Down Among the Dead Men (Forest Kingdom Novels) (14 page)

Scarecrow Jack smiled sleepily and was content. He was home.

The birds fell silent. Jack raised himself on one elbow and looked sharply around. A sudden silence usually meant an intruder, a stranger in the Forest. And yet though the silence lengthened, Jack heard no one approaching, and for all his senses could tell, the nearby Forest was empty of any man save him. Jack frowned. The Forest was too silent. There were no birds, or flies buzzing on the air; even the butterfly had vanished. Jack got quickly to his feet, suddenly disturbed. Something was wrong in the Forest. Very wrong.

Dark clouds covered the sun, and the golden shafts of light disappeared. Jack shivered uncontrollably as the warmth of the day died away. The air grew heavy and oppressive with the vague pressure of an approaching storm. Jack glared about him, searching for the source of his unease. Nothing moved in the glade or among the trees, but the surrounding shadows were very dark. Jack reached out for the communion of the Forest, but his inner sense was ominously silent. Something had come between him and the trees. It was out there somewhere, watching him. He could feel it. Something slow and determined was stirring in the darkness, gathering its strength. It watched with a predator’s eyes and bided its time. Jack drew the knife from his boot. And then, finally, he looked up.

The clear blue of the sky was darkening into night. The sun grew dim and red and faded away. Night fell. Jack whimpered softly. Day couldn’t turn so quickly into night; it was impossible, unnatural… . A new light fell across the Forest, heavy and foul, as the full Blue Moon rose on a starless night sky. Jack shook his head dumbly, trying to deny the evidence of his own eyes, but already he could feel the Wild Magic beating on the air like a never ending roll of thunder, free and awful and potent once again.

Jack shrank in on himself. The Forest he knew was suddenly gone, corrupted into Darkwood. The life he had loved was gone forever, and he was nothing more than a man named Jack—an outlaw and lier-in-wait. He swallowed hard, fighting down the panic that threatened to unman him. He clutched the hilt of his knife tightly, and drew comfort from the simple familiar weight of it. The Forest might be dead and gone, but it could still be avenged. He was Scarecrow Jack, and nothing and nobody could ever take that from him.

He looked away from the Blue Moon. The open glade seemed suddenly bleak and menacing. It was too open, too vulnerable to attack. There was nowhere to hide if … if he needed to. He started to run and head for the trees, and then discovered that he couldn’t. He looked down and found that the grass had grown up over his feet and ankles, wrapping its long, wiry strands into unyielding grassy chains. Jack tugged at his feet with all his strength, but the grass wouldn’t break or give. He bent down and slashed the verdant chains with his knife, and they parted reluctantly under the sharp edge. Panic was gnawing at his mind again, and it was getting harder all the time to hold it off. He finally pulled his feet free and ran for the trees. The grass was growing taller all around him, throwing bright green streamers up into the night sky. They swayed constantly, though no wind blew, and the thicker strands reached out to snatch at his legs as he ran through them. The trees loomed up before him, and Jack felt his heart leap. He would be safe among the trees, as he always had.

It was dark beyond the glade. Out in the open, the air danced and shimmered with the Blue Moon’s unhealthy light, but in the Darkwood there was only the eerie light of the phosphorescent lichens that spotted the tree trunks. Jack stumbled to a halt and searched with his inner sense for the source of his magic, but the trees were silent. He leaned against the nearest tree for support, and the bark sagged inward under his weight. He stepped quickly back from the tree, and on looking at it closely discovered it was already dead and rotten, eaten away from within. The ever present stench of corruption lay heavily on the air, thick and suffocating. The tree’s gnarled and twisted branches suddenly writhed like twitching fingers and reached out for him. He jumped back, and the tree behind him wrapped its branches around him in a deadly embrace. Jack struggled fiercely, but the branches closed ever more tightly around him, crushing the air from his lungs. He tried to cut the branches with his knife, but couldn’t apply enough leverage to do more than notch the bark. The branches lifted him up into the stinking air, and his feet kicked helplessly as the ground fell away beneath him.

No. This isn’t right
.

