Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher) (82 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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“Good point. Brace yourself, love.”
Hawk set his teeth against the awful pain in his shoulder, and clutched desperately at the ivy as though he could hold it to the wall by sheer willpower. Sweat ran down his face, and his breathing grew fast and ragged. Fisher pushed herself away from the wall, swinging out over the long drop, back and forth, back and forth. It seemed to take forever to build up any speed, like a child trying to get a swing moving on its own. She could hear Hawk panting and groaning above her, and she could tell both their hands were getting dangerously sweaty. She pushed hard against the wall, swinging out and away, and then twisted her arm slightly so that she was flying back towards the window. The heavy glass loomed up before her, and she tucked her knees up to her chest. Her heels hit the glass together, and the window shattered. She flew into the room beyond, and fell clumsily to the floor as Hawk’s hand was jerked out of hers by the impact. She scrambled to her feet and was there at the window to catch him as he half climbed, half fell through the window. They clung to each other, shaking and trembling and gasping for breath.
“Drop you?” said Hawk, eventually. “Did you really think I’d do a dumb thing like that?”
Fisher shrugged. “It seemed a good idea at the time. But your idea was better. For a change.”
“I will rise above that remark. Go and take a look out the door. The amount of noise we made crashing in here, someone must have heard us.”
Fisher nodded, and padded over to the door, sword in hand. She eased it open a crack, looked out into the corridor, and then looked back at Hawk and shook her head. He nodded, and collapsed gratefully into the nearest chair.
“I hate heights.”
“You needn’t think you’re going to sit there and rest,” said Fisher mercilessly. “We haven’t got the time. We’ve got to figure out what the hell we’re going to do next. Our original plan was based on us having the element of surprise, and we’ve blown that. So what do we do? Get the hell out of here, tell the Council we failed, and they’d better start getting the ransom money together? Or do we stick around, and see if maybe we can pick off the terrorists one by one?”
“No,” said Hawk reluctantly. “We can’t risk that. They’d just start executing the hostages, in reprisal. Standard terrorist tactic, But, on the other hand, we can’t afford to leave just yet. We need more information about what’s going on here.” He frowned suddenly, and looked intently at Fisher. “You know, we could be all that’s left of the SWAT team. Barber and MacReady are dead, Winter’s hiding somewhere in a panic, and Storm’s trapped outside, unable to reach us. Whatever happens now, it’s down to us.”
Fisher smiled and shrugged. “As usual. Mind you, Saxon’s still around here somewhere. At least, I suppose he is. He disappeared during the fighting.”
Hawk sniffed. “Yeah, well, Saxon didn’t exactly strike me as being too stable, even at the best of times. Hardly surprising, I suppose, after spending all those years trapped in the Portrait. I just hope he hasn’t had a relapse, ripped all his clothes off, and reverted back to the way he was when we first met him. That’s all we need.”
“I don’t know,” said Fisher. “If nothing else, a naked, bloodthirsty madman stalking the corridors would make one hell of a distraction.” Hawk gave her a hard look, and she laughed. “I know; don’t tempt Fate. Come on, get up out of that chair. We’ve got work to do.”
Hawk hauled himself out of the chair, stretched painfully, and together they moved silently over to the door and slipped out into the corridor, weapons at the ready. It was completely deserted, and deathly quiet. They moved cautiously down the corridor, and up the stairs to the next floor, but there was no trace of movement anywhere. Hawk scowled unhappily. They ought to have run across some kind of patrol by now. Madigan hadn’t struck him as the type to overlook basic security measures. He and Fisher hurried down the empty corridors, impelled by a strange inner sense of urgency, the only sound the quiet scuffling of their feet. They rounded a corner and then stopped abruptly as they discovered the first bodies. Two mercenaries lay sprawled on the floor, their bulging eyes fixed and sightless. Hawk and Fisher looked quickly about them, but there was no sign of any attackers. Hawk moved quickly forward, and knelt by the bodies to examine them while Fisher stood guard.
“Could it have been Saxon?” said Fisher quietly. “After all, he killed twenty-seven mercenaries before he joined up with us.”
