Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher)

by Simon R. Green

  Winter eased to a stop at the point where the stairway curved round a long corner before leading down into the cellar itself. Hawk and Fisher stopped too, and listened to the silence. There wasn’t a sound to be heard, but a strange, eerie blue light flickered across the wall below them. Hawk looked at Fisher, who shrugged. Winter stared at the flickering light for a long moment, and then moved slowly forward, keeping her shoulder pressed against the inner wall so as to stay hidden in the shadows. Hawk and Fisher moved silently after her. As they eased around the corner, the vast stone chamber swung gradually into view, and Hawk swore to himself as he saw the sorcerer Ritenour, standing in the middle of a glowing pentacle. They were too late. Whatever the ritual was, it had already started. The eerie blue light that blazed from the lines of the pentacle filled the cellar, and gave the sorcerer’s skin the look of something that had been dead for a week. In between the stairway and the pentacle lay Glen and Todd, both dead. Madigan was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his eyes closed. Hawk thought for a moment he might be dead too, but his hopes were quickly dashed as he realized the terrorist’s chest was still rising and falling. Pity, thought Hawk. It would have simplified things no end. Fisher leaned in beside him, looked at Madigan, and raised an eyebrow. Hawk shrugged. Maybe the man was asleep. He’d had a busy day.

  The air in the cellar had a tense, brittle feel, as though any loud noise or sudden movement might shatter it like glass and reveal what lay behind it. The blue light clung to the wall like lichen, and the solid stone seemed to stir and seethe with slow, viscous movements. Shadows flickered here and there, come and gone in an eye blink, though there was nothing in the cellar to cast them. Ritenour began chanting in an unfamiliar tongue, but his voice seemed strangely quiet, as though it had crossed some great distance to reach them. He turned slowly in a circle, widdershins, slowly against the course of the sun’s path right to left, light to darkness. Hawk could see his eyes were tightly shut. Possibly to help him concentrate, or possibly because he was afraid of what he might see if he opened them. Hawk moved down a step for a better look, and then stopped abruptly. His stomach muscles tensed, and sweat broke out on his forehead. He felt as though he were looking out over some vast, unimaginable gulf. The cellar seemed to be stretching, with Madigan and Ritenour moving slowly away from the stairs, until the gap between them seemed horribly great and impossible to cross. Fisher grabbed Hawk by the arm, and he all but jumped out of his skin. She gestured that she and Winter were moving back up the stairs round the curve of the wall, and Hawk nodded quickly. He looked back at the cellar, and then away again, and followed Fisher and Winter back up into the concealing shadows. He realised he was breathing too quickly, and made himself take several deep breaths to calm himself down.

  They stopped just beyond the curve, and Hawk leaned in close to Winter, keeping his voice little more than a murmur. “We’ve got to do something while we still can. Things down there are getting out of hand fast.”

  “I’m open to suggestions, Captain,” said Winter sharply. “In order to stop the ritual we have to get to Ritenour, but as long as he stays within the pentacle we can’t touch him. It’ll knock us out if we even get too close to it.”

  “What about your suppressor stone?” said Hawk.

  “Burned out by whatever happened earlier.”

  “No problem,” said Fisher. “Hawk can throw an axe like you wouldn’t believe. He can cut the wings off a fly at twenty paces, and if flies had other things he could cut them off too. Right, Hawk?”

  “More or less,” said Hawk. “My axe is rather special, and it should cut through any magical protection, but I’ve still got to get within throwing range. An axe is too heavy to throw accurately over any distance. And you can bet once any of us step out into plain sight, Madigan is going to come up off that floor like a cat with a thorn up its arse and carve whoever’s there into bite-sized chunks. I saw him fight in the parlour. He’s good, Winter. Very good.”

  “We can handle him,” said Winter confidently. “You get into a position where you can throw your axe, and Fisher and I will keep Madigan occupied.”

