Down Among the Dead Men.
by
Simon R. Green

Silence Carved in Stone.

Duncan MacNeil reined in his horse and looked around him. Narrow shafts
of golden sunlight pierced the Forest gloom, shining down through the
occasional gaps in the overhead canopy. Tall trees stood close together
on either side of the beaten trail, their branches heavy with the
Summer's greenery. The hot, muggy air was thick with the scent of earth
and leaf and bark. A handful of birds sang in the higher branches,
warning the creatures of the wild that man was moving through the
Forest.

MacNeil stirred impatiently in his saddle. After two weeks' hard
travelling, the Forest's charms had begun to pall. In fact, MacNeil was
beginning to think he could live quite happily if he never saw another
tree. He glanced back down the trail, but there was still no sign of the
rest of his party. MacNeil scowled. He hated being kept waiting. He
looked at the trail ahead, but the tightly packed trees cut short his
view. MacNeil signalled his horse to move on again at a slow pace. The
border fort couldn't be far ahead now, and he was itching to take his
first look at it.

The Forest moved slowly by him, his horse's steady muffled hoofbeats
sounding loud and clear on the quiet. The birds slowly stopped singing,
and no game moved in the surrounding shadows. MacNeil dropped one hand
to the sword at his side, and eased the blade in its scabbard.

Everything seemed peaceful but he didn't believe in taking unnecessary
chances. His gaze fell on a clump of dead trees to his left. They were
twisted and hollow, eaten away from within by decay. The gnarled
branches were bare, the bark mottled with lichens. Even after ten years
there were still parts of the Forest that had never recovered from the
long night.

The trees fell suddenly away to either side of him, and MacNeil jerked
his horse to a halt at the edge of a clearing.

He leaned forward in his saddle, shading his watering eyes against the
bright sunlight, and smiled slowly. Square in the middle of the huge
clearing stood the border fort, a vast stone edifice with two massive
ironbound doors and only a series of arrowslits for windows. MacNeil
looked the fort over carefully. The two doors were firmly shut, and
there was no trace of movement anywhere in or around the fort.

The great stone walls brooded silently and enigmatically in the late
afternoon sunshine.

MacNeil sat back in his saddle and frowned thoughtfully.

There were no guards at the doors, and no one walked the high
battlements. There were no flags flying, no pennants at the watchtowers,
and no smoke curled up from the dozen or more chimneypots.

If there was anyone in the fort, they were going to great pains to hide
the fact. MacNeil looked back over his shoulder. There was still no sign
of the rest of his party. He looked back at the fort, scowling
unhappily.

Normally he'd have more sense than to get so far ahead of his own
people, but this business with the border fort worried him and the
sooner he got to grips with it, the better he'd feel.

There was a storm coming. He could feel it. Dark clouds were gathering
in the sky, and the air had been close and muggy all day. MacNeil looked
up at the lowering sky and cursed mildly. He had planned to look the
fort over (horoughly from the outside and then spend the night in the
Forest, but all the signs suggested it was going to be a filthy night.
And MacNeil had no intention of sleeping on muddy ground in a
thunderstorm when there were comfortable beds to be had close at hand.
He and his team had spent too many nights in the field of late, and this
Summer had to be the wettest he'd ever known.

He stretched slowly, and eased himself in the saddle.

Somehow he'd thought the border fort would look more impressive, given
the commotion it had caused at Court.

The panic had begun when it was discovered that the fort hadn't
communicated with the outside world in almost a month. No messengers, no
carrier pigeons, nothing. The King sent messengers to the fort. None of
them ever returned. Magicians and sorcerers tried to make mental contact
with the fort, but some kind of barrier kept them out. The King listened
to all the reports and grew steadily more worried. This particular fort
lay on the border between the Forest Kingdom and its neighbor, the Duchy
of Hillsdown. It had always been a disputed boundary, even to the point
of war, and in the chaos that followed the long night, Hillsdown had
made several attempts to settle the question permanently in its favour.
The new border fort had been built at the Forest King's command
expressly to discourage such actions, and shortly after it was
completed, that particular stretch of the frontier became suddenly very
peaceful again. The Duke of Hillsdown sent several threatening letters
and backed unobtrusively down, and that was that. Until last month.

MacNeil's hand settled comfortably on the pommel of his sword as he
studied the silent fort. There were no outward signs that anything was
wrong: the great stone walls were unmarked by fire or violence, and the
clearing looked still and peaceful. and yet there were no signs of life
either.

MacNeil stirred restlessly, and his horse shook its head uneasily,
responding to his mood. He patted the horse's neck comfortingly, but his
eyes never left the fort.

Duncan MacNeil was a tall, muscular man in his late twenties. Long blond
hair fell raggedly to his shoulders, kept out of his face by a simple
leather headband. Cool grey eyes studied the world from a broad, smiling
face. His shoulders were wide, his chest was broad, and there wasn't an
ounce of spare fat on him. He worked hard to keep it that way. His
dothes were simple and functional, and he sat his horse with the
unthinking ease of a man who'd spent most of his working life in the
saddle. His sword hung at his side in a well-worn scabbard, and his hand
rarely moved far from it.

He'd lied about his age and joined the guards at fifteen, keen as
mustard for a life of action and adventure. The Demon War had knocked
most of that nonsense out of him, but deep down he was never content
just to do his job and pull his pay. He needed a little excitement in
his life to give it spice. His constant search for it got him into
trouble more than once, and lost him as many promotions as he gained.

After one particularly unfortunate incident, involving the wrecking of a
fashionable tavern after the innkeeper objected to MacNeil's complaint
about watered ale, he was presented with a simple choice by his
superiors: join the Rangers, or spend the rest of his life turning large
rocks into smaller ones in a military prison.

Rangers worked in small mobile teams, sent out ahead of a main force to
investigate dangerous or suspicious situations. Such teams tended to be
brave, competent and ultimately expendable. The money was good, but,
truth be told, MacNeil would have done the job for nothing. Though of
course he never told them that. They might have taken him up on it.
Being a Ranger had given him all the excitement he could handle, and
then some. It was his life.

He studied the fort before him and smiled happily. This one was going to
be a challenge; he could tell. MacNeil loved challenges.

His smile faded slowly away. The trouble with challenges was that they
were often time-consuming, and he was working to a strict deadline. He
and his team had just three more days to find out what had happened at
the fort. After that, a full brigade of armed guards would arrive to man
the fort again. And if there wasn't an answer ready and waiting for the
Commander of that brigade, Ranger Sergeant Duncan MacNeil and his team
were going to be in big trouble. Heads would roll. Possibly quite
literally.

Hoofbeats sounded on the path behind him as the witch called Constance
rode out of the Forest gloom to join him.

She steered her horse in beside MacNeil's, flashed him a quick smile,
and looked out into the clearing with darting, eager eyes. The witch was
a tall, striking brunette who sat her horse with more determination than
style. She was only just out of her teens, and wore a smart shirt and
trousers of black cotton, topped with a billowing cloak of bright
scarlet trimmed with gold. MacNeil thought she looked like a mobile
target. He got nervous just riding beside her. Her face was raw-boned
and sensual, with sparkling dark eyes that missed nothing, and a great
mane of nightblack hair held back out of her face by strategically
placed ivory combs.

She was a bit skinny for MacNeil's taste, but she moved with an
unselfconscious grace and her smile was bright and challenging.

MacNeil still wasn't quite sure what to make of Constance. She'd joined
his team only a few weeks back, and this was her first mission, her
first chance to show what she could really do. If she was half as good
as she claimed to be, she'd be worth watching. MacNeil frowned slightly.
Constance was replacing a witch called Salamander, who had died three
months ago. Three months ago, almost to the day. Salamander had been a
pretty good witch, in her way, but she always thought herself a
swordswoman as well as a magic-user, and in the end that killed her. She
drew her sword when she should have cast a spell, and the bandit had
been just that little bit faster with his axe. She took a bad wound in
the gut, the wound became infected, and Salamander died in a filthy
village tavern, out of her mind with fever and calling for a husband
who'd been dead five years.

MacNeil had killed the bandit, but it didn't help. He'd led his team
into that village. He'd told them it was safe.

He'd had a lot of trouble finding someone to replace Salamander. Every
Ranger team had to have a magic-user; there were far too many magical
creatures and occurrences lying in wait in the Forest these days, left
over from the Demon War. Unfortunately, most of the Kingdom's magicusers
had been killed in the War, so instead of a sorcerer or sorceress he'd
haft to settle for a witch; first Salamander, then Constance.

Although he hadn't exactly chosen Constance. Truth was, he'd spent so
long hedging over his choice that his superiors got impatient and
appointed a witch for him. Constance had been a lot younger than he'd
expected, but since she'd been raised and trained in the all-woman
Academy of the Sisters of the Moon, he had no doubt as to the power of
her magic.

The Sisterhood didn't turn out under-achievers. You either graduated
with honour or they buried you in an unmarked grave and scratched your
name off the Academy rolls.

He bowed politely to the witch beside him. "Well, Constance; this is it.
That fort is what all the fuss is about."

"Poxy looking place,' said Constance airily. "Any sign of life?"

"Not so far. As soon as the others catch up we'll go and take a closer
look. See if it's still habitable.' Constance looked at him quickly.
"You're not thinking of spending the night in there?' MacNeil shrugged.
"There's a storm coming, and a bad one by the feel of it. You can sleep
out here in the rain if you want to, but personally speaking, I'm not at
all averse to the idea of having a solid roof over my head for a change.

You're new to field work, Constance; the first thing you learn in this
business is to take your comforts when you can, and be grateful for
them. They're few and far between in our line of work. There's plenty of
time to give the fort a thorough inspection before nightfall.' Constance
shook her head. "I don't know, Sergeant, I .. ."

"Constance,' said MacNeil easily, 'there's only one leader in this team,
and that's me. I've taken the time to explain some of my reasoning to
you because you're new to this group and this is your first mission, but
I'm not going to make a habit of it. When I give an order I expect it to
be obeyed, without question. Is that clear?' "Perfectly clear,' said
Constance coldly. She turned away from him and studied the fort with
great concentration. "I take it you have noticed that there are no
guards on the battlements."

"Yes. ' "Could they all have deserted, do you think?' MacNeil shrugged.
"It's possible. But if that's the case, what happened to all the
messengers the King sent ?' Constance pursed her lips thoughtfully, and
tried to look like she was thinking hard. She wanted very much to
impress MacNeil, but at this distance she couldn't See anything useful
about the apparently deserted fort. She was still learning how to use
her Sight, that mystical mixture of foresight and insight, and there
were limits to what she could do with it. Unfortunately the only cure
for that was experience, which was why she'd applied to become a Ranger.
It was one of the quickest ways to graduate from witch to sorceress. If
you survived.

She heard a noise behind her, and looked back sharply into the Forest as
the rest of the party appeared out of the shadows. Flint and the Dancer
guided their horses along the difficult trail with casual ease. They
both looked extremely competent and completely relaxed.

Jessica Flint was a good-looking brunette in her late twenties. She was
a little over average height, wore her hair cropped like a man, and had
a figure that would have been voluptuous if she hadn't been so muscular.
Flint was a trained swordswoman, and looked it. She wore a long chain
mail vest that had seen better days, but left her sinewy arms bare. Her
cotton blouse and leggings were old, but wellmaintained Her face was
open and cheerful, even in the heat of battle, of which she'd seen more
than her fair share.

She was one of the very few survivors of those who'd fought in the last
great battle of the Demon War, outside the Forest Castle itself. She
still bore some of the scars, and there were only three fingers on her
left hand. She carried her sword in a long, curved scabbard covered with
delicate silver scrollwork. The scabbard was worth more than her sword
and her horse put together, and Flint was very proud of it.

Giles Dancer rode at her side, as he always did. He wore quiet,
nondescript clothes, and no armour. He was just a little shorter than
average, and slight of build, and his flat bland face showed little
trace of personality. Put him in a crowd and you'd never notice him,
until it was too late. The Dancer was a Bladesmaster: a man trained to
such a peak of perfection that he was almost literally unbeatable with a
sword in his hand. Bladesmasters had been rare even before the Demon
War; now there were said to be only two left alive in all the Forest
Kingdom, and the Dancer was one of them. He was always quiet and polite,
and his eyes had a vague, and faraway look. No one knew exactly how many
men he'd killed in his time; rumour had it that even he was no longer
sure. He and Flint had been partners from well before they joined
MacNeil's team, and they had a reputation for getting the job done, no
matter what the cost.

They weren't always popular, but they were always respected. They'd been
with MacNeil almost seven years, at least partly because he was the only
one able to keep them under control They respected MacNeil. Mostly.

The Dancer looked absently at Flint as they rode forward to join the
others "We're almost there now, aren't we, Jessica?"

"Almost,' said Flint, patiently "I don't know why you're so eager to get
there. So far, everyone else who's approached this fort has disappeared
off the face of the earth' "They were amateurs,' said the Dancer. "We're
professionals' "You're getting complacent,' said Flint "One of these
days you're going to run into someone who's as good with a sword as you
think you are, and I won't be there to backstab him for you."

"Never happen,' said the Dancer.

Flint snorted loudly.

"I'm quite looking forward to poking around inside the fort,' said the
Dancer "Investigating a baffling mystery will make a pleasant change
from chasing footpads through the Forest. A deserted fort, alone and
abandoned to the elements .. doesn't it just make your flesh creep?"

"You've been listening to those damned minstrels again,' said
Flint disgustedly.

"Can I help it if I'm a romantic at heart?"

"You're morbid, that's what you are. Don't blame me if you get
nightmares. You know those Gothic tales upset you." ' The Dancer ignored
her. Flint looked at Constance, waiting patiently beside MacNeil at the
end of the trail.

"Giles,' she said thoughtfully, 'what do you make of our new witch ?"

"She seems competent enough."

"Green, though. Never been on a real mission before.

Never been tested under pressure."

"She'll settle in. Give her time."

"She's certainly no replacement for Salamander; she knew her job.' The
Dancer looked at Flint affectionately. "You couldn't stand Salamander,
and you know it."

"I didn't like her much, but she always pulled her weight.

A vital mission like this is no way to break in a new witch.

If she fouls up, we could all end up dead."

"If there's a storm tonight we could get hit by lightning,' said the
Dancer. "But there's no point in worrying about it, is there ? "You worry
too much, Jessica."

"And you don't worry enough."

"Then you can worry for me."

"I do,' said Flint. "I do.' They fell silent as they drew up their
horses beside MacNeil's. He nodded to them briefly. "Anything to report
?' "Nothing so far,' said Flint. "We backtracked a way, just in case we
were being followed, but we didn't see anyone.

In fact, we haven't seen anyone for days. This part of the Forest is
practically deserted. I haven't seen a village or a hamlet or a farm in
almost a week."

"Hardly surprising, with the Darkwood boundary so close,' said MacNeil.

"The Darkwood's quiet now,' said the Dancer. "It won't rise again in our
lifetime."

"We can't be sure of that,' said Flint.

"No,' said Constance oddly. "We can't.' MacNeil looked quickly at the
witch. She was staring out into the clearing, her eyes dark and hooded.

"What is it?' said MacNeil quietly. "Do you See something?"

"I'm not sure,' said Constance. "It's the fort ... ' "What about it?"

"There were giants in the earth, in those days,' she whispered, and then
shuddered suddenly, looked away and pulled her cloak about her. "I don't
like this place. It's got a bad feel to it.' MacNeil frowned. "Do you
See ... anything specific?"

"No. My Sight is clouded here. But I've dreamed about this fort for the
last three nights, terrible dreams, and now that I'm here ... The
clearing is cold, Duncan. Cold as a tomb. And the fort is dark. It
feels. old, very old.' MacNeil shook his head slowly. "I think you're
letting your feelings interfere with your magic, Constance. There's
nothing old about this fort. It was built only four or five years ago.
Before that, there was nothing here."

"Something was here,' said Constance. "And it's been here for a very
long time ... ' Her voice trailed away. Flint and the Dancer looked at
each other, but said nothing. They didn't have to. MacNeil knew what
they were thinking. If Salamander had said such things, they would have
taken it seriously. She'd had the Sight, and if she said a place was
dangerous, it was. No argument. But this new witch ... as yet her magic
hadn't been tested under pressure, and until it had, no one was going to
take her warnings seriously. Constance looked at MacNeil for his
reaction and he was careful to keep his voice calm and even.

"We're not going to learn anything about the fort just sitting here
looking at it. The sooner we get in there and check the place out, the
sooner we'll know where we'll be spending the night.' He urged his horse
forward into the clearing. Flint and the Dancer followed him, and
Constance brought up the rear. Her mouth was grim and set, and her eyes
were very cold.

MacNeil tensed automatically as he left the cover of the trees for the
open clearing. So far, there'd been nothing to suggest there was an
enemy presence anywhere nearby, but after so long in the Forest he felt
naked and vulnerable in the wide open space. The clearing had to be a
good half a mile wide, shaped into a perfect circle by axe and saw.

MacNeil peered unobtrusively about him, but there was no sign of
anything moving in the surrounding trees. He frowned slightly as he
suddenly realized just how quiet the clearing was. There were no
birdsongs, no buzzing insects, nothing. Now that he thought about it,
the Forest had been unusually quiet all day. No birds flew in the summer
sky, and no game moved among the trees. Maybe the approaching storm had
driven them all to cover ... The party's hoofbeats sounded loud and
carrying in the quiet, and MacNeil felt a growing conviction that he and
his team were being watched.

They drew steadily nearer the fort. Its high stone walls were a pale
yellow in colour, the pure white of the local stone already discoloured
by wind and rain and sun. The embrasures were empty, the battlements
were deserted, and the great double doors were firmly closed. It was
like looking at a fort under siege. MacNeil looked closely at the grassy
floor of the clearing. There were no tracks to show that anyone else had
crossed the clearing recently. MacNeil scowled unhappily. Maybe none of
the messengers had actually got this far. This part of the Forest was
notorious for its footpads and hers-in-wait.

The guards did their best to keep the roads open, but once off the
beaten trail a lone traveller took his life in his hands.

Thieves and cut-throats and outlaws of all kinds had made the Forest
wilds their own in the chaos following the Demon War. The most notorious
gangs, like those led by Jimmy Squarefoot and Hob in Chains, had since
been ruthlessly hunted down and hanged, but their successors were still
active in the more remote parts of the Forest. Not that the Forest
attracted only evil men; there were also those like Tom o' the Heath,
who watched over lost travellers on the moors, and Scarecrow Jack,
self-styled Protector of the trees, a wild spirit of the greenwood who
sometimes aided those in need with bounty he stole from the rich and
prosperous who passed through his territory. But still and all, the
Forest was a dangerous place for a man travelling on his own, and King's
messengers were just as vulnerable as any other man.

MacNeil shook his head and glared at the border fort.

He'd had enough of ifs and maybes; he wanted some answers. And one way
or another, the fort was going to provide them. He looked across at the
sun, hanging low in the sky just above the treetops. Two hours of light
remaining, at most. That meant he had only tonight and three more days
before the main party arrived. Three days and four nights to find the
answers. MacNeil sighed heavily. He hated working to deadlines. That was
the trouble with being the best, he thought sourly. After a while they
not only expect the impossible, they want it to a timetable as well.

He finally drew up his horse before the closed main doors, and the
others reined in beside him. The fort stood still and silent before
them, the last of the sunlight gleaming brightly from the yellow stone.

MacNeil stared uneasily at the closed doors. The air was very still, and
the continuous quiet preyed on his nerves. It was as though the fort was
watching and waiting to see what he would do, defying him to solve its
mystery. He pushed the thought from his mind, sat up straight in the
saddle, and raised his voice in a carrying shout.

"Hello, the fort! This is Ranger Sergeant Duncan MacNeil! Open, in the
name of the King!' There was no response. The only sound to be heard was
the low whickering of the horses.

"You don't really expect an answer, do you?' said Constance.

"Not really, no,' said MacNeil patiently, 'but we have to go through the
motions. It's standard procedure, and sometimes it gets results."

"But not this time."

"No. Not this time. Flint ... ' "Yes, sir?"

"Try those doors. See how secure they are."

"Yes, sir.' Flint swung down out of the saddle and handed her reins to
the Dancer, who looped them loosely over his left arm. Flint drew her
sword and walked unhurriedly forward to examine the closed doors. Her
sword was a scimitar, and light gleamed brightly on the long curved
blade as she hefted it. The doors loomed over her, huge and forboding.
Flint studied the dark ironbound wood carefully, and then reached out
and tried each door with her left hand.

They didn't give an inch, no matter how much pressure she applied.

Flint beat on the left-hand door with her fist. The sound carried loudly
for a moment and then fell away in a series of dying echoes. Flint
looked back at MacNeil.

"Locked and bolted by the feel of it."

"Surprise, surprise,' said Constance impatiently. "Allow me. ' A gust of
wind swirled suddenly round the party, and the temperature dropped
sharply. The horses rolled their eyes and tossed their heads nervously.
MacNeil muttered soothing phrases to his horse, and clutched tightly at
the rems Magic beat on the air like the wings of a captured bird. and
the great wooden doors creaked and groaned. They shuddered visibly, as
though some invisible presence was pressing strongly against them. And
then, quite clearly, there came the sound of metal rasping on metal as
the heavy bolts slid back into their sockets, followed by the sharp
clicking of tumblers turning in a lock. Constance let out a juddering
sigh, and the two huge doors swung smoothly open, revealing an open
empty courtyard. The doors ground to a halt, and Constance smiled
triumphantly. The gusting wind died quickly away, but it was still
unseasonably cold, despite the bright sunshine. Constance looked
challengingly at MacNeil, and he bowed politely to her.

"Not bad, Constance. But Salamander would have done it in half the
time."

"To hear the three of you talk,' said Constance, 'you'd think this
Salamander was one of the greatest witches who ever lived.' "She was
good at her job,' said MacNeil.

"If she was so good at it, why is she dead?"

"Bad luck,' said Flint sharply. "It can happen to anyone.' She walked
back to her horse and took the reins from the Dancer.

Thank you, Jessica, thought MacNeil. You always were the diplomatic one.

Flint looked at him calmly. "Ready to take a look, sir?"

"Sure,' said MacNeil. "Lead the way, Flint.' She nodded, and led her
horse into the open courtyard.

MacNeil and the Dancer moved forward to flank her with their horses, and
Constance brought up the rear. The wide cobbled yard stretched away
beneath the lowering Summer sky, but no horses stood at the hitching
rails, and the surrounding doors and windows were dark and empty, like
so many blank unseeing eyes. The Dancer drew his sword, and MacNeil
followed suit. There is a sound the sword makes as it clears the
scabbard, a grim rasping whisper that promises blood and horror and
sudden death. The sound seemed to echo on and on in the empty courtyard,
as though reluctant to die away. MacNeil looked at the Dancer's sword,
and not for the first time his hackles stirred uneasily. The Dancer's
sword was long and broad and double-edged. There was no grace or beauty
about the weapon; it was a simple brutal killing tool, and that was how
the Dancer used it.

MacNeil carried a long slender sword that allowed him to work with the
point as well as the edge. There was more to swordsmanship than
butchery; at least, as far as he was concerned.

He looked around him, taking in the fort's courtyard. The wide open
space was deserted, but the feeling of being watched was stronger than
ever. MacNeil scowled. There was something about the place that put his
teeth on edge.

Where the hell was everybody? The doors had been locked and bolted from
the inside; there had to be someone here .. somewhere .

.. MacNeil shivered suddenly. A ghost just walked over my grave, he
thought wryly, and yet somehow he knew it was more than that. On a level
so deep within him he was hardly aware of its presence, an old and
secret fear cast a shadow across his thoughts. He looked around him at
the darkened windows and felt a tremor in his soul, a stark and basic
horror he hadn't felt for many years. Not since he faced the demon horde
in the depths of the long night, and knew he couldn't stand against them
... MacNeil shook his head quickly. He'd think about that later. He had
work to do. He steered his horse over to the nearest hitching rail, and
the memory faded from his mind, as it had so many times before. He
dismounted and wrapped the reins around the low wooden rail. The others
moved in beside him to see to their horses, and MacNeil looked quickly
round at the various doorways, getting his bearings.

One fort is much like any other, and it didn't take him long to work out
which was the main entrance. The door lay opposite the courtyard doors,
and stood slightly ajar.

Beyond it, there was nothing but an impenetrable gloom.

MacNeil started towards the door, and then stopped and looked back
suddenly. For a moment, he'd thought he heard something ... He stood
listening, but the only sound was the soft murmur of the rising wind
outside the fort. MacNeil frowned as he realized that many of the
windows looking out on to the courtyard were hidden behind closed
shutters, despite the heat of the day. That's crazy, he thought
confusedly. It must be like an oven in there. His mind seized on the
word crazy, and it repeated over and over in his thoughts like an echo.

To get away from it, he concentrated on what he was looking at. The
stables stood to his right, the barracks to his left. In both cases the
doors stood slightly ajar. He became aware that Constance was standing
beside him, her eyes darting nervously round the courtyard as though
searching for something safe to settle on.

"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 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 Dancer nodded, and moved off towards 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 now clearly see the great crimson
splashes on the walls and floor and ceiling. It was like walking into an
abandoned abattoir. Most of the bedclothing 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 half a 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 prodded
vaguely at 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 any more. MacNeil crouched down 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 swordhilt 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 towards 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 half a 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 drily. It was
only too easy to visualize four men being forced to stand on the chairs
while the nooses were tightened round 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 g?oup 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 far away, and there was something in her
face that might have been fear.

Flint and 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 hoofmarks. 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 dean 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 towards evening, and the
shadows were growing longer.

Flint and the Dancer eventually settled the horses ill 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 drily, lowering
his sword.

"Have you found anything?' asked the Dancer.

"Nothing helpful. Just empty rooms, dust and blood.' The bloodstains
were everywhere. They splashed the ceiling, ran down the walls and
pooled on the floor. So much blood  ... "What are the chances of 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 clawmarks 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
centre of the cellar, being very careful about where he trod and what he
trod in, and then stopped and looked disgustedly about him.

"I've seen cesspits that were cleaner than this."

"It is rather untidy,' said the Dancer. "But have you noticed the walls
?"

"Yeah,' said MacNeil. "There aren't any bloodstains down here. ' "Is
that a good sign or a bad sign ?' said Flint.

"Beats me,' said MacNeil.

"We've got to get out of here,' said Constance suddenly.

"Something's wrong here.' The others turned to look at her. The witch
was shivering violently.

"How do you mean, something's wrong?' said MacNeil.

"Have you Seen something?"

"It's wrong here,' said Constance, staring blindly ahead of her as
though she hadn't heard him.

MacNeil looked at the others, and then looked quickly round the cellar
one more time. He shook his head slightly, as though disappointed, and
then moved back to take the witch's arm. "There's nothing down here that
matters. Let's go, Constance.' She nodded gratefully, and let him help
her back to the cellar door. Flint and the Dancer followed them out.

Eventually they reached the main dining hall, at the rear of the fort.
It was a good-sized hall, some forty feet long and twenty wide, with
trestle tables set out in neat rows. As in the cellar, the walls were
unscarred and there were no bloodstains anywhere. The tables were set
for a meal long abandoned. Food still lay on some of the plates, dry and
dusty and covered with mould. Bottles of wine stood open and unopened on
the tables. It was as though people had come in for a meal as usual, and
then half-way through had just got up and walked away . ..

"We'll sleep here tonight,' said MacNeil. "It's comparatively untouched
by the madness, and since there's only the one entrance, it should be
easy enough to defend."

"You're really prepared to spend the night here?' said Constance. "After
everything we've seen ?' MacNeil looked at her coldly. "We've seen
nothing that's immediately threatening. Whatever killed all these
people, it's obviously been gone some time. We'll be a lot safer here,
and a great deal more comfortable, than we would be out in the Forest
during a thunderstorm. We'll set a guard tonight, and first thing
tomorrow morning we start tearing this place apart. There's got to be an
answer here somewhere.' "I don't think we should disturb anything,' said
Constance. "I mean, it could be evidence."

"She's right,' said the Dancer.

MacNeil shrugged. "Anything that looks significant we can leave alone.
Either way, it can all wait till the morning.

They don't pay me enough to go wandering around this place in the dark."

"Right,' said Flint. "There isn't that much money in the world."

"All right then; let's get our bedrolls in here, and get ourselves
settled,' said MacNeil. "It'll be dark soon."

"Dark,' said Constance quietly. "Yes. It gets very dark here, at night.'
They all looked at her, but the witch didn't notice, lost in her own
thoughts.

Out in the Forest, a lone figure watched the fort curiously and then
faded back into the shadows between the trees and was gone.

In the Darkness of the Night Night fell suddenly. Less than an hour
after the Rangers entered the dining hall, darkness swept over the
border fort. Flint and Constance busied themselves lighting the torches
on the walls as the light faded, while MacNeil and the Dancer arranged
burning candles and oil lamps in a circle round the sleeping area they'd
chosen. Though none of them admitted it aloud, they were all wary of
what the darkness might bring, and none of them wanted to face the
unknown without plenty of light to see it by.

Flint and the Dancer collected the saddle rolls from the horses and
brought them back to the hall. They stayed close together in the narrow
passageways, and held their lanterns high. The lengthening shadows were
very dark. Flint and Constance laid out the bedrolls in the middle of
the dining hall, while MacNeil and the Dancer arranged the trestle
tables around them in a simple barricade. The lightweight tables weren't
very sturdy, but they gave a feeling of protection and security, and
that was what mattered. Even with all the candles and torches and lamps
the dining hall was still disturbingly gloomy, and full of restless
shadows.

The size of the hall gave every sound a faint echo that was subtly
unnerving, and outside the fort a strong wind was blowing, moaning in
the night. And yet when all was said and done, none of the Rangers
really gave much of a damn.

After the day's hard journey they were all bone weary and half asleep on
their feet.

Flint volunteered to take the first watch, and nobody argued with her.
They unwrapped their sleeping rolls and laid the blankets side by side.
There was something comforting and reassuring in the simple proximity,
and there was also no denying that the dining hall had grown
uncomfortably cold.

MacNeil considered starting a fire in the open hearth, and then decided
against it. A fire would be more trouble than it was worth, and anyway,
it was a summer's night, dammit.

It couldn't be that cold ... He climbed into his blankets and pulled
them up around his ears. The floor was cold and hard and uneven, but
he'd slept on worse. Already he was so tired he could hardly keep his
eyes open. He yawned, scratched his ribs, and sighed contentedly. It
felt good to be off his feet at last.

Flint fussed over the Dancer's blankets, sorting them out for him while
he watched patiently. The Dancer was hopeless at the little
practicalities of life. He couldn't saddle his own horse either, and if
he had to live on his own cooking, he'd starve. No one ever said
anything. The Dancer's talents lay in other directions. Flint finally
got him settled, and sat down beside him.

