Down Among the Dead Men (Forest Kingdom Novels)

  But there was a time when you wanted to. The demons came out of the long night faster than you could kill them, and you wanted to turn and run. And you might have, too, if the dawn hadn’t broken first. The sun rose and the long night fell and the demons retreated with the darkness. The dawn saved you. And now you’ll never know whether or not you would have run.

  MacNeil shut out the insistent whispering voice and concentrated on the darkness ahead. The tunnel seemed to be curving gradually downward, and he wondered uneasily just how deep it ran. His boots slid and skidded on the blood-soaked floor, and shadows ducked and weaved around him as the lantern rose and fell in his hand. He shot a quick glance at the Dancer, but he seemed entirely unperturbed, his face as calm and bland as it always was. And then the Dancer held up a hand and stopped suddenly. MacNeil stopped beside him.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  The Dancer shook his head. “Listen.”

  MacNeil frowned, concentrating, and in the distance he heard again the soft dragging sound, coming from deep in the tunnel. As he listened, he realized the sound was drawing gradually nearer. It was a sliding, bumping sound, as though something heavy was being dragged along the tunnel floor toward them. MacNeil put the lantern down on the floor behind him, safely out of the way. He glanced quickly at the Dancer, and saw that he was smiling. The two men stood together, swords at the ready, and waited for whatever it was to come to them.

  A huge form lurched out of the darkness ahead. At first it was only a pale gray shape filling the tunnel, but as it drew nearer MacNeil gradually realized he was facing a giant. Standing upright, it would have been twenty feet tall and more, but in the cramped confines of the tunnel it was forced to crawl on hands and knees like an animal. Its skin and hair were milky white, and its great staring eyes were blind. It was entirely naked, covered with dirt and foulness and fresh bloody smears from the tunnel. MacNeil wondered sickly how long it had lived underground, and what it had found to feed on, crawling through tunnels under the earth like a vast misshapen worm. Its hands were huge and broad, the stubby fingers tipped with long curving fingernails grown into claws. Its teeth were long and pointed, and the great wide face held no human emotions. Saliva dripped from the snarling mouth, and the giant sniffed at the air, as though searching for the scent that had brought it crawling up out of the depths of the earth. Its shoulders filled the narrow tunnel from side to side. Its back rubbed against the ceiling, and its hand and knees sank into the bloodstained floor.

  Look at the size of it, thought MacNeil dazedly. Look at the bloody size of it… .

  The crawling giant pulled itself slowly toward MacNeil and the Dancer, and they backed cautiously away as they realized it wasn’t alone. Behind it came another giant, and another. From farther down the tunnel came the sound of still more giants, hidden in the darkness. The giant in the lead raised its great head and howled like a hound, a horrid choking roar that echoed and reverberated throughout the tunnel. MacNeil and the Dancer winced at the awful sound, and the giant hauled itself forward with unexpected speed, the long muscular arms reaching blindly out for them.

  MacNeil stood his ground and lashed out at the nearest hand with his sword. The blade cut deep and grated on bone. The giant howled deafeningly and jerked its hand back. The sword stuck in the thick flesh, and MacNeil had to use both hands to pull it free. He staggered back, still dazed by the sheer size of his foe. The hand alone had to be a good two feet wide across the knuckles. He threw himself to the floor as the hand closed into a fist and swept ponderously through the air where he’d been standing. The fist slammed into the wall and the giant went berserk with rage, battering the walls with both fists as it tried to find its enemy. The Dancer moved in beside MacNeil as he scrambled backward out of range, his sword gleaming dully in the lantern light. The giant hauled itself forward, and the Dancer stepped inside its reach and cut both the creature’s wrists. A thick purple blood spurted into the air, and the giant howled once before swinging one fist with unexpected speed. The Dancer threw himself backward but couldn’t move fast enough. The giant hand just clipped his shoulder in passing, and the Dancer was thrown against the tunnel wall with numbing force.

