Down Among the Dead Men (Forest Kingdom Novels) (8 page)

Jack sensed a movement behind him and spun around, knife in hand. Wilde hesitated, an arrow already in position for another shot at the owl.

“Go on,” said Jack softly. “Give it a try. You might get lucky.”

Wilde looked at him uncertainly. “You wouldn’t kill a man over a bloody owl.” “Wouldn’t I?”

Wilde felt a sudden chill run through him. A man with a dagger was no match for an archer, let alone a master bowman, and yet … this was Scarecrow Jack, and the power of the trees was in him. Wilde felt a presence in the darkness around him, as though countless unseen eyes were watching—the eyes of the Forest… . The wind whispered in the branches of the trees around the clearing, and surely it was only his imagination that made it sound like voices.

“That’s enough, both of you,” said Hammer. The moment was broken, and Wilde slowly relaxed. He put down his bow and slipped the arrow back into his quiver. Hammer looked at Jack, and the dagger disappeared into his sleeve. Hammer nodded slowly. “Get your things together. We’re going back to the fort.”

“Now?” said Wilde. “In the middle of the night?”

“What’s the matter?” said Jack. “Afraid of the dark?”

Wilde shot him a venomous look. “I was thinking of the Rangers. They’ll be on the alert now, thanks to you.”

“They won’t be expecting us to try again tonight,” said Hammer. “And we can’t afford to wait. If they’re following regulation procedure, reinforcements for the fort will be here in a couple of days, and that means a full company of guards. We’ve got to get into the fort, find and remove the gold, and leave the vicinity, all in twenty-four hours or less, or we might as well forget it. Jack, what’s the weather going to be like?”

Jack scowled. “Pretty bad. There’s thunder on the way. I can feel it. And rain, lots of it. It’s going to be a bad storm, Hammer, and it’s going to break soon.”

“That could work for us, as a distraction.” Hammer’s right hand rose absently to caress the long leather-wrapped sword hilt beside his head. Jack didn’t like to watch when Hammer did that. It looked almost like patting an animal. The longsword worried Jack. Even through the silver scabbard, he could feel an unending hum of raw power. The sword had its own sorcery, and it wasn’t a healthy magic. In all the time he’d been with Hammer, Jack had never seen him draw the sword. Deep down, he hoped he never would. Hammer’s hand fell away from the sword hilt, and Jack relaxed a little.

“Wilde,” said Hammer slowly, “when you see the witch, kill her. Magic-users are always unpredictable, and we can’t afford to take any chances. Jack and I will take care of the other Rangers.”

Wilde nodded silently. Jack started to say something and then stopped himself. He remembered the witch. She was young and very pretty. But he didn’t owe her anything, and he did owe Hammer.

But not for always, Hammer. Not for always
.

He waited patiently at the edge of the clearing while Hammer put out the camp fire, and Wilde checked over his bow and arrows with surprisingly gentle fingers. Jack sat down on a handy tree stump and let his mind drift while he waited. As it had so many times recently, it took him back to the trap from which Hammer had rescued him.

It had been a simple trap, as traps go. Jack had been following deer tracks when he suddenly heard a clatter of disturbed birds nearby. He immediately froze in place, his rags blending him into the dappled shadows. Something must have frightened the birds for them to react so sharply, and Jack hadn’t survived nine years alone in the Forest by ignoring warning signs. After a while he eased silently through the trees in the direction the sound had come from, and ended up crouching motionless at the edge of a small clearing. A man was sitting on a tree stump in the middle of the glade, with his back to Jack. He wore a guard’s uniform, and a hand ax leaned against the stump by his boot. Jack stayed where he was for some time, watching and waiting, but the guard didn’t move. There was no sign of anyone else, so far. Jack frowned. They must be searching for him again. Maybe the price on his head had gone up. If so, the odds were the guard wasn’t in the Forest on his own. He’d better get out of here while he still could.