"We should have looked for a room with an adjoining bath,' she said
quietly. "We could both use one."

"Speak for yourself,' said the Dancer.

"I am,' said Flint. "I once fought a walking corpse that had been buried
in soft peat for six months, and it smelled better than I do fight now.
But that can wait till tomorrow. Get some sleep, Giles. I'll wake you
when it's time for the next watch.' The Dancer nodded sleepily, lay back
and closed his eyes.

Flint smiled at him affectionately for a moment, and then drew her sword
and rested it across her knees, ready to hand. Flint believed in being
prepared.

Constance came back from the closed-off corner they'd designated as the
latrine, and clambered stiffly between her blankets, next to MacNeil's.
"First thing tomorrow morning we find a room with its own jakes and move
there,' she said determinedly. "That soup tureen is no substitute for a
chamberpot.' MacNeil chuckled drowsily without opening his eyes.

"Good-night, Constance. Pleasant dreams.' The dining hall grew quiet as
the four Rangers settled down for the night. The only sound was the
rising moan of the wind outside, and faint snores from the Dancer, who
was already well away. The Dancer could sleep through a thunderstorm and
often had. Constance tossed and turned for a while, unhappy with the
hard stone floor, but eventually grew still. Her breathing became slow
and regular, and some of the harshness went out of her face as her
features slowly relaxed. MacNeil lay on his back, comfortably drowsing,
occasionally staring up at the shadowed ceiling past drooping eyelids.
Sleeping in the fort was a calculated risk, but he didn't think there
was any real danger in it. Not yet.

Whatever it was that had gone on a killing spree, there was no sign of
it in the fort now.

Whatever it was ... the Demon War had awakened a great many creatures
that might otherwise have slumbered on, undisturbed by the world of man.
The Forest's past lay buffed deep in the earth, but after the time of
the long night, the past no longer slept as soundly as it used to.

Some of the deeper mine shafts were still sealed off because of what the
miners had found there.

There were giants in the earth in those days  ... MacNeil stirred
restlessly. If by some chance he was wrong and whatever it was hadn't
left the fort yet. well, at least this way there was some bait to draw
it out of cover.

Bait. MacNeil smiled sadly. That's what Rangers were, when you got right
down to it. Rangers were expendable troops, used to draw out an enemy
and expose its strengths and weaknesses. The only difference was that
this bait had teeth. MacNeil glanced across at Flint, who was staring
straight ahead of her with one hand resting comfortably on her
swordhilt. He was glad Flint had volunteered to take the first watch. He
trusted Flint. The Dancer meant well, but if he got too comfortable he
had a tendency to doze off. Which meant he spent most of his watches
pacing up and down to keep himself alert. Things like that didn't help
at all when you were trying to get to sleep. And Constance ...  was
untried. MacNeil closed his eyes and let himself drift away.

He could trust Flint. She was dependable. He yawned widely. It had been
a long, hard day  ... Time passed. Flint watched over the sleepers, and
the lights burned steadily lower.

The demons came swarming out of the long night, vile and malevolent, and
the guards at the town barricades met them with cold steel and boiling
oil, and what little courage they had left. Duncan MacNeil stood his
ground and swung his sword in short, vicious arcs, cutting down creature
after creature as they threw themselves at the barricades in a
never-ending stream. Shapes out of nightmares and fever dreams reached
for him with clawed hands and bared fangs, and their eyes glowed
hungrily in the endless night. Blood flew on the air in a ghastly rain
as the guards swung their swords and axes, and the demons died, but
there were always more to take the place of those who fell. There were
always more.

A tall spindly creature with a spiked back and taloned hands reared up
before MacNeil. He ducked beneath a flailing blow and gutted the demon
with one swift cut. Long ropes of writhing intestines fell down to
tangle the demon's legs, but still it pressed forward until MacNeil
sheared off its bony head with a two-handed blow. Its mouth snarled
soundlessly on the blood-soaked ground, and the body swung this way and
that for long moments before realizing it was dead. None of the demons
made a sound, even when they died. Forever silent, in life or death,
like evil thoughts given shape and substance.

Something the size of a man's head, with thick black fur and a dozen
legs, came flapping out of the darkness on bat's wings. MacNeil cut it
out of the air and it exploded wetly, showering him with foul-smelling
blood that burned where it touched his bare skin. And while he was
distracted, shaking and cursing, a patchwork demon with a vast
corpsepale body and huge scything jaws slammed into him from nowhere and
threw him to the ground.

For a moment all MacNeil could see was a confusion of human and demon
feet all around him, slipping and stamping in the crimson mud. He lashed
out at the pale demon as it bent over him, and screamed shrilly as its
claws tore through his ragged chain mail. He wriggled away through the
mud, and then drove his boot up into the creature's gut, desperation
lending him strength. The demon lurched backwards, caught off balance,
and MacNeil staggered to his feet. By the time he had his feet under him
again, the pale demon was gone, carried away by the shifting press of
bodies, but there were still more demons to be faced.

MacNeil wiped blood and tears from his face with his sleeve and hacked
about him with his sword to try and clear himself some space. He put all
his remaining strength into his blows, and the power from his muscular
arms and broad chest drove his sword deep into demon flesh and out again
in steady butchery.

The demons came from all sides now, vicious and unrelenting, and the
night wasn't dark enough to hide the horror of what they did. MacNeil
fought on. He had no idea of how many demons he'd killed. He'd lost
count long ago. It didn't make any difference. There were always more.
He swung his sword double-handed now, and the hilt jarred in his hands
as he hacked through a demon's spine. There were screams all through the
night, and somewhere close at hand a man was cursing endlessly, his
voice thick and empty. A woman sobbed, loud and anguished, until the
sound broke off suddenly. And then the demons were retreating, as
suddenly as they'd come, melting silently back into the endless night.

MacNeil lowered his dripping sword and leaned on it, fighting for
breath. The air was full of the stench of blood and death. The great
muscles in his arms and back ached horribly, and he was deathly tired.
There was no end to the demons, and the intervals between their attacks
were getting shorter. They came to the slaughter like pigs at a through,
with an insatiable appetite for carnage. And strong as he was, MacNeil
knew there were limits to his strength, and he was fast approaching
them.

He slowly straightened up, and looked about him. There were bodies
everywhere, and the barricades had been all but torn apart. The dead and
the wounded lay where they had fallen on the blood-soaked ground. No one
had the time or the strength to drag them away. Many of the bodies
showed signs of feasting. The demons were always hungry.

The long night was bitterly cold, and MacNeil pulled his tattered cloak
about him. His hands shook, not entirely from the cold. High above, the
Blue Moon shone down from a starless night, and the Darkwood held
dominion over all the Forest. Demons swarmed everywhere in the darkness
surrounding the small besieged town of King's Deep. The town had been
cut off from the outside world for so long its defenders were no longer
sure how long it had been. The nightmare seemed to go on forever, as
though it had always been happening, and always would. No sun rose or
set in the Darkwood; there was only the endless night and the creatures
that moved in it.

MacNeil clutched his sword tightly, but it had lost all power to comfort
him. He'd always thought of himself as brave, but that was before the
Darkwood. In the past he'd fought footpads and smugglers and Hillsdown
spies, and never given a damn for the danger. He was strong and fast and
good with a sword, and he'd never once backed down from a fight. Unlike
many of his fellow guards he'd always looked forward to going into
action; he loved the thrill in his blood and the chance for glory. But
that was before he came to defend King's Deep, and found himself facing
a ravenous horde of inhuman creatures that came swarming out at the dark
in never-ending numbers. He'd taken his place at the barricade and
fought and killed and slaughtered until his sword arm ached and his
armour was soaked with demon blood, and none of it mattered a damn. One
by one the defenders fell, and a growing desperation gnawed at MacNeil
as the siege continued with no end in sight.

He leaned against the barricade and closed his eyes for a moment. His
whole body trembled with fatigue, and sweat and blood trickled down his
face. He couldn't face another attack. He just couldn't. He opened his
eyes and glanced back at the town behind him. Here and there in King's
Deep a few lights flickered defiantly against the darkness, but the
light didn't carry far. There weren't many people left to look at them
anyway. MacNeil looked down at his sword.

Demon blood dripped steadily from the long blade, but he couldn't find
the energy to clean it.

He'd always thought he was brave. For almost two years now he'd used his
sword to enforce the King's law, hunting down criminals and keeping the
roads safe. He was proud of his strength and his courage, and neither of
them had ever let him down. Until he came to King's Deep, and the demons
taught him fear. He killed them over and over again, and still they came
swarming out of the darkness, driven by hatred and a never-ending
hunger. MacNeil had given everything he had to stop them, and it hadn't
been enough. He looked out into the endless night and waited for the
demons to come again. He thought he would die soon, and he doubted his
death would be easy.

The demons had taught him fear. It felt like panic and despair.

He looked at the broken barricade before him and wondered why he still
stayed at his post. King's Deep was nothing to him; just another small
country town in the back of beyond, of no importance to anyone but its
inhabitants The town was bound to fall sooner or later, and if he stayed
he'd fall with it. If he stayed. He turned the thought over in his mind,
studying it warily. He didn't have to stay. The guard Captain who'd
given him his orders was dead and gone, along with most of the other
guards. He could just slip quietly away from his post and run, trusting
the dark to hide him. No one would ever know. Except him.

MacNeil shook his head to clear it. In all the minstrels' songs the
heroes never once considered turning and running. They just stood their
ground and died nobly. It was different here in the darkness, facing an
enemy without end .. He looked up sharply as he sensed rather than heard
a stirring in the night. There was a clatter of running feet around him
as others sensed the disturbance and moved forward to block some of the
larger gaps in the barricade.

MacNeil gripped his sword tightly and wondered vaguely why he was
crying. The tears ran jerkily down his face, cutting furrows in the
drying blood. He tried to stop crying, and couldn't. He was cold and
tired and hurt so badly he could hardly stand up straight, and still he
had to fight. It wasn't fair. They had no right to expect so much of bin
He'd done his best for as long as he could, but he illst couldn't do it
any more. Not any more.

Demons came boiling out of the darkness, throwing themselves at the
barricades in a silent murderous frenzy.

MacNeil stood his ground and swung his sword doublehanded, the long
blade biting deep into demon flesh. Foulsmelling blood flew thickly on
the air, and his footing grew slippery. His arm and back muscles
screamed in agony, but still he fought, his sword rising and falling
again and again.

He started to whimper, and bit his lips until the blood came to keep
from crying out. The demons burst through the barricades and he was
forced to retreat. He fell back, fighting every step of the way, and all
around him the town's defenders were pulled down and slaughtered. Their
screams lasted a long time. MacNeil swung his sword with failing arms,
and the demons came at him from all sides.

No. No, this isn't how it was. The long night broke, the dawn came, and
the demons and the darkness retreated.

King's Deep was saved, and I survived. I remember! I was there!

This isn't how it was!

The demons swarmed over him and pulled him down, and there was only the
blood and the darkness.

A low wind murmured across the deserted moor, and moonlight shone silver
on the early morning mists. The sun would be up in less than an hour,
and still Jessica Flint stood alone in the old graveyard. She pulled her
cloak tightly about her, and vowed that once she got back to her nice
warm barracks nothing short of a declaration of war would get her out on
night duty again. She also vowed to do something extremely unpleasant to
the Sergeant who'd volunteered her for this duty.

Flint looked about her, but apart from the graveyard the open moor
stretched away in every direction, all silver and shadows in the
half-moon's light. Half a mile away, over the down-curving horizon, lay
the small village of Castle Mills, to which the graveyard belonged.

It was on the villagers' behalf that Flint was freezing her butt off on
the moor at this unearthly hour of the morning. Six months ago, they'd
caught a rapist and murderer attacking his latest victim. The villagers
dragged him out on to the street and hanged him on the spot, amid
general celebration. Rather than pollute their graveyard, they threw the
body into a peat bog out on the moor. One month later the dead man dug
his way out of the mire and made his way back to the village. He killed
four women with his bare hands before the villagers banded together and
drove him off with flaring torches. He returned to the peat bog and
disappeared beneath the mud. But the next month he rose again, and every
month after that. The villagers learned to patrol their streets as soon
as the sun went down, and the lich turned his attentions to the local
graveyard whose comfort he'd been denied. He dug up graves, smashed
coffins and violated the bodies. The villagers sent to the guards for
help, and Flint was the unlucky one.

She glanced at the oil-soaked torch standing unlit beside a tombstone.
She didn't dare light it before the lich appeared, for fear of
frightening him off. In order for it to be effective, she'd have to use
the torch at very close range.

Flint frowned, and rested her hand on the pommel of the sword at her
side. She'd never fought a lich before. Fire was the usual defence, but
by all accounts the lich had proved too elusive for that, so far. Maybe
if she hacked him into small pieces first ... She shrugged, and looked
around her.

It wasn't much of a graveyard. Just a wide patch of uneven earth, with a
dozen weatherbeaten headstones and a scattering of sagging wooden
crosses. It smelled pretty bad too. Flint doubted if the people of
Castle Mills had even heard of embalming.

A faint noise caught her attention and she spun round, sword in hand.
The peat bog where the murderer's body had been dumped lay less than a
hundred yards away, its dark wet surface gleaming coldly in the
moonlight. Flint licked her dry lips, and then froze where she stood as
a clawlike hand thrust up through the mire. Mud dripped from the bony
fingers as they flexed jerkily. The hand rose slowly out of the mire,
followed by a long crooked arm and a bony head. Flint snapped out of her
daze, and drawing flint and steel from her pocket she lit the torch
she'd brought with her. For a moment she thought it had got too damp to
catch, but the oil-soaked head finally burst into flames, and she turned
back to face the peat bog with the flaring torch in one hand and her
sword in the other. The mire's surface parted reluctantly with a long
sucking sound, and the dead man pulled himself out into the night air.
He stood wavering on the edge of the bog and slowly turned his head to
look at Flint. His skin was stained and shrunken, but had been mostly
preserved by his time in the bog. The eyes were gone, eaten away by
decay, but Flint somehow knew that he could still see her. The lich wore
a series of filthy tatters that might once have been clothes, held
together by muck and foulness. Mud dripped steadily from him as he
started forward, heading for Flint.

All right, thought Flint. This is where I earn my pay.

She stepped forward to meet the lich, holding the torch up high.
Moonlight shimmered brightly on the curved blade of her scimitar as she
held it out before her. The lich walked unsteadily towards her, his bony
fingers clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Flint waited until the
last possible moment, and then cut at the lich with her sword. The dead
man swayed aside horribly quickly, and the blade whistled through empty
air. Flint quickly recovered her balance and jumped backwards, but the
lich's hand shot out and fastened on to her left wrist. The bony fingers
sank deep into her flesh, and blood ran down her hand, but she wouldv't
drop the torch. Flint swung her sword down in a short brutal arc, and
cut through the lich's wrist. She fell backwards, the dead hand still
clutching her wrist, and landed awkwardly. Somehow she still managed to
hang on to the torch and her sword.

The lich stopped and looked at the stump of his wrist. No blood spurted
from the severed arm, though bone fragments showed clearly in the
moonlight. Flint stealthily drew her feet under her, and shook the dead
hand free from her wrist.

Cut off the head and then the legs, and the thing would be helpless.
Burn the remnants to ashes with the torch, and the lich would never
trouble the villagers again. All it took was a steady nerve, and a
steady hand.

She scrambled quickly to her feet and then tripped on the uneven ground.
She fell heavily, jarring the breath from her lungs, and dropped both
her sword and the torch. The flame flickered and went out. Flint
struggled to her knees, gasping for breath, and reached for her sword.
The lich got there first.

No. That's not right.

The lich picked up the sword with its remaining hand, and hefted it
thoughtfully. The eyeless face turned slowly to grin at Flint. She
scrambled ,frantically backwards.

No! That isn't the way it happened! I beat the lich!

The walking dead man loomed over her, huge and dark and awful. Moonlight
gleamed on the sword as he lifted it above his head, and then the blade
came flashing down, and blood ran darkly on the moonlit ground. The
sword rose and fell, rose and fell  ... Giles Dancer walked down a long
stone passage that had n beginning and no end. Torches burned on the
walls to either side of him, but made little impression on the darkness
that filled the passage like a living thing. The Dancer walked through
the corridors of Castle Lancing with his sword in his hand, searching
for the werewolf.

The shapeshifter was as cunning as it was deadly, and it had taken the
Dancer some time to work out which of the Baron's guests was the
werewolf, but now he knew. The creature couldn't be far ahead of him. He
padded softly down the narrow stone corridor, his calm cold eyes
searching the gloom for any trace of his prey. It seemed to him that
he'd been searching for the werewolf for a long time, but the Dancer was
patient. He knew he'd find it eventually, and then he would kill it.

He walked on down the passage, and a slight frown creased his forehead.
He hadn't known Castle Lancing was this big. Surely he should have got
somewhere by now.

And there was something about this case he ought to remember; he was
sure of it, but he couldn't quite place what it was. A sudden sound
caught his attention, and he stopped where he was and listened
carefully. The sound came again: a low, coughing growl, not far away.
The Dancer smiled. This should be interesting. He'd never killed a
werewolf before. He hoped the creature would put up a good fight; it had
been a long time since anyone had been able to challenge his skill.

Man or beast, sorcerer or shapeshifter, it made no difference to him. He
was a Bladesmaster and he was unbeatable. He moved slowly forward,
listening carefully all the way, but there was only the silence and the
shadows. And then he rounded a corner in the passage and the werewolf
came out of the darkness to meet him.

It was tall, well over seven feet in height, its shaggy head brushing
the roof of the corridor. Its thick fur was matted with sweat and blood,
and it smelled rank, like a filthy butcher's shop. The close-set eyes
were yellow as urine, and its wide grinning mouth was full of heavy
pointed teeth.

The werewolf snarled at the Dancer, and ropy saliva fell from its mouth.
The two of them stood looking at each other for a long moment, and then
the Dancer smiled and hefted his sword lightly. The werewolf howled and
threw itself at the Dancer's throat. He sidestepped easily, and his
sword cut into and out of the werewolf's stomach in a single fluid
movement. The creature howled again, and spun round to claw at the
Dancer, the horrid wound in its gut healing even as it moved. The Dancer
slipped the silver dagger out of the top of his boot and drove it
between the werewolf's ribs with a practised twist of the wrist. The
creature screamed in a human voice, and fell limply to the stone floor.
Its blood was as red as any human's. The Dancer stepped carefully back
out of range, and watched calmly as the werewolf's panting breath slowed
and stopped.

And as he watched, the creature's shape blurred and changed, the fur and
fangs and claws slowly melting away, until there before him on the floor
lay Jessica Flint, with his knife in her heart.

The witch called Constance stood in the reception hall. A cold wind was
blowing from nowhere, and the shadows were too dark. Four men were tying
nooses, and throwing the ropes over the supporting beam above them. They
paid the witch no attention as they worked, and though their mouths were
smiling, their eyes were puzzled and confused.

The first man to finish took a chair from beside the wall and positioned
it carefully under the noose he'd arranged.

He stood on the chair, slipped the noose around his neck, and then
waited patiently while the others did the same.

Finally all four men were standing on chairs with nooses round their
necks. They pulled the nooses tight, and without looking at each other,
one by one they stepped off the chairs. They hung unmoving from the roof
beam, slowly strangling. Their hands hung freely at their sides as they
choked.

Constance stepped around them, giving their twitching feet a wide berth,
and ran into the main corridor that led off from the reception hall. A
guard was hacking a trader to pieces as he tried to crawl away. A
lengthy trail of blood on the corridor floor showed how long the trader
had been crawling. Neither the guard nor the trader noticed Constance at
all. She walked on through the fort, and everywhere she went it was the
same: scenes of madness and murder and grotesque suicide. One man sat in
a corner and stabbed himself repeatedly in the gut until his arm became
too weak to wield the knife. A woman drowned her two children in a hip
bath, and then sat them both in her lap and sang them lullabies. Two men
duelled fiercely with axes, hacking at each other again and again with
no thought of defending themselves. They gave and took terrible wounds,
but would not fall. Blood flew on the freezing air and steamed in wide
puddles on the floor. All through the fort it was the same: men, women
and children died horribly for no reason that Constance could see or
understand. Their eyes were not sane. It was very cold in the fort, and
darkness gathered around the shrinking pools of light.

Above and beyond all the madness and death Constance could hear a
continual dull thudding, like a great bass drumbeat that went on and on.
It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, and it was a long time
before Constance realized she was listening to the beating of a giant
heart, immeasurably far away.

She came at last to the dining hall, where hundreds of men and women and
children sat at dinner. She entered the hall warily, but still no one
knew she was there. She moved over to the nearest table, and her face
twisted with disgust as she saw what they were eating. The meat on the
platters was raw and bloody, and maggots writhed in it, twisting and
wriggling as they squirmed out on to the table. Lengths of purple
intestine hung over the edges of the table, twitching and dripping, and
bowls were full of birds' heads, the dark little eyes alive and knowing.
The witch looked away, and realized for the first time that the man
sitting before her at the table was dead. His throat had been cut,
twice. Blood had run down his neck and soaked into his shirtfront. He
smiled politely at Constance, and offered her a wine glass.

It was full to the brim with blood.

Constance backed quickly away as she realized he could see her, and one
by one all the guests turned to look at her.

They were all dead. Some had been stabbed, some had been burned. Some
had died easily, while others had been all but hacked apart. Four
carried their necks at a stiff angle to show the livid rope marks on
their throats. Constance shook her head dazedly, pressed her lips
together and tried not to scream. And then, one by one, the gathering of
the dead raised their arms and pointed behind her. Constance turned
slowly, unwillingly. Whatever it was they wanted her to see, she knew
she didn't want to see it. But still she turned, and the scream rose in
her throat as she saw MacNeil, Flint and the Dancer hanging on the wall
behind her. They'd been pinned to the stonework by dozens of long-bladed
knives. Their dangling feet were a good six inches off the ground, and
from the amount of blood that had pooled on the floor beneath them,
they'd been a long time dying.

Constance whimpered faintly. There was a series of scuffling noises
behind her, and she turned back to find the dead rising unhurriedly to
their feet. They advanced slowly on her, each carrying a long-bladed
knife. Constance started to back away, and slammed up against the closed
door. She pulled frantically at the handle, but the door wouldn't open
She spun round, and the knives were very close. Constance screamed.

MacNeil snapped awake as the scream broke through his dream. He tore at
his tangled bedding and sat bolt upright, his mind still howling demons
demons demons. He thrashed wildly about him for his sword, and then
stopped as he realized where he was. He let out his breath in a long
slow sigh, and the dream fell away from him. His face was covered with a
cold sweat, and he rubbed it dry with the edge of his blanket. His hands
were still shaking slightly.

He took a deep breath and held it a moment. It didn't help as much as
he'd hoped. He looked quickly about him.

Constance was sitting up beside him. Her face was buried in her hands,
and her shoulders were shaking. The echo of her scream was only just
fading away. The Dancer was standing by his blankets, sword in hand,
looking around the empty hall for a target. Flint stood at his side,
also clutching her sword. Her eyes were vague and only just beginning to
focus.

MacNeil slowly relaxed. It's all right now. It was just a dream.

You're safe now. The last of the panic died away, and he was himself
again. He reached out and put a comforting hand on Constance's shoulder.
She cried out at his touch, and flinched away from him. And then she
looked up and saw who it was, and some of the tension went out of her.
The calm poise of her face was gone, shattered by her nightmare, and
MacNeil was strangely touched as he saw how open and vulnerable she
looked. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, and promise
to keep her safe from the world. Even as he thought it, the familiar
calm features reappeared as Constance regained control of herself.

She sniffed once, and rubbed at her face with her sleeve.

"I'm sorry,' she said, her voice muffled, "I had a bad dream  ... a
nightmare."

"I guessed that,' said MacNeil drily. "Are you all right now ?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I'm sorry I woke you."

"I'm not,' said MacNeil. "I was having a pretty bad dream of my own, and
I can't say I'm sorry it was interrupted. If you hadn't woken me up, I'd
probably have felt a bit like screaming myself."

"You had a nightmare?' said the Dancer, frowning.

"Yes,' said MacNeil. "So what? Everyone has nightmares.' "Including me,'
said the Dancer quietly. "What are the odds on three of us having
nightmares at the same time ?"

"Four,' said Flint.

MacNeil looked at her sternly. "You fell asleep on watch?' Flint nodded
unhappily. "I must have dozed off for a moment. ' "That's not like you,'
said the Dancer.

"No,' said MacNeil thoughtfully. "It isn't.' Constance looked at Flint,
started to say something, and then changed her mind. "Your dream,' she
said finally.

"What was it?' Flint frowned. "I dreamed about the time I fought a
walking dead man. Only in my dream, I lost."

"I dreamed about a werewolf I killed a few years back,' said the Dancer.
"Only ... things were different in the dream.' Constance looked at
MacNeil. "What about you, Duncan ?

What was your dream?"

"What does it matter?' said MacNeil "It was just a nightmare."

"It might be significant. Tell me.' No, Constance. I can't tell you. I
can't tell anyon', i c,'t tell anyone about the time I almost turned and
ran "I dreamed I was back in the long night,' he said finalh' "Fighting
the demons again.' Constance frowned. "Demons  ..."

"I hardly think that's significant,' said MacNeil. "I mean, we were
talking about them earlier on, weren't we?"

"Yes,' said Constance. "We were.' She thought for a moment, and then
looked seriously at MacNeil. "My dream was different. You all dreamed of
things that happened to you in the past. I dreamed of what happened here
in the fort, not long ago."

"A kind of Seeing?' said Flint.

"I don't know. Maybe.' Constance shuddered suddenly. "I saw the people
here go insane and kill each other and themselves.' For a while, no one
said anything.

"That's certainly one explanation,' said MacNeil. "But if that is what
happened, where are all the bodies ?"

"They haven't left the fort,' said Flint. "We'd have seen the tracks."

"I don't know,' said Constance. "But what I dreamed is what happened
here."

"Are you sure?' said MacNeil.

"Of course I'm sure! I'm a witch! There's something in this fort with
us. Something powerful. It sent us those nightmares. It's testing how
strong we are, looking for weak points. Only I was stronger than it
thought, and I Saw something of the truth.' MacNeil chose his words
carefully. "I think you're reading too much into this, Constance. I'll
agree it seems likely these dreams were sent to us, but that's all they
were: dreams. Anything else is just guesswork. We've been through every
room and corridor in this fort; there's no one here but us."

"Don't look now,' said the Dancer very quietly, 'but that's no longer
true. Someone's watching us from the door.' In the quiet of the night, a
lone figure stepped out of the trees at the edge of the Forest and
scurried quickly across the clearing towards the fort. Moonlight filled
the clearing as bright as day, and there wasn't a shadow anywhere for
Scarecrow Jack to hide in. He ran on, head down and arms pumping. If the
guards had left a lookout on the battlements he was a dead man; they
couldn't avoid seeing him in this much light. But he'd waited almost an
hour hoping in vain for a cloud to cover the moon, and in the end all he
could do was make a run for it and trust to his luck. Given the small
number of guards he'd seen, the odds were they hadn't bothered to post a
lookout, but Jack hadn't survived this long in the Forest by trusting
his luck. Except when he had to. His nerves crawled in anticipation of
the arrow he'd never see before it killed him. The fort finally loomed
up before him, and he threw himself forward into its concealing shadows.
He sank down on his haunches and leaned against the cold stone wall
until he got his breath back. The night lay dark and silent all around
him.

Scarecrow Jack was a tall, slight man in his mid twenties.

Long dark hair fell to his shoulders in a great shaggy mane that hadn't
known a brush or comb in years. A thin length of cloth knotted around
his brow kept the hair out of his eyes, which were dark and narrowed and
always alert. He wore a collection of roughly stitched green and brown
rags that barely qualified as clothes and seemed to be largely held
together by accumulated dirt. They smelled rather pungent, but in the
Forest the green and brown rags enabled him to blend perfectly into the
background, hiding him from even the most experienced of trackers. No
one found Scarecrow Jack unless he wanted to be found.

Jack had started out as a footpad, a lier-in-wait, but almost despite
himself had slowly developed into a local legend.

He'd been alone in the Forest for almost nine years, living on its
bounty and by what his wits could bring him. He developed an uncanny
accord with the Forest and the creatures that lived in it, and every
year the human world had less attractions that might call him back. And
yet he never forgot his humanity. If anything, the harsh world of the
Forest taught him the value of mercy and compassion.

He never robbed anyone who couldn't afford it, and would often poach
fish and game to provide food for poor families unable to provide for
themselves. He never let a tax-collector pass unrobbed, and would help
those who turned up lost or distressed in his part of the Forest. He had
a way with birds and animals, and with small children.

Officially he was an outlaw, with a price on his head, but no local man
or woman would turn him in. Scarecrow Jack was a part of the Forest, and
accepted as such. He kept apart from people, for he was by nature shy
and ill-at-ease in company. Some said he was one of the wee folk, or a
rogue goblin, or even the result of a mating between human and demon,
but he was none of those things. He was just a man who loved the Forest.
Scarecrow Jack.

He got to his feet, still keeping carefully to the fort's shadow, and
uncoiled the length of rope from across his shoulder. He checked that
the knot that held the grapplinghook was secure, and looked up at the
battlements with a calculating eye. He hefted the rope a moment to get
the feel of its weight, and then threw the hook up into the night sky
with a swift, easy movement. Moonlight glinted on the steel hook as it
arced over the battlements and disappeared from sight. Jack waited a
moment to let the hook settle, then pulled carefully on the rope until
it went taut. He tugged hard a few times, to be sure the rope would bear
his weight, then climbed nimbly up the outer wall of the fort. His
experienced feet found a good many footholds in the apparently smooth
stone to help him on his way, and he soon reached the battlements and
dropped lithely down on to the inner catwalk. He crouched motionless in
the shadows for a long moment, but there was no sign of anyone watching.

Jack quickly made his way down into the courtyard and padded silently
over to the stables; the number of horses would tell him how many guards
there were. But even as he approached the stable he knew something was
horribly wrong. He stopped by the slightly open doors and sniffed
cautiously. The thick, coppery smell of blood was heavy on the night
air. Jack eased the doors open and crept slowly forward, one step at a
time, and then stopped dead as his excellent night vision showed him the
wrecked stalls and the dark stains on the floor and walls. Jack frowned.
By their condition, the bloodstains had to be weeks old, but the smell
of blood in the stable was so fresh and strong as to be almost
overpowering ... He checked the floor for tracks.

Two people had come and gone recently, but there was no sign to show
what had attacked the horses. Jack scowled, and left the stables.

