Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men

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.
    “I’ll 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 trapdoor’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 were alive. He snatched back his hand and knelt down to study the bolt closely. 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 dryly 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 center 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 spilled 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