Down Among the Dead Men (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Green, Simon R.

  Giles Dancer rode at her side, as he always did. He wore quiet, nondescript clothes and no armor. He was just a little shorter than average and slight of build, and his flat, bland face showed little trace of personality. Put him in a crowd and you’d never notice him, until it was too late. The Dancer was a Bladesmaster, a man trained to such a peak of perfection that he was almost literally unbeatable with a sword in his hand. Bladesmasters had been rare even before the Demon War; now there were said to be only two left alive in all the Forest Kingdom, and the Dancer was one of them. He was always quiet and polite, and his eyes had a vague, fey, and faraway look. No one knew exactly how many men he’d killed in his time; rumor had it even he was no longer sure. He and Flint had been partners from well before they joined MacNeil’s team, and they had a reputation for getting the job done, no matter what the cost. They weren’t always popular, but they were always respected. They’d been with MacNeil almost seven years, at least partly because he was the only one able to keep them under control. They respected MacNeil. Mostly.

  The Dancer looked absently at Flint as they rode forward to join the others. “We’re almost there now, aren’t we, Jessica?”

  “Almost,” said Flint patiently. “I don’t know why you’re so eager to get there. So far everyone else who’s approached this fort has disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “They were amateurs,” said the Dancer. “We’re professionals.”

  “You’re getting complacent,” said Flint. “One of these days you’re going to run into someone who’s as good with a sword as you think you are, and I won’t be there to back-stab him for you.”

  “Never happen,” said the Dancer.

  Flint snorted loudly.

  “I’m quite looking forward to poking around inside the fort,” said the Dancer. “Investigating a baffling mystery will make a pleasant change from chasing footpads through the Forest. A deserted fort, alone and abandoned to the elements … doesn’t it just make your flesh creep?”

  “You’ve been listening to those damned minstrels again,” said Flint disgustedly.

  “Can I help it if I’m a romantic at heart?”

  “You’re morbid, that’s what you are. Don’t blame me if you get nightmares. You know those Gothic tales upset you.”

  The Dancer ignored her. Flint looked at Constance, waiting patiently beside MacNeil at the end of the trail.

  “Giles,” she said thoughtfully, “what do you make of our new witch?”

  “She seems competent enough.”

  “Green, though. Never been on a real mission before. Never been tested under pressure.”

  “She’ll settle in. Give her time.”

  “She’s certainly no replacement for Salamander; she knew her job.”

  The Dancer looked at Flint affectionately. “You couldn’t stand Salamander and you know it.”

  “I didn’t like her much, but she always pulled her weight. A vital mission like this is no way to break in a new witch. If she fouls up, we could all end up dead.”

  “If there’s a storm tonight we could get hit by lightning,” said the Dancer. “But there’s no point in worrying about it, is there? You worry too much, Jessica.”

  “And you don’t worry enough.”

  “Then you can worry for me.”

  “I do,” said Flint. “I do.”

  They fell silent as they drew up their horses beside MacNeil’s. He nodded to them briefly. “Anything to report?”

  “Nothing so far,” said Flint. “We backtracked a way, just in case we were being followed, but we didn’t see anyone. In fact, we haven’t seen anyone for days. This part of the Forest is practically deserted. I haven’t seen a village or a hamlet or a farm in almost a week.”

  “Hardly surprising, with the Darkwood boundary so close,” said MacNeil.

  “The Darkwood’s quiet now,” said the Dancer. “It won’t rise again in our lifetime.”

  “We can’t be sure of that,” said Flint.

  “No,” said Constance oddly. “We can’t.”

  MacNeil looked quickly at the witch. She was staring out into the clearing, her eyes dark and hooded.

  “What is it?” said MacNeil quietly. “Do you See something?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Constance. “It’s the fort….”

  “What about it?”

  “There were giants in the earth in those days,” she whispered, and then shuddered suddenly, looked away, and pulled her cloak about her. “I don’t like this place. It’s got a bad feel to it.”

