Sekeu signaled them up and Nick slid forward with slow, steady movements, as she had instructed, avoiding any quick moves that might draw attention. Abraham and Leroy crawled into position on one side of Sekeu, and Nick on the other. A moment later, Redbone, his absurd grin in place, slipped in next to Nick.
Black clouds rolled across the clearing, obscuring their view. Nick strained to see while fighting not to cough on the thick smoke. It smelled of burned wood, but there was another smell, a sweet, sickly smell like cooking meat.
The rough voices of men barking orders came through the murk. Suddenly a bright flame lit up the smoke, followed by a long, horrible scream. Nick put his hands over his ears. How can a tree make such a cry? The wind shifted, blowing the smoke away from the forest, and there, not fifty yards away, stood a dozen Flesh-eaters.
Nick’s heart drummed in his chest. They were men, not monsters, and somehow seeing their humanity made them all the more ghastly. Some horrible disease had infested their very core. Their skin was scaly, shriveled, and black like that of a burn victim, and their faces were distorted as though in great pain. Their bodies were emaciated, their ribs and hips jutted out in sharp contrast to their shriveled waists. Yet Nick could see lean, ropy muscles and veins rippling across their chests, shoulders, and arms. Their eyes were blood-red, sunken deep in their cadaverous sockets and with only a tiny black speck of a pupil, their noses little more than slits, their lips peeled back, revealing white gums and yellow teeth.
A chill ran down Nick’s spine. These men, their skin, their eyes, they were the same as the creature he’d become in his nightmares. Was he turning into one of these? Is that what the magic was doing to him? No! I’ll risk the Mist before I become one of these horrors.
Sekeu poked Nick and pointed to a large cauldron set upon a slight rise about a hundred yards out. A fire smoldered beneath. Nearby were two barrels with stringy black oil dripping down their sides. Nick wondered how they could possibly cover that much ground before the Flesh-eaters caught them.
There were at least ten guards stationed around the cauldron itself, heavily armed men carrying swords and spears, wearing breastplates or studded doublets and metal helmets with high combs like a rooster’s crown. Dozens more were spread out, grim-faced men who looked alert and dangerous, patrolling the tree line in intervals in both directions.
Two barefoot men, dressed in ragged knee-length breeches and filthy, tattered shirts, tromped up the rise to the cauldron, carrying a bucket in each hand. A hunchbacked man with a peg leg stirred the oil. When the men stepped up, he scooped out the oil with a large ladle and dumped the slick goo into the buckets. The men watched balefully until the buckets were full, then hoisted their burden and slogged back toward the tree line. Men with straw brooms awaited them. They dipped the brooms into the oil and swabbed it onto the tree trunks. As they stepped away, another man stepped forward, bearing a torch.
Nick knew what was coming and didn’t want to see it, but he couldn’t turn away. The torch-bearer set the flame to the tree. The oil took a moment to light, a small, bluish flame that spread slowly along the oil, but once the flame took, it blazed up, greedily engulfing the tree. The tree began to scream and scream as its trunk and limbs crackled beneath the blaze. Before the first one had finished, they were already on to the next, and the next. And now there was a chorus of screaming trees.
The black smoke rolled across the clearing along with the sickly sweet smell of cooked flesh. A low moan arose around Nick. He glanced about uneasily before he realized that those were the other trees, wailing at the sound of their dying kin.
Oh good God, this is too much. He felt Sekeu’s hand on his arm, a gesture meant to reassure him, but Nick could see the muscles working in her jaw. Nick found himself wanting to just get this nightmare over with. Where was Peter? How much longer would they have to wait?
Nick tried to distract himself by visually tracing and marking the best path to reach the barrels. The burned hulks, roots, and limbs of the fallen trees lay tangled together, forming a treacherous obstacle course. He’d have to navigate this path while men tried to kill him. The mud would be slippery; one misstep could easily mean his death. Nick swallowed, his throat felt dry. Am I really about to do this? Peter better know what—
Nick’s thoughts were cut off; one of the guards was staring directly at him. The guard slumped against a stump, chewing on a twig. He had a knot of long black hair atop his otherwise bald head. He held a dented helmet in one hand and wore a tarnished breastplate over a cracked leather doublet and ragged britches. A sword and knife hung from a buckler about his waist and a short halberd sat across his lap. He seemed to be peering directly at Nick with his piercing red eyes.
