The Merchant of Death (8 page)

The quig obliged. It was nearly on us. It charged forward with a bloodlust, ready to snap its jaws shut on Uncle Press.

“The whistle!” Uncle Press shouted back. “Blow it! Now!”

The whistle? What was a whistle going to do? But I wasn't about to argue. While keeping one hand on the steering antlers, I fumbled for the carved whistle around my neck. The beast was almost on Uncle Press. I finally managed to grab hold of the whistle, pulled the leather cord over my head, put it to my lips, and blew.

It didn't sound like anything. The thing must have been
designed like one of those silent dog whistles where the sound was so high pitched that only dogs could hear it. Well, only dogs and quigs, and quigs didn't like it. The beast suddenly opened its hideous mouth and let out another bellow that made the hair on the back of my neck stand out. It was a roar of pain, as if the high-pitched sound from the whistle was piercing its head.

That's when Uncle Press struck. He hurled the spear like an Olympic javelin thrower. The deadly missile flew straight at the quig and stabbed into its open mouth! The beast let out a choked howl as the spear plunged into the back of its throat. It stopped short, kicking up a spray of snow as it fell to its side. Blood spewed from its open mouth like a gruesome fountain.

It was disgusting. But not as disgusting as what happened next. The other quigs caught up with the first one, and rather than come after us, they all stopped and pounced on their fallen brother. It was a frenzy feed, like you see with sharks when there's blood in the water. I can still hear the sound they made as they tore into it, ripping it apart. The sound of flesh being torn away from cracking bones is not one I care to hear again. It was still alive, too. Its pained screams were horrifying. Thankfully, they didn't last long.

I took one last look back and wished I hadn't. At that moment one of the quigs looked up at us, and I saw that its mouth and fangs were smeared with the blood of its living meal. Now I knew what Uncle Press meant by “getting” one of the quigs.

“Look out!” he shouted.

I quickly looked ahead and saw we were seconds away from slamming into a boulder the size of a car. I turned the antlers, hard. The sled turned, but the back fishtailed into a skid that slammed us into the boulder. We kept moving,
though the shock was so strong it threw Uncle Press to the floor of the sled. It nearly knocked me off too, but I grabbed the antlers in a death grip. It would take a heck of a lot more than a little bumping around to pry me loose. The only problem was, when I grabbed the antlers, I dropped the quig whistle. If the quigs came after us again, we'd be in deep trouble. We had no spears and no whistle. Why hadn't I left the strap around my neck?

Now we were going fast. The slope turned double-diamond steep. I could see that we were about to reach the tree line. Up to this point we only had to maneuver across snow and avoid some boulders. Now we were headed into a forest.

“I got it!” shouted Uncle Press. He had made his way to the front of the sled and I was only too happy to let him take charge.

“I don't suppose we've got brakes?” I shouted.

“I wish,” came the shouted answer. Bad answer. This wasn't a nicely groomed ski slope. Oh, no. We were headed full-tilt boogie into the trees. The only thing that was going to stop us now was something solid. I didn't want to find anything solid. That would hurt.

“Right! Lean right!” shouted Uncle Press. I did and he skirted us around a tree. “Stay with me! Watch where we're going! Left!” he shouted.

It was like riding on the back of his motorcycle. We both had to lean into the turns to help make them. But the motorcycle had brakes and we didn't have to drive it through a minefield of trees. This was terrifying. We were rocketing down on a rickety bobsled through a slalom course of rock-solid pine trees.

We flew past trunks with inches to spare. Left, right, right again. We were going too fast for Uncle Press to tell me which way to lean. I had to look ahead and anticipate what turns he
was going to make. Branches slashed at our faces. We were so close to some trees I could hear them as we sailed past. The further down we dropped the more dense the forest became.

“There's a clearing ahead!” he shouted. “When we hit it, I'm going to turn sharp right. Hopefully we won't flip.”

Yeah, hopefully. And hopefully we won't launch ourselves into a rolling tumble that'll land us into a tree! Not that I had a better idea.

“When I make the turn, lean hard right!” he yelled. “We're almost there.”

I looked ahead and saw it. Through the trees there was a field of white. That must be the clearing. But we still had a lot of trees between here and there, and we were still moving fast. Left, left, right. A few more turns and we'd hit the clearing.

“We're gonna make it!” I shouted.

We didn't. Our left runner hit a snow-covered root that kicked us up on our right side, but we kept going. Now we were on one runner and out of control. There were only a few trees between us and the safety of the clearing when we crashed. The sled hit a tree and spun us around. The force of the collision was huge. I mean, it rocked me. But I stayed with the sled. Uncle Press wasn't so lucky. He was ejected.

And I kept going. The sled fell down off the right runner and now ran flat again, but I was lying in the back, miles from the controls. I was nearly at the clearing and for an instant I thought I'd make it. But then the sled hit a rise and suddenly I was airborne! If there was any time to abandon ship it was now, so I bailed. The sled went one way and I went the other. For a moment I was airborne, and then I beefed. Hard. The snow wasn't as deep anymore, so instead of a nice cushy snow landing, I hit hard ground. It knocked the wind out of me and slammed my head against the ground. The world became a
spinning mass of white. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. But I wasn't moving any more and that was good.

