Down Among the Dead Men (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Green, Simon R.

  And still the dead came crowding into the cave, their pale faces contorted by the dark dreams of the Beast that controlled them.

  “We can’t hold them off much longer,” said MacNeil tightly. “Draw your other sword, Hammer. Drawn the damned sword.”

  “Yes,” said Hammer. “I don’t seem to have any choice anymore, do I?”

  He cut viciously at a lich as it reached for him with clawing hands, and decapitated it. The head rolled away across the floor, its mouth working silently. The headless body staggered back and forth, groping blindly about it for its enemy, until the other liches jostled it out of the way. Hammer seized the few moments the confusion gave him, and sheathed his sword. He breathed deeply once, and then reached up and grasped the long sword hilt behind his left shoulder. His mouth twisted, as though tasting something infinitely bitter. The sword hilt seemed to fit itself into his hand as though it belonged there. He drew the longsword from its silver scabbard with one supple movement, and held the six feet of gleaming steel out before him as though it was weightless. The long blade glowed brightly with a sick yellow light.

  “Wolfsbane,” said Hammer softly. “Wolfsbane is loose in the world again.”

  The liches stopped their advance. Their empty eyes fastened on the glowing longsword in silent fascination, as something else studied the Infernal Device through their dead eyes, and knew it for what it was. The hellsword had been brought down into the depths of the earth, and now they would take it and bury it so that the Beast need never fear it again. The liches surged forward, hands outstretched, and Hammer met them with Wolfsbane. The glowing blade swept back and forth with inhuman speed, cutting through the liches as though they were nothing more than wisps of smoke. They fell helplessly before Hammer’s attack, screaming silently as the sword cut through flesh and bone alike. Their dead flesh decayed and fell away into corruption at Wolfsbane’s touch, and soon the cave floor was littered with fragments of rotting flesh and discolored bone. But still the liches came swarming out of the narrow tunnel, their numbers growing faster than Hammer could destroy them. Hammer and MacNeil and Scarecrow Jack continued to back away, fighting desperately all the while, knowing that if they gave the dead an opening, even for a moment, the liches would tear them apart. Hammer lunged back and forth like a man possessed, Wolfsbane glowing more and more brightly as the dead fell before it and did not rise again. Jack and MacNeil defended his blind sides as best they could, for Hammer seemed to have no thought for anything but attack.

  And still the dead came on, driven by the Beast’s dark dreams. Hundreds of men and women and children had died in the border fort, and Hammer and MacNeil and Jack couldn’t destroy them fast enough to stem the tide. Step by step they were forced back out of the cave and down the tunnel, and finally out onto the narrow ledge itself, looking out over the long drop to the cavern floor. Jack went first along the ledge, carrying the torch, then MacNeil with his lantern, and finally Hammer, blocking the liches’ way with Wolfsbane. The Infernal Device glowed blindingly against the darkness, its bitter yellow light reflecting from the thousands of crystals embedded in the cavern walls. The three men backed slowly away along the narrow ledge, and the dead came after them.

  Down below, deep in the earth, something stirred in its sleep.

  Flint and Wilde and the Dancer swung their swords with aching arms, fighting on long after most would have collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Their swords grew heavier every time they raised them, but they wouldn’t give up. The trolls came swarming through the doorway in a never ending stream, their blood red eyes glowing hungrily. Tall, bony cadavers lay scattered across the bloody floor, but as yet none of the creatures had got past the defenders to reach the trapdoor. Only a few trolls could get through the door at a time, and so far Flint and Wilde and the Dancer had managed to keep the trolls bottled up by the doorway. But they all knew it was only a matter of time before one of them fell, and then they would be unable to hold the trolls back.

  The Dancer was having the time of his life. His sword was everywhere, a bright, shining blur that mowed through the crowding trolls like a newly sharpened scythe through wheat. He was grinning broadly, and his eyes blazed with a dark and deadly joy. He was doing what he was best at, doing what he was born to do, and loving every minute of it. The overwhelming odds just gave a spice to the occasion. He was the Dancer, and he was content.

