply wanted this nightmare to end, same as the rest of them. And should this day lead us to our deaths? the Captain thought. Then what of that? He’d grown weary of this game. Better a quick death in battle than to starve as the last of their potatoes rotted in the dead soil. But the Captain didn’t believe the day would end in their deaths. He had over seventy well-armed men. Peter and his demons had been crushed, and now his brave men were ready to find the sorceress and finish this mess.

The Captain signaled the men to form up and they marched silently into the trees, two abreast, weapons at the ready. They worked their way up a steady incline until they found a spot of high ground in which they could survey the gray land around them.

The Captain saw two wide, muddy creeks snaking through the marshland below. He sat a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Which one, Daniel? The one just below?” The Captain pointed. “Or the wider one farther north?”

“Farther north,” Danny said without hesitation.

The Captain was relieved that the boy was confident in the path, but it troubled him that the boy was so quiet, so withdrawn. The Captain understood why, he just wished there was a way he could make Danny see that he was doing the right thing. Well, he thought, there’ll be time for healing once we’re off this island, once we’ve left all the evil behind. Then maybe he could start to heal as well. A wry grin pushed at the Captain’s mouth. How long, he wondered, did it take a man to put centuries’ worth of nightmares behind him?

It wasn’t long before they came upon the creek, and still no sign of resistance; in fact, they’d found no sign of life whatsoever. The woods were gray, seemed dead. The Captain signaled them onward and the company fell silent, listening and watching as they resumed their march along the muddy bank.

The Reverend slipped, the second time in less than a minute. His personal guard, the thick-necked brute Ox (whose true name was Oxenburg; he had been the gunnery sergeant on the Creed before finding God), tried to lend the Reverend a hand, only to cause both men to slide into the knee-deep creek. The Reverend, the live side of his face now a nasty snarl, slapped Ox’s big hands away.

The Captain was very careful not to let any sign of his smile show. Even out here, even among his own troops, the Reverend’s influence was strong enough to have him flogged or killed at a word.

The Captain couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the Reverend outside the compound, much less in the wilds. The Reverend’s cape was flamboyant and dramatic when he strolled about the village, but out here, among the brambles and mud, it caused considerable annoyance, collecting mud along the hem and—much to the Captain’s delight—the Reverend was reduced to hiking the cape up like a woman carrying her skirt as he tried to navigate the thorns and muck.

It was as the last light of the day began to fade that Danny halted. The shadows had grown deep and impenetrable, and the woods seemed to close in about them.

“There,” Danny pointed.

The Captain peered ahead, tried to see what the boy was pointing at. “What is it?” he asked.

“The stones. That’s where we cross. That’s the Lady’s Wood there.”

“Oh,” the Captain said. “And her tree? Is it much farther?”

“No, not really.”

After all he’d been through this long day, the Captain knew he should be weary, but instead he felt wide awake; his heart raced. After untold decades, would all finally end? It was all he could do to keep from sprinting up the trail. “Move out,” he ordered. The men crossed the stones and marched into the forest, toward the Lady and her tree.

ULFGER HELD CALIBURN out before him, examined the runes running along the broken blade. The sword had drunk plenty of blood this day, yet no stains marred its dark steel. How many had he tracked down—ten, a dozen?

He looked at the charred remains on the ground before him. The sword had found the two elves guilty, had worked its vengeance. Ulfger inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of Avallach’s justice. He bent, picked up one of their fallen torches, then stepped toward the elven barracks. He rapped the hilt of Caliburn against the barred door.

“I give you one last chance,” Ulfger shouted. “Come out and face Avallach’s judgment honorably or burn alive as cowards.”

He could sense them, five of them, they’d barred and barricaded the door and hid within. He knew they wouldn’t come out, their fear was too strong.

Ulfger strolled to the corner of the entranceway and set the torch to the shingles over the archway. The ancient wood caught easily and it wasn’t long before smoke began to billow out from the cracks of the walls and windows.

He drank in their desperation, their panic, closed his eyes and watched them move to the back of the structure. He strolled around the building and waited beneath an oval window. Avallach, he thought. You make this too easy.

Ulfger heard them choking and coughing. The shutters sprang open and smoke poured out. An elf leaped through the smoke, landed hard, wiping frantically at his eyes as he stumbled to his feet.

Ulfger brought Caliburn down upon the elf’s neck, but he didn’t cut the elf’s head off as he so easily could have. He merely nicked the elf, just enough to break the skin. He’d learned it was far better to let the sword decide who lived or died, who was honorable and who was a traitor. So far, it had condemned all it had touched. The elf let out a wail as his skin blackened and sizzled away from the bone.

A sharp pain drove into Ulfger’s side. He let out a cry, fell to one knee. He was shocked to find a spear hanging from his ribs.

The remaining four elves sprang from the window and raced past him.

Ulfger grabbed the shaft and yanked it free with a loud grunt. There was no blood, but the wound was deep and there was a moment when it was hard to breathe. Then the pain receded, his breath returned. Ulfger tossed the spear to the ground and followed the elves. They headed north, toward the mountains, toward the Hall of Kings.

“Run rabbits, run,” Ulfger called and smiled. “You’ll never escape Avallach.”

NICK DRIFTED IN and out of sleep. The cell that he shared with Leroy was little more than a hole dug into the side of a hill, barely larger than the two of them. It smelled of sweat and urine. Leroy lay crumpled in a tight ball in the deepest shadow, and hadn’t spoken a word. Nick pressed himself against the plank door of the cell as far away from Leroy as their small confines would allow.

The fading glow of the day shifted through the slats, letting in just enough light that Nick could make out fingernail scores on the inside of the door. He let his fingertips trace the jagged marks and wondered how many other damned souls had spent their last days cramped in this pit.

The cell was on a slight rise; Nick could see into the village about fifty yards below. Torches burned around the town square. He could see the back of the cross, could see one of Peter’s hands hanging limp and lifeless. Small groups of women occasionally drifted by, shouting taunts or throwing clods of dirt at Peter. Two men stood guard in the square, but they did nothing to discourage the tormentors.

“What a pisser,” growled the guard leaning in front of Nick’s cell. He tugged his cloak tighter around him. “Damn fog be thick tonight,” he groaned, his voice rough as driftwood. He limped about, getting a fire going. The guard was missing his right eye, an ear, his right arm near the shoulder, and had a peg leg starting just below the knee.

He set a torch to blaze and carried it over to the cells. He leered in at the boys with his good eye. “It makes me bones hurt. This fog. Chills me down to me gullet.”

Nick leaned away. He could hardly stand the sight of the scarred eye socket.

“Not pretty, aye?” the guard said, grinning toothlessly. “It were your kind done this to me.” He jabbed at the open socket. “First time they got me eye. Not so bad. God gave me a spare y’know. Second time they’s got me arm. Still, I ain’t the sort to let a measly maiming bugger me, nay. But I stepped in one of them little demon traps you boys is so good a-fixin’ and it cut me leg off at the knee. Then well, then I started to slow down a wee bit.” The old guard set his head back and hee-honked like a donkey. When Nick only stared at him, he finally stopped. “Err…have to excuse me carrying-ons. If you don’t learn to laugh at life it’ll surely kill you, that I know.” He looked Nick up and down. “You’re a pretty sour looker yer’self. Bet ya could use a drink, aye?” He hobbled over to the fire and poured water from a clay pitcher into a crumpled tin cup. He pulled a small slat across the planked door and handed the cup to Nick.

Nick hesitated.

“Go on now, take it. I ain’t gonna bite you.”

Nick took the water and drank it dry, wiped his arm across his lips, then handed the cup back. “Thanks.”

The guard cupped his hand around what was left of his ear. “Eh?”

“Thanks,” Nick repeated, louder.

“Aye. Not a big deal. Don’t know why they gotta treat you boys so mean. I say just chop off your heads and be done with it, aye. But does anyone listen to Old Scabby? Nay. They all got their airs. Too busy calling each other sinners. Trying to out-God one another. Bunch of silly douches, the lot of ’em.”

The guard pushed his hand through the open slat and ran his scaly fingers lightly along Nick’s arm. Nick pulled away.

The guard looked up and frowned. “Eh, sorry. A mangy sod like me-self shouldn’t be putting his craggy mitts on a boy.” He hesitated, looking suddenly embarrassed. “Weren’t trying to be fresh with you. No. Me Jolly Rodger ain’t been good for much more than a hot piss for a half hundred years now and even that’s been giving me trouble of late, aye, it has. When you’ve been covered with scales as long as me, you just tend to forget what a person’s skin s’pose to feel like. That’s all.”

The guard was quiet for a while as he stared up into the cloudy night sky. “Tell me, boy. What’s it like out there now?”

