Flint and the Dancer nodded, and moved off toward the stables. MacNeil headed for the barracks on the opposite side of the courtyard and the witch hurried after him, not wanting to be left on her own, even for a moment. The silence was beginning to get to her, and the vague image she’d Seen disturbed her deeply. In some strange way she felt as though she ought to recognize it.
MacNeil noticed her haste in joining him, and was careful not to smile. He was grateful for the company himself. He came to a halt before the barracks door and studied it closely. Like all the other doors he’d seen in the courtyard, it stood slightly ajar. MacNeil pursed his lips thoughtfully. If there was a pattern or reason to it, he couldn’t see it yet. He pushed the door gently with the toe of his boot, and it swung smoothly open. MacNeil hefted his sword and stepped forward into the gloom of the barracks.
Light filtered past the closed shutters and spilled in from the open door. MacNeil stepped quickly in and to one side. A silhouette against an open door made too good a target. He pulled Constance over beside him and they stood together in silence a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the gloom. There was a thick layer of dust everywhere, and dust motes spun slowly in the narrow shafts of sunlight. The air had a damp, musty smell that was subtly disturbing. It smells more like a mausoleum than a barracks, thought MacNeil, and then wondered why that particular comparison had occurred to him. A single chair lay on its side in the middle of the floor, between two rows of beds. There were dark stains spattered across the chair, as though it had been flecked with paint. MacNeil heard Constance draw in a sharp breath, and then a sudden brilliance flooded the barracks as the witch held up her right hand. MacNeil cursed irritably and shielded his dazzled eyes with his free hand.
“Next time, warn me first.”
“I’m sorry,” said Constance breathlessly, “but look at the chair, Duncan. Look at the chair… .”
The dark stains on the chair were blood—old, dried blood. MacNeil lowered his hand and looked quickly about him. There were fifty beds in all, set back against the walls in two neat rows. On every bed the rumpled blankets were soaked with long-dried blood.
“My God,” said Constance quietly. “What the hell happened here?”
MacNeil shook his head, unable to speak. In the silvery light that glowed from the witch’s upraised hand, he could clearly see the great crimson splashes on the walls and floor and ceiling. It was like walking into an abandoned abattoir. Most of the bedclothes had been hacked and cut apart by swords or axes, while two beds had been literally torn to pieces. Splinters lay scattered across the floor, and a half-dozen thick wooden spikes had been driven into one wall like so many jagged nails.
MacNeil moved forward slowly. Constance stayed where she was by the door, the silver light still blazing from her hand. MacNeil vaguely prodded the nearest bed with his sword. He felt strangely numb, unable to take in what had happened. He was no stranger to blood and violence and sudden death, but there was something horribly pathetic about the empty bloodstained beds. What kind of creature could have killed fifty guards in their barracks and then disposed of their bodies, all without leaving any trace of its own presence? He hadn’t seen an atrocity like this since the Demon War. And there were no demons in the Forest anymore. MacNeil crouched beside the bed and looked underneath it. There was nothing there but more dust and dried blood.
So much blood …
He straightened up and looked back at the witch by the door. “Constance.”
“Yes, sir?”
“What can you See here?”
The witch closed her eyes and opened her mind. The light from her hand snapped off, and darkness fell upon the barracks once again. MacNeil gripped his sword tightly, blinded by the sudden loss of light. He peered about him into the gloom, listening warily for any sound of something sneaking up on him under cover of the sudden darkness, but all was still and silent. His eyes slowly adjusted again, and he could just make out Constance standing very still beside the open door. As he watched, she sighed and turned her head to look at him.
“I’m sorry,” she said tightly, “I can’t See anything. I should be able to, but I can’t. Something here in the fort, or very close by, is blocking my Sight.”
MacNeil frowned. “Could it be a natural blind spot?”
“I don’t know. But haven’t you noticed? It’s cold in here. Very cold.”
“It’s bound to be, now we’re out of the sun. It’s the thick stone walls.”