Jack stopped struggling and concentrated on that thought. The Darkwood was destroyed, the Blue Moon long gone. He knew this. He remembered their passing. It was impossible that they should have returned, and therefore they hadn’t. Jack concentrated on clearing his mind of everything but that one simple thought, and the tree’s branches loosened and fell away from him. Jack dropped to the ground and slipped his knife back into his sleeve before straightening up. He didn’t need it anymore. He made his way back toward the open glade, and a pool of sunlight formed around him, pushing back the gloom. Far away, hidden in the darkness of the unending night, something screamed with rage. Jack didn’t look around to see what it was. It didn’t matter. He was Scarecrow Jack, and the strength of the trees was his. He was a part of the Forest, its agent and protector, and he would not allow this corruption to continue.

The dead and rotting trees stirred uneasily as he walked unhurriedly among them, but their thrashing branches couldn’t cross the pool of light to reach him. Jack moved out into the glade and stood waiting. The Blue Moon glared down, but its light couldn’t touch him. The Wild Magic raged powerlessly around him. Jack looked up at the night sky.
There ought to be stars
. One by one the stars came out, pale and insignificant at first when seen against the Blue Moon, but gradually growing in strength as they spread across the night sky. There was a sudden flutter of wings as an owl swooped down out of the darkness, its wicked claws outstretched before it. Jack didn’t flinch, and at the last moment the owl veered aside rather than enter the pool of sunlight. The flapping of wings grew to a roar as hundreds of birds of all species came flying out of the night to swoop and soar around him. All the animals, small and large, every beast that had ever walked the Forest, came surging out of the darkness, snarling and clawing. Jack stood still and confident, and none of them could touch him. Scarecrow Jack felt the strength of the trees grow in him again. The birds and the animals disappeared. The light from the Blue Moon faded away and was gone, and night broke as the day returned. Jack stood alone in the open Forest glade on a bright summer’s day. He looked unhurriedly about him. Everything was as it should be. He nodded slowly and laid down on the mossy bank again.

I
have been dreaming. I will wake up now
.

He closed his eyes and let go.

Hammer jerked awake, thrashing wildly about him, and then slowly relaxed as he realized where he was. He was safe in the border fort annex, and everything else had been a dream. Just a dream. He sighed shakily and sat up in his chair, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. He ran his fingers through his hair, and mopped the cold sweat from his face with his sleeve. He stopped suddenly to look at his hands, turning them over and over before him, searching for signs of the decay he remembered, but they were fine. He was fine. It was nothing but a dream, a memory of the past that had been distorted in his sleep.

He looked across at the others. Jack was sleeping peacefully, but Wilde was moaning and writhing in his sleep. He suddenly started to choke, spittle flying from his lips as he fought for breath. Jack woke up and looked quickly about him. Hammer moved over to Wilde and shook him fiercely by the shoulders, calling his name. Wilde’s eyes flew open and he stared up horrified at Hammer before realizing where he was. And then he relaxed with a great shuddering sigh, and his breathing slowed and eased. He felt at his throat with a trembling hand and swallowed dryly. Hammer straightened up and stood back a pace to give him room.

“Bad dream?” said Jack. Wilde nodded shakily. Jack frowned. “Same here. What about you, Hammer?”

“I had a nightmare,” said Hammer, carefully keeping his voice calm and even. “So what? Maybe we’ve all got guilty consciences.”

“I think there’s more to it than that,” said Jack. “This place is full of nightmares.”

Hammer looked at him sharply. “How do you mean?”

“The first time I was here,” said Jack, “I spent some time studying the Rangers. They were all asleep, even the one on guard duty. They were dreaming, and it didn’t look like pleasant dreams. What did you dream about, Hammer?”

Hammer looked at him suspiciously for a moment, and then shrugged casually. “A bad time in my past. How about you?”

“I dreamed the Forest turned back into the Darkwood. Wilde?”

“My sins finally caught up with me,” said the bowman quietly. “Let’s get out of here, Hammer. I hate this place. It’s evil.”

“Places aren’t evil,” said Hammer impatiently. “Only people are evil.”

“That isn’t always true,” said Jack. “There are places in the Forest it’s wise to stay away from. Dark places. They were there before the coming of the long night, and they’re still there now it’s passed. You can feel the evil there, soaked into the wood and earth and stone like a dark stain that will never wash clean. This fort is just such a place. I can feel it. It’s no
coincidence
that everyone here is having bad dreams.”

“Evil,” said Wilde doggedly. “This whole place stinks of blood and death. We’ve got to get out of here, Hammer.