At first Nick didn’t understand, then he realized the guard meant in the world of men.

“Are there still stars in the sky?”

Nick nodded.

“I wish I could fly. I dream about it sometimes. If I could fly, why, I’d soar out of this damnable fog, right up through them clouds right now. I’d just float up there and stare at them stars all the night long. I used to be a sailor and I know them stars better than me own wife’s breasts. Just to see them one more time…err, them stars, don’t rightly know if I’d be wanting to see me wife’s breasts these days, just to see them stars one more time would be enough for me. I could die a happy soul.”

The guard slid the slat back in place. Double-checked the chain holding the door shut, then stood and wandered back over to the fire. He lay down next to the fire, propping his head up on a blanket roll, and stared up into the clouds. Nick guessed Old Scabby was searching the sky for a flicker, a glimmer, or any other trace of a star.

And with all Nick already had to feel so bitter and bad about, he still found room to pity this old man whose only wish was to see a star. But it was easier somehow to feel bad for this man than to think about his mother, about Abraham, Sekeu, Redbone, or himself. Those thoughts were too painful. Nick wanted to cry but found he didn’t have the strength, and fell into the merciful bliss of a dreamless sleep.

NICK CAME OUT of sleep with a start. Something had flitted across his cheek—a spider? He sat up fast. A faint bluish light caught his eye and there, standing between the slats of the door, was a blue pixie—and not any blue pixie, but the girl from the privy, the one with the wispy white hair.

What’s she doing here? Nick wondered, and rubbed his forehead, trying to massage his muddled gears back into action.

She fluttered her wings and blinked softly. She looked terrified, glancing around in every direction as though unseen hands might grab her at any second.

Nick was glad she was all right. He managed to smile at her and when he did, to his surprise, she cocked her head and smiled back.

Again he wondered what she was doing here. She fluttered just out of sight. Nick pressed his face against the wood and understood. A chain, hooked onto a long, bent nail, was all that held the slat across his door in place. It would’ve been impossible for Nick to reach it, but the pixie was trying her best to pull it loose. Nick suddenly dared to hope.

But the chain was heavy for such a small creature, and she could barely get it to budge. She planted her feet against the plank and yanked over and over again. The chain inched up the nail, but each time she tugged the chain, it clacked loudly against the slat.

Nick glanced over to where the crippled guard lay next to the fire. The embers had burned down, giving off an eerie glow in the heavy fog. The guard’s chin rested against his chest; it was hard to tell if the man was awake or asleep.

The chain clanged again and the pixie hesitated, buzzing away then back, as though trying to build up her courage. Nick remembered the dead pixies he’d seen on the line with the fish. He wondered what sort of traps the men set for pixies.

She landed back on the chain and looked at Nick. Nick nodded up and down rapidly, trying to encourage her, pleading with his eyes for her not to give up. The chain was at the very top of the nail now. She bit her lip, planted both feet on the board, and gave a mighty tug. The chain popped free, sending the pixie tumbling backward through the air. The chain swung down, hitting the door with a loud smack.

Nick’s eyes went to the old guard, sure he’d be up and all this would be for naught. But the guard didn’t so much as stir. He just lay there, his chest steadily rising and falling. Nick thanked the stars the man was hard of hearing.

Now that the chain was off, Nick only had to work the slat over. He stuck his fingers through the planks and slid it across an inch at a time. It fell off the clasp, landing with a thud in the soft earth. Nick pushed the door slowly open and slid out of his cell. He sat crouched in the shadows with his heart thumping. What now?

The pixie fluttered over to him, hovered right in front of his face, gave him a long, wet raspberry, grinned as big as the moon, and flew up and away, a streak of blue light disappearing into the mist. Nick allowed himself a grin. From here on out, pixies could steal his food any time they wanted.

Nick watched the guard, ready to rush him if he woke. But the guard did nothing more than grunt and snore. Nick peered beyond the rise; the shadowy shape of the back fortifications looked to be less than twenty yards away. It would be easy, in this fog, to slip over unseen, scale the ramparts, and be away.

I’m done here, he thought and headed toward the wall. Done with the madness, done with Flesh-eaters, Devils, the Lady, and most of all…Peter. He stopped. The Mist was rising, its silvery luminance swirling beneath the fog, its ghostly tendrils creeping through the fortification. He could actually smell it, that dusty dankness. It brought the boy to mind, the one with the Nike high-tops, the horrible scream forever frozen on his face. Nick gritted his teeth. Can I do this? Can I go in there alone? Then he heard them, or thought he did: the faint voices of children. A chill crawled up his back. He looked toward the square, to where Peter hung from the cross, and realized he was down to two choices and he didn’t like either one of them. He kicked the mud. “Fuck,” he whispered, and started back. “Damn it, Peter. You better not let me down.”

Nick slipped toward the guard, his footsteps silent in the soft, moist dirt. This is stupid, he thought. I should leave while I still can. He found the guard’s spear leaning against a stump, picked it up, and leveled it at the man’s chest. Do it, he told himself. You have to. If he awakes he’ll ruin any chance of escape. Now, one hard thrust. Yet Nick hesitated. He knew this man would kill him in a heartbeat. But, Nick thought, this man gave me water. And he’s just an old man that got caught up in this nightmare, same as me. Nick lowered the spear. And, if I kill him, how will he ever be able to see the stars again?

Nick felt eyes on him and looked up—Leroy was staring at him from the open cell. Leroy didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, just watched. Nick didn’t know what Leroy would do and didn’t care. Nick carefully slipped the guard’s sword out of its scabbard and, carrying the sword in one hand and the spear in the other, moved silently away, toward the town square.

Nick crouched in the shadow of a woodpile and tried to figure out his next move. A light thud came from behind him; he started. Leroy was there, right beside him. Nick flashed the sword around and leveled it at the boy’s throat.

Leroy flinched, but held his place.

Nick kept the sword on him. “What’d you want?” Nick hissed.

“Give me the spear. I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Nick whispered.

“Yes,” Leroy said, raising his voice.

Nick pressed the sword to Leroy’s throat. “Shut up.”

Nick heard a woman’s laughter coming from the town square. He could see a few shapes through the shifting fog; one of them threw something at Peter and cackled.

Nick looked into Leroy’s eyes. “I’m going to get Peter.”

Leroy nodded.

Nick cursed himself for being a fool, and handed Leroy the spear.

THE CAPTAIN STOOD before the wooden structure and watched the flames lick the sky. He looked at Danny. “Daniel, what do you know of this?”

The boy shrugged, he seemed as perplexed as the rest of them.

“We’re on the righteous path,” the Reverend pronounced loudly. “The Lord smites our foes. His great hand leads our way. Here, here is the proof!” He jabbed at the small, smoldering bodies lying about on the ground. “God has burned them with their own flame!”

Well, someone had, anyway, the Captain thought. He sure hoped it was God, but he had a bad feeling it was something else, something that they didn’t want to run into.

He picked up one of the discarded swords and examined it. These were finely crafted blades, odd to have been left behind, but there was plenty of oddness here. He held his torch near the soft earth. Small footprints were scattered everywhere, those of the pointy-eared folk or maybe the demon children, but it was the large bootprints that made him uneasy. He set his foot in one. The prints were substantially larger than his own.

He leaned down to Danny. “Where to from here?”

Danny pointed past the burning hall, to a courtyard.

“Form ranks,” the Captain shouted. “Let’s keep moving.”

NICK PRESSED AGAINST the side of the hut. Leroy was across the way, against another. Nick signaled for him to hold as he peered around the corner. He leaned out slowly, careful to make no sudden movements, the way Sekeu had taught him.

There were two guards, but they were hardly guarding anyone, too interested in entertaining the two women. Nick recognized one of the women—Eva, the one who’d accused him of being a demon. He gritted his teeth, almost growled.

Eva was pointing at Peter and whispering to the group as they huddled. Apparently, she said something humorous, for her friend let out a snort, then quickly covered her mouth. The guards were doing their best to stifle their mirth.

Eva’s eyes widened, as though struck with divine inspiration. She plucked up one of the guards’ spears, raised the blunt end up, and pointed it at Peter’s crotch. She glanced back and forth between the guards and her friend. They all watched her, barely able to contain themselves. Eva jabbed Peter in the crotch. The group practically had a fit as they struggled not to laugh out loud.

Nick saw Peter’s face tighten. So, you’re alive after all.

Eva jabbed Peter in the crotch again, hard, and this time Peter moaned and the guards doubled over laughing.

