Free The Merchant of Death by D.J. MacHale

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.
    â€œRight! 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 hewas 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.
    â€œThere’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.
    â€œWhen 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.
    â€œWe’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 aspinning 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