Down Among the Dead Men (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Simon R. Green

  No. This isn’t right.

  Jack stopped struggling and concentrated on that thought. The Darkwood was destroyed, the Blue Moon long gone. He knew this. He remembered their passing. It was impossible that they should have returned, and therefore they hadn’t. Jack concentrated on clearing his mind of everything but that one simple thought, and the tree’s branches loosened and fell away from him. Jack dropped to the ground and slipped his knife back into his sleeve before straightening up. He didn’t need it anymore. He made his way back toward the open glade, and a pool of sunlight formed around him, pushing back the gloom. Far away, hidden in the darkness of the unending night, something screamed with rage. Jack didn’t look around to see what it was. It didn’t matter. He was Scarecrow Jack, and the strength of the trees was his. He was a part of the Forest, its agent and protector, and he would not allow this corruption to continue.

  The dead and rotting trees stirred uneasily as he walked unhurriedly among them, but their thrashing branches couldn’t cross the pool of light to reach him. Jack moved out into the glade and stood waiting. The Blue Moon glared down, but its light couldn’t touch him. The Wild Magic raged powerlessly around him. Jack looked up at the night sky. There ought to be stars. One by one the stars came out, pale and insignificant at first when seen against the Blue Moon, but gradually growing in strength as they spread across the night sky. There was a sudden flutter of wings as an owl swooped down out of the darkness, its wicked claws outstretched before it. Jack didn’t flinch, and at the last moment the owl veered aside rather than enter the pool of sunlight. The flapping of wings grew to a roar as hundreds of birds of all species came flying out of the night to swoop and soar around him. All the animals, small and large, every beast that had ever walked the Forest, came surging out of the darkness, snarling and clawing. Jack stood still and confident, and none of them could touch him. Scarecrow Jack felt the strength of the trees grow in him again. The birds and the animals disappeared. The light from the Blue Moon faded away and was gone, and night broke as the day returned. Jack stood alone in the open Forest glade on a bright summer’s day. He looked unhurriedly about him. Everything was as it should be. He nodded slowly and laid down on the mossy bank again.

  I have been dreaming. I will wake up now.

  He closed his eyes and let go.

  Hammer jerked awake, thrashing wildly about him, and then slowly relaxed as he realized where he was. He was safe in the border fort annex, and everything else had been a dream. Just a dream. He sighed shakily and sat up in his chair, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. He ran his fingers through his hair, and mopped the cold sweat from his face with his sleeve. He stopped suddenly to look at his hands, turning them over and over before him, searching for signs of the decay he remembered, but they were fine. He was fine. It was nothing but a dream, a memory of the past that had been distorted in his sleep.

  He looked across at the others. Jack was sleeping peacefully, but Wilde was moaning and writhing in his sleep. He suddenly started to choke, spittle flying from his lips as he fought for breath. Jack woke up and looked quickly about him. Hammer moved over to Wilde and shook him fiercely by the shoulders, calling his name. Wilde’s eyes flew open and he stared up horrified at Hammer before realizing where he was. And then he relaxed with a great shuddering sigh, and his breathing slowed and eased. He felt at his throat with a trembling hand and swallowed dryly. Hammer straightened up and stood back a pace to give him room.

  “Bad dream?” said Jack. Wilde nodded shakily. Jack frowned. “Same here. What about you, Hammer?”

  “I had a nightmare,” said Hammer, carefully keeping his voice calm and even. “So what? Maybe we’ve all got guilty consciences.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that,” said Jack. “This place is full of nightmares.”

  Hammer looked at him sharply. “How do you mean?”

  “The first time I was here,” said Jack, “I spent some time studying the Rangers. They were all asleep, even the one on guard duty. They were dreaming, and it didn’t look like pleasant dreams. What did you dream about, Hammer?”

  Hammer looked at him suspiciously for a moment, and then shrugged casually. “A bad time in my past. How about you?”

  “I dreamed the Forest turned back into the Darkwood. Wilde?”