Nick nodded to Leroy, then launched himself at the guards. And he was fast. Nick was stunned to feel the fleetness of his own feet. He was on the first guard before the man even saw him. Nick bounded off the platform, swinging his sword forward with the full weight of his momentum, slicing the man’s head off at the base of the neck. The head careened through the air and hit Eva in the chest, knocking her to the ground. The spear she held clattered to the stones. Eva’s eyes flashed wide as Nick came for her, as though this time she were truly seeing a demon. She opened her mouth to scream and Nick shoved the sword down her throat, feeling only pleasure as the blade tore out the back of her skull. He planted a foot against her chest and yanked his sword free, leaving her convulsing in the dirt.

A shrill wail filled the night. Eva’s friend had no trouble finding her voice or her feet as she ran screaming from the square. Nick saw Leroy pull his spear out from the other guard’s chest.

They both looked to Peter. “Hurry!” Nick cried and they jumped atop the platform.

Peter’s eyes sprung open.

Nick held the sword above the ropes but didn’t start cutting. “Peter, you promised to take me back. Remember? Swear to it. Swear to it again right now or I’ll leave you here.”

“I swear,” Peter said hoarsely, then grinned. Nick didn’t like that grin.

They had him down in a moment, propping him against the platform. “Water,” Peter rasped, as he rubbed his wrists. Nick darted over and brought back a canteen from beside the guard’s fire. Peter guzzled the water, pouring it over his face and on the blistering welts running across his chest. They’d set the brand to him five times.

Nick heard people shouting, could still hear Eva’s friend wailing on and on about demons and devils to the whole world. Nick leaped up, began pulling torches from their stocks and slinging them onto rooftops. The thatched roofs began to smolder then burn.

Nick snatched up the guard’s sword and tossed it to Peter. He put an arm around Peter and pulled him to his feet. “Peter, can you walk?”

“Let’s see,” Peter said, already sounding better.

Leroy got his other arm and together they hurried from the square. Peter stumbled at first, but had his feet under him in short order and soon was walking—albeit a bit unsteadily—on his own.

A woman came quickly around a corner, saw them, and froze. Peter hissed at her. She clutched spastically at her crosses, nearly tripping over her own feet as she clambered away.

They heard shouts and the clanging of arms from somewhere behind them. Suddenly a man in a long cape stepped out from a hut just ahead. He held a torch out, squinting into the dark. It was the mole-faced Reverend.

“Oh, joy,” Peter said, pushing away from Nick and Leroy, standing on his own feet. “It’s playtime.”

“What nonsense is going on here?” the Reverend snarled. He held the torch up and, when he saw the boys, his expression changed from one of irritation to that of horror. “Devils!” he gasped.

A wicked smile slid across Peter’s face. “Devils indeed.”

The Reverend threw the torch at them and ran. Peter batted the flame harmlessly away and leaped forward. Even with a limp, Peter caught the Reverend in three strides, dropped the man to the ground with a two-handed slash across the back of his knees. The Reverend writhed in the dirt, clutching his legs and screeching. Peter picked up the torch and moved in.

Nick could see people gathering in the square. “There’s no time to play around, Peter,” Nick said.

“Oh, there’s always time to play,” Peter replied, his voice cold and hard. He planted a foot on the man’s chest, holding him down while he jabbed the sword into the man’s shoulder, twisting the blade. The Reverend screamed, and when he did, Peter shoved the burning torch into the man’s mouth.

“THERE!” someone shouted from the square. Nick saw a handful of men hobbling toward them, and it struck him that they were all amputees. Then it dawned on him that all the able-bodied men had gone with the Captain to find the Lady. Amputees or not, if these men caught up with them it would be over. “Peter,” Nick shouted. “The Lady, think of the Lady.” This brought Peter back around. He left the Reverend rolling on the ground engulfed in flame and they raced away toward the gate.

Five men blocked their way. They were cripples as well, but they looked determined to stop the boys.

Peter let loose a howl and charged. Nick saw their faces in the torchlight, the same faces that had cheered and jeered as he was drowning in the cage. He let loose his own howl and raced Peter for them, surprised to find not fear in his gut but only a terrible lust to make these men pay.

Nick zeroed in on the outside Flesh-eater. The man had a peg leg and a hook for a hand. The man brought his pike to bear but was unprepared for the speed and recklessness of Nick’s assault. Nick’s movements were quick and liquid as he knocked the pike aside and slipped past the man. The man tried to turn, but before he could even get a foot around, Nick kicked the peg out from under him. The man tumbled backward and Nick felt nothing but satisfaction as he hacked into the man’s neck.

Peter dropped one, then, together with Nick, they hit the man between them at the same time, leaving him flopping about in a pool of black blood.

There came a cry, and both Nick and Peter spun in time to see the last man drive his sword into Leroy’s gut. Leroy stumbled back, clutching his stomach, his face twisted in agony, and fell to his knees.

Nick leaped forward and slashed the back of the man’s neck. The man swung wildly at him, missed, and Peter dropped him from behind.

Peter and Nick shoved the slat free of the gate, pushed the door outward. Peter took an extra second to snatch up a knife and tuck it in his belt. They got Leroy’s arms around their shoulders and fled into the night.

THEIR TORCHLIGHT BOUNCED and glittered off the high shear walls of the box canyon, illuminating the twisting vines, making them seem to dance like a nest of snakes. The Captain cut his eyes to the man next to him. “What do you think, Beasley?”

“I don’t rightly like it, sir.”

“Aye, I don’t either,” the Captain agreed. “Not one bit.” He pulled at his thin mustache. “Maybe we should backtrack a ways. Send a few men up along the ridge, there. We could—”

“What is the trouble now, Captain?” called an irritated voice from behind them. The Captain turned to see the Reverend and Ox shoving their way up through the ranks. “Why the delay?” the Reverend asked, stopped, and stared ahead into the narrow canyon. “Why, it’s a dead end.” He snatched Danny by the collar and jerked him around to face him. “This your idea of a joke, boy? Are you toying with us?”

“No!” Danny cried. “The door is right there. I swear. I swear.”

The Captain set his hand on the Reverend’s shoulder. “Reverend, please.”

The Reverend glared at the Captain’s hand and the Captain promptly removed it.

“Beg your pardon, Your Grace,” the Captain said. “But the boy tells there’s a doorway hidden beneath the vines.”

The Reverend squinted at the wall. “Well, is there?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“And why not?” he snapped. “What are you waiting for? Go check.”

“All in time, Your Grace. First we must make sure the way is safe. There’s no need to senselessly risk the lives of the men.”

“Nonsense. God watches our path.”

“Perhaps then the Reverend would like to lead the way?”

The Reverend set hard eyes on him but made no move to walk into the canyon.

“You there.” The Reverend pointed to Beasley. “And you. Go see what you can find.”

“Reverend,” the Captain said sharply. “I refuse to allow—”

“Captain,” the Reverend hissed through tight lips. “You tread a dangerous line.”

The Captain sucked in a deep breath, fought the urge to slap the Reverend’s almighty sneer from his face. “My apologies, Your Grace. I simply meant to suggest that this is a dangerous path, and we should proceed cautiously.”

The Reverend waved the Captain away. “You’ve made your concerns plain enough.”

The men, Beasley and his shipmate John, hadn’t moved; they looked to the Captain. Good men, the Captain thought. Two men he knew he could count on to stand with him against any foe, including the Reverends and their fanatics. Loyal men like Beasley and John were fewer and fewer these days, for too many had fallen under the Reverend’s influence.

The Reverend glared at the men. “Did you not hear me? The Lord needs you to be brave. You will move. Now!”

The Captain read a silent curse in the men’s eyes, but they moved, because they knew very well that the Reverend wouldn’t hesitate to have them nailed to a tree if they didn’t.

Beasley and John crept slowly into the canyon, scanning the cliffs, watching the rocks and foliage for booby traps. They looked relieved when they made it to the wall without mishap. They pushed the vines aside, uncovering what looked to be a circular incision into the stone.

“Aye, it be here, Cap,” Beasley called back over his shoulder. “It looks to be a—”

Something grabbed Beasley, wrapped around his arm, and yanked him against the wall. At first the Captain thought it was a serpent hidden among the vines, then he realized it was the vines. The thorny vines grabbed both men—slithering around their arms, legs, torsos, and necks—twisting, squeezing like boa constrictors. The men cried out and the Captain started forward, then noticed the vines along both sides of the small canyon unfurling, reaching for him. He stopped.

Beasley’s eyes bulged and he let out a shrill wail. There came the undeniable snapping of bones as the vines bent the men’s arms and legs into impossible angles. The men screamed and screamed, their cries echoing up and down the stone walls. The vines twisted the men, ripping their bodies apart. Blood and gore squeezed from their gullets, spattering down the leaves and landing in sloppy puddles on the white stones.

Sorcery, the Captain thought. The Lady’s hand at work.

A panicked rumbling spread through the men, they began to knock into one another as they tried to press back down the narrow trail.

