“There’s nothing here to help us. Nothing I can see, anyway. Sister Anna, do you have any objections to our calling in the forensic sorcerers?”
“No,” said Sister Anna. “Do as you wish, Captain. It really doesn’t matter.”
“Why did you stay?” said Fisher. “All the others left, but you stayed. What keeps you here?”
Sister Anna looked down at the body, and smiled slightly. “I was there, on the Street of Gods, twenty-two years ago, when it all began. I was just passing through, but he looked at me and smiled, and I stopped to hear him preach. He was magnificent. When he left I went with him, and from that moment on, I was always at his side. After he was taken from us, sundered from Time, I made this place my home, and waited for him to come back to me.
“How could I leave him? It didn’t matter to me whether he was a God or a man. I stayed because I loved him, and always have.”
The church of the Carmadine Stalker turned out to be a door in a wall. To one side of the door stood a pleasant little chapel of the Bright Lady, all flowers and vines and pastel colors. On the other side was an open, airy temple dedicated to the January Man. The door itself didn’t look like much. It was six feet high and three feet wide, with peeling paint, splintering wood, and a large discoloured steel padlock. It was the kind of door that in Hawk’s experience usually fronted lock-up warehouses down by the docks, spe cialising in the kind of goods no one would publicly admit to wanting. He studied the door thoughtfully, aware that Tomb was watching him and waiting for him to comment. Obviously Tomb expected him to get all upset again. He was damned if he’d give the sorcerer the satisfaction.
“All right,” he said equably, “It’s a door. Do we knock or go straight in?”
“I’d better lead the way,” said Tomb. “The Stalkers don’t care for uninvited guests, with or without Council authority.”
“Wait a minute,” said Fisher. “If the Carmadine Stalker has been murdered, why are his followers still hanging around here?”
“They’re waiting for him to rise from the dead. With all due respect, Captain Fisher, Captain Hawk, I think we should keep this visit as short and to the point as possible. The Carmadine Stalker was an unpleasant God of an extremely unpleasant Order. If his followers were to take exception to our presence, I’m not at all sure we’d get out of their lair alive.”
“Don’t worry,” said Hawk. “We’ve been around. It takes a lot to upset us.”
Tomb looked at him for a moment, and then turned to face the door. He gestured at the padlock, and it snapped open. He pushed the door, and it swung back, revealing a sickly green light. Tomb stepped forward into it. Hawk started to follow and then stopped short as the smell hit him. It was a thick, choking smell of corruption and decay. The green light seemed to take on a more sinister aspect, reminding Hawk of the corpse fires that danced on recently built cairns. He braced himself and followed Tomb into the light. Fisher followed close behind, her hand at her sword belt.
The door slammed shut behind them, and they found themselves in a long brick tunnel, slanting downwards, lit only by the eerie green light that came from everywhere and nowhere. The tunnel was only just tall enough for Fisher to stand upright, and no more than three or four feet wide. The brick walls were cracked and crumbling from age and neglect, and the floor was covered with pools of dark, scummy water. Mosses and fungi pockmarked the brickwork, and the smell of death and decay was almost overpowering. Far off in the distance a bell tolled endlessly, like the slow remorseless beating of a great brazen heart.
“What the hell is this place?” said Fisher, glaring warily down the tunnel.
“We’re in the Stalkers’ domain,” said Tomb quietly. “A pocket dimension, attached to our reality but not actually a part of it. Follow me, please.”
Tomb led the two Guards through an endless maze of narrow brick tunnels that twisted and turned and folded back upon themselves. The bell tolled on and on in the distance, but never seemed to draw any closer. Moisture dripped from the low ceiling and ran down the walls in sudden little streams. Hawk kept a wary eye on where they were going, but even so, the first priest caught him by surprise. The scrawny figure was sitting cross-legged in a niche set into the tunnel wall. He was old and shrivelled, corpse-pale and quite naked. Bones pushed out against his taut flesh. His breathing was slow and shallow, and his eyes were closed. A length of discoloured steel chain ran from a heavy ring set in the wall to a great steel hook buried in the priest’s shoulder. The tip of the hook poked out of the priest’s flesh just below the armpit. From the way the puckered skin had healed around the sharp point, the hook had obviously been there a long time.
