“We’re in trouble. Wulf’s here, and he doesn’t look friendly. Mortice, can you handle him? Mortice? Mortice!” There was no reply. Hawk cursed briefly. “That’s it. We’re getting out of here now. Isobel, take them out the back way. I’ll follow as soon as I can.”
“Why aren’t you coming?” said Fisher.
“Someone’s got to slow him down. Now, get moving. We haven’t much time.”
“I can’t leave you,” said Fisher.
“You have to. Our job is to keep Adamant alive, no matter what. We lost the last man we guarded. I won’t let that happen again.”
Fisher nodded, and led the others back down the hall. Hawk turned to the front door and slammed home the heavy bolts. He considered pushing furniture up against it as a barricade, but he had a strong feeling it wouldn’t make any difference.
“Mortice? If you’re listening, sorcerer, I can use all the help I can get.”
There was a sharp cracking sound, and Hawk looked back at the door. It had split from top to bottom. As Hawk watched, the wood decayed and fell apart. The rotting fragments fell away from the rusting hinges, and there, in the open doorway, stood what remained of the sorcerer Wulf. Its face was little more than bone now, its grinning teeth yellowed with age. But still it moved and breathed and lived, and something else lived within it. Something hungry. Hawk gripped his axe tightly and backed away from the motionless figure. And then he heard raised voices and sounds of struggle behind him, and realised the others hadn’t got very far. He risked a quick glance back over his shoulder, and his heart missed a beat as he saw the dead men filing out of the library.
Fisher had only just reached the end of the hall when the library door flew open and the first of the dead men lurched into the hall. It was one of Adamant’s men-at-arms. No blood ran from the gaping wounds in the corpse, and its face was dull and empty. But its eyes saw, and it carried a sword in its hand. Another lich came out of the door after it, and another. Fisher and Roxanne stood between the dead men and the others, swords at the ready, backing slowly away to give themselves room to fight. And still the dead men came filing out of the library with weapons in their hands.
Roxanne stepped forward and brought her long sword across in a sharp vicious arc that cut clean through the first lich’s neck. The head fell to the floor and rolled away, the mouth working soundlessly. The headless corpse moved relentlessly forward, sweeping its sword back and forth. Roxanne sidestepped and cut at the body, and it swayed under the force of the blow, but would not fall. Its sword arced out deceptively quickly, and Roxanne had to retreat a step. Fisher moved in beside her and cut at the lich’s leg. It staggered and fell to one knee, but didn’t release its hold on its sword. And then the rest of the liches were upon them, and there was nothing but flying steel and the growing army of the walking dead.
Hawk raised his axe to strike at the sorcerer, and an invisible force tore the axe from his hand. It spun clattering down the hall, and Hawk ran after it. He knew when he was out-classed. He snatched up his axe and waded into one of the liches from behind, severing its spine. It fell to the floor, and tried to crawl forward. Hawk jumped across it and moved among the dead with his axe, and they fell back from the sheer force of his attack. Medley seized the moment to move in beside Roxanne, his sword at the ready.
“You’ve got to get Adamant out of here,” he said quickly. “He’s the improtant one. The Guards and I can hold these things off long enough to give you a good start.”
“But what about you?” said Roxanne.
“I don’t matter.”
“You matter to me,” said Roxanne, and kept on fighting.
Adamant had drawn his sword and Dannielle had her dagger, but even with their help, the little group was still driven back down the hall toward the waiting sorcerer. The dead men wouldn’t stop, no matter how badly they were injured. They just kept pressing forward, swinging their swords, even if they had to crawl and drag themselves along the floor to do it. Adamant swung his sword in short, efficient arcs, even though he knew the faces that clustered before him. They had been his men, sworn to his service. Some of them had even been friends. They died because they sided with him, and now he had to kill them again.
Get ready, said Mortice suddenly in Hawk’s mind. I’m going to use my magic to cancel out Wulfs. When I give you the word, kill him. You’ll have to be quick. He’s become very powerful; I can’t hold him more than a moment or two. If I wasn’t already dead, I think I might be frightened. I never thought to see the Abomination rise again. Now, Hawk; do it now!
