Down Among the Dead Men (Forest Kingdom Novels) (17 page)

Wilde looked at him coldly. “Confident, aren’t you, little man? When this is over, I’m going to enjoy tearing your reputation into shreds, Bladesmaster.”

“Dream on,” said the Dancer. “Dream on.” He looked thoughtfully at the closed trapdoor. “We’ll give them an hour, and then we’ll go down looking for them.”

“Right,” said Flint.

“It would make more sense for us to get away and pass on the word to your reinforcements,” said Wilde.

“You can do that,” said the Dancer. “The rest of us are Rangers. Rangers don’t run, and we don’t leave cases half finished. We know our duty.”

“Besides,” said Flint, “Duncan’s our friend. We can’t abandon him. And if he dies, we’ll avenge him.”

“If we can,” said Constance.

CHAPTER SIX

The Beast

The stairs seemed to fall away forever. Darkness pressed closely around the narrow pool of light as MacNeil led Hammer and Scarecrow Jack down into the earth. MacNeil held his lantern out before him, but its light didn’t travel far. Jack’s torch made hardly any impression at all on the gloom, but the constant crackling of the flame was a familiar, comforting sound. MacNeil moved carefully from step to step, refusing to be hurried by Hammer’s crowding presence at his back. The blood that stained the wooden steps had frozen into scarlet ice, and the going was treacherously slippery.

MacNeil counted the steps off silently as he went, looking forward to the moment when he could leave them behind for the relative safety of the earth tunnel. Thirteen steps. Unlucky for some. But on reaching the thirteenth step he discovered there was another step beneath it. MacNeil’s pulse quickened, and he made himself breath slowly and evenly. There was nothing to worry about; he must have miscounted the first time, that was all. Thirteen, fourteen; it was an easy mistake to make. But there was another step beyond the fourteenth, and another after that. MacNeil counted twenty steps and then stopped. He leaned forward and held his lantern out as far as he could. The steps stretched away before him, disappearing down into darkness, and there was no sign of the tunnel.

“What’s the matter?” said Hammer quietly. “Why have we stopped?”

“The stairway’s … different,” said MacNeil. “There are too many steps. The Beast must be dreaming again.”

“So what do we do?” said Jack. “Just keep going, and hope the stairs will lead us somewhere eventually?”

“There’s nothing else we can do,” said MacNeil. “There’s no other way down. Let’s go. It’s cold here.”

“Cold as the grave,” said Jack.

MacNeil pretended he hadn’t heard that, and started down the stairs again. After a while he stopped counting; he found the rising number too disturbing. They were already far below the cellar, and still the steps led on down into the dark. It was bitterly cold and growing colder all the time. MacNeil’s breath steamed thickly in the air before him, and frost had begun to form on his hair and clothes. His bare face and hands were growing numb, and he had to clutch his lantern and his sword tightly to be sure he wouldn’t drop them. The continuing stench of decay and corruption seemed to be changing subtly. The sickly sweet smell was just as strong, but it had slowly acquired a new, alien taint that MacNeil found strangely unsettling. It was unlike anything he’d ever smelled before, and he hoped fervently that he’d never have to smell it again. It grated on his nerves like an itch he couldn’t scratch, until he felt like hacking at the air with his sword.

It had slept here, deep in the earth, for centuries beyond count
… .

MacNeil clutched his sword hilt tightly until his fingers ached. The smell and the darkness and the constant unease reminded him of his time in the Darkwood, and for a moment an old fear moved within him. He pushed it firmly away and continued down the steps. And then his foot jarred on an uneven surface, and the lantern’s golden light showed him the mouth of an earth tunnel. He moved cautiously forward into the opening and waited for the others to join him. It wasn’t the tunnel he remembered. This larger passage was easily seven to eight feet in diameter. The rough earth ceiling was cracked and broken, and the crumbling walls looked as though they might collapse at any moment.

“Not much room to fight,” said Hammer suddenly, and MacNeil gave a start. Hammer grinned as the Ranger turned to glare at him. “Jumpy, aren’t you?”

“I’ve good reason to be,” growled MacNeil. “The last time I came down here, I found something nasty waiting for me.” He looked about him, frowning. “But that was in a different tunnel. It was smaller than this, and the walls were slick with blood… . Maybe this time we’ll find some sign of the missing bodies.”

“Or the gold,” said Hammer. “Let’s not forget about the gold.” He reached out and prodded one of the walls, and the loose earth broke apart under his fingers. “Shoddy workmanship. They could at least have shored it up.”