“I don’t think so,” said Hawk. “I can’t find any wound, any cause of death. This stinks of magic.”
“Maybe Storm finally broke through the House’s wards and decided to help.”
“No. He’d have contacted us by now, if he could. And the only other sorcerer in this place belongs to Madigan.”
They looked at each other. “Double cross?” said Fisher finally. “Maybe they had a falling out.”
“Could be,” said Hawk. He got to his feet again, and hefted his axe thoughtfully. “I think we’d better head back to the main parlour and see if we can get a look at what’s happening there. I’m starting to get a really bad feeling about this.”
They padded quickly down the corridor. As they made their way through the fourth floor they came across more and more bodies, and by the time they reached the corridor that led to the main parlour they were running flat out, no longer caring if anyone saw or heard them. They slowed down as they approached the parlour, stepping carefully around the dead mercenaries lying scattered the length of the hall. The parlour door stood open, and the air was still and silent as a tomb. Hawk and Fisher moved forward warily, weapons held out before them, and peered in through the doorway. The dead lay piled together, hostage and mercenary, so that it was almost impossible to tell them apart. Hawk and Fisher checked the room with a few quick, cursory glances, but it was obvious the killers were long gone. They examined some of the bodies for signs of life, just in case, but there were no survivors, and nothing to show how they died. There was no trace of Madigan or any of his people among the bodies, but they’d expected that. And then they found the two Kings, and the heart went out of them.
“So it will be war, after all,” said Fisher dully. “We failed, Hawk. Everything we’ve done has been for nothing. Why did they do it? Why did they kill them all?”
“I don’t know,” said Hawk. “But one thing’s clear now; the situation isn’t what we thought it was. Madigan never had any interest in the ransom money, or any of his other demands. He had his own secret agenda, and the hostages were just window dressing. A distraction, to keep us from guessing what he was really up to.”
“But why kill his own men, too?” said Fisher. “He’s left the House practically undefended. It doesn’t make sense!”
“It has to, somehow! Madigan’s not stupid or insane. He always has a reason, for what ever he’s doing.”
Hawk! Fisher!
Storm’s voice crashed into their minds like thunder, and they both winced.
Listen to me! You must get down to the cellar immediately! Something’s happening down there. Something bad.
What kind of something?
snapped Hawk.
We’ve got our own problems. The Kings and the hostages are all dead.
Forget them! Ritenour’s getting ready to perform a forbidden ritual. No wonder Madigan chose him; he’s a shaman as well as a sorcerer.
Fisher looked at Hawk. “What’s a shaman?”
“Some kind of specialized sorcerer, I think. Deals with spirits of the dead, stuff like that.”
Storm! Talk to us; what’s happening down in the cellar? Is it part of Madigan’s plan?
Yes. They’re going to open the Unknown Door.
What?
Run, damn you! Get to the cellar while there’s still time. A storm is building in the Fields of the Lord, and the beasts are howling, howling....
 
Down in the cellar, Ritenour was on his knees, painstakingly drawing a blue chalk pentacle on the floor. Glen and Eleanour Todd watched with interest, while Madigan stood a little apart, his gaze turned inward. Horn padded up and down at the base of the stairs, scowling impatiently. He didn’t trust Ritenour, and deep down he didn’t trust the spell to do what it was supposed to. Madigan had explained the plan to him many times, and he still didn’t really understand it. He had no head for magic, and never had. His scowl deepened. It was bad enough they were depending on untried magic to destroy Haven, but they were also dependent on Ritenour, and Horn didn’t trust that shifty-eyed kid-killer any further than he could throw him.
It had all seemed different, up in the main parlour. He’d been happy and confident and full of enthusiasm for the plan, then. But now he was down in the gloom of the cellar, the only illumination a single lamp on the wall, and his mood had changed, darkened. He didn’t like the cellar. The place felt bad; spoiled, on some elemental level. He shuddered suddenly, and made a determined effort to throw off the pessimistic mood. Everything was going to be fine. Madigan had said so, and he understood these things. Horn trusted Madigan. He had to, or nothing in his life had meaning anymore.