The air outside was clear and fresh, and he breathed deeply to clear the
stink of blood from his nostrils. Jack looked thoughtfully round the
empty courtyard. He'd known something must have gone wrong in the fort
for it to have seemed deserted for so long, but this  ... worried him.
It wasn't natural. It grated on his senses, like a roll of thunder too
far away to hear. Jack couldn't put his feelings into words, but that
didn't bother him. He lived as much by instincts as by reason. He glared
warily about him, and followed the guards' tracks across the empty
courtyard and into the main reception hall.

Four horses stood close together, fast asleep. Jack remembered the state
of the stables, and nodded understandingly.

The four nooses hanging from the ceiling were less easy to understand.
Jack scowled. The bad feeling he'd had in the courtyard was even
stronger here, and once again he could smell blood on the air.

It was cold too, unnaturally cold.

Something bad had happened here; he could feel it in his bones. He
checked the dusty floor for the guards' tracks, and moved carefully past
the sleeping horses. They seemed disturbed in their sleep, as though
bothered by bad dreams, but they didn't wake as he passed. Jack followed
the tracks out into the corridor, then stopped and peered about him
uncertainly. The gloom wasn't much of a problem to him, but he didn't
like being inside buildings. They made him feel all trapped and nervous,
and he kept thinking the walls were closing in on him. He shivered once,
like a dog, then put the thought out of his mind. He had a job to do.

He followed the guards' tracks through the narrow corridors and came
eventually to the main dining hall. He opened the door a crack, and
peered cautiously into the brightly lit hall. He froze where he was when
he saw the woman sitting guard over her three sleeping companions, and
then relaxed a little as he saw she was also fast asleep.

Jack frowned disappointedly. From the look of the party they had to be
Rangers, but he'd always thought them to be more professional than this.
Jack's frown deepened as he saw that all four of them were twitching and
mumbling in their sleep. More bad dreams, by the look of it. He could
understand that. This place gave him the creeps. And then one of the
Rangers suddenly sat up and screamed, and all of them woke up.

Jack didn't dare move for fear of drawing attention to himself. He stood
very still in the shadows of the door, and listened carefully as they
discussed their dreams. And then one of them spotted him.

The dark figure was off and running before MacNeil could get to the
door. He plunged down the corridor after the fleeing shape, sword in
hand. For a moment the dim figure had looked disturbingly like one of
the demons from his dream, but as his eyes adjusted to the gloom,
MacNeil could see he was chasing a man dressed in rags. A stray memory
tugged at him ... Scarecrow Jack?

MacNeil smiled slightly. He'd heard about that outlaw, and the price on
his head. He tried to force a little more speed out of his tired legs,
but the outlaw could run like a startled deer and MacNeil was hard put
even to keep him in sight. He ran on, vaguely aware that the rest of his
team were following some way behind. The chase continued, through rooms
and corridors that blurred together in the darkness, until finally the
outlaw charged between the sleeping horses in the reception hall and out
into the courtyard.

MacNeil had to spend a few moments calming the dismayed horses before he
could follow, and when he finally got out into the courtyard, Scarecrow
Jack was nowhere to be seen.

The rest of the team arrived soon after, and they stood together by the
hall door, looking around them at the courtyard's impenetrable shadows.

"This may seem a stupid question,' said Constance finally, 'but just who
the hell are we looking for?"

"An outlaw,' said MacNeil. "He was spying on us from the doorway."

"How long for?' said Flint.

"Too long,' said the Dancer. "He's very good, whoever he is.' "Scarecrow
Jack, I think,' said MacNeil.

The Dancer raised an eyebrow. "I hadn't realized we were in his
territory. I wonder what he wants with us?"

"More importantly, how did he get in here, and where is he now?' MacNeil
hefted his sword impatiently. "He couldn't have got in through the main
doors; they're still locked and bolted. I saw to that, before we turned
in."

"He must have come over the wall,' said Flint. "He's probably up on the
catwalks somewhere.' They all looked up at the battlements, but there
wasn't enough light to see them as anything more than darker shadows
against the night.

"If he was up there, he's long gone by now,' said MacNeil disgustedly.
He hesitated, and then slammed his sword back into its scabbard. Flint
and the Dancer looked at each other, and put away their swords. MacNeil
turned to Constance.

"Can you use your Sight to find the outlaw?' The witch shook her head.
"My Sight is still clouded by whatever's here in the fort with us. If we
were to go out into the Forest, I might be able to help you track him
down.' MacNeil shook his head. "We'd never find Scarecrow Jack in the
dark, and by morning he could be miles away.' He looked thoughtfully up
at the battlements. "If he could get over that wall, so could anyone
else. We'd better keep our eyes and ears open.' "Perhaps I'm missing
something,' said Constance, 'but why should a footpad like Scarecrow
Jack want to break in here? What could he be looking for, in a border
fort?"

"I was wondering that,' said Flint. "This isn't the kind of thing he
usually does, according to all the stories. It's not his style at all.
Is there something here we don't know about, Duncan? Something we
haven't been told?' MacNeil smiled slightly. "Nothing much escapes you,
does it, Jessica? All right; let's get back to the dining hall, and I'll
tell you the whole story. I don't want to talk out here. You never know
who might be listening.' Back in the dining hall, MacNeil pulled up a
chair and gestured for the others to do the same. He waited patiently
while they got settled, and then leaned forward.

"One of the reasons we're here,' he said slowly, 'is to find out what
happened to the hundred thousand ducats' worth of gold this fort was
supposed to be guarding.' He looked round at the others and smiled as he
watched their jaws drop.

"A hundred thousand ducats,' said Flint reverently "That is one hell of
a lot of gold."

"Damn right,' said MacNeil. "It's the payroll for all the border forts
in this sector. It was only supposed to stay here overnight, while
arrangements were made for it to be broken up and distributed, but
unfortunately that turned out to be the night the fort broke off all
contact with the outside world You can imagine the heart flutters that
caused at Court. So: officially we're here to find out what happened to
the fort's missing personnel, but we're also supposed to find the gold
and make sure it's intact and secure. You can guess which of those
orders has top. priority."

"That's why you insisted we check every room earlier on,' said Flint
"Right,' said MacNeil.

The Dancer looked at him steadily "Why weren't we told any of this
before?' MacNeil smiled and shrugged. "They don't know you like I do.
Anyway, I'm telling you now. If Scarecrow Jack has somehow found out
about the gold, you can bet he's not working on his own any more. He
couldn't even move that much gold without help' "How do we know it
hasn't already been moved?' said Flint "The odds are against it,' said
MacNeil. "All the signs would seem to suggest that we're the first
people to have entered this fort since. whatever happened.' Constance
frowned. "Scarecrow Jack usually works alone.

And I never heard of him being interested in gold."

"Everyone's interested in gold,' said Flint.

"Not Jack,' said Constance. "He's different.' MacNeil looked at her.
"You know Scarecrow Jack?"

"I met him, once,' said Constance. "A few years back I was searching for
mandrake roots not far from here, and I got lost. Jack found me, and
showed me the way back to the main trail. He was very polite, very
sweet, and extremely shy. I liked him. He's a simple enough soul, happy
with the life he leads. The Forest gives him everything he needs. But ..
I suppose anyone can be tempted."

"Exactly,' said MacNeil. "So, we've got to find the gold, or what
happened to it, before Jack gets back here with his friends. For all we
know, there could be a small army out there, just waiting for him to
report back.' The Dancer looked at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"We'd have a hard job defending this place against even a very small
army. ' MacNeil shrugged. "All we have to do is keep them away from the
gold for a few days, and then the reinforcements will be here. But to do
that, we've got to find the damned gold first' "All right,' said Flint
"Where do we start? We've already looked everywhere once' "Yeah,' said
MacNeil. "Which means we must have overlooked something ...  some clue.
So we'll just have to search every room and corridor and hideyhole all
over again, and keep on looking until we do find something."

"Now?' said Constance "At night?' MacNeil looked at her sardonically.
"Still bothered by your dream, Constance? Afraid the nasty demons are
going to jump out of the shadows at you?' Constance looked at him
steadily. "You can be very irritating at times, Duncan. Something here
in this fort drove the people insane, so that they killed themselves and
each other. It's still here, and it's still dangerous. And evil is at
its strongest during the hours of darkness.' "I'm sorry, Constance,'
said MacNeil, 'but there's no real evidence for any of that."

"My Sight ... ' "Is clouded here. You said so yourself.' "You'd have
believed Salamander!' For a long moment no one said anything.

"The sooner we start this search, the sooner we'll be finished,' said
MacNeil quietly. "We'll make better time if we split into two teams. The
first one to find anything sings out. Flint, you and the Dancer start at
the entrance hall.

Check it over thoroughly, even if you have to rip the walls apart to do
it. Then start working your way back, room by room. Constance and I will
start here and work our way out to meet you. Between us, we should cover
every room in the fort."

"It's going to be a long job,' said the Dancer.

"Then we'd better make a start, hadn't we?' said MacNeil.

Wolves in the Forest Scarecrow Jack moved through the dark woods like a
speckled ghost, his feet making no sound as they trod the path only he
could see. Jack was a part of the Forest and knew its secret ways. Trees
loomed over him like sleeping giants, their gnarled arms stirring
uneasily in the gusting wind. Milky shafts of moonlight spilled through
occasional gaps in the overhead canopy and collected in shimmering pools
on the Forest floor. Jack stopped suddenly, and dropped down to crouch
motionless in the shadows. Something was wrong in the Forest. He sniffed
cautiously at the air, but only familiar scents came to him: the sharp,
taut smells of bark and leaf, and the rich smoky aroma of broken earth.
Jack concentrated on his inner magic, the simple basic accord between
him and the trees. There was a storm coming; a bad one by the feel of
it, but he already knew that from the afternoon clouds and the closeness
of the air. Something was wrong in the Forest  ... something old and
terrible had been disturbed from its ancient sleep  ... There were
giants in the earth in those days.

Something evil was abroad in the night. The birds and the animals knew.
The night should have been alive with the small, furtive sounds of the
hunters and their prey, but instead the darkness was still and silent,
and animals and birds alike huddled together in their lairs and waited
for the evil to pass.

Jack frowned, worried. How could such an evil have awakened in the
Forest without him being aware of it before now? And then he smiled
grimly as he realized he already knew the answer. He'd been so taken up
with his new partners of late that he'd had no time for anything but
them. Half the Forest could have burned down and he wouldn't have
noticed it till he smelt the smoke. Jack sighed regretfully. He wasn't
happy with the way things were, but for the moment he was powerless to
do anything about it.

He'd just have to wait, and keep his eyes open. His eyes .. or someone
else's. He grinned broadly as an answer came to him. He stood up and
closed his eyes, and cast his mind out among the tall trees, calling in
a soundless shout.

He opened his eyes and waited patiently, and a few minutes later a
flurry of whiteness came sweeping through the night towards him like a
silent ghost. Jack put up his arm at the last moment, and the owl landed
heavily on his forearm and settled itself comfortably. The claws pricked
his arm through the thin rags, but didn't penetrate his skin. The owl
looked at him seriously, and Jack met its great golden eyes with his
own. An understanding passed between them.

He was flying through the Forest, gliding on outstretched wings. The
night was unnaturally quiet, and an evil presence beat on the darkness
like a giant heart. He turned in the evil's direction and flew towards
it, curious. The trees swayed by on either side of him and then fell
suddenly away as he burst out of the Forest and into the clearing.

Moonlight flared around him like a shout of thunder as he fluttered to a
halt in mid-air. A great pile of stone and wood lay at the centre of the
clearing: the border fort. Once he would have used it as a resting place
or a nesting ground.

But not now. The evil was there, waiting. A great eye crawled slowly
open deep in the darkness, and the owl turned and fled back to the
safety of the tall trees and Jack was suddenly himself again, the
contact broken.

He lifted his arm, and the owl flew back into the darkness and was gone.
Jack frowned thoughtfully. While he was in the border fort his senses
had been dulled by the unyielding presence of the human world, but now
he was back in the Forest all his instincts cried out against entering
the fort again. Unfortunately, he no longer had a choice in the matter.
Jack shrugged and padded off into the trees, accelerating slowly into a
steady lope he could maintain for hours if he had to. He was already
late, and Hammer hated to be kept waiting. Jack smiled widely. There
were a lot of things about Jack that Hammer hated.

His smile vanished as he thought about Jonathon Hammer. The man might be
a cold bastard, but he'd undoubtedly saved Jack's life, and Scarecrow
Jack always paid his debts. He scowled briefly. It was his own damned
fault for getting caught off guard in the first place. A simple little
hole-in-the-ground trap, disguised and baited, and he fell for it.
Literally. If Hammer hadn't come along at just the right time, the
guards would have had him for sure, and Scarecrow Jack's head would have
stood on a pike in the nearest market square, as a warning to others.

Jack ran on through the night, brushing noiselessly past the hanging
branches of the close-set trees. Too many of them were dead and rotten,
a legacy of the Darkwood. Jack felt their presence like an ache in his
soul, a barely cauterized wound in the Forest. Normally he would have
stopped and checked each one for signs of life or regrowth, but tonight
he didn't have the time. A flickering light appeared in the darkness
ahead, and he slowed to a walk. He moved silently forward and crouched
motionless in the shadows at the edge of a clearing. Jack watched Hammer
striding impatiently up and down beside a blazing campfire, and tried to
figure out how he was going to make Hammer understand about the fort.

Jonathon Hammer was a tall, muscular man with impressively broad
shoulders. He was in his late thirties, and looked it. He wore his dark
hair short, brushed forward to hide a receding hairline. His eyes were
deceptively warm, as was his smile, but for all his efforts there was a
cold, vindictive quality to his face that never left it. He wore a
simple leather vest over a white cotton shirt, and plain black trousers
stuffed into the tops of his muddy boots. By his dress he could have
been anything from a trader to a clerk to a bailiff, but the long sword
hanging diagonally down his back marked him for the warrior he was.
Hammer was a good six and a half feet tall, but the hilt of the sword
stood up beside his head, while the tip of the scabbard was almost long
enough to brush the ground behind him. It was the longest sword Jack had
ever seen, and from the width of the scabbard it looked to be a heavy
sword as well, but Hammer moved easily with it on his back, as though
unaware of its presence. He also carried another sword on his hip, but
though he occasionally took that off, Jack had never seen him remove the
longsword from his back. He even slept with it on.

In his time, Hammer had apparently been most kinds of soldier. He'd
served as a mercenary for hire, a Baron's manat-arms, and as one of the
King's guards, but he'd always been too ambitious and greedy for his own
good. Wherever he went, sooner or later he'd start a still, or a crooked
gambling school, or fight an officer he didn't like, and then Hammer
would be off on his travels again. It was on one of his travels that
he'd found the longsword, but that was one part of his life he never
talked about.

Most recently, he'd been part of a company of guards escorting a
wagonload of gold to the border fort. He'd never seen so much gold in
one place before, and it had filled his dreams ever since. With that
much gold he could raise his own army of mercenaries, and take the
Forest Kingdom by storm. King Jonathon the First ... Jack smiled. Hammer
never had believed in thinking small. He'd stayed with the guards just
long enough to see the gold safely delivered and stored, and then he
deserted and took to the Forest, lying low while he plotted some way to
take the gold for himself.

But that night, something had happened in the fort.

Hammer had stood at the edge of the clearing, listening to the screams,
but hadn't dared investigate alone. He watched the fort for the next few
days, but there were no signs of life. It took him a while to track down
the archer called Wilde, and acquire the services of Scarecrow Jack, but
he apparently regarded it as time well spent. With those two at his
side, he'd been ready to face anything the fort could throw at him.

Unfortunately, the Rangers got there first.

Jack crouched in the shadows at the edge of the outlaws' clearing, and
studied Hammer and Wilde with narrowed eyes. Delay was dangerous; the
later he was, the more Hammer would make him suffer for it. And yet
still Jack hesitated. He needed time to think about the two men he'd
become allied with. Hammer was one thing. He owed Hammer. But Wilde  ...
Edmond Wilde was sitting on the other side of the fire, gnawing hungrily
at a greasy chicken leg. He was tall and lanky, somewhere in his late
twenties, and dressed all in shabby black. He had a thin face with dark,
close-set eyes, and in the darkness he looked not unlike an unsuccessful
vulture. His black hair was long and greasy, and he was constantly
tossing his head to clear the hair out of his eyes.

His movements were awkward and furtive, as though he was ashamed to draw
attention to himself. But put a bow or a sword in his hand, and he was a
different man. His back straightened, his eyes became cold and alert,
and an aura of menace hung around him like a shroud. Wilde was almost as
good with a bow as he thought he was, which meant he was a master
bowman.

The bow lay on the ground at his side, unstrung so as not to stretch the
cord. It was a Forest longbow, almost seven feet in length. Jack had
tried to pull it once, when Wilde wasn't around, and found he could
hardly bend the thing using all his strength. Since Wilde wasn't exactly
musclebound, Jack assumed there had to be some trick to it. He would
have liked to ask Wilde, but he didn't. Wilde wasn't the kind you could
ask things of. He was on the run when Hammer found him, though he never
said from what.

Given what Jack had seen of the man's tastes and attitudes, Wilde was
probably wanted for rape or murder. Or both.

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 worshipped Hammer as long as he was in ear-shot, 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 behaviour 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 had 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 hi, 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 at it with the back of his hand, leaving an uneven
crimson streak 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 at
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, practised 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 tofollow. 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.

:i 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, channelled 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 round, 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 fight hand rose
absently to caress the long leather-wrapped swordhilt 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 swordhilt 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 always.

He waited patiently at the edge of the clearing while Hammer put out the
campfire and Wilde checked over his bow and arrows with surprisingly
gentle fingers. Jack sat down on a handy treestump 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 went. 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
treestump in the middle of the glade, with his back to Jack. He wore a
guard's uniform, and a hand axe 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 mankiller 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 and looked
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 andhe 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 straight
away. 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 came 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 swordhilt 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
round at the guard sitting on the treestump, 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; convindng 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 casuaitx towards the
knife in his sleeve.

"Don't,' said the man. "Don't even think about it. 'lou 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 honourable 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 they were shaping up to be the
worst two weeks of Jack's life. More than once he had contemplated just
walking out on Hammer and Wilde and disappearing back into the Forest,
but he couldn't.

Scarecrow Jack was an honourable 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.

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 the 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 lanternlight 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.

Jack ignored the cold and the wet; he was used to it. The rain soaked
his rags and dripped continuously from his face, but beyond a certain
point he simply didn't feel it. He had an animal's indifference for
conditions beyond his control.

Besides, judging from the way Hammer and Wilde had been reacting
whenever they got downwind of him, it was probably time his rags had a
good wash. He glanced at Wilde, standing miserably beside him, huddled
inside a thin cloak. The rain had slicked the archer's long hair down
around his face, and in the dim light he looked not unlike a
half-drowned river rat. He sniffed and shivered, and cursed continuously
in a low monotone. He pulled up his cloak's high collar, to keep out the
rain. It formed a kind of funnel that guided the rain down his neck and
back. Hammer ignored the sudden rise in cursing, and glowered through
the rain at the border fort. Like Jack, he seemed unaffected by the cold
and the wet.

"At least now we can be fairly sure there won't be any guards on the
battlements,' he said finally. "They won't be expecting anyone to be
abroad in weather like this."

"No one with any sense would be,' said Wilde. He sneezed dismally, and
wiped his nose on his sleeve. "How much longer do we have to stand
around here? I'm catching my death in this rain.' Hammer looked at Jack.
"Is this storm going to go off soon ?' Jack looked about him, and
considered for a moment.

"Unlikely. It may even get worse. This storm's been building for a long
time."

"All right,' said Hammer, 'we go now. Stick close together. Whatever
happens, no one is to go off on their own. ' He looked about him one
last time, hooded his lantern, and then ran across the open clearing
towards the border fort, followed closely by Wilde and Jack. Out in the
open the rain was coming down so hard it drowned out every other sound,
and even with the lantern and the lightning it was hard to see anything
more than a few feet away. Wilde lurched and slid in the mud, and Jack
was hard put to keep him moving. Hammer was soon only a vague shadow in
d front of them, and there was no sign of the fort. tack shuddered
violently as the driving rain chilled him to the bone. The clearing
seemed much wider than he remembered, and he began to wonder if Hammer
had lost his bearings and led them past the fort. And then, finally, a
massive stone wall loomed out of the rain before them and they had to
stumble to a halt to avoid crashing into it. The wall gave some
protection from the wind, but that was all.

Jack shook himself like a dog, but it didn't help much. He couldn't
recall having felt this wet in his life. The rain was so heavy now it
even made breathing difficult.

Hammer gestured for him to unsling his coil of rope. It was no use
trying to speak; the rain and the thunder made it impossible to hear.
Jack unslung the rope and checked that the grapnel was still secure. He
looked up at the wall, and the rain beat harshly on his face until he
had to turn it away. He took a moment to compose himself, blinking
rapidly to get the rain out of his eyes, and then he snatched one quick
look and threw the grapnel up into the air, aiming as best he could. It
just cleared the battlements, and fell to lodge securely somewhere
beyond them. Jack pulled the line taut and looked at Hammer, who nodded
for him to go first.

Jack took a firm grip on the rope, checked that it would take his
weight, and began to walk his way up the wall. The rain made both the
rope and the wall horribly slippery, and more than once only quick
reflexes and a death-like grip saved him from a nasty fall. When he
finally reached the battlements he was almost too tired to pull himself
over them.

He sat on the catwalk, breathing harshly, and then climbed reluctantly
to his feet and tugged twice on the rope to signal that it was clear for
the next man. Wilde made even harder going of the climb, and Jack had to
reach down and practically haul the man up the last few feet. Hammer
came last, and made it look easy.

They started along the narrow catwalk, heading for the steps that led
down into the courtyard.

Duncan MacNeil led his team through the fort, heading for the cellar.
The constant roar of the storm came dimly to them through the thick
stone walls. MacNeil and Constance carried lanterns while Flint and the
Dancer held their swords at the ready.

"I don't see why we have to look at the cellar again,' said Constance.
"We've already established the gold isn't there.' MacNeil shrugged.
"It's got to be here somewhere. It occurred to me there might be a
subcellar underneath the first, or even a hidden passageway."

"And if there isn't?' said Constance.

"Then we go through every damn room in this fort and take it apart brick
by brick until we do find the gold. Are you sure you can't See where it
is ?' The witch sighed audibly. "I'll try again, Duncan, but I can tell
you now it's not going to work. Something near by is still interfering
with my magic.' She stopped, and the others stopped with her. Constance
put her lantern down on the floor, massaged her temples with her
fingertips, and closed her eyes. The low background mutter of the storm
was a distraction, but she finally put it out of her mind. Darkness
gathered, smothering her Sight.

She shuddered as a bitter cold swept through her, and a feeling of
unease grew and grew until it bordered on panic.

Constance fought to control it, and as she did her Sight suddenly
cleared and she Saw a single huge eye. It was staring in her direction
nd slowly becoming aware of her presence. Constance immediately broke
off the contact and shielded her mind as thoroughly as she could. In
that brief glimpse she'd sensed something she had no desire to See
again. She huddled frightened in the darkness, but even i

inside her shield she could sense something awful prowling through the
dark in search of her. It slowly moved away, and Constance sighed
shakily and opened her eyes.

"Well?' said MacNeil impatiently.

"There's something here in the fort with us,' said Constance tiredly. "I
don't know what it is or where it is, but it's very old and very
deadly."

"Don't start that again,' said MacNeil. "There's no one in the fort but
us. You're just feeling the strain a bit, that's all. We all are.'
Constance looked at him coldly, but said nothing. With her Sight still
clouded, he might just be right. But she didn't think so. MacNeil
started down the corridor again, and Flint and the Dancer followed him.
Constance picked up her lantern and brought up the rear. Her hand
trembled with suppressed anger, and shadows swayed menacingly around the
team. MacNeil didn't look back at her. Truth to tell, he wasn't so sure
Constance wasn't right. He remembered how strongly she'd reacted to the
cellar before, and much as he wanted to, he couldn't ignore her
warnings. She had the Sight.

You'd have believed Salamander.

Yes. He would have. But Constance didn't have Salamander's experience,
and unless she came up with something more concrete than a few upset
feelings, he couldn't justify staying away from the cellar. Even if the
place did give him the creeps.

Constance was trying hard not to sulk, or at least not visibly. She
worked so hard, tried her best, and still he didn't trust her. When
she'd first found out which Ranger team she was joining she'd been so
thrilled she all but danced on the spot. She knew all about Sergeant
Duncan MacNeil. She'd been following his career at a distance for years.
Ever since he'd protected her from the demons when she was just a child,
living in the small town of King's Deep.

She'd pulled as many strings as she dared, to get herself assigned to
his team, all so that she could repay him for what he'd done for her, by
being the best damned witch he'd ever had. She had other dreams about
him too, but she rarely allowed herself to think about them. And now
here she was, on her first mission with him, and it was all going wrong.
Because he wouldn't give her a chance. Constance's lower lip jutted
rebelliously. She'd show him. She'd show them all.

It didn't take long to reach the cellar. It looked just as it had
before; a mess. MacNeil sniffed, and shook his head.

Grief knew how long they'd been dumping rubbish there; every day since
the fort was first occupied, by the look of it.

Constance hung her lantern from a wall-holder while Flint looked
disgustedly around the cellar.

"Everything but gold,' she said unenthusiastically. "You don't really
want us to dig through this stuff, do you, Duncan?"

"Afraid so,' said MacNeil.

Flint sniffed. "I just hope I don't catch anything contagious.' "That's
not all we have to worry about,' said Constance suddenly. "Have you
noticed how cold it's got?' The others stopped and looked at her.
MacNeil frowned as he suddenly realized his breath was steaming on the
air before him. All at once he was shivering, his bare face and hands
scared by the biting cold. He pulled his cloak around him and tried to
remember if it had been this cold when he first entered the cellar. He
had a strong feeling it hadn't. He looked at the others, and their
breath was steaming too.

He looked around him, and his flesh began to creep as he I

?'

:

noticed for the first time that a faint pearly haze of hoa fr,st was
forming on the cellar walls.

It can't be that cold down here. It can't  ... He forced himself to
concentrate on the matter in }land, and stared determinedly at the junk
covering the floor. "If there is a subcellar,' he said roughly, 'you
probably get to it by a trapdoor in the floor. Start shifting this
rubbish out of the way. Pile it up against the walls, and then we can
get a clear look at the floor.' The others nodded and set to work.
MacNeil put his lantern down safely out of the way and joined them.

Shifting the assorted debris took some time and not a little effort, but
eventually they uncovered a trapdoor. It lay in the exact middle of the
cellar floor, a good six square feet of solid oak, held shut by two
heavy steel bolts. MacNeil knelt down by the trapdoor and looked closely
at the bolts, but felt strangely reluctant to touch them. He rubbed his
hands together to drive out the cold and buy him some thinking time.
They were just ordinary, everyday steel bolts. There was no reason at
all why he shouldn't touch them. Except that all the hairs on the back
of his neck were standing up and both his arms were covered in
gooseflesh, and none of it came from the bitter cold in the cellar.

He looked at Constance, carefully keeping his voice calm and easy.

"Try your Sight. See if you can sense anything about the trapdoor and
what lies beneath it.' The witch nodded, and stared at the trapdoor. Her
eyes became vague and far away.

Deep in the earth something stirred, and strove to wake.

The weight of earth and stone lay heavy upon it, and time gnawed at its
blood and bones. A darkness came and went, too swiftly to disturb its
slumber, but now at last the chains of sleep began to fall away as day
by day it drifted closer to waking. It dreamed foul dreams and the world
went mad.

Soon its long sleep would end, and the world would tremble when the
sleeper spoke its name.

Constance broke the contact, and once again her Sight became vague and
clouded. She swayed sickly and almost fell, nauseated by the few faint
traces of the thing she'd sensed. MacNeil took her arm, concerned at her
sudden paleness, and she smiled weakly at him.

Tll be all right in a moment, Duncan."

"What did you See ?"

"The same thing I've Seen before, only this time I Saw it a little more
clearly. There's something down there, Duncan; something old and evil
and unspeakably powerful.

It's sleeping for the moment, but it could wake any time. It sent the
dreams that drove the people here insane.' MacNeil frowned. "All right,
Constance, I believe you. I don't want to, but it doesn't look like I
have any choice.

What is it? A demon?"

"I don't think so. It's older than that. I couldn't get a fix on exactly
where it is, but I don't think it's directly under the trapdoor. It's
... somewhere deeper.' MacNeil nodded slowly. "We've got to take a look
down there, Constance. Is it dangerous?"

"Yes,' said the witch. "But don't ask me how."

"That's not good enough."

"It's the best I can do! Why do we have to go down there now, anyway?
What's wrong with waiting till the reinforcements get here?"

"Think about it,' said MacNeil. "I've been ordered to find the gold, at
any cost. How is it going to look on our records if they find out we
knew about the trapdoor, but didn't investigate because we were too
scared? No, Constance; I'm opening that trapdoor and we're going down,
and that's all there is to it. Flint, Dancer: stand ready. Once that
trap-!i door's open, if anything comes out kill it first and ask
questions later, if at all."

"Got it,' said Flint. The Dancer smiled.

MacNeil looked at Constance. "Keep your magic ready and help where you
can, but don't get in our way. We're the fighters; that's our job.' The
witch nodded, and MacNeil reached down and took hold of the first bolt
on the trapdoor. It seemed to stir slowly under his fingertips, as
though it was alive. He snatched back his hand and knelt down to study
the bolt dosely. It seemed perfectly normal. Just nerves, that's all, he
thought determinedly. Just nerves. He wiped his fingers on his trousers
and tried again. He held the bolt firmly and pulled hard. It slid
smoothly back, with hardly a sound.

MacNeil swallowed drily and tried the second bolt. It was stiff, and he
had to work it back with a series of quick jerks, but finally it came
free. MacNeil took hold of the heavy steel ring in the centre of the
trapdoor and pulled firmly.

The trapdoor didn't budge. He breathed deeply and tried again. The
muscles in his back and shoulders swelled as he pitted all his strength
against the stubborn wood, and then the trapdoor suddenly flew open with
a ragged tearing sound.

And out of the trapdoor mouth gushed an endless fountain of thick,
viscous blood. It roared up to splash against the ceiling, and fell back
again in a stinking crimson rain.

More and more blood came roaring up past the open trapdoor, gallon upon
gallon, soaking everything in the cellar. MacNeil and the others
scrambled back from the flying blood, but there was nowhere they could
hide from it. The blood continued to gush up from under the cellar,
forced out by some unimaginable pressure, and then stopped as suddenly
as it had begun. MacNeil slowly raised his head and looked around him.

