Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher) (77 page)
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Authors: Simon R. Green
BOOK: Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher)
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“We can’t afford to have things going wrong this late in the game. We’re spread too thin as it is. So, this is what we’re going to do. Bailey, pass the word back that from now on our people are to work in groups of five or six, and under no conditions are they to let their partners out of their sight, even for a moment. And they’re to check in every ten minutes, regardless. As soon as you’ve done that, take Glen and round up a dozen men and search those hidden passages from end to end. Don’t come back until you’ve found the guard or the creature or some kind of answer. Got it?”
Bailey started to nod, and then turned away suddenly and looked at the opening in the wall. “Did you hear that?”
Todd and Glen looked at each other. “Hear what?” said Todd.
“There’s something in the passage,” said Bailey, “and it’s coming this way.”
“It could be Horse and his men,” said Glen.
“I don’t think so,” said Bailey.
He drew his sword and headed towards the opening, followed quickly by Glen. Todd snapped orders to the mercenaries to watch the hostages closely, and then hurried after Glen, her sword in her hand. They stood together before the opening, blocking it off from the rest of the room, and strained their eyes against the gloom in the passageway. Slow, scuffing footsteps drew steadily closer. One man’s footsteps. And then a glow appeared in the passage, and Horse came walking towards them out of the dark. His face was unnaturally pale, and his eyes were wild and staring. Drool ran from the corners of his mouth. Blood had splashed across the front of his clothes, soaking them, but there was no sign of any wound. In his hands he carried Bishop’s head.
He came to a stop before Todd and the others, and his eyes were as unseeing as Bishop’s. The severed head wore an expression of utter horror, and the mouth gaped wide, as though in an endless, silent scream. Some of the hostages were whimpering quietly, only kept from screaming by fear of what the mercenaries might do to them if they did. A few had fainted dead away. Even some of the hardened mercenaries looked shocked. Todd glanced quickly round, and knew she had to do something to take control of the situation before it got totally out of hand. She stepped forward and slapped Horse hard across the face. His head swung loosely under the blow, but when it turned back his eyes were focused on hers.
“What happened, Horse?” said Todd. “Tell me what happened.”
“Wulf Saxon sends you a message,” said Horse, his calm, steady voice unsettling when set against the horror that still lurked in his eyes. “He says that all the terrorists in this House are going to die. He’s going to kill us all.”
“Who the hell’s Wulf Saxon?” said Glen, when it became clear Horse had nothing more to say. “Is he the guard? What happened to the rest of your men?”
“They’re in the passages,” said Horse. “The House killed them. And then Saxon killed Bishop, and sent me back here with his message.”
“Why did he cut off Bishop’s head?” asked Bailey. Horse turned slowly to look at him. “He didn’t. He tore it off with his bare hands.”
Glen recoiled a step, in spite of himself. Bailey frowned thoughtfully. Todd found her voice again and gestured to the two nearest mercenaries. “Take that bloody thing away from him, and get him out of here. Find an empty room and then grill him until you’ve got every detail of what happened. Do whatever it takes, but get me that information. Find the sorcerer Ritenour, and give him Bishop’s head. Maybe he can get some answers out of that. Then get word to Madigan about what’s happened, including the twenty-seven deaths. I know he gave orders he wasn’t to be disturbed, but he’s got to be told about this. I’ll take full responsibility for disturbing him. Now move it!”
The two mercenaries nodded quickly, took Horse by the arms, and led him away. The hostages retreated quickly as he passed. Blood dripped steadily from the severed head in his hands, leaving a crimson trail on the carpet behind him. The hostages began to murmur among themselves, some of them clearly on the edge of hysteria. Todd glared at the other mercenaries. “Keep these people quiet! Do whatever it takes, but keep them in line. I’ll be just outside if you need me for anything.”
She nodded curtly for Bailey and Glen to follow her, and strode hurriedly out of the parlor and into the corridor. She shut the door carefully behind them, and then leaned back against it, hugging herself tightly. “What a mess. What a bloody mess! How could everything go so wrong so quickly? Everything was going exactly to plan, and now this.... At least now we know who killed the twenty-seven men. Wulf bloody Saxon, whoever or whatever he is.”