“No,” said the witch. “It’s more than that.”
MacNeil noticed for the first time that his breath was steaming on the still air. He tightened his grip on his sword hilt, and found he could barely feel it. His fingers were numb from the cold. It had crept up on him so slowly he hadn’t even noticed.
“I think we’d better get out of here,” he said softly. “For the time being.” He backed away toward the door, his sword held out before him. There was no sign of any immediate danger, but for some reason he didn’t want to turn his back on the bloodstained beds. He reached the open door and found Constance had already stepped out into the courtyard. MacNeil paused a moment in the doorway. Fifty beds. So much blood … He stepped out into the courtyard and pulled the door firmly shut. He scowled at the closed door and then looked at Constance. Her face was pale but composed.
“Where next?” she said evenly.
MacNeil nodded at the main entrance. “That door should lead into the reception hall. Perhaps we’ll find some answers there.”
He strode quickly across the courtyard, and Constance followed close behind him. The open yard seemed almost uncomfortably warm after the chill of the barracks. He pushed the door open and entered the reception hall with his sword at the ready. It looked like any other hall in any other fort, a simple, unadorned chamber with one desk and a half-dozen uncomfortable-looking chairs. Everything seemed normal, apart from the four nooses that hung from the overhead beam, the thick ropes dangling limply in the still air. The hangman’s knots looked amateurish but effective. Beneath the nooses, four chairs lay on their sides on the floor. MacNeil stood just inside the door and swallowed dryly. It was only too easy to visualize four men being forced to stand on the chairs while the nooses were tightened around their necks. And then the chairs would have been kicked away, one by one… .
“Maybe some of them went mad,” said Constance slowly.
“It can happen,” said MacNeil. “Like cabin fever. Take a group of armed men and confine them in a limited space for a long period with nothing to do, and they’ll crack sooner or later. But any commander worth his salt knows the danger signs and takes steps to deal with it. No one said anything about this fort having a bad record; as far as I know there were no indications that anything was wrong … No, it doesn’t make sense. If four men were hanged here, where are their bodies? Why take them down and leave the nooses? Nothing about this place makes any sense. Yet. But more and more I get the feeling something terrible must have happened here.”
“Yes,” said Constance oddly. “Something terrible. And I think it’s still happening.”
MacNeil looked at her sharply. The witch’s eyes were vague and faraway, and there was something in her face that might have been fear.
Flint and the Dancer stood just inside the stable doors and stared silently about them. Light poured in from the open doors, pushing back the shadows. The heavy wooden stalls had been smashed into kindling. The walls were scarred and gouged, as though they’d been scored repeatedly by claws. There was no sign of any of the horses, but blood had splashed and dried on the floor and walls.
“Nasty,” said Flint.
The Dancer nodded. “Very.”
“Demons?”
“Unlikely.”
“It’s their style.”
“The Demon War ended ten years ago. No one’s seen a demon outside the Darkwood since.”
Flint scowled unhappily. “They came out of the long night once before; maybe they’re on the move again.”
/> The Dancer knelt down and studied the bloodstained straw covering the earth floor. “Interesting.”
“What is?” Flint knelt down beside him.
“Look at the floor, Jessica. There’s blood everywhere but no footprints, only hoof marks. And if the horses were killed and dragged out, where are the tracks? There should be some traces to show what happened to the bodies.”
“You’re right,” said Flint. “It is interesting.”
They straightened up quickly and automatically fell into their usual fighting position, back to back with swords held out before them. The shadows all around were suddenly dark and menacing. The air was dry and still and unnaturally cold. It smelled faintly of death and corruption. Flint stirred uneasily and flexed the three fingers of her left hand. The scar tissue where the missing two fingers had been throbbed dully. It didn’t like the cold. Flint shuddered suddenly. There was something dangerous here in the fort with them; she could feel it. She had no idea what or where it might be, but she had no doubt it was there. Flint trusted her instincts implicitly.