Blood dripped from the scarlet ceiling, and ran down the walls. It
steamed slightly in the cold air. The floor and the trapdoor looked as
though they'd been painted red. The stink of blood was almost
overpowering. MacNeil moved cautiously forward to stare into the
dripping opening, and the others came forward to join him.

They were all liberally spattered with blood. Flint shook her head
disgustedly.

"I've seen battlefields that were less bloody than this.

Where the hell did it all come from ?"

"Beats me,' said MacNeil. He stared down into the darkness that lay
below the cellar. Nothing moved in the impenetrable gloom, but the air
was thick with the stench of freshly spilt blood. Constance handed him
his lantern and he lowered it carefully into the darkness. The amber
light showed him a set of rough wooden steps, leading down into a narrow
earth tunnel that fell away into the ground. The light didn't carry far,
but for as far as MacNeil could see the steps and the tunnel walls were
slick with blood. The others crowded in around him to take a look, and
then all of them froze as from far below the cellar there came the sound
of something moving. It was a slow, dragging sound, but MacNeil couldn't
tell whether it was drawing closer or moving away. He looked at the
others, but it was clear they weren't sure either. The sound stopped.
MacNeil put down his lantern beside the opening, and drew his sword.

"Flint: you and Constance stay here to guard the opening.

Dancer: you come with me. We're going to take a look at what's hiding
down in that tunnel.' The Dancer smiled, and drew his sword.

MacNeil looked at Flint. "If anything comes out of this trapdoor but us,
kill it. If something goes wrong, shut the trapdoor and bolt it. Whether
we're out or not. If there is something dangerous down in that tunnel, I
don't want it running loose in the fort. When you're sure the trapdoor's
.i ,i secure, get out of here and report back to the reinforcements.
They have to be warned."

"We can't just abandon you,' said Constance.

"Yes, we can,' said Flint. "He's right, Constance. Our duty comes first,
and Rangers are expendable. It's part of the job.' The witch looked
away. MacNeil looked at her for a moment, and then picked up his lantern
and stepped carefully down into the opening and on to the first of the
wooden steps. The narrow slat creaked loudly as he put his weight on it,
but after an uncertain moment it settled again.

He slowly descended into the darkness, holding the lantern out before
him. The Dancer followed behind him, sword at the ready. Shadows swayed
menacingly around them as they descended into the earth.

MacNeil counted thirteen steps before he found himself facing the narrow
tunnel that ran under the cellar. Unlucky for some, he thought wryly,
and moved forward a little to give the Dancer room to join him. The
circular tunnel was barely six feet in diameter, and MacNeil had to bend
forward to avoid banging his head on the ceiling. There was sufficient
room for MacNeil and the Dancer to walk side by side, but only just. The
walls were smoothly rounded and bore no marks of human tools. The
clay-like earth was tightly packed and slick with running blood. More
blood lay in shallow pools on the tunnel floor. Like walking through
something's guts, thought MacNeil, wrinkling his nose at the stench. He
stood listening for a long moment, the Dancer waiting patiently at his
side, but there was no trace of the sound they'd heard earlier. He
started forward into the gloom, the Dancer padding quietly beside him.
MacNeil found the man's presence reassuring. The darkness and the
silence and the stench reminded him too much of his time in the
Darkwood. He clutched his swordhilt tightly, aware his hand was sweating
profusely despite the cold. It didn't matter what was waiting for him;
he'd face it and kill it and that was all there was to it. He was a
guard and a Ranger, and he'd never backed away from anything in his
life.

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 downwards, 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 towards 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 grey shape, filling the tunnel, but as it drew nearer MacNeil
gradually realized he was facing a giant. Standing upright, the giant
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 tingemails 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 hands
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 towards MacNeil and
the Dancer, and they backed cautiously away as they realized it wasn't
alone. Behind it came another giant, and another. From further 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 away from 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, his mind 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 backwards out of range, his sword gleaming dully in the
lanternlight. The giant hauled itself forward, and the Dancer stepped
inside its reach and cut both the creature's wrists. A thick purple
blood spurted on the air, and the giant howled once before swinging one
fist with unexpected speed. The Dancer threw himself backwards, 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 on 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 sound 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
on to the Dancer's sword arm. MacNeil groaned as the huge hand crushed
his shoulder in a vice-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 on to 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 hand and struck
the giant in the face. It screamed shrilly as the blazing heat burnt
away its face, leaving only charred bone and empty eyesockets. 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 on to 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 any more. They've just .. .

gone. Vanished.' MacNeil looked at the trapdoor and then at the 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.'

:t "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 the Dancer. "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 each other, but nobody said anything.

Finally MacNeil herted 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 on to 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 on to 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 labouter."

"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 lm 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 the 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
swordfight. 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, 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, 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, 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 round. 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 swordhilt 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 on the quiet,
and the air grew steadily colder.

Scarecrow Jack looked warily about him and wished 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 spilt, why weren't there any bodies? Maybe something ate
them ... Jack frowned, and 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 round a corner, 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 grey web. At the edges it frayed away into delicate,
individual strands, but the rest of it was a sprawling chaotic tangle
that thickened at the centre into a pulsing, solid mass.

It was impossible to tell how far back the web 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 smelt
foul, as though something dead and unburied lay close at hand.

"Did you come this way earlier?' Hammer asked Jack quietly.

"I think so, but ... I never saw anything like this."

"It's obviously been here some time,' said Hammer. "No spider could
weave a web that size in a few hours."

"It wasn't spiders that made this web,' said Jack firmly.

"No spider spins like that. There's no pattern to the strands.

No pattern that makes any sense."

"Maybe a strange kind of web means a strange kind l spider,' said
Hammer.

"Is this what happened to the people here?' said Wilde "How the hell
should I know?' said Hammer. "I suppose it's possible, but I'd bet
against it. If they had been attacked by spiders, the bodies would still
be here, wouldn't they ?"

"Not necessarily,' said Jack. "Some spiders drag their prey back to
their webs and spin cocoons around them. Then they either store the
bodies to eat later or use them to lay their eggs in. The larvae eat
their way out of the body after they hatch.' The outlaws looked at each
other, then peered into the web to see if any of the unmoving shadows
were human in shape.

"We'll have to go back and try another way,' said Wilde.

"We can't,' said Hammer flatly. "There's no other way that will get us
down to the cellar. We'll just have to cut our way through this mess,
that's all. Cut it ... or burn it.' He gestured to Wilde, who stepped
warily forward and thrust his torch at the nearest clump of web. It
blackened and steamed, but wouldn't break or shrivel. Wilde pulled the
torch back, and looked almost challengingly at Hammer, who scowled at
Wilde and then at the web.

"All right, we do it the hard way. Wilde: you take the left, I'll take
the right. Jack: hold the lantern and watch out for spiders.' Jack took
the lantern from him, and Hammer stepped forward and hacked at the
nearest clump of web with his sword. It parted reluctantly under the
blow and clung stickily to the blade. Hammer had to use both hands to
jerk the sword free. Wilde smiled mockingly as he placed his torch in a
wall-bracket, safely out of the way. Hammer lifted his sword to cut at
the web again, then stopped as the two separated strands of web before
him slowly wound themselves together again. Wilde backed away. Jack bit
his lower lip uncertainly. He was starting to get a very bad feeling
about the web.

Deep in the web, something moved. A shadow stirred in the middle of the
milky haze. It was tall, like a man, and the three outlaws watched
uneasily as it moved slow!y towards them, walking through the thick
strands of web like a man striding through mists. Jack and Wilde fell
back a pace as it drew nearer, but Hammer held his ground, sword at the
ready. The shadow loomed up against the boundary of the web, looking
more and more like a man. Except it was thinner and bonier than any man
should be. It reached out a hand towards Hammer, and the web bulged
outwards and split open. Milky strands parted stickily as the bony hand
thrust forward. The fingers were nothing more than yellowed bone,
crusted with old dried blood and rotting strings of meat. The web bulged
out again, stretching and tearing, and like some obscene mockery of
birth the Creature dawed its way out of the web and stood before the
three outlaws, smiling a smile that would never end.

It was mostly bone, a living skeleton of a man who had died long ago.
Scraps and strings of decaying meat still clung here and there to bones
stained with blood that had dried long before, but it was the web that
held the grisly figure together and gave it shape and purpose: Where
muscle and sinew should have been, thick milky strands glistened slickly
in the dim light, curling and twisting slowly around the dead bones like
dreaming snakes. The creature looked unhurriedly from one outlaw to
another. Nothing moved in the empty eyesockets, but still it saw them,
and its death's-head grin never wavered. "Is it alive or dead?' said
Jack.

"It's dead,' said Hammer. "One way or another.' He stepped forward and
cut at the creature's throat with his sword, a fast, vicious,
professional blow that should have torn its head from its bony
shoulders. Instead, the creature raised an arm with inhuman speed and
blocked the blow easily. The blade jarred against the solid bone and
glanced away harmlessly. Hammer quickly recovered his balance and cut
deliberately at the raised arm, aiming for the strands of web that held
it together. The sword tip sliced easily through the milky strands,
cutting them in two, but the severed end flowed back together in a
second, as though they'd never been parted. Hammer froze, startled, and
the creature lashed out with a bony fist. Hammer threw himself aside at
the last moment, and the fist swept on to smash into the corridor wall
with enough force to crack several of the smaller bones. The creature
recovered its balance in a moment and turned its endless grin on the
outlaws again. It felt no pain. It had been dead a long time, and was
beyond such human weaknesses as suffering or compassion or mercy.

"What the hell is this?' said Hammer. "Some kind of lich?

Jack, you ever seen anything like this before?"

"No,' said Scarecrow Jack. "There's never been anything like this in the
Forest. It has no place among the living."

"That's where you're wrong, nature boy,' said Wilde.

"I've seen this before in the Forest. In the Tanglewood, to be exact, on
the border of the Darkwood. The web is alive; a single living creature
that devours its prey by enveloping it. And after it's sucked the meat
off the bones, it puts them back together again and sends them out into
the world to find new prey. Pretty smart, for a web. Hard to kill, too.'
Hammer glanced briefly at Wilde. "What were you doing in a dangerous
place like the Tanglewood?' Wilde stiflened at the open contempt in
Hammer's voice.

"I used to be a hero,' he said flatly. "Remember?"

"That was a long time ago,' said Hammer.

The creature suddenly lunged forward, and the outlaws scattered. Wilde
drew an arrow from his quiver and hocked it to his bow. The creature
spun round to face him, and Wilde sneered into its unwavering grin. He
aimed and let fly in a single smooth motion, and the arrow punched
through the creature's skull and out the back, sending the creature
staggering backwards. It slammed up against a closed door, and Wilde
fired three more arrows in quick succession. The heavy-shafts smashed
throught the skull and sank deep into the wood of the door, pinning the
skull to the door. It struggled to get free, but the deep-sunk arrows
held it fast. Wilde looked at Hammer with all his old arrogance.

"I'm as good as I ever was, Hammer, and don't you forget it.' He broke
off abruptly as the creature sagged back against the door and went limp.
It hung lifelessly, supported only by the arrows through its skull. And
then the strands of web that held the creature together writhed and
coiled and fell away, dropping to the floor with soft pattering sounds.

They humped and slithered across the floor with unnatural speed, and
plunged back into the main mass of the web.

Bloodstained bones collected in a heap on the floor, until all the web
was gone and only the skull remained, pinned high up on the door. The
jawbone was the last to fall, taking the endless grin with it.

Jack started to say something, then stopped and looked at the web.

Something new was happening in the seething milky heart; he could feel
it. Wilde and Hammer followed Jack's gaze as the thick ropy strands
writhed and twisted until the whole cloudy mass was boiling with slow,
sluggish movements.

Wilde nocked an arrow to his bow and fired it into the writhing mass.
The arrow disappeared without trace. A long strand of milky web raised
itself into the air like a tentacle.

and Jack had to throw himself to one side as it suddenly lashed out at
him. Hammer stood his ground and sliced through the tentacle with his
sword. The severed end fell writhing to the floor. What was left of the
tentacle rose further out of the main mass until it was the same length
as before. More tentacles surged up out of the web, clawing at the air
like so many searching fingers. Jack backed quickly away.

"We've got to get out of here, Hammer. There's no way we can fight
something like that!"

"He's right,' said Wilde quietly. "It can't be killed. We'll have to go
back."

"No,' said Hammer. "There is a way.' He sheathed his sword on his hip
and reached up for the hilt of the longsword on his back. The long
leather-wrapped hilt seemed almost to leap into his hand, and the great
length of blade swept out of its scabbard in one swift movement. The
sword was almost seven feet long, and six inches wide at the crosspiece.
The weight must have been immense, but Hammer hefted the blade
one-handed as though it weighed nothing. The gleaming steel had a sickly
yellow sheen that was subtly unpleasant to the eye. Jack winced at the
sight of it. Even with his senses muffled, he could feel the power in
the sword. Magic roared and raged in the long blade, barely contained by
ancient spells, and without even knowing what the power was, Jack knew
it was evil.

He also had a strong feeling that just possibly the sword was alive, and
aware.

Hammer stepped forward, and the great sword leapt out and into the
centre of the web. Milky white streamers frayed out into the air as the
trembling web tried to draw back from the glowing blade. The longsword
burrowed deep into the heart of the webbing like a hound hot on a scent,
dragging Hammer along behind it, and where the glowing blade touched the
web the thick milky stuff decayed and fell away as strands of rotting
gossamer. The web boiled, heaving and bubbling, throwing out long arms
and streamers as though it could run from what was destroying it.

Hammer moved slowly forward, his face twisted with distaste at the
stench of rotting tissues, and the sword burned a bitter yellow. He
swept the blade back and forth, and the web fell apart in rotting
clumps. Dark creatures stumbled forward, lurching out of the milky
heart, patchwork things of bone and horror, obscene unliving puppets
manipulated by the web. They threw themselves at Hammer, bony hands
reaching out like yellowed claws, only to rot and fall apart as the
glowing blade caressed them in passing, releasing the long dead bones
from servitude.

The corridor was nine feet high and eight feet wide, and the web had
filled it for fifteen feet. When Hammer finally came to a halt and
looked back, all that remained were a few blackened streamers hanging
still and lifeless from the walls and ceiling, and a scattering of old
bones on the bare flagstones, at peace at last. Hammer looked at his
sword.

The long blade was glowing brightly with the same yellow sheen as a
corpsefire on a cairn.

"You damned fool,' said Wilde quietly. "That's Wolfsbane, isn't it?"

"Yes,' said Hammer. "It is.' He thrust the longsword back into its
scabbard. The sword slid slowly into place, as though reluctant to be
sheathed.

Jack checked the candle in his lantern. Somehow he'd managed to hold on
to it through all the excitement and, miraculously, it was still alight.
Wilde retrieved his torch from the wall-bracket, and then glared
suddenly at Hammer.

"I thought that hellsword was lost in the Demon War he said harshly.

"It was. I found it."

"Then keep away from me, Hammer. Keep well away "What's the matter,
Wilde? Frightened?"

"Of that thing? Yes. So would you be, if that sword hadn't already got
its hooks into you.' Jack didn't know what they were talking about, and
decided that for the moment at least he really didn't give a damn. The
web was dead, along with its creatures, but there were other dangers.
And much as the longsword worried him, he was more concerned with
finding the gold and getting the hell out of the fort before the Rangers
found them. He said as much and Hammer nodded.

"You're right. Since you were stupid enough to let yourself be seen, the
Rangers could still be searching the fort for you, and we can't afford
to be found. If they're anywhere near by, they couldn't have missed
hearing us.

We'd better find a secure place and lie low for an hour or so; give
things a chance to settle down again."

"Are you crazy? I'm not staying in this godforsaken place one minute
longer than I have to.' Wilde glared unflinchingly at Hammer, his hand
clenched into a fist around his bow. "You saw the web; those creatures
are supposed to be extinct, ever since the Tanglewood was destroyed
during the Demon War. If this fort is going to be full of things like
that, things that shouldn't even exist, then I say we get the hell out
of here right now, before something really nasty comes crawling out of
the woodwork."

"You disappoint me, Edmond,' said Hammer. "You really do. Look at you. I
can remember when you were part of the Royal Guard itself. You killed
the rebel Bladesmaster Sir Guillam, and stood with the King in the last
great battle of the Demon War. And now all you can do is flap that
stupid mouth of yours and jump out of your skin every time you see a
shadow move."

"I remember those times too,' said Wilde steadily. "I was younger then,
and believed all the lies they told me about honour and duty. I know
better now. I don't put my neck on the line for anyone but me."

"You'll do whatever I tell you to do,' said Hammer softly.

"Won't you, Edmond?' Their eyes met for a long moment. Wilde looked away
first.

"All right; we'll hole up for an hour. But I don't like it."

"You don't have to,' said Hammer. He turned his back on Wilde, and
stalked off down the corridor. The bowman watched him go, his face very
cold, then moved off after Hammer. Jack brought up the rear, watching
Wilde's back thoughtfully. He hadn't known Wilde possessed such an
heroic past. Out of the five thousand and more men and women who'd
fought in the last great battle of the Demon War outside the Forest
Castle, less than two hundred had survived, the bravest of the brave.
That didn't sound much like the Edmond Wilde that Jack knew. The bowman
was an outlaw and a murderer who shot most of his victims in the back.
He looted and stole, fought for whoever would hire him, and there were
at least three rape charges against him.

Jack shook his head. He'd never understood people anyway.

Hammer hurried down the corridor, checking each door he passed. The
first two turned out to be a cupboard and a crowded storeroom, but the
third led off into a small annexe.

Hammer gave it a quick look over and nodded, satisfied.

"This will do. No windows, and only the one door. Easy enough to defend,
and small enough to be overlooked. Get some rest, both of you.

We'll give it an hour or so, and then see how the land lies.' He waved
the outlaws in, closed the door and jammed a chair up against the
doorknob. Then, while Jack and Wilde were still looking around, he
commandeered the only other chair and sat down with a contented sigh,
stretching his legs out before him. Wilde glared at him, then turned
away and thrust his torch into a wall-holder with unnecessary violence.

He sat down in a corner where he could watch the door, his back to the
wall and his bow in his lap. Jack sat down in the opposite corner,
wincing at the feel of the cold stone floor through his damp rags. He
set his lantern down beside him, looked unenthusiastically round the
annexe, and sighed quietly. It was dark, stuffy, and far too small for
his liking. And he was starting a cold. Some days, you just couldn't
win. He wriggled uncomfortably, searching in vain for a position that
would let him relax. It seemed ages since he'd last laid down on a mossy
river bank, warmed by the Summer sun. He sniffed resignedly and settled
himself as best he could. He was tired, and a short rest would do him
good. Just a short rest.

On his chair facing the door, Hammer slept soundly, his chin on his
chest. The longsword hung quietly in its scabbard, waiting and watching.

Duncan MacNeil plunged down one corridor after another, working his way
determinedly through the warren of interconnecting corridors and
passageways. Flint and the Dancer hurried after him, with Constance
bringing up the rear. MacNeil glared angrily about him into the gloom.
He was sure he'd heard the sound of fighting somewhere near by, but so
far he'd found no evidence to suggest that there was anyone in the fort
but the Rangers.

Outside, the storm still raged. The driving rain was almost as loud as
the thunder, and occasionally lightning would flare through one of the
narrow embrasures, dazzling the Rangers. The rest of the fort was pitch
dark. MacNeil held his lantern out before him and did his best not to
trip over anything. And then he rounded a corner and stopped dead in his
tracks as he saw before him the remains of the huge web. The others
crowded in beside him. Decaying strands of web still hung from the walls
and ceiling, and the air was thick with the stench of corruption. Yellow
bones stained with old blood lay scattered across the floor, and MacNeil
didn't need to examine them to know they were human.

"What the hell happened here?' said Flint softly. No one answered her.

MacNeil knelt down and looked closely at the floor. There were a few
vague footprints, but not enough to track whoever had made them. He
didn't touch the bones, or what remained of the web. He got to his feet
and looked unhappily around him. None of it made any sense. He'd already
been through this corridor once, less than three hours ago, and there'd
been no trace of anything then.

MacNeil shook his head, and smiled wryly. He should be used to things
not making sense by now.

He turned to Constance. "Can you See what happened here?' Constance
frowned, and closed her eyes. "There were three men here. Outlaws. One
of them was Scarecrow Jack.

Another was one of the guards who brought the gold here.

They were fighting something, but I can't See what."

"Whatever made the web, presumably,' said MacNeil.

"What else can you See?' Constance's brow furrowed as she concentrated.
"There was something else here,' she said slowly. "Something apart from
the outlaws and the web ... Duncan, they've brought something evil into
this fort. Something old, and powerful.' She shuddered suddenly, and
opened her eyes. "I can't See anything else. The three outlaws are gone.
I could try tracking them with a spell, but calling up the magic needed
would knock me out for several hours."

"It's not worth it,' said MacNeil. "Three outlaws aren't going to be
much of a threat, no matter what they've brought with them, and I might
need your abilities yet. No; we'll track them down the hard way, by
checking every room till we find them. It'll take a while, but what with
one thing and another, I doubt we'd be getting much sleep tonight
anyway.' Constance looked at him, but didn't say anything. The outlaws
had brought something awful into the fort, something that endangered
them all, but her Sight hadn't given her a clear picture of what it
might be. And until she was sure, she couldn't say anything more to
MacNeil. He wouldn't just take her word for it.

Even though he would have taken Salamander's word  ... "Strange
coincidence,' said Flint suddenly.

"What is ?' said MacNeil.

"We fought monsters down below, and now it seems the outlaws have been
fighting something nasty here in the corridor. And we all dreamed of
monsters. Maybe there's a connection. ' "Such as?' Flint shrugged.

"Beats me.' The Rangers stood together a while, thinking about the new
turn of events, and MacNeil frowned as an idea came to him.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but it seems to me that if the
outlaws were heading for anywhere in particular, it's almost bound to be
the cellar. That's where the gold was supposed to have been stored,
after all.' He paused, and the others looked at him expectantly.

"So?' said Constance.

"So, I think we ought to get back down to the cellar first so we can
wait for them.' Flint and the Dancer looked at each other. Constance
looked at the floor. MacNeil smiled suddenly.

"It beats the hell out of a room-by-room search, doesn't it ?' "Good
point,' said the Dancer.

There was a pause, and then Flint looked directly at MacNeil. "Why are
you telling us all this? You lead this team: you make the decisions, and
we back you up. That's the way it's always been."

"This is different,' said MacNeil evenly. "This isn't the usual kind of
case that Rangers have to face. There are dangers here that are way
outside our usual scope. I don't think I have the right just to order
you to follow me into danger. So I'm giving you all the chance to say
no, if you want to.' Flint shook her head slowly. "I thought you'd got
over Salamander's death by now. It wasn't your fault; you had no way of
knowing that ambush was there. All right, Salamander had Seen a danger
in that town, but she couldn't See what it was. She died there because
she made a mistake, when she decided to trust her sword instead of her
magic.

Giles and I trust your decisions. We always have. Are you going down
into the cellar again ?"

"Yes,' said MacNeil. "I am."

"Then the Dancer and I are coming with you. We've been part of your team
for eight years now, and we've no mind to join another. Wherever you go,
we go. Right, Giles?"

"Right,' said the Dancer.

MacNeil looked at Constance, who smiled back at him.

"Same here,' she said calmly. "After all, where would you be without me
to look after you? I'm a part of this team too. ' "Let's go,' said
MacNeil. "We don't want the outlaws to get there first.' He turned and
led the way back down the corridor, so that they wouldn't see how moved
he was by their loyalty'.

Flint and the Dancer exchanged grins, and moved off after him. Constance
brought up the rear, humming tunelessly, to herself.

"More monsters, do you think?' said Flint to the Dancer.

"Seems likely,' said the Dancer.

"Good,' said Flint. "You can use the exercise. You've been getting slow
and sloppy lately."

"Right,' said the Dancer. "Over the hill and past it, that's me. ' They
chuckled quietly together. Behind them, Constance was smiling too, but
her eyes were far away. More than once she'd sensed a presence in the
fort, and it was at its strongest in the cellar. And now they were going
back there.

Constance's smile widened slightly. She'd never faced a real challenge
to her powers before. She'd make MacNeil proud of her yet.

Chapter 5 Dangers Seen and Unseen Hammer and Wilde were already sound
asleep. The noise of the storm was a long way off, and the small annexe
was warm and dry and peaceful. Jack leant back against the rough stone
wall and fought back a yawn. He knew it was asking for trouble for all
three of them to fall asleep, but it had been a long hard day, and his
eyes were closing in spite of himself. Sleep settled slowly about him
like an old familiar blanket. The torch crackled quietly in its
wall-holder, and the gold and amber light was pleasantly peaceful. Jack
stretched slowly, easing his tired muscles. For the first time since
he'd entered the border fort he felt comfortable and at peace. If he'd
been a little less sleepy he would have found that worrying, but as it
was the thought passed briefly through his mind without disturbing him.
Hammer murmured something and shifted in his chair, but didn't waken.
Wilde breathed noisily through his mouth. Jack's eyes closed, and his
chin sank forward on to his chest. The three outlaws sank slowly deeper
into sleep.

And dreamed.

Jonathon Hammer ran through the Forest, sword in hand.

His boots thudded loudly on the packed earth of the beaten trail as he
forced himself on despite his heaving chest and aching legs. He wasn't
sure how long he'd been running, but he knew he couldn't keep going much
longer. He looked quickly about him, blinking furiously as sweat ran
down his forehead and into his eyes. The tall trees stretched away in
every direction, blending into a featureless mass of shado' and greenery
and dappled light. He stumbled to a ha}t.

gasping for breath, and leaned against a wide treetrunk for support.
Being chased by half a dozen guards was bad enough, but to run in full
chain mail was adding insult to injury.

He considered taking it off and dumping it, but reluctantly decided he
didn't have the time. The guards couldn't be more than a few minutes
behind him, rot their souls. He'd been careful to stick to the narrow
and more obscure Forest trails so that they couldn't come after him on
horseback, but even so he hadn't been able to lose his pursuers. Someone
among them must know this part of the Forest as well as he did.

Hammer shook his head disgustedly, and waited impatiently for his
breathing to settle. He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve,
and flexed his aching muscles.

He couldn't afford to stiffen up; a cramp or a stitch at the wrong
moment could get him killed. Hammer held his breath and listened
carefully. He couldn't hold it for long in his exhausted state, but as
far as he could tell he was safe for the moment. The only sounds he
could hear were the normal Forest sounds of wind and bird and animal.
Hammer glared about him, and wondered what to do next.

In the beginning, it had all seemed so simple. The guard Commanders had
watched everyone like a hawk during the border patrol, but once that was
finished they relaxed a little, and for any man with an eye to the main
chance, it was the perfect time to organize a friendly little poker
school. Everything had been going fine, until that fat fool Norris had
accused him of cheating. Before he knew what he was doing, Hammer had
drawn his sword and cut Norris down. After that, he'd had to break and
run for it, cursing his own hot temper all the way. He should have
waited till he and Norris next had guard duty together, and then stabbed
the bastard in the back. Now he'd have to change his name again. Luckily
he only called himself Hammer when he was fighting as a mercenary.

Hammer had always known he had a great destiny ahead of him. He'd always
known he was special, set apart from other men. He'd tried pretty much
everything in his time, searching for his true vocation, the one that
would lead him to greatness, but his only real skill was as a soldier.
He'd served as a mercenary, as a man-at-arms, and finally as a guard. He
didn't care who he fought for or against, as long as the money was good.
He honed his fighting skills in practice and in battle, and waited for
his chance, the great chance to become what he had always been meant to
be; a ruler of men. He had greatness in him. He could feel it.

And with the right chance, he'd prove it.

Assuming, of course, that he survived long enough. He still didn't know
what had gone wrong, but the guards had been on his heels since first
light. Maybe he hadn't disguised his trail carefully enough. More than
once his pursuers had drawn close enough for him to see them in the
distance, and on each occasion it had taken every ounce of his cunning
and woodcraft for him to draw ahead again. Six guards, armed with swords
and axes. He supposed he should be grateful there weren't any bowmen
among them.

He stiflened suddenly as the first faint murmur of approaching footsteps
reached him. He swore softly, and herted his sword uncertainly. The
guards were closer than he'd thought. He pushed himself away from the
tree and stumbled on down the beaten trail. He tried to break into a
run, and found he couldn't. His legs were too tired, and he just didn't
have the breath for it. Like any professional fighting man, Hammer knew
his body's limits, and he knew.

how close he was to them. He glared quickly about him, and lurched off
the trail and into the shadows between the trees.

Leaving the trail was a calculated risk, but it was th,' only chance he
had. His progress slowed to a crawl as he forced his way through dense
patches of hedge and briar, but his chain mail protected him from the
worst of the thorns. Tile sunlight gradually faded away as the overhead
canopy' grew thicker, cutting out the light. Hammer stumbled to a halt
in the gloom, and listened for any sign that the guards had followed him
off the trail, but all he could hear was his own harsh breathing and the
pounding of his heart. He swallowed thickly, and wiped again at the
sweat that ran down to sting his eyes. He had to keep moving, put more
ground between him and the guards. Hammer forced himself through another
patch of briar, and the earth suddenly shifted and fell away beneath his
feet. He lurched to one side, flailing wildly about him for balance, and
then the ground gave way and he went screaming down into darknes.

After a heartstopping pause, he slammed into a hard unyielding surface,
and slid helplessly down an uneven earth slope that seemed to go on
forever. Outjutting stones bruised him painfully as he shot past them,
but his scrabbling hands couldn't find anything to hang on to in the
darkness. Finally the slope spilled him out on to a flat cavern floor,
and Hammer rolled and skidded to a halt. He lay still a while, getting
his breath back, and then checked cautiously for broken bones. For once,
luck seemed to be with him. His armour had saved him from anything worse
than a few dozen bruises. He sat up slowly, wincing, and looked around
him.

He was in a cavern, a hundred yards across and more, hewn from the bare
rock by who knew what human or inhuman hands, countless centuries ago.
The walls of the vast cave were laced with hundreds of tiny glowing
crystals.

They shed a pale silver light across the scene, like a strange
disembodied moonlight. Great twisted stalagmites rose up from the cavern
floor, straining to reach the hanging stalactites far above. An
underground stream ran through the cave, the still waters dark and
uninviting. Hammer got to his feet, and was surprised and rather
impressed to discover he was still hanging on to his sword. If nothing
else, it proved his instincts remained sound. He stumbled over to the
stream, and sank painfully down beside it. He was starting really to
feel his bruises now that the shock was passing. He dipped his hands
into the freezing cold water and splashed it across his face. The shock
of the cold was refreshing and helped to clear his head and settle his
nerves. He did it again, just for the pleasure of it, and then shook his
head briskly and rose to his feet. He looked around for a way out, and
his heart sank.

