“That sounds a bit too deliberate for me,” said the Dancer. “The creature’s supposed to still be asleep, remember?”
“Believe me, I hadn’t forgotten,” said MacNeil dryly. He looked at the huge mass of ice squatting over the trapdoor, the barrels inside it only visible as shadows, and frowned unhappily. “If Hammer is on his way down here, we’ve got to get that trapdoor open before he gets here. I want to be one step ahead of him all the way. If he really has got an Infernal Device, we’re going to need every bit of an advantage we can scrape together.”
“It’ll take hours to break through that much ice,” said Flint. “And there’s no guarantee the ice is confined to this room alone. The tunnels could be full of ice for all we know.”
“No,” said MacNeil. “Constance would have said.” An idea struck him, and he looked quickly across at the witch. “Constance, can you use your magic to clear away this ice?”
“Yes,” said Constance steadily, “I can. But a spell of that magnitude will take pretty much everything I’ve got. All magic has its limits, and I’m close to the edge of mine. I might not even be able to use the Sight anymore.”
“Cast the spell,” said MacNeil.
Constance nodded, closed her eyes, and concentrated all her strength and power into one potent spell. Magic stirred sluggishly within her and then flared up, assuming shape and form. Constance spoke a single Word of Power, and the mound of ice over the trapdoor exploded. Icy splinters flew into the air like grapeshot, but none came anywhere near the four Rangers. Several icicles fell from the ceiling, dislodged by the force of the explosion, and crashed to the floor. Great cracks appeared in the ice covering the floor and walls. The Rangers slowly lowered the arms they’d raised to protect their heads, and looked over at the trapdoor. The four heavy barrels had been blasted into kindling, and the trapdoor itself lay bare and defenseless in the middle of the icy floor.
MacNeil nodded approvingly to Constance. “Very impressive.”
“It ought to be. It cost me enough.”
“How much magic do you have left?”
“Some. The rest will return in time.”
“How much time?”
The witch shrugged. “A few hours, a few days. It depends on how much of a strain I’m under.”
“All right,” said MacNeil. “Take it easy for a while.”
“Chance would be a fine thing,” muttered Flint behind him. “I haven’t had a moment to myself since we got here.”
MacNeil pretended not to hear that and moved over to the trapdoor. He squatted on his haunches beside it and ran his fingertips lightly over the two steel bolts. They were uncomfortably cold, but there was no trace of the unnatural sliminess he’d felt earlier. MacNeil glanced back at Flint and the Dancer, and smiled slightly as he saw that they were both standing well back with their swords drawn and at the ready. Constance was standing beside them. Her face was calm, but her eyes were worried. MacNeil looked back at the trapdoor. He remembered the crawling giants pulling themselves through the dark tunnels, and shuddered briefly in spite of himself. He took a deep breath and then pulled back the first bolt. It slid easily into place, with hardly a sound. The second bolt came free just as easily. MacNeil pursed his lips. Maybe Constance’s magic had loosened them. And maybe whatever was waiting under the tunnels wanted the trapdoor opened… . MacNeil’s palms were wet with sweat despite the cold, and he stopped to wipe them dry on his trousers before taking hold of the great steel ring in the center of the trapdoor. He took a firm grip and pulled hard, and the trapdoor swung up and back with a muffled squeal. The opening was full of darkness.
MacNeil looked at the underside of the trapdoor, and his lips thinned away from his teeth in disgust. The dented and battered wood was soaked with fresh, dripping blood. Maggots writhed and squirmed in the wood in the hundreds. A gust of air wafted out of the opening, thick with the stench of rotting meat. Flint swore harshly, and the Dancer swept his sword back and forth before him. Constance stood and watched, impassive as a statue. MacNeil leaned over the opening and looked down into the darkness. He couldn’t make out a damn thing. He knew there was a flight of wooden steps just below the edge of the opening, but the darkness turned aside his gaze with contemptuous ease. It was like looking up into a starless night sky; the dark just seemed to fall away forever. MacNeil felt suddenly dizzy, as though he was staring down from a great height, and he tore his eyes away from the darkness. And then he froze, as from far below came a single great roar of sound, like the insane neighing of some monstrous horse. The sound rose and rose until it seemed to echo and reverberate in MacNeil’s bones, and then it suddenly stopped. The silence seemed very loud. MacNeil slammed the trapdoor shut, pushed home both the bolts, and backed quickly away.
