Silence Carved in Stone.

  

 Duncan MacNeil reined in his horse and looked around him. Narrow shafts

 of golden sunlight pierced theForestgloom, 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

 hisŕeyes 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 glimmerŕcaught

 hisŕeye. He heftedŕhis 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.




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