  Flint fought at his side, substituting strength and stubbornness to match his skill and speed. She kept turning the situation over and over in her mind as she fought, searching for a solution, an answer that would give them victory over the trolls, knowing all the while that this time there was no answer, no way out. They were doing all they could, and the odds were that wasn’t going to be enough. Tough. That was the way it went sometimes, especially if you were a Ranger. She fought on, ignoring the pain and blood from a dozen minor wounds. It wasn’t over till it was over, and just maybe MacNeil would get lucky and kill the Beast. Yeah. Maybe.

  Wilde fought on Flint’s other side, wishing he hadn’t run out of arrows so early. He was good with a sword, but he was much better with a bow. Besides, using a bow was a damn sight less dangerous than fighting at close quarters with a sword. He hacked at a troll and clove its skull from brow to jaw. The creature collapsed with a startled expression on its bony face, and Wilde grinned nastily. Stupid-looking things. He’d teach them to get between him and his share of the gold. He fought on, wishing he’d kept at least one arrow for the Dancer. Still, he needed the Dancer’s fighting skills for the moment. Maybe later, when the trolls had been taken care of … yeah. Maybe later. He swung his sword, and the trolls surged about him, trying to drag him down. Blood soaked his shirt, only some of it from dead trolls.

  Constance chanted one spell after another, her voice grown harsh and indistinct. Her throat was raw, and her aching head swam as she fought to make the last few remnants of her magic do far more than it was ever meant to. The few trolls that got past the fighters at the door shriveled up like moths in a flame as they drew near the witch. One troll kept on coming anyway, even while its flesh ran like wax down a candle. Constance gestured sharply, and the troll exploded in a shower of blood and guts. Constance moaned as a stabbing pain began in her forehead, just above her left eye. Blood spurted from her nose. She was pushing her magic to its limits, and she was paying the toll. She’d once seen a witch overstrain herself and die of a cerebral hemorrhage. It hadn’t been pretty.

  She swayed unsteadily on her feet, gripped by hot and cold flushes, and fought to remain conscious. If she passed out now, the trolls would make short work of her. Besides, the others needed her. Some of the dizziness passed, and she drew her magic about her again. The trolls weren’t the only danger that had to be faced. Thin strands of mist had begun to form in the cellar. The trolls used the fog as a gateway into the real world, and if it established itself in the cellar, the trolls would be able to appear from anywhere in the room. The defenders would be overrun in seconds. Constance wrapped herself in her power, and concentrated on a single spell to keep the mists from forming. The trolls recognized her sudden vulnerability, and threw themselves at the three fighters in a flurry of teeth and claws. One of the creatures broke through and leapt at the witch with gaping jaws. Constance hit it in the throat with her fist. The collection of heavy rings on her fingers made an effective knuckle-duster, and the troll fell choking to the floor. Constance stamped down hard and broke the creature’s neck. The witch smiled briefly and went back to concentrating on her magic.

  The four defenders fought on, long past the point where anyone else would have given up and been destroyed, but in the end there were just too many trolls. The Dancer found himself hard pressed by three trolls who came at him at once and refused to die no matter how much he hacked at them. In that moment when he was preoccupied, two more trolls forced their way in and attacked Flint. She killed one, but couldn’t react fast enough to stop the other. It knocked her to the ground and stooped over her. Wil
de cut down the troll before him, and looked up to see the troll bending over Flint. She tried to lift her sword, dazed by the fall, and the troll slapped it out of her hand. Flint reached after the sword, and the troll cut at her face with its claws. She turned her head aside at the last moment, saving her face, but the long claws ripped off her left ear. She screamed and fell back, blood running thickly down her neck as pain blazed in her head. The troll grinned and took her throat in its heavy hands. Flint tried to break its hold and couldn’t.