MacNeil looked at him. “Men didn’t build this tunnel, Hammer, any more than they built that stairway. The Beast is stirring in its sleep, and we’re walking in one of its dreams.”

Hammer snorted and stamped hard on the packed earth of the tunnel floor. “Pretty realistic dream.”

“Yes,” said Jack quietly. “Let’s just hope the Beast isn’t having a nightmare.”

The three men looked uncertainly at one another for a moment. Hammer’s hand rose halfway to the hilt of the longsword on his back, and then fell away. MacNeil swallowed dryly and coughed to clear his throat. He didn’t want the others to think his voice was unsteady through fear.

“Let’s get moving. There’s no telling how long we’ve got before the Beast wakes, and we’re still no nearer finding the bodies or the gold.”

“I’ve just had an unpleasant thought,” said Jack. “If we’re walking inside the Beast’s dream, what happens to this tunnel when the Beast wakes up?”

MacNeil glared at him. “The next time you have an unpleasant thought, do us all a favor and keep it to yourself. How the hell am I supposed to know what will happen? The tunnel’s real enough for the moment, and that’s what matters. Now let’s go. We’re wasting time.”

He strode off down the tunnel, and the others moved quickly after him. MacNeil held his lantern out before him, and the gentle glow showed him the tunnel stretching away into the gloom, sinking gradually deeper into the earth.

MacNeil had always looked on fear as a weakness, and his own fear as a hidden shame. Fear was something you acknowledged but never gave in to. If there was a problem, you faced it, with force if necessary. If you couldn’t beat it, you retreated and tried again later. And went on trying until you did beat it. But real fear, the sheer, overwhelming terror that paralyzes you with dread … MacNeil had never felt that, and had nothing but contempt for those who had. But deep down he knew that wasn’t true. He had felt such a fear once, long ago during the long night when the demons came swarming out of the darkness in a never ending flood, throwing themselves against his sword again and again and again. He’d wanted to run then. And perhaps he would have if the dawn hadn’t come in time to save him. The Blue Moon had passed and the sun had risen and the demons had fallen back. But he had wanted to run… .

Now he was back in the darkness again, surrounded by the stench of death and corruption, on his way to fight a creature older and more powerful than the demons had ever been. And this time, buried in the depths of the earth, there was no hope of any dawn to save him.

Fear curled and writhed within him, twisting his gut and bringing a hot sweat to his face and hands despite the freezing cold. He could feel his hands shaking, and his breath was coming fast and jerkily. He was afraid, and all his experience and pride weren’t strong enough to drive that fear away. He wanted to turn and run, run back down the tunnel and up the stairs and into the fort and just keep on running until he’d left the border fort far behind him. He could do it. He could. No one would reprimand him if he chose to just report the situation to his superior officers and let them deal with it. There were those who’d say he’d done the only sensible thing. But he wouldn’t be one of them. He knew differently. Constance had said the Beast must be slain before it woke or it might be too late, and MacNeil believed her. He couldn’t run away. He had his duty and his honor, and as long as he had a sword and strength of arm to swing it, he would do what he knew to be right. No matter how scared he was.

The tunnel’s descent gradually became more evident as the floor fell steadily away. MacNeil tried not to think about how deep under the fort they’d come. The thought of all that weight over his head was disturbing.

“How deep does this go?” muttered Hammer. “We’ve been following this tunnel for ages.”

“It’s not much farther,” said Jack. “We’re getting very close now.”

MacNeil stopped suddenly, and the others stopped with him. He looked thoughtfully at Scarecrow Jack, an idea tugging at his mind.

“Constance said you had … qualities that might help us. What kind of magic have you got, Jack? Do you have the Sight?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t think so. I just get feelings about things—about the Forest and what lives in it. And sometimes the trees give me some of their strength, to help me do what needs to be done. But only sometimes.”

MacNeil looked at him steadily. “Do you have any feelings about this place? About the Beast?”

“There’s something not far ahead of us,” said Jack, his eyes vague and thoughtful. “It’s sleeping, but it knows we’re coming. It’s very cold. And very hungry …”

As if in response there came again a shrill neighing scream from deep in the earth, the vast, monstrous sound of an insane horse. The scream was brutally loud, and the three men clapped their hands to their ears in pain. The scream continued on and on and on, far beyond the point where any normal lungs could have sustained it, and then cut off as suddenly as it had begun. The echoes seemed to linger in the air for some time, but in the end even they fell silent. The three men slowly took their hands away from their ears. MacNeil looked at Hammer.

“It’s time to draw the sword. The Device.”