And yet there was something odd about that guard. Very odd. He still hadn’t moved a muscle, despite all the time Jack had spent watching him. His head was bent forward; maybe he was sleeping. Or ill. Or even dead. Jack scowled. He didn’t like the direction his thoughts were leading him, but he couldn’t ignore it. There weren’t many predators in this part of the Forest that would take on an armed man, but there were always the wolves… .

Jack bit his lower lip and frowned indecisively. Approaching an armed guard in an open clearing was not something to be undertaken lightly, but if there was a man killer loose in the Forest, he wanted to know about it. And anyway, he was curious. He smiled and shook his head. One of these days his curiosity was going to get him into trouble.

He stole silently out of the trees and into the clearing, looking quickly about him, ready to turn and run at the first sign of danger. Everything seemed normal. The sun shone down from a cloudless sky, and the air was pleasantly warm. Insects buzzed drowsily on the still air, and birds sang undisturbed in the trees. The clearing was empty apart from the guard, who still hadn’t moved. Jack drew the knife from his sleeve, just to be on the safe side, and crept forward one step at a time, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the guard’s back. He’d almost reached the seated figure when the ground suddenly gave way beneath his feet, and he fell into the concealed pit below.

He fell awkwardly and landed on the packed earth at the bottom of the pit with an impact that knocked all the breath out of him. He lay still for a time, gasping for air and then groaning quietly as the immediate pain

died slowly away. After a while his breathing steadied, and he was able to think coherently again. He tried cautiously to move his arms and legs, and a wave of relief swept through him when they all responded normally. A broken limb would have meant his death, even if he had managed to escape from the pit. Staying alive in the Forest wasn’t easy at the best of times, and the woods knew nothing of mercy. Jack sat up slowly, wincing at his various cuts and bruises. He looked at the circle of light above him, and saw he’d fallen a good nine or ten feet. He’d been lucky; he could have broken his neck. He scrambled to his feet and stood still, listening carefully. He couldn’t hear anything. Whoever had set the trap might not be around. With just a little luck he could climb out of the pit and be gone before they came back. Jack searched the sides of the pit for hand-and footholds, and then cursed disgustedly. The walls were nothing but loose earth that crumbled away under his fingers. There was no way it could support his weight while he climbed.

Jack looked up at the bright circle of light. Nine or ten feet, and it might as well be nine or ten miles. He had no more hope of climbing out of the pit than he had of flying out. He tried anyway, just to be cussed, but it did no good. He retrieved the knife he’d dropped in his fall, and tried cutting handholds in the walls, but it was no use. He put the knife back in his sleeve, sat down on the bottom of the pit, and waited for his captors to show up. There was always the chance they wouldn’t kill him straightaway. They might decide to take him to the nearest town for an official hanging, and that meant chances to escape, if he kept his wits about him. Jack smiled sadly. It was a nice thought, but that was all. He’d escaped too many times in the past for them to take any chances. If they had any sense at all, they’d just shoot an arrow into him while he was still in the pit, and then take in his head for the reward.

Jack leaned back against the earth wall and looked up at the sky. It was bright and clear and very blue. He was in his Forest. There were worse ways to die.

The light above him was suddenly blocked by a man’s head and shoulders. Jack scrambled to his feet and reached for his knife. There was no real point in trying to dodge an arrow, but he’d go out fighting anyway, just to spite them. He was Scarecrow Jack.

“Hello, down there,” said a man’s voice.

“Hello, yourself,” said Jack. His voice wanted to shake, but he wouldn’t let it.

“Looks like you’re in a spot of bother,” said the man.

“Looks that way.”

“I take it you’re Scarecrow Jack?”

“Depends.”

The man laughed easily. “Lucky for you I come along. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t go away.”

