Swords of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk & Fisher

by Simon R. Green

  Hawk sighed quietly to himself. As if he didn’t have enough things to worry about. Medley had disappeared, along with the notorious Roxanne, but it was too early to tell just how much information he’d betrayed to Hardcastle. Worst of all was the damage he’d done to Adamant’s confidence. Adamant had trusted Stefan Medley implicitly, and allowed him to shape and plan his whole campaign. Now Medley was gone, and Adamant didn’t know who or what he could rely on anymore.

  On top of all that he’d found he couldn’t rely on Mortice anymore either. Longarm and his men shouldn’t have been able to break into his house at all, but the dead man’s mind had been wandering again, and his wards had slipped. He’d promised it wouldn’t happen again, and Adamant had pretended to believe him, but neither of them were fooled.

  Adamant made another speech on yet another street corner, and as always a crowd gathered to listen. Even now, after all that had happened, Adamant could still sway a crowd with his voice. Perhaps because he still believed in his Cause, even if he was no longer sure of himself. The speech started off well enough. The crowd was responsive and enthusiastic, and cheered in all the right places. Bearclaw and Kincaid moved unobtrusively among them, making sure no one got out of hand. Hawk and Fisher leaned wearily against a wall, feeling unneeded. And then the crowd’s cheers turned to screams as fifty mercenaries came pouring out of a side street with swords in their hands.

  They cut their way through the scattering crowd, uncaring who they hurt. Bearclaw and Kincaid drew their swords and fought side by side as the tide of mercenaries hit them. Bearclaw swung his great sword two-handed, cutting down his attackers like a scythe slicing through overripe wheat. Kincaid leapt and danced, his blade cutting and thrusting in swift steel blurs. But there were only two of them, and the vast body of mercenaries swept past them without even slowing. The two warriors were quickly surrounded, and moved to stand back to back, still fighting. Adamant’s mercenaries tried to make a stand, but there were only six of them and they were quickly overrun. Hawk and Fisher moved quickly forward and put themselves between Adamant and Dannielle and their attackers. They waited grimly, weapons at the ready.

  The first mercenary to reach them went for Fisher, mistakenly supposing her to be the easier target. She parried his blow easily, cut his throat on the backswing, and was back on guard before the next mercenary could reach her. Hawk roared a Northern war cry and swung his axe in short, vicious arcs, scattering the mercenaries around him as one by one they fell before his unwavering attack. Soon the street was a boiling cauldron of milling men and flashing steel, and blood flew on the air. Adamant had drawn his sword and was keeping his attackers at bay, but he had trained as a duellist, not a street fighter, and it was all he could do to hold his ground. Dannielle cowered behind him, clutching a dagger he’d given her, hoping she’d find the strength to use it when the time came.

  Hawk and Fisher fought side by side, and the mercenaries fell before them, unable to match their skill or their fury. Bearclaw and Kincaid fought alone, separated by the mercenaries, bleeding from a dozen wounds but refusing to fall. Dead men lay piled about them. And then Roxanne appeared out of nowhere, laughing aloud as her sword flashed out to slice through the meat of Kincaid’s leg. His mouth gaped soundlessly as his leg crumpled beneath him, unable to bear his weight. He fell to one knee, still trying to swing his sword. Roxanne swept past him, grinning fiercely, heading for Hawk and Fisher. Pike and Da Silva came after her. Pike’s sword lashed out to deflect a blow from Bearclaw, and Da Silva’s heavy wooden staff swept across to slam into Bearclaw’s side. Ribs broke under the impact. Bearclaw coughed blood, and fell forward onto his hands and knees. The mercenaries closed in around Bearclaw and Kincaid, and their swords rose and fell in steady butchery.

  Roxanne burst through the milling crowd of fighters and threw herself at Fisher. Fisher tried to hold her ground and couldn’t, forced back by the sudden strength and speed of the attack. Hawk tried to reach her, but Pike and Da Silva were quickly upon him, Pike engaging his axe while Da Silva circled patiently with his headbreaker, trying for a clear shot.