“No,” said Hammer. “Not yet.”

“We need it!”

“You don’t understand,” said Hammer tiredly. “You don’t understand at all.”

In the cellar, Wilde sat on one of the piles of rubbish and swung his legs back and forth impatiently. He hated waiting. As long as he was doing something, anything, he was fine, but waiting gave his nerves the chance to work on him. He fiddled aimlessly with his longbow, checked the string was taut for the hundredth time, and let his hand drop again to the sword at his side.

He looked across at Flint and the Dancer, sitting casually beside the trapdoor. The wait didn’t seem to be bothering them. They just sat together, talking quietly, their faces calm and easy. Wilde smiled slightly. Jessica never had been one for getting rattled. He remembered her standing on her own in a corner of the castle courtyard, waiting for the huge gates to open on the last great battle of the Demon War. She’d looked tall and splendid in her shining chain mail, her night-dark hair pulled back in an elaborately tied ponytail. Her face had been calm then, too, as she slowly and methodically sharpened the edge of her sword. He’d been pacing up and down and sweating buckets, half out of his mind with fear, but her poise and calm had shamed him into cooling down and recovering his composure. Her confidence had helped him find his. He’d never forgotten that.

Now they were together once again, getting ready for another battle. The situation hadn’t changed much, but the people had. Him most of all. He sighed quietly and shrugged the memories from him. What was gone was gone, and best forgotten. He looked carefully at the Dancer. He’d always thought the man would be … bigger. After all, he was a Bladesmaster, one of the legendary perfect killers. No one knew exactly how many men the Dancer had killed in his time, there’d been so many, and yet seen up close he didn’t look much at all. Throw a stick into any tavern and you’d hit a dozen just like him. Wilde smiled slowly. Sir Guillam hadn’t looked like much either, but all the king’s guards hadn’t been enough to stop that Bladesmaster when he went berserk. They’d needed Wilde to do that. His smile died away as he stared at the Dancer. Ten years ago, he would have been sitting where the Dancer was now, smiling and talking with Jessica. Ten years ago, he’d had it all. He’d been a hero, and Jess had been proud to stand at his side. Now he was just another outlaw and the Dancer had taken his place with Jess.

Wilde plucked the taut bowstring, feeling it thrum under his fingertips. There was power there, power to maim and kill and make the world go the way it ought to go. The odds were he’d be going into some kind of battle soon, and in all the excitement, who could possibly blame Wilde if one of his arrows happened to go just a little astray and shoot the damned Bladesmaster in the back? And with the Dancer out of the way, getting the gold away from the Rangers would be relatively easy. Wilde grinned happily. At the end of the day he would have it all again; a fortune in gold, his freedom from Hammer, and Jess back at his side where she belonged. He’d talk her into it; he’d always been able to talk her into anything.

Constance leaned back against the cold stone wall and watched Wilde unobtrusively. Of all the three outlaws, Wilde worried her the most. Hammer was dangerous, but she could understand what drove him, even if he didn’t. Scarecrow Jack was obviously there only because he was under Hammer’s thumb. But Wilde … there was something disturbing about the quiet, scowling bowman. When he’d first spoken with Flint, there had been something almost sad and tragic about him, but now all Constance could see in his face was a harsh, pitiless brutality that made her wish for a sword with which to defend herself. Not that she was scared of him, of course. If he was stupid enough to try anything with her, he’d soon discover she had more than enough magic left to take care of the likes of him. And yet there was something about Wilde that both attracted and repelled her, as though she could see the tragedy of what he’d been as well as the brute he’d become.

The witch shook her head uncertainly, and turned her attention to the closed trapdoor in the middle of the floor. She wished she could have gone with Duncan, but she’d known she had to be sensible. She was vulnerable to the Beast and it knew that, even in its sleep. Her presence would only have endangered Duncan, and he was in enough danger down there as it was. At least partly from himself. Duncan never bent with the wind, never allowed himself to be weak, but even the strongest steel will break if it can’t bend a little under pressure.

Duncan, watch your back. And come back safely
.

Flint and the Dancer sat side by side, waiting patiently for the call to action, as they had so many times before. Flint polished her sword blade with a piece of rag. It didn’t need polishing, but the simple repetitive action soothed and calmed her. The Dancer just sat where he was, relaxed and ready, his sword resting casually across his thighs. He showed no sign of nerves or excitement, but then he never did. His eyes were faraway, and Flint wondered what he was thinking about. They’d been partners and lovers for almost eight years now, but she still had only the vaguest notions of what went on in his mind when he removed himself from the world like that.