He disappeared, and Jack’s spirits rose cautiously. Maybe he had got lucky after all. The man returned and threw down a coil of rope. Jack tugged on it a few times to be sure it would take his weight, and then climbed up the rope and out of the pit. He moved quickly away from the edge and stared warily at his rescuer. The man was clearly a soldier of some kind by his stance and his clothes and the sword on his hip, but he wore no insignia of rank or loyalty. He was a big man with an amiable enough face, but Jack’s eyes were drawn to the long sword hilt that stood up behind the man’s left shoulder. Even from a few feet away Jack could feel the power that lay dormant in the sword, waiting to be called into action. Jack began to wonder if he might not have been safer in the pit after all.

“Thanks,” he said carefully. “You might just have saved my life.”

“Could be,” said the man. “How did you end up in a stupid trap like that?”

Jack shrugged. “I always was too curious for my own good.” He looked around at the guard sitting on the tree stump, and wasn’t surprised to see he was still sitting there, apparently uninterested in what was happening behind him. Jack walked over to the motionless figure and looked him in the face. It was a dummy—convincing enough from a distance, but still just a dummy. Jack laughed in spite of himself.

“Set a scarecrow to catch a Scarecrow. Neat. Almost elegant. And it would have worked, if you hadn’t come along. My thanks.”

“I want more than that,” said the man calmly.

Jack looked at him warily, his right hand drifting casually toward the knife in his sleeve.

“Don’t,” said the man. “Don’t even think about it. You wouldn’t want me to draw my sword, would you?”

“No,” said Jack. “I wouldn’t.”

“My name is Jonathon Hammer. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead. You owe me your life, Scarecrow Jack. I’ll accept a few months’ service from you in payment for your debt. Is that acceptable?”

Jack thought about the pit, and Hammer’s sword, and nodded slowly. “Yes. For the next two months, I’m your man.”

“Good. I’d heard you were an honorable man, in your way. Do what I tell you, when I tell you, and we’ll get along fine. You might even get rich. But if you should ever consider betraying me …”

“My word is good,” said Jack coldly. “I don’t break it. Ever.”

“Yes,” said Jonathon Hammer, smiling slightly. “That’s what I heard.”

That had been two weeks ago, and they were shaping up to be the worst two weeks of Jack’s life. More than once he contemplated just walking out on Hammer and Wilde, and disappearing back into the Forest, but he couldn’t. Scarecrow Jack was an honorable man, and he always paid his debts.

Hammer and Wilde were finally ready to leave, and Jack led them back through the Forest to the border fort. The sooner this was over, the better he’d like it. And yet … in the end he hadn’t said anything, because they’d only have laughed, but there was definitely something wrong about the border fort. Something unnatural. He could feel it in his water. He decided to say nothing for the time being, but keep his eyes and ears open.

He had a bad feeling his problems weren’t anywhere near being over.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dreams in the Waking World

The storm finally broke over the Forest. Thunder roared and lightning flared, and the rain came down in solid sheets, slamming through foliage and bouncing back from the Forest floor. Open trails quickly became a morass of mud and soaking mulch. Birds and animals shuddered in their lairs at the continuous pounding of the rain, and in all the Forest nothing moved save three determined outlaws, already soaked to the skin.

The thunder rolled on and on, barely pausing long enough for the intermittent flashes of lightning that lit the Forest in stark black and white. The outlaws moved slowly from cover to cover, wading through deep puddles and treacherous mud, slipping and sliding and falling painfully until only Hammer’s will kept them moving. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds, and the party’s lantern light couldn’t travel far through the rain. Scarecrow Jack’s woodcraft was tested to the limit as familiar landmarks became strange and unfamiliar, but finally he brought them back to the edge of the great clearing. The three outlaws sheltered under a tree and studied the dim silhouette of the border fort through the driving rain.