  “Right,” said Fisher. “We kill Madigan, you kill the sorcerer, and then we all get the hell out of here. Simple as that.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Madigan calmly. “It’s a good plan, and it might even work, though I hate to think what might happen to your precious city if the forces Ritenour is working with were to break free. But it’s all immaterial. To get to him you have to get past me. And you’re not that good. Any of you.”

  He was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at them, and his smile was a death’s-head grin. He looked pale and drawn and ill, but his back was straight and the sword in his hand was quite steady.

  Hawk and Fisher ran down the stairs and circled around him, weapons at the ready. He moved easily to follow them, never letting either of them entirely out of his sight. He laughed softly, charged with energy, as though all the strength he’d ever had was his again, gathered for just this moment. He laughed at them, and in that harsh, mocking sound there was no trace of weakness, or thought of failure. His eyes burned in his gaunt face, and every move he made was calm, calculated, and very deadly.

  It’s like he knows we can’t win, thought Hawk. That whatever happens, he’s already won.

  He pushed the thought aside, and moved warily forward. Madigan was all that stood between him and Ritenour, and no matter how good he was, Madigan was only one man. Hawk had faced a hell of a lot worse in his time. He swung his axe in a vicious arc, and Madigan’s sword was in just the right place to deflect it. The return thrust had Hawk jumping desperately back, and Fisher darted in quickly to draw Madigan’s attention. Their swords clashed again and again in a flurry of spark, but Fisher was the one who was forced to retreat. Hawk tried to circle round behind Madigan, but the terrorist drove him back with a flurry of blows that took all of Hawk’s skill to counter.

  Hawk and Fisher threw themselves at Madigan, but neither of them could touch him. He moved as though inspired, parrying and striking back with a tireless energy. His strength was incredible, his speed bordering on inhuman. He thrust and cut and parried with a simple economy of movement that was too brutal to be truly graceful, but somehow he was always in just the right place to block a blow or strike at his opponent’s weakness. Hawk was hard put to save himself a dozen times over, and blood ran thickly down his side from a blow he hadn’t seen coming till it was almost too late. If he or Fisher had been fighting alone they would have been dead by now, and all of them knew it. Madigan was never where he should be, and their weapons swept harmlessly past him again and again while his sword crept gradually closer with every attack. Madigan had been a legend in his day, and there in the cellars under Champion House, it was his day again, for a while. Hawk and Fisher fought on determinedly, grunting with the effort of their blows and fighting for breath, but Madigan just smiled at them, his eyes wild and fey, his time come round again in the last minutes of his life.

  Ritenour’s chant grew louder as he shuffled round and round in his pentacle, eyes squeezed shut as though against a blinding light. The air in the cellar grew steadily more tense, and an alien presence slowly permeated the stone chamber, pressing relentlessly against the barriers that held it back from reality and the waking world.

  Winter watched the fighting from the foot of the stairs, unable to move. There was no point in trying to help. Hawk and Fisher were much better fighters than she, and Madigan was making them look like fools. If she even raised a sword against him, he’d kill her. She thought about trying to sneak past him to try and get to Ritenour, but she’d seen what happened when Hawk tried to circle round Madigan. The terrorist had blocked him off without even trying. There was nothing she could do. Nothing.

  Think, dammit, think! You’re supposed to be the tactician, the one with plans and strategies for every contingency. There’s always something you can do!

  And of course there was.
The answer came to her in a flash of inspiration, and she knew she had to act on it immediately, while she still had the courage. Because if she stopped and thought about it, she’d come up with all kinds of reasons not to do it. She ran forward, her sword held high above her head, and threw herself at Madigan. He spun round impossibly quickly, and his sword plunged into her stomach and out her back. Winter dropped her sword and forced herself along the blade until she could grab his sword arm with both hands. He tried to break her grip, but her hands had closed like vises. She smiled at him. There was blood in her mouth, and it rolled down her chin as she spoke.

  “Did you think you were the only one prepared to die for what they believe in?”

  Madigan snarled at her and backed desperately away, dragging her with him, but Hawk’s axe came swinging round in a wide arc out of nowhere and smashed into his rib cage. Bones broke and splintered, and the force of the blow drove him to his knees, crying out in pain and shock. Winter sank down with him, still smiling. Their eyes met for a moment, sharing hatred, and then the light went out of Winter’s eyes and she slumped forward.