“HOLD!” the Captain commanded. “Mark, Thomas, Anthony, all of you. STAND FAST!” The men continued to shift nervously, but held their ground.

The Captain glared at the Reverend. The Reverend caught the Captain’s accusing stare and looked away. Watch your back, the Captain thought. First chance I get I’m going to gut you like a fish.

“The boy,” the Reverend said bitterly. “He tricked us! Ox, take the boy, send him into the vines!”

“No,” the Captain said, his eyes burning into the Reverend. “Don’t you blame the boy.”

“Captain, my patience with you is at an end! I will—”

The Captain spun away, grabbed an ax from one of the men, hefted his torch, and stomped toward the vines.

“Captain,” the Reverend called. “You will stop.”

The Captain ignored him; he reached the vines and shoved the flame into their leaves, driving the snapping, whipping plants away from him. He brought the ax down onto one of the thick stalks near the ground. The blade sliced deep into the vine, a spray of red liquid spurted out. Blood, the Captain thought, and was not the least surprised.

He ordered the men forward and they followed his lead, burning and hacking the deadly plants back. Soon the vines lay writhing in their death throes upon the canyon floor, and there, before them, the circular edge of the door was revealed.

Chapter Twenty-Three Avallach’s Tree

Here. Lay him here,” Peter said and helped Nick lower Leroy to the ground.

Leroy wrapped both hands about his gut and let out a low moan, blood oozing from between his fingers. Nick wished they had some cloth, some water, anything to help.

Peter glanced ahead, north, toward the mountains. “We have to leave him,” Peter said, his tone cold and detached.

“What do you mean?” Nick asked.

“He’s slowing us down.”

“NO!” Leroy cried. “Don’t leave me. Please. I can walk. Please. Please don’t leave me.”

“We’ll come back for you later,” Peter said, but, Nick could tell by the way Peter said it, there’d be no later.

Peter pulled Nick aside. “He’s dead anyway.”

“What?”

“It’s a gut wound. A bad one. There’s nothing for it.”

“You don’t know,” Nick said. “He might make it. Maybe we can take him to the Lady.”

“Can’t you see? He won’t get halfway there.”

Leroy moaned again, the glow from the burning huts glistening off his wet brow. He bent over almost double. Nick glanced back, could just make out a handful of armed men milling about near the gate.

“Jesus Christ, Peter. He just saved your life and you’re going to leave him here…for them?”

“I’m not going to leave him for them,” Peter said coldly.

Nick looked at Peter, tying to comprehend.

Peter slid out his knife, keeping it hidden from Leroy. “A gut wound is a slow, painful way to die,” Peter whispered. “It’s best if we end this quickly. Trust me, it’s a kindness.”

Nick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “No way. No, you can’t.”

Peter’s face was set. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,” he warned and pushed past Nick.

Leroy saw Peter’s face and his eyes went wide. “Peter, please,” he blubbered. “Please, I can walk.”

Nick jumped in front of Peter, leveled his sword at Peter’s chest. “Stop it. Stop this right now!”

“This the way you want to do it?” Peter snarled. “Just like with Sekeu?”

“What? No.” Nick shook his head. “You don’t know what—”

Before Nick could even blink, Peter shot forward and slapped his sword aside. He landed a solid blow to Nick’s chin, knocking him to the ground. Peter was on top of him, a knee planted in his chest, the knife to his throat.

“Tell me, Nick. What happened? What happened with Sekeu? Tell me quick. Tell me the truth and I might spare you. Lie to me and I promise you a painful death.”

Nick felt the blade press into his flesh, felt warm blood roll down his neck. Peter’s eyes were wild, scary.

“You’re about to die, Nick. Talk!”

“I DIDN’T DO IT!” Nick shouted.

“Then who?”

“Ask Leroy.”

Peter set his eyes on Leroy.

Leroy looked like a trapped animal; he shook his head rapidly back and forth. “NO! Not me! I didn’t do it! It was him. The horned man!” Leroy began to sob. “The horned man made me. Made me do it. He made me!” Leroy was bawling now. “Peter, you got to believe me.”

Peter’s eyes thinned to slits, his lips pressed together, forming a tight line. He shoved Nick away and went for Leroy.

“NO!” Leroy screamed and tried to get to his feet, let out a cry of pain, clutched his stomach, and fell. Blood gushed out from beneath his hand as he crawled away from Peter, kicking and clawing at the dusty dirt.

Peter snatched him by the arm and yanked him up to his knees. “LIES! I’m sick to death of your lies. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Leroy brought his hands together as though praying. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

“SHUT UP!” Peter cried and struck him hard across the face. “The heads of all those boys are on your shoulders! You brought ruin to Deviltree!” Peter shoved the knife into Leroy’s chest.

Leroy’s eyes went wide, locked on Nick as though begging him to help, then rolled upward and glazed over.

“You don’t deserve this mercy,” Peter spat. He yanked the blade free and let Leroy drop to the dirt.

“Oh, God,” Nick whispered as he watched the blood pool beneath the dead boy.

Peter walked past Nick. “Let’s go.”

“You’re insane!” Nick yelled.

Peter kept walking.

“Madness,” Nick called. “That’s all I’ve found here. Does Avalon breed insanity? Is that the nature of magic, to drive everyone out of their minds?”

Peter stopped, turned, his eyes flared. “What would you have me do? You think I didn’t know about Abraham? Leroy brought this upon himself with his treachery, his lies. Now he’s destroyed everything!” Peter slammed his fist into his palm. “I’d kill him again if I could.”

“You’re blaming him?” Nick scoffed. “I saw the heads back there. How many boys have you brought here? How many have died trying to save your precious Lady?”

Peter’s face clouded. “Everything comes at a price. Or have you not learned that yet?”

“How many lives is she worth?”

“I’d give a thousand lives to save her.”

“You mean you’d give the lives of a thousand children to save her. Don’t you?”

Peter leaped at Nick, grabbed him, and shoved his knife beneath his throat.

“GO ON!” Nick cried. “Fuck, what’s one more to you? What’s one more head sitting out there on those stakes? You’re a monster, the worst kind of monster. You deceive these kids with your promises and lies, get them to believe in you, to love you—to fucking worship you. Then what? Then what do you do? You lead them to their deaths. How many, Peter? How many have died for your goddamn Lady?”

Peter’s face twisted into a knot of pain. A low sound somewhere between a moan and a growl escaped his pierced lips. He pulled the knife back and shoved Nick away.

“She owns your soul,” Nick said. “Can’t you see? The Lady has bewitched you.”

“And what is love if not bewitchment?” Peter cried. “Nick, I’d hoped her love would find you. Open your eyes to the magic around you. Hoped you’d learn that there are some things worth fighting for—worth dying for. I thought I saw something special in you. But what a fool I was to trust a boy who’d abandon his own mother. You’re blind. Blind as any of those men—to magic, to love, to loyalty. Nick, will you always be a runaway?”

Nick shook his head. “You never stop, do you? You’re still trying to play me, trying to manipulate me. It’s all a big game to you. Well save your breath, Peter. Because I’m done playing.” Nick pointed toward the coast. “The Mist is there. Take me back. Now.”

Peter laughed. “You’re the one that’s lost his mind.”

Nick glared at him.

“You’re not serious?” Peter asked. “No, forget it. I have to get to the Lady. Everything is at stake.”

“I don’t want to die for your Lady. My mother needs me.”

“Not now, Nick.”

“If it weren’t for me you’d still be hanging on that cross.”

Peter shrugged.

“You swore to me. Does your word mean nothing?”

Peter smiled wickedly, like someone who has just called checkmate. “I had my fingers crossed.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“That’s the rules. You forgot to check.”

Nick realized that Peter was serious. “That’s bullshit! This isn’t a fucking game, Peter!”

Peter shrugged again and began walking away.

Nick watched Peter go, watched until he was almost out of sight. He looked at Leroy, at the boy’s dead eyes staring up at him as though still begging him to help. He glanced back to the burning fort, to the Mist beyond, took a deep breath, and followed Peter.

SMOKE AND THE smell of burned leaves filled the canyon. Even cut from their stalks, the vines still twitched and coiled, but were capable of little more. The Captain stood in front of the circular mark in the stone. “Heave!” he called and the men pushed against the stone. There came a grinding and the boulder swung inward, revealing a dark passage.

The men stepped quickly back to avoid any traps, but also, the Captain knew, to avoid being chosen to enter first.

The Captain caught the Reverend still glaring at him. He feared today he might’ve overstepped, finally pressed his luck too far. He guessed there was a good chance the Reverend would have him flogged if they made it back to camp, but the Captain had no intention of allowing that to happen. It’ll all be over soon, he thought. And when it is, I intend to see you hung like a common criminal.

