Down Among the Dead Men (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Simon R. Green

  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 disgustedl
y 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.

  And out of the trapdoor mouth gushed an endless fountain of thick, viscous blood. It roared up to splash against the ceiling, and fell back again in a stinking crimson rain. More and more blood came roaring up past the open trapdoor, gallon upon gallon, soaking everything in the cellar. MacNeil and the others scrambled back from the flying blood, but there was nowhere they could hide from it. The blood continued to gush up from under the cellar, forced out by some unimaginable pressure, and then stopped as suddenly as it had begun. MacNeil slowly raised his head and looked around him. Blood dripped from the scarlet ceiling and ran down the walls. It steamed slightly in the cold air. The floor and the trapdoor looked as though they’d been painted red. The stink of blood was almost overpowering. MacNeil moved cautiously forward to stare into the dripping opening, and the others came forward to join him. They were all liberally spattered with blood. Flint shook her head disgustedly.

  “I’ve seen battlefields that were less bloody than this. Where the hell did it all come from?”

  “Beats me,” said MacNeil. He stared down into the darkness that lay below the cellar. Nothing moved in the impenetrable gloom, but the air was thick with the stench of freshly spilled blood. Constance handed him his lantern, and he lowered it carefully into the darkness. The amber light showed him a set of rough wooden steps, leading down into a narrow earth tunnel that fell away into the ground. The light didn’t carry far, but for as far as MacNeil could see the steps and the tunnel walls were slick with blood. The others crowded in around him to take a look, and then all of them froze as from far below the cellar came the sound of something moving. It was a slow, dragging sound, but MacNeil couldn’t tell whether it was drawing closer or moving away. He looked at the others, but it was clear they weren’t sure either. The sound stopped. MacNeil put down his lantern beside the opening and drew his sword.

  “Flint, you and Constance stay here to guard the opening. Dancer, you come with me. We’re going to take a look at what’s hiding down in that tunnel.”

  The Dancer smiled and drew his sword.

  MacNeil looked at Flint. “If anything comes out of this trapdoor but us, kill it. If something goes wrong, shut the trapdoor and bolt it. Whether we’re out or not. If there is something dangerous down in that tunnel, I don’t want it running loose in the fort. When you’re sure the trapdoor’s secure, get out of here and report back to the reinforcements. They have to be warned.”

  “We can’t just abandon you,” said Constance.

  “Yes, we can
,” said Flint. “He’s right, Constance. Our duty comes first, and Rangers are expendable. It’s part of the job.”

  The witch looked away. MacNeil looked at her for a moment, and then picked up his lantern and stepped carefully down into the opening and onto the first of the wooden steps. The narrow slat creaked loudly as he put his weight on it, but after an uncertain moment it settled again. He slowly descended into the darkness, holding the lantern out before him. The Dancer followed behind him, sword at the ready. Shadows swayed menacingly around them as they descended into the earth.

  MacNeil counted thirteen steps before he found himself facing the narrow tunnel that ran under the cellar. Unlucky for some, he thought wryly, and moved forward a little to give the Dancer room to join him. The circular tunnel was barely six feet in diameter, and MacNeil had to bend forward to avoid banging his head on the ceiling. There was sufficient room for MacNeil and the Dancer to walk side by side, but only just. The walls were smoothly rounded and bore no marks of human tools. The clay-like earth was tightly packed and slick with running blood. More blood lay in shallow pools on the tunnel floor. Like walking through something’s guts, thought MacNeil, wrinkling his nose at the stench. He stood listening for a long moment, the Dancer waiting patiently at his side, but there was no trace of the sound they’d heard earlier. He started forward into the gloom, the Dancer padding quietly beside him. MacNeil found the man’s presence reassuring. The darkness and the silence and the stench reminded him too much of his time in the Darkwood. He clutched his sword hilt tightly, aware his hand was sweating profusely despite the cold. It didn’t matter what was waiting for him; he’d face it and kill it and that was all there was to it. He was a guard and a Ranger, and he’d never backed away from anything in his life.