  Roxanne thrust and parried, laughing breathlessly, and step by step Fisher was driven back, until her back was pressed up against a wall and there was nowhere else to go. Fisher was good with a sword, but Roxanne was an expert, inhumanly strong, and she never seemed to get tired.

  For a moment, desperation gave Fisher new strength and she was able to beat aside Roxanne’s attack long enough to cut through the mercenary’s leathers and open a long, shallow wound along her ribs. Roxanne didn’t even flinch, and her return attack drove Fisher back against the wall. Fisher’s moment passed, and her strength faded away, replaced by the day’s weariness. She struggled frantically to fend off Roxanne’s sword, and then a mercenary stepped in from her blind side and clubbed her down with the hilt of his sword. Fisher dropped to one knee, still clinging to her sword. Blood spilled down her face from a torn scalp. Roxanne and the other mercenary hit her again with their sword hilts, and she fell blindly forward onto the bloody cobbles and lay still. Roxanne kicked her in the head.

  Hawk saw Fisher fall, and screamed in fury that he couldn’t get to her. He swung his axe savagely at Pike, and the mercenary was forced to retreat. The heavy axe blade smashed through Pike’s defences and knocked him to the ground. Hawk stepped in for the kill, and Da Silva’s headbreaker swung round in a tight arc, slamming into Hawk’s side, knocking the breath out of him. Hawk staggered backwards, favouring his injured side, and snarled soundlessly at his opponents, daring them to come after him.

  Adamant swept his sword back and forth, keeping the mercenaries at bay. For some reason they seemed more interested in keeping him occupied than in trying to kill him. Whatever the reason, it hadn’t prevented them from whittling away at him like a carpenter with a block of wood. Blood ran freely from a dozen wounds, staining his fine clothes. Dannielle screamed behind him, and he spun round to see her struggling with a grinning mercenary. Adamant ran him through and turned quickly back to face his opponents. Their attitude changed immediately with the death of their companion, and for the first time they began to press their attack in earnest. Swords seemed to come at him from everywhere at once, and Adamant realised sickly that he couldn’t keep off such an attack for more than a few moments. One of the mercenaries beat aside his sword and lunged forward. Dannielle screamed and threw herself in the blade’s way. It plunged into her side. She grabbed the blade with both hands as she crumpled to the ground. Adamant screamed hoarsely, and ran the mercenary through. Two men stepped forward to take his place, their faces grim and determined. Adamant lifted his head and screamed at the dark sky above.

  “Damn you, Mortice! You promised you’d protect her! Help us!”

  The mercenaries froze in their attack, looked briefly startled, and then vomited blood explosively. They fell to the ground, kicking and shaking helplessly as blood poured from their mouths. Adamant looked round dazedly as one by one the attacking mercenaries dropped, coughing up their life’s blood in harsh, painful spasms. In a matter of moments, Hawk and Adamant were the only ones left standing, surrounded by the dead and the dying. Adamant turned his back on them and knelt beside Dannielle, lying at his feet, curled around the bloody wound in her side. He took her hand, and she clutched it tightly. Her breathing was quick and ragged, and her face was covered with sweat.

  “Screwed up again, didn’t I?” she said breathlessly.

  “Be quiet,” said Adamant gently. “We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

  Dannielle shook her head. “Bit late for that, James. I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “Everything.”

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Danny. Nothing at all. Now, shut up and save your strength.”

  Dannielle gasped suddenly and clutched at her side. Adamant’s heart missed a beat before he realised she was smiling in amazement.

  “My side; it doesn’t hurt any more. What’s happening, James?”
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  Just doing my job, said Mortice’s voice quietly in their minds. The wound is healed. But you’d better get back to the house as fast as you can. You’re right on the edge of my limits. I don’t know how much longer I can protect you...

  His voice faded away and was gone. Adamant helped Danielle to her feet and looked around him. Hawk was checking quickly through the bodies.

  “Where’s Bearclaw and Kincaid?” said Adamant hoarsely.

  “Dead,” said Hawk.

  “And Captain Fisher?”

  “Taken. Roxanne and her two friends must have had their own magical protection.”