“What the hell was that?” said the Dancer softly.
“The Beast,” said Constance. “It sleeps very lightly now.”
“Are you sure you want to go down there, Duncan?” said Flint, looking dubiously at the closed trapdoor.
“No, I’m not sure,” said MacNeil. “But that’s the only way we’re going to find out what happened to the gold and the missing bodies.”
“Personally, I’m mostly interested in the gold,” said Hammer.
The Rangers spun around to find Hammer, Wilde, and Scarecrow Jack standing together by the open cellar door. Wilde had an arrow nocked to his bow, aimed impartially at all the Rangers. Constance smiled slightly.
“Come in,” she said easily. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Hammer raised an eyebrow at the Rangers’ bloodstained appearance, and then looked calmly at MacNeil. “Put down your swords. Wilde here is a master bowman. He’s very quick, and he never misses.”
The Dancer chuckled quietly. “I’m a Bladesmaster. Tell him to put his bow away, or I’ll make him eat it.”
Wilde studied him coldly. “I’ve already killed one Bladesmaster in my time. He died just as easily as any other man.”
The Dancer’s eyes narrowed. “So that was you. From what I’ve heard, the situation was very different then. Still, you never know. Go ahead, Wilde. Give it a try. Who knows, you might get lucky.”
Wilde grinned slowly, and his eyes were very cold.
“Don’t, Edmond,” said Flint quickly. She stepped forward a pace so that Wilde could see her clearly. He looked at her for a long moment, and then lowered his bow.
“Hello, Jessica. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” “Nine, ten years.”
“Yes. It must be all of that. You’re looking good, Jess.”
“Wait a minute.” The Dancer looked from Flint to Wilde and back again. “You two know each other?”
“Oh, we know each other very well,” said Wilde, grinning. “Don’t we, Jess?”
“That was a long time ago,” said Flint. “Things have changed since then. You’ve changed a lot, Edmond. What the hell are you doing, traveling with scum like Hammer?”
Wilde shrugged. “I’m his man. For the time being.”
“You used to be a hero,” said Flint. “What happened to you?”
“The world changed,” said Wilde, “and I lost my way.”
“Reluctant as I am to interrupt such a tender reunion,” said Hammer, “I do have some business to take care of here.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” said Jack quietly. “Four Rangers, and one of them a Bladesmaster? The odds stink, Hammer. I’m all for a swift retreat, myself.”
“Shut up,” said Hammer. “Sergeant MacNeil, I think perhaps you and I had better have a little talk. Just the two of us.”
“Yes,” said MacNeil. “I think that’s probably a good idea. We can talk over there, by the trapdoor, well away from both our people.”
Hammer nodded. “A truce. For the time being.”
“Agreed,” said MacNeil. He slid his sword back into its scabbard, and after a moment Hammer did the same. The foot-long hilt of the longsword strapped to Hammer’s back seemed to peer mockingly at MacNeil as Hammer handed Jack his lantern and
walked over to the trapdoor. Flint tapped MacNeil lightly on the arm, and he bent his head forward slightly so that she could whisper to him unobtrusively.
“Don’t trust him, Duncan. Word is, he’s loyal only to himself. His word’s worthless, even when backed with guarantees.”
“Thanks,” said MacNeil quietly. “Unfortunately, we need all the help we can get if we’re going to take on whatever’s waiting down there in the tunnels. And Jessica, while we’re talking … keep Wilde occupied. All right?”
“Sure,” said Flint. “No problem.”
MacNeil moved casually over to join Hammer by the trapdoor. They stood in silence a while, sizing each other up. They were both big men, hard and muscular, and each of them recognized in the other the strength of spirit that comes from constant testing in adversity.
Hammer was quietly impressed by the calm, confident strength he sensed in the Ranger Sergeant, but he had no doubt he could bend MacNeil to his will. Everyone bowed to him eventually. In the meantime, best to play the gentleman and throw the Ranger off guard with honeyed words. They needed each other. For now.