Hawk drew back his arm and threw the axe with all his strength. It flew down the hall and buried itself in Wulf’s skull. The sorcerer staggered back a pace under the impact, and then fell to one knee. His head slowly bowed, as though the weight of the axe was dragging it down. The liches froze in their tracks, and then slumped to the floor and didn’t move again. Wulf fell forward and lay still.
Hawk hesitated a moment, unable to believe it was all over, and then walked forward to stand over the fallen sorcerer. He put his boot on the skull, reached down, and pulled the axe free. One look at the jagged wound was enough to convince him that the sorcerer was dead. No one could have survived a wound like that.
And then the body began to twitch. Hawk backed quickly away. Wulf’s body shook and trembled and convulsed, the limp arms and legs flapping wildly. The black robe stretched and tore and the dead sorcerer’s body split apart like some monstrous chrysalis. And out of the broken body blossomed the Abomination, drawing substance from the dead sorcerer to form a new body that was closer to its own nature. It filled the hall, its bony head brushing the ceiling. Its face was all mouth and teeth, and its muscles glistened wetly around its misshapen bones. Its twisted arms ended in foot-long claws. It stood like a man, but there was nothing human in it.
It was Hungry.
Free, said an awful voice. Free ...
“I think we’re in trouble,” said Hawk.
“You might just be right,” said Fisher. “Everyone start backing away. Maybe we can outrun the bastard.”
“Stuff that,” said Roxanne. “I’m going to kill it.”
The Abomination surged forward, covering the space between them with impossible speed. The small group stood together and braced themselves to meet it. It burst among them with horrid strength, shrugging off their blows and scattering the group like so many skittles. The Abomination had got out, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.
In the laundry room, the trapdoor suddenly blew open, shattering its hinges and flinging the pieces aside. Down in the darkness of the cellar something stirred, and then slowly, one step at a time, the dead man came up the stairs and out into the light. Mortice was little more than a shrivelled husk by now, but his power was upon him, rippling the air around him like a heat haze. He moved purposefully toward the door, his cold body steaming in the warmth of the laundry room
Hawk and Fisher fought side by side, keeping the Abomination at bay with the sheer energy of their attack. Their blades struck the Being again and again, but did it no harm, the steel ringing harmlessly from its hide as though it were armoured. Roxanne threw herself at the Abomination again and again, howling with fury and frustration. Adamant and Medley protected Dannielle as best they could, but all of them knew the Being was only toying with them. Soon it would grow tired of its game and let its hunger run free, and then all the steel in the world wouldn’t be enough to save them. They fought on anyway. There was nothing else to do.
The Abomination spun round suddenly, ignoring its attackers to stare down the hall. Mortice grinned back at it, his skin cracking like brittle parchment. The Lord of the Gulfs cocked its awful head to one side, and a voice burned in all their minds like a red-hot iron sinking into flesh.
You cannot save them. I am free. I walk the world again. Neither the living nor the dead can stop me. This was promised me at my creation.
“I’m neither living nor dead,” said Mortice. “I�
�m both. Goodbye, James.”
He spoke a Word of Power, and an unnatural fire roared up around him, consuming him. The Abomination screamed and turned to flee. Mortice gestured sharply with one burning arm, and a fireball shot down the hall to engulf the Being. It fell to the floor, tearing at its own flesh as it strove to put out the flames. Mortice strode unsteadily down the hall, already half-consumed by the flames, and embraced the Being in his burning arms. There was a blinding flash of light and a fading scream, and then they were both gone, and the hall was still and quiet once again.
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other and put away their weapons. Adamant and Medley did the same. Roxanne padded down the hall, glaring about her, and only then reluctantly put away her sword. Adamant looked somberly at the wide scorch mark on the floor that was all that remained to show where Mortice and the Abomination had been destroyed.
“Rest easy, my friend,” he said quietly. “Maybe now you’ll find some peace.”