  Hawk jerked his axe free in a gusher of blood, and Madigan cried out again as the pain cleared his head. He clung somehow to his sword as he lurched to his feet, avoiding Fisher’s sword with desperate speed. Blood was pouring from the gaping wound in his side, but he ignored it. He was dying anyway, and the knowledge gave him strength. He bolted for the stairs, blood spilling onto the ground as he ran. A slow numbness crept through his body as the poison began to win out over his need and desperation. He could no longer feel his hands or his feet, and the strength was draining out of his legs. He forced himself on, concentrating on the flaring pain in his side to keep his head clear. He coughed painfully, and blood filled his mouth. He spat it out, and glanced back over his shoulder. Hawk and Fisher were pounding up the stairs after him.

  He laughed giddily. Let the fools chase him. While they were preoccupied with him, Ritenour was completing the ritual. All he had to do was buy the sorcerer a little more time, and he’d spite Hawk and Fisher yet. He was glad he hadn’t killed them, after all. He wanted them alive when the Unknown Door opened, so that they could see what he’d let loose on their precious city. He wanted them to know they’d failed before they died screaming, in agony and despair. He laughed breathily, ignoring the pain and the blood, and then Wulf Saxon appeared on the steps before him. Madigan snarled at him and lunged forward, his sword still steady in his numb hand. Saxon slapped the blade aside and hit Madigan in the face with all his strength. The blow picked Madigan up and threw him back down the stairs, almost crashing into Hawk and Fisher. They pressed back against the wall, and Madigan slid and tumbled the rest of the way down the steps and back into the cellar. He lay still at the bottom of the stairs, his head at an unnatural angle, his neck broken.

  Hawk and Fisher ran back down the stairs, and stood staring down at Madigan’s body. Hawk stirred it with his boot, and the head lolled limply from side to side. And then Madigan’s eyes snapped open, and Hawk fell back a step, his heart jumping painfully. Fisher raised her sword and stood ready to strike. Madigan stared up at them, and his mouth stretched slowly in a ghastly grin.

  “You’ve achieved nothing. Won nothing. I was dying anyway. I’ve beaten you. Beaten you all. Your precious city’s going to burn, and everyone and everything you ever cared for is going down into Hell. You lose, heroes! You lose!”

  Hawk lifted his axe and brought it sweeping down with all his strength behind it. The razor edge sliced through Madigan’s neck and bit deeply into the stone floor beneath. The terrorist’s head rolled away across the floor, still smiling. Hawk glared down at the twitching body, and jerked his axe out of the floor as though he meant to strike at the body again. Fisher grabbed him by the arm.

  “Forget about him, Hawk! We still have to stop the sorcerer. He made us forget the bloody sorcerer!”

  They spun round to stare at Ritenour, standing fixed and frozen in his pentacle. His eye sockets were empty, and bloody trails down his face showed where the eyes had melted and run. He must have finally opened his eyes and looked, thought Hawk numbly.

  Saxon appeared out of the shadows of the stairway and came to stand beside Hawk and Fisher. He started to ask what was going on, but his voice dried up as he stared at the sorcerer. Power beat on the still air like the wings of an enormous bird, and the gathering presence swept through their minds like an icy wind. It was very close now. Countless, unblinking eyes watched hungrily from the borderlands of reality, driven by an ancient hatred and an unwavering purpose.

  Hawk shook his head violently, and looked across at the sorcerer, who had fallen to his knees inside his pentacle. The light from the chalk lines was almost blinding now. On some basic level beyond his understanding, Hawk could sense the stolen life energy pouring out of the sorcerer and passing beyond reality, to where the presence was waiting. He tried to lift his axe, but his arm seemed far away, and the sounds in his head roared and screamed, drowning out his thoughts.