  The giant pulled itself forward, the great white form filling the tunnel, battering the bloody walls and ceiling. Behind it, another crawling giant fought blindly to get past the first. MacNeil staggered to his feet, grabbed the lantern, and hacked at the giant’s arm. More blood flew into the air, but still the creature wouldn’t stop. MacNeil tried to reach the giant’s throat, but couldn’t get past the hammering fists. The Dancer moved forward to stand beside MacNeil, but even he couldn’t do more than slow the giant’s advance. Slowly, step by step, they were forced back down the tunnel. The giants howled and roared, the horrid sounds deafening in the enclosed space. MacNeil and the Dancer had almost reached the steps when the giant suddenly lunged forward. The left hand caught hold of MacNeil’s shoulder, and the right fastened onto the Dancer’s sword arm. MacNeil groaned as the huge hand crushed his shoulder in a vise-like grip, and the sword fell from his numbed hand. The Dancer’s face was white from the pressure on his arm, but somehow he still held onto his sword, though he hadn’t the strength to use it. The giant pulled them slowly forward, its mouth stretching wide to reveal huge, jagged teeth.

  There was a clatter of feet on the stairs behind them as Flint and Constance came charging down into the tunnel. Constance raised her hands and spoke a single Word of Power. A searing white light flashed down the tunnel from her upraised hands and struck the giant in the face. It screamed shrilly as the blazing heat burned away its face, leaving only charred bone and empty eye sockets. It dropped MacNeil and the Dancer and pawed feebly at its ruined head. The Dancer shifted his sword to his left hand, stepped forward, and cut the giant’s throat. Thick purple blood gushed out onto the tunnel floor, and the giant collapsed and lay twitching in its own gore. Behind it, another crawling giant tore at its flesh and began to pull itself past the unmoving body, still searching for prey.

  MacNeil snatched up his sword, and he and the Dancer retreated back to the steps. Constance still held the stance of summoning, a pure white force crackling between her hands. Flint stood at her side, sword at the ready. They stood guard as MacNeil and the Dancer pulled themselves exhaustedly up the stairs and out into the cellar. Flint went up next, and finally Constance lowered her hands and the fire went out. She scrambled up the steps and out into the cellar. MacNeil slammed the trapdoor shut after her and pushed home both the bolts. Barely a second later the trapdoor shuddered violently as a giant fist beat furiously against it from below. The hammering continued for several minutes while MacNeil and the others watched anxiously, and then it stopped, leaving only an echoing silence.

  Constance sat down suddenly, as though all the strength had gone out of her. MacNeil leaned on his sword and concentrated on getting his breathing back to normal. He realized he was still clinging desperately to his lantern, and put it down on the floor beside him. His hands were trembling now that the action was over, and not only from fatigue. Giants in the earth … perhaps that was what had happened to all the bodies. His mind’s eye showed him an army of crawling giants struggling up through the trapdoor, stealing the bodies and then dragging them back down to the secret places of the earth. He swallowed hard and shook his head to clear it. His hands and his breathing had steadied, and he looked cautiously at the others to see if they’d noticed his momentary weakness. Flint and the Dancer were sitting side by side. The Dancer was trying to clean his sword one-handed while Flint massaged some feeling back into the arm the giant had crushed. Constance was kneeling beside the trapdoor, staring at it worriedly.

  “What’s the matter?” asked MacNeil. “The trapdoor will keep the giants out. Won’t it?”

  “That’s the point,” said Constance slowly. “As far as I can See, the giants aren’t there anymore. They’ve just … gone. Vanished.”

  MacNeil looked at the trapdoor and then at t
he witch. “Just how dependable is your Sight at the moment?”

  “Not very. It comes and goes, and calling up balefire for you weakened my magic considerably. But I’m sure about this, Duncan. There’s nothing down there now. Nothing at all.”

  “That’s impossible,” said MacNeil. “Those giants were flesh and blood, not ghosts.”

  “The one I hit was very much alive,” said the Dancer. “I’ve still got most of its blood all over me.”

  Flint smiled fondly at him. “Your biggest bag yet. You should have brought the body back with you. We could have had it stuffed.”

  “I’ll remember next time,” said the Dancer.

  “There’s nothing down there now,” insisted Constance. “There’s no trace of the giants at all. Open the trapdoor and you’ll see I’m right.”