  MacNeil frowned. “Do you See … anything specific?”

  “No. My Sight is clouded here. But I’ve dreamed about this fort for the last three nights, terrible dreams, and now that I’m here … The clearing is cold, Duncan. Cold as a tomb. And the fort is dark. It feels … old, very old.”

  MacNeil shook his head slowly. “I think you’re letting your feelings interfere with your magic, Constance. There’s nothing old about this fort. It was only built four or five years ago. Before that, there was nothing here.”

  “Something was here,” said Constance. “And it’s been here for a very long time… .”

  Her voice trailed away. Flint and the Dancer looked at each other but said nothing. They didn’t have to. MacNeil knew what they were thinking. If Salamander had said such things, they would have taken it seriously. She’d had the Sight, and if she said a place was dangerous, it was. No argument. But this new witch … as yet her magic hadn’t been tested under pressure, and until it had, no one was going to take her warnings seriously. Constance looked at MacNeil for his reaction, and he was careful to keep his voice calm and even.

  “We’re not going to learn anything about the fort just sitting here looking at it. The sooner we get in there and check the place out, the sooner we’ll know where we’ll be spending the night.”

  He urged his horse forward into the clearing. Flint and the Dancer followed him, and Constance brought up the rear. Her mouth was grim and set, and her eyes were very cold.

  MacNeil tensed automatically as he left the cover of the trees for the open clearing. So far there’d been nothing to suggest there was an enemy presence anywhere nearby, but after so long in the Forest he felt naked and vulnerable in the wide-open space. The clearing had to be a good half-mile wide, shaped into a perfect circle by ax and saw. MacNeil peered unobtrusively about him, but there was no sign of anything moving in the surrounding trees. He frowned slightly as he suddenly realized just how quiet the clearing was. There were no birdsongs, no buzzing insects, nothing. Now that he thought about it, the Forest had been unusually quiet all day. No birds flew in the summer sky, and no game moved among the trees. Maybe the approaching storm had driven them all to cover… . The party’s hoofbeats sounded loud and carrying in the quiet, and MacNeil felt a growing conviction that he and his team were being watched.

  They drew steadily nearer the fort. Its high stone walls were a pale yellow in color, the pure white of the local stone already discolored by wind and rain and sun. The embrasures were empty, the battlements were deserted, and the great double doors were firmly closed. It was like looking at a fort under siege. MacNeil looked closely at the grassy floor of the clearing. There were no tracks to show that anyone else had crossed the clearing recently. MacNeil scowled unhappily. Maybe none of the messengers had actually got this far. This part of the Forest was notorious for its footpads and liers-in-wait.

  The guards did their best to keep the roads open, but once off the beaten trail, a lone traveler took his life in his hands. Thieves and cutthroats and outlaws of all kinds had made the Forest wilds their own in the chaos following the Demon War. The most notorious gangs, like those led by Jimmy Squarefoot and Hob in Chains, had since been ruthlessly hunted down and hanged, but their successors were still active in the more remote parts of the Forest. Not that the Forest attracted only evil men; there were also those like Tom o’ the Heath, who watched over lost travelers on the moors, and Scarecrow Jack, se
lf-styled protector of the trees, a wild spirit of the greenwood who sometimes aided those in need with bounty he stole from the rich and prosperous who passed through his territory. But still and all, the Forest was a dangerous place for a man traveling on his own, and king’s messengers were just as vulnerable as any other man.

  MacNeil shook his head and glared at the border fort. He’d had enough of ifs and maybes; he wanted some answers. And one way or another, the fort was going to provide them. He looked across at the sun, hanging low on the sky just above the treetops. Two hours of light remaining at most. That meant he only had tonight and three more days before the main party arrived. Three days and four nights to find the answers. MacNeil sighed heavily. He hated working to deadlines. That was the trouble with being the best, he thought sourly. After a while they not only expect the impossible, they want it to a timetable as well.