“Yes,” said the Dancer quietly. “I feel it too. Whatever happened to the people in this fort, I don’t think they died a clean death.”
“We can’t leave our horses here,” said Flint. “They’d spook before we could get them through the door. Let’s take a look at the main building, see if we can find a suitable place there.”
“Good idea,” said the Dancer.
“Then let’s get out of here. I’m getting spooked myself.”
“You’re not alone,” the Dancer assured her.
“I told you not to listen to those minstrels. You’ll be having bad dreams tonight.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. I don’t think this is a good place to sleep, Jessica.”
Flint smiled slightly. “You might just be right, Giles. But can you think of a better way to get to the bottom of what happened here?”
“There is that,” said the Dancer. “Let’s go.”
He led the way back out into the sunshine, and Flint pulled the doors shut after her. She and the Dancer crossed the courtyard side by side, swords at the ready, their eyes wary and watchful. Their footsteps echoed hollowly back from the high stone walls. The sky was darkening toward evening, and the shadows were growing longer.
Flint and the Dancer eventually settled the horses in the main reception hall. It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t even a lot better than anywhere else, but the horses seemed prepared to tolerate it. They rolled their eyes as they were led through the door, and regarded the bare wooden floor with grave suspicion, but finally settled down. Flint lit a lantern, and then she and the Dancer made their way deeper into the main building. Finding MacNeil and Constance was easy enough; they just followed the tracks in the thick dust on the floor. Flint eventually rounded a corner and found MacNeil waiting for her, sword in hand.
“I thought I heard somebody following us,” said MacNeil dryly, lowering his sword.
“Have you found anything?” asked the Dancer.
“Nothing helpful. Just empty rooms, dust, and blood.”
The bloodstains were everywhere. They splashed across the ceiling, ran down the walls, and pooled on the floor. So much blood …
“What are the chances on finding anyone alive?” said Constance.
“Not good,” said MacNeil. “But we’ll keep looking anyway. Just in case.”
The four of them slowly made their way through the fort, corridor by corridor, room by room. The corridors were for the most part bare and unadorned, with little in the way of matting or tapestries to break up the monotony of bare stone. All the rooms were empty and covered with a thick layer of undisturbed dust. But wherever they went they found bloodstains and broken furniture and enigmatic claw marks gouged deep into the stone walls.
And finally they came to the cellar, and there was nowhere left to go. The cellar was a featureless stone chamber some fifty feet square, littered with accumulated rubbish. Two open doorways led into smaller storage areas. MacNeil picked his way carefully through the mess, and the others followed him as best they could. There were piles of firewood, bags of rags, and stacks of old paper waiting to be pulped, along with broken furniture, wine casks, and general filth and garbage, all strewn across the bare floor without rhyme or reason. MacNeil made his way to the center of the cellar, being very careful about where he trod and what he trod in, and then stopped and looked disgustedly about him.
“I’ve seen cess pits that were cleaner than this.”
“It is rather untidy,” said the Dancer. “But have you noticed the walls?”
“Yeah.” said MacNeil. “There aren’t any bloodstains down here.”
“Is that a good sign or a bad sign?” said Flint.
“Beats me,” said MacNeil.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Constance suddenly. “Something’s wrong here.”
The others turned to look at her. The witch was shivering violently.
“How do you mean, something’s wrong?” said MacNeil. “Have you Seen something?”
“It’s wrong here,” said Constance, staring blindly ahead of her as though she hadn’t heard him.
MacNeil looked at the others, and then looked quickly around the cellar one more time. He shook his head slightly, as though disappointed, and then moved back to take the witch’s arm. “There’s nothing down here that matters. Let’s go, Constance.”
She nodded gratefully and let him help her back to the cellar door. Flint and the Dancer followed them out.
