Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men

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, and then moved off after Hammer. Jack brought up the rear, watching Wilde’s back thoughtfully. He hadn’t known Wilde possessed such a 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 annex. 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, and 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 around the annex, and sighed quietly. It was dark, stuffy, and far too small for his liking. And he was feeling the start of a cold. Some days you just can’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 riverbank, 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 nearby, but so far he’d found no evidence to suggest 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 webbing 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 made them. He didn’t touch the bones or what remained of the webbing. 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