Down Among the Dead Men (Forest Kingdom Novels) (3 page)

“You said this was a new fort,” she said suddenly, not looking at MacNeil. “Do you know why it was built here? Is there anything about this location I ought to know?”

“You already know most of it,” said MacNeil. “The border between the Forest Kingdom and Hillsdown runs right through the middle of this clearing. The fort is here to stabilize this stretch of the frontier, nothing more. It worked quite well … until just recently.”

Constance frowned. “Hillsdown doesn’t have much in the way of sorcerers or magicians, not that I’ve ever heard of. Taking out a fort this size would require sorcery far beyond Hillsdown’s means.”

MacNeil looked at her thoughtfully. “Can you sense anything here? Anything magical, or immediately dangerous?”

Constance closed her eyes and gave herself to the Sight. Her mind’s eye opened, and scenes and feelings came to her. The fort was cold and empty, like an abandoned coffin, but still there was something … something awful, not far away. She concentrated, trying for more detail, but her Sight remained obstinately vague. There was definitely something dangerous close at hand; there was a feeling of power about it, and a stronger feeling of
wrongness
. A slow beat of pain began in her forehead, and the images became blurred and muddy. Constance sighed and opened her eyes again. As always, the Sight left her feeling drained and tired, but she kept her voice calm and steady as she spoke to MacNeil. She didn’t want him thinking of her as the weak link in his team. It was obvious he already considered her no replacement for his precious Salamander.

“There’s something here, Sergeant, but I can’t get a clear picture of it. It’s some kind of magical presence, very powerful and very old, but that’s all I can See.”

Something old
, thought MacNeil.
That’s twice she’s used the word
old
in connection with this fort, despite knowing how recent it is
.

“All right,” he said finally. “First things first. If we’re going to spend the night here, we need a place we can defend, and this courtyard definitely isn’t it. Flint, Dancer, you check out the stables and then see to the horses. Constance, you come with me. I want to take a look at those barracks.”

Flint and the Dancer nodded, and moved off toward the stables. MacNeil headed for the barracks on the opposite side of the courtyard and the witch hurried after him, not wanting to be left on her own, even for a moment. The silence was beginning to get to her, and the vague image she’d Seen disturbed her deeply. In some strange way she felt as though she ought to recognize it.

MacNeil noticed her haste in joining him, and was careful not to smile. He was grateful for the company himself. He came to a halt before the barracks door and studied it closely. Like all the other doors he’d seen in the courtyard, it stood slightly ajar. MacNeil pursed his lips thoughtfully. If there was a pattern or reason to it, he couldn’t see it yet. He pushed the door gently with the toe of his boot, and it swung smoothly open. MacNeil hefted his sword and stepped forward into the gloom of the barracks.

Light filtered past the closed shutters and spilled in from the open door. MacNeil stepped quickly in and to one side. A silhouette against an open door made too good a target. He pulled Constance over beside him and they stood together in silence a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the gloom. There was a thick layer of dust everywhere, and dust motes spun slowly in the narrow shafts of sunlight. The air had a damp, musty smell that was subtly disturbing.
It smells more like a mausoleum than a barracks
, thought MacNeil, and then wondered why that particular comparison had occurred to him. A single chair lay on its side in the middle of the floor, between two rows of beds. There were dark stains spattered across the chair, as though it had been flecked with paint. MacNeil heard Constance draw in a sharp breath, and then a sudden brilliance flooded the barracks as the witch held up her right hand. MacNeil cursed irritably and shielded his dazzled eyes with his free hand.

“Next time, warn me first.”

“I’m sorry,” said Constance breathlessly, “but look at the chair, Duncan. Look at the chair… .”

The dark stains on the chair were blood—old, dried blood. MacNeil lowered his hand and looked quickly about him. There were fifty beds in all, set back against the walls in two neat rows. On every bed the rumpled blankets were soaked with long-dried blood.

“My God,” said Constance quietly. “What the hell happened here?”

MacNeil shook his head, unable to speak. In the silvery light that glowed from the witch’s upraised hand, he could clearly see the great crimson splashes on the walls and floor and ceiling. It was like walking into an abandoned abattoir. Most of the bedclothes had been hacked and cut apart by swords or axes, while two beds had been literally torn to pieces. Splinters lay scattered across the floor, and a half-dozen thick wooden spikes had been driven into one wall like so many jagged nails.