The earth slope was hopeless. It was far too steep, and anyway the earth
was too crumbly to bear his weight when climbing. The stream presumably
had its entrance and exit points, but they appeared to be hidden
somewhere under water. Hammer scowled about him into the gloom, and as
his eyes grew used to the pale diffused light he spotted a tall crack in
one of the walls, a good ten feet high and almost a yard wide.

He started towards it, then stopped as a bright shining glimmer caught
his eye. He hefted his sword thoughtfully and moved slowly forward.
Somebody had made this cavern long ago, that was clear from the tool
markings on the walls, and who was to say their descendants might not
still be around, and armed  ... As Hammer drew nearer, the bright
glimmer gradually resolved itself into a long silver scabbard, resting
on the ground beside the crack in the wall. Hammer looked carefully
around him, ears pricked for the slightest sound, but there was no sign
of the sword's owner anywhere in the cave. Hammer lowered himself on one
knee and looked the scabbarded sword over without making any attempt to
touch it. Sword and scabbard were a good seven feet long, and from the
width of the scabbard the blade had to be impressively broad. The
scabbard itself appeared to be solid silver and was covered with ancient
runes, etched deeply into the metal. Hammer didn't recognize any of
them, but they looked to be very old ... and disturbing. If he didn't
look right at them, the runes seemed almost to be moving, writhing  ...
Hammer swallowed sickly, and turned his head away for a moment. For the
first time, he realized what he'd stumbled upon Long, long ago, well
past the point where history shades into legend, there were six swords
of power: the Infernal Devices. No one knew who made them, or why. All
anyone knew for sure was that they proved to be inherently evil, and
their use nearly destroyed the world and all who lived in it.

Three of the swords disappeared. Three remained: Rockbreaker,
Flarebright and Wolfsbane. The Forest Kings locked them away in the
Castle Armoury, and swore they would never be used again. And there the
Damned swords remained for hundreds of years, until in the deepest
despair of the Demon War, King John called them forth one last time. One
sword, Rockbreaker, was destroyed. The other two were lost in battle,
and disappeared into a great crack in the earth.

And now Jonathon Hammer had found one of the Infernal Devices.

He stared unblinkingly at the great length of the scabbard.

Ancient sigils had been graven into the crosspiece of the sword, forming
a single word: Wolfsbane. There was power here, just waiting for him to
pick it up and use it. It was a dangerous power: the Infernal Devices
were believed by some to be alive, and able to possess the minds and
souls of their owners. But Hammer had never believed such stories.

He reached out a hand to the long, leather-wrapped hilt.

And then it came to him that this was his destiny, the marvelous future
for which he had been searching all his life. This was what all his days
had been leading towards: the greatness that would inevitably be his
once he wielded an Infernal Device. At last he would become what he had
always been meant to be: a ruler of men. Hammer picked up the scabbard
with his left hand. Despite its great size it seemed to weigh almost
nothing. Hammer slung the scabbard over his left shoulder and buckled it
securely into place.

It felt comfortable on his back, as though it had always belonged there.

There was a clattering of falling stones as six guards came stumbling
and sliding down the steep earth slope into the cavern. Hammer spun
round, his hand falling automatically to the sword at his hip. For a
moment all he could think was They've found me, and then his mind calmed
and his hand fell away from the sword at his side. He didn't need that
any more. He had something better.

The six guards assembled at the base of the earth slope and looked
quickly about them before fixing on Hammer.

They grinned coldly and fanned out to form a semi-circle before him. The
pale light from the cavern walls gleamed dully on their swords. The
guards didn't waste time speaking to Hammer, and he had nothing to say
to them. There was nothing to say. He had murdered a fellow guard. He
had put himself outside the law, and every man's hand would be turned
against him. That was why the guards had followed him so determinedly;
they shared some of his shame. When one guard went bad, it reflected on
the honour of every other guard. Of course, if he was to die before news
of his actions got out ... Hammer smiled slowly. The guards wouldn't
rest until he was dead, he knew that, but he no longer feared their
anger. Nothing could harm him now. The guards moved purposefully forward
and Hammer went to meet them, still smiling.

He waited until the last moment and then raised his right hand and drew
Wolfsbane from its scabbard.

The sword came free in a rush, the great length of blade glowing a
bitter yellow in the gloom. The guards stopped their advance and stirred
uneasily. Even without knowing what the sword was, they could feel a
presence in the cavern that hadn't been there before. Something had
awakened that should have been left to sleep for ever, and it was
hungry. Hammer chuckled softly, and the hunger was reflected in his
laughter. He stepped forward, sword at the ready, and the guards dropped
automatically into their fighting positions. They were six to one, six
fully armed guards against a proven traitor and coward. They raised
their swords, and the slaughter began.

Hammer gutted the first guard with a sideways sweep of the longsword,
and spun to decapitate a second guard before the first hit the ground.
The headless body managed another couple of steps before it realized it
was dead and fell limply to the ground. Blood gushed across the cavern
floor. Two guards leapt at Hammer together, their swords seeking his
heart. Wolfsbane twisted in Hammer's hands, and he blocked both blows
with almost contemptuous ease. He swung the sword up and down again in a
movement almost too fast to follow. The nearest guard lifted his blade
to parry the blow. Wolfsbane sheared clean through the steel blade and
buried itself in the guard's head, cleaving his skull to the jawbone.
Hammer jerked the longsword clear of the falling body and spun round to
face the three remaining guards. For a moment they stood very still,
shocked at the sudden easy deaths of their companions, and then, as one,
they threw themselves at Hammer. Wolfsbane's sickly light glowed
brightly as it cut through flesh and bone and steel alike, and as
quickly as that the last three guards were dead.

Hammer stood over the dead bodies and watched expressionlessly as they
quickly decayed and fell apart into dust. Within seconds, nothing
remained but a few pieces of rusting armour and a slowly dispersing
stench of corruption.

Hammer tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.

Wolf's Bane. Bane: that which causes ruin and decay. It was just as he
remembered from the Demon War, when Wolfsbane had cut a deadly path
through the demon horde and left nothing to show of its passing save a
few mouldering bones. Hammer looked down at the longsword glowing on the
air before him. The hilt felt unpleasantly warm in his hand, and there
was something sickening about the horrid yellow light that pulsed within
the blade. It was like looking at the source of all the death and
corruption in the world, and knowing it to be alive and aware and
hungry. And then Hammer looked at the hand holding the sword, and felt a
scream build in his throat.

The flesh of his hand was diseased and rotten. Dark patches spread
across his skin, which cracked and fell apart to reveal the wet red
muscles beneath. Maggots writhed in his flesh as the decay spread,
fraying the blackening muscles and tendons and uncovering the
discoloured bones. Hammer shook his head slowly, watching in horror as
the corruption spread remorselessly up his arm. No! This didn't happen!

Hammer tried to throw the Infernal Device away, and found he couldn't.
The rotting claw wrapped around the swordhilt wouldn't release its grip.
Hammer staggered unsteadily over to the stream, some insane thought
about washing himself clean jerking unsteadily through his mind.

At the water's edge he looked down and saw his reflection staring back.
A rotting corpse stood there, holding a sword that shone like the sun.
The lich had no face left, and the gleaming teeth were bared in a
mocking grin. The bonv law gaped wide as Hammer finally screamed.

They're still watching me. They look excited but embarrassed, like
someone caught watching a freak in a carnival sideshow. Not so
surprising, really. That's all I am, to them.

A genuine hero, on display. Watch him walk and talk, almost like a
normal human being. See him perform his entertaining little tricks with
a bow and arrow. See him hit the target again and again, and pretend you
can see excitement in his eyes instead of boredom. Come and see the
hero, but don't get too close. After all, he's not a normal man, not
really. Just another freak in a sideshow.

Edmond Wilde filled his mug and gulped at the thick sugary wine. It was
far too sweet for his taste, but it was potent, and he'd settle for
that. He looked around him, smiling slightly as people looked quickly
away rather than meet his eyes. Peasants. Stupid grubby peasants in
faded dothes from stinking little towns and villages, come to gawp at
the County Fair, the one patch of light and colour in their miserable
squalid lives. The same kind of life he'd left to join the guards  ...
The County Fair was always the same, year after year. A handful of
scruffy tents full of second-rate jugglers and acrobats, animals tamed
to placidity, and games of chance rigged till the dice screamed. And a
freak show, of course, hidden away round the back so as not to disturb
those with more sensitive natures. A gloomy little tent where you could
pay to see a calf with two heads, a winged lizard in a bottle, and a
wild man in a cage biting the head off a live chicken. There was even a
skin show, for those whose tastes ran that way. Half a dozen ageing fan
dancers with bright smiles and dyed hair who might be persuaded to do
more than dance, if the price was right.

All the fun of the Fair.

And then there was the archery competition. That was why he was here, of
course. Edmond Wilde, the master bowman. Come and see the man who stood
beside the King in the last great battle of the Demon War. See the man
who became a hero simply by surviving when so many better men died. Test
your skill against the master bowman and win a purse of fifty gold
ducats if you can beat his score!

Wilde smiled sourly. No one had beaten him, and no one ever would. He
was the best. Wilde drank more wine and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
He was the best bowman there was, and he made a living fleecing peasants
in a travelling carnival. Being a hero was all well and good, but it
didn't put money in your pocket. When the Demon War was over, he was
still nothing but a guard, living in a guards' barracks and drawing a
guard's pay. He wanted more than that. After everything he'd been
through, he deserved more than that. So he left the guards and struck
out on his own, and little good it did him. His only skill was with the
bow and the sword. He had no gift for business, and his savings didn't
last long. He lost it all in one tavern after another, and never missed
it till it was gone.

And then the carnival found him, and they needed a main attraction as
much as he needed a job. As far as Wilde was concerned, it was better
than nothing, but only just. The towns and villages came and went, and
he lost track of their names just as he lost track of the days and weeks
and months that slid past unnoticed. He used his bow when he had to,
feeling the joy of bow and arrow and target coming together in a pattern
of certainty of which he was only a part, knowing all the time he was
wasting his talent but unable to think of anything better. He drank
whatever wine was available, and never complained at the taste or the
quality. Wherever he went there were always women, awed by his name and
reputation, and so starry-eyed they never saw the contempt in his smile.
He didn't value himself, and despised those who did. And so the days
went on, becoming weeks and months and finally years. Wilde knew his
life was drifting away but didn't know what to do about it, or even if
he cared much anyway. There was always another town, another bottle,
another woman.

Wilde emptied his mug, went to fill it again, and scowled as he saw the
bottle was empty too. It was a good hour or more before the archery
contest was due to start, and he was bored. He was also fed up with
being stared at. He dropped the empty bottle and mug on to the ground,
slung his bow over his shoulder, and wandered aimlessly through the
Fair. The sunny afternoon was full of the cries of the stallholders and
the hawkers, loudly proclaiming the virtues of their wares, and the
chatter of the bustling crowds.

Women shrilled excitedly over brightly coloured cloths and wool, and all
but fought each other for new patterns and recipes and spices. Children
ran screaming and yelling between the stalls, almost bursting with the
excitement of it all, stopping now and again to stare wide-eyed at
simple luxuries that were often far beyond the purses of their parents.
The open-air bars did a good trade, and knifegrinders and pot-menders
filled the air around them with flying sparks. And everywhere Wilde went
the crowds parted before him, falling back to let him pass, mostly
because they were awed at his presence among them, but occasionally
because they could sense the directionless anger that burned within him,
so close to the surface.

He walked on through the crowds, not knowing where he was going or what
he was looking for, and not really caring.

He just felt better when he was moving. At least then he had the
illusion he was doing something. His feet finally led him past the last
of the stalls and out into the edge of the Fair. A few small tents stood
huddled together, a dumping ground for carnival costumes and properties
not in use. A girl was standing by one of the tents. She wore a low-cut
dress of black and scarlet, and wore it well. She had a fine head of
nightdark hair, and her eyes were a startling blue.

She couldn't have been more than fifteen, but she already moved like a
woman. Peasants grew up fast. They had to, or like as not they didn't
grow up at all. A girl of her age was usually married and starting a
family of her own.

She looked away when Wilde met her gaze, but he didn't miss the slight
smile or the spark in her eyes. He'd seen them often enough before. He
strolled unhurriedly towards her. She didn't look to be wearing a
wedding ring, but that didn't mean much in the poorer towns, and the
last thing he needed was trouble with a jealous husband. But he was
bored, and angry with himself and the world, and anyway, he had an hour
to kill. He just hoped this one didn't have fleas. He stood before her,
and they smiled at each other and said pleasant things neither of them
really meant, and then they went into the tent together. It was cool and
pleasantly dim inside the tent. The girl kissed him once, lingeringly,
and then turned away and began to unbutton her dress. Wilde removed his
bow and his quiver and his swordbelt and put them carefully to one side,
and then pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the floor. The girl
waited until his trousers were down around his ankles and then spun
suddenly round and pushed him over backwards.

Wilde fell awkwardly, the wine singing in his head. There was a brief
flash of steel as the girl produced a knife from somewhere and cut the
purse from his belt, and then she was running for the tent flaps Wilde
roared with anger and threw himself after her.

One flailing hand caught her round the ankle, and the girl lurched to a
halt. She snarled back at him, her pretty face ugly with hate, and
stamped down hard on his hand with her free foot. Wilde didn't let go.
His fingers were screaming with pain, but he was too angry and too drunk
to give a damn. He grabbed hold of her leg with his other hand and
hauled her down beside him. She cut at him with her knife, but he caught
her wrist and made her drop it. Her wrist was very small in his hand.
She fought him silently, her face twisted with pain and fury, but he
soon forced her on to her back and knelt over her, grinning harshly.
Nobody robbed Edmond Wilde without paying for it, one way or another.

The girl cursed and spat at him, and he slapped her face to teach her
some manners She screamed loudly. Wilde put his hand over her mouth, and
she bit it. He snatched his hand away, and she screamed again.

The tent flaps burst open as a man charged in with a sword in his hand.
Wilde swore quickly and threw himself away from the girl, clawing for
his swordbelt. Bastard must be the girl's protector  ... her sort always
had a protector .. Wilde drew his sword and regained his feet while the
newcomer's eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, and thrust out his
sword in a perfect lunge. The sword grated briefly against the
newcomer's ribs as the blade slammed home. He groaned once, and fell
limply to the floor. The girl made a run for the tent flaps, and Wilde
cut her down without thinking.

He looked at the two bodies lying twisted and bloody on the tent floor,
and the last of the drink burned out of his mind, leaving him sober at
last. He bent down and reclaimed his purse, and thought frantically on
what to do. The girl and her would-be rescuer were bound to be locals,
and their fellow villagers would hang him for a murderer without even
bothering to hear his side of the story. He was a carnival man, an
outsider ... Already he could hear feet running towards the tent as
people came to investigate the girl's screams. He pulled up his trousers
and grabbed his bow and quiver. He kicked the dead girl in the side.
Bitch.

All your fault. He moved quickly over to the tent flaps and looked out.
Half the County Fair was heading towards him.

He ducked back into the tent, ran to the rear, and cut himself an exit
in the thick canvas wall.

The edge of the Forest wasn't too far away. If he was quick on his feet
he could lose himself in the trees before the villagers could catch him,
and then they'd never find him. The cry went up as they spotted him
again, and he ran for the trees. It didn't take him long to realize he
wasn't going to make it. He was out of shape, and the villagers were
gaining on him. He stumbled to a halt and glared back at his pursuers.
It only took a moment to draw his bow and nock an arrow to the string.
The pursuers were being led by a guard. Wilde hesitated. I can't shoot a
fellow guard. I can't ... He cursed calmly.

He couldn't let them take him.

He shot the guard in the throat, and the impact of the arrow threw the
man backwards off his feet. The running crowd began to stumble to a
halt. Wilde shot two more of them, just to be safe, and then turned and
headed for the trees again. He'd almost got there when his foot caught
in a concealed hole, and he fell heavily to the ground. He heard as much
as felt the bone snap in his leg.

He tried to get to his feet again, and couldn't. It was an effort just
to get air into his lungs. He looked dazedly round for his bow, but it
had fallen out of reach. And then the villagers arrived. The first to
get there kicked Wilde in the ribs, and the bowman fell backwards, too
short of breath even to cry out. The villagers crowded around him,
screaming Rape and Murder until their voices merged into a single harsh
rythm ugly with bloodlust. They took turns kicking Wilde and beating him
with sticks, until they grew tired and he no longer had the strength to
do anything more than moan. And then one of them produced a rope.

No  ... They dragged Wilde over to the nearest tree, laughing and
cheering. Nothing like a good hanging to liven up a Fair. Someone threw
the rope over a high branch, and the noose dangled down before Wilde's
face. He fought then, lashing out at the grinning faces with desperate
strength, but there were more than enough men there to hold him securely
while they tied his hands behind his back. Someone put the noose around
his neck and pulled it tight. The coarse rope bit into his skin.

No ... This isn't what happened. I got away. I ran off into the Forest
and became an outlaw and everyone feared me and my bow.

A dozen men took hold of the rope and slowly hauled Wilde off the ground
until his dangling feet were a good yard above the grass. He wriggled
and twisted as he choked, and the crowd cheered every kick of his feet.
Wilde knew he was dying, and suddenly realized he didn't really give a
damn after all. It wasn't much of a life he was leaving.

He'd been a hero once, and it had spoiled him for everything else.

Even death was better than a life of boredom and emptiness based around
a fleeting moment of glory. And besides, he had fouled his own legend,
and deserved to die. His breathing grew ragged as the rope tightened,
and the darkness gathered around him in welcome.

Scarecrow Jack lay on his back on a low mossy bank at the edge of the
Forest glade. Sunlight fell between the great trees in shafts of golden
light, thick with swirling dust motes. From all around came the rich
familiar scents of earth and tree and leaf and flower. A butterfly
lurched through the air before him, and Jack watched entranced as it
fluttered confusedly on its way like a scrap of animated whimsy. Birds
were singing all around: everything from simple stabbing rhythms to long
and complex full-blooded songs. Jack stretched lazily. The grass and the
mosses were firm and dry, and the late Summer day was pleasantly Waltfl.

Scarecrow Jack smiled sleepily and was content. He was home.

The birds fell silent. Jack raised himself on one elbow and looked
sharply around. A sudden silence usually meant an intruder; a stranger
in the Forest. And yet though the silence lengthened, Jack heard no one
approaching and for all his senses could tell, the near-by Forest was
empty of any man save him. Jack frowned. The Forest was too silent.

There were no birds, or flies buzzing on the air; even the butterfly had
vanished. Jack got quickly to his feet, suddenly disturbed. Something
was wrong in the Forest. Very wrong.

Dark clouds covered the sun, and the golden shafts of light disappeared.
Jack shivered uncontrollably as the warmth of the day died away. The air
grew heavy and oppressive with the vague pressure of an approaching
storm.

Jack glared about him, searching for the source of his unease. Nothing
moved in the glade or between the trees, but the surrounding shadows
were very dark. Jack reached out for the communion of the Forest, but
his inner sense was ominously silent. Something had come between him and
the trees. It was out there somewhere, watching him.

He could feel it. Something slow and determined was stirring in the
darkness, gathering its strength. It watched with a predator's eyes and
bided its time. Jack drew the knife from his boot. And then, finally, he
looked up.

The clear blue of the sky was darkening into night. The sun grew dim and
red and faded away. Night fell. Jack whimpered softly. Day couldn't turn
so quickly into night; it was impossible, unnatural .. . A new light
fell acros the Forest, heavy and foul, as the full Blue Moon rose on a
starless night sky. Jack shook his head dumbly, trying to deny the
evidence of his own eyes, but already he could feel the Wild Magic
beating on the air like a never-ending roll of thunder, free and awful
and potent once again.

Jack shrank in on himself. The Forest he knew was suddenly gone,
corrupted into Darkwood. The life he had loved was gone for ever, and he
was nothing more than a man named Jack; an outlaw and lier-in-wait. He
swallowed hard, fighting down the panic that threatened to unman him. He
clutched the hilt of his knife tightly, and drew comfort from the simple
familiar weight of it. The Forest might be dead and gone, but it could
still be avenged. He was Scarecrow Jack, and nothing and nobody could
ever take that from him.

He looked away from the Blue Moon. The open glade seemed suddenly bleak
and menacing. It was too open, too vulnerable to attack. There was
nowhere to hide if ... if he needed to. He started to turn and head for
the trees, and then discovered that he couldn't. He looked down and
found that the grass had grown up over his feet and ankles, wrapping its
long wiry strands into unyielding grassy chains. Jack tugged at his feet
with all his strength, but the grass wouldn't break or give. He bent
down and slashed at the verdant chains with his knife, and they parted
reluctantly under the sharp edge. The panic was gnawing at his mind
again, and it was getting harder all the time to hold it off. He finally
pulled his feet free and ran for the trees. The grass was growing taller
all around him, throwing bright green streamers up into the night sky.
They swayed constantly, though no wind blew, and the thicker strands
reached out to snatch at his legs as he ran through them.

The trees loomed up before him, and Jack felt his heart leap.

He would be safe among the trees, as he had always been.

It was dark beyond the glade. Out in the open, the air danced and
shimmered with the Blue Moon's unhealthy light, but in the Darkwood
there was only the eerie light of the phosphorescent lichens that
spotted the treetrunks. Jack stumbled to a halt and searched with his
inner sense for the source of his magic, but the trees were silent. He
leaned against the nearest tree for support, and the bark sagged inwards
under his weight. He stepped quickly back from the tree, and on looking
at it closely discovered it was already dead and rotten, eaten away from
within. The ever-present stench of corruption lay heavily on the air,
thick and suffocating. The tree's gnarled and twisted branches suddenly
writhed like twitching fingers and reached out for him. He jumped back,
and the tree behind him wrapped its branches around him in a deadly
embrace. Jack struggled fiercely, but the branches closed ever more
tightly around him, crushing the air from his lungs. He tried to cut at
the branches with his knife, but couldn't apply enough leverage to do
more than notch the bark. The branches lifted him up into the stinking
air, and his feet kicked helplessly as the ground fell away beneath him.
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 any more. He made his way back towards 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 round to see what it was. It didn't
matter. He was Scarecrow Jack, and tile 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
between 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 came swooping 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 lay
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 horrified up 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 drily.
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 dean. 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 do 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 any more, 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 looked 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 swordhilt. "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 flutries 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, 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 round 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, 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 half-way open before it stuck solid. The four Rangers filed
into the cellar, 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 bitter 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 on the air, but there was
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 counting.
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 clamour 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 ask: 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 low, 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 disbelieve her,' said Flint. "I saw some pretty nasty things
come up out of the earth 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."

"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 drily. He looked at the
huge mass of ice squatting over the trapdoor, the barrels inside it
visible only 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 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 thi 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
any more."

"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 on 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 defenceless 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 behind 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 centre 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
their 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 leant 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 tile 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 for ever.
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 round 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, 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, travelling
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, t scabbard, and
after a moment Hammer did the same. 1-he 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 mean time, 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 a long 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 favour as you like to
think. Wilde's good with a bow, but we've got the Dancer. And while 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 suddenix 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 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
practised 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 on to thedancer'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 any more.' 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 she'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 backwards on to the floor, and stepped
back a pace. Jack batted a hand feebly before his face, as though
searching for freshet 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 few steps leading down into the darkness, all of
them caked with ded blood. MacNeil moved the lantern about, showing
Hammer glimpses of the blood-stained walls. Hammer looked at MacNeil.

"This is a set-up,' 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
smelt as though he hadn't bathed since he was baptized. And yet there
was something about him ... something in the calm face and stead 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.

"I've heard a lot about you, Jack,' he said finally. "I wouldn't have
thought this was your kind of fight."

"This is everybody's fight,' said Jack evenly. "The Beast will destroy
the Forest and everything that lives in it, if we allow it to wake.
You're going to need me down there, Sergeant. I can feel it."

"He's right,' said Constance. "I can't go with you. My magic makes me
especially vulnerable to the Beast. It might be able to use me against
you. Jack's part of the Wild Magic; he can guide and guard you when I
can't.' MacNeil looked at Hammer, who shrugged indifferently.

"All right,' said MacNeil briskly. "But Jack: if we have to use our
swords, get out of the way fast and stay out of the way. Is that clear?"

"Sure,' said Jack. He stared unmoved into the dark opening in the floor.
"Who goes first?"

"I do,' said MacNeil. "That's my job.' He checked the amount of candle
left in his lantern, hefted his sword once, and then stepped gingerly
down on to the first of the bloodstained steps inside the opening. The
wooden step groaned loudly and gave under his foot. MacNeil waited a
moment and the step steadied itself. He made his way carefully down the
stairs and the light from his lantern moved slowly ahead of him,
revealing more steps falling down into the darkness.

Hammer drew the sword on his hip and followed MacNeil down the stairs.
Jack retrieved his torch from the wallholder and followed Hammer down
into the darkness. Halfway down the steps, MacNeil glanced back over his
shoulder at Hammer.

"I should draw your other sword, Hammer. You're going to need it down
here."

"No. Not yet."

"I've seen what lives in these tunnels. There are great crawling giants
..."

"I said not yet! I'll draw the Device when I have to, and not before.
The Beast isn't the only thing here that sleeps lightly.' MacNeil
remembered some of the whispers he'd heard about the Infernal Devices
during the Demon War, and shuddered despite himself. There were those
who said the Damned swords were more of a threat than the demons could
ever be. MacNeil squared his shoulders and carried on down the stairs,
and he and Hammer and Jack quickly disappeared into the gloom, until
even the glow of the lantern and the torch was gone, smothered in
darkness.

Flint and the Dancer shut the trapdoor after them, grunting in surprise
at the weight of the great slab of solid oak. They looked at the two
steel bolts, glanced at each other, and then stepped back from the
trapdoor. "Bolt it,' said Wilde. "You never know.' The Dancer shook his
head. "If they have to retreat in a hurry, they're going to need a quick
exit."

"What if they bring something back with them?' The Dancer smiled.
"That's what we're here for.' Wilde looked at him coldly. "Confident,
aren't you, little man? When this is over, I'm going to enjoy tearing
your reputation into shreds, Bladesmaster.' "Dream on,' said the Dancer.
"Dream on.' He looked thoughtfully at the closed trapdoor. "We'll give
them an hour, and then we'll go down looking for them."

"Right,' said Flint.

"It would make more sense for us to get away and pass ,m the word to
your reinforcements,' said Wilde.

"You can do that,' said the Dancer. "The rest of us are Rangers. Rangers
don't run, and we don't leave cases half finished. We know our duty."

"Besides,' said Flint, "Duncan's our friend. We can't abandon him. And
if he dies, we'll avenge him."

"If we can,' said Constance.

The stairs seemed to fall away for ever. Darkness pressed close around
the narrow pool of light as MacNeil led Hammer and Scarecrow Jack down
into the earth. MacNeil held his lantern out before him, but its light
didn't travel far. Jack's torch made hardly any impression at all on the
gloom, but the constant crackling of the flame was a familiar,
comforting sound. MacNeil moved carefully from step to step, refusing to
be hurried by Hammer's crowding presence at his back. The blood that
stained the wooden steps had frozen into scarlet ice, and the going was
treacherously slippery.

MacNeil counted the steps off silently as he went, looking forward to
the moment when he could leave them behind for the relative safety of
the earth tunnel. Thirteen steps.

Unlucky for some. But on reaching the thirteenth step he discovered
there was 'another step'beneath it. MacNeil's pulse quickened, and he
made himself breathe slowly and evenly. There was nothing to worry
about; he must have miscounted the first time, that was all. Thirteen,
fourteen; it was an easy mistake to make. But there was another step
beyond the fourteenth, and another after that. MacNeil counted twenty
steps, and then stopped. He leant forward and held his lantern out as
far as he could. The steps stretched away before him, disappearing down
into darkness, and there was no sign of the tunnel.

"What's the matter?' said Hammer quietly. "Why have we stopped?' "The
stairway's ... different,' said MacNeil. "Theru are too many steps. The
Beast must be dreaming again."

"So what do we do?' said Jack. "Just keep going, and hope the stairs
will lead us somewhere eventually ?"

"There's nothing else we can do,' said MacNeil. "There's no other way
down. Let's go. It's cold here."

"Cold as the grave,' said Jack.

MacNeil pretended he hadn't heard that, and started down the stairs
again. After a while he stopped counting; he found the rising number too
disturbing. They were already far below the cellar, and still the steps
led on down into the dark. It was bitterly cold, and growing colder all
the time.

MacNeil's breath steamed thickly on the air before him, and frost had
begun to form on his hair and clothes. His bare face and hands were
growing numb, and he had to clutch his lantern and his sword tightly to
be sure he wouldn't drop them. The continuing stench of decay and
corruption seemed to be changing subtly. The sickly sweet smell was just
as strong, but it had slowly acquired a new, alien taint that MacNeil
found strangely unsettling. It was unlike anything he'd ever smelt
before, and he hoped fervently that he'd never have to smell it again.
It grated on his nerves like an itch he couldn't scratch, until he felt
like hacking at the air with his sword.

It has slept here, deep in the earth, for centuries beyond count  ...
MacNeil clutched his swordhilt tightly until his fingers ached. The
smell and the darkness and the constant unease reminded him of his time
in the Darkwood, and for a moment an old fear moved within him. He
pushed it firmly away and continued down the steps. And then his foot
jarred on an uneven surface, and the lantern's golden light showed him
the mouth of an earth tunnel. He moved cautiously' forward into the
opening and waited for the others to join him. It wasn't the tunnel he
remembered.

This larger passage was easily seven to eight feet in diameter. The
rough earth ceiling was cracked and broken, and the crumbling walls
looked as though they might collapse at any moment.

"Not much room to fight,' said Hammer suddenly, and MacNeil gave a
start. Hammer grinned as the Ranger turned to glare at him. "Jumpy,
aren't you?"

"I've good reason to be,' growled MacNeil. "The last time I came down
here, I found something nasty waiting for me.' He looked about him,
frowning. "But that was in a different tunnel. It was smaller than this,
and the walls were slick with blood ... Maybe this time we'll find some
sign of the missing bodies."

"Or the gold,' said Hammer. "Let's not forget about the gold.' He
reached out and prodded one of the walls, and the loose earth broke
apart under his fingers. "Shoddy workmanship. They could at least have
shored it up.' MacNeil looked at him. Then didn't build this tunnel,
Hammer, any more than they built that stairway. The Beast is stirring in
its sleep, and we're walking in one of its dreams. ' Hammer snorted, and
stamped hard on the packed earth of the tunnel floor. "Pretty realistic
dream.' "Yes,' said Jack quietly. "Let's just hope the Beast isn't
having a nightmare.' The three men looked uncertainly at each other for
a moment. Hammer's hand rose half-way to the hilt of the longsword on
his back, and then fell away. MacNeil swallowed drily, and coughed to
clear his thoat. He didn't want the others to think his voice was
unsteady through fear.