Tomb and the two Guards moved ahead quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible, but still the priest’s eyelids crawled open as they passed. Hawk froze in his tracks, his hand at his axe. The priest had no eyes, only empty sockets, but still his head turned to face Hawk. He smiled slowly, revealing filed pointed teeth, and then his eyelids closed again. Hawk nodded to Fisher and Tomb, and they moved on. They passed more priests, from time to time, sitting unmoving in their niches in the walls. None of them stirred or spoke, but they all watched with empty eye sockets as the intruders passed.
And finally they came to a large, echoing chamber, empty save for a huge brass throne set in the centre of the open space. On the throne sprawled what was left of the Carmadine Stalker. Hawk moved slowly forward, keeping a watchful eye on the other tunnels leading off from the chamber. He stopped before the throne and wrinkled his nose at the remains of the Stalker. The discoloured bones were held together by rotting scraps of muscle, and the grinning skull had been stripped almost clean of flesh. The Carmadine Stalker was an ugly sight in death, and had probably looked even worse when it was alive. It had to have been at least eight feet tall, with a broad chest and a wide flat head. The arms and legs were too long, and much thicker than a man’s. There were vicious talons on the hands and feet, and the grinning teeth were long and pointed. Hawk tried to imagine what the thing must have looked like in its prime, and for a moment his breath caught in his throat.
“The Stalker was a grisly kind of God,” said Tomb. His voice was hushed, as though he was afraid of waking .. something. “Its religion was based around ritual sacrifice, mutilation, and cannibalism. Let’s keep this short, Captain Hawk. This is a bad place to be. It’s going to get even worse when the Stalkers realise their God isn’t going to rise from the dead.”
“All right,” said Hawk. “Let’s start at the beginning. How was the Stalker killed?”
“Apparently it aged to death overnight, three days ago. According to city records, the Stalker was at least seven hundred years old. From the look of that body, I’d say a lot of those years finally caught up with it.”
“So the killer was a magic-user,” said Fisher.
“Either that, or someone with an object of Power. Such things aren’t exactly rare on the Street of Gods.”
Hawk took a quick look round the empty chamber, but no obvious clues leapt to his gaze. “Is there anyone here we can talk to, about how the killer got in and out?”
“No one here will talk to us, Captain. We’re unbelievers.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here. This place looks more like a trap every minute.”
Tomb nodded, and headed quickly for the tunnel mouth that had brought them there. Fisher followed close behind, sword in hand. Hawk backed out of the chamber, keeping a careful watch on the dead God all the way. He had a strong feeling that at any moment the tattered corpse might raise its bony head and look at him.... He kept watching it until he reached a bend in the tunnel which cut off his view, and then he turned and hurried after Tomb and Fisher. The great brass bell tolled on, its slow sonorous sound prophesying blood and doom.
Tomb led them confidently back through the maze of brick tunnels, and then stopped suddenly and bit his lip. Hawk frowned. By his reckoning, they were barely halfway back to the door on the Street of Gods. Tomb sto
od very still, his gaze vague and far away. Hawk looked quickly about him. The tunnel stretched off in both directions, silent and empty, bathed in the sickly light of the ubiquitous green glow.
“Something’s coming,” said Tomb softly.
Hawk drew his axe and Fisher hefted her sword. “What kind of something?” said Hawk.
“A group of men. A large group. Maybe as many as twenty. All of them armed. Apparently the Carmadine Stalker’s followers don’t want us to leave.” Tomb shivered suddenly, and his gaze cleared. “I may be wrong, but I think it’s very likely they’re planning on sacrificing us to their God, in the hope it will help him return.”
“All right,” said Hawk. “You’re the sorcerer. Do something.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Tomb.
Fisher grimaced. “I had a feeling he was going to say that.”
“There are things I can do,” said the sorcerer, “but in this dimension they take time to prepare. You’ll just have to hold them off for a while.”