MacNeil moved forward slowly. Constance stayed where she was by the door, the silver light still blazing from her hand. MacNeil vaguely prodded the nearest bed with his sword. He felt strangely numb, unable to take in what had happened. He was no stranger to blood and violence and sudden death, but there was something horribly pathetic about the empty bloodstained beds. What kind of creature could have killed fifty guards in their barracks and then disposed of their bodies, all without leaving any trace of its own presence? He hadn’t seen an atrocity like this since the Demon War. And there were no demons in the Forest anymore. MacNeil crouched beside the bed and looked underneath it. There was nothing there but more dust and dried blood.

So much blood
…

He straightened up and looked back at the witch by the door. “Constance.”

“Yes, sir?”

“What can you See here?”

The witch closed her eyes and opened her mind. The light from her hand snapped off, and darkness fell upon the barracks once again. MacNeil gripped his sword tightly, blinded by the sudden loss of light. He peered about him into the gloom, listening warily for any sound of something sneaking up on him under cover of the sudden darkness, but all was still and silent. His eyes slowly adjusted again, and he could just make out Constance standing very still beside the open door. As he watched, she sighed and turned her head to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said tightly, “I can’t See anything. I should be able to, but I can’t. Something here in the fort, or very close by, is blocking my Sight.”

MacNeil frowned. “Could it be a natural blind spot?”

“I don’t know. But haven’t you noticed? It’s cold in here. Very cold.”

“It’s bound to be, now we’re out of the sun. It’s the thick stone walls.”

“No,” said the witch. “It’s more than that.”

MacNeil noticed for the first time that his breath was steaming on the still air. He tightened his grip on his sword hilt, and found he could barely feel it. His fingers were numb from the cold. It had crept up on him so slowly he hadn’t even noticed.

“I think we’d better get out of here,” he said softly. “For the time being.” He backed away toward the door, his sword held out before him. There was no sign of any immediate danger, but for some reason he didn’t want to turn his back on the bloodstained beds. He reached the open door and found Constance had already stepped out into the courtyard. MacNeil paused a moment in the doorway. Fifty beds. So much blood … He stepped out into the courtyard and pulled the door firmly shut. He scowled at the closed door and then looked at Constance. Her face was pale but composed.

“Where next?” she said evenly.

MacNeil nodded at the main entrance. “That door should lead into the reception hall. Perhaps we’ll find some answers there.”

He strode quickly across the courtyard, and Constance followed close behind him. The open yard seemed almost uncomfortably warm after the chill of the barracks. He pushed the door open and entered the reception hall with his sword at the ready. It looked like any other hall in any other fort, a simple, unadorned chamber with one desk and a half-dozen uncomfortable-looking chairs. Everything seemed normal, apart from the four nooses that hung from the overhead beam, the thick ropes dangling limply in the still air. The hangman’s knots looked amateurish but effective. Beneath the nooses, four chairs lay on their sides on the floor. MacNeil stood just inside the door and swallowed dryly. It was only too easy to visualize four men being forced to stand on the chairs while the nooses were tightened around their necks. And then the chairs would have been kicked away, one by one… .

“Maybe some of them went mad,” said Constance slowly.

“It can happen,” said MacNeil. “Like cabin fever. Take a group of armed men and confine them in a limited space for a long period with nothing to do, and they’ll crack sooner or later. But any commander worth his salt knows the danger signs and takes steps to deal with it. No one said anything about this fort having a bad record; as far as I know there were no indications that anything was wrong … No, it doesn’t make sense. If four men were hanged here, where are their bodies? Why take them down and leave the nooses? Nothing about this place makes any sense. Yet. But more and more I get the feeling something terrible must have happened here.”

“Yes,” said Constance oddly. “Something terrible. And I think it’s still happening.”

MacNeil looked at her sharply. The witch’s eyes were vague and faraway, and there was something in her face that might have been fear.

Flint and the Dancer stood just inside the stable doors and stared silently about them. Light poured in from the open doors, pushing back the shadows. The heavy wooden stalls had been smashed into kindling. The walls were scarred and gouged, as though they’d been scored repeatedly by claws. There was no sign of any of the horses, but blood had splashed and dried on the floor and walls.