"Let's get moving. There's no telling how long we've got before the
Beast wakes, and we're still no nearer finding the bodies or the gold."

"I've just had an unpleasant thought,' said Jack. "If we're walking
inside the Beast's dream, what happens to this tunnel when the Beast
wakes up?' MacNeil glared at him. "The next time you have an unpleasant
thought, do us all a favour and keep it to yourself. How the hell am I
supposed to know what will happen? The tunnel's real enough for the
moment, and that's what matters. Now let's go. We're wasting time.' He
strode off down the tunnel, and the others moved quickly after him.
MacNeil held his lantern out before him, and the gentle glow showed him
the tunnel stretching away into the gloom and sinking gradually deeper
into the earth.

MacNeil had always looked on fear as a weakness, and his own fear as a
hidden shame. Fear was something you acknowledged but never gave in to.
If there was a problem you faced it, with force if necessary. If you
couldn't beat it, you retreated and tried again later. And went on
trying until you did beat it. But real fear, the sheer overwhelming
terror that paralyses you with dread ... MacNeil had never felt that,
and had nothing but contempt for those who had.

But deep down he knew that wasn't true. He had felt such a fear, once:
long ago during the long night when the demons came swarming out of the
darkness in a never-ending flood, throwing themselves against his sword
again and again and again. He'd wanted to run, then. And perhaps he
would have, if the dawn hadn't come in time to save him. The Blue Moon
had passed and the sun had risen and the demons had fallen back. But he
had wanted to run  ... Now he was back in the darkness again, surrounded
by the stench of death and corruption, on his way to fight a creature
older and more powerful than the demons had ever been. And this time,
buried in the depths of the earth, there was no hope of any dawn to save
him.

Fear curled and writhed within him, twisting his gut and bringing a hot
sweat to his face and hands despite the freezing cold. He could feel his
hands shaking, and his breath was coming fast and jerky. He was afraid,
and all his experience and pride weren't strong enough to drive that
fear away. He wanted to turn and run, run back down the tunnel and up
the stairs and into the fort and just keep on running until he'd left
the border fort far behind him. He could do it. He could. No one would
reprimand him if he chose just to report the situation to his superior
officers and let them deal with it. There were those who'd say he'd done
the only sensible thing. But he wouldn't be one of them.

He knew different. Constance had said the Beast must be slain before it
woke or it might be too late, and MacNeil believed her. He couldn't run
away. He had his duty and his honour, and as long as he had a sword and
strength of arm to swing it, he would do what he knew to be right. No
matter how scared he was.

The tunnel's descent gradually became more evident as the floor fell
steadily away. MacNeil tried not to think about how deep under the fort
they'd come. The thought of all that weight over his head was
disturbing.

"How deep does this go?' muttered Hammer. "We've been following this
tunnel for ages."

"It's not much further,' said Jack. "We're getting very close now.'
MacNeil stopped suddenly, and the others stopped with him. He looked
thoughtfully at Scarecrow Jack, an idea tugging at his mind.

"Constance said you had. qualities that might help us.

What kind of magic have you got, Jack? Do you have the Sight?' Jack
shrugged. "I don't think so. I just get feelings about things; about the
Forest and what lives in it. And sometimes the trees give me some of
their strength, to help me do what needs to be done. But only
sometimes.' MacNeil looked at him steadily. "Do you have any feelings
about this place ? About the Beast ?"

"There's something not far ahead of us,' said Jack, his eyes vague and
thoughtful. "It's sleeping, but it knows we're coming. It's very cold.
And very hungry  ... ' As if in response to his words there came again a
shrill neighing scream from deep in the earth, the vast monstrous sound
of an insane horse. The scream was brutally loud, and the three men
clapped their hands to their ears in pain.

The scream continued, on and on and on, far beyond the point where any
normal lungs could have sustained it, and then cut off as suddenly as it
had begun. The echoes seemed to linger on the air for some time, but in
the end even they fell silent. The three men slowly took their hands
away from their ears. MacNeil looked at Hammer.

"It's time to draw the sword. The Device."

"No,' said Hammer. "Not yet."

"We need it!"

"You don't understand,' said Hammer tiredly. "You don't understand at
all.' In the cellar, Wilde sat on one of the piles of rubbish and swung
his legs back and forth impatiently. He hated waiting. As long as he was
doing something, anything, he was fine, but waiting gave his nerves the
chance to work on him.

He fiddled aimlessly with his longbow, checked the string was taut for
the hundredth time, and let his hand drop again to the sword at his
side.

He looked across at Flint and the Dancer, sitting casually beside the
trapdoor. The wait didn't seem to be bothering them. They just sat
together, talking quietly, their faces calm and easy. Wilde smiled
slightly. Jessica never had been one for getting rattled. He remembered
her standing on her own in a corner of the Castle courtyard, waiting for
the huge gates to open on the last great battle of the Demon War. She'd
looked tall and splendid in her shining chain mail, her nightdark hair
pulled back in an elaborately tied ponytail. Her face had been calm
then, too, as she slowly and methodically sharpened the edge of her
sword. He'd been pacing up and down and sweating buckets, half out of
his mind with fear, but her poise and calm had shamed him into cooling
down and recovering his composure. Her confidence had helped him find
his. He'd never forgotten that.

Now they were together once again, getting ready for another battle. The
situation hadn't changed much, but the people had. Him most of all. He
sighed quietly and shrugged the memories from him. What was gone was
gone, and best forgotten. He looked carefully at the Dancer. He'd always
thought the man would be ... bigger. After all, he was a Bladesmaster,
one of the legendary perfect killers. No one knew exactly how many men
the Dancer had killed in his time, there'd been so many, and yet seen up
close he didn't look much at all.

Throw a stick in any tavern and you'd hit a dozen just like him. Wilde
smiled slowly. Sir Guillam hadn't looked like much either, but all the
King's guards hadn't been enough to stop that Bladesmaster when he went
berserk. They'd needed Wilde to do that. His smile died away as he
stared at the Dancer. Ten years ago, he would have been sitting where
the Dancer was now, smiling and talking with Jessica. Ten years ago,
he'd had it all. He'd been a hero, and Jess had been proud to stand at
his side.

Now he was just another outlaw and the Dancer had taken his place with
Jess.

Wilde plucked at the taut bowstring, feeling it thrum under his
fingertips. There was power there; power to maim and kill and make the
world go the way it ought to go File odds were he'd be going into some
kind of battle soon, and in all the excitement who could possibly blame
Wilde if one of his arrows happened to go just a little astray and shoot
the damned Bladesmaster in the back ... And with the Dancer out of the
way, getting the gold away from the Rangers would be relatively easy.
Wilde grinned happily.

At the end of the day, he would have it all again: a fortune in gold,
his freedom from Hammer, and Jess back at his side where she belonged.
He'd talk her into it; he'd always been able to talk her into anything.

Constance leaned back against the cold stone wall and watched Wilde
unobtrusively. Of all the three outlaws, Wilde worried her the most.
Hammer was dangerous, but she could understand what drove him, even if
he didn't.

Scarecrow Jack was obviously only there because he was under Hammer's
thumb. But Wilde ... there was something disturbing about the quiet,
scowling bowman. When he'd first spoken with Flint, there had been
something almost sad and tragic about him, but now all Constance could
see in his face was a harsh, pitiless brutality that made her wish for a
sword with which to defend herself. Not that she was scared of him, of
course. If he was stupid enough to try anything with her, he'd soon
discover she had more than enough magic left to take care of the likes
of him. And yet there was something about Wilde that both attracted and
repelled her, as though she could see the tragedy of what he'd been as
well as the brute he'd become.

The witch shook her head uncertainly and turned her attention to the
closed trapdoor in the middle of the floor.

She wished she could have gone with Duncan, but she'd known she had to
be sensible. She was vulnerable to the Beast and it knew that, even in
its sleep. Her presence would only have endangered Duncan, and he was in
enough danger down there as it was. At least partly from himself. Duncan
never bent with the wind, never allowed himself to be weak; but even the
strongest steel will break if it can't bend a little under pressure.

Duncan: watch your back. And come back safely.

Flint and the Dancer sat side by side, waiting patiently for the call to
action, as they had so many times before. Flint polished her swordblade
with a piece of rag. It didn't need polishing, but the simple repetitive
action soothed and calmed her. The Dancer just sat where he was, relaxed
and ready, his sword resting casually across his thighs. He showed no
sign of nerves or excitement, but then he never did. His eyes were far
away, and Flint wondered what he was thinking about. They'd been
partners and lovers for almost eight years now, but she still had only
the vaguest notion of what went on in his mind when he removed himself
from the world like that.

The Dancer wasn't like other people. Half the time he was off in a world
of his own. Flint never doubted that he loved her, but he wasn't an easy
man to get to know. He didn't say much, and for a long time now had been
content to let Flint do the talking for both of them.

He wasn't slowwitted, or even shy; he just didn't have much to say. If
he wanted to make a point, he usually made it with his sword.

"Dancer  ..."

"Yes?"

"Do you really think they're going to be able to kill the Beast?' The
Dancer shrugged. "Maybe. Hammer's got the Infer nal Device. Those swords
are pretty damned powerful.' "But ... if it isn't powerful enough, what
are our chances of killing the Beast?"

"Pretty bad, I should think. But we have to try. A lot of people are
depending on us."

"They usually are. But this time, we could very eailx ct killed."

"Comes with the job."

"Are you afraid, Giles ?"

"No. Fear just gets in the way. Are you worried ?"

"Yes.' "Don't be. I'm here with you. I won't let anything happen to you,
Jessica.' She held his hand tightly. They looked at each other for a
long moment, and then a shrill neighing scream forced its way past the
closed trapdoor and filled the cellar. The ice on the floor and walls
cracked and shattered, and icicles fell from the ceiling. Flint and the
Dancer leapt to their feet, swords at the ready. Constance and Wilde
looked quickly about them, searching for a foe they could face. The
scream went on and on, deafeningly loud and piercing, and then cut off
suddenly.

"They've found the Beast,' said Wilde.

"Or it's found them,' said Constance. She raised her head sharply and
listened, sensing something moving not far away. "Listen; can you hear
anything?' They all stood very still, straining their ears against the
silence. From far off in the distance, somewhere above the cellar, there
came a series of faint, uneven sounds. Flint and the Dancer exchanged a
glance and hefted their swords.

Wilde got to his feet and nocked an arrow to his bow. Flint looked at
him, and shook her head.

"No, Edmond. You and the witch stay here and guard the trapdoor, while
Giles and I take a look at what's happening upstairs.' For a moment she
thought Wilde might argue, but the moment passed and he just shrugged
and sat down again.

Flint hesitated, wanting to explain that it wasn't that she didn't trust
him, but in the end she said nothing. He wouldn't have believed her
anyway. She strode over to the cellar door and swung it open. The sounds
seemed to have stopped for the moment. The Dancer came up behind her and
offered her one of the torches from the wall-brackets.

She took it and started up the steps that led back to the ground floor.
The Dancer stayed close behind her, sword at the ready. Constance shut
the door behind them.

Flint and the Dancer made their way up the stairs, moved cautiously out
into the narrow passageway at the top, and looked about them, listening
carefully. The torch's light seemed to carry a lot further now that it
was out of the cellar, and the flickering flame showed an empty corridor
stretching away before them. Flint frowned unhappily. The sounds were
louder and closer now, but she still couldn't work out what they were or
where they were coming from.

They were mostly soft, scuffling noises, and they came from everywhere
and nowhere, from ahead of them and behind them. The only thing Flint
was sure of was that they weren't natural sounds.

"Could be rats,' said the Dancer quietly. "Rats in the walls.' "I've
heard rats before,' said Flint. "This is different. Can you tell where
the sounds are coming from?"

"No.' The Dancer hefted his sword once. "But whatever it is, it's
getting closer.' Flint scowled, and started down the passage. Shadows
swayed around her, lunging menacingly forward when she shifted her hold
on the torch. At first it hadn't seemed as cold in the corridor as it
had in the cellar, but that was beginning to change. The temperature was
dropping rapidly.

The whorls of hoarfrost patterning the walls were growing discernibly
thicker, and a pale mist was forming on the still air. Flint stopped
dead, and the Dancer stopped beside her.

He looked at her inquiringly, but her mind was working furiously. Mist?
Inside the fort? That wasn't possible. That just wasn't possible. Not
this deep in the fort, so far away from the outside air  ... The Beast
is dreaming. dreaming about how the world was when it last walked the
earth.

Flint thought about what the witch had said, and shuddered suddenly. How
long had the Beast slept, if all it remembered of the world was fog and
ice and cold? Flint clutched her sword and shook her head determinedly.
She'd worry about the why of things later, when she had the time. Right
now, all that mattered was finding out what was making the damned
noises, and how dangerous it was. She gestured for the Dancer to stay
put, and then walked slowly down the passage, listening carefully
between each step.

The noises were becoming clearer and louder, as though drawing steadily
closer from somewhere indescribably far away. There were sounds that
might have been footsteps or shufflings, and other sounds that might
have been snarls or hisses or growls. They seemed to be coming from all
around her, from the floor and the ceiling as much as the walls.

Long strands of mist curled and twisted on the corridor air, growing
thicker as they blended into a pearly haze. Flint realized she was
getting too separated from the Dancer, and stopped where she was. She
looked back, and saw that the mist had thickened into fog behind her.
The Dancer was only a dark shadow in the greyness, and the cellar door
was lost to sight. Flint moved quickly back down the corridor to join
the Dancer, and without exchanging a word they stood back to back,
swords at the ready.

"Those noises are getting louder,' said the Dancer evenly.

"Yeah,' said Flint. "I don't like this, Giles. It's too  ... planned."

"So what do you think? A cautious retreat back to the cellar?"

"Yeah. We're too cut off here. And they're too cut off down there. Let's
go.' They moved cautiously back down the corridor, searching the
thickening grey haze for any sign of attack. The noises were becoming
louder and more openly menacing, as though they didn't need to hide
their true nature any more. Flint began to think she saw something
moving in the mists. The Dancer stayed close to her as they drew near
the cellar door.

Whatever was in the corridor with them, neither of them wanted to turn
their backs on it. Flint was glad the Dancer was there with her. His
quiet presence was infinitely comforting. The mist suddenly thickened
into an enveloping fog, a great milky white mass that seemed to glow
with its own eerie light. Shadows moved in the fog, tall and thin and
only vaguely human in shape. They faded in and out of visibility as they
moved, and Flint couldn't even be sure how many there were. She glanced
at the Dancer, to make sure he saw them too, and drew confidence from
his grim smile and ready sword.

The shadows were drawing steadily closer, but Flint didn't dare back
away any faster. They might think she was running from them. One of the
shadows stepped suddenly out of the mists to face her, and Flint stared
at it in shocked silence. The creature was easily eight feet tall, bent
and hunched over in the low-roofed passageway. It was a dirty white in
colour and horribly thin, so that it looked more like a collection of
bones than a living being. Its narrow frame was held together by long
ropy muscles that stirred and writhed like restless worms under the
coarse skin. Its arms were almost four feet long, the bony hands
dangling down well past its knees, and the twig-like fingers ended in
long curving claws. The elongated head ended in a ferociously grinning
mouth with dozens of dagger-like teeth. Its eyes were scarlet slits,
without pupil or retina. The bony feet clacked loudly on the stone floor
as the creature advanced slowly on the two Rangers. Its horrid grin
widened slightly as it snorted hungrily.

"What the hell is that?' whispered the Dancer. "Some kind of demon?"

"I don't think so,' said Flint, fighting to regain her composure. "I
think it lived at the same time as the Beast. I once saw pictures of
something like this in a book that came from the Northern Ice Steppes.
They called such creatures trolls. They're supposed to be extinct."

"Then what are they doing here?"

"The Beast is ... remembering them."

"It's got too good a memory for my liking. What do we do, Jessica ?"

"Get ready. On the count of three, I'm going to turn and run for the
cellar door. You hold them off until I've got the door open, and then
get the hell away from those things and join me. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Watch your back, Giles."

"Count on it.' Flint flashed him a quick grin, counted three under her
breath, then turned and ran down the corridor. The troll started to go
after her, and the Dancer moved quickly forward to block its way. The
creature lifted its clawed hands to strike at him, and the Dancer's
sword flashed through a short, vicious arc. The troll tried to throw
itself backwards, but couldn't react quickly enough. The sword slammed
into its prominent-ribcage and punched through the sternum and out again
in a flurry of blood. The troll screamed and sank to its knees,
clutching at the gaping wound with both hands. Blood ran between its
fingers in a steady stream and collected in a steaming pool on the cold
stone floor. More trolls suddenly appeared out of the mists, and moved
towards the Dancer with murder in their crimson eyes. Behind them, more
shadows stirred in the fog, waiting to be born again into the world of
men. The Dancer smiled, and swept his sword back and forth before him.

Flint ran for the door at the end of the corridor. The sounds of battle
came clearly from behind her; the roaring and screaming of the trolls,
and the flat chopping sound of the Dancer's sword cutting through flesh.
The cellar door loomed up out of the fog before her, and she had to skid
to a halt to avoid crashing into it. She slammed her sword into its
scabbard and fumbled at the doorknob with cold-numbed fingers. She could
barely feel it. She cursed desperately and held her hand close to the
dancing flame of her torch.

Feeling slowly returned to her fingers and she grimaced at the stabbing
pain. She tried the doorknob again, and finally succeeded in opening the
door. She yelled for the Dancer to join her, and the sounds of battle
broke off, replaced by the sound of running feet and the cheated howls
of the trolls as they gave chase. The Dancer came flying out of the fog
towards her with the trolls close behind. There were too many of them to
count, and their rage echoed deafeningly in the narrow corridor. The
Dancer shot through the open doorway and Flint followed him. She spun
round, slammed the door shut in the trolls' grinning faces, and looked
frantically for the bolts. There was only one, and she pushed it home.
Something slammed into the door on the other side, and Flint and the
Dancer fell back a step as the door shuddered in its frame. They leaned
against the cold stone wall a moment as they got their breath back,
while on the other side of the door the trolls howled and shrieked and
pounded on the solid oak.

"That bolt isn't going to hold for long,' said Flint. "We'd be better
off in the cellar. We can barricade that door."

"Right,' said the Dancer.

"How many of those things are there, altogether?"

"Too many.' Flint decided not to think about that for the moment, and
hurried down the steps towards the relative safety of the cellar. The
Dancer took one last look at the shuddering door and hurried after her.
Narrow wisps of mist had already begun to trickle past the closed door.
Flint threw open the door at the bottom, charged through, and waited
impatiently for the Dancer to join her. The moment he did she thrust her
torch into his hand, slammed the door shut, locked it, and pushed home
both the bolts. She then leaned back against the door and let out her
breath in a long, slow sigh.

The Dancer calmly slipped the flaring torch into the nearest
wall-holder. Constance and Wilde looked at them blankly.

"What the hell is going on?' said the bowman. "What did you run into up
there?"

"Creatures that were supposed to have become extinct centuries ago,'
said the Dancer. "Tall bony things with teeth and claws. Trolls."

"They're only legends,' said Constance.

"Will you all shut the hell up and help me barricade this door!' snapped
Flint. "There are at least a dozen of those legends on their way down
here right now, and this door isn't going to keep them out for long.'
Together the four of them dragged some of the heavier rubbish over
against the door, and heaved it into position.

The slippery ice on the floor helped. They were just manhandling the
last of the junk into place when they heard muffled footsteps on the
other side of the door. The Rangers and the outlaw backed quickly away,
and braced themselves.

Something hammered on the door, and something else joined it. The sound
rose and rose until it sounded like thunder in the enclosed space.
Unseen claws dug into the wood, rending and tearing, and the bolts
rattled ominously in their sockets. Flint looked at Constance.

"Can't your magic do anything to keep them out?' The witch shrugged
unhappily. "I don't have much magic left, but I can try.' She raised her
left hand and a soft blue flame formed around her fingers, jumping and
spitting. The witch muttered something under her breath, and the
sputtering flame flew away from her hand to sink into the wood of the
door. The banging and clawing stopped immediately, and the trolls raised
their voices in cries of pain and anguish.

For a few seconds there was silence. A frown burrowed between
Constance's eyebrows, and then the hammering suddenly started again.
Constance shook her head.

"They're too strong for me. I'm a witch, not a sorceress.

They'll be through that door in a matter of minutes, and what magic I
have left isn't going to stop them."

"Isn't there anything you can do?' said Flint.

"Well; perhaps a little something to make life easier for us,' said the
witch. She glared at the thick layer of ice covering the floor, and it
cracked and shattered and fell apart into tiny pieces. Constance smiled
slightly. "That should help our footing when we have to face the
creatures.' Wilde looked at her. "What makes you so sure we'll have to
face them? The door's solid oak, and that barricade looks pretty good to
me."

"It won't even slow them down,' said the witch quietly.

"These trolls aren't real, so they can be as strong as they need to be.
The Beast is very near to waking now, and it senses we are a danger to
it.' The hammering grew louder, and the door began to shake. The
barricade shuddered in sympathy, and. then toppled away from the door as
it split suddenly from top to bottom. The four defenders backed quickly
away. The jagged crack in the wood grew wider as they watched, and then
the two halves of the door were torn away and the doorway was full of
grinning trolls. The defenders stood their ground and the trolls hissed
and growled, snapping their huge teeth in anticipation. Their bony hands
twitched constantly, and the lanternlight shone dully on the long claws.

Flint and the Dancer stepped forward to put themselves between the
trolls and the witch. Wilde nocked an arrow to his bow. The trolls
surged forward into the cellar. Wilde's bow thrummed, and the first
troll was thrown back by the arrow jutting from its eye. Two more of the
creatures fell to Wilde's bow, and then he had to fall back as the first
rush of trolls broke against Flint and the Dancer. The two Rangers stood
unflinchingly together, their swords flashing brightly in the dim light.
They cut through the massed trolls with deceptive ease, as though the
bony creatures were no more substantial than the mists they came from.

The trolls' blood flew through the air like a ghastly rain, smoking and
sizzling where it collected on the broken ice covering the floor.

The Dancer swore calmly when some of the blood splashed his wrist and
burned the bare skin, but he didn't let it distract him from his work.
The trolls could only get through the doorway a few at a time, and
despite their frenzied attack, the Dancer wouldn't retreat a step. He
was a Bladesmaster, and now he had a chance to show what that really
meant. His sword swept back and forth faster than the eye could follow,
leaving a trail of blood in its wake. He lunged and recovered and swung
again, all in a single breath, his blade scything through the howling
trolls. Their clawed hands reached for him with an unrelenting fury,
their great jaws snapping at his unprotected face, but always he was
that extra inch out of reach, and the dying trolls fell before him to
scream and writhe on the gore-soaked floor.

Flint fought at his side, grinning fiercely as she swung her
blood-soaked blade. Trolls lay dead and dying to either side of her,
cluttering up the doorway. She might not be as fast or as skilful as the
Dancer, but she'd been a guard all her adult life and she knew more
about swordsmanship than most men ever would. She had fought in the last
great battle of the Demon War in ill-fitting chain mail with a borrowed
sword, and after that there wasn't much that could daunt her. She cut
and hacked at the grinning bony faces before her, and refused to feel
the growing ache in her arms and back. She was a Ranger, and she would
fight till she fell.

Wilde fired arrow after arrow past the two Rangers, striking down the
trolls as they tried to claw their way past Flint and the Dancer by
sheer force of numbers. He lost track of how many of the creatures he'd
killed, and still they came surging through the narrow doorway. And all
too soon Wilde ran out of arrows. He placed his longbow and his empty
quiver carefully to one side, out of the way, and drew his sword. He
herted it once, then looked at the two Rangers, struggling against the
endless tide of inhuman creatures.

]just like old times, eh, ]ess?

He looked quickly about him, just in case there was another exit he
hadn't noticed before, but there was only the trapdoor, and Wilde had
decided very early on that wild horses weren't going to drag him down
there. No: bad as it was, his only hope lay with the Rangers. He
shrugged, and, choosing his moment carefully, slipped in beside Flint
and added his sword to hers. The trolls roared and screamed as they fell
before him, and their death cries were a comfort to him. It had been a
long time since he'd fought in a situation where the odds weren't
stacked heavily in his favour, and it took him only a few seconds to
remember why. A man could get killed sticking his neck out like this ...
But still he fought on, because there was no other choice open to him.
After a while some of his old skills came back to him, and his sword
sliced through the air in shining deadly arcs.

If Flint could have found the time to look at him, she might have seen
echoes in the bowman's face of the Edmond Wilde she had once known, so
many years ago.

The witch called Constance raised her hands in the stance of summoning,
and drew the remains of her power about her. Most of her magic was gone,
but she drew on what little was left to her for one last effort. She
spoke a Word of Power, and a blinding glare gathered around her upraised
hands. The trolls nearest her screamed and fell back as their bones
cracked and splintered within their bodies. A slow headache began to
beat in Constance's left temple, and a steady trickle of blood seeped
from her left nostril. Constance ignored it. Her body would stand up to
the strain for as long as it had to, or it wouldn't. There was nothing
she could do about it.

The four defenders fought on, blocking the entrance to the cellar with
their bodies and their skill and their courage.

Trolls fell and died before them, but there were always more to take
their place. There were always more.

Deep in the earth below the fort, the tunnel finally began to level out.
MacNeil stumbled to a halt, and Hammer and Jack crowded in beside him,
staring into the pitch-black opening that ended the tunnel.

MacNeil frowned. He could tell there was some kind of drop immediately
ahead of him, but that was all. Maybe the tunnel led into some kind of
cave ... He moved cautiously forward until he was standing right on the
edge of the tunnel floor, and then held his lantern out before him. The
pale golden light reflected back from thousands of tiny crystals
embedded in the cavern walls. They shone brightly in the darkness, like
so many distant stars on a moonless night, illuminating a cavern so huge
it took MacNeil's breath away. There wasn't enough light to fill all the
cavern. It had to be at least half a mile in diameter, and possibly even
more in height. The tunnel opened out high up on a wall, with the cavern
floor hundreds of yards below. A narrow ledge ran along the wall,
leading from the tunnel mouth to another opening some fifty feet away
and perhaps ten feet lower down. MacNeil didn't like the look of the
ledge. It was barely two feet wide, and the dark stone was cracked and
uneven, as though it had only recently been cut from the bare stone
wall. MacNeil looked down into the darkness and felt a sudden surge of
vertigo.

He turned his head away and breathed deeply until it settled.

Jack and Hammer stood on either side of him, stating out into the
cavern. The glowing crystals stared back like so many knowing eyes.
Hammer caught his breath for a moment, then quickly let it go in case
anyone had noticed.

The cavern made him feel small and insignificant, and he didn't like
that. Jack studied the narrow ledge cut into the cavern wall, and chewed
his lower lip dubiously. It looked to be a long way down if someone lost
their footing.

"How far down is that, do you think?' he said finally.

"I don't know,' said MacNeil. "A hell of a long way, whatever it is."

"Do you think the Beast's down there?"

"Has to be,' said Hammer. "But is the gold down there with it, or could
it be in that other opening?' MacNeil frowned. Anyone out on that narrow
ledge would be very vulnerable to a surprise attack. They'd have to go
in single file, hugging the cavern wall all the way  ... But when all
was said and done, he couldn't ignore the opening. Hammer was right;
there were only two places down here the gold could be, and the second
openin .the easiest to get to. He nodded slowly.

"All right, Hammer; it's worth a try. I'll go first.

He stepped out on to the ledge, testing it carefully bt't,re committing
all his weight to it. The cracked stone seemed solid enough, and he
moved further along the ledge, pressing his shoulder against the cavern
wall. He looked dow once, and immediately wished he hadn't. Heights
didn't normally bother him, but this was different. Very different.

He looked resolutely at the second opening ahead, only some ten feet
below him and fifty feet away. It hadn't looked very far, from the
tunnel mouth, but out on the ledge it seemed a hell of a long way to go.
He leaned even more against the cavern wall, and kept going. The solid
rock face was a comforting presence. Hammer moved out on to the ledge
after him, once he was sure it was safe, and Jack brought up the rear.
Of all of them, Jack was the only one unaffected by the long drop. In
the Forest, he climbed the tallest trees for fun. On the other hand, he
hadn't liked the enclosed space of the tunnel at all, so the much larger
space of the cavern actually helped to put him at his ease. He moved
confidently along behind Hammer, holding his torch high and stating
happily about him with easy curiosity.

The second opening in the cavern wahl proved to be the entrance to
another tunnel. MacNeil crouched down on the ledge before it, and
studied the circular tunnel in the light of his lantern. It was roughly
seven feet in diameter and appeared to have been bored through the solid
rock. Its walls were unnaturally smooth. MacNeil's imagination conjured
up a picture of some monstrous worm wriggling blindly through the solid
stone, and he scowled thoughtfully. For as far as he could see in the
lanternlight, the tunnel appeared to be deserted. And when all was said
and done, he wasn't going to discover anything more just squatting there
on the ledge. He sighed regretfully and moved forward into the tunnel.
Hammer and Jack followed close behind him.

After some twenty or thirty feet the tunnel opened out into a cave. And
in that cave, piled carelessly one upon the other, lay hundreds of stout
leather sacks, each bearing the Royal imprint of the Forest Treasury.
Hammer pushed past MacNeil and ran forward to kneel before the sacks. He
grabbed the first that came to hand and opened it, clawing impatiently
at the drawstrings. He thrust his hand into the sack and pulled out a
handful of gleaming gold coins. He stared at them for a long moment, and
then opened his hand and let the coins trickle slowly through his
fingers and back into the sack. He smiled gently as he listened to the
musical clatter of gold on gold.

"A hundred thousand ducats,' he said softly.

"Don't get any ideas, Hammer,' said MacNeil calmly.

"That gold belongs to the King, and that's the way it's going to stay.
You're entitled to a reward, and I'll see that you get it, but that's
all.' Hammer smiled at him, then pulled the sack's drawstrings tight and
placed it down by the others. Scarecrow Jack sniffed dismissively, and
looked around him. He had no use for gold in the Forest. He frowned
suddenly, and held his torch close to the right-hand wall. The extra
light revealed a narrow opening, low down on the cave wall and almost
obscured by the shadows of the piled-up sacks. He drew MacNeil's
attention to it and the two of them crouched down before the opening. It
was barely three feet in diameter and led into yet another tunnel. Once
again the tunnel walls were unnaturally smooth and even. Jack looked at
MacNeil.