  Saxon stepped forward, and the air seemed to press against him as though he were wading through deep water. Hawk and Fisher were as still as statues, though sweat ran down their empty faces, and sudden tremors ran through them as they fought to lift their weapons. Saxon concentrated on the sorcerer in his pentacle. There was no one to help him; he was on his own, as he had been ever since he left the Portrait. He pressed on, putting everything out of his mind except the pentacle, as it drew nearer step by step. Something was screaming. Something was howling. The air stank of blood and death. The blazing blue lines of the pentacle flared up before him as he lashed out with his fist. The cellar shuddered like a drumhead, but the pentacle held. Saxon struck at it again and again, calling up every last vestige of his unnatural strength, but though the blazing light shuddered and trembled beneath his blows, it would not fall.

  And then something bright and shining flashed past him, and Ritenour lurched suddenly forward, Hawk’s axe buried between his shoulder blades. His hands came back to paw feebly at the axe’s haft, and then he fell, face down, and lay still, one outilung hand crossing a line of the pentacle. The blinding blue light snapped off in an instant, and Saxon lurched forward to kneel at the sorcerer’s side. Ritenour turned his head and looked up at him with his bloody eye sockets.

  “Listen. Can you hear them? The beasts are here....”

  The breath went out of him. He was dead, and the last part of the ritual was complete. The Unknown Door swung open a crack, and the presence slammed through into reality, throwing aside the barriers of time and space, life and death. And what had waited for so long for revenge was finally loose in the world.

  From out of the shadows of the slaughterhouse, from the time of blood and pain and horror, the beasts returned. Thousands upon thousands of animals, butchered and torn apart in the bloody cellar by men who laughed and joked as they killed. And from every scream and every death, and all the long years of suffering, came a legacy of hatred that drew upon the strange magics in that place, derived in turn from the unnatural building that had been replaced by the slaughterhouse. The small souls gathered together into something larger and more powerful that would not rest, but waited at the borders of the spirit lands, determined to return and take vengeance for what had been done to them. And finally, after all the many years, the willing and unwilling sacrifices of the forbidden ritual had opened the Unknown Door, and the beasts surged forward using Ritenour’s stolen life energies to manifest themselves once again in the lands of the living. The beasts had returned, and they would have their revenge.

  Champion House trembled on its foundations, and jagged cracks split open the massive stone walls. The restraining magics built into the stone were ripped apart and scattered in a moment, and all the souls of all the many animals went rushing out into the city, a spiral of raging energy that swept outward from the House, leaving madness and devastation in its wake. Herds of scarlet-eyed cattle thundered through the narrow streets, tr
ampling fleeing crowds underfoot. Blood soaked their hooves and legs, but it was never enough. Weapons tore and cut at them, but they felt no pain and took no hurt. They were dead, beyond fear or suffering anymore, and nothing could stop them now. They crushed men and women against walls, and tossed the broken bodies effortlessly on their splintered horns. Blood ran down the curving horns and disappeared into gaping holes in the cattle’s skulls, made by sledgehammers long ago. The herd thundered on, and behind them their lesser cousins tore and worried at the bodies of the fallen, as even the mildest of creatures gloried in the taste of human flesh and blood. Sheep and lambs buried their faces in ripped-open guts, and blood stained their woollen muzzles as they bolted down the warm meat.

  The soulstorm of raging spirits roared through the city, driving people insane with its endless cry of blood and pain and horror. Centuries of accumulated suffering and abuse were turned back upon their ancient tormentors, and men and women ran wild in the streets, screaming and howling with the voices of animals. Many killed themselves to escape the agony, or killed each other, driven by a fury not their own. There were islands of sanity in the madness, as isolated sorcerers and Beings from the Street of Gods struggled to hold back the soulstorm, but they were few and far between.

  In the great prison of Damnation Row, cell doors burst from their hinges and blood ran down the walls. Shadows prowled the narrow corridors with glowing eyes, ignoring locks and bars, and prisoners and prison staff alike fell to cruel fangs and claws. Inmates grew hysterical in their cells and turned on their cellmates, tearing at them viciously, like creatures that had been penned together too long in battery cages, and had never forgotten or forgiven.