“Nasty,” said Flint.

The Dancer nodded. “Very.”

“Demons?”

“Unlikely.”

“It’s their style.”

“The Demon War ended ten years ago. No one’s seen a demon outside the Darkwood since.”

Flint scowled unhappily. “They came out of the long night once before; maybe they’re on the move again.”

The Dancer knelt down and studied the bloodstained straw covering the earth floor. “Interesting.”

“What is?” Flint knelt down beside him.

“Look at the floor, Jessica. There’s blood everywhere but no footprints, only hoof marks. And if the horses were killed and dragged out, where are the tracks? There should be some traces to show what happened to the bodies.”

“You’re right,” said Flint. “It is interesting.”

They straightened up quickly and automatically fell into their usual fighting position, back to back with swords held out before them. The shadows all around were suddenly dark and menacing. The air was dry and still and unnaturally cold. It smelled faintly of death and corruption. Flint stirred uneasily and flexed the three fingers of her left hand. The scar tissue where the missing two fingers had been throbbed dully. It didn’t like the cold. Flint shuddered suddenly. There was something dangerous here in the fort with them; she could feel it. She had no idea what or where it might be, but she had no doubt it was there. Flint trusted her instincts implicitly.

“Yes,” said the Dancer quietly. “I feel it too. Whatever happened to the people in this fort, I don’t think they died a clean death.”

“We can’t leave our horses here,” said Flint. “They’d spook before we could get them through the door. Let’s take a look at the main building, see if we can find a suitable place there.”

“Good idea,” said the Dancer.

“Then let’s get out of here. I’m getting spooked myself.”

“You’re not alone,” the Dancer assured her.

“I told you not to listen to those minstrels. You’ll be having bad dreams tonight.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. I don’t think this is a good place to sleep, Jessica.”

Flint smiled slightly. “You might just be right, Giles. But can you think of a better way to get to the bottom of what happened here?”

“There is that,” said the Dancer. “Let’s go.”

He led the way back out into the sunshine, and Flint pulled the doors shut after her. She and the Dancer crossed the courtyard side by side, swords at the ready, their eyes wary and watchful. Their footsteps echoed hollowly back from the high stone walls. The sky was darkening toward evening, and the shadows were growing longer.

Flint and the Dancer eventually settled the horses in the main reception hall. It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t even a lot better than anywhere else, but the horses seemed prepared to tolerate it. They rolled their eyes as they were led through the door, and regarded the bare wooden floor with grave suspicion, but finally settled down. Flint lit a lantern, and then she and the Dancer made their way deeper into the main building. Finding MacNeil and Constance was easy enough; they just followed the tracks in the thick dust on the floor. Flint eventually rounded a corner and found MacNeil waiting for her, sword in hand.

“I thought I heard somebody following us,” said MacNeil dryly, lowering his sword.

“Have you found anything?” asked the Dancer.

“Nothing helpful. Just empty rooms, dust, and blood.”

The bloodstains were everywhere. They splashed across the ceiling, ran down the walls, and pooled on the floor. So much blood …

“What are the chances on finding anyone alive?” said Constance.

“Not good,” said MacNeil. “But we’ll keep looking anyway. Just in case.”

The four of them slowly made their way through the fort, corridor by corridor, room by room. The corridors were for the most part bare and unadorned, with little in the way of matting or tapestries to break up the monotony of bare stone. All the rooms were empty and covered with a thick layer of undisturbed dust. But wherever they went they found bloodstains and broken furniture and enigmatic claw marks gouged deep into the stone walls.

And finally they came to the cellar, and there was nowhere left to go. The cellar was a featureless stone chamber some fifty feet square, littered with accumulated rubbish. Two open doorways led into smaller storage areas. MacNeil picked his way carefully through the mess, and the others followed him as best they could. There were piles of firewood, bags of rags, and stacks of old paper waiting to be pulped, along with broken furniture, wine casks, and general filth and garbage, all strewn across the bare floor without rhyme or reason. MacNeil made his way to the center of the cellar, being very careful about where he trod and what he trod in, and then stopped and looked disgustedly about him.