“He used to be a city Councillor, but that was some time ago,” said Bailey. “He was supposed to have died more than twenty years ago.”
“Then what the hell’s he doing here now, disguised as a guard?” said Todd. “And how come you know so much about him?”
“I knew him, long ago. But I don’t see how it can be him. He’d be my age now, in his late forties, and the guard was only in his twenties.” Bailey paused suddenly. “About the age Saxon would have been when he died ...”
They all looked at each other. “He hasn’t aged ... he’s incredibly strong ... and he’s supposed to be dead,” said Todd slowly. “I think we may have a supernatural on our hands.”
“Oh, great. Now we’re in real trouble,” said Glen. “Want me to go get the sorcerer?”
“Let’s not panic just yet,” said Bailey. “We don’t know that it’s really Wulf Saxon. He could be using the name just to throw us. The Saxon I knew was never a killer.”
“A lot can happen to a man when he’s been dead for more than twenty years,” said Todd sharply. “You’re missing the point, Bailey, as usual. What Madigan has planned for this place is very delicate. We can’t afford any magical interruptions. And we definitely can’t afford to lose any more men, or we won’t be able to hold the House securely. Damn this Saxon! He could ruin everything!”
“From what I remember of him,” said Bailey, “I think he could.”
Down in the cellar, the sorcerer shaman Ritenour strode unhappily back and forth, staring about him. The single lamp on the wall behind him cast a pale silver glow across the great stone chamber and glistened on the moisture running down the wall. The cellar was a vast open space, and Ritenour’s footsteps echoed loudly on the quiet. The place had been a real mess until Madigan had had his men clear it out for the ritual, but Ritenour wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have preferred the cellar the way it was. It was too empty now, as though waiting for something to come and fill it.
It was painfully cold, and his breath steamed on the still air, but that wasn’t why his hands were trembling. Ritenour was scared, and not just at the thought of what Madigan wanted him to do down here. All his instincts, augmented by his magic, were screaming at him to get out of the cellar while he still could. The House’s wards interfered with his magic and kept him from Seeing what was there too clearly, for which he was grateful. Something was bubbling beneath the surface of reality, something old and awful, pushing and pressing against the barriers of time and sorcery that held it, threatening to break through at any moment. Ritenour could smell blood on the air, and hear echoes of screams from long ago. He clasped his trembling hands together, and shook his head back and forth.
I’ve torn the heart from a living child and stood over dying bodies with blood up to my elbows, and never once given a damn for ghosts or retribution. I’ve gone my own way in search of knowledge and to hell with whatever paths it took me down. So why can’t I stop my hands shaking?
Because what lay waiting in the cellar knew nothing of reason or forgiveness, but only an endless hatred and an undying need for revenge. It was a power born of countless acts of blood and suffering, held back by barriers worn thin by time and attrition. It could not be harmed or directed or appeased. And it was because of this power that Madigan had brought him to Champion House.
Ritenour scowled, and wrapped his arms around himself against the cold. He had to go through with it. He had to, because Madigan would kill him if he didn’t, and because there was no way out of the House that Madigan hadn’t got covered. It was at times like this that Ritenour wished he knew more about killing magics, but his research had never led him in that direction. Besides, he’d always known Madigan was protected by more than just his bodyguards.
There was a clattering on the steps behind him, and a mercenary appeared, staring down into the gloom. “Better get your arse back up here, sorcerer. We’ve got problems. Real problems.”
He turned and ran back up the stairs without waiting for an answer. Ritenour took a deep breath to try and calm himself. He didn’t want the others to be able to tell how much the cellar scared him.