  “My sins finally caught up with me,” said the bowman quietly. “Let’s get out of here, Hammer. I hate this place. It’s evil.”

  “Places aren’t evil,” said Hammer impatiently. “Only people are evil.”

  “That isn’t always true,” said Jack. “There are places in the Forest it’s wise to stay away from. Dark places. They were there before the coming of the long night, and they’re still there now it’s passed. You can feel the evil there, soaked into the wood and earth and stone like a dark stain that will never wash clean. This fort is just such a place. I can feel it. It’s no coincidence that everyone here is having bad dreams.”

  “Evil,” said Wilde doggedly. “This whole place stinks of blood and death. We’ve got to get out of here, Hammer.

  “When we’re so close?” said Hammer. “Have you lost your wits?”

  “I will if I stay here much longer. So will you. This fort is a killer. It looks like just another fort, but it’s alive and it wants us dead. Everything’s crazy here. Bad dreams, creatures that shouldn’t exist anymore, bloodstains and nooses and everybody gone—”

  Wilde’s voice rose hysterically. Hammer slapped him contemptuously across the face. Wilde’s voice broke off, and his hand dropped to the sword at his side. Hammer stood very still, his eyes locked on Wilde’s. The bowman’s face had suddenly come alive again, the frightened vagueness gone like a bad memory. His mouth was flat and hard, and his eyes were very dark.

  “Well?” said Hammer softly. “What are you going to do, Edmond? Hit me? Kill me? Don’t be a fool. You might have been a hero once, but that was a long time ago. You raise a hand against me and I’ll take it off at the wrist.”

  “I’m as good with a bow now as I ever was,” said Wilde. His voice was flat and firm, his gaze unwavering. “And I’m still pretty good with a sword.”

  “Yes,” said Hammer. “You are. But I’ve got Wolfsbane.”

  They stood looking at each other for a long moment. Jack looked uncertainly from one to the other. This was a new Wilde, a man he hadn’t seen before. There was strength and anger in Wilde’s face, and something that might have been dignity.

  “You’re my man now, Edmond,” said Hammer finally, “because without me you’re nothing. I’m the only chance you have to be somebody again, and you know it.”

  Wilde took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His hand fell away from his sword hilt. “Yes,” he said softly, bitterly. “I’m your man, Hammer.”

  Hammer smiled and nodded slowly. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled. There’s a hundred thousand ducats worth of gold hidden somewhere in this fort, just waiting for us to find it, and it’s going to take more than a few bad dreams to scare me away. I’m staying, and so are you. Is that clear, Edmond?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t hear you, Edmond. Is that clear?”

  “Yes! It’s clear!” Wilde turned his back on Hammer and walked quickly away to stand by the closed door. Anger still burned in his face, but the strength and the dignity were already fading away.

  “That’s better,” said Hammer. He turned to look at Jack, who shrugged.

  “I’m your man too, Hammer. For the time being.”

  “You’re my man until I say otherwise.” Hammer yawned and stretched slowly. “The Rangers should have had enough time to settle down by now. I think we’ll go down and take a look at the cellar, and see what there is to see.”

  He headed for the door, and Wilde opened it for him. They looked up and down the corridor, but it was empty for as far as they could see into the gloom. Everything was still and silent. Hammer looked back into the annex, and nodded for Jack to bring the torch and the lantern. Jack
brought them over to the doorway. Hammer took the lantern and held it out into the corridor. Shadows swayed around the new light, but the corridor remained empty. Hammer led the way down the corridor, and the three outlaws headed for the cellar.

  MacNeil led his team down the narrow passageway that led to the cellar. Flint and the Dancer followed close behind him, their quiet footsteps barely loud enough to raise an echo. Constance brought up the rear, muttering constantly under her breath. MacNeil assumed she was rehearsing spells. It was either that, or she was still mad at him for not trusting her Sight. He decided not to ask. He didn’t think he really wanted to know.