  They all looked at one another, but nobody said anything. Finally MacNeil hefted his sword and shrugged unhappily.

  “All right, dammit, let’s take a look. Everyone stand ready. Same procedure as before; if it moves, kill it.”

  The Dancer rose to his feet in a single lithe movement, the cleaning rag gone from his hand and his sword at the ready. Flint got to her feet a little more slowly and gave him a wry smile.

  “Show off.”

  Constance got up and moved back from the trapdoor, scowling worriedly. MacNeil hesitated and looked thoughtfully at the witch.

  “Can you call up that balefire again?”

  “No. Just using it once drained most of my strength. I’m a witch, not a sorceress, and I know my limitations.”

  MacNeil nodded and bent over the trapdoor. He stood listening for a moment, but couldn’t hear anything moving down in the tunnel. He hefted his sword, took a deep breath, and pulled back the two bolts. Everything was quiet. He braced himself, heaved the trapdoor open, and stepped quickly away. The trapdoor fell back onto the floor with a crash, but the dark opening was still and silent. The Rangers waited tensely, but nothing stirred in the darkness, MacNeil took his lantern and lowered it cautiously into the opening. For as far as he could see, the tunnel was empty. He looked back at the others.

  “Nothing. No sign they were ever there.”

  “I told you,” said Constance. “They’re gone.”

  “Looks like it,” said MacNeil. “But I’m not going down into the tunnel to check.” He started to close the trapdoor, and then stopped and looked closely at its underside. The heavy wood had been split and splintered by savage blows from giant fists. MacNeil shivered once, and then closed the trapdoor and bolted it. He thought for a moment and then looked at the others. “Help me move some of those heavy barrels on top of the trapdoor. I want this opening blocked off completely.”

  Between the four of them, they were able to manhandle two great casks stuffed with rusting ironwork onto the trapdoor. The wood creaked loudly under the weight of them. The Rangers leaned two more barrels against them, just to be sure, and then stepped back and admired their handiwork while they got their breath back.

  “That should hold them,” said MacNeil.

  “That would hold a rabid elephant,” said the Dancer. “And I should like at this stage to point out that I am a swordsman, not a laborer.”

  “Would you rather the giants got out and we had to fight them again?” asked MacNeil.

  The Dancer thought about it for a moment and then nodded eagerly.

  The trouble is, he probably means it, thought MacNeil.

  “We have a problem,” said Flint suddenly.

  “We have several,” said MacNeil. “Which did you have in mind?”

  “Well,” said Flint, “what if the gold is down there in the tunnels somewhere? How the hell are we going to get it out?”

  “We’re not,” said MacNeil firmly. “I’m damned if I’m going back down there armed only with a sword; they don’t pay me enough to do that. In fact, they couldn’t pay me enough. There isn’t that much money in the world. We’ll wait till the reinforcements get here, and let them figure out a way to get down there in force.”

  Flint and Dancer nodded soberly. Constance frowned but said nothing. MacNeil sighed quietly and stretched his aching muscles. He never used to get this tired after a sword fight. He must be getting out of condition; it was time to start dieting again. MacNeil scowled. He hated diets.

  “All right,” he said wearily, “let’s get out of here. You know, times are changing. I can remember when deserted forts just had rats in their cellars.”

  “Yeah,” said Flint. “Next time, let’s just put some poison down.”

  The Rangers laughed and left the cellar. In the darkness below, something stirred in its sleep.

  Hammer, Wilde, and Scarecrow Jack crowded into the reception hall and pulled the door shut behind them. The roar of the rain died away to a loud murmur, and they could hear themselves think again. They stopped to shake off the worst of the rain and then looked around them in the pale glow from Hammer’s lantern. Wilde produced flint and steel and lit a torch he took from a wall bracket. The flaring light filled the hall with an amber glow and unsteady shadows. Four horses regarded the newcomers with grave suspicion. The outlaws looked around them, taking in the bloodstained surroundings and the four empty nooses hanging from the overhead beam.

  “What the hell happened here?” said Wilde. “Hammer, you never told us it would be like this.”