Jack ignored the cold and the wet; he was used to it. The rain soaked his rags and dripped continuously from his face, but beyond a certain point he simply didn’t feel it. He had an animal’s indifference for conditions beyond his control. Besides, judging from the way Hammer and Wilde had been reacting whenever they got downwind of him, it was probably time his rags had a good wash. He glanced at Wilde, standing miserably beside him, huddled inside a thin cloak. The rain had slicked the archer’s long hair down around his face, and in the dim light he looked not unlike a half-drowned river rat. He sniffed and shivered, and cursed continuously in a low monotone. He pulled up his cloak’s high collar to keep out the rain. It formed a kind of funnel that guided the rain down his neck and back. Hammer ignored the sudden rise in cursing, and glowered through the rain at the border fort. Like Jack, he seemed unaffected by the cold and the wet.

“At least now we can be fairly sure there won’t be any guards on the battlements,” he said finally. “They won’t be expecting anyone to be abroad in weather like this.”

“No one with any sense would be,” said Wilde. He sneezed dismally and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “How much longer do we have to stand around here? I’m catching my death in this rain.”

Hammer looked at Jack. “Is this storm going to go off soon?”

Jack looked about him and considered for a moment. “Unlikely. It may even get worse. This storm’s been building for a long time.”

“All right,” said Hammer, “we go now. Stick close together. Whatever happens, no one is to go off on their own.”

He looked about him one last time, hooded his lantern, and then ran across the open clearing toward the border fort, followed closely by Wilde and Jack. Out in the open the rain was coming down so hard it drowned out every other sound, and even with the lantern and the lightning it was hard to see anything more than a few feet away. Wilde lurched and slid in the mud, and Jack was hard put to keep him moving. Hammer was soon only a vague shadow in front of them, and there was no sign of the fort. Jack shuddered violently as the driving rain chilled him to the bone. The clearing seemed much wider than he remembered, and he began to wonder if Hammer had lost his bearings and led them past the fort. And then, finally, a massive stone wall loomed out of the rain before them, and they had to stumble to a halt to avoid crashing into it. The wall gave some protection from the wind, but that was all. Jack shook himself like a dog, but it didn’t help much. He couldn’t recall having felt this wet in his life. The rain was so heavy now it even made breathing difficult.

Hammer gestured for him to unsling his coil of rope. It was no use trying to speak; the rain and the thunder made it impossible to hear. Jack unslung the rope and checked the grapnel was still secure. He looked up at the wall, and the rain beat harshly on his face until he had to turn away. He took a moment to compose himself, blinking rapidly to get the rain out of his eyes, and then he snatched one quick look and threw the grapnel up into the air, aiming as best he could. It just cleared the battlements and fell to lodge securely somewhere beyond them. Jack pulled the line taut and looked at Hammer, who nodded for him to go first. Jack took a firm grip on the rope, checked it would take his weight, and began to walk his way up the wall. The rain made both the rope and the wall horribly slippery, and more than once only quick reflexes and a death-like grip saved him from a nasty fall. When he finally reached the battlements he was almost too tired to pull himself over them. He sat on the catwalk, breathing harshly, and then climbed reluctantly to his feet and tugged twice on the rope to signal it was clear for the next man. Wilde made even more hard going of the climb, and Jack had to reach down and practically haul the man up the last few feet. Hammer came last, making it look easy.

They started along the narrow catwalk, heading for the steps that led down into the courtyard.

Duncan MacNeil led his team through the fort, heading for the cellar. The constant roar of the storm came dimly to them through the thick stone walls. MacNeil and Constance carried lanterns while Flint and the Dancer held their swords at the ready.

“I don’t see why we have to look at the cellar again,” said Constance. “We’ve already established the gold isn’t there.”

MacNeil shrugged. “It’s got to be here somewhere. It occurred to me there might be a subcellar underneath the first, or even a hidden passageway.”

“And if there isn’t?” said Constance.

“Then we go through every damn room in this fort and take it apart brick by brick until we do find the gold. Are you sure you can’t See where it is?”

The witch sighed audibly. “I’ll try again, Duncan, but I can tell you now it’s not going to work. Something nearby is still interfering with my magic.”

