Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men

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 anymore.”
    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 around quickly, and with the Dancer’s help she 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 ribs, 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. “You always were a Romantic, Edmond.”
    She leant 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 leaned forward and slipped his dagger expertly into Wilde’s heart. The bowman stiffened 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 awhile 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