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. “Hold them off,” said Hawk.
“Twenty men,” said Fisher.
“All religious fanatics, and armed to the teeth.”
“Piece of cake.”
The two Guards fell silent. In the darkness of one of the side tunnels, someone was moving. Whoever, it was, was trying to be quiet, but even the faintest of sounds travelled clearly in the quiet of the tunnels. Hawk and Fisher stood side by side, weapons at the ready. Tomb gave the tunnel a quick glance, and then began muttering something under his breath. The first of the Stalkers came charging out of the side tunnel, and Hawk braced himself to meet him. The Stalker was tall and wiry, with a wide grin and staring eyes. He wore a dark, flapping robe, and carried a vicious-looking scimitar. He threw himself at Hawk, the curved blade reaching for the Guard’s throat. Hawk batted the sword aside easily, and buried the axe in the Stalker’s face on the backswing. The Stalker fell to his knees, blood coursing down his grinning face, and then he crumpled to the floor as Hawk jerked the axe free.
More Stalkers came boiling out of the side tunnel, their eyes glaring wildly. Swords and axes gleamed in the eerie green light. Hawk and Fisher launched themselves at their attackers. The flood of Stalkers stumbled to a sudden halt as Hawk and Fisher slammed into them. Hawk swung his axe in short, vicious arcs, and Stalkers fell dead and dying to the floor. Fisher stamped and thrust at his side, warding off the few Stalkers with reflexes fast enough to start their own attacks. Blood splashed the tunnel walls and collected in pools on the floor.
The narrow tunnel meant that only a few of the Stalkers could press their attack at one time, and Hawk and Fisher were more than a match for them. But even so, the fanatical hatred and fervour of the Stalkers drove them forward over the bodies of the slain, and step by step Hawk and Fisher were driven back down the tunnel. Tomb retreated behind them, still lost in his muttering.
Hawk swung his axe double-handed, trying to open up some space before him, but the press of bodies was too strong. Everywhere he looked there were darting swords and glaring eyes and pointed teeth bared in snarling smiles. Fisher gutted a Stalker with a quick economical cut, and turned to face the next attacker while the first was still falling. A sharp jolt of surprise went through her as the dying Stalker grabbed her legs with both arms and tried to bring her down. She met a flailing sword with an automatic parry, and tried to kick the Stalker away, but he hung on with grim determination. Blood from his wound soaked her trousers. The first twinges of panic had begun to gnaw at Fisher’s self-control, when Hawk spotted her problem and cut through the Stalker’s neck with his axe. The Stalker went limp and fell away, and Fisher kicked herself free. The whole thing had only taken a moment or two, but there was a cold sweat on Fisher’s forehead as she hurled herself back into the fray.
I must be getting old, she thought sourly, getting caught like that. Ten-to-one odds never used to bother me, either. Maybe I should get out of this business while I’m still ahead.
She cut down one Stalker, gutted a second, and blinded a third. Blood flew on the air, and she grinned nastily.
Forget it; I’d be bored in a week.
The Stalker before her paused suddenly, his mouth gaping with surprise, and then his head exploded. Blood and brains spattered the tunnel roof and walls as Fisher jumped back, startled. There was a series of brisk popping sounds, and within the space of a few moments the tunnel floor was littered with headless bodies. Hawk and Fisher lowered their weapons, looked at each other, and then turned to stare at Tomb.
“Sorry it took so long,” said the sorcerer calmly, “but that kind of spell is rather tricky to work out. You have to be very careful where you put the decimal point.” He stopped suddenly, his head cocked to one side, listening to something only he could hear. “I think it might be wise to press on. There are more Stalkers on their way. Rather more than I can handle, I’m afraid.”
“Then what the hell are we standing around here for?” snapped Hawk. “Move it!”
He pushed Tomb ahead of him, and the three of them ran swiftly through the brick tunnels, heading for the outside world. They hadn’t gone far when they heard the sound of running feet behind them. Hawk and Fisher ran faster, urging Tomb on. He led them through the maze of tunnels with unwavering confidence, and suddenly they were through the doorway and out on the Street of Gods, blinking dazedly in the bright summer sun. Tomb turned to face the door, gestured sharply, and the door disappeared, leaving a blank wall behind it.