  Wilde screamed her name and leapt at the troll. His weight tore the creature away from Flint, and the two of them crashed to the floor. Wilde landed awkwardly, and his elbow jarred painfully on the solid stone. His hand instantly went numb, and he watched despairingly as the sword flew from his unfeeling fingers. The troll reared over him, huge and hideous, and Wilde slammed a punch into its gut. The creature laughed hissingly. Wilde heaved to one side to try to throw it off, but the troll moved with him, one clawed hand wrapped tightly around Wilde’s throat. And then its other hand ripped into his belly and out again in a flurry of blood and guts, and Wilde screamed shrilly. Blood spurted from his mouth. The troll left him shuddering on the floor, curled around the awful wound. Blood poured past his clutching hands and pooled around him.

  Flint snatched up her sword from the floor and ran the troll through from behind. It died trying to clutch the blade as she jerked it free. Flint spared Wilde a single glance, and then had to turn back to take her place at the Dancer’s side again. He’d disposed of the three trolls that were bothering him, but even he was having a hard time holding the doorway single-handed. Flint could feel blood trickling down her neck, and her head screamed in pain with every move that jarred it, but she couldn’t stop and rest, even for a moment. The Dancer needed her. She cut savagely at the nearest troll, and smiled coldly as it fell to the floor, clutching its torn throat. Another troll took its place. The Dancer backed away from the door a single step, and Flint fell back with him.

  Constance stood very still, battling the forming mists with the last of her magic. Flint and the Dancer fell back another step. More trolls forced their way into the cellar. The three Rangers fought on, knowing it was hopeless but fighting anyway, because there was nothing else they could do.

  Deep in the earth below the fort, the Beast stirred. The great cavern above it shook violently. Massive slabs of stone cracked and groaned as they moved against each other, disturbed from their resting places for the first time in uncounted centuries. Jagged cracks appeared in the cavern walls, and loose earth fell from the ceiling in a steady rain.

  MacNeil clutched the cavern wall as the ledge shifted suddenly under his feet. Thin cracks appeared in the stone, and Scarecrow Jack was thrown off balance. He fell awkwardly and threw his torch away to cling tightly to the heaving stone with both hands. The blazing brand disappeared down into the darkness and was gone. MacNeil quickly put his lantern down and moved back to help Jack. Hammer managed to keep his footing, but the liches kept pressing forward, undeterred by the destruction around them, and it was all Hammer could do to hold them off. One of the dead slipped and fell from the ledge. The falling body grew smaller and smaller, and was finally swallowed up by the darkness that hid the bottom of the cavern. The liches surged forward along the narrow ledge, which suddenly rose and fell a good foot as the cracks in the cavern wall widened still farther. Hammer lost his balance and staggered into MacNeil, who tripped over Jack’s outstretched legs. He fell on top of Jack, and the two of them rolled toward the brink of the ledge. MacNeil jammed his hands into one of the cracks and pulled himself to a halt, but Jack skidded over the edge.

  MacNeil lashed out desperately with his legs, and one of them kicked Jack in the chest. The outlaw grabbed the leg instinctively and stopped his fall. He hung helplessly over the long drop, clinging to MacNeil’s leg with both hands. MacNeil forced his hands deeper into the crack in the stone, wedging them against the weight that was trying to pull them loose. For a long moment neither of them dared move, and then Jack started to climb up MacNeil’s body. MacNeil groaned out loud at the pain that swept through his arms and hands as he fought to support the double weight. And then Jack was able to reach out and grab the ledge, and MacNeil let out his breath in a great shuddering sigh as the extra weight suddenly disappeared.

  Jack clambered up onto the ledge again, and MacNeil rose painfully to his feet. He looked down at the drop and then looked away. He’d never liked heights. He handed Jack the lantern and turned quickly back to see how Hammer was faring. The ledge was still trembling under his feet, but it seemed to have steadied somewhat. All around him the cavern walls were shifting and groaning, and there was a faint continuous rumble from somewhere far away, deep down under the cavern.

  The liches suddenly stopped pouring out onto the ledge from the tunnel mouth. Hammer cut down the last few corpses as they pressed forward, and their rotting bodies fell away from the ledge and out into the darkness. Hammer slowly lowered his sword and then leaned on it tiredly. MacNeil began to breathe a little more easily. The dead from the border fort had pushed their intended prey all the way back to the mouth of the original tunnel before the last of them had been destroyed. MacNeil looked at Hammer and winced. The Infernal Device was glowing brightly, almost too brightly to bear. Hammer was leaning on the sword with his eyes closed. His sides were heaving and his face was slick with sweat. For Hammer the nightmare wasn’t over; it was just beginning. He groaned aloud and screwed his eyes shut rather than look at the sword he held.