She stopped, and the others stopped with her. Constance put her lantern down on the floor, massaged her temples with her fingertips, and closed her eyes. The low background mutter of the storm was a distraction, but she finally put it out of her mind. Darkness gathered, smothering her Sight. She shuddered as a bitter cold swept through her, and a feeling of unease grew and grew until it bordered on panic. Constance fought to control it, and as she did her Sight suddenly cleared and she Saw a single huge eye. It was staring in her direction, slowly becoming aware of her presence. Constance immediately broke off the contact and shielded her mind as thoroughly as she could. In that brief glimpse she’d sensed something she had no desire to See again. She huddled frightened in the darkness, but even inside her shield she could sense something awful prowling through the dark in search of her. It slowly moved away, and Constance sighed shakily and opened her eyes.

“Well?” said MacNeil impatiently.

“There’s something here in the fort with us,” said Constance directly. “I don’t know what it is or where it is, but it’s very old and very deadly.”

“Don’t start that again,” said MacNeil. “There’s no one in the fort but us. You’re just feeling the strain a bit, that’s all. We all are.”

Constance looked at him coldly but said nothing. With her Sight still clouded, he might just be right. But she didn’t think so. MacNeil started down the corridor again, and Flint and the Dancer followed him. Constance picked up her lantern and brought up the rear. Her hand trembled with suppressed anger, and shadows swayed menacingly around the team. MacNeil didn’t look back at her. Truth to tell, he wasn’t so sure Constance wasn’t right. He remembered how strongly she’d reacted to the cellar before, and much as he wanted to, he couldn’t ignore her warnings. She had the Sight.

You’d have believed Salamander
… .

Yes, he would have. But Constance didn’t have Salamander’s experience, and unless she came up with something more concrete than a few upset feelings, he couldn’t justify staying away from the cellar. Even if the place did give him the creeps.

Constance was trying hard not to sulk, or at least not visibly. She worked so hard, tried her best, and still he didn’t trust her. When she’d first found out which Ranger team she was joining she’d been so thrilled she all but danced on the spot. She knew all about Sergeant Duncan MacNeil. She’d been following his career at a distance for years. Ever since he’d protected her from the demons when she was just a child, living in the small town of King’s Deep.

She’d pulled as many strings as she dared to get herself assigned to his team, all so that she could repay him for what he’d done for her—by being the best damned witch he’d ever had. She had other dreams about him too, but she rarely allowed herself to think about them. And now here she was, on her first mission with him, and it was all going wrong. Because he wouldn’t give her a chance. Constance’s lower lip jutted rebelliously. She’d show him. She’d show them all.

It didn’t take long to reach the cellar. It looked just as it had before, a mess. MacNeil sniffed and shook his head. Grief knew how long they’d been dumping rubbish there—every day since the fort was first occupied, by the look of it. Constance hung her lantern from a wall holder while Flint looked disgustedly around the cellar.

“Everything but gold,” she said unenthusiastically. “You don’t really want us to dig through this stuff, do you, Duncan?”

“Afraid so,” said MacNeil.

Flint sniffed. “I just hope I don’t catch anything contagious.”

“That’s not all we have to worry about,” said Constance suddenly. “Have you noticed how cold it’s got?”

The others stopped and looked at her. MacNeil frowned as he suddenly realized his breath was steaming in the air before him. All at once he was shivering, his bare face and hands seared by the biting cold. He pulled his cloak around him and tried to remember if it had been this cold when he first entered the cellar. He had a strong feeling it hadn’t. He looked at the others, and their breath was steaming too. He looked around him, and his flesh began to creep as he noticed for the first time that a faint pearly haze of hoarfrost was forming on the cellar walls.

It can’t be that cold down here. It can
’t… .

He forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand, and stared determinedly at the junk covering the floor. “If there is a subcellar,” he said roughly, “you probably get to it by a trapdoor in the floor. Start shifting this rubbish out of the way. Pile it up against the walls, and then we can get a clear look at the floor.”