  “Everything was normal here when I delivered the gold,” said Hammer slowly. “I knew something pretty bad must have happened when the fort fell out of contact, but this … I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway. Whatever happened here, it’s over now; those bloodstains have been dry for some time. Unless it interferes with us, it’s none of our business. Let’s just get the gold and get the hell out of here.”

  Wilde glowered uncertainly about him. “I don’t know, Hammer. I never banked on anything like this.”

  “Is that right?” said Hammer. “What did you think, that we could just walk in and out again, as easy as that? If you want to get rich, you have to be prepared to take a few risks.”

  “Calculated risks are one thing, Hammer. This is … different.”

  “Not going soft on me, are you, Edmond?” said Hammer. “I’d hate to think you were going soft on me.”

  Wilde met Hammer’s gaze for a moment, and then his eyes faltered and he looked away. “Have I ever let you down?”

  “Of course not, Edmond. You never let me down because you know that the first time you do, I’ll kill you. You don’t want to worry about what happened here, my friend, you want to worry about what I’ll do to you if you don’t stop wasting my time. Now then, we go that way to get down to the cellars. You go first.”

  Wilde looked at the door Hammer indicated. A wide, dark stain had soaked into the wood, and the heavy metal lock had been smashed apart from the other side. The bowman handed his torch to Jack without looking at him, and walked slowly over to the door. He drew his sword, hesitated for a long moment, and then suddenly pulled the door open and stepped quickly back, holding his sword out before him. There was only a dark corridor, silent and empty and daubed with old blood. Wilde hefted his sword but made no attempt to enter the darkness. Jack stepped forward and silently offered Wilde his torch back. Wilde took it and briefly nodded his thanks without looking around. He started down the corridor, and Jack followed him. Hammer brought up the rear, carrying his lantern in one hand and the sword from his hip in the other. The long sword hilt above his shoulder glowed very faintly in the dark.

  Shadows swayed menacingly around the three outlaws as Wilde led them deeper into the border fort. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet, and the air grew steadily colder. Scarecrow Jack looked warily about him, wishing he was back in the Forest. Ever since he’d entered the fort his instincts had seemed muffled and confused, but still he was sure that something awful had happened here, and not that long ago. The bloodstains bothered him. With so much blood spilled, why weren’t there any bodies? Maybe something ate them… . Jack frowned a
nd shook his head. Being indoors was getting to him. He hated being inside any house or building, behind walls and under roofs. They made him feel trapped, hemmed in. That was partly why he’d left his village all those years ago and made his home in the Forest. The Forest was alive; the stone and timber buildings were dead and silent. He felt more alive among the great trees than he ever had among his people. He went back occasionally to visit his family, but he always slept out of doors and he never stayed long.

  The border fort worried him in many ways. He found the thick stone walls oppressive. He kept feeling that they were crowding in around him. The ceiling was uncomfortably low, and he kept wanting to duck his head. It hadn’t bothered him too much the first time he’d entered the fort; he’d been so involved in his mission he hadn’t had time to think about where he was. But now he couldn’t seem to think about anything else. And above all that, there was a feeling … a feeling of something terrible, somewhere close at hand. Even with his instincts clouded, Jack knew it was there, just as he always knew where the hidden trails were in the Forest or what the weather was going to be. He tried to get some kind of feel for what it was he found so threatening, but his mind couldn’t seem to get it in focus. Whatever it was, it was very old and very deadly, and they were getting closer to it all the time.

  Scarecrow Jack wiped at the cold sweat on his face, and wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  Wilde led the way around a corner, and then stopped dead in his tracks. Jack and Hammer moved quickly forward to stand beside him. The corridor ahead was choked from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling with a thick, dirty gray webbing. At the edges it frayed into delicate individual strands, but the rest of the web was a sprawling, chaotic tangle that thickened at the center into a pulsing, solid mass. It was impossible to tell how far back the webbing went, but it looked to be several feet at least. Shadows moved in the web, dark shapes that came and went with unnerving speed. Some were small, barely a few inches wide, but others were easily the size of a man’s head, and a few were larger still. Every now and again Jack thought he caught a glimpse of burning blood red eyes. He sniffed cautiously at the cold air. It smelled foul, as though something dead and unburied lay close at hand.