to figure out what she was hearing. These warriors were familiar in some way she couldn’t put her finger on. It buzzed in her brain, but there was too much fear and pain in there to let it surface.
Slayne drew his sword and returned to Brendan, who was trying to sit up. Slayne pointed the blade at his throat.
“I—”
“Shh,” Slayne cooed, pressing the tip against Brendan’s skin. It didn’t break, but Brendan knew it would; he could see it happening – the thin membrane that separated him from the world would split, and he would die in a place where no one even knew he was. He was surprised to find his thoughts very simple. He didn’t see his life flash before his eyes, or start thinking about all the things he wouldn’t get to do because he died at twelve; he just thought, No, no, make it stop, please, God, something!! And then—
ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK!
Brendan thought it sounded like a machine gun. Slayne looked up. Krom looked up. Everybody looked up.
“A Sopwith Camel!” Brendan yelled.
Brendan had seen the Sopwith in history books about World War One. It was the iconic early British fighter plane – single propeller, two sets of wings. And this one was coming right towards them.
It had torn through the tree canopy, raining down branches and leaves that were only now hitting the ground. It looked like it was held together with spit and glue. Black smoke streamed from its cockpit. Behind it, through the new hole in the foliage, came bursts of gunfire.
“German triplane!” Brendan called. He’d seen this plane too; it was what the Red Baron flew in old movies, with three sets of vertically stacked vermilion wings and black crosses. The triplane was in hot pursuit. When it became obvious that the Sopwith Camel was going down, the German triplane veered up, made a sharp right turn, and disappeared into the clouds.
The Sopwith Camel arced lower. Its engine whined in the dense air. The warriors stared, dumbstruck; they could smell the smoke now. Slayne pulled his sword away from Brendan’s neck and demanded: “What creature of darkness is that?”
The Walkers weren’t inclined to respond. Slayne’s warriors couldn’t respond, stunned as they were by the spewing, many-winged monster slaloming through the giant trees, smoke heralding flames from its mouth, veering skyward as if attempting to soar, but inevitably listing down – straight towards them.
The warriors dived to the ground. The Walkers huddled inside their net. The aircraft buzzed them, the vibration of its stuttering propeller only inches above their heads—
And then it crashed.
First the two oversize wheels at the front snapped off. Then the fuselage bounced up like a skipped stone and crunched back down. Then the plane skidded forward over rocks and sticks and roots, carving out a trench before coming to rest at a tree twenty metres away. The engine was still running. The propeller turned fitfully.
The pilot crawled out and collapsed. He was covered in black soot, with goggles and a leather helmet obscuring his face, wearing a bomber jacket zipped over a military uniform. He staggered to his feet, thin and miraculously uninjured, and legged it away from the plane.
“Who’s that?” Eleanor gasped.
“He looks like… a pilot,” Cordelia said, her voice hollowed by disbelief.
“A World War One fighter pilot,” said Brendan.
“Watch out!” the pilot shouted to the kids and warriors, throwing himself to the ground.
The Sopwith Camel exploded behind him.
Everyone ducked as shards of plane flew across the forest. Fabric strips rained down, along with a cascade of broken leafy branches. The plane was now a smouldering pit where the cockpit, engine, and propeller used to be.
“I always said too much of that plane was in the front,” remarked the pilot in a British accent. He turned to Slayne’s men and inclined his head. “What’s this? Are we performing a panto?”
The men drew their weapons. Krom said to Slayne: “I thought only gods fell from the sky.”
“He’s no god,” Slayne scoffed.
“How can you be sure?”
Slayne grabbed the bow from his man and notched an arrow. “Gods don’t bleed.”
“Now wait a minute!” objected the pilot, holding up his hands—
But Slayne shot an arrow into his right shoulder.
“Aaaagh!” The pilot fell to the ground and stared cross-eyed at the arrow, which stuck out of him like a sandwich toothpick. He seized it, snapped the shaft off and tossed it aside, wincing as he jostled a nerve.
“Savages,” he spat, heaving himself up and glaring at Slayne, eyes fierce.
“A mortal,” sneered Slayne. “You know what to do.”
The warriors charged, descending with swords and axes, but the pilot drew a revolver, lightning-fast with his left hand, and squeezed off six crackling rounds—
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
The Walkers let out a gasp: not only was the pilot a quick draw, but every one of his shots hit a man’s hand. The warriors cried out and dropped their weapons, cradling their fingers as blood ran through them. Slayne’s grin twisted into an expression the Walkers hadn’t seen on him yet: fear.
“Retreat! Black magic! Away to Castle Corroway!”
The men raced to their horses, climbed on awkwardly and rode into the depths of the forest, each guiding his steed with one good hand – except for Slayne, who had to keep both hands from shaking.
The pilot reloaded as they receded. He moved slowly, gritting his teeth at the pain in his shoulder. None of the Walkers knew what to say until he finished and aimed his gun at them: “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
“Help us!” cried Eleanor.
“Dude, you’d totally rock Call of Duty,” gasped Brendan.
But Cordelia silenced them both. “No, we don’t speak German.”
The pilot removed his helmet and let his goggles hang from his neck. He was just a few years older than Cordelia, she could see now, with shaggy brown hair and deep blue eyes. He reminded her of a young F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“You certainly seem to understand German,” he said.
“Of course I understand ‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch’. I’m an educated person. Everyone understands that.”
“I
