Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men

there were no demons in the Forest anymore. MacNeil crouched beside the bed and looked underneath it. There was nothing there but more dust and dried blood.
    So much blood
…
    He straightened up and looked back at the witch by the door. “Constance.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “What can you See here?”
    The witch closed her eyes and opened her mind. The light from her hand snapped off, and darkness fell upon the barracks once again. MacNeil gripped his sword tightly, blinded by the sudden loss of light. He peered about him into the gloom, listening warily for any sound of something sneaking up on him under cover of the sudden darkness, but all was still and silent. His eyes slowly adjusted again, and he could just make out Constance standing very still beside the open door. As he watched, she sighed and turned her head to look at him.
    “I’m sorry,” she said tightly, “I can’t See anything. I should be able to, but I can’t. Something here in the fort, or very close by, is blocking my Sight.”
    MacNeil frowned. “Could it be a natural blind spot?”
    “I don’t know. But haven’t you noticed? It’s cold in here. Very cold.”
    “It’s bound to be, now we’re out of the sun. It’s the thick stone walls.”
    “No,” said the witch. “It’s more than that.”
    MacNeil noticed for the first time that his breath was steaming on the still air. He tightened his grip on his sword hilt, and found he could barely feel it. His fingers were numb from the cold. It had crept up on him so slowly he hadn’t even noticed.
    “I think we’d better get out of here,” he said softly. “For the time being.” He backed away toward the door, his sword held out before him. There was no sign of any immediate danger, but for some reason he didn’t want to turn his back on the bloodstained beds. He reached the open door and found Constance had already stepped out into the courtyard. MacNeil paused a moment in the doorway. Fifty beds. So much blood … He stepped out into the courtyard and pulled the door firmly shut. He scowled at the closed door and then looked at Constance. Her face was pale but composed.
    “Where next?” she said evenly.
    MacNeil nodded at the main entrance. “That door should lead into the reception hall. Perhaps we’ll find some answers there.”
    He strode quickly across the courtyard, and Constance followed close behind him. The open yard seemed almost uncomfortably warm after the chill of the barracks. He pushed the door open and entered the reception hall with his sword at the ready. It looked like any other hall in any other fort, a simple, unadorned chamber with one desk and a half-dozen uncomfortable-looking chairs. Everything seemed normal, apart from the four nooses that hung from the overhead beam, the thick ropes dangling limply in the still air. The hangman’s knots looked amateurish but effective. Beneath the nooses, four chairs lay on their sides on the floor. MacNeil stood just inside the door and swallowed dryly. It was only too easy to visualize four men being forced to stand on the chairs while the nooses were tightened around their necks. And then the chairs would have been kicked away, one by one… .
    “Maybe some of them went mad,” said Constance slowly.
    “It can happen,” said MacNeil. “Like cabin fever. Take a group of armed men and confine them in a limited space for a long period with nothing to do, and they’ll crack sooner or later. But any commander worth his salt knows the danger signs and takes steps to deal with it. No one said anything about this fort having a bad record; as far as I know there were no indications that anything was wrong … No, it doesn’t make sense. If four men were hanged here, where are their bodies? Why take them down and leave the nooses? Nothing about this place makes any sense. Yet. But more and more I get the feeling something terrible must have happened here.”
    “Yes,” said Constance oddly. “Something terrible. And I think it’s still happening.”
    MacNeil looked at her sharply. The witch’s eyes were vague and faraway, and there was something in her face that might have been fear.
    Flint and the Dancer stood just inside the stable doors and stared silently about them. Light poured in from the open doors, pushing back the shadows. The heavy wooden stalls had been smashed into kindling. The walls were scarred and gouged, as though they’d been scored repeatedly by claws. There was no sign of any of the horses,