There was a polite cough from behind them, and they all spun round, weapons once more at the ready. The Council messenger standing in the open doorway looked at the levelled blades and swallowed hard. “I could always come back later....”
“I’m sorry,” said Adamant, lowering his sword. “We’ve had a rather trying day. What can I do for you?”
“I bear greetings and salutation from the Council,” said the messenger, looking a little happier now that he was back on familiar ground. “The election’s over. You won. Congratulations. Can I go now?”
Adamant smiled and nodded, and the messenger disappeared at speed. Adament turned and looked at the others.
“I always thought it would mean more. I’ve paid a high price in friends and lives for this moment, and now I’m not even sure it’s worth it.”
“Of course it’s worth it,” said Medley. “You didn’t fight this election for yourself; you fought it for the poor and the scared and the helpless, who couldn’t fight for themselves. They believed in you. Are you going to let them down?”
Adamant shook his head slowly. “No. You’re right, Stefan. The battle’s over, but the war goes on.”
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. “I wonder if Hardcastle got a message too?” said Hawk.
Fisher grinned. “If he did, I hope the messenger’s quick on his feet.”
At Brimstone Hall, the silence was deafening. The messenger had delivered the election results written down on a scroll, thus ensuring he had time to get away before the storm broke. Hardcastle looked disbelievingly at the parchment in his hands. He didn’t need to read it out. His expression was enough. People put down their plates and glasses, and one by one they began to leave.
Hardcastle snapped out of his daze, stepped forward and began to speak in a loud, carrying voice. He would win them back. He always had. But this time the crowd reacted to his usual mixture of boasts and threats with sullen glances and open anger. Someone shouted an insult. Somebody else threw something. In moments the crowd became an angry mob, pushing and shoving. Fights broke out. Hardcastle was forgotten in the flurry of old grudges and recriminations. He stopped speaking and looked around him with something like horror. They weren’t listening. He had lost the election, and as far as the Conservatives were concerned, that meant he wasn’t anybody anymore.
He never heard the quiet scuff of steel on leather as Jillian drew the knife from its hidden sheath. The first he knew of it was when she plunged it into his back, again and again and again.
10
MAKING DEALS
Adamant was throwing another victory party, and everyone who was anyone was there. He hadn’t really felt like it, but his superiors had insisted. With Reform now holding the High Steppes, the Council was under Reform control for the first time in its history. As long as they were careful not to upset the independents.
The party filled the main dining hall, and spilled over into adjoining rooms. There was a huge buffet, and a dozen different kinds of highly alcoholic punch. The noise was deafening. All the movers and shakers from both the Reform and Conservative Causes had come to meet the new Councillor, and jockey for position. The Brotherhood of Steel had provided a small army of men-at-arms to ensure the party’s security, for which Hawk and Fisher were grateful. It meant they could finally relax and get some serious drinking done. It had been a long day.
Adamant and Dannielle stood together, arm in arm, smiling at everyone. They seemed thoroughly reconciled, though whether that was just for public consumption was of course open to question. Personally, Hawk thought they’d make it. He hadn’t missed the way Dannielle shielded Adamant with her own body when Roxanne led the attack against him. If it hadn’t been for Mortice’s magic she’d have died out there on the streets, and both of them knew it. Hawk smiled to himself. They’d make it.
Speaking of Roxanne ... Hawk let his gaze wander across the crowd and there she was, towering over everyone, with an arm draped comfortably across Medley’s shoulders. Everyone was giving her plenty of room, but she seemed to be behaving herself. Officially, Hawk was supposed to arrest her on sight, but he wasn’t in the mood. Both she and Medley were leaving Haven first thing the next morning, and he’d settle for that. If his superiors didn’t like it, they could go after her themselves. He’d send flowers to their funerals.
He looked at Fisher, standing beside him lost in her own thoughts, and smiled fondly. “Well, Isobel, what do you think of democracy in action, now that you’ve seen it up close?”
Fisher shrugged. “Looked much like any other form of politics to me; corruption and scandal and a sprinkling of honest men. I know what you want me to say, Hawk; you want me to get all excited because Reform won this one. But take a look around you; the big men from both sides are already getting together and making deals.”