Nick’s blood went cold. He blinked, but dared not do anything else. Afraid the slightest move would give them all away.
The man leaned forward, squinting through the smoke. He leaned left then right, as though trying to get a clearer view. He sat his helmet on his head, hefted his halberd, and started down the slope toward Nick.
Nick tried not to breathe.
“Steady,” Sekeu whispered.
The Flesh-eater halted about a dozen yards away. He whistled to a nearby guard and waved the man over. When the second guard arrived, the first guard pointed toward Nick’s hiding place. The new guard, a brutish, squat man, looked up and down the bushes, then shook his head. But the first guard was persistent. He pulled the man forward and pointed again. The second guard just shrugged. Finally, the first guard spat out the twig he’d been chewing on and came tromping through the thicket right toward them. The second guard rolled his eyes but followed along.
We have to get away! Nick thought. Now, while we still can!
A fresh plume of smoke enveloped them, clouding the view. Sekeu, Abraham, and Redbone slipped their swords out in a quick, smooth motion. Their eyes were locked on the hazy shapes of the guards, their bodies tensed up like springs.
Oh, shit, thought Nick, they’re going to go. Nick felt his heart might explode in his chest. No, thought Nick. No we can’t. Not yet. Not without Peter. We’ll be slaughtered.
Nick heard the wet, slurping suction of heavy boots in the mud right in front of him. The smoke blew clear and there, not two paces away, stood the guard. Nick froze, powerless to move or even scream. He saw in chilling clarity the man’s scaly, lumpy, toadlike hide, every scar, wrinkle, and wart, saw the halberd pointed right at him. The man’s eyes went wide and Nick saw his own death reflected in those hellish red orbs.
Sekeu flew forward, her sword flashed, and the guard’s neck split open, his head flying into the air. Nick saw the white of his neck bones, saw every vein and artery as clean as an autopsy, then black blood gushed upward like an oil well. He heard the soggy thud of the head landing in the mud, then the headless body toppled over backward.
The second guard jumped back, bringing his ax to bear on Sekeu. Redbone struck from the man’s side. The man swung for him, but Redbone darted beneath the clumsy weapon, slicing both of the man’s legs open behind the knee. The man went down with a cry. Abraham was on him almost before he hit the ground, cleaving the Flesh-eater’s throat open.
And as though on cue, an eruption of screams arose from the far side of the clearing. Nick couldn’t see anything through the smoke, but knew it was Peter, knew the attack was on.
“NOW!” cried Sekeu.
And Nick found himself running as fast as he could through the muck, trying to keep up with Sekeu’s long legs. The adrenaline took over, pushing the fear from his mind as he darted between stumps and leaped over roots and limbs, focused only on knocking over the barrels and getting the hell out of there.
“NOW!” PETER SHOUTED, and as one they leaped to their feet, slapping their swords together and howling like wild dogs.
Peter knew their goal was to distract, to engage and get out, but the dying cries of the trees had ignited his blood. He wanted murder and intended to have it.
About six or seven tre
e burners and four guards were right before them. These demons with their oil and flame, Peter thought, these at least would die today. Peter’s face twisted with hatred as he flew forward, striking the first guard before the man could even pull his sword free, sending his head flying from his shoulders. Another man swung his oily broom at Peter. Peter ducked the blow and cut the man’s foot off at the ankle. The Flesh-eater screamed and toppled. Peter shoved his sword into the man’s face, right between the eyes, then spun around, hungry for more flesh. But the Devils and elves had been deadly efficient in their attack, and the Flesh-eaters lay dead or dying at their feet.
Horns filled the air. Cries echoed from all ends of the clearing as the Flesh-eaters quickly came together.
Peter searched the field and found what he was looking for: five hunched figures, well behind the ranks of soldiers, sprinting along the slope toward the barrels. Peter wiped a spray of black blood from his forehead and grinned.
