Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men

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 onto the table. Lengths of purple intestines hung over the edges of the table, twitching and dripping, and bowls were full of bird’s 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 wineglass. 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 a 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 scuffing 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 frantically pulled the handle, but the door wouldn’t open. She spun around, 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, 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 her face with her sleeve.
    “I’m sorry,” she said muffledly, “I had a bad dream … a nightmare.”
    “I guessed that,” said MacNeil dryly. “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 have probably 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