The archer never talked about his background, but though his clothes were patched and filthy, they had originally been of a fairly high quality. His language was unfailingly coarse and vulgar, but the accent was often decidedly upper-class. Not that that proved anything. The only thing Jack was sure of where Wilde was concerned was that the man was a complete swine. The bowman all but worshiped Hammer as long as he was in earshot, but had all the loyalty of a starving weasel. Hammer kept him in line by fear and brutality. Wilde seemed to accept this as normal behavior where he was concerned. Jack smiled sourly. He could understand that. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing wrong with Wilde that hanging wouldn’t cure. He was a loud-mouthed, hypocritical, vicious bastard—nasty when drunk and unbearable when sober. He’d steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes, and then complain because there weren’t more of them. But still he was a master bowman, and Hammer said he has a use for him, so he stayed.
Jack sighed again. Of all the people in the world he could have become obligated to, it had to be Jonathon Hammer. He shrugged and padded out of the trees and into the clearing.
Wilde jumped, startled, and scrambled to his feet with his hand on his sword. He scowled shamefacedly when he saw who it was, and sank down beside the fire again.
“Our noble savage is back,” he growled to Hammer. Hammer ignored him and glared silently at Jack. He hadn’t even stirred when Jack made his dramatic entrance, but his eyes were very cold. “You took your time,” he said finally.
“It’s a big fort,” said Jack. “I looked everywhere, but there’s no sign of any of the gold. There are no bodies either, just a lot of blood. It’s been there some time. I got a good look at the Rangers who are staying there, but they spotted me, and I had to run for it.”
Hammer frowned. “Did they see enough of you to recognize who you are?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“That was careless of you,” said Hammer. “Very careless.”
He rose unhurriedly to his feet and lashed out with the back of his hand, sending Jack sprawling to the ground. He’d seen the blow coming but hadn’t been able to dodge it in time. Hammer was fast for his size. Jack scrambled back out of range and watched Hammer warily. He could feel blood trickling out of his left nostril, and he wiped it with the back of his hand, leaving an uneven crimson stream across his knuckles. Wilde chuckled happily. Jack ignored him and stood up slowly, ignoring the pain in his face. He didn’t say anything; he couldn’t. He owed Hammer. But once he’d helped Hammer to get his precious gold, all debts would be paid, and then Scarecrow Jack would vanish into the woods so quickly it would make Hammer’s head spin… .
Hammer sat down by the fire again, and after a moment Jack sat down opposite him.
“What did you learn at the fort?” said Hammer, his voice calm and relaxed, as though the sudden violence had never happened.
“Getting in and out of the fort is easy,” said Jack, gingerly patting his nose with his sleeve. “There are only four Rangers in there, and they can’t even mount a proper night watch. I don’t think they know where the gold is, either.”
“Maybe they’ve hidden it somewhere,” said Wilde.
“I looked all over the fort,” said Jack, still looking at Hammer. “There’s no sign of the gold anywhere.”
“Just four men,” said Hammer thoughtfully.
“Two men, two women,” said Jack. “One of the women is a witch.”
Wilde stirred uneasily. “A witch. I don’t like magic.”
“Witches die just as easily as anyone else,” said Hammer. “Providing you haven’t lost your touch with a bow.”
Wilde smiled lazily. He picked up his bow and strung it with a quick, practiced motion. He took an arrow from the quiver lying beside him and notched it to the string. He looked unhurriedly about him, his eyes searching the darkness beyond the firelight. And then he drew back the arrow, aimed, and let fly, all in a single fluid motion too fast for the eye to follow. A white owl fell out of the darkness and into the clearing, transfixed by Wilde’s arrow. It wriggled feebly on the clearing floor, blood staining its snowy breast. Jack darted over to kneel beside it. The bird’s struggles were already growing weaker. It looked reproachfully at Jack.
“You shouldn’t have followed me, my friend,” said Jack quietly. “I’m mixing with bad company these days.”