The others nodded and set to work. MacNeil put his lantern down safely out of the way and joined them. Shifting the assorted debris took some time and not a little effort, but eventually they uncovered a trapdoor. It lay in the exact middle of the cellar floor, a good six square feet of solid oak, held shut by two heavy steel bolts. MacNeil knelt down by the trapdoor and looked closely at the bolts, but felt strangely reluctant to touch them. He rubbed his hands together to drive out the cold and buy him some time to think. They were just ordinary, everyday steel bolts. There was no reason at all why he shouldn’t touch them. Except that all the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and both his arms were covered in goose flesh, and none of it came from the bitter cold in the cellar.

He looked at Constance, carefully keeping his voice calm and easy. “Try your Sight. See if you can sense anything about the trapdoor and what lies beneath it.”

The witch nodded and stared at the trapdoor. Her eyes became vague and faraway.

Deep in the earth something stirred and strove to wake. The weight of earth and stone lay heavy upon it, and time gnawed at its blood and bones. A darkness came and went, too swiftly to disturb its slumber, but now at last the chains of sleep began to fall away as day by day it drifted closer to waking. It dreamed foul dreams and the world went mad. Soon its long sleep would end, and the world would tremble when the sleeper spoke its name
.

Constance broke the contact, and once again her Sight became vague and clouded. She swayed sickly and almost fell, nauseated by the few faint traces of the thing she’d sensed. MacNeil took her arm, concerned at her sudden paleness, and she smiled weakly at him.

“I’ll be all right in a moment, Duncan.”

“What did you See?”

“The same thing I’ve Seen before, only this time I Saw it a little more clearly. There’s something down there, Duncan—something old and evil and unspeakably powerful. It’s sleeping for the moment, but it could wake any time. It sent the dreams that drove the people here insane.”

MacNeil frowned. “All right, Constance, I believe you. I don’t want to, but it doesn’t look like I have any choice. What is it? A demon?”

“I don’t think so. It’s older than that. I couldn’t get a fix on exactly where it is, but I don’t think it’s directly under the trapdoor. It’s … somewhere deeper.”

MacNeil nodded slowly. “We’ve got to take a look down there, Constance. Is it dangerous?”

“Yes,” said the witch. “But don’t ask me how.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It’s the best I can do! Why do we have to go down there now, anyway? What’s wrong with waiting till the reinforcements get here?”

“Think about it,” said MacNeil. “I’ve been ordered to find the gold at any cost. How is it going to look on our records if they find out we knew about the trapdoor, but didn’t investigate because we were too scared? No, Constance, I’m opening that trapdoor and we’re going down, and that’s all there is to it. Flint, Dancer, stand ready. Once that trapdoor’s open, if anything comes out, kill it first and ask questions later, if at all.”

“Got it,” said Flint. The Dancer smiled.

MacNeil looked at Constance. “Keep your magic ready and help where you can, but don’t get in our way. We’re the fighters; that’s our job.”

The witch nodded, and MacNeil reached down and took hold of the first bolt on the trapdoor. It seemed to stir slowly under his fingertips, as though it were alive. He snatched back his hand and knelt down to study the bolt closely. It seemed perfectly normal.
Just nerves, that’s all
, he thought determinedly.
Just nerves
. He wiped his fingers on his trousers and tried again. He held the bolt firmly and pulled hard. It slid smoothly back, with hardly a sound. MacNeil swallowed dryly and tried the second bolt. It was stiff, and he had to work it back with a series of quick jerks, but finally it came free. MacNeil took hold of the heavy steel ring in the center of the trapdoor and pulled firmly. The trapdoor didn’t budge. He breathed deeply and tried again. The muscles in his back and shoulders swelled as he pitted all his strength against the stubborn wood, and then the trapdoor suddenly flew open with a ragged tearing sound.