"What do you think? Shall we take a look?' MacNeil shrugged. "Might as
well while we're here. But Jack ... keep your eyes open. That gold must
have been brought down here for a reason, and I'm starting to get the
feeling that so far we've just been led around by the nose Constance
thought the Beast could be using the gold as bait.

to lure us down here.' Jack looked at him uncertainly. "What would the
Beast want with us?"

"That's a good question; and I've a strong feeling we're not going to
like the answer when we find it. Hammer!' Hammer looked round sharply.
"What is it?"

"There's another tunnel here. Jack and I are going to take a quick look;
you want to come along?' Hammer smiled, and shook his head. "Somebody
had better stay here to look after the gold."

"Somehow, I just knew you were going to say that,' said MacNeil. "All
right, suit yourself. Jack; leave your torch here. We'll make do with
the lantern.' He got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the
tunnel. Jack handed his torch to Hammer, and followed after MacNeil.
Hammer watched him go, and then turned his attention back to the sacks
of gold, his lips moving silently as he counted.

The narrow tunnel was cramped and slippery, and MacNeil crawled along it
as quickly as he could. He pushed the lantern along in front of him, and
its unsteady light shone dully back from the smooth tunnel walls. The
pale golden light made the tunnel seem even smaller than it was, and
MacNeil could feel a shivering claustrophobia gnawing at the edges of
his self-control. He shuffled stubbornly onwards on all fours, peering
ahead into the darkness beyond the lanternlight. He could hear Jack
struggling along behind him, and the quiet grunts and scuffling sounds
reminded him suddenly of the crawling giants, moving blindly through the
tunnels under the earth. He shook his head quickly to clear it, and then
his hands slid off the smooth floor and on to rough stone and he
realized the tunnel had opened out into another cave. He crawled out of
the tunnel, straightened up painfully, and held his lantern out before
him. Jack emerged from the tunnel mouth and got up to stand beside
MacNeil. They stood together for a while, and stared in silence at what
they'd found.

Every man, woman and child who'd died in the border fort lay piled in
one great heap at the back of the cave. They seemed to have just been
dumped there, and left to rot. The cave had to be a hundred feet across,
and the bodies filled half of it, stacked from wall to wall and from
floor to ceiling.

Every body showed signs of a violent death, and most were caked with
dried blood. MacNeil stared grimly at the piledup bodies and felt
painfully helpless. They were dead and gone, and there was nothing he
could do about it. The children got to him most. The small bodies, torn
and mutilated and discarded. No child should have to die like that. His
hand dropped to the sword at his side, and silently he promised them
vengeance, whatever it cost.

Jack moved closer to the bodies and looked them over carefully, checking
the exact cause of death where he could.

He didn't find their presence disturbing in the way that MacNeil did.
Living in the Forest had accustomed him to the presence of death in all
its forms, and it no longer affected him on an emotional level. It was
just a part of the world. And then something very disturbing occurred to
him, and he crouched down to study the floor of the cave.

MacNeil tore his gaze away from the great mounds of bodies, and tried to
think with his mind instead of his gut.

There was something about both the gold and the bodies that worried him.
How did they get down here? Somebody must have brought them. Perhaps the
crawling giants  ... MacNeil frowned, and shook his head. The giants
were little more than animals. Besides, they were too large to have
managed the ledge on the cavern wall, never mind tile last tunnel.

"Bring your lantern over here,' said Jack suddenly. 'lye found something
interesting.' MacNeil moved back and crouched down beside him, and
looked at the cave floor that Jack was studying so intently.

It was bare rock, with a faint patterning of dust. There were a few
vague traces that might have been tracks, but they were too faint for
MacNeil to read them.

"Well?' he said after a while. "What do you see, Jack?' "Footprints,'
said the outlaw quietly. "Human footprints.

Men, women and children; so many they overlap each other again and
again. There's no other tracks at all. Nobody brought these bodies down
here, Sergeant. They walked here. ' MacNeil gaped at him, then snapped
his head round as something stirred on the edge of his vision. One of
the corpses opened its eyes and looked at him. Another drew back its
blackened lips in something that might have been a smile. Jack and
MacNeil straightened up from their crouch, and the dead eyes followed
them. There was a slow stirring in the mound of bodies, and all the
hundreds of corpses opened their eyes and turned their blood-smeared
faces to look at the living interlopers who had stumbled upon them.

MacNeil felt a cold hand dutch at his heart as his imagination showed
him how it must have been; an endless line of walking dead, making their
way through the dark tunnels and along the narrow ledge, and finally
filing into this cave to drop and lie still. And then more coming, to
fall on top of the first, and on and on until the mound of bodies was
complete. The last few would have had to climb the mound to reach the
top ... MacNeil swore dazedly, and backed away. Jack moved with him. The
corpses followed them with their unblinking eyes.

"Bait,' said MacNeil hoarsely. "The gold and the missing bodies .

.. just bait, to lure us down here and destroy us."

"But why go to so much trouble?' said Jack. "What makes us so important?
Why didn't the Beast just drive us mad, like it did the others?"

"I don't know!' said MacNeil. "There must be something the Beast wants
from us; maybe we've got something that could harm it  ... ' His eyes
widened suddenly. "Of course!

The Infernal Device! It doesn't want all of us; just Hammer and his
damned sword!"

"Wait a minute,' said Jack, glancing nervously at the watching liches.
"This can't be the Beast's doing; it's still asleep, remember?"

"It's not human,' said MacNeil shortly. "Its mind doesn't work like
ours. It must have recognized Wolfsbane when Hammer first came to the
border fort to deliver the gold.

The Beast knew how powerful the sword was, and saw it as a threat.

So it sent its dreams out to destroy the people in the fort, to gather
some bait that would lure the Device back ... so that the Beast could
destroy it. Get into the tunnel, Jack. We've got to collect Hammer and
then get the hell out of here. If the Device is the key, we can't risk
losing it to these creatures. Go on; move it! I'll be right behind you
with the lantern!' Jack nodded quickly, and dived into the narrow
tunnel.

MacNeil gave him a count of five and then hurried after him, scrambling
along the tunnel as fast as he could on hands and knees. But even as he
struggled through the tunnel in his little pool of light, his
imagination replayed the last.thing he'd seen as he turned to the tunnel
mouth; the great pile of bodies shifting and stirring like so many
seething maggots. The dead were rising to walk again. Jack and MacNeil
scrambled desperately through the tunnel. It seemed much longer than it
had on the first trip through, and they'd barely reached the half-way
stage when they heard something else enter the tunnel behind them.
Somehow they found a little more strength and speed, and a few moments
later the tunnel mouth fell away behind them as they threw themselves
out into the outer cave. Hammer spun round, startled by their sudden
entrance. He took one look at their shocked faces, and his hand fell
automatically to the sword at his side.

"What is it? What have you found?"

"Walking dead men,' said Jack breathlessly. "We've got to get out of
here!"

"And leave the gold ?' "The gold will keep!' snapped MacNeil. "Those
liches want your sword, Hammer! The Device! The Beast must be frightened
of it. That's why it had the gold brought down here; to lure you into
its clutches.' He stopped suddenly and looked back at the tunnel, and as
he did a bare deadwhite arm snaked out of the tunnel mouth. MacNeil put
his lantern down on the floor and drew his sword. The tunnel was full of
soft, slow scrambling noises. MacNeil swung his sword with both hands
and cut clean through the lich's wrist. The sword rang dully on the
stone floor, and the severed hand flew away across the cave.

It scrabbled briefly on the floor, and then pulled itself back towards
MacNeil like a huge pale spider. Jack kicked it away.

The lich burst out of the tunnel mouth and threw itself at MacNeil. Its
pallid skin was flecked with long-dried blood, but no blood pumped from
the handless stump. Hammer handed Jack his torch and drew the sword at
his hip.

MacNeil cut at the dead man's neck with his sword, but the lich blocked
the blow with its bare arm. The blade jarred on bone, but the lich just
smiled. MacNeil backed away as the lich reached for his throat, and the
dead man went after him. Another lich crawled out of the tunnel. MacNeil
cut again at the advancing lich, but still it kept coming. Hammer moved
in beside MacNeil and cut at the lich's legs. It finally fell to the
ground as a half-severed leg collapsed under it, but already the second
lich was moving towards MacNeil and more of the dead were emerging from
the tunnel mouth.

Hammer and MacNeil tried to stand their ground, but faced with an
endless stream of opponents that wouldn't stay dead, they were forced
back step by step. The only way to stop the liches was to hamstring or
behead them, and even then the crippled bodies would drag themselves
along the floor to try and pull down the living that dared stand against
them. Most of the liches had once been men, but there were also women,
and even children. MacNeil found it almost impossible to cut down the
first child, but then he looked into the dead child's eyes and saw there
a blind, unreasoning malevolence that had nothing human in it.

After that, he dealt with the dead children as methodically as he took
on the adults, and with every child lich he faced he renewed his promise
of vengeance against the Beast that used them in this way. Hammer didn't
seem to care who he was fighting. He swung his sword with grim
competence, his only expression a slight, satisfied smile.

Jack stood to one side, holding his torch out before him and waiting for
any lich that managed to get past the other two. He'd already guessed
his knife wouldn't be much use against the dead, but he'd had some
success with the torch.

Their cold flesh felt no pain from the blazing brand, but their hair and
clothing were bone dry and burned fiercely.

Already the cave was brightly lit by half a dozen burning corpses that
thrashed weakly on the floor as the fire slowly consumed them.

And still the dead crowded into the cave from the narrow tunnel, forcing
the three defenders back. The cave floor was strewn with mutilated
liches that still crawled determinedly after their prey. MacNeil felt an
old fear stir within him again, threatening to unman him; the same fear
he'd felt when the demons came swarming out of the endless night in a
nightmarish assault that seemed to go on for ever. Fear and panic tore
at his courage until he wanted to scream at the liches, but somehow he
held on to his self-control and continued his slow, cautious retreat to
the tunnel behind him. Hammer moved back with him, and Jack guarded
their rear with his flaring torch.

And still the dead came crowding into the cave, their pale faces
contorted by the dark dreams of the Beast that controlled them.

"We can't hold them off much longer,' said MacNeil tightly. "Draw your
other sword, Hammer. Draw the damned sword."

"Yes,' said Hammer. "I don't seem to have any choice any more, do I ?'
He cut viciously at a lich as it reached for him with clawing hands, and
decapitated it. The head rolled away across the floor, its mouth working
silently. The headless body staggered back and forth, groping blindly
about it for its enemy, until the other liches jostled it out of the
way.

Hammer seized the few moments the confusion gave him, and sheathed his
sword. He breathed deeply once, then reached up and grasped the long
swordhilt behind his left shoulder. His mouth twisted, as though tasting
something infinitely bitter. The swordhilt seemed to fit itself into his
hand, as though it belonged there. He drew the longsword from its silver
scabbard with one supple movement, and held the six feet of gleaming
steel out before him as though it was weightless. The long blade glowed
brightly with a sick yellow light.

"Wolfsbane,' said Hammer softly. "Wolfsbane is loose in the world
again.' The liches stopped their advance. Their empty eyes fastened on
the glowing longsword in silent fascination, as something else studied
the Infernal Device through their dead eyes and knew it for what it was.
The hellsword had been brought down into the depths of the earth, and
now they would take it and bury it, so that the Beast need never fear it
again. The liches surged forward, hands outstretched, and Hammer met
them with Wolfsbane. The glowing blade swept back and forth with inhuman
speed, cutting through the liches as though they were nothing more than
wisps of smoke. They fell helplessly before Hammer's attack, screaming
silently as the sword cut through flesh and bone alike. Their dead flesh
decayed and fell away into corruption at Wolfsbane's touch, and soon the
cave floor was littered with fragments of rotting flesh and discoloured
bone. But still the liches came swarming out of the narrow tunnel, their
numbers growing faster than Hammer could destroy them. Hammer and
MacNeil and Scarecrow Jack continued to back away, fighting desperately
all the while, knowing that if they gave the dead an opening, even for a
moment, the liches would tear them apart. Hammer lunged back and forth
like a man possessed, Wolfsbane glowing more and more brightly as the
dead fell before it and did not rise again. Jack and MacNeil defended
his blind sides as best they could, for Hammer seemed to have no thought
for anything but attack.

And still the dead came on, driven by the Beast's dark dreams. Hundreds
of men and women and children had died in the border fort, and Hammer
and MacNeil and Jack couldn't destroy them fast enough to stem the tide.
Step by step they were forced back out of the cave and down the tunnel,
and finally out on to the narrow ledge itself, looking OUT over the long
drop to the cavern floor. Jack went first along the ledge, carrying the
torch, then MacNeil with his lantern, and finally Hammer, blocking the
liches' wax' witin Wolfsbane. The Infernal Device glowed blindingly
against the darkness, its bitter yellow light reflecting from the
thousands of crystals embedded in the cavern walls.

The three men backed slowly away along the narrow ledge, and the dead
came after them.

Down below, deep in the earth, something stirred in its sleep.

Flint and Wilde and the Dancer swung their swords with aching arms,
fighting on long after most would have collapsed from sheer exhaustion.
Their swords grew heavier every time they raised them, but they wouldn't
give up.

The trolls came swarming through the doorway in a neverending st. ream,
their blood-red eyes glowing hungrily. Tall bony cadavers lay scattered
across the bloody floor, but as yet none of the creatures had got past
the defenders to reach the trapdoor. Only a few could get through the
door at a time, and so far Flint and Wilde and the Dancer had managed to
keep the trolls bottled up by the doorway. But they all knew it was only
a matter of time before one of them fell, and then they would be unable
to hold the trolls back.

The Dancer was having the time of his life. His sword was everywhere, a
bright shining blur that mowed through the crowding trolls like a newly
sharpened scythe through wheat. He was grinning broadly, and his eyes
blazed with a dark and deadly joy. He was doing what he was best at,
doing what he was born to do, and loving every minute of it. The
overwhelming odds just gave a spice to the occasion.

He was the Dancer, and he was content.

Flint fought at his side, substituting strength and stubbornness to
match his skill and speed. She kept turning the situation over and over
in her mind as she fought, searching for a solution, an answer that
would give them victory over the trolls, knowing all the while that this
time there was no answer, no way out. They were doing all they could,
and the odds were that wasn't going to be enough. Tough. That was the
way it went sometimes; especially if you were a Ranger. She fought on,
ignoring the pain and blood from a dozen minor wounds. It wasn't over
till it was over, and just maybe MacNeil would get lucky and kill the
Beast. Yeah.

Maybe.

Wilde fought on Flint's other side, and wished he hadn't run out of
arrows so early. He was good with a sword, but he was much better with a
bow. Besides, using a bow was a damn sight less dangerous than getting
to close quarters with a sword. He hacked at a troll, and clove its
skull from brow to jaw. The creature collapsed with a startled
expression on its bony face, and Wilde grinned nastily.

Stupid-looking things. He'd teach them to get between him and his share
of the gold. He fought on, and wished he'd kept at least one arrow for
the Dancer. Still, he needed the Dancer's fighting skills for the
moment. Maybe later, when the trolls had been taken care off .

.. yeah. Maybe later.

He swung his sword, and the trolls surged about him, trying to drag him
down. Blood soaked his shirt, only some of it from dead trolls.

Constance chanted one spell after another, her voice grown harsh and
indistinct. Her throat was raw, and her aching head swam as she fought
to make the last few remnants of her magic do far more than it was ever
meant to. The few trolls that got past the fighters at the door
shrivelled up like moths in a flame as they drew near the witch. One
troll kept on coming anyway, even while its flesh ran like wax down a
candle. Constance gestured sharply, and the troll exploded in a shower
of blood and guts. Constance moaned as a stabbing pain began in her
forehead, just above her left eye. Blood spurted froill her nose. She
was pushing her magic to its limits, and she was paying the toll. She'd
once seen a witch overstrain herself and die of a cerebral haemorrhage.
It hadn't been pretty.

She swayed unsteadily on her feet, gripped by hot and cold flushes, and
fought to remain conscious. If she passed out now, the trolls would make
short work of her. Besides, the others needed her. Some of the dizziness
passed, and she drew her magic about her again. The trolls weren't the
only danger that had to be faced. Thin strands of mist had begun to form
in the cellar. The trolls used the fog as a gateway into the real world,
and if it established itself in the cellar, they would be able to appear
from anywhere in the room. The defenders would be overrun in seconds.
Constance wrapped herself in her power, and concentrated on a single
spell to keep the mists from forming. The trolls recognized her sudden
vulnerability and threw themselves at the three fighters in a flurry of
teeth and claws. One of the creatures broke through and leapt at the
witch with gaping jaws.

Constance hit it in the throat with her fist. The collection of heavy
rings on her fingers made an effective knuckleduster, and the troll fell
choking to the floor.

Constance stamped down hard, and broke the creature's neck. The witch
smiled briefly, and went back to concentrating on her magic.

The four defenders fought on, long past the point where anyone else
would have given up and been destroyed, but in the end there were just
too many trolls. The Dancer found himself hard pressed by three trolls
who came at him at once and refused to die no matter how much he hacked
at them. In that moment when he was preoccupied, two more trolls forced
their way in and attacked Flint. She killed one, but couldn't react fast
enough to stop the other. It knocked her to the ground and stooped over
her. Wilde cut down the troll before him, and looked up to see the troll
bending over Flint. She tried to lift her sword, dazed by the fall, and
the troll slapped it out of her hand. Flint reached after the sword, and
the troll cut at her face with its claws. She turned her head aside at
the last moment, saving her face, but the long claws ripped off her left
ear. She screamed and fell back, blood running thickly down her neck as
pain blazed in her head. The troll grinned and took her throat in its
heavy hands. Flint tried to break its hold, and couldn't.

Wilde screamed her name and leapt at the troll. His weight tore the
creature away from Flint, and the two of them crashed to the floor.

Wilde landed awkwardly, and his elbow jarred painfully on the solid
stone. His hand instantly went numb, and he watched despairingly as the
sword flew from his unfeeling fingers. The troll reared over him, huge
and hideous, and Wilde slammed a punch into its gut. The creature
laughed hissingly. Wilde heaved to one side to try and throw it off, but
the troll moved with him, one clawed hand wrapped tightly around Wilde's
throat. And then its other hand ripped into his belly and out again in a
flurry of blood and guts, and Wilde screamed shrilly. Blood spurted from
his mouth. The troll left him shuddering on the floor, curled around the
awful wound. Blood poured past his clutching hands and pooled around
him.

Flint snatched up her sword from the floor and ran the troll through
from behind. It died trying to clutch at the blade as she jerked it
free. Flint spared Wilde a single glance, and then had to turn back to
take her place at the Dancer's side again. He'd disposed of the three
trolls that were bothering him, but even he was having a hard time
holding the doorway single-handed. Flint could feel blood trickling down
her neck, and her head screamed pain with every move that jarred it, but
she couldn't stop and rest, even for a moment. The Dancer needed her.
She cut savagely at the nearest troll, and smiled coldly as it fell to
the floor, clutching at its torn throat. Another troll took its place.
The Dancer backed away from the door a single step, and Flint fell back
with him.

Constance stood very still, battling the forming mists with the last of
her magic. Flint and the Dancer fell back another step. More trolls
forced their way into the cellar.

The three Rangers fought on, knowing it was hopeless but fighting anyway
because there was nothing else they could do.

Deep in the earth below the fort, the Beast stirred. The great cavern
above it shook violently. Massive slabs of stone cracked and groaned as
they moved against each other, disturbed from their resting places for
the first time in uncounted centuries. Jagged cracks appeared in the
cavern walls, and loose earth fell from the ceiling in a steady rain.

MacNeil clutched at the cavern wall as the ledge shifted suddenly under
his feet. Thin cracks appeared in the stone, and Scarecrow Jack was
thrown off balance. He fell awkwardly, and threw his torch away to cling
tightly to the heaving stone with both hands. The blazing brand
disappeared down into the darkness and was gone. MacNeil quickly put his
lantern down and moved back to help Jack.

Hammer managed to keep his footing but the liches kept pressing forward,
undeterred by the destruction around them, and it was all Hammer could
do to hold them off.

One of the dead slipped and fell from the ledge. The falling body grew
smaller and smaller and was finally swallowed up by the darkness that
hid the bottom of the cavern. The liches surged forward along the narrow
ledge, which suddenly rose and fell a good foot as the cracks in the
cavern wall widened still further. Hammer lost his balance and staggered
into MacNeil, who tripped over Jack's outstretched legs. He fell on top
of Jack and the two of them rolled towards the brink of the ledge.
MacNeil jammed his hands into one of the cracks and pulled himself to a
halt, but Jack skidded over the edge.

MacNeil lashed out desperately with his legs, and one of them kicked
Jack in the chest. The outlaw grabbed at the leg instinctively, and
stopped his fall. He hung helplessly over the long drop, clinging to
MacNeil's leg with both hands.

MacNeil forced his hands deeper into the crack in the stone, wedging
them against the weight that was trying to pull them loose. For a long
moment neither of them dared move, and then Jack started to climb up
MacNeil's body. MacNeil groaned out loud at the pain that swept through
his arms and hands as he fought to support the double weight. And then
Jack was able to reach out and grab the ledge, and MacNeil let out his
breath in a great shuddering sigh as the extra weight suddenly
disappeared.

Jack clambered up on to the ledge again, and MacNeil rose painfully to
his feet. He looked down at the drop and then looked away. He'd never
liked heights. He handed Jack the lantern and turned quickly back to see
how Hammer was faring. The ledge was still trembling under his feet, but
it seemed to have steadied somewhat. All around him the cavern walls
were shifting and groaning, and there was a faint continuous rumble from
somewhere far away, deep down under the cavern.

The liches suddenly stopped pouring out on to the ledge from the tunnel
mouth. Hammer cut down the last few corpses as they pressed forward, and
their rotting bodies fell away from the ledge and out into the darkness.
Hammer slowly lowered his sword, and then leaned on it tiredly.

MacNeil began to breathe a little more easily. The dead from the border
fort had pushed their intended prey all the way back to the mouth of the
original tunnel before the last of them had been destroyed. MacNeil
looked at Hammer and winced. The Infernal Device was glowing brightly;
almost too brightly to bear. Hammer was leaning on the sword with his
eyes closed. His sides were heaving and his face was slick with sweat.
For Hammer the nightmare wasn't over; it was just beginning. He groaned
aloud, and screwed his eyes shut rather than look at the sword he held.

MacNeil and Scarecrow Jack looked at each other. The liches might be
gone, but the cavern was still breaking up.

This was no place to be hanging around. There was no sign of the Beast,
and MacNeil couldn't see one good reason to stay in the cavern a single
moment longer than was necessary. He moved forward to stand facing
Hammer. The outlaw gave no sign he even knew MacNeil was there.

"Hammer?' said MacNeil. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the
constant groaning of the shifting stone all around him. "What is it,
Hammer? What's wrong?"

"It's the sword,' said Hammer hoarsely. His face twisted, and his
knuckles were white where they gripped the long swordhilt. "It's the
Damned sword. I used it for too long, tempted it too much ... It's
awake.' MacNeil glanced back at Jack, who nodded jei'kily. "He's right,
Sergeant. The sword is alive, and aware. I can feel it ... ' MacNeil
turned back to Hammer. "Sheath the sword. We don't need it any more,
Hammer. It's all right to sheath it now. ' "You damned fool!' said
Hammer despairingly. "I can't sheath it! The bloody thing's awake, and
it's hungry  ... You never understood the power in this sword, MacNeil.

There's power here beyond your worst nightmares; power to destroy all
the world and leave it nothing but a rotting ball of filth. And the
sword wants me to use that power  ... ' MacNeil swallowed drily. He
didn't want to believe Hammer, but he had no choice. There was a power
in the hellsword, beating in rhythm to the pulsing of the sword's
brilliant light, beating so strongly that even he could sense its
presence. He started to grab the sword away from Hammer while he was
still distracted, but the outlaw immediately moved back out of reach and
levelled the sword at MacNeil's breast.

"Stay away from me. Try that again and I'll kill you. I'll have to."

"Hammer ... ' "I can control the Device. I can! I just need a little
more time ... ' A thick, vile grunt issued up from somewhere deep in the
cavern. It sounded like some monstrous hog at its through.

The echoes seemed to take for ever to die away. The cavern shook
constantly now, and earth fell from the ceiling like a fine mist. The
grunt came again, a huge sonorous sound that shook the air like thunder.
Hammer, MacNeil and Scarecrow Jack looked down into the darkness, and a
line of silver fire suddenly appeared far below on the cavern floor.

Hundreds of yards wide, it stretched from one side of the cavern to the
other, splitting the darkness in two. And then, slowly, the split grew
wider. The shining silver light became brighter still as the split
widened into a broad band of light.

The silver glare filled the cavern, painfully bright and piercing.

It wasn't until a vast golden circle moved into the light from behind
the darkness that MacNeil realized he was looking at the opening of a
single gigantic eye.

The huge dark eyelids crawled open, revealing the whole floor of the
cavern to be one great eye. The enormous golden pupil stared up at
MacNeil with monumental disdain.

J He wanted to look away, but couldn't. He was held by tile sheer
immensity of the eye below him, fixing him with the awful stare of an
ancient and unforgiving god.

It's too big, thought MacNeil dazedly. It's just too big.

Nothing could be that size ... That eye must be hundreds of yards across
... He tried to visualize the size of the Beast, and couldn't. It was
just too big, too large for his human mind to cope with.

There were giants in the earth in those days.

Something beat on the air like a great commanding voice, silent but
imperative. MacNeil stared down into the Beast's eye and the unspoken
voice called to him, demanding that he surrender to it. And the longer
he looked, the more he wanted to. Helpless tears streamed down his
cheeks, his eyes dazzled by the silver glare that illuminated the cavern
but unable to look away. MacNeil stared into the Beast's eye, and the
world grew soft and dim. All the things that troubled him, all the
things that scared and angered him, seemed to drift away. Nothing
mattered. Nothing mattered at all, except listening to the silent voice
and doing as it commanded. He was safe and warm and comfortable, and
nothing would ever hurt him again. All he had to do was obey the Beast
in all things, and it would set him free from the cares of the world.
All he had to do was give up his duty.

Duty. The word tolled in his head like a bell. He had served as a Ranger
because of his duty to the Forest Land.

He had fought the demons in the long night because of that duty. He had
stood at his post and he hadn't run, because of his duty and his honour.
In that moment MacNeil finally understood why he hadn't deserted his
post all those years ago, and why he never would have, no matter what.
He had been afraid then, and he was afraid now, but there was no
disgrace in that. Only the foolish and the dead never feel fear. Duty
and honour are important because they give us courage, the courage we
need to do what must be done, to face what must be faced.

MacNeil groaned aloud, and tore his gaze away from the great shining
eye. He turned his back on it, and pressed his face against the cold
unyielding stone of the cavern wall.

His heart was racing and he was panting for breath, as though he'd just
run a mile in full armour. Sweat ran down his face and stung his eyes.
He'd come close to losing his mind and his soul and he knew it. He
shuddered violently, his hands clenched into fists. He made himself
breathe slowly and deeply, and a little of his calm returned. He turned
away from the cavern wall and put his back to it, wincing as the bright
silver glare hit him again. But this time the unspoken voice was gone.
He knew it for what it was, and his mind was closed to it. He looked
round, and saw that Hammer and Jack were still staring raptly down at
the blazing eye.

Scarecrow Jack called out to the trees, but nothing answered. He'd come
too far from the Forest. He was in the Beast's domain now. Its voice
thundered in his mind, disrupting his thoughts and scattering his
memories. He needed the strength of the trees. He reached out with his
mind, fighting fiercely against the voice of the Beast, searching
desperately for the communion of the trees that had always been his. The
Forest was still there, far above him. The trees and the greenery still
stretched for countless miles across the Forest Land, and all of its
ancient strength was his to call upon. The darkness pressed in around
him as the Beast grew stronger. Only newly awakened and barely come into
its power, its voice was already near overpowering in its intensity.
Jack summoned all his defiance into one great shout of denial, and
reached out one last time. And finally the trees heard him, and tent him
their strength. The Beast's influence vanished from his mind like the
fleeting memory of a bad dream, and he was free again. He breathed
deeply, and the bitterly cold air scared his lungs, shocking him awake.
He realized how close he was standing to the brink of the ledge, and
stepped quickly backwards.

MacNeil nodded briefly to him, but sensed that Jack was still too shaken
to be much help in tackling Hammer. The renegade guard's face was
working horribly, and his hands twitched around the hilt of the Infernal
Device, but he was unable to tear his gaze away from the great blazing
eye.

The Beast had him now. MacNeil swore silently and braced himself.

He had to get the Infernal Device away from Hammer before the Beast
could take control of him. Now that the Beast had awakened, the
hellsword was the only chance they had of equalling the odds. MacNeil
moved stealthily forward and reached out to take the sword.

Hammer spun round, the great longsword sweeping out in a viciously short
arc. MacNeil dived under the blade at the last moment, and the wind of
its passing ruffled his hair.

The sword bit deep into the cavern wall, and as Hammer started to pull
it free Jack stepped in behind him and pinned his arms to his sides.
MacNeil lurched to his feet, but even as he started forward again, he
saw that Hammer's face was cold and calm and empty of all emotion.
Hammer had lost his last battle, and now only the Beast looked out
through his eyes. The outlaw struggled furiously to break Jack's hold,
but the strength of the tall trees surged through Jack's arms, and
Hammer couldn't break free. MacNeil slammed a punch into Hammer's gut.
The outlaw stared coldly back at him and struggled to raise the Device
and cut him down.

MacNeil hit him as hard as he could on the jaw, snapping Hammer's head
back. It had no effect at all. MacNeil did it again and again, and
Hammer just ignored him. And slowly, despite everything Jack could do to
hold him, he began to raise the Infernal Device.

"Do something!' panted Jack. "I can't hold him much longer.' MacNeil
lifted his sword and cut Hammer's throat with a single stroke. Blood
gushed on the air, spattering MacNeil's chest and arms, but the outlaw
didn't fall. He went on struggling even as the colour drained from his
face and the blood pumped more and more feebly. Finally the blood
stopped coming and he stopped breathing, but still he stood there,
gripping the Infernal Device and fighting to break free. MacNeil stood
gaping, and in that moment Hammer broke Jack's hold and sent him
staggering backwards.

Hammer spun round to face him. Jack tripped and fell, and again the
Device missed its target by only a fraction of an inch. MacNeil yelled
and stamped his foot on the ledge to draw Hammer's attention away from
Jack, and the outlaw turned back to face him. Hammer's chest was soaked
with his own blood, but the dead eyes watched MacNeil's every movement
with unblinking intensity. He belonged to the Beast now.

MacNeil backed slowly away along the narrow ledge. He daren't meet
Wolfsbane with his own blade; the Device would shear through simple
steel as though it was paper.

