Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men Read Free Page B

be heard was the low whickering of the horses.
    “You don’t really expect an answer, do you?” said Constance.
    “Not really, no,” said MacNeil patiently, “but we have to go through the motions. It’s standard procedure, and sometimes it gets results.”
    “But not this time.”
    “No. Not this time. Flint …”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Try those doors. See how secure they are.”
    “Yes, sir.” Flint swung down out of the saddle and handed her reins to the Dancer, who looped them loosely over his left arm. Flint drew her sword and walked unhurriedly forward to examine the closed doors. Her sword was a scimitar, and light gleamed brightly on the long curved blade as she hefted it. The doors loomed over her, huge and forboding. Flint studied the dark iron-bound wood carefully, and then reached out and tried each door with her left hand. They didn’t give an inch, no matter how much pressure she applied. Flint beat on the left-hand door with her fist. The sound carried loudly for a moment, and then fell away in a series of dying echoes. Flint looked back at MacNeil.
    “Locked and bolted by the feel of it.”
    “Surprise, surprise,” said Constance impatiently. “Allow me.”
    A gust of wind swirled suddenly around the party, and the temperature dropped sharply. The horses rolled their eyes and tossed their heads nervously. MacNeil muttered soothing phrases to his horse and tightly clutched the reins. Magic beat on the air like the wings of a captured bird, and the great wooden doors creaked and groaned. They shuddered visibly, as though some invisible presence was pressing strongly against them. And then, quite clearly, there came the sound of metal rasping on metal as the heavy bolts slid back into their sockets, followed by the sharp clicking of tumblers turning in a lock. Constance let out a juddering sigh, and the two huge doors swung smoothly open, revealing an open, empty courtyard. The doors ground to a halt, and Constance smiled triumphantly. The gusting wind died away quickly, but it was still unseasonably cold, despite the bright sunshine. Constance looked challengingly at MacNeil, and he bowed politely to her.
    “Not bad, Constance. But Salamander would have done it in half the time.”
    “To hear the three of you talk,” said Constance, “you’d think this Salamander was one of the greatest witches who ever lived.”
    “She was good at her job,” said MacNeil.
    “If she was so good at it, why is she dead?”
    “Bad luck,” said Flint sharply. “It can happen to anyone.” She walked back to her horse and took the reins from the Dancer.
    Thank you, Jessica
, thought MacNeil.
You always were the diplomatic one
.
    Flint looked at him calmly. “Ready to take a look, sir?”
    “Sure,” said MacNeil. “Lead the way, Flint.”
    She nodded and led her horse into the open courtyard. MacNeil and the Dancer moved forward to flank her with their horses, and Constance brought up the rear. The wide cobbled yard stretched away beneath the lowering summer sky, but no horses stood at the hitching rails, and the surrounding doors and windows were dark and empty, like so many blank, unseeing eyes. The Dancer drew his sword, and MacNeil followed suit. There is a sound the sword makes as it clears the scabbard, a grim rasping whisper that promises blood and horror and sudden death. The sound seemed to echo on and on in the empty courtyard, as though reluctant to die away. MacNeil looked at the Dancer’s sword, and not for the first time his hackles stirred uneasily. The Dancer’s sword was long and broad and double-edged. There was no grace or beauty about the weapon; it was simply a brutal killing tool, and that was how the Dancer used it. MacNeil carried a long, slender sword that allowed him to work with the point as well as the edge. There was more to swordsmanship than butchery—at least, as far as he was concerned.
    He looked around him, taking in the fort’s courtyard. The wide-open space was