Brom - The Child Thief

“Ulfger,” the witch called. “Heed me Ulfger. If you taste his blood you will not like what you find.” The witch smiled and wet her green teeth with her tongue.

Ulfger dismissed her with a sneer. “Modron,” Ulfger commanded. “Look at me. Look at me!”

The witch lifted the Lady into a sitting position. “Here now, dearie. Let’s not disappoint Ulfger. Do take a look. You won’t want to miss this. That I promise.”

“Modron!” Ulfger called.

The Lady opened her eyes.

“Look what I’ve caught. Something dear to your heart.” He shook Peter. “Does he remind you of your little Mabon? Watch, Modron. Watch your precious boy burn.”

The Lady shook her head and raised a quivering hand.

Ulfger grinned, his eyes flashed. He took the black blade, set it against Peter’s cheek, and slowly slid the edge down, cutting a long gash into the side of the boy’s face.

Heat bloomed across Peter’s cheek. He cried out and Ulfger tossed him to the ground.

Cricket screamed; the Devils, Tanngnost, the elves, all froze, all stared in wide-eyed dread.

Peter clutched his cheek, his heart thudding in his chest. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run, not from the poison. It was in his blood; he felt its heat course through his veins. He waited for the pain, for the burning, but the burning never came, only the warmth, spreading through his body. Peter pulled his hand from his face, found no blood. Touched the wound, felt it growing smaller, shrinking— disappearing .

Ulfger’s smile faded; he looked on, confused.

A laugh, a cackling laugh came from the pond. It was the witch. “Oh, Ulfger, you big stupid ass, if you could see your face.” She laughed again. “I tried to warn you. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? This can mean only one thing.”

Ulfger narrowed his eyes at her.

“Think about it, you big oaf. The wound does not bleed. The sword does not burn him? Why, Ulfger? What must that mean? Come now, you can do it.”

Ulfger’s eyes went wide. He shook his head.

“Yes,” the witch said. “You see, don’t you? Yes you do, my big stupid nephew. You see very well.”

“No,” he said. “ NO! ”

“Seems the Horned One had more than one little bastard running around,” the witch laughed. “Oh this is truly delicious.” She shook the Lady. “See, Modron. I told you you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Ulfger glared at the witch, pointed Caliburn at her. “You lie, witch! You are full of lies!”

Peter made for his feet and Ulfger turned the black sword on him, held the jagged, broken point an inch from his heart. “Tricks. Lies. I will not—” Ulfger’s eyes flared, he cocked his head sideways, again as though listening to some unseen phantom. His face twisted into a mask of despair and pain. “Why?” he mewled. “Why must you forever torment me? Why do you hate me so? I have been the good son—ever the good son.” Peter tried to ease away and Ulfger’s eyes came into sharp focus, blazed with unfathomable hate. “You!” His face pinched into a knot. “You are an abomination! ” he screeched, and shoved Caliburn into Peter’s chest, drove the blade all the way through Peter’s ribs and out his back.

Blinding pain—Peter tried to scream, managed only a strangled gasp. Ulfger twisted the blade sharply left, right, then yanked the weapon free. Peter dropped, rolled in the dirt, clutching, clawing at the deep wound, his mouth working, trying to breathe. He felt air escape between his fingers, heard—felt—a horrible sucking come from the wound as the air left his punctured lung.

Ulfger laughed, a high, strained sound almost like wailing. He reared back for a second thrust when the Devils rushed in.

Rex dove in low, recklessly, going for Ulfger’s knee, forcing Ulfger to switch his thrust from Peter to him. Ulfger missed, the blade driving into the dirt. The boy slashed Ulfger’s leg. Dash drove his spear into Ulfger’s stomach, the spear punched through the mail, sunk deep into Ulfger’s gut. Ulfger let out a loud grunt, stumbled back. Drake and Huck were there, attacking from behind, Huck hacking low while Drake cut high.

Even through his pain, Peter admired their bravery, cunning, and coordination. For a moment it looked good for the Devils, looked to Peter like they might stand a chance, might be able to stop this monster, or at least drive him back. Then Ulfger yanked Caliburn from the ground, spun around—the sword seemed to weigh nothing in his hand—and his speed caught them all by surprise. He struck Rex in the side of the head, cleaving the boy’s skull open; blood and brains followed the sword’s wake as it cleaved through Huck’s arm, then neck. Both boys collapsed into lifeless heaps. Drake ducked back, the sword missed his head but nicked his shoulder, the slightest scratch, yet his face showed he knew his fate, knew what that one scratch meant. An instant later, a dark patch bloomed, crawled up his neck, across his chest. Drake screamed, but did not stop fighting; even as his skin smoldered and peeled away from the bone, he rushed Ulfger. Ulfger knocked the boy away with his fist, leaving him to burn.

“No,” Peter said in a strained rasp, almost out of his mind with pain, anger, and frustration. Ulfger was killing the Devils, his Devils, murdering every one of them while he lay in the dirt. “Fuck,” he spat. Tears squeezed from his eyes as he forced himself to his hands and knees. He clutched his chest—there was no blood. The pain turned slowly to warmth, and he realized he could breathe again, that the wound was healing. The sword. That cursed sword.

Only Dash and Cricket were left. Dash jumped between Peter and Ulfger. Cricket slid over next to him. She looked so small before Ulfger’s towering mass. Peter could see her fear, the utter terror in her face, yet still she stood, spear ready just as Sekeu had shown her.

Peter pushed slowly to his feet.

Ulfger laughed and came for them.

“DEVILS, DEVILS, DEVILS FOREVER!” Dash screamed and charged Ulfger, swinging with all his strength and speed. Ulfger met the attack with a crushing blow, cutting through Dash’s sword and forearm, catching the boy in the stomach, almost slicing him in two. Dash flew back into Cricket and Peter, knocking them over. Ulfger raised Caliburn above his head. “JUDGMENT COMES!” he screamed.

A spear tore through the side of Ulfger’s neck. His eyes went wide with surprise.

Peter blinked—there was Nick, his face hard, focused, no trace of the confused, scared boy he’d found in the park such a short time ago. This boy was lean and dangerous, his cold, piercing eyes the eyes of a killer.

Nick shoved the spear deeper into Ulfger’s neck and shouted, “GET AWAY FROM HER!”

Ulfger dropped Caliburn, clutched the spear in both hands, gagging and strangling as he tried to wrestle it from Nick’s grasp. Nick gave the spear a final, hard thrust and leaped over to Cricket. He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her to her feet, and cried, “ CRICKET, RUN! ”

Ulfger pulled the spear from his neck and fixed on Nick. Peter tried to shout, tried to get up in time. Ulfger threw the spear, catching Nick in the back, just below his shoulder blade. The spearhead sprung out from the front of Nick’s chest. Nick looked at it for a moment, then collapsed to his knees.

“ NICK! ” Cricket screamed.

“Run,” Nick said weakly, and fell over.

Ulfger and Peter locked eyes across the bodies of the dead and dying, the heat of their hate boring into each other. Peter’s chest heaved, his lips peeled back, his golden eyes flared, his fingers ached to rip away Ulfger’s flesh, to tear his eyes from their sockets. Caliburn, the deadly, black blade, lay in the dirt between them. The two half-brothers stared at it as one. Peter was quicker. He dove for the sword, snatching up the blade and coming up in a roll. He swung for Ulfger—the sword weighed nothing in his hands—it sliced through the giant’s armor like paper, cutting deep into Ulfger’s thigh. Ulfger stumbled back, fear in his eyes.