The guards raised a cry and came for them. Peter guessed there were at least sixty of them, leaving behind only three men that he could see to guard the barrels. Good, Peter thought, and he allowed himself to believe the day might end well after all. “Here they come,” Peter shouted. “Hold steady.”
A yell came from a tall man with a thin mustache and goatee, wearing a leather doublet and a wide-brimmed hat with a tattered feather. Peter’s blood went cold. It was him, the Captain. The Captain ran up to the ragged formation, meeting them midfield. He raised his sword and ordered them to halt. The guards stopped.
What’s he doing? Peter kept a close watch, knowing the Captain was a hard man to stay ahead of. How many times had this man turned the tables on him? More than he cared to remember.
The Captain formed the men up into ranks, shouting and pointing this way and that with his sword. Peter’s heart sank as the Captain sent one line of about twenty guards back toward the barrels. The Captain shouted again and the remaining ranks resumed their advance, charging Peter’s group at a steady run.
Peter glanced at the barrels; he could no longer see the boys, but knew they must be behind the slope and probably unaware of the shift in defense. Fast, he thought, they have to be fast or all is lost.
SEKEU TOOK THE lead, Redbone next, followed by Leroy, then Nick, with Abraham covering their rear. Nick had seen the guards gather and go after Peter. It’s gonna work. It’s gonna work. It’s gonna work, Nick told himself, as though he could will it so. He kept his eyes fixed on the treacherous tangle of roots, mud, and branches as he wove his way up the slope. He leaped atop a stump and dared a look forward. There, just ahead, the barrels! He heard a shout and spotted three guards heading right for them.
Sekeu bounded off a log and into the first guard, knocking the man’s pike aside and cutting all the way through his arm at the elbow. Both the guard’s forearm and the pike flew into the brambles. The guard screamed and spun away, but didn’t quit; he drew his sword with his remaining arm, but before he could swing, Redbone came up behind him and cut one of his legs out from beneath him. The man tumbled. Redbone and Sekeu kept going without so much as a backward glance. Nick gritted his teeth and jumped over the squirming guard, horrified that the man was still trying to get to his feet.
Sekeu and Redbone charged the next two guards, pushing them back before a whirlwind of strikes and blows, like offensive linemen clearing a path for the running back. Nick and Leroy dashed through the melee, heading toward the barrels.
There was now only the peg-legged hunchback left between them and the barrels. Leroy made the rise first and stopped cold. Nick ran into him, started to curse, then saw the scene: a large troop of guards were chasing Peter’s band into the trees, but that wasn’t what had stopped Leroy in his tracks—below them, not fifty yards away, at least twenty guards were heading directly for them: hard-looking men moving fast.
A minute, Nick thought, they had maybe one minute before those guards would be upon them. Nick yanked out his sword and yelled, “Go!” He gave Leroy a shove and the two of them ran as hard as they could for the barrels.
The hunchback held a wide, curved sword in one hand and the oily ladle in the other. He showed them a few crusty black teeth and shouted, “Com’eer you little fucks, let Henry cut out your eyes and shove ’em up your asses.”
Nick feinted a hard swing to the man’s head, intent on using the trick that’d worked so well on Leroy the night before. But the hunchback caught Nick’s sword at the hilt, knocking the weapon out of Nick’s hand. Nick would’ve been dead for certain, but the hunchback shifted his attention to stopping Leroy. He swung the ladle, catching Leroy in the back of the head and sending the boy sprawling into the dirt.
Nick snatched up his sword and swung as hard as he could, hitting the man in the shoulder, the elven blade opening a nasty gash and knocking the hunchback off balance. His peg leg caught a root and he tumbled down the steep incline, cursing all the way to the bottom.
Nick dove for the barrel, ramming his shoulder into it. It barely budged. “SHIT!” he cried, and tried again. It didn’t move.