“Yes, Isobel, but the difference here is in what the Reformers are making deals about. The deals they make are for other people’s benefit, not their own.”
Fisher laughed, and put her arm through his. “Maybe. In the meantime, let’s count our blessings. Adamant is still alive; so are we, and Haven got through the election without civil war breaking out.”
“Yeah,” said Hawk. “Not a bad day’s work, all told.”
They laughed and drank wine together, while all around them the chatter of guests filled the hall, deciding the future.
The God Killer
Prologue
They come and they go.
There are Beings on the Street of Gods. More and less than human, they inspire worship and adoration, fear and awe, and dreams of endless power. No one knows who or what the Beings are. They existed before men built the Street of Gods, and will exist long after the Street is nothing more than rubble and memories. Some say the Beings are distillations of specific realities; abstract concepts given shape and form by human fears or wishes, or simply by the times themselves. Others claim they are simply supernatural creatures, intrusions from other planes of existence. No one knows. They are real and unreal, both and neither. They are Beings of Power, and the Street of Gods is theirs and theirs alone.
They come and they go.
1
KILLER ON THE LOOSE
Winter had come early to the city port of Haven, ushered in on blustering winds full of sleet and snow and bitter cold. Thick blankets of snow lay heavily across the roofs and city walls, and hoarfrost pearled the brickwork. Down in the street, the first of the day’s pedestrian traffic struggled through the muddy slush, slipping and sliding and cursing each other through numb lips. The cold wind cut through the thickest furs, and frostbite gnawed savagely at exposed flesh. Winter had come to Haven, and honed its cutting edge on the slow-moving and the infirm.
It was early in the morning, the sun little more than a bloody promise on the starless night. The street lamps glowed bravely against the dark, islands of amber light in an endless gloom. Ruddy lanterns hung from horses and carts, bobbing like live coals on the night. And trudging through the cold and dark came Hawk and Fis
her, husband and wife and Captains in the city Guard. Somewhere up ahead in the narrow streets and alleyways of the Northside lay a dead man. It wasn’t clear yet why he was dead. Apparently the investigating Constables were still trying to find some of the pieces.
Murder was nothing new in the Northside. Every city has a dark and cruel side to its nature, and Haven was no different. Haven was a dark city, the rotten apple of the Low Kingdoms, but murder and corruption flourished openly in the Northside, fuelled by greed and hate and bitter need. People died there every day for reasons of passion, desperation, or business. Nevertheless, this latest in a line of bloody murders had shocked even the hardened Northsiders. So the Guard sent in Hawk and Fisher. There wasn’t much that could shock them.
Hawk was tall, dark, but no longer handsome. A series of old scars ran down the right side of his face, and a black silk patch covered his right eye. He wore a long furred jacket and trousers and a heavy black Guardsman’s cloak. He didn’t look like much. He was lean and wiry rather than muscular, and he was beginning to build a stomach. He wore his long dark hair swept back from his forehead and tied with a silver clasp at the nape. He had only just turned thirty, but already there were streaks of grey in his hair. It would have been easy to dismiss Hawk as just another bravo, perhaps a little past his prime and going to seed, but there was something about Hawk; something hard and unyielding and almost sinister. People walked quietly around him, and were careful to keep their voices calm and reasonable. On his right hip Hawk carried a short-handled axe instead of a sword. He was very good with an axe. He’d had lots of practice in his five years as a Guard.
Isobel Fisher walked at Hawk’s side, echoing his pace and stance with the naturalness of long companionship. She was tall, easily six feet in height, lithely muscular, and her long blond hair fell to her waist in a single thick plait, weighted at the tip with a polished steel ball. She was in her mid- to late-twenties, and handsome rather than beautiful. There was a rawboned harshness to her face which contrasted strongly with her deep blue eyes and generous mouth. Somewhere in the past, something had scoured all the human weaknesses out of her, and it showed. Like Hawk, she wore the Guard’s standard uniform for winter, with a sword at her left hip. Her hand rested comfortably on the pommel.
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