MacNeil wasn’t sure how he felt about Hammer, but he had no doubts about the longsword on Hammer’s back. Even without Constance to tell him, he felt sure he would have recognized the Infernal Device for what it was. This close, the sword grated on his nerves like an unending shriek in the still of the night. MacNeil wondered if Hammer really knew what he carried on his back.
“You want the gold,” said MacNeil bluntly. “I’m more interested in the creature that’s down there with it.”
“Creature?” said Hammer. “What creature?”
MacNeil nodded at Constance. “Our witch has the Sight. She says there’s something old and nasty buried deep in the earth below us. It’s sleeping very lightly. She calls it the Beast. It’s responsible for everything that’s happened here.”
“I take it you’ve already had some contact with this Beast,” said Hammer, nodding at the blood that soaked MacNeil’s clothing.
“When we first opened the trapdoor, a fountain of blood came flying out. Gallons of the stuff. The tunnels under the cellar are dripping with blood.”
Hammer frowned. “Where’s it all coming from?”
“The Beast,” said MacNeil. “It knows what scares us.”
Hammer nodded slowly. “So, a merger between your people and mine, to destroy the Beast. Right?”
“Right.”
“I see. And what exactly do I get out of this deal?” “For helping to recover the missing gold, you’d be entitled to a reward,” said MacNeil.
Hammer smiled easily. “Why should I settle for a fraction of the gold when I could take all of it?”
“Because you’d have to fight your way past both us and the Beast to get it, and the odds aren’t nearly as much in your favor as you like to think. Wilde’s good with a bow, but we’ve got the Dancer. And whilst your sword is undoubtedly impressive, you don’t have the faintest idea of what’s waiting for you in the tunnels under this cellar.”
Hammer’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about my sword?”
“It’s an Infernal Device.”
Hammer nodded slowly. “Yes. Wolfsbane.”
“I thought that was lost in the Demon War.”
“It was. I found it. Or it found me.” He shivered suddenly, and for a moment his eyes held a desperate, haunted look that vanished almost as soon as MacNeil recognized it. “All right, MacNeil, a joint venture. You seem to have the most experience with this Beast. What do we do first?”
“First,” said MacNeil, “you and I go down through the trapdoor and see how the land lies.”
Hammer gave him a hard look. “Just the two of us.”
MacNeil smiled. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Hammer? Our witch says the Beast is sleeping. The two of us on our own might be able to creep up on it undetected. Besides … I don’t trust this fort. Strange things have been happening here. There’s always the possibility the Beast is using the gold as bait to lure us down to it. If that’s so, I don’t want us all down in the tunnels. It’s far too convenient a place for an ambush. I’ll feel a lot better knowing there’s someone up here guarding our backs.”
“All right,” said Hammer. “Let’s do it.”
MacNeil looked over to where Flint and the Dancer and Wilde were talking. They seemed to be getting on well enough. At least Wilde and the Dancer weren’t actually trying to kill each other.
When MacNeil had first moved away to talk with Hammer, Flint found herself facing Wilde without any idea of what to say to him. Keep him occupied, MacNeil had said. But what the hell was there to say? This wasn’t the man she remembered from the last great battle of the Demon War. That man had been coarse and vulgar, even brutal on occasion, but he had also been brave and forthright and obsessively honest in his dealings with people. This new Wilde had a face grown tired and hard, with lines of practiced brutality etched clearly around the eyes and mouth.
“You’re looking well, Jess,” said Wilde. “How long have you been a Ranger?”
“Eight years. Maybe a little more. How long have you been an outlaw?”
Wilde shrugged. “I’ve lost track. The years tend to fade into each other after a while.”
“You never told me you knew Edmond Wilde,” said the Dancer to Flint.
Wilde grinned. “Times change, eh, Jess? There was a time when people used to boast they knew me, even when they didn’t. Now even my friends disown me. Harsh old world, isn’t it?”
Flint met his gaze steadily. “You’re not the man I knew. The Edmond Wilde I remember wasn’t a rapist and a murderer.”
“You never did know me that well,” said Wilde.
“I’m relieved to hear it,” said the Dancer. “I’d hate to think she spent her time mixing with bad company.”
