Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men

passed through his territory. But still and all, the Forest was a dangerous place for a man traveling on his own, and king’s messengers were just as vulnerable as any other man.
    MacNeil shook his head and glared at the border fort. He’d had enough of ifs and maybes; he wanted some answers. And one way or another, the fort was going to provide them. He looked across at the sun, hanging low on the sky just above the treetops. Two hours of light remaining at most. That meant he only had tonight and three more days before the main party arrived. Three days and four nights to find the answers. MacNeil sighed heavily. He hated working to deadlines. That was the trouble with being the best, he thought sourly. After a while they not only expect the impossible, they want it to a timetable as well.
    He finally drew up his horse before the closed main doors, and the others reined in beside him. The fort stood still and silent before them, the last of the sunlight gleaming brightly from the yellow stone. MacNeil stared uneasily at the closed doors. The air was very still, and the continuous quiet preyed on his nerves. It was as though the fort was watching and waiting to see what he would do, defying him to solve its mystery. He pushed the thought from his mind, sat up straight in the saddle, and raised his voice in a carrying shout.
    “Hello, the fort! This is Ranger Sergeant Duncan MacNeil. Open, in the name of the King!”
    There was no response. The only sound to 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