  He finally drew up his horse before the closed main doors, and the others reined in beside him. The fort stood still and silent before them, the last of the sunlight gleaming brightly from the yellow stone. MacNeil stared uneasily at the closed doors. The air was very still, and the continuous quiet preyed on his nerves. It was as though the fort was watching and waiting to see what he would do, defying him to solve its mystery. He pushed the thought from his mind, sat up straight in the saddle, and raised his voice in a carrying shout.

  “Hello, the fort! This is Ranger Sergeant Duncan MacNeil. Open, in the name of the King!”

  There was no response. The only sound to be heard was the low whickering of the horses.

  “You don’t really expect an answer, do you?” said Constance.

  “Not really, no,” said MacNeil patiently, “but we have to go through the motions. It’s standard procedure, and sometimes it gets results.”

  “But not this time.”

  “No. Not this time. Flint …”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Try those doors. See how secure they are.”

  “Yes, sir.” Flint swung down out of the saddle and handed her reins to the Dancer, who looped them loosely over his left arm. Flint drew her sword and walked unhurriedly forward to examine the closed doors. Her sword was a scimitar, and light gleamed brightly on the long curved blade as she hefted it. The doors loomed over her, huge and forboding. Flint studied the dark iron-bound wood carefully, and then reached out and tried each door with her left hand. They didn’t give an inch, no matter how much pressure she applied. Flint beat on the left-hand door with her fist. The sound carried loudly for a moment, and then fell away in a series of dying echoes. Flint looked back at MacNeil.

  “Locked and bolted by the feel of it.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” said Constance impatiently. “Allow me.”

  A gust of wind swirled suddenly around the party, and the temperature dropped sharply. The horses rolled their eyes and tossed their heads nervously. MacNeil muttered soothing phrases to his horse and tightly clutched the reins. Magic beat on the air like the wings of a captured bird, and the great wooden doors creaked and groaned. They shuddered visibly, as though some invisible presence was pressing strongly against them. And then, quite clearly, there came the sound of metal rasping on metal as the heavy bolts slid back into their sockets, followed by the sharp clicking of tumblers turning in a lock. Constance let out a juddering sigh, and the two huge doors swung smoothly open, revealing an open, empty courtyard. The doors ground to a halt, and Constance smiled triumphantly. The gusting wind died away quickly, but it was still unseasonably cold, despite the bright sunshine. Constance looked challengingly at MacNeil, and he bowed politely to her.

  “Not bad, Constance. But Salamander would have done it in half the time.”

  “To hear the three of you talk,” said Constance, “you’d think this Salamander was one of the greatest witches who ever lived.”

  “She was good at her job,” said MacNeil.

  “If she was so good at it, why is she dead?”

  “Bad luck,” said Flint sharply. “It can happen to anyone.” She walked back to her horse and took the reins from the Dancer.

  Thank you, Jessica, thought MacNeil. You always were the diplomatic one.

  Flint looked at him calmly. “Ready to take a look, sir?”

  “Sure,” said MacNeil. “Lead the way, Flint.”

  She nodded and led her horse into the open courtyard. MacNeil and the Dancer moved forward to flank her with their horses, and Constance brought up the rear. The wide cobbled yard stretched away beneath the lowering summer sky, but no horses stood at the hitching rails, and the surrounding doors and windows were dark and empty, like so many blank, unseeing eyes. The Dancer drew his sword, and MacNeil followed suit. There is a sound the sword makes as it clears the scabbard, a grim rasping whisper that promises blood and horror and sudden death. The sound seemed to echo on and on in the empty courtyard, as though reluctant to die away. MacNeil looked at the Dancer’s sword, and not for the first time his hackles stirred uneasily. The Dancer’s sword was long and broad and double-edged. There was no grace or beauty about the weapon; it was simply a brutal killing tool, and that was how the Dancer used it. MacNeil carried a long, slender sword that allowed him to work with the point as well as the edge. There was more to swordsmanship than butchery—at least, as far as he was concerned.