Eventually they ended up in the main dining hall, at the rear of the fort. It was a good-sized hall, some forty feet long and twenty wide, with trestle tables set out in neat rows. As in the cellar, the walls were unscarred and there were no bloodstains anywhere. The tables were set for a meal long abandoned. Food still lay on some of the plates, dry and dusty and covered with mold. Bottles of wine stood open and unopened on the tables. It was as though people had come in for a meal as usual, and then halfway through had just got up and walked away… .
“We’ll sleep here tonight,” said MacNeil. “It’s comparatively untouched by the madness, and since there’s only the one entrance, it should be easy enough to defend.”
“You’re really prepared to spend the night here?” said Constance. “After everything we’ve seen?”
MacNeil looked at her coldly. “We’ve seen nothing that’s immediately threatening. Whatever killed all these people, it’s obviously been gone some time. We’ll be a lot safer here, and a great deal more comfortable, than we would be out in the Forest during a thunderstorm. We’ll set a guard tonight, and first thing tomorrow morning we’ll start tearing this place apart. There’s got to be an answer here somewhere.”
“I don’t think we should disturb anything,” said Constance. “I mean, it could be evidence.”
“She’s right,” said the Dancer.
MacNeil shrugged. “Anything that looks significant we can leave alone. Either way, it can all wait till the morning. They don’t pay me enough to go wandering around this place in the dark.”
“Right,” said Flint. “There isn’t that much money in the world.”
“All right, then, let’s get our bedrolls in here and get ourselves settled,” said MacNeil. “It’ll be dark soon.”
“Dark,” said Constance quietly. “Yes. It gets very dark here at night.”
They all looked at her, but the witch didn’t notice, lost in her own thoughts.
Out in the Forest, a lone figure watched the fort curiously, and then faded back into the shadows between the trees and was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
In the Darkness of the Night
Night fell suddenly. Less than an hour after the Rangers entered the dining hall, darkness swept over the border fort. Flint and Constance busied themselves lighting the torches on the walls as the daylight faded, while MacNeil and the Dancer arranged burning candles and oil lamps in a circle around the sleeping area
they’d chosen. Though none of them admitted it aloud, they were all wary of what the darkness might bring, and none of them wanted to face the unknown without plenty of light to see it by.
Flint and the Dancer collected the saddle rolls from the horses and brought them back to the hall. They stayed close together in the narrow passageways and held their lanterns high. The lengthening shadows were very dark. Flint and Constance laid out the bedrolls in the middle of the dining hall, while MacNeil and the Dancer arranged the trestle tables around them in a simple barricade. The lightweight tables weren’t very sturdy, but they gave a feeling of protection and security, and that was what mattered. Even with all the candles and torches and lamps, the dining hall was still disturbingly gloomy and full of restless shadows. The size of the hall gave every sound a faint echo that was subtly unnerving, and outside the fort a strong wind was blowing, moaning in the night. And yet when all was said and done, none of the Rangers really gave much of a damn. After the day’s hard journey they were all bone weary and half asleep on their feet.
Flint volunteered to take the first watch, and nobody argued with her. They unwrapped their sleeping rolls and laid the blankets side by side. There was something comforting and reassuring in the simple proximity, and there was also no denying that the dining hall had grown uncomfortably cold.
MacNeil considered starting a fire in the open hearth, and then decided against it. A fire would be more trouble than it was worth, and anyway, it was a summer’s night, dammit. It couldn’t be that cold… . He climbed into his blankets and pulled them up around his ears. The floor was cold and hard and uneven, but he’d slept on worse. Already he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. He yawned, scratched his ribs, and sighed contentedly. It felt good to be off his feet at last.
Flint fussed over the Dancer’s blankets, sorting them out for him while he watched patiently. The Dancer was hopeless at the little practicalities of life. He couldn’t saddle his own horse either, and if he had to live on his own cooking, he’d starve. No one ever said anything. The Dancer’s talents lay in other directions. Flint finally got him settled and sat down beside him.
Down Among the Dead Men (Forest Kingdom Novels) Page 3