  Adamant rubbed tiredly at his aching head. “I’m sorry. So many dead, and all because of me.”

  Hawk turned and glared at him. “Stop talking nonsense. There’s only one man responsible for all this, and that’s Hardcastle. And Isobel isn’t dead. She was alive when they took her. Now I’m going to get her back. Can you and Dannielle get home safely without me?”

  “I think so. Mortice is back looking after us.”

  “Right. Go home and stay there until the result comes in. I’m going to find Isobel, and then I’m going to pay Hardcastle a visit. This has gone beyond politics now.

  “This is personal.”

  Stefan Medley sat on the grimy bed in the dimly lit room, staring at nothing. He’d been sitting there ever since Roxanne left. He’d tried to work out what he was going to do next, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything. In the space of a few moments his whole world had collapsed, and he was left alone in a filthy little tavern he wouldn’t have been seen dead in by daylight.

  It hadn’t seemed so bad when he was there with Roxanne. They only had eyes for each other, then. Now he could see how cheap and shabby it really was. Just like him. He rubbed tiredly at his aching temples, and tried to think. He wasn’t safe as long as he stayed in Haven. Adamant would have no choice but to believe he’d defected to the other side. And Adamant was a first-class duellist. Even assuming Adamant wouldn’t kill a man who’d once been his friend, there were certainly many in the Reform Cause with ready swords and no love for traitors.

  Traitor. It was a harsh word, but the only one that fitted.

  Hardcastle would be after him too, as soon as Roxanne revealed he wasn’t going to defect. He’d insulted Hardcastle too many times, frustrated his plans too often. And Hardcastle was well-known as a man who bore grudges.

  Medley frowned. With so many hands turned against him the odds were he wouldn’t be able to get out of Haven at all. And when he got right down to it, Medley wasn’t sure he wanted to leave Haven anyway. It was a cesspool of a city, no doubt of that, but Haven was his home and always had been. Everyone he knew, everything he cared for, was in Haven.

  But all that was gone, now. He’d thrown it all away, all for the love of a woman who didn’t love him. His friends would disown him, his career was over, his future... Medley sighed quietly, and lowered his head into his hands. He would have liked to cry, but he was too numb for tears.

  There hadn’t been many women in his life. There had always been girls, part of the social whirl, but they never seemed to have time for a quiet young man whose only interest was politics, and the wrong kind of politics, at that. The bright young things, with their games and laughter and simple happy souls, went to other men, and Medley went on alone. There were a few woman who saw him as a potential business partner. Marriage was still the best way to acquire wealth and social standing in Haven, and Medley’s family had always been comfortably well off. There were times when he was so lonely he was tempted to say yes, to one or other of the deals his family made for him, but somehow he never did. He had his pride. He couldn’t give that up. It was all he had.

  Roxanne had been different. No empty-headed, powdered and perfumed flower of the lesser aristocracy. None of the quiet calculation of a woman looking for a husband as an investment. Roxanne was bright and wild and funny and free, and just being with her had made him feel alive in a way he’d never known before. He could talk to her, tell her things he’d never told anyone else. He’d never been so happy as in the few precious moments he’d shared with her.

  Looking back, he supposed he’d been a fool. He should have known a living legend like her couldn’t really have seen anything in a nobody like him. Roxanne was beautiful and famous. She could have had anyone she wanted. Another hero or legend, like herself. Someone who mattered. Not just another minor politician, in a city full of them. How could he ever have believed that she cared for him?

  No one had ever cared for him before. Not really. Not in the way of a man with a woman. He hadn’t realised how bleak and lonely his life had been, until she was there to share it with him. She’d made him feel alive, for the first time in a long time.

  And now she was gone, and he was alone again.

  Alone. He’d never realised how final that word sounded. It seemed to echo on in his mind, as he saw his future spread out before him. His career was over. No one would ever trust him again, now that he’d betrayed his friend and colleague in the middle of an election. His friends would spurn him, and he’d gone against his family’s wishes too often in the past to hope for any support from them.

  There was no hope for him now. Hope was for men with a future before them.