He took hold of the shaft just below the flight and snapped the arrow in two before pulling out the pieces as smoothly as he could. The owl hooted once softly and then was quiet. Fresh blood welled out from the ugly wound. Jack placed his left palm over the wound and closed his eyes. His mind went out to the Forest, and the trees gave him their strength. He took that strength, channeled it through him, and let it flow gently into the injured owl. The blood stopped flowing, and the wound knitted itself together and was gone. Jack opened his eyes and leaned back on his haunches. Magic took a lot out of him. The owl struggled back to its feet. It swayed unsteadily a moment, getting used to not dying after all, gave Jack a hard look, and then spread its wings and flew back into the familiar darkness of the Forest night.
Jack sensed a movement behind him and spun around, knife in hand. Wilde hesitated, an arrow already in position for another shot at the owl.
“Go on,” said Jack softly. “Give it a try. You might get lucky.”
Wilde looked at him uncertainly. “You wouldn’t kill a man over a bloody owl.” “Wouldn’t I?”
Wilde felt a sudden chill run through him. A man with a dagger was no match for an archer, let alone a master bowman, and yet … this was Scarecrow Jack, and the power of the trees was in him. Wilde felt a presence in the darkness around him, as though countless unseen eyes were watching—the eyes of the Forest… . The wind whispered in the branches of the trees around the clearing, and surely it was only his imagination that made it sound like voices.
“That’s enough, both of you,” said Hammer. The moment was broken, and Wilde slowly relaxed. He put down his bow and slipped the arrow back into his quiver. Hammer looked at Jack, and the dagger disappeared into his sleeve. Hammer nodded slowly. “Get your things together. We’re going back to the fort.”
“Now?” said Wilde. “In the middle of the night?”
“What’s the matter?” said Jack. “Afraid of the dark?”
Wilde shot him a venomous look. “I was thinking of the Rangers. They’ll be on the alert now, thanks to you.”
“They won’t be expecting us to try again tonight,” said Hammer. “And we can’t afford to wait. If they’re following regulation procedure, reinforcements for the fort will be here in a couple of days, and that means a full company of guards. We’ve got to get into the fort, find and remove the gold, and leave the vicinity, all in twenty-four hours or less, or we might as well forget it. Jack, what’s the weather going to be like?”
Jack scowled. “Pretty bad. There’s thunder on the way. I can feel it. And rain, lots of it. It’s going to be a bad storm, Hammer, and it’s going to break soon.”
“That could work for us, as a distraction.” Hammer’s right hand rose absently to caress the long leather-wrapped sword hilt beside his head. Jack didn’t like to watch when Hammer did that. It looked almost like patting an animal. The longsword worried Jack. Even through the silver scabbard, he could feel an unending hum of raw power. The sword had its own sorcery, and it wasn’t a healthy magic. In all the time he’d been with Hammer, Jack had never seen him draw the sword. Deep down, he hoped he never would. Hammer’s hand fell away from the sword hilt, and Jack relaxed a little.
“Wilde,” said Hammer slowly, “when you see the witch, kill her. Magic-users are always unpredictable, and we can’t afford to take any chances. Jack and I will take care of the other Rangers.”
Wilde nodded silently. Jack started to say something and then stopped himself. He remembered the witch. She was young and very pretty. But he didn’t owe her anything, and he did owe Hammer.
But not for always, Hammer. Not for al
ways.
He waited patiently at the edge of the clearing while Hammer put out the camp fire, and Wilde checked over his bow and arrows with surprisingly gentle fingers. Jack sat down on a handy tree stump and let his mind drift while he waited. As it had so many times recently, it took him back to the trap from which Hammer had rescued him.
