Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men

himself an exit in the thick canvas wall.
    The edge of the Forest wasn’t too faraway. 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 took only 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 backward 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 around 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 backward, 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 rhythm 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 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 a 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 whimsey. 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 warm.
    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 nearby 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,