  MacNeil started to shiver as he stood at the top of the long series of stone steps that led down to the cellar door. His breath had begun to steam on the air again, and the walls ahead of him were patterned with white flurries of hoarfrost. MacNeil frowned. The cold spots worried him. They were becoming more frequent, appearing in places they’d never been before. He looked back at the others, and saw that they’d noticed the changes too. There didn’t seem much point in saying anything, so MacNeil just held his lantern higher to give more light, and started down the steps that led to the cellar.

  The door at the bottom of the steps was still closed. MacNeil looked at it carefully. It didn’t look any different from the last time he’d seen it, and yet something felt … wrong. He reached out with his free hand to touch the door, and then snatched his fingers away. The wood was freezing cold—cold enough to burn the skin from his fingertips if he’d left them there a moment longer. He pulled a length of rag from his pocket, wrapped it around his hand, and turned the door handle as quickly as he could. The door swung open a few inches as he pushed it with his boot, and then stuck fast. Flint moved in beside MacNeil as he put his piece of rag away, and then they both put their shoulders to the door. They got it halfway open before it stuck solid. The four Rangers filed into the cellar, and then stopped by the door and looked around them in silence.

  The floor and all four walls were thickly coated with ice, tinged pink by the bloodstains beneath, and long, jagged icicles hung down from the ceiling. The untidy heaps of junk that had been piled against the walls had disappeared under smooth coverings of frost, and the barrels weighing down the trapdoor had fused into a single huge mound of ice. The air was bitterly cold, searing the Rangers’ lungs and numbing their bare flesh.

  “Where’s the cold coming from?” said Flint quietly. “It’s still summer outside.”

  “It’s coming from below,” said Constance. “Something down in the tunnels doesn’t like the warmth of day.”

  MacNeil looked at her sharply. “You mean it’s woken up?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s just dreaming. Dreaming about how the world was when it last walked the earth.”

  MacNeil made his way carefully across to the iced-over barrels. The other Rangers spread out behind him, moving slowly and cautiously. The icy floor made for treacherous footing. MacNeil put down his lantern, drew his sword, reversed it, and struck down hard. The solid steel hilt chipped the ice, and fragments flew into the air, but there were still inches more between him and the barrels. MacNeil scowled and looked at the witch.

  “Use your magic, Constance. What’s under the trapdoor now?”

  The witch closed her eyes, and the Sight came strongly to her.

  The trapdoor was closed and bolted. The wood was oak from the Forest, newly fashioned when the fort was made. It still remembered leaf and sap and tree. The bolts were steel, cold iron, and closed to her mind. Beyond the trapdoor was darkness. It was very deep and very cold, and far below something stirred in its sleep. It dreamed constantly now, its power growing as it rose from the sleep of ages, and the dreams grew strong in the waking world. Even in its sleep the Beast knew that it was being watched, and Constance drew back as a single great eye slowly began to open. She shut down her Sight and opened her eyes, gasping for air. Her Sight had shown her some of the mind of the Beast and its intentions, and she knew beyond any shadow of doubt that to stare into its waking eye was death and worse than death.

  “Well?” said MacNeil. “What did you See?”

  Constance shook her head feebly. “The tunnels are empty. Whatever’s down there is much deeper in the earth.”

  “Any sign of the gold?”

  “None at all. But I think I know now what’s been happening here in the fort.” She had to stop and swallow hard. Her mouth was dry, and she felt sick. Even a fleeting contact with the Beast’s mind had left her feeling soiled and tainted. Flint and the Dancer looked at each other. MacNeil waited patiently. Constance took a deep breath and let it go slowly. It steadied her a little, and when she finally began to speak her voice was calm and even. Only her eyes still held some of the horror she felt at what she’d discovered.