  He looked around him, taking in the fort’s courtyard. The wide-open space was deserted, but the feeling of being watched was stronger than ever. MacNeil scowled. There was something about the place that put his teeth on edge. Where the hell was everybody? The doors had been locked and bolted from the inside; there had to be someone here … somewhere… . MacNeil shivered suddenly. A ghost just walked over my grave, he thought wryly, and yet somehow he knew it was more than that. On a level so deep within him he was hardly aware of its presence, an old and secret fear cast a shadow across his thoughts. He looked around him at the darkened windows and felt a tremor in his soul, a stark and basic horror he hadn’t felt for many years. Not since he faced the demon horde in the depths of the long night, and knew he couldn’t stand against them… .

  MacNeil shook his head quickly. He’d think about that later. He had work to do. He steered his horse over to the nearest hitching rail, and the memory faded from his mind, as it had so many times before. He dismounted and wrapped the reins around the low wooden rail. The others moved in beside him to see to their horses, and MacNeil looked quickly around at the various doorways, getting his bearings. One fort is much like any other, and it didn’t take him long to work out which was the main entrance. The door was opposite the courtyard doors and stood slightly ajar. Beyond it was nothing but an impenetrable gloom. MacNeil started toward the door, and then stopped and looked back suddenly. For a moment he’d thought he heard something… . He stood listening, but the only sound was the soft murmur of the rising wind outside the fort. MacNeil frowned as he realized that many of the windows looking out onto the courtyard were hidden behind closed shutters, despite the heat of the day. That’s crazy, he thought confusedly, it must be like an oven in there. His mind seized on the word crazy, and it repeated over and over in his thoughts like an echo. To get away from it, he concentrated on what he was looking at. The stables were to his right, the barracks to his left. In both cases, the doors stood slightly ajar. He became aware that Constance was standing beside him, her eyes darting nervously around the courtyard, as though searching for something safe to settle on.

  “You said this was a new fort,” she said suddenly, not looking at MacNeil. “Do you know why it was built here? Is there anything about this location I ought to know?”

  “You already know most of it,” said MacNeil. “The border between the Forest Kingdom and Hillsdown runs right through the middle of this clearing. The fort is here to stabilize this stretch of the frontier, nothing more. It worked quite well … until just recently.”

  Constance frowned. “Hillsdown doesn’t have much in the way of sorcerers or magicians, not that I’ve ever heard of. Taking out
a fort this size would require sorcery far beyond Hillsdown’s means.”

  MacNeil looked at her thoughtfully. “Can you sense anything here? Anything magical, or immediately dangerous?”

  Constance closed her eyes and gave herself to the Sight. Her mind’s eye opened, and scenes and feelings came to her. The fort was cold and empty, like an abandoned coffin, but still there was something … something awful, not far away. She concentrated, trying for more detail, but her Sight remained obstinately vague. There was definitely something dangerous close at hand; there was a feeling of power about it, and a stronger feeling of wrongness. A slow beat of pain began in her forehead, and the images became blurred and muddy. Constance sighed and opened her eyes again. As always, the Sight left her feeling drained and tired, but she kept her voice calm and steady as she spoke to MacNeil. She didn’t want him thinking of her as the weak link in his team. It was obvious he already considered her no replacement for his precious Salamander.

  “There’s something here, Sergeant, but I can’t get a clear picture of it. It’s some kind of magical presence, very powerful and very old, but that’s all I can See.”

  Something old, thought MacNeil. That’s twice she’s used the word old in connection with this fort, despite knowing how recent it is.

  “All right,” he said finally. “First things first. If we’re going to spend the night here, we need a place we can defend, and this courtyard definitely isn’t it. Flint, Dancer, you check out the stables and then see to the horses. Constance, you come with me. I want to take a look at those barracks.”