  But there was still one thing he could do. One last thing that might win him some rest, some peace. And perhaps then his friends would realise how much he regretted the harm he’d done them.

  Medley drew the knife from his boot. It was a short knife, barely six inches long, but it had a good blade and a sharp edge. It would do the job. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the knife. He thought about what he was going to do very carefully. It was the last important thing he would ever do, and he didn’t want to make a mess of it. He put the knife down beside him on the bed, and rolled up his sleeves. The flesh of his arms seemed very pale, and very vulnerable. He stared at his arms for a while. The long blue veins and the sprinkling of hairs fascinated him, as though he’d never seen them before. He picked up the knife and automatically stropped the blade against his trouser-leg to clean it. He realised what he was doing, and smiled. As if that mattered now.

  He held the knife against his left wrist, and then had to stop, because his hands were shaking too much. He was breathing in great heaving gasps, and goose flesh had sprung up on his arms. He concentrated, summoning his courage, and his hands grew steady again. The blade shone dully in the lamplight. He pressed the knife into his flesh, and the skin parted easily under the blade. Blood welled up, and he bit his lip at the sharp pain. He gritted his teeth, and pulled the knife across his wrist. The pain was awful, and he groaned aloud. He could feel the tendons popping as they pulled apart under the blade. Blood spurted out into the air. He quickly grabbed the knife in his left hand, before the feeling could leave his fingers, and slashed at the veins in his right wrist. His arm wavered, and he had to cut twice more before he was sure he’d done a good enough job.

  The knife slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor. He was crying now. Tears and snot ran down his face as he struggled for breath amidst his tears. The blood pumped out surprisingly quickly, and he began to feel faint and dizzy. He lay back on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut against the horrid pain that burned all the way up his arms to his elbows. He hadn’t thought it would hurt so much. He held his mouth firmly closed, despite the sobs that shook him. He couldn’t afford to make any noise. Someone might hear him, and come to help.

  He began to feel sick. He couldn’t stop crying. This wasn’t how he’d thought it would be. But he wasn’t surprised; not really. He should have known he wouldn’t even be allowed to leave his life with a little dignity. He could see his fingers flexing spasmodically, but he couldn’t feel them any longer. The blood was still coming. It soaked the bedding around his arms. So much blood.

  He looked up at the ceiling, and then closed his eyes, for the last time.

  I loved you, Roxanne. I
really loved you.

  The darkness closed in around him.

  8

  RESCUES

  Roxanne was furious, and the mercenaries were keeping their distance. Pike and Da Silva had disappeared the moment they reached Hardcastle’s safe house, ostensibly to lock Fisher safely away, but actually to get out of Roxanne’s reach until she calmed down a little and took her hand away from her sword belt. The twenty mercenaries Hardcastle had detailed to guard the safe house weren’t as quick-thinking, which meant they ended up taking the brunt of Roxanne’s displeasure. They stayed as far away from her as they could, nodded or shook their heads whenever it seemed indicated; mostly they just tried to fade into the woodwork. Roxanne paced back and forth, growling and muttering to herself. She’d never felt so angry, and what made it worse was that she wasn’t all that sure what she was so angry about.

  Part of it came from losing so many men to Adamant’s sorcerer. If she hadn’t insisted on full magical protection from Wulf for herself and Pike and Da Silva, she and they would have died along with her men. Roxanne hated losing men. She took it personally.

  Some of her anger came from not having taken Hawk as well as Fisher. She’d vowed to take them both, and she hated to fail at things she set her word to. Legends can’t afford to fail; if they do, they stop being legends.

  But most of her anger came from how they’d taken Fisher. She’d been looking forward to crossing swords with the legendary Captain Fisher ever since she came to Haven, and in the end somebody had struck the Guard down from behind while she wasn’t looking. That was no way to beat a legend. Winning that way made Roxanne feel cheap; like just another paid killer. And on top of all that, she hadn’t even been allowed to kill Fisher cleanly. Hardcastle had specifically ordered that Fisher was to be kept alive for interrogation. Roxanne sniffed. She knew a euphemism for torture when she heard it.