He deliberately turned his back on the sorcerer, and scowled nervously up the stairs. He kept thinking he heard movement somewhere up above, just beyond the point where the light gave way to an impenetrable darkness. It was just nerves. There couldn’t be anyone there. The sorcerer had killed them all. For a moment his imagination showed him dead bodies rising to their feet and stumbling slowly through the House, making their way down to the cellar to take a hideous revenge on those who had killed them. Horn shook his head, dismissing the thought. He’d killed many men in his time, and none of them had ever come back for revenge. It took a lot of magic to resurrect the dead, and the only sorcerer in Champion House was Ritenour. Horn breathed deeply, calming himself. Not long now, and then the ritual would be under way. Once started, nothing could stop it. And his long-awaited vengeance on Outremer would finally begin. He looked round sharply as Ritenour rose awkwardly to his feet, his knees making loud cracking sounds in the quiet.
“Is that it?” said Horn quickly. “Can we start now?”
“We’re almost ready,” said Madigan, smiling pleasantly. “How long have you been my man, Horn?”
Horn frowned, thrown for a moment by the unexpected question. “Six years. Why?”
“You’ve always obeyed my orders and followed my wishes. You swore the oath to me. Anything for the Cause. Remember?”
“Sure I remember.” Horn looked at Madigan warily. This was leading up to something, and he didn’t like the feel of it. “You want me to do something now? Is that it?”
“Yes, Horn. That’s it. I want you to die. Right here and now. It’s an important part of the ritual.”
Horn gaped at him, and then his mouth snapped shut and set in a cold, straight line. “Wait just a minute....”
“Anything for the Cause, Horn. Remember?”
“Yeah, but this is different! I joined up with you to avenge my family. How can I do that if I’m dead? If you need a sacrifice, take that weird kid, Glen. You don’t need him anyway, as long as you’ve got me.”
Madigan just stared at him calmly. Horn began to back away, a step at a time. He looked to Eleanour Todd for support, but she just stared at him, her face cold and distant. Glen looked confused. Horn raised his sword, the lamplight shining on the blade.
“Why me, Madigan? I’m loyal. I’ve always been loyal. I’ve followed you into combat a hundred times. I would have died for you!”
“Then die for me now,” said Madigan. “Trust me. It’s necessary for the ritual, and for the Cause.”
“Stuff the Cause!”
Horn turned and ran for the stairs. Madigan looked at the sorcerer. Ritenour smiled, and gestured briefly with his left hand. Horn crashed to the floor as something snatched his feet out from under him. The impact knocked the breath out of him, and his sword went flying from his numbed hand. He tried to get his feet under him, but something took him firmly by the ankles and began to drag him back towards the sorcerer waiting in his pentacle. He saw again the mercenaries dying slowly as Ritenour drained the life out of them, and he panicked, thrashing wildly and doubling up to beat at his own ankles with his fists. None of it made any difference. He tried to grab at the floor to slow himself down, but his fingernails just skidded across the worn stone. He snarled soundlessly, wriggled over onto his back, pulled a knife from a hidden sheath, and threw it at Ritenour. The sorcerer stepped to one side at just the right moment, and the knife flew harmlessly past his head. Horn was almost at the edge of the pentacle when he opened his mouth to scream. Ritenour gestured sharply, and life rushed out of Horn and into the sorcerer. What would have been a scream came out as a long, shuddering sigh as Horn’s lungs emptied for the last time.
Glen looked at Horn’s body, and then at Madigan. “I don’t understand. Why did he have to die? Did he betray us?”
“No,” said Madigan patiently. “Weren’t you listening, Ellis? His death was a necessary part of the ritual. Just as yours is, and Eleanour’s.”
“No!” said Glen immediately. “Leave Eleanour out of this! I don’t know what’s going on here, but you never mentioned any of this before. And you can bet I wouldn’t have come anywhere near you if you had. You’re crazy, Madigan! Come over here, Eleanour; we’re getting out of this madhouse. Damn you, Madigan! I believed in you! I thought you believed in me.”

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