A quiet sound caught his attention and he looked quickly around, but the cellar was empty again now that the mercenary had left. He smiled briefly. He’d been down there on his own too long. His nerves were getting to him. The sound came again, and his heart leaped painfully in his chest. He glared about him, wanting to run, but determined not to be chased out of the cellar by his own fear. His gaze fell up on a wide circular drain set into the floor, and the tension gradually left his body and his mind. The drain had clearly been built into the floor back when the cellar had been a part of the old slaughterhouse. Probably led directly into the sewers, and that was what he could hear, echoing up the shaft. He strolled casually over to the drain and looked down it. The yard-wide opening was blocked off with a thick metal grille, but there was nothing to be seen beyond it save an impenetrable blackness. As he stood there, he heard the quiet sound again, this time clearly from somewhere deep in the shaft. Ritenour smiled. Just nerves. Nothing more. He cleared his throat and spat into the drain. He listened carefully, but didn’t hear it hit anything. He shrugged, and turned away. No telling how far down the sewers were. He supposed he’d better go back up and see what Madigan wanted. Maybe, if he was really lucky, Madigan had changed his mind about the ritual, and he wouldn’t have to come back down here again after all.
Yeah. And the tides might go out backwards.
He strode stiffly over to the stairs and made his way back up into the House, away from the cellar. He wasn’t hurrying. He wasn’t hurrying at all.
Down in the sewers, at the bottom of the shaft that connected with the drain, Hawk look at the gob of spittle that had landed on his shoulder, and pulled a disgusted face. “The dirty bastard ...”
“Count your blessings,” said Barber, trying to hide a grin and failing. “He could have been looking for a privy.”
“I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about,” said Fisher calmly. “You’re already covered in blood and guts from the spider and God knows what else from the sewer water, so what harm’s a little spittle going to do you?”
Hawk looked down at himself, and had to admit she had a point. He supposed he must have looked worse sometime in the past, but he was hard pressed to think when. “It’s the principle of the thing,” he said stiffly. “Anyway, it sounds like he’s left, so we can finally get a move on. I thought he was never going to go....”
He looked unenthusiastically at the opening above him. The cellar drain emptied out into the sewer through a broad circular hole in the tunnel ceiling. It was about three feet wide, and dripping with particularly repellent black slime that Hawk quickly decided he didn’t want to study too closely. He looked back at Winter. “What was this, originally?”
“Originally, it carried blood and offal and other things down from the old slaughterhouse,” said Winter offhandedly. “These days, Champion House uses it for dumping garbage and slops and other things.”
“Other things?” repeated Hawk suspiciously. “What other things?”
“I don’t think I’m going to tell you,” said Winter. “Because if I did you’d probably get all fastidious and refuse to go, and we have to go up that shaft. It’s the only way in. Now get a move on; we’re way behind schedule as it is. It’s quite simple; you just wedge yourself into the shaft, press hard against the sides with your back and your feet, and wriggle your way up. As long as you watch out for the slime, you’ll be fine. It’s not a long climb; only ten or twelve feet.”
Hawk gave her a look, and then gestured for Fisher to make a stirrup with her hands. She did so, and then pulled a face as he set a dripping boot into her hands. Hawk braced himself, and jumped up into the shaft, boosted on his way by Fisher. It was a tighter fit than he’d expected, and he had to scrunch himself up to fit into the narrow shaft. His knees were practically up in his face as he set his feet against the other side and began slowly inching his way up. The others clambered in after him, one at a time, and light filled the shaft as MacReady brought up the rear, carrying his lantern. Fisher had put hers away so that she could concentrate on her climbing. As it turned out, one was more than enough to illuminate the narrow shaft, and emphasize how claustrophobic it was.
The slime grew thicker as they made their way up, and Hawk had to press his feet and back even harder against the sides to keep from slipping. He struggled on, inch by inch, sweat running down his face from the effort. A growing ache filled his bent back, and his shoulders were rubbed raw. Every time he shifted his weight, pain stabbed through him in a dozen places, but he couldn’t stop to rest. If he relaxed the pressure, even for a moment, he’d start to slip, and he doubted he had the strength left to stop himself before he crashed into the others climbing below him. He pressed on, bit by bit—pushing out with shoulders and elbows while repositioning his feet, and then pressing down with his feet while he wriggled his back up another few precious inches. Over and over again, while his muscles groaned and his back shrieked at him.
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