It had been a simple trap, as traps go. Jack had been following deer tracks when he suddenly heard a clatter of disturbed birds nearby. He immediately froze in place, his rags blending him into the dappled shadows. Something must have frightened the birds for them to react so sharply, and Jack hadn’t survived nine years alone in the Forest by ignoring warning signs. After a while he eased silently through the trees in the direction the sound had come from, and ended up crouching motionless at the edge of a small clearing. A man was sitting on a tree stump in the middle of the glade, with his back to Jack. He wore a guard’s uniform, and a hand ax leaned against the stump by his boot. Jack stayed where he was for some time, watching and waiting, but the guard didn’t move. There was no sign of anyone else, so far. Jack frowned. They must be searching for him again. Maybe the price on his head had gone up. If so, the odds were the guard wasn’t in the Forest on his own. He’d better get out of here while he still could.
And yet there was something odd about that guard. Very odd. He still hadn’t moved a muscle, despite all the time Jack had spent watching him. His head was bent forward; maybe he was sleeping. Or ill. Or even dead. Jack scowled. He didn’t like the direction his thoughts were leading him, but he couldn’t ignore it. There weren’t many predators in this part of the Forest that would take on an armed man, but there were always the wolves… .
Jack bit his lower lip and frowned indecisively. Approaching an armed guard in an open clearing was not something to be undertaken lightly, but if there was a man killer loose in the Forest, he wanted to know about it. And anyway, he was curious. He smiled and shook his head. One of these days his curiosity was going to get him into trouble.
He stole silently out of the trees and into the clearing, looking quickly about him, ready to turn and run at the first sign of danger. Everything seemed normal. The sun shone down from a cloudless sky, and the air was pleasantly warm. Insects buzzed drowsily on the still air, and birds sang undisturbed in the trees. The clearing was empty apart from the guard, who still hadn’t moved. Jack drew the knife from his sleeve, just to be on the safe side, and crept forward one step at a time, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the guard’s back. He’d almost reached the seated figure when the ground suddenly gave way beneath his feet, and he fell into the concealed pit below.
He fell awkwardly and landed on the packed earth at the bottom of the pit with an impact that knocked all the breath out of him. He lay still for a time, gasping for air and then groaning quietly as the immediate pain
died slowly away. After a while his breathing steadied, and he was able to think coherently again. He tried cautiously to move his arms and legs, and a wave of relief swept through him when they all responded normally. A broken limb would have meant his death, even if he had managed to escape from the pit. Staying alive in the Forest wasn’t easy at the best of times, and the woods knew nothing of mercy. Jack sat up slowly, wincing at his various cuts and bruises. He looked at the circle of light above him, and saw he’d fallen a good nine or ten feet. He’d been lucky; he could have broken his neck. He scrambled to his feet and stood still, listening carefully. He couldn’t hear anything. Whoever had set the trap might not be around. With just a little luck he could climb out of the pit and be gone before they came back. Jack searched the sides of the pit for hand-and footholds, and then cursed disgustedly. The walls were nothing but loose earth that crumbled away under his fingers. There was no way it could support his weight while he climbed.
Jack looked up at the bright circle of light. Nine or ten feet, and it might as well be nine or ten miles. He had no more hope of climbing out of the pit than he had of flying out. He tried anyway, just to be cussed, but it did no good. He retrieved the knife he’d dropped in his fall, and tried cutting handholds in the walls, but it was no use. He put the knife back in his sleeve, sat down on the bottom of the pit, and waited for his captors to show up. There was always the chance they wouldn’t kill him straightaway. They might decide to take him to the nearest town for an official hanging, and that meant chances to escape, if he kept his wits about him. Jack smiled sadly. It was a nice thought, but that was all. He’d escaped too many times in the past for them to take any chances. If they had any sense at all, they’d just shoot an arrow into him while he was still in the pit, and then take in his head for the reward.
Jack leaned back against the earth wall and looked up at the sky. It was bright and clear and very blue. He was in his Forest. There were worse ways to die.
The light above him was suddenly blocked by a man’s head and shoulders. Jack scrambled to his feet and reached for his knife. There was no real point in trying to dodge an arrow, but he’d go out fighting anyway, just to spite them. He was Scarecrow Jack.
“Hello, down there,” said a man’s voice.
“Hello, yourself,” said Jack. His voice wanted to shake, but he wouldn’t let it.
“Looks like you’re in a spot of bother,” said the man.