I'm not sure how long I lay there because I was drifting in and out of consciousness. Then I remember hearing something odd. It was far off at first, but it was coming close very fast. I feared that the quigs had finished their lunch and caught up with us for dessert, but this didn't sound like them. This sounded like horses. Galloping horses. More than one.

And then I heard Uncle Press calling to me. “Bobby! Bobby, if you can hear me, don't move. Stay where you are! The Milago will find you. They'll help you.”

What did he mean? What were the Milago? I had to see what was happening. I rolled over on my side, which really hurt by the way. I must have smashed a couple of ribs in the fall. I didn't stand up though. I'm not sure I could have, even if I wanted to. My head hurt and I was really dizzy, but I clawed at the snow and crawled toward Uncle Press's voice. There was a little rise of snow, probably the one that launched me into space, and I painfully crawled toward it on my belly. When I got to it, I cautiously peeked over the top.

I was relieved to see Uncle Press standing on the edge of the clearing, not far from me. He was okay. Come to think of it, he looked a lot better than I felt right then.

To the far right of the clearing, closing fast on him, were the horses I heard. And there were riders on the horses, four of them. They looked to me like ancient knights. They wore black armor made of heavy leather. They had black leather helmets with faceplates as well. Even their horses had similar leather protection. They all looked the same, as if the armor were some kind of uniform. I also saw that they had swords. They looked to me like something out of the Knights of the Round Table.

Uncle Press gave them a friendly wave as they circled him.

“Hello!” he called out in a friendly voice. “How are you this fine day?”

We weren't in America. We weren't even on Earth. Why did Uncle Press think these guys spoke English?

“Buto! Buto aga forden,” shouted one of the knights brusquely. I was right. They didn't speak English.

“No!” answered Uncle Press. “I am hunting rabbits. For my family.”

“Soba board few!” barked another knight. This was weird. They were speaking some bizarro language and Uncle Press was speaking English, yet they both seemed to understand each other. I, on the other hand, understood nothing. What else is new?

The first knight pointed a finger at Uncle Press and started shouting, “Buto! Buto aga forden ca dar!” This looked bad. Whatever “Buto” meant, I didn't think it was a compliment. Uncle Press raised his arms innocently and shrugged, as if he didn't know what they were talking about.

“No!” he said with a smile. “Why would I spy on Kagan? I'm a miner who only cares about feeding his family.”

Spy? Miner? Kagan? My head started to throb.

And then things turned sour. The first knight pulled a nasty-looking bullwhip off his saddle and slashed it at Uncle Press! Whap! It wrapped around his arm. Uncle Press let out a yelp of pain and the knight yanked on the whip, pulling him to his knees.

I tried to get up and run to him, but the pain in my side shot through my body and I lost my breath again. My head started to spin. I was seconds from losing consciousness. But I kept my eyes riveted on Uncle Press. Two of the other knights took ropes from their saddles and lassoed him like a steer in a
rodeo. Then they kicked their horses and took off across the field, dragging Uncle Press along on his back!

That's the last thing I saw—these laughing, black knights on their horses dragging my uncle across the snow. As they disappeared into the woods, I lost it. My head was spinning out of control. I was going down. The last thing I remember thinking was that what seemed like only a few hours before, I had been standing in my kitchen throwing the tennis ball for Marley to fetch. And I hoped somebody remembered to take her out for her nighttime walk.

Then everything turned white, and I was gone.

END OF JOURNAL #1

SECOND EARTH

Mark Dimond paced nervously
as Courtney Chetwynde sat on her backpack in the empty lot at Two Linden Place, reading the parchment pages. He wanted her to read faster. He wanted her to look up and tell him that everything was okay. He wanted her to find a clue somewhere in the pages that proved none of this could be real. But most of all, he wanted to turn around and see that Bobby's house was back where it should be.

Courtney took her time reading the pages and when she finally finished she looked up at Mark with a curious expression.

“Where did you get this?” she asked with no emotion.

Mark dug into his pocket and pulled out the strange ring with the gray stone. After what happened in the boys' bathroom, there was no chance he was going to put the cursed piece of jewelry back on his finger.

“It came from this thing,” he said while holding the ring out gingerly. “It was like, alive. There were flashing lights and it got big and opened up this hole and there was a sound and suddenly the pages were just. . . there.”

Courtney looked at the ring, looked back at the parchment papers. Mark could tell the wheels were turning in her head as
she tried to make sense of everything he had just thrown at her. Finally, she stood up and tossed the parchment pages over her shoulder like yesterday's news.

“Gimme a break,” she said with a sneer.

“Hey!” squealed Mark as he frantically ran after the pages. There was a slight wind that scattered them across the empty lot so he had to scramble before they blew away.

“What do you guys think I am?” Courtney barked. “Some kind of idiot?”

“N-no! It's n-not like—” Mark's stutter was back.

“You tell Bobby Pendragon that I'm not dumb enough to go for such a stupid joke.”

“B-but—”

“What happens next? Am I supposed to get all worried and tell everybody that Bobby missed the game last night because he got flumed into another dimension and had to battle cannibal beasts and unless he rescues his uncle from some dark knights on horseback he might miss the next game too?”