“When we’re so close?” said Hammer. “Have you lost your wits?”

“I will if I stay here much longer. So will you. This fort is a killer. It looks like just another fort, but it’s alive and it wants us dead. Everything’s crazy here. Bad dreams, creatures that shouldn’t exist anymore, bloodstains and nooses and everybody gone—”

Wilde’s voice rose hysterically. Hammer slapped him contemptuously across the face. Wilde’s voice broke off, and his hand dropped to the sword at his side. Hammer stood very still, his eyes locked on Wilde’s. The bowman’s face had suddenly come alive again, the frightened vagueness gone like a bad memory. His mouth was flat and hard, and his eyes were very dark.

“Well?” said Hammer softly. “What are you going to do, Edmond? Hit me? Kill me? Don’t be a fool. You might have been a hero once, but that was a long time ago. You raise a hand against me and I’ll take it off at the wrist.”

“I’m as good with a bow now as I ever was,” said Wilde. His voice was flat and firm, his gaze unwavering. “And I’m still pretty good with a sword.”

“Yes,” said Hammer. “You are. But I’ve got Wolfsbane.”

They stood looking at each other for a long moment. Jack looked uncertainly from one to the other. This was a new Wilde, a man he hadn’t seen before. There was strength and anger in Wilde’s face, and something that might have been dignity.

“You’re my man now, Edmond,” said Hammer finally, “because without me you’re nothing. I’m the only chance you have to be somebody again, and you know it.”

Wilde took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His hand fell away from his sword hilt. “Yes,” he said softly, bitterly. “I’m your man, Hammer.”

Hammer smiled and nodded slowly. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled. There’s a hundred thousand ducats worth of gold hidden somewhere in this fort, just waiting for us to find it, and it’s going to take more than a few bad dreams to scare me away. I’m staying, and so are you. Is that clear, Edmond?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t hear you, Edmond. Is that clear?”

“Yes! It’s clear!” Wilde turned his back on Hammer and walked quickly away to stand by the closed door. Anger still burned in his face, but the strength and the dignity were already fading away.

“That’s better,” said Hammer. He turned to look at Jack, who shrugged.

“I’m your man too, Hammer. For the time being.”

“You’re my man until I say otherwise.” Hammer yawned and stretched slowly. “The Rangers should have had enough time to settle down by now. I think we’ll go down and take a look at the cellar, and see what there is to see.”

He headed for the door, and Wilde opened it for him. They looked up and down the corridor, but it was empty for as far as they could see into the gloom. Everything was still and silent. Hammer looked back into the annex, and nodded for Jack to bring the torch and the lantern. Jack brought them over to the doorway. Hammer took the lantern and held it out into the corridor. Shadows swayed around the new light, but the corridor remained empty. Hammer led the way down the corridor, and the three outlaws headed for the cellar.

MacNeil led his team down the narrow passageway that led to the cellar. Flint and the Dancer followed close behind him, their quiet footsteps barely loud enough to raise an echo. Constance brought up the rear, muttering constantly under her breath. MacNeil assumed she was rehearsing spells. It was either that, or she was still mad at him for not trusting her Sight. He decided not to ask. He didn’t think he really wanted to know.

MacNeil started to shiver as he stood at the top of the long series of stone steps that led down to the cellar door. His breath had begun to steam on the air again, and the walls ahead of him were patterned with white flurries of hoarfrost. MacNeil frowned. The cold spots worried him. They were becoming more frequent, appearing in places they’d never been before. He looked back at the others, and saw that they’d noticed the changes too. There didn’t seem much point in saying anything, so MacNeil just held his lantern higher to give more light, and started down the steps that led to the cellar.

The door at the bottom of the steps was still closed. MacNeil looked at it carefully. It didn’t look any different from the last time he’d seen it, and yet something felt … wrong. He reached out with his free hand to touch the door, and then snatched his fingers away. The wood was freezing cold—cold enough to burn the skin from his fingertips if he’d left them there a moment longer. He pulled a length of rag from his pocket, wrapped it around his hand, and turned the door handle as quickly as he could. The door swung open a few inches as he pushed it with his boot, and then stuck fast. Flint moved in beside MacNeil as he put his piece of rag away, and then they both put their shoulders to the door. They got it halfway open before it stuck solid. The four Rangers filed into the cellar, and then stopped by the door and looked around them in silence.