The Captain held his torch before him and peered into the dark tunnel, then back at his men. “Any takers?” The men studied their feet and examined their belts and harnesses. The Captain let out a sigh and drew his sword. “Then follow me.” He ducked into the dark passage and sprinted toward the dim light ahead. This is where they will take us, he thought and steeled himself for an attack. He found no ambush, no traps, only a soft, mossy trail leading up to a steep, rushing creek.

The men filed out behind him, their torchlight setting the thick mist aglow. They marched two abreast up the path, weapons drawn, ready for whatever might challenge their right of way. But the forest was quiet, the only life the Captain caught sight of were the tiny lights darting about in the greenery.

This is too easy, the Captain thought. He didn’t like it. Where’s the resistance? What are they waiting for?

Ahead, dozens of waterfalls cascaded down the sheer mountain face, the stones so white as to almost glow, bright enough that they hardly even needed their torches. He would’ve considered it beautiful if he’d not been so aware of its bewitchment.

“Daniel, we’re here, aren’t we? This is her place?”

Danny nodded.

“Which one? Where does she hide?”

The boy hesitated.

“Daniel,” the Captain whispered. “It is the right thing to do. So many have died because of her. Free yourself of her bewitchment.”

Daniel slowly raised a hand and pointed to the smaller falls, the one farthest in.

The Captain led the men up to the falls. He could see that there was indeed an opening behind the cascading water. He looked back into the faces of his men, men who had served him well, both at sea and here, among the horrors of this demon land, men that still held on to their sanity after being plagued, twisted, and tormented, and for no other crime than landing on the wrong shore. The Captain was ready to end this nightmare, hungry to finally be able to strike back at the demon that had plagued him for an age. He could see his men were hungry too.

The Captain mounted the steps. His heart drummed in his chest. He had no idea what sorcery awaited beyond these falls, only knew it didn’t matter, because it was time for a reckoning. One way or another, they would end it here and now.

“Steady men,” he called. “On my order.”

PETER DRANK DEEP, then dunked his head in and out of the stream, letting the cool water revive him. He rolled onto his back upon the sandy bank, trying to catch his breath, trying not to feel the stinging welts on his chest, the hundred bruises and scrapes from the beatings.

How many Flesh-eaters were there? He’d tried to take count in the fort, but had only been able to see the ones that passed before him. What, forty? No. He knew that was wishful thinking. He’d grossly underestimated their number before and there were more now. At least sixty, seventy, maybe even more.

And where were they? How close to the Haven? Could Danny remember the way? The odds were good, Peter told himself, that they’d get lost. If that were so, he could gather the elves, the witch, any Devils that had survived the ambush, and together they could pick them off. It would be dangerous, but they might still have a chance to save the Lady.

He heard Nick’s words, “You lead them to their deaths…. How many have died for your goddamn Lady?” Peter frowned. Stupid kid. What did he know about any of it? Anyway, now’s not the time to worry about it—first, we save the Lady.

Nick came crashing into the clearing, red-faced and out of breath. He dropped to his knees before the stream, gasping as he drank.

Peter had to admit, the kid had kept up well. He’d hardly slowed for the boy. Nick saw him staring, and Peter looked away.

Peter gave the boy a minute to catch his breath. “Come on. Deviltree’s not much farther.”

THE ROUND DOOR to Deviltree was wedged open. Peter pushed it slowly inward and peered in, sword ready. Most of the torches had burned out, casting the hall into a sputtering gloom. Peter saw no signs of conflict. “Hello,” he called, received no answer, and entered with Nick right behind him.

Peter ran to the weapons rack. “Quick,” he said, “gather what you need and let’s be off.” He tossed aside the Flesh-eater’s sword and grabbed two blades better suited for his hands, strapped them over his shoulder, so that the swords crossed behind his back, then headed to the store bins, near the fireplace, to round up some rations. He caught sight of Sekeu’s body and stopped. She still lay beneath the blankets, just as when he had left. He stared at the twist of long black hair and felt his hands begin to tremble.

Nick came up behind him but didn’t say a word.

Maldiriel lay on the floor near the fireplace, Sekeu’s blood still on its blade. Peter picked it up and wiped away all traces of the blood. “Nick,” Peter said, his voice tight. “Sekeu would’ve wanted you to keep this.”

Nick’s brow tightened. He looked at the blade as though it were evil.

“It’s a good blade,” Peter said. “Might make the difference to your getting home or not. It’s what Sekeu would want. For doing your best for her.” He paused. “Her blood’s on this blade. Her spirit is forever part of it now. Take it.”

Nick met Peter’s eyes. Peter could see Nick blinking back the tears. The boy nodded and took the sword, started to say something, when a scraping sound, like metal on stone, came from the back side of the chamber. They exchanged looks. Peter pointed to the far wall and the two boys spread out, swords ready.

“Over here,” Nick called.

Peter rushed around. It was Amos, the Amish kid, the one who’d been shunned by his own family. He lay on a cot with a blanket half-covering him. His leg and stomach were bandaged and he looked pale. He clutched a tin cup. It was empty, as was the pail next to him.

“Peter,” the boy rasped in a weak but elated voice. “Peter, you crazy motherfucker, you’re alive!”

Nick nabbed the pail and dashed away toward the privy.

“Amos,” Peter said, and kneeled down next to the boy, trying not to look at the bloody bandages. There was no need to ask how bad. Peter could see the boy didn’t have much time left. He heard Nick in his mind again, how many have died for your Lady?

“Amos, where’s everyone?”

“Shit if I know. I mean it’s been one thing after another. There’s been nothing but confusion after that fucking ambush.”

Nick returned with the pail, filled up Amos’s cup. Amos drank it all and Nick poured him another. Amos gave Nick a queer look, then turned to Peter. “Hey Peter, aren’t we supposed to kill this sucker?”

“No,” Peter sighed. “I’ll explain later. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Wish I knew. We were so scattered, y’know, after the ambush. I bumped into Huck and Cutter and they carried me back here. One by one the Devils, the ones that could, drifted back. Tanngnost left, went searching for who the hell knows what. Then Drael and a handful of elves came by looking for you. Drael said that Ulfger was killing everyone he ran into. Said—”

“Ulfger?” Peter interrupted. “No, you’re confused, that’s not possible.”

“No, I’m damn straight on that. Drael said Ulfger had the Horned One’s helmet and sword. That he was unstoppable.”

It came to Peter, the figure he’d seen on the hill. He’d thought it was the Horned One. Could that have been Ulfger? And Leroy? Could there have been some truth to what he’d said about a horned demon? He felt Nick’s eyes on him. No, Peter thought. No way.

Amos coughed and his face tightened. He clutched his stomach. “Sorry, man. This thing hurts like a mother. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the elves. I’m pretty sure some of them went to warn the witch. Then…then, shit. I don’t know. It’s all a big jumble after that. Seem to remember the troll coming back, ranting and raving. Y’know the way he does. But no one seemed to have a plan or know what the fuck to do.

“Oh, hell, I almost forgot the biggest shit-bang of all. One of them elves shows back up. Says an army of Flesh-eaters are headed toward the Lady. After that they all left—Devils, troll, elves, everyone.”

“How many?” Nick asked.

“How many what?” Amos asked.

“How many Devils left?”

“Oh,” the boy’s face clouded. “If you count me, maybe nine or ten.”

Peter’s heart sank, his eyes dropped to the floor. Nick didn’t have to say a word. Peter knew what he was thinking.

“How about Cricket?” Nick asked, but looked like he was scared to know.

“The new girl?” Amos asked.

Nick nodded.

“She’s fine.”

Nick exhaled softly.

“Amos,” Peter said. “I’m sorry but we have to go too.”

“Good,” Amos said. “You’re just stinking up the joint anyhow.” He grinned at Peter.

Peter tried to grin back. “We’ll be back as soon as we can,” he said, and hated how hollow his own words sounded.

“Sure thing,” Amos said. “I’ll be here. Y’know…holding down the fort.” He winked.

While Nick refilled the water pail, Peter scrounged up a bowl of nuts and dried berries, leaving them with the injured boy. As Peter pulled the heavy door shut behind them, he tried hard not to think about Amos dying, alone, tried not to hear Nick’s accusing voice in his head. How many have died for your Lady?

“AT MY LEAD,” the Captain shouted. The men pressed together behind him along the ledge, weapons drawn, faces set, ready to battle whatever demons lay in wait.

“Now we shall see,” the Captain said, took a deep breath, and charged through the falls. A hard slap of water smacked across the back of his neck, knocking him into the wall, but he was through. His feet pounded down a short cavern and all at once he found himself in a green glowing world of lush flora, of leaning cliffs and golden glowing stones. He made it another dozen steps, then came to a stop on the bank of a small, placid pond. He lowered his sword and stared around the garden. The men spilled in, but they too fell silent, coming to a halt behind him.