  MacNeil and Scarecrow Jack looked at each other. The liches might be gone, but the cavern was still breaking up. This was no place to be hanging around. There was no sign of the Beast, and MacNeil couldn’t see one good reason to stay in the cavern a single moment longer than necessary. He moved forward to stand facing Hammer. The outlaw gave no sign he even knew MacNeil was there.

  “Hammer?” said MacNeil. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the constant groaning of the shifting stone all around him. “What is it, Hammer? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s the sword,” said Hammer hoarsely. His face twisted, and his knuckles were white where they gripped the long sword hilt. “It’s the Damned sword. I used it for too long, tempted it too much … It’s awake.”

  MacNeil glanced back at Jack, who nodded jerkily. “He’s right, Sergeant. The sword is alive, and aware. I can feel it.”

  MacNeil turned back to Hammer. “Sheathe the sword. We don’t need it anymore, Hammer. It’s all right to sheathe it now.”

  “You damned fool!” said Hammer despairingly, “I can’t sheathe it! The bloody thing’s awake, and it’s hungry… . You don’t understand the power in this sword, MacNeil. There’s power here beyond your worst nightmares, power to destroy all the world and leave it nothing but a rotting ball of filth. And the sword wants me to use that power.”

  MacNeil swallowed dryly. He didn’t want to believe Hammer, but he had no choice. There was a power in the hellsword, beating in rhythm to the pulsing of the sword’s brilliant light, beating so strongly that even he could sense its presence. He started to grab the sword away from Hammer while he was still distracted, but the outlaw immediately moved back out of reach and leveled the sword at MacNeil’s breast.

  “Stay away from me. Try that again and I’ll kill you. I’ll have to.”

  “Hammer …”

  “I can control the Device. I can! I just need a little more time—”

  A thick, vile grunt issued up from somewhere deep in the cavern. It sounded like some monstrous hog at its trough. The echoes seemed to take forever to die away. The cavern shook constantly now, and earth fell from the ceiling like a fine mist. The grunt came again, a huge, sonorous sound that shook the air like thunder. Hammer, MacNeil, and Scarecrow Jack looked down into the darkness, and a line of silver fire suddenly appeared far below on the cavern floor. Hundreds of yards wide, it stretched from one side of the cavern to the other, splitting the darkness in two. And then, slow
ly, the split grew wider. The shining light became brighter still as the split widened into a broad band of light. The silver glare filled the cavern, painfully bright and piercing. It wasn’t until a vast golden circle moved into the light from behind the darkness that MacNeil realized he was looking at the opening of a single gigantic eye.

  The huge, dark eyelids crawled open, revealing the whole floor of the cavern to be one great eye. The enormous golden pupil stared up at MacNeil with monumental disdain. He wanted to look away but couldn’t. He was held by the sheer immensity of the eye below him, fixing him with the awful stare of an ancient and unforgiving god.

  It’s too big, thought MacNeil dazedly. It’s just too big. Nothing could be that size… . That eye must be hundreds of yards across… . He tried to visualize the size of the Beast and couldn’t. It was just too big, too large for his human mind to cope with.

  There were giants in the earth in those days.

  Something beat on the air like a great commanding voice, silent but imperative. MacNeil stared down into the Beast’s eye, and the unspoken voice called to him, demanding that he surrender to it. And the longer he looked, the more he wanted to. Helpless tears streamed down his cheeks, his eyes dazzled by the silver glare that illuminated the cavern, but unable to look away. MacNeil stared into the Beast’s eye, and the world grew soft and dim. All the things that troubled him, all the things that scared and angered him, seemed to drift away. Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered at all, except listening to the silent voice and doing as it commanded. He was safe and warm and comfortable, and nothing would ever hurt him again. All he had to do was obey the Beast in all things, and it would set him free from the cares of the world. All he had to do was give up his duty.