  “I thought at first it was a demon, but it’s much older than that. It has slept here, deep in the earth, for centuries beyond count. Even the coming of the Darkwood did little more than disturb its dreams. But then men came and built a fort over it, and the clamor of their minds was too loud to be ignored. The creature stirred in its sleep, and its dreams went forth and found waking minds to feed on. The dreams drove everyone here out of their minds, and they killed each other in their madness. Their deaths fed the creature’s power, and it took their bodies down to itself. I don’t know why. Perhaps they’re food for when it wakes. Or bait … I don’t know. It’s very close to waking now. Its dreams have shape and power in the real world. And when the creature wakes … the world as we know it will come to an end.”

  She stopped and looked at MacNeil. “You have to kill it, Duncan. Now, before it wakes and comes into its full power. Go down into the dark and kill the Beast. If you can.”

  MacNeil stared back at her, and the silence lengthened. He didn’t want to believe her, but he had to. There was something in her face and in her eyes, something fey and knowing, that left no room for doubt.

  “If it’s that old and that powerful,” he said finally, “how the hell am I supposed to kill it? I’d need something really powerful, like the Infernal Devices, and those damned hellswords are lost and gone.”

  “No,” said Constance evenly. “One still remains. It’s here in the fort with us, carried by a man called Jonathon Hammer.”

  “Hammer?” said the Dancer. “He’s here?”

  MacNeil looked at him. “You know this man?”

  “Of him,” said Flint. “He’s a mercenary and proud of it. Sells his sword to the highest bidder and never asks questions. He’d kill his own mother if the money was right.”

  “He thinks he’s good with a sword,” said the Dancer. “Is he?” said MacNeil.

  The Dancer shrugged. “He’s good. But I’m better.”

  MacNeil turned back to Constance. “How did a man like that end up with one of the Infernal Devices?”

  “I don’t know,” said Constance. “The power in the sword shields it from my Sight. But it’s somewhere in the fort, and Hammer will bring it here. And then you and he will go down into the dark and slay the Beast. Or we will all die, horribly.”

  She turned away and stared fixedly at the heavy barrels covering the trapdoor, still buried in their cocoon of ice. The fey gleam in her eyes was very strong now. MacNeil looked at her unyielding back and moved away, nodding for Flint and the Dancer to join him. They did so, and the three Rangers stood together by the far wall, murmuring in hushed voices.

  “Just how much can we depend on her Sight?” asked Flint.

  “Hard to say,” said MacNeil. “She hasn’t Salamander’s experience, but there’s no doubting the strength of her magic. If she says there’s a creature buried in the earth, I’m inclined to believe her.”

  “But all that nonsense about dreams coming true,” said the Dancer. “Do you believe that?”

  “It would explain a lot of what’s been happening,” said MacNeil.

  “I don’t believe her,” said Flint. “I saw some pretty nasty things come up out of the e
arth in the Demon War. I was there when Prince Harald and the Princess Julia took on one of those creatures with two of the Infernal Devices, and even those hellswords were barely enough to kill it.”

  “There’s another thing,” said MacNeil, frowning. “I can’t believe this mercenary Hammer has actually got hold of one of the Infernal Devices. I mean, Flarebright and Wolfsbane were both lost in the Demon War. Weren’t they?”

  “Definitely,” said Flint. “I saw it happen. They fell into a great crack in the earth and were lost.”

  “And Rockbreaker was supposed to have been destroyed by the Dark Prince,” said the Dancer.

  “There were six Devices originally,” said MacNeil. “According to all the legends. Maybe one of the three missing blades has finally turned up.”

  “If it has, Hammer could well have it,” said Flint.

  “From what I’ve heard, he’s always had more than his fair share of luck. But if half the things I’ve heard about the Infernal Devices are true, I don’t envy him. Those swords were supposed to be utterly evil and corrupt.”

  “Yeah,” said the Dancer. “Just like Hammer.”

  “Ah, hell,” said MacNeil. “We’ll worry about that when he gets here. If he gets here. In the meantime, we’re still no nearer finding the gold. If it’s down in the tunnels with the creature …”

  “If,” said Flint. “The witch never said she Saw the gold. And there’s always the chance the creature’s using the possibility of gold as bait.”