A spear slammed into a stump next to Nick. The guards were almost on them, a few even now scrambling their way up the steep, muddy slope. Nick was about to give up and run when Leroy reached the barrel. They both shoved. The barrel tipped but fell back. “AGAIN,” Nick cried, and together they rammed their shoulders into the barrel. This time it tipped and over it went, splashing the hillside in slick oil as it careened down the incline, taking several of the guards with it.
Leroy and Nick leaped for the second barrel, only to be confronted by a thick-set guard. Red eyes blazing, he raised a huge cutlass and came at them. Nick tried to run, only to collide into Leroy, knocking both of them to the ground. The guard let loose a victorious whoop, then a sword blade tore through his throat from behind. The man dropped his weapon, clasped his neck, and crumpled to the dirt. And there, behind him, stood Abraham. “THE BARREL!”
Nick and Leroy jumped up and slammed into the remaining barrel. Half-empty, this one rolled right over, almost taking Nick with it. It bounded and spun down the slope, knocking down at least three guards and dousing several others in the oil. But the men were quick to their feet and at least a dozen of them were scrambling up the hill right through the patch of oil.
Abraham kicked the cauldron over, sending the hot oil right into the face of the foremost guard. Nick could hear the man’s skin sizzling as the oil burned out his eyes, hear the man’s choking gargle as he tried to scream through a mouthful of boiling oil.
Abraham snatched up a timber from the fire and stood over the slope. The guards saw the flame, the oil clinging to the hillside and to themselves, and at once understood their fate. Abraham tossed the flaming timber onto the oil-drenched hillside.
There was a moment when nothing happened. Everyone, Devils and guards alike, were frozen for a prolonged heartbeat, then a blue flame bloomed, dancing across the surface of the oil. Nick saw the horrified looks in the men’s eyes, the look of knowing one’s ultimate demise, and knowing it would be bad. The oil burst into bright red flame and Nick was running, running away from the twisting, burning men, running away from their horrible screams.
THE FLESH-EATERS WERE almost upon them.
“Positions,” Peter cried, and the Devils and elves melted back into the forest, shifting from swords to spears, taking cover among the trees and ledges. Peter was well aware that the Devils would never stand a chance against the Flesh-eaters in open-field combat, not against the long pike axes, thick armor, and heavy weapons of their enemies. But if they could draw them in among the smoke, among the trees, where maneuverability was key, they could play a lethal game of hide-and-seek until every last Flesh-eater was dead.
The Captain halted about thirty yards out, just shy of effective spear range, and quickly formed his men into four rows of ten. Peter had hoped for a chaotic mob of Flesh-eaters mindlessly charging into the woods. He hadn’t counted on the Captain rallying his men so quickly.
“What are you waiting for?” Peter whispered. “Come get us.”
But the Captain seemed in no hurry. He scanned the terrain. Peter could see he was carefully planning his next move. Peter didn’t like it. If given the chance, he knew, the man would turn the situation to his advantage.
The Captain barked a quick succession of orders, and two lines of men broke away from the main body, heading outward, toward Peter’s flanks.
Peter leaped up, strolled boldly out into plain sight, and set his foot upon the breastplate of one of the dead guards from the skirmish.
The Flesh-eaters halted, all eyes on Peter. Peter brought his sword down, cleaving the dead man’s head from his shoulders. He snatched the head up by the hair and raised it for all to see, then spat into its face.
Curses and shouts of outrage rose from the lines. The formation wavered as several Flesh-eaters broke ranks and came for Peter.
“HOLD,” cried the Captain. “HOLD I SAY!”
All but one of the guards halted; a shirtless man with a large ax.
“STAND DOWN, BOYLE!” the Captain cried. “STAND DOWN!” But the man kept heading toward Peter.
“YOU’LL PAY FER THAT ONE!” the crazed-eyed man screamed. “YE LITTLE DEMON BASTARD! AYE, YOU’LL PAY!”
Peter swung the head and launched it toward the man. An instant later, one of the elves slid out from behind a tree and flung his spear. The Flesh-eater dodged the head, but not the spear. It caught him in the neck. He slid to his knees and sat there clawing at the shaft, gasping and gurgling until he finally fell over.
Peter showed them his teeth, then let out a long, hooting laugh like a wild monkey.