No horde of demons awaited, only the winged folk in all their variety, hovering or perched upon delicate flowering vines and bushes, along with dozens of docile animals: rabbits, deer, squirrels, colorful monkeys, and birds of every species, all silently watching them. The serenity, the complete peace and tranquility, so far from the hellish, demonic den they’d all expected, seemed to make the men forget why they were here.

But the Captain didn’t forget. There was no sign of the Lady, but he had no problem finding her apple tree. It was the centerpiece of the sanctuary, seeming to float in the middle of the pond.

“At last,” the Captain said and took the ax from his sergeant. He waded out into the pond, swimming the last few yards, and forded the small island.

Here it is, he thought, after all these years. Here it is. He hefted the ax and it was then that he saw her, on the far bank, the Lady. She was seated upon a throne of white stones. He realized she’d been there the entire time, that he’d mistaken her for butterflies and flowers.

The Lady stood, and when she did, the Captain saw that indeed, she was composed of butterflies, thousands of tiny white butterflies. Her thin, graceful form drifted onto the pond and stood there atop its surface, leaving only the lightest ripples beneath her. He met her eyes, her deep, cerulean eyes, and realized his mistake as they pierced into his soul. Everything seemed to become far away, as though he were watching himself in a dream. Captain, she called, her voice a sweet chorus in his head. Come with me. Let me take you home. A siren’s song, he thought. A death song. But it had him, and all he wanted to do was to follow her into the pond. Yes. My home is at the bottom of the pond. My wife and children are all waiting for me there. He felt the ax slipping from his grip.

From somewhere impossibly far away, he heard the Reverend ranting and screeching his scriptures to the heavens, commanding the men to burn the demon’s den, to destroy all of Satan’s children. The Lady’s hold on him wavered. “NO,” she hissed, and turned onto the men. Her shape grew in stature until she towered before them at nearly twice their height. The multitude of butterflies making up her body turned from white to red to black. She spread her arms. The golden stones faded and the garden darkened. The pond itself began to glow, an eerie green mist rose from its waters. The Captain felt his skin prickle as wicked shapes boiled up along the surface and began to slither and crawl toward the men, things with thousands of teeth and long, bony fingers, things that wailed and moaned.

“Away,” the Lady cried at the men, her voice booming off the towering cliffs. “Lest you wish my children take you into the Mist. Lest you wish to wander for an eternity with your lost brethren.”

The men stopped, unsure, some looking to turn and run.

“Hold your place,” the Reverend commanded. “It’s not but smoke and bluster. She has no power over God’s children!” And to prove this, he ran toward the Lady, through the mist, leaving its flailing tendrils swirling in his wake. He swung his staff and the Lady broke apart into a thousand black butterflies.

The Captain felt himself released. He swung the ax at the apple tree, a heavy, solid blow. The blade sank into the fleshy bark and a gush of blood spurted from the wound. The Lady screamed as though he’d cut into her own flesh. He swung the ax again, biting deep into the trunk. Again the Lady wailed, not a cry of pain but one of sorrow, and the black butterflies fell from the air, dropping dead upon the surface of the pond.

The men fanned out across the garden and began slaying the animals, crushing the little folk beneath their boots.

The water bubbled around the small island and the Captain caught sight of a silvery shape spiraling up from the depths. The Lady broke the surface—no spectral illusion this time—he could plainly see she was of flesh and blood, a fine-boned woman with ghostly white skin and deep animal eyes. She touched him with those eyes, those dazzlingly blue eyes, held him. She extended her arms and her voice crawled back into his head. Captain, please come home with me. Your children call for you. And suddenly he could hear them, his boys, calling his name, calling him home.

“No,” the Captain whispered and tore his eyes from the Lady, set his foot against the tree, and tugged the ax free. He hefted it high and chopped, again, and then again. The white leaves falling down around him like snow. With each stroke the Lady’s voice weakened, was reduced to little more than pleading. He felt a hand on his boot. She was there, clinging to the bank, clawing at his boot, but she was frail, too weak to do more than shake him.

The air filled with smoke and the crackling of fire as the men set the trellises to flame. The pond turned red as the life blood of the tree flowed into its waters. With a final blow, the tree surrendered to gravity, toppling into the pond as though in slow motion.

The pond lost its glow, the mist died away. The Lady floated to the tree, curled herself among its branches, clutching it like a mother would a baby.

“Her spell is broken!” the Reverend shouted triumphantly. “Bring her to me.”

Four men swam out. They threw a net about her and pulled her from the pond, dragged her across the mud and before the Reverend.

The Reverend spied the small star hanging about her neck. He tore it away and stomped it into the mud. He ripped off the golden clasps that held her gown, dashed them against a stone. “See to it she hides no other witchery,” he commanded.

The men stripped her of her gown, then kicked her into the mud.

The Lady raised her head, her wild animal eyes wide and haunted. She stared at the flame devouring the flowers and bushes, at the mutilated animals, sprites, pixies, and nymphs—and, finally, the Tree. A long, anguished howl escaped her throat. The men took a step back. She climbed to her feet, naked, covered in mud, soot, and blood. She raised her hands outward, threw back her head, and wailed, and wailed; the sound echoing off the ceiling and reverberating along every wall and ledge. The pond rippled. The ground trembled beneath the Captain’s feet, several stones dislodged from the walls and tumbled down into the garden.

“DEMON!” the Reverend cried, and struck the Lady across her forehead with his staff. She collapsed to her knees, swaying drunkenly as blood streamed down her face. The men seized her. They lashed a rope around her neck and dragged her away, past the dead and burning carnage and out of the sanctuary.

It was only then that the screaming of the maimed and wounded truly reached the Captain, that he became acutely aware of the acrid smell of burning flesh. He coughed and looked again at the apple tree. “Done. It is done!” The leaves of the tree began to wilt and turn gray before his eyes, the grass too. Bushes, vines, flowers, fruit, everywhere he looked it was the same: the plants were shriveling and withering away.

As the leaves dried out, the fire spread, and the men rushed to escape. The ground rumbled again and the ledges began to crumble, a large boulder crashed down and tumbled into the pond, sending a red wave overflowing its banks. The Captain leaped off the small island and splashed his way to shore. A flaming tree crashed down beside him, showering him in a storm of fire and ash. He made the shore and clambered his way over the bludgeoned carcasses and through the sparks and smoke to the cavern. He took a last glance back at the garden, now truly a vision of Hell. At last, he thought as he pushed out through the falls. It is done at last.

Chapter Twenty-Four Ferry

I have them, Ulfger thought.

The elves had climbed up past the Hall of Kings, to the very peak of the mountain, but now there was no place left for them to flee. He could see them—down on the side of the ledge where even a billy goat wouldn’t dare venture—clinging to the rocks against the buffeting wind.

Ulfger couldn’t get to them, not with his sword anyway, but he could feel their fear and locked on it, made them shake with it, made their teeth ache with it, could feel them weakening, slipping.

White-hot pain suddenly flashed in Ulfger’s head. He let out a cry. It came again, like someone striking his helmet. “STOP!” he bawled and clutched the helmet. He fell to one knee. A tremor rumbled beneath his feet. He saw dark smoke rising from the valley. It appeared to be coming from the Haven. Ulfger reached out with his mind, searched, but he didn’t need his helmet, he saw their torches far below—an army of Flesh-eaters marching away from the Haven. “NO!” he screamed. “No, this can’t be! What are they doing here? They can’t be here!” And all at once he understood what the pain was from. They felled the Tree. He let out a wail and began to shake. They’ve cut down Avallach’s Tree!

The mountain rumbled again, shaking so hard that Ulfger had to reach out to brace himself. He saw boulders break away and tumble down the steep cliffs. Ulfger found his feet and scrambled back down the ledge. By the time he’d reached the Hall of Kings, the flames from the Haven lit up the entire valley.

He stumbled into the chamber and came face to face with the broken tombs. Scattered bones and busted skulls greeted him, their dark sockets accusing him.

“No—NO! This is not my doing!” He kicked the skulls, tripped, and fell against the boat. He saw his father lying twisted in the hull. His father’s eyes bore into him, sad and pitying.

The mountain trembled again. Cracks appeared all along the chamber and one of the windows broke and fell away.

“See what they’ve done?” Ulfger sobbed. “See. You laughed at me, but now look for yourself. They brought ruin, Father. See?”

All at once he heard voices. A billion voices, the cries of all of those that had ever lived and died on Avalon. Their wails echoed inside the helmet until his head rung with it, pounding his skull until he thought his ears would bleed. Ulfger screamed, tore off his helmet, flung it at his father. “I DON’T WANT IT! I DON’T WANT IT!”