“What’s the matter, Dancer?” asked Wilde. “Afraid it might be contagious?”
“Don’t push your luck,” said the Dancer, very softly. “And stay away from Jessica.”
Wilde laughed. “If I want her, I’ll take her. And there’s nothing you or anybody else can do to stop me. I’m better with a bow than you’ll ever be with a sword. I’m the best there is.”
Flint dropped a hand onto the Dancer’s arm as he reached for his sword. “No, Giles! We need him!”
The Dancer looked at her, his face cold and impassive. “All right, Jessica. He’s safe. For now.”
Deliberately he turned his back on Wilde and walked away to be by himself. Wilde watched him go, grinning.
“You’re a fool to taunt the Dancer like that,” said Flint dispassionately.
“I can deal with him.”
“No, you can’t,” said Flint. “He’d kill you.”
“Would that matter to you?” said Wilde slowly. “It’s been a long time since my death mattered to anyone.”
“Friends are rare enough in this world. I wouldn’t want to lose any of them.”
“Even an outlaw like me?”
“Even you, Edmond. I still remember the way you fought outside the castle walls, standing back to back with me against all the demons in the long night. They even wrote a song about you.”
“Bet they don’t sing it anymore.” Wilde smiled gently at Flint, and some of the harsh lines faded from his face. “I loved you once, Jess. And you said you loved me.
“That was a long time ago,” said Flint. “We were different people then.”
“Were we?” said Wilde, but Flint had already walked away to join the Dancer.
Scarecrow Jack and the witch called Constance had passed the time chatting pleasantly. She helped him find a secure place for his torch and the lantern Hammer had given him, and he thanked her shyly. Constance brought him up to date on what-she’d discovered about the Beast, and he was able to confirm some of her guesses through his own Forest magic. Constance found his magic intensely fascinating and not a little disturbing. Jack’s communion with the Forest owed nothing to the High Magic sh
e’d spent her life studying; his power came from the Wild Magic, the old, mercurial force that linked man with reality itself. She was also rather worried to discover that Jack seemed just as scared of the Beast as she was. If a legend like Scarecrow Jack didn’t know what to do for the best, what hope did she have? Constance put the thought firmly to one side. She’d worry about facing the Beast when she had to, and not before. And so she and Jack talked quietly together, and never once looked across at the trapdoor.
MacNeil slid back the two bolts and hauled the trapdoor open. Once again a vile stench issued from the dark opening, filling the cellar. MacNeil let the trapdoor fall backward onto the floor, and stepped back a pace. Jack batted a hand feebly before his face, as though searching for fresher air. Hammer looked warily into the opening, his hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.
“It smells like something died down there,” he said finally.
“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” said MacNeil. He retrieved his lantern from where he’d left it, got down on one knee beside the opening, and gingerly lowered the lantern into the darkness. The pale light showed the first steps leading down into the darkness, all of them caked with dried blood. MacNeil moved the lantern about, showing Hammer glimpses of the bloodstained walls. Hammer looked at MacNeil.
“This is a setup,” he said flatly. “Whatever’s down there has to know we’re coming. It’s waiting for us.”
“Seems likely,” said MacNeil. “But I’m still going down. Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
Hammer started to say something and then stopped, staring silently at the dark opening. MacNeil got unhurriedly to his feet again.
“I’m going with you,” said Jack suddenly.
MacNeil and Hammer looked quickly around to find Jack standing behind them. They exchanged a glance as they realized neither of them had heard him approach. Jack said nothing more. He just stood there, smiling gently, waiting for them to make their decision. MacNeil looked at him thoughtfully. So this was the legendary Scarecrow Jack, the wild free spirit of the Forest. He didn’t look as impressive as MacNeil had thought he would. His clothes were little more than rags, and though he’d apparently been through a recent drenching, he still looked and smelled as though he hadn’t bathed since he was baptised. And yet there was something about him … something in the calm face and steady gaze that made MacNeil want to trust him. Even if he was Hammer’s man. MacNeil shrugged mentally. If Scarecrow Jack was half the man his legend made him out to be, he’d be a useful ally in the tunnels under the cellar, and right now he could use an ally he could safely turn his back on.