“Looks that way.”
“I take it you’re Scarecrow Jack?”
“Depends.”
The man laughed easily. “Lucky for you I come along. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t go away.”
He disappeared, and Jack’s spirits rose cautiously. Maybe he had got lucky after all. The man returned and threw down a coil of rope. Jack tugged on it a few times to be sure it would take his weight, and then climbed up the rope and out of the pit. He moved quickly away from the edge and stared warily at his rescuer. The man was clearly a soldier of some kind by his stance and his clothes and the sword on his hip, but he wore no insignia of rank or loyalty. He was a big man with an amiable enough face, but Jack’s eyes were drawn to the long sword hilt that stood up behind the man’s left shoulder. Even from a few feet away Jack could feel the power that lay dormant in the sword, waiting to be called into action. Jack began to wonder if he might not have been safer in the pit after all.
“Thanks,” he said carefully. “You might just have saved my life.”
“Could be,” said the man. “How did you end up in a stupid trap like that?”
Jack shrugged. “I always was too curious for my own good.” He looked around at the guard sitting on the tree stump, and wasn’t surprised to see he was still sitting there, apparently uninterested in what was happening behind him. Jack walked over to the motionless figure and looked him in the face. It was a dummy—convincing enough from a distance, but still just a dummy. Jack laughed in spite of himself.
“Set a scarecrow to catch a Scarecrow. Neat. Almost elegant. And it would have worked, if you hadn’t come along. My thanks.”
“I want more than that,” said the man calmly.
Jack looked at him warily, his right hand drifting casually toward the knife in his sleeve.
“Don’t,” said the man. “Don’t even think about it. You wouldn’t want me to draw my sword, would you?”
“No,” said Jack. “I wouldn’t.”
“My name is Jonathon Hammer. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead. You owe me your life, Scarecrow Jack. I’ll accept a few months’ service from you in payment for your debt. Is that acceptable?”
Jack thought about the pit, and Hammer’s sword, and nodded slowly. “Yes. For the next two months, I’m your man.”
“Good. I’d heard you were an honorable man, in your way. Do what I tell you, when I tell you, and we’ll get along fine. You might even get rich. But if you should ever consider betraying me …”
“My word is good,” said Jack coldly. “I don’t break it. Ever.”
“Yes,” said Jonathon Hammer, smiling slightly. “That’s what I heard.”
That had been two weeks ago, and th
ey were shaping up to be the worst two weeks of Jack’s life. More than once he contemplated just walking out on Hammer and Wilde, and disappearing back into the Forest, but he couldn’t. Scarecrow Jack was an honorable man, and he always paid his debts.
Hammer and Wilde were finally ready to leave, and Jack led them back through the Forest to the border fort. The sooner this was over, the better he’d like it. And yet … in the end he hadn’t said anything, because they’d only have laughed, but there was definitely something wrong about the border fort. Something unnatural. He could feel it in his water. He decided to say nothing for the time being, but keep his eyes and ears open.
He had a bad feeling his problems weren’t anywhere near being over.
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
Dreams in the Waking World
The storm finally broke over the Forest. Thunder roared and lightning flared, and the rain came down in solid sheets, slamming through foliage and bouncing back from the Forest floor. Open trails quickly became a morass of mud and soaking mulch. Birds and animals shuddered in their lairs at the continuous pounding of the rain, and in all the Forest nothing moved save three determined outlaws, already soaked to the skin.
The thunder rolled on and on, barely pausing long enough for the intermittent flashes of lightning that lit the Forest in stark black and white. The outlaws moved slowly from cover to cover, wading through deep puddles and treacherous mud, slipping and sliding and falling painfully until only Hammer’s will kept them moving. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds, and the party’s lantern light couldn’t travel far through the rain. Scarecrow Jack’s woodcraft was tested to the limit as familiar landmarks became strange and unfamiliar, but finally he brought them back to the edge of the great clearing. The three outlaws sheltered under a tree and studied the dim silhouette of the border fort through the driving rain.