A section of the ceiling came crashing in, showering Ulfger with stone and glass, exposing the sky above. He climbed into the boat, falling atop the dried fleshy remains of his father. He crawled beneath the cadaver, curled up in the bottom of the boat, and began to claw at his own face. “Take me with you,” Ulfger bawled. “Father, please, please take me with you.”

A WAIL FILLED the night. It came from everywhere, from the very land itself. Nick caught up with Peter.

Another wail came, followed by a tremor beneath their feet.

“What is it?” Nick asked.

“The Lady,” Peter whispered, his face stricken, and dashed up the trail.

Nick raced after him, but Peter was running all out and soon he lost sight of him. It wasn’t hard to figure out where Peter was going, though. A red glow grew above the tree line and Nick raced toward it.

The grade steepened, Nick’s lungs felt on fire, his heart thundered in his chest, the muscles in his legs burned, yet he pushed on, running as hard as he could. He saw the sky was dancing with fireflies, but when he caught the smell of burning leaves, felt hot ash on his face, he understood those were not fireflies but sparks. Nick passed the elven hall, now little more than charred ruins, went through the courtyards, the small canyon, and up the ridge, dashing around the small brush fires.

He found Peter up to his knees in a small pond. The murky water looked red. Blood, Nick thought. It looks like blood.

It wasn’t until Nick saw the floating bodies piling up on one end of the pond like some macabre dam that he understood that the towering ledges and waterfalls were gone, had crumbled in on themselves, that he was standing where the Haven had been. Water now gushed from the rocks like geysers while the treetops burned. Then he saw it—Avallach’s Tree, its limbs curling inward like rigor mortis setting into a corpse, the white bark peeling away exposing bone-colored wood and shriveled veins.

Peter splashed about between the boulders, frantically gathering something from the bloody water. Nick walked up to the bank. Apples bobbed about the pond. Peter’s pockets and pouch were stuffed full of them. He carried as many as he could hold and still tried to gather more. They spilled from his arms every time he scooped another one up.

Peter glanced at Nick, his eyes wild, desperate. “Help me! We have to save them. Every one of them.”

Nick watched the body of a nymph drift by, half her face hacked away, one eye staring at him. Another tremor rumbled beneath them and several large boulders came crashing down not a hundred yards away. “Peter, we need to go.”

Peter seemed not to hear him.

A strong breeze whipped through the valley, blowing Nick’s hair from his eyes. Nick thought it carried an oddly familiar scent, something besides the smell of burning leaves. At first he couldn’t place it, then his eyes widened. It smelled like the city—like New York! He heard a gull cry and glanced up. Was that a star, or just ash? Nick dashed a few yards back down the trail for a better view. There, faintly—a star! The clouds drifted and he saw more.

Something fluttered by Nick’s ear. A blue glow zipped by. The pixie, he thought. She sputtered right up to his nose and boinked it. “Oww,” Nick said.

She flew a short way down to the path and lit upon the ground. She flickered on and off and waved him over. Nick followed her and bent down. He spotted the men’s boot prints, dozens of them in the soft gray mud. Then he saw what she was pointing at: a set of hoof prints. It took Nick a moment. “The troll!”

“PETER!” Nick called. Peter didn’t look up. Nick rushed up the path. “Peter!”

Peter was on his knees on the bank, holding something. Nick noticed he’d dropped the apples, they lay scattered about in the mud.

Nick shook the boy’s shoulder. “The troll and Cricket—the Devils. They went that way.” He pointed. “We might catch them if we hurry. Let’s go—hurry!”

Peter slowly looked up, his face confused. “What?”

“C’mon. We have to catch them!”

“Why?” Peter said, shaking his head, his voice flat and lifeless. “It’s over.”

“What?”

Peter held up a golden eight-point star. “See?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Her light, it’s gone out.” He cradled the star to his chest. “The Lady…she’s dead.”

Another tremor, and a cliff crumbled, sending a massive rock slide crashing into the valley. The water was now bubbling up all around them.

“We gotta get out of here!” Nick said.

Peter didn’t move, just stared at the necklace.

“Peter, get up!” Nick tugged Peter’s arm.

Peter jerked back. “It doesn’t matter!” he cried, his voice breaking. “None of it matters now. The Lady was Avalon. Without her there can never be another Avalon.” Then low, so Nick could barely hear, “I will never sit by her side…never.” Peter suddenly grabbed Nick, clutched his arm so hard that Nick winced. Peter’s eyes were wide, intense, crazy. “They died! All of them. Died for nothing!”

“Yep, I know,” Nick said. “You’re a real son of a bitch. Now that that’s settled can we get the hell out of here?”

Peter let out a wail and doubled over like he’d been stabbed in the stomach.

“Ah shit, Peter. Goddamn it, cut it out. C’mon now, get up!” Nick gave him a tug. Peter put up a weak struggle, then just quit, all the fight gone.

“I can’t even remember their names,” Peter moaned.

Nick hefted Peter to his feet, half-carrying, half-dragging him down the path as the muddy water swept around their feet. Nick could no longer see the tracks, not with all the water, but he caught sight of a blue glimmer dancing just ahead, and followed. Nick realized he could see his shadow and was shocked to find a full moon shining down on them. “Peter, the moon.”

“The Lady’s dead, her Mist is dying,” Peter said, his voice flat.

The earth turned spongy. Water bubbled up everywhere. Dozens of small streams formed and raced them down the trail. Nick saw a magnificent oak tilt slowly over and sink into the gray mud. Soon trees were rolling over all around them, either collapsing or simply swallowed by bubbling sinkholes.

The trail leveled out and the streams formed into creeks, the creeks into small rivers. Nick spotted higher ground ahead, but there was a wide, fast-moving creek in their way. Nick glanced behind; only the tree tops could still be seen and those were rapidly disappearing. They had to ford the creek.

Nick pulled Peter into the cold current. It was to their knees in no time and rising by the second. Nick fought for the shore, but the rushing water was eating away the bank as fast as they moved toward it. The water around them turned rapid as the current rushed over fallen trees and boulders, forming swirling pools of churning debris. The creek suddenly swelled, sweeping both of them from their feet. Nick struggled to keep his hold on Peter as the current took them, spun them, pulled them beneath the foaming waves. Nick wasn’t sure which way was up, yet still would not let go of Peter. His back slid across stones and his head broke the surface. A towering boulder was right before them. Nick snagged a hold, fighting to keep his grip as he held Peter’s head above the water.

“GRAB HOLD!” Nick screamed. “GRAB HOLD, PETER! OR YOU WILL DROWN!”

Peter made no effort. His eyes seemed to be welcoming death.

“GODDAMN IT, PETER!” Nick shouted. “DON’T QUIT! DON’T YOU DARE—” Nick saw the tree—an entire tree tumbling right for them. “Oh shit!” he cried as the limbs smashed into the boulder, raking across the stone, tearing Peter from his grasp and pulling them under in a tangle of twisting branches. Then all was churning bubbles and tumbling darkness as sharp pebbles and twigs and leaves pelted his face and arms. Nick’s chest began to tighten, white spots flashed across his vision, and he realized he was going to drown after all, after all the crap he’d made it through, and he managed to be mad.

Nick slammed into something solid, and thick fingers grabbed hold of his arm, yanking him from the current. He fell onto a rocky bank, coughing and spitting out water. He heard a tired sigh and wiped the water and mud from his eyes. There, towering above him, was Tanngnost. Behind the troll stood Drael and four elves; behind them, sitting on the ground, was Peter, looking like a drowned rat.

“Nicky?” came a cautious voice. Cricket came up to him. She looked torn between relief and horror.

“Get away from him,” commanded a stern voice. A Devil Nick knew as Cutter glowered down at him. Nick had never heard more than two words from Cutter, had rarely seen him join in on the games or jokes. He was a serious, reserved kid with dark, severe eyes, and Nick was alarmed to find those eyes locked on him now. Behind Cutter stood the remaining Devils, seven of them, and every one of them looked ready to slit Nick’s throat.

“He owes us blood,” Cutter said and slid his knife from his belt.

“Oh looky, the children are going to play,” came a little girl’s voice.

Nick spun around to see the three sisters, a handful of barghest, and the witch.

The Devils surrounded Nick.

Nick looked for Peter, but Peter lay crumpled in a ball, his hands wrapped around his head, lost to the world around him.

“You can’t do that!” Cricket said. “You can’t just kill him. Tanngnost, make them stop!”

The troll’s eyes were filled with resigned sadness, but he made no move to stop them.

“Avallach demands your life,” Cutter said, and the Devils nodded in agreement.

Nick looked from face to face and what he saw chilled him. Their faces—so like the Flesh-eaters in the village—filled with the same fanaticism, the same need to spill blood to appease their god.