But he couldn't just keep backing away, or Hammer would either rush him
or turn on Jack. He was still groping desperately for a plan when he saw
Jack move silently in behind Hammer, and crouch down. MacNeil realized
immediately what he had to do. He held his sword with both hands and
charged straight at Hammer, roaring at the top of his voice. Hammer
stepped back to brace himself to meet MacNeil's rush, and tripped over
Jack, crouching down behind him. He toppled helplessly backwards, and
Jack gave him the last little push that sent Hammer flying away from the
ledge and out into the long drop. MacNed stepped quickly forward and
brought his blade flashing down in one last desperate stroke. The blade
caught Hammer's right arm against the brink of the ledge, and sheared
clean through the wrist. The Infernal Device clattered safely on to the
ledge, with Hammer's right hand still wrapped around the hilt. Jack and
MacNeil watched Hammer's body fall until the distant speck disappeared
into the brilliant light of the Beast's eye.

Finally they both turned away from the ledge and leaned against the
cavern wall while they got their breath back.

MacNeil felt dizzy and lightheaded from the strain, and his leg muscles
were trembling with fatigue, but he knew he couldn't rest yet. He looked
down at the Infernal Device, glowing brightly on the ledge before him.
Hammer's severed hand slowly relaxed its grip on the hilt.

"All right,' said Jack hoarsely, 'now what are we going to do?' "Kill
the Beast,' said MacNeil.

Jack looked down at the great staring eye, and then back at Wolfsbane. A
sudden chill ran down his spine as he realized what MacNeil meant to do,
and he stared respectfully at the Ranger.

"You don't have to do this."

"Yes I do. It's my job. My duty.' Jack looked at him for a moment, and
then nodded briefly.

"You're a brave man, Sergeant. Good luck."

"Thanks. I'm going to need it. Now get the hell out of here. The tunnel
that brought us down here was a part of the Beast's dreams. There's no
telling what'll happen to it when the Beast dies."

"Sergeant ... are you sure the Device can kill it?"

"Why else would the Beast be so afraid of it? Now go on.

I'll join you later."

"Yeah,' said Jack quietly. "Sure. Goodbye, Sergeant.' He gave MacNeil a
quick salute, picked up the lantern, and padded along the ledge and into
the tunnel. MacNeil stood alone on the ledge and listened to the sound
of Jack's footsteps fading away into silence. He could feel the Beast's
presence beating on the air all around him. Its power was growing.

I could run and get away. I could run, even now. But I won't.

He breathed deeply, and was surprised at how shaky his breath was.

He sheathed his own sword and looked down at Wolfsbane. His hands were
sweating, and he rubbed them dry on the sides of his trousers. He didn't
think he'd ever felt so scared in his life. He knelt down and took hold
of Wolfsbane's hilt, being careful to avoid touching Hammer's severed
hand. He straightened up slowly. The sword was uncannily light in his
hand, despite the great length of the blade. It glowed brightly, but it
was not a healthy light.

And finally MacNeil discovered why Hammer had always been so reluctant
to draw the Device.

Wolfsbane moved in his mind: a soft seductive whisper that spoke of
power and destiny, and appealed to all the dark dreams and fantasies
he'd ever had. MacNeil shuddered helplessly as the alien presence seeped
slowly through him like a horribly sweet poison. No wonder Hammer had
fallen so quickly under the Beast's control; with two such forces
warring for control within him it was inevitable that he would fall to
one of them. MacNeil shook his head to clear it, and stepped forward to
the brink of the ledge. There was a thing he had to do, and he was going
to do it, despite everything the Beast or the Device or his own fear
could do to stop him.

He clutched the leather-wrapped swordhilt with both hands and held the
Infernal Device up before him, blinking at the bright shining light that
burned in the blade l tu stepped carefully forward on to the very edge
of tile mu loxx stone ledge, and looked down.

MacNeil remembered the demons in the long night and how he'd wanted to
turn and run. He had always looked on his fear as a secret weakness, a
flaw in his character he could never forget or forgive. He had always
thought of himself as strong, and despised weakness in himself as he
despised it in others. But now, standing alone on the ledge and looking
down into the single great eye of the Beast, he finally knew the truth.
There is no shame in fear; only in surrendering to it.

The Beast was awake at last, and when it came into its full power it
would destroy the world and remake it in its own awful image. Once
before, in the time of the Darkwood, he had vowed to die rather than to
let such a thing happen.

His vow still held, and scared as he was, his duty and his honour gave
him the courage he needed to do what was necessary. He thought briefly:
Why me? The answer came back: Because there's nobody else. Because it's
your job.

Your responsibility. He remembered his vow of vengeance to the dead
children, and his resolve hardened a little more.

He sighed once, and lowered the great sword so that its point was facing
down towards the huge eye.

Goodbye Jessica, Giles. I was always proud to work with you. Goodbye,
Constance. You turned out to be a damn good witch, after all.

And Salamander ... I'm sorry about that village.

The Infernal Device screamed with rage in his mind as it finally
realized what he intended to do, but it was too late.

MacNeil flexed his feet, feeling the ledge under his heels, and the
emptiness under his toes. He smiled wryly. He'd never liked heights. He
took a firm hold on the swordhilt with both hands, bent forward and
jumped out from the ledge, diving headfirst towards the Beast.

The freezing air rushed past him as he fell, the Infernal Device held
firmly out before him. The sword and the Beast screamed soundlessly in
his mind, and he laughed at them both. The eye rushed closer, ever
closer, the shimmering silver and gold rising to fill his vision, until
all he could see was the eye, growing larger and larger, a sea of
dazzling light. And finally the sword plunged into it, driven by the
horrid weight of his long drop, and MacNeil and the sword disappeared
into the body of the Beast. For a long moment there was only silence,
and then the Beast screamed, on and on and on.

Leavetakings The scream broke off abruptly, and the voice of the Beast
fell silent for ever.

In the cellar, the mists began to fade away. They sank back into the
stonework and disappeared, leaving no trace of their passing. Without
the gathering fog, the torchlight was suddenly brighter, less diffused,
and the shadows were no longer quite so dark. The Dancer cut down the
last two trolls in the doorway, and then looked around, confused, as he
slowly realized there were no more. Flint sat down suddenly on the
blood-spattered floor, and closed her eyes. Constance let her hands drop
back to her sides and bowed her head tiredly.

"It's dead,' she said dully. "The Beast is dead."

"Are you sure?' said the Dancer.

"Yes. I can't feel its presence any more.' The Dancer sighed once,
shrugged, and sheathed his sword. He looked at Flint, and moved quickly
over to kneel beside her. He swore softly as he saw the ragged wound
where her left ear used to be. He took a handkerchief from his pocket
and pressed it gently to the side of her head. She winced and opened her
eyes in protest, and then lifted a hand to hold the folded handkerchief
in place. She gritted her teeth as the Dancer gently tied a length of
rag around her head to hold the handkerchief securely. A sheen of sweat
broke out on her forehead and she felt sick and giddy from the pain, but
she was still able to smile her thanks to the Dancer when he looked at
her anxiously.

"We won, Giles. We actually won."

"Looks that way, Jessica."

"If this is what a victory feels like, I'd hate to be around at one of
your defeats,' said Wilde.

Flint looked round quickly, and with the Dancer's help moved over to sit
beside the fallen bowman. He lay on his back, glaring up at the ceiling
with pain-filled eyes. There was a gaping hole in his gut, revealing
broken and splintered fibs, and only his hands kept his intestines from
falling out.

Blood soaked his clothes, and welled out from beneath him in a widening
pool. There was more blood on his mouth and chin, and he couldn't even
raise his head to look at Flint when she took one of his hands in both
of hers. Flint looked at the Dancer, who shook his head slightly.
Constance knelt down beside Flint.

"Can you do anything for him, Constance?' Flint asked quietly.

The witch shook her head. "I've no magic left. I used it all. It'll be
some time before any of it returns."

"And I don't have that much time,' said Wilde. He swallowed painfully.
"Typical. My luck always was bad."

"Lie still,' said Flint gently.

"What for? Can't hurt any worse. You there, Dancer?"

"Yes, Wilde. I'm here."

"This is a death wound, but it's a bloody slow one. Going to take me
some time to die, and I'd rather not be around while it's happening. End
it for me now, Dancer. Let me go out with some dignity, at least."

"Don't talk like that,' said Flint, almost angrily.

"There's still a chance."

"No, there isn't,' snapped Wilde. He stopped to breathe heavily for a
moment, and Flint mopped some of the sweat from his face with her
sleeve. Wilde grinned harshly. "You always were the soft one, Jess. Now,
how about a last kiss, eh? Just to say goodbye. And then, when we're
through the Dancer can let me go out on a high note.' Flint smiled
despite herself, holding back tears. "Iou always were a romantic,
Edmond.' She leaned forward, wiped some of the blood from his mouth with
her sleeve, and kissed him tenderly. As she did, Wilde's hand came up
and gave her left breast a playful squeeze. Flint straightened up, half
shocked and half laughing. Wilde nodded to the Dancer, and he leant
forward and slipped his dagger expertly into Wilde's heart. The bowman
stiflened, and grinned up at Flint. "Romantic, my arse.' And then his
breath went out of him in a long sigh, and the light went out of his
eyes. Flint reached out with a shaking hand and gently closed his eyes
for him.

"Goodbye, Edmond. I wish things could have been  ... different."

"Jessica?' The Dancer met her gaze steadily. "I had to do it, Jessica."

"Of course you did. Thank you, Giles."

"What do we do now?' said Constance. "The trolls are all dead, the Beast
is dead. but what about Duncan and Jack and Hammer? What are we going to
do?' "We're going to rest a while, and get our strength back,' said
Flint. "Duncan and the others will be back soon."

"But what if they're not?' said Constance quietly. "What if they don't
come back?"

"Then we go down and look for them,' said the Dancer.

Scarecrow Jack staggered on through the earth tunnel, holding the
lantern out before him with an aching arm.

He'd lost track of how long he'd been in the tunnel, but his feet hurt,
and the weight of the lantern had become almost too heavy to bear. He
trudged doggedly on, the faint echoes of his progress dying quickly
away. He tried reaching out to the Forest, as he had before, but there
was nothing there.

He was too tired, and too far away. His head pounded unmercifully and he
found it hard to concentrate. It was nothing serious, he knew that; just
strain and tiredness. A few hours' sleep and he'd be fine. He was
tempted to lie down and sleep for a while on the packed earth of the
tunnel floor, but somewhere deep inside him he knew that if he lay down
here he might never find the strength to get up again.

And so he plodded on, head hanging tiredly down, putting one foot in
front of the other, over and over again.

Some time ago he'd heard the Beast scream, but the long agonized howl
had come and gone, and the tunnel was still here. Nothing had changed.
He had wondered if the Beast's dreams would vanish with its death, and
if so whether he might fade away along with the dream he walked through,
but it hadn't happened. Or perhaps it had, and he just hadn't noticed.
No, you couldn't feel this tired and hurt this much unless you were
still alive. But if the dreams were still real, then maybe the Beast
wasn't dead after all  ... The sudden thought shocked him out of his
dazed state, and he stopped and looked back down the tunnel. The Beast
was dead. It had to be. It couldn't have survived the Infernal Device
... But he had to be sure. He sat down cross-legged in the middle of the
tunnel and cautiously opened his mind, letting it drift out, reaching
for communion with the trees.

He was still too far away to be able to touch the Forest, but there was
no trace remaining of the dark oppressive presence of the Beast. It was
gone, as though it had never been. Jack smiled grimly, and rose
painfully to his feet again. Maybe there was some justice in the world
after all. Just a little. He walked on up the tunnel.

After a while, the shadows up ahead seemed strangely different. Jack
held the lantern higher and squinted against the gloom. His heart leapt
as the patterns of light and darkness ahead of him resolved themselves
into a set ,)t rough wooden steps leading upwards. He was almost the,-e:
all he had to do was climb the steps and clamber out through the
trapdoor, and he would be free of the darkness and among friends again.
He frowned suddenly, and came to a halt at the bottom of the steps. He
remembered how the steps had seemed to go on for ever on the way down,
and a faint twinge of fear went through him. He pushed it quickly aside.
It didn't matter how many steps there were. He was almost there, and he
wasn't going to be stopped by anything or anyone now. He was going home,
to the trees.

He almost ran up the simple wooden slats, pushing himself on as fast as
his aching legs would carry him. He held the lantern out as far ahead of
him as his arm could reach, hoping for a glimpse of the trapdoor that
would let him back into the fort's cellar, but for a long time there
were only the stairs and the darkness. It wasn't until some of the frost
in his hair began to melt and run down his face like tears that he
realized the air wasn't as cold as it had been. In fact, it was almost
bordering on warm. His hands and feet and face tingled with returning
feeling as the numbness slowly left them. He gritted his teeth against
the pins and needles that followed, and kept on climbing.

He began to smile, until he was grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. The
trapdoor suddenly appeared above him, and he lurched to a halt before he
slammed his head into it. His smile faded away. What if the people in
the cellar had bolted the trapdoor shut, and had then been  ... overcome
by something? He'd be trapped down here in the darkness for ever ...
Jack quickly decided he wasn't going to think about that. He reached up
and pushed at the trapdoor with his free hand. It rose an inch or so,
and then fell back. Jack cursed softly. He'd forgotten how heavy the
trapdoor was. He put the lantern down on the top step and placed both
his hands against the trapdoor. It shifted uneasily, and then rose an
inch or two. Jack took a deep breath and held it, and forced the
trapdoor up another inch. MacNeil had always made it look so easy ...
And then suddenly the weight was gone as the trapdoor was yanked away
from him. Light spilled down through the opening, and Jack blinked up
into it. Strong hands reached down to help him, and finally Scarecrow
Jack left the tunnels in the earth and emerged into the light of the
cellar.

Flint and the Dancer let the trapdoor slam shut behind him, and
Constance helped him sit down before his weary legs gave way. He grinned
happily about him, and then he saw the look in their eyes, and his smile
disappeared as he realized he had bad news to tell them as well as good.

"I'm the only one,' he said quietly. "Hammer and Sergeant MacNeil won't
be coming back."

"They're both dead?' said Constance.

"Hammer is. And I'm pretty sure the Sergeant is too. He gave up his life
to destroy the Beast."

"What happened?' said the Dancer.

"Sergeant MacNeil used Wolfsbane against the Beast.' Jack dropped his
eyes for a moment, and then raised them to look squarely at the Dancer.
"I would have used the sword, but he wouldn't let me. He said it was his
duty. He was a brave man. Bravest I ever met."

"Yes,' said Flint. "He was.' They stood in silence for a while, each
lost in their own thoughts. Constance felt suddenly exhausted. She'd
been saving what little strength she had left to welcome MacNeil back,
and now it seemed she had no use for it. He was dead.

She never had found the right moment to tell him how she felt about him,
and now she never would.

"What happened to Hammer?' said the Dancer.

"He ran into something worse than him.' Jack looked about him, taking in
the dead trolls and the Rangers' wounds for the first time. "You seem to
have kept busy while we were gone. ' "We managed to keep from being
bored,' said Flint.

"We found the gold,' said Jack. "It's all there. I'll draw you a map,
later on."

"What about the missing people?' said Constance.

"I'll tell you later,' said Jack. "It's a long story, and not a pretty
one.' His eyes fell upon Wilde's unmoving body.

Jack looked at it for a while, not sure how he felt. "Did he die well?"

"Yes,' said Flint. "He gave his life to save mine.' Jack nodded slowly.
"I never liked him, but he was good with a bow. At least he died in a
good cause. He used to be a hero once, you know."

"Yes,' said Flint. "I know.' She looked hard at Jack. "Are you sure
Duncan is dead?"

"He has to be,' said Jack. "He knew he was going to die when he took on
the Beast, and so did I."

"But did you actually see the body?"

"No. No, I didn't."

"Then there's a chance he's still alive,' said the Dancer.

He turned to Constance. "Can't you See where he is, what's happened to
him?"

"I'm sorry,' said the witch. "I've nothing left. It'll be weeks before I
can See anything again."

"He's dead,' said Jack. "I'm sorry, but he has to be.' Flint started to
say something, and then stopped, and for a long time nobody said
anything.

"All right,' said Flint finally. "Let's get out of here. We can clean up
and sleep in the dining hall for tonight.

Tomorrow we'll go down into the tunnels and see if we can recover
Duncan's body."

"Right,' said the Dancer. "We can't leave him here, alone.' Duncan
MacNeil woke up slowly. His whole body ached, and all the length of his
back was a single great stabbing pain. He groaned aloud, and tried to
raise his head, but for the moment even that was beyond him. He opened
his eyes, but everything stayed dark. He lay quietly where he was,
gathering what was left of his strength, and tried to figure out where
the hell he was. There was a hard unyielding surface beneath his aching
back, but one arm and both his feet seemed to be hanging over the edges
of it. An appalling smell filled the air all around him; a dank
oppressive stench of rotting foulness that made him want to retch. He
tried to lift his head again, and this time succeeded. He still couldn't
see anything. Of course not, he thought sluggishly, It's dark down here.
Down here  ... Memories returned in a rush, and his heart missed a beat
as he remembered falling towards the giant glowing eye. He thrashed
about him in the dark, trying to find something to grab on to, and then
froze as he realized he was lying on something precariously narrow, with
an unknown drop to either side of him. He felt about him a little more
cautiously, and his hands encountered something soft and unpleasantly
yielding. He snatched his hands away and lay very still while his heart
and breathing returned to normal. The first thing to do was to shed some
light on the subject. He reached carefully into his pocket and brought
out the inch of candlestub he always carried with him for emergencies.

Lighting the wax stub with flint and steel from his boot whilst being
very careful not to overbalance himself turned out to be a nightmare in
itself, but finallyhe got the wick to light and held the candle up
before him.

He was lying on a narrow shelf of discoloured bone, surrounded by dark
walls of rotting flesh. If he looked up he could see above him the
beginnings of a broad tunnel reaching up through the decaying meat.

Another equally broad tunnel fell away beneath him. MacNeil sat up
cautiously on the ledge of bone, cradling the candlestub carefully in
his shaking hands. He finally knew where he was.

He was in the body of the Beast. He'd plunged into the eye and through
it, and fallen on into the head of the Beast, destroying its mind. The
liquid in the massive eyeball must have cushioned his fall enough so
that when he finally hit the more solid flesh beyond it, the shock of
the impact hadn't been enough to kill him. At some point he must have
dropped the Infernal Device. It had carried on without him, rotting its
way deeper into the Beast's mind, and leaving behind it the tunnel
beneath his ledge. There was no knowing how deep Wolfsbane had gone, but
it must have gone deep enough. The Beast was dead. MacNeil only had to
look around to know that; everywhere he looked was rotten with decay.
And the Infernal Device was gone, lost deep in the decomposing body of
the Beast.

And there it can stay, for all of me, thought MacNeil firmly.

He clambered unsteadily to his feet and looked up at the tunnel above
him. The opening was just above his head, easily within reach. It was
the only way out, much as he disliked the thought. There was no telling
how far he'd penetrated into the Beast's body before the bone shelf
broke his fall, and in his current battered state he wasn't up to much
climbing. The ledge of bone suddenly creaked loudly and shifted under
his feet. He looked down, and saw a fine tracery of cracks spreading
across the bone. The decay was continuing. He no longer had a choice; he
had to climb out while he still could. If he fell any further into the
body of the Beast he might never get out, even if he survived a second
fall.

MacNeil allowed a trickle of melted wax to fall on to the absorbent
cloth of the shirt over his shoulder, and used it to stick the wax stub
firmly in place. He was drenched from head to foot with foul-smelling
slime from his passage through the eye, but the candlestub seemed more
or less secure, and he had to have both hands free for climbing. He drew
his knife from its sheath and cut himself a series of foot- and
handholds in the decaying flesh of the tunnel opening above him. He then
gripped the knife firmly between his teeth, gagging at the awful taste,
and pulled himself up into the wide shaft. His arms groaned with the
effort, but eventually he pulled himself high enough for his feet to
find the first footholds, and then the long climb began. In later years,
he was only to remember most of it in his worst nightmares.

The climb seemed to last forever. The flickering candlelight showed him
a Wall of red and purple flesh, already dark with spreading pockets of
decay. Dim pulses of light ran through the Beast's flesh occasionally,
and once MacNeil thought he saw a strange distorted face peering up out
of the meat at him. When he looked again it was gone, and he didn't wait
to look more closely. A slow dull ache burned in his legs as he climbed,
spreading to his hips and chest and arms. His back grew steadily worse.
He couldn't even stop for a rest; his weight would have been too much
for the precarious foot- and handholds he hacked out of the yielding
wall before him. Occasionally slivers and promontories of splintered
bones erupted out of the walls, and he quickly learned to work his way
around them. They looked solid enough, but they were eaten away inside.
Wolfsbane did its job thoroughly. MacNeil climbed on, slowly making his
way up the decaying column of flesh.

He came at last to the enormous socket that had once held the Beast's
eye. It was an open crater now, carpeted m places with a rotting,
translucent jelly. MacNeil clambered out of the tunnel and into the
crater, and just stood for a moment, while his various aches and pains
subsided enough to be bearable. His candlelight didn't travel more than
a few feet, but the glowing crystals in the cavern walls still shone
with a dim, stubborn light. The curving sides of the crater stretched
away in all directions, and beyond them lay the cavern wall he would
have to climb to reach the stone ledge that led to the exit tunnel.
Assuming of course that the damned tunnel was still there ...  MacNeil
shrugged, and started off across the crater, heading for the nearest
wall.

There was no point in thinking about things like that. Either the tunnel
was there, or it wasn't. He'd find out when he got there.

The rest of the journey passed in a kind of daze, and he remembered
little of it, even in his dreams, possibly because he was too tired to
be scared any more. He reached the edge of the crater eventually, and
climbed up the sheer rock face until he got to the stone ledge. The
climb wasn't too hard; the walls were cracked and broken from where the
Beast had stirred briefly in its sleep, and there were plenty of
readymade hand- and footholds. He made his way along the ledge and
trudged wearily back up the tunnel that led to the wooden steps and the
cellar. He wasn't thinking much by this stage. There was only the pain
and the tiredness and his own dogged refusal to give in.

His candlestub had pretty much run out by the time he finally reached
the wooden steps, and he clawed his way up the steps in pitch darkness
after the light suddenly guttered and went out. The first he knew of
reaching the closed trapdoor was when he banged his head against it. The
shock snapped MacNeil awake again, and a horrid thought came to him.
What if the others had supposed him dead, and gone away, leaving the
trapdoor securely bolted? He grinned savagely. After all he'd been
through to get here, a closed trapdoor sure as hell wasn't going to stop
him. He braced himself on the narrow wooden slat, and his hand brushed
against something on the top step. He froze, studying the feel of it in
his memory. It hadn't seemed alive; it had felt cold, like metal or
glass. He reached out again carefully, and his fingers found the
familiar shape of his lantern. MacNeil smiled widely in the darkness. So
Jack had made it back, at least. He took out his flint and steel and lit
the lantern with trembling fingers. The sudden light was blinding, and
tears ran down his face. He waited patiently till his eyes had adjusted
to the new light, and then put his shoulder against the underside of the
trapdoor. He took a quick breath, and then burst upwards with all his
strength. For one heartbreaking moment he thought the damn thing wasn't
going to budge, and then it suddenly rose a good three inches, almost
throwing him off balance. He quickly regained his footing and pushed
again, and in a few moments the trapdoor had swung high enough for him
to push it over backwards. It fell to the floor with a great echoing
crash, but there was no response. The cellar was dark, and abandoned.

MacNeil clambered painfully out of the opening, but rested only a moment
before checking through the piled up bodies for signs of his friends.
But among all the trolls, there was only one human body; Wilde. MacNeil
heaved a sigh of relief and started the long slow journey out of the
cellar and back through the warren of passageways that would take him
eventually to the outside world. Not for the first time, he wondered if
the others had already gone, leaving him alone in the fort. He had no
way of knowing how long he'd spent unconscious in the body of the Beast.

But if they hadn't left yet, they were probably still in the dining
hall. He stood undecided in a dark passageway for a moment. He wanted to
get out of the fort, with all its blood and death and madness, and
breathe fresh clean air again, but even more than that he needed the
company of friends.

So he set off in the direction of the dining hall, and hoped.

It took longer than he'd thought to get there, mainly because he was so
much weaker than he'd realized, but finally he stood in the empty
corridor before the closed hall door. He hesitated again, but couldn't
hear anything. He shrugged and pushed the door open, slamming it back
against the wall.

The Dancer had been sitting on guard. He was on his feet sword in hand
before echoes had even begun to ring, but when he saw who it was his jaw
dropped and he stood frozen in place. Jack, Flint and Constance sat up
bleary-eyed from sleep, and stared blankly at the grisly apparition in
the doorway. And then the shock of the moment passed, and all four of
them hurried forward to greet him. Constance got there first and hugged
MacNeil ferociously, despite the blood and slime that soaked his
clothes.

"You're alive! Oh Duncan; I knew you had to be alive! I knew it!' Her
feelings ran wild within her, making her suddenly inarticulate, but that
didn't matter. There'd be time to tell him about those feelings later.
There would be time for many things now.

Finally she let him go, and the others took it in turn to hug him and
slap him on the back and shoulders. All the exuberance was suddenly too
much for MacNeil, and he had to sit down quickly before he fell down.
The Dancer and Jack helped him to a chair, and MacNeil then had to spend
some time assuring them all that he was fine really, and just needed a
little time to get his breath back. Constance wrapped a blanket round
his shoulders to keep out the cold.

Flint handed him a wine flask, and he nodded his thanks.

"All right,' said Constance, 'tell us what happened.

You've been missing for hours. Did you really kill the Beast ?' "Oh
yes,' said MacNeil. "It's dead.' He told them his story, and they sat
around him in silent awe, like children listening to the village
storyteller. When he was finished, no one said anything for a long time.

"So: Wolfsbane is lost again,' said Flint, finally. "I can't say I'm
sorry to see the back of it. Damn thing gave me the creeps. ' "Right,'
said MacNeil. "As far as my official report is concerned, it's lost
without trace. I think it's better for everyone if it stays that way.'
He yawned suddenly, and allowed himself the luxury of a long, slow
stretch. "And now, my friends, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to
lose these clothes and crawl into my sleeping roll and sleep for a week.
Good night. and pleasant dreams.' In the end, he slept about ten hours.
It was late in the afternoon when he finally woke up. Every muscle he
had was complaining loudly, but the long sleep had taken the edge off
his pains, and he thought he could live with them now. Flint and the
Dancer were sitting not too far away, talking quietly. Constance was
preparing a meal of cold field rations at one of the tables. There was
no sign of Scarecrow Jack. MacNeil smiled contentedly. It felt good to
be alive.

He lay back in his bedroll and stared up at the ceiling. In a strange
way, he felt very much at peace with himself. Down in the darkness,
under the gaze of the Beast, he had tested his courage and found it
sound. He'd never been more scared in his life, but still, when it
mattered, he had done the right thing. It meant a lot to him, knowing
that.

He emerged reluctantly from his blankets and climbed into his spare set
of clothes. One look at the stained and slime-drenched clothes he'd worn
previously was enough to convince him they were beyond saving. He raised
his hands to his face and sniffed suspiciously at them. Despite a
thorough washing the night before, he could still smell the foul stench
of the Beast. Maybe when the reinforcements arrived they'd have someone
with them who could repair the hot water boilers, and he could have a
good long soak in a very hot bath. MacNeil smiled, savouring the
thought, and moved over to join Constance at the table. She smiled back
at him, and passed him some of the cold field rations.

It was a continuing matter for debate among all guards as to whether
field rations tasted worse cooked or cold. Most guards usually ended up
deciding they tasted equally vile either way. MacNeil wasn't all that
hungry anyway, but since Constance had gone to the trouble of preparing
the meal, he supposed he'd better eat some of it, or she'd be upset.
After a few mouthfuls he discovered he was hungry after all, ate the
lot, and even wished there was more. He pushed back the empty plate with
a sigh, and looked up to find Constance sitting patiently beside him.

"Jack's waiting in the courtyard,' she said quietly. "He doesn't like
being indoors, but he didn't want to leave without saying goodbye."

"Strictly speaking, I ought to arrest him,' said MacNeil.

"But ... ' "Yes,' said Constance. "But.' They shared a smile, and
MacNeil got up from the table and headed for the door. Flint and the
Dancer broke off their conversation and got up to follow him. Constance
brought up the rear, as usual.

The fort seemed somehow smaller and less impressive in the afternoon
sunlight, as though the evil that had infested it had vanished with the
night. In a way, MacNeil supposed it had. For all the death and sprit
blood, this was just another border fort now, and that was all it would
ever be. MacNeil finally led the others through the entrance hall and
out into the courtyard. The storm had passed over during the early hours
of the morning, and the rain was long gone.

There were no clouds in the sky, and the warm sunlight had dried off
most of the stonework. Scarecrow Jack was standing by the open main
gates, staring out at the Forest. He looked round as the Ranger
approached, and nodded politely.

"You're looking better, Sergeant MacNeil. Is there anything I can do for
you, before I go?"

"I don't think so,' said MacNeil easily. Despite Jack's relaxed
appearance, he was clearly ready to turn and run for the trees at the
first sign of any attempt to arrest him. Old habits die hard. MacNeil
smiled warmly at Jack to reassure him. "In fact, as far as my official
report is concerned, you were never here. But do me a favour; try and
stay out of trouble until we've left the area. I'd hate to be ordered to
hunt you down.' Jack grinned at him. "What makes you think you could
find me ?' They all laughed. Jack turned away and looked at the Forest.

"You don't have to go,' said Constance suddenly. "After all your help,
after all you've done, I'm sure we could get you a Pardon. You could
return to your home, to your family; make a new life for yourself."

"The Forest is my home and my family,' said Scarecrow Jack. "I wouldn't
leave it for a dozen Pardons. Thanks anyway, Constance. Goodbye, my
friends.' He grinned quickly at them, and then ran through the gates and
out into the clearing. For a while his running figure was outlined
against the bright sunshine, and then he reached the trees. His
camouflage of rags blended lm ttv the Forest, and he was gone.

"I have a strong feeling we should have gone dowt: into the tunnels and
counted those bags of gold before we let him go,' said Flint.

MacNeil smiled, and shook his head. "I wouldn't have begrudged him a bag
or two, but I doubt he took a single gold coin with him. What use is
gold in the Forest? Come on; we ought to clean up some of the mess
before the reinforcements get here. And we've still got to agree on what
story we're going to tell them."

"Right,' said the Dancer. "They'd never believe the truth.

I was here, and I don't believe half of it.' The four Rangers laughed
together, and went back into the fort. The sun shone down through a
cloudless sky, and the fort stood clean and open beneath it.