hey burst out of the darkness into another bright blue sky—above a hill, overlooking the village. Plumes of smoke rose from the burning buildings, spreading into a grayish-brown haze that had settled over everything, including the docks. But Tigerlilja could see well enough to know the clan was in trouble.

Most of the arrows had long been spent, and the bulk of the fighting was now hand-to-hand, with just a few clan archers standing up in the boats, using the last of their ammunition sparingly, waiting for killing blows. What remained of the village’s warriors now fought along the piers, blocking the access to the docks while their children and their elders were loaded onto boats. 

Tigerlilja searched in vain for any sign of her family. Was that Father fighting on the far pier? Was that Mother who had just sunk an axe into a skull-man’s leg? She was too far away to tell, and she leaned forward in Peter’s arms, unconsciously trying to get closer.

The clan was holding back the remaining horde, for now, but they were vastly outnumbered. Even as she watched, one of her clansmen took a death blow, cleaved through the neck. He toppled off the dock into the shallows, and another stepped forward to take his place. Was it Vegard who had just fallen? Or was he the man who now stood on the front line?

Tigerlilja tried desperately to reach the bow and quiver that were still slung across her back, but Peter’s arm was in the way. She couldn’t fight like this, and, in any event, they were still too far away. 

“Hurry!” she screamed. “They’re dying!”

But instead of flying faster, he let her go. 

One minute she was soaring through the air, cradled in his arms, and the next she was falling toward her death, her stomach lurching into her throat. Her eyes opened wide, but she made no sound. In her shock, she didn’t even curse him. She just fell, silently, watching the ground scream toward her, faster and faster.

And then he was beneath her, grabbing her thighs, ramming her legs into his shoulders. Her body snapped backward, and she slammed into a flurry of beating wings. She struggled to sit up, yelling with the effort as she fought against gravity and acceleration. Without thinking, she grabbed at the leading edge of feathers for leverage, and the sword, which she still held in her hand, fell dangerously close to his head.

“Watch it!” he snapped.

He jerked away, twisting his wing from her grasp, and the world spun wildly again as they rolled in midair. But, this time, he did not let her go, and when they turned right side up, she found herself sitting on his shoulders, lodged safely behind his neck, with both arms free.

And they were almost in range.

She reached behind her back, and her left hand found an arrow. Her quiver was miraculously still in place. But her bow…

“Here,” he said. “You dropped this.”

He let go of her with his right arm just long enough to hand the weapon up over his shoulder. She snatched it back in a flood of relief and handed him the sword in its place.

Together, they rained terror down from the sky.

She killed the first skull-man with an arrow through the neck and gravely injured a second before the invaders had any idea that death had come for them from behind. And then, once they recognized the danger, they wasted precious moments scanning doorways and stone walls and even burning rooftops, trying in vain to find the man or woman who had escaped their wrath.

Two more fell before anyone bothered to look up. And then they screamed.

Dragon!

Run!

Buri, help us!

The two-headed monster bellowed its rage, and the closest of Buri’s minions dropped their weapons, fleeing toward the relative safety of the trees. 

Their terrified shouts alerted the other skull-men, and a few brave souls hurled their axes into the air, hoping to kill the beast. But Peter either dodged them or caught them and threw them back, laughing at the game. 

“I’m out of arrows,” Tigerlilja told him, slinging her bow back over her shoulder. “Give me the sword and put me down.”

“Are you sure they’re all gone?” Peter asked, sounding disappointed. “I rather liked being a dragon.”

“Now!” she told him. 

“Fine,” he grumbled. 

He tossed the sword over his shoulder, and she caught it neatly. Then he dove toward what remained of the horde, causing a new wave of panic. As he neared the ground, he suddenly ducked and caught the air with his wings, throwing Tigerlilja forward over his head. She fell to one knee when she landed but sprang back to her feet in an instant, the sword glowing in her hand.

Peter’s wings disappeared with a sound like a small thunderclap and he fell to the earth behind her. He pulled his own swords from their sheaths on either side of his waist—a matching pair of thin, curved blades. Without any discussion, he and Tigerlilja stood back-to-back, ready for battle, but then a voice as deep as Gjallahorn itself bellowed from the edge of the forest.

“Stop! He’s mine!”

The sound reverberated through Tigerlilja’s chest and belly, and everything around her fell still. The skull-men dropped to one knee where they stood, the battle immediately forgotten.

“What magic is this?” Tigerlilja whispered.

“I don’t know,” Peter replied, even though she hadn’t really been asking.

He turned around to face the same direction she did, but the forest lay beyond the village, hidden from view by the buildings and the smoke. He arched his back and cupped his hands to his mouth.

“No!” Tigerlilja hissed at him. “I didn’t mean—”

“What magic is this?” Peter called out, matching the resonance of the original bellow with his own clarion tenor. 

Before he had even finished the first word, Tigerlilja dropped the sword and clapped her hands to her ears, glaring at him. “What is wrong with you?”

But then a new sound echoed through the village—thunderous footsteps pounding the earth. 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

As the steps grew closer, Tigerlilja peered through the haze, and a huge form began to appear out of the chaos. At first it seemed nothing more than a darker patch of smoke, where some building or other had just now caught fire and spewed a new burst of filth through the rest. It was the only way her mind could make sense of it.

It was too big to be a person.

But the smoke continued to condense, taking on shape, coalescing into hands. And feet. And a face, with eyes black as coal. Until she could no longer deny it—this was a man. A giant of a man.

He stood taller than a house, his head towering over the roofs of the nearest buildings as he came fully into view. He stepped out of the village and moved into the field that stood between the settlement and the river, lumbering toward them.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

He stopped when he had reached the center of the wide, open space, and he lifted a tremendous wooden club, choked with spikes, settling it carefully on his shoulder.

“Peter Pan,” he said, his voice so deep that it carried across the field without effort. “I am so glad to find you here. I had heard rumors that you were still alive. I didn’t see how it was possible, and yet here you are. Imagine my delight, knowing I will have the pleasure of killing you myself.”

“A challenge!” Peter shouted back. “Excellent! I accept!”

“Peter? Who is this?” Tigerlilja murmured, bending slowly to pick up her sword and trying not to attract the giant’s attention. “Why did he attack us, and why does he want you dead?” 

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know,” he told her. “If he kills me, maybe you can ask him.” 

“Wait, what?” Tigerlilja looked up and tried to grab his wrist, but it was already too late.

In the space of a single heartbeat, his wings snapped out behind him, and he launched himself into the sky.