“Leave him alone,” came a low, flat voice. Peter.

The Devils exchanged confused looks.

“But Peter,” Cutter said. “He killed Sekeu. He—”

“No,” Peter said. “It wasn’t him.”

The Devils actually looked disappointed.

“Then who?” Cutter asked.

Peter didn’t answer. He just held his head in his hands.

“We’ll sort this out later,” Tanngnost said. “For now we have to keep moving. The Lady can’t be far.”

Peter’s head jerked up. “What? What did you say?”

“The Lady, Peter. The Flesh-eaters have her.”

“She’s alive?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

Peter was on his feet, he grabbed the troll’s arm. “You saw her? You’re sure?”

“Yes,” the troll said. “I thought you knew.”

Peter’s eyes lit up, suddenly alert and eager. “Let’s go!”

THE CAPTAIN STOOD on the bank of the dark, rising water and watched the body drift past. A woman from the fort, floating facedown, her long hair reaching out like tentacles in the swirling current. A moment later, a portion of a roof drifted by, then two more bodies, a man and a woman, then a pig.

He looked to the heavens; for the first time in so many centuries they had the stars and moon—like the face of an old and dear friend—to light their way. God, what a welcome sight. But it did them little good when the very land was collapsing beneath their feet. The ships had succumbed to the sea ages ago. They’d stored the boats upstream from the fort. But if the fort itself was gone, how could they ever find the boats?

He glanced at the sorceress, or demon, or whatever she be. She stood nude, muddy, with dried blood streaking down her face and breasts. They’d strapped a rope around her neck and pulled her along, kicking and beating her when she’d fallen. But she didn’t seem to feel any of it, only stared ahead, eyes focused on nothing. The Captain was disgusted by this senseless torment. Her spell was broken. They should kill her and be done. But the Reverend demanded they bring her back to the church, to burn her upon holy ground, to burn her before God. Only there was no more holy ground. So what would these madmen do now?

The wall of mist was sliding down from the sky, pulling away from the shore, evaporating even as he watched. Soon the sky and the sea would be clear. How many untold days and nights had he prayed for this? And now their prayers were answered. Now what? What good did it do them if they had no boats? They were still just as trapped—proof that God was merely playing with them.

Most of the men paced in tight circles or shifted aimlessly from foot to foot, staring slack-jawed up at the stars or down at the rising water. The others kneeled around the Reverend and lent their voices to his prayer as he paced rapidly to and fro, face to the heavens, begging God for a miracle.

The Captain kept Danny close. He saw the fear on the boy’s face. The Captain scanned the horizon. There was no more high ground. Water bubbled up everywhere, streams, creeks, and rivulets were converging, rapidly covering all the remaining land. Soon they’d all be in the sea. Another bit of thatched rooftop slipped past. They might not have any boats, but if he could rope together some of this debris, Daniel and he might be able to drift to shore. Only he didn’t believe the Reverend would allow it. No, if a miracle didn’t present itself, he was sure the Reverend intended for them all to go down together. Now, he thought, while the Reverend’s distracted, it’s a good time for us to slip away.

The Captain spied a clump of boulders and bushes banking the water not thirty feet away. If they could get past that unseen, they’d be free. He grabbed the boy’s hand and headed away. They’d barely made ten strides when a fervent voice called out. “Where are you going?”

The Captain knew that the Reverend was addressing him, but he kept walking.

“Captain.”

The Captain cursed under his breath and turned.

“Captain, where are you going?”

“Trying to find higher ground,” he lied.

“There is no high ground.”

“We shall see.”

“Bring me the demon child,” the Reverend said coolly.

The Captain felt Danny press against him, the boy’s hand tighten in his grip.

“Demon child?” the Captain said, and, realizing he was almost shouting, forced himself to lower his voice. “Daniel has led us to the sorceress. Has proven himself free of any demons.” The Captain let his hand drop to the hilt of his sword. He continued to withdraw, one step, then another.

The Reverend’s eye blazed. “We’ll let God be the judge of that. Now bring me the boy.”

When the Captain didn’t comply, the Reverend nodded to Ox. The giant and a dozen men fanned out, surrounding the Captain.

The Captain looked from man to man, searching for a loyal face. He found none. These men were scared, fearing for their immortal souls—they’d do whatever the Reverend asked. There’s nothing for it, the Captain thought. If he drew his sword, both Daniel and he would be dead in an instant. He whispered to the boy, “I’ll not leave you. I promise.”

The men approached warily, keeping a keen eye on the Captain. Ox pointed his sword at the Captain’s throat while a guard pulled Danny away. “And his weapons,” Ox said. The Captain eyed him sharply as he was stripped of his sword and knife. Once the Captain was disarmed, Ox grinned and smacked the Captain twice lightly on the cheek. “Good man.”

Ox yanked the boy over to the Lady. He snatched the loose end of the rope tied about the Lady and looped it around the boy’s neck, binding them together. Danny let out a strangled cry as the giant jerked it tight. Ox slapped Danny on the side of the head. “Stop your whining, brat.”

The Captain clenched his hands into fists, fought to hold himself in check. He felt sure they’d all be dead soon. None of this should matter, but it did.

“ANGELS!” a man cried, his voice breaking with emotion. He pointed out across the water. “A city of angels.”

As the fog swirled away, towers of glittering, spiraling lights materialized out of the night.

“The Kingdom of Heaven,” the Reverend called, raising his arms out before him. He fell down to his knees, tears falling from his eyes. “God’s Kingdom has come for us at last!”

The Captain found himself questioning his own senses. Could this be Heaven? He saw lights in the sky, some hovering, some blinking, others shooting along. Were those indeed angels? He heard a horn blaring somewhere in the distance. The breeze picked up, and he caught strange, unfamiliar smells, similar to oil and turpentine mayhap, and familiar smells as well, of fish, garbage, and sewage, like the canals of Venice. Did Heaven smell of sewage? The Captain didn’t think so.

The horn again, louder, closer, but not like any horn he had ever heard before. Again, a long, continuous burst, this time much closer, much louder. Whatever it was, it was heading their way. The Captain searched through the last traces of the mist. There, a great glow coming toward them out of the night!

“A vessel,” someone shouted.

Yes, thought the Captain, he could hear the water plowing against its bow, could see two levels of lanterns along its port side; this was a vessel, a magnificent vessel.

The Reverend got up off his knees and walked toward the approaching vessel, his arms outstretched. “The Lord has come for us.”

NICK SAW THE Manhattan skyline break through the Mist, close enough he could just make out a few figures milling about the docks. The sight caused them to stop in their tracks, but only for a moment, as the land was disappearing beneath their feet. At this point, they were barely staying ahead of the tide.

“There they are!” Peter hissed, and pointed. And so they were. At least seventy Flesh-eaters clumped together on a spot of high ground.

Nick had no idea what the plan was. There was nothing they could do against that many men, and they’d all be in the harbor soon anyway. But this didn’t seem to slow Peter down; he sprinted headlong after them, leaving the rest of them racing to catch up and Tanngnost huffing and puffing not to be left behind.

A horn blast broke the silence. A ferry! Nick thought. It sounded nearby. There! He could see its lights and…oh no, it looked like it was going to crash right into the Flesh-eaters! Nick recognized it at once as one of the Staten Island ferries. The ferry appeared to be trying to turn, trying to avoid a landmass that shouldn’t even be there. The men leaped back, scrambling out of the way as the ferry slid to ground. A moment later, they were climbing up the front deck and boarding the ferry. This should prove interesting, Nick thought.

The barghest raced past, followed by the Devils and elves, all heading for the ferry. Nick realized that if he didn’t get onboard he’d be going for a late-night swim, and took off after them.

The ferry reversed its engines and the water began to boil. The stern swung about, broadsiding the bank. Peter leaped onto the railing at the rear of the boat; the rest of the Devils and elves followed suit, then the barghest. Cricket splashed through the knee-high water until Peter pulled her up. Nick got a leg on deck, heard girlish giggles, and watched the witch and her daughters crawl up the sideboard like spiders.

Tanngnost brought up the rear, his long, galloping lope splashing through the swirling tide. The troll got a hand on deck and Peter, Cutter, and Huck helped haul him onboard just as the ferry pulled away into open water.

Now what? Nick wondered, and watched the last of the island disappearing into the bay. It wasn’t sinking, but crumbling and dissolving, like stirring cocoa powder into milk. Sparkling phosphorescent vapors bubbled to the surface and evaporated into the air.

Nick thought he would’ve been glad to see the last of Avalon, but now, as an unexpected forlornness clutched him, he realized he didn’t, at least not like this. He felt he was watching the very heart of the world dying, disappearing, and sinking away forever.