“That should hold them,” said Tomb. “Long enough for us to make ourselves scarce, anyway. I trust you found the visit useful?”
“Sure,” said Hawk, his breathing slowly getting back to normal. “Nothing like being chased by an army of murderous fanatics to give you a good workout.”
“Good,” said Tomb. “Because I’m afraid I have to leave you now. I do have other work to attend to, you know.” He produced a folded piece of paper from a hidden pocket, and handed it to Hawk. “This is a list of Beings who may agree to speak to you. It would help you to have an overview of what’s happening on the Street of Gods at the moment. Beyond that, I’m afraid I really don’t know what else to suggest. Tracking down murderers is a little outside my experience.”
“We’ll cope,” said Fisher. “We’re Captains of the Guard; we don’t need our hands held. Right, Hawk?”
“Right,” said Hawk.
“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Tomb. “If you need me again, or any other member of the Squad, just ask around. Someone will always know where we are. It’s part of our job to have a high profile. Good day.”
He bowed politely to them both, and then set off down the Street at a pace obviously calculated to prevent any further discussion. Hawk looked at Fisher.
“He knows something. Something he doesn’t want us asking him about. I wonder what.”
Fisher shrugged. “On the Street of Gods, that could cover a whole lot of territory.”
Charles Buchan sat on the edge of his chair, and waited impatiently for them to bring Annette to him. The Sisters of Joy were officially classed as a religion, and had one of the largest establishments on the Street of Gods, but when you got right down to it, their lounge looked like nothing more than an upmarket brothel. Which wasn’t really that far from the mark, if you thought about it.
The Sisters of Joy were an old established religion. Older than Haven itself, some said. It had branches all across the Low Kingdoms, to the impotent fury of equally old and established, but more conservative, religions. The Sisters had started out as temple prostitutes for a now forgotten fertility Goddess, probably not unlike the Bright Lady, and had somehow evolved through their discovery of tantric magic into something far more powerful. Not to mention sinister.
Tantric magic is based on sex, or to be more exact, sexuality. Basically, the Sisters of Joy drained people’s strength and vitality through sex, leeching at their very life force. The stolen energy gave them greatly extended l
ife spans, and made them powerful magicians, but only as long as the energy level was maintained. They needed a lot of people to maintain their power and their long lives, but human nature being what it was, the Sisters were never short of visitors. Or victims, depending on how you looked at it.
Tantric magic wasn’t strictly speaking part of the High Magic at all, having its roots squarely in the older, less reputable Wild Magic, which was partly why most modem sorcerers would have nothing to do with it. The other reason was that women were a hell of a lot better at tantric magic than men, and the High Magic was still largely a male province. So the High Magic was socially acceptable, while tantric magic very definitely was not. The Sisters of Joy didn’t give a damn. They went their own way, as they always had. Their door were always open, day and night, to those who came to them in need or despair. The Sisters offered care and comfort and affection, and in return bound all who came to them in a tightening web of emotional dependency and obligation. There were those who said the Sisters of Joy were addictive, and that those who fell under their influence became little more than slaves. No one said it too loudly, or too publicly, of course. It wouldn’t have been wise.
Buchan got up out of his chair, and began to pace up and down. They would bring Annette to him soon.
The lounge was almost indecently luxurious. A thick pile carpet covered the floor, and the walls had disappeared behind a profusion of paintings and hanging tapestries, most of them obscene. Perfumes sweetened the air. There were comfortable chairs and settees and love seats, and delicately crafted tables bearing wines and spirits and cordials, and every kind of drug or potion. Nothing was forbidden here, and it was all free. To begin with. The Sisters of Joy had amassed a considerable fortune over the many centuries, and they still received very generous donations from their grateful clients. No one ever mentioned blackmail, of course. It wouldn’t have been wise.
Swords of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk & Fisher Page 47