Free Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men by Simon R. Green Page B

greasy chicken leg. He was tall and lanky, somewhere in his late twenties, and dressed all in shabby black. He had a thin face with dark, close-set eyes, and in the darkness he looked not unlike an unsuccessful vulture. His black hair was long and greasy, and he was constantly tossing his head to clear the hair out of his eyes. His movements were awkward and furtive, as though he was ashamed to draw attention to himself. But put a bow or a sword in his hand, and he was a different man. His back straightened, his eyes became cold and alert, and an aura of menace hung around him like a shroud. Wilde was almost as good with a bow as he thought he was, which meant he was a master bowman.
    The bow lay on the ground at his side, unstrung so as not to stretch the cord. It was a Forest longbow, almost seven feet in length. Jack had tried to pull it once when Wilde wasn’t around, and found he could hardly bend the thing using all his strength. Since Wilde wasn’t exactly muscle-bound, Jack assumed there had to be some trick to it. He would have liked to ask Wilde, but he didn’t. Wilde wasn’t the kind you could ask things of. He had been on the run when Hammer found him, though he’d never said from what. Given what Jack had seen of the man’s tastes and attitudes, Wilde was probably wanted for rape or murder. Or both.
    The archer never talked about his background, but though his clothes were patched and filthy, they had originally been of a fairly high quality. His language was unfailingly coarse and vulgar, but the accent was often decidedly upper-class. Not that that proved anything. The only thing Jack was sure of where Wilde was concerned was that the man was a complete swine. The bowman all but worshiped Hammer as long as he was in earshot, but had all the loyalty of a starving weasel. Hammer kept him in line by fear and brutality. Wilde seemed to accept this as normal behavior where he was concerned. Jack smiled sourly. He could understand that. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing wrong with Wilde that hanging wouldn’t cure. He was a loud-mouthed, hypocritical, vicious bastard—nasty when drunk and unbearable when sober. He’d steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes, and then complain because there weren’t more of them. But still he was a master bowman, and Hammer said he has a use for him, so he stayed.
    Jack sighed again. Of all the people in the world he could have become obligated to, it had to be Jonathon Hammer. He shrugged and padded out of the trees and into the clearing.
    Wilde jumped, startled, and scrambled to his feet with his hand on his sword. He scowled shamefacedly when he saw who it was, and sank down beside the fire again.
    “Our noble savage is back,” he growled to Hammer. Hammer ignored him and glared silently at Jack. He hadn’t even stirred when Jack made his dramatic entrance, but his eyes were very cold. “You took your time,” he said finally.
    “It’s a big fort,” said Jack. “I looked everywhere, but there’s no sign of any of the gold. There are no bodies either, just a lot of blood. It’s been there some time. I got a good look at the Rangers who are staying there, but they spotted me, and I had to run for it.”
    Hammer frowned. “Did they see enough of you to recognize who you are?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe.”
    “That was careless of you,” said Hammer. “Very careless.”
    He rose unhurriedly to his feet and lashed out with the back of his hand, sending Jack sprawling to the ground. He’d seen the blow coming but hadn’t been able to dodge it in time. Hammer was fast for his size. Jack scrambled back out of range and watched Hammer warily. He could feel blood trickling out of his left nostril, and he wiped it with the back of his hand, leaving an uneven crimson stream across his knuckles. Wilde chuckled happily. Jack ignored him and stood up slowly, ignoring the pain in his face. He didn’t say anything; he couldn’t. He owed Hammer. But once