Swords of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk & Fisher

by Simon R. Green

  “The Conservatives are the main threat,” said Medley. “They’ve got the most money. Free Trade is mainly a merchants‘ party. They make a lot of speeches, but they’re short on popular support. Mostly they end up throwing their weight behind the Conservatives. No Tax on Liquor is the Lord Sinclair’s personal party. He funds it and runs it, practically single-handed. There are always people willing to go along with him, if only for the free booze he dishes out. He’s harmless, apart from this one bee in his bonnet. The Trade Guilds mean well, but they’re too disor ganised to mount any real threat to the Conservatives, and they know it. Usually they end up working hand-in-hand with Reform. That’s where a lot of our funding comes from.”

  “What about the Brotherhood of Steel?” said Fisher. “I always thought they were more mystical than political.”

  “The two are pretty much the same in Haven,” said Adamant. “Power and religion have always gone hand-in-hand here. Luckily most of the Beings on the Street of Gods are more interested in feuding with each other than getting involved in the day-to-day politics of running Haven. The Beings have always been great ones for feuds. But, over the past few years the Brotherhood of Steel has changed its ways. They’re nowhere near as insular as they used to be; they’re much better organised, and just lately a militant branch has started flexing its political muscle. They’ve even got a candidate standing in this election. He won’t win; they’re not that strong yet. But they could be a deciding factor in who does win.”

  Hawk frowned. “Who would they be most likely to side with?”

  “Good question,” said Medley. “I can think of any number of political fixers who’d pay good money for the answer. I don’t know, Captain Hawk. Ordinarily I’d have said the Conservatives, but the Brotherhood’s mystical bent confuses the hell out of me. I don’t trust fanatics. There’s no telling which way they’ll jump when the pressure’s on.”

  “All right,” said Hawk. “Now that we’re clear on that ...”

  “Speak for yourself,” muttered Fisher.

  “... perhaps you could explain exactly what’s at stake in this election. A lot of people have been saying Reform could end up dominating the Council, even if the Conservatives still hold most of the Seats. I don’t get that.”

  “It’s really very simple,” said Adamant, and Hawk’s heart sank. Whenever people said that, it always meant things were about to become very, very complicated. Adamant steepled his fingers, and studied them thoughtfully. “There are twenty-one Seats on the Council, representing the various districts of Haven. After the last election, Reform held four Seats, the Conservatives held eleven, and there were six unaffiliated Seats. Which meant in practice that the Conservatives ran the Council to suit themselves. But this time there are at least three Seats that could go either way. All Reform has to do is win one extra Seat, and together with the six independents we could take control of the Council away from the Conservatives. Which is why this particular election is all set for some of the dirtiest and most vicious political infighting Haven has ever seen.”

  “Great,” said Fisher. “Just what the people need. Another excuse to go crazy, riot in the streets, and set fire to things. How long is this madness going to go on for?”

  “Not long,” said Medley, smiling. “After the result has been announced this evening, there will be general fighting and dancing in the streets, followed by the traditional fireworks display and the paying off of old scores by the victorious party. After that, Haven will go deathly quiet, as everyone disappears to bind their wounds, get some sleep, and nurse their hangovers. Not necessarily in that order. Everything clear now?”

  “Almost,” said Hawk. “What are we doing here?”

  Adamant looked at Medley, and then back at Hawk. “I understood you’d been told. You and your partner are here to act as my bodyguards until the election is over.”

  “You don’t need us for that,” said Hawk flatly. “You’ve got armed men at your gates, and probably quite a few more scattered around the house. And if you’d still felt the need for a professional bodyguard, there are any number of agencies in Haven that could have provided you with one. But you asked for us, specifically, despite our record. Why us, Adamant? What can we do for you that your own men can’t?”

  Adamant leaned back in his chair, and some of his strength seemed to go out of him for a moment, only to return again as he lifted his eyes and met Hawk’s gaze squarely. “Two main reasons, Captain Hawk. Firstly, there have been death threats made against me and my wife. Quite nasty threats. Normally I wouldn’t worry too much. Elections always bring out the cranks. But I have reason to believe that these threats may be genuine. There have been three separate attempts on my life already, all of them quite professional. Stefan tells me there are whispers that the attacks were sanctioned by Councillor Hardcastle himself.

  “Secondly, it seems I have a traitor among my people. Someone has been leaking information, important information, about my comings and goings, and my security arrangements. That person has also been embezzling money from my campaign funds. According to Stefan’s investigations, it’s been going on for some months; small amounts at first, but growing larger all the time. What evidence we have been able to piece together suggests that traitor has to be someone fairly close to me; my friends, my servants, my fellow campaign workers. Someone I trusted has betrayed me. I want you two to act as my bodyguard, and identify the traitor.”

  Out in the hall, a woman screamed. Hawk and Fisher surged to their feet, reaching for their weapons. The scream came again, and was suddenly cut short.

  “Danny!” Adamant jumped up from his chair and ran for the door. Hawk got there first, and yanked the door open. Out in the hall it was raining blood. Thick crimson gobbets materialised near the ceiling and poured down with unrelenting ferocity. The walls ran with blood, and the rugs were already soaked. The stench was sickening.

  Dannielle had been caught halfway up the stairs. She was drenched in blood. Her dress was ruined, and thick rivulets of gore ran out of her matted hair and down her face. She ran down the stairs to Adamant, and he held her in his arms, glaring about him through the pouring blood. Hawk and Fisher stood back to back in the middle of the hall, weapons at the ready, but there was only the blood, streaming down around them, thick and heavy. Medley flailed about him with his arms, as though trying to swat the falling drops of blood like flies.

  “Get your wife out of here!” Hawk yelled to Adamant. “This is sorcerer’s work!”

  Adamant started to hurry Dannielle towards the front door, and then stopped short as a dark shape began to materialise between them and the door. The falling blood ran together, drop joining with drop, to form the beginnings of a body. In the space of a few moments it grew arms, and legs and a hunched misshapen body. It stood something like a man, but the proportions were all wrong. It had huge teeth and claws, and swirling dark clots of blood where its eyes should have been. It moved slowly towards its prey, its body heaving and swelling with every movement.

  Hawk stepped forward and cut at it with his axe. The heavy steel blade sliced through the creature’s neck and out again without slowing, sending a wave of blood splashing against the wall. The creature stood its ground, unaffected. It was only blood, nothing more. Its substance ran away onto the floor, but more blood continued falling from the ceiling to replenish it.

  Hawk and Fisher both cut at the figure, and it laughed silently at them. It lashed out at Hawk with a dripping arm. Hawk braced himself and met the blow with his axe, but even so, the impact sent him staggering backwards. The creature had weight and substance, when it chose to. It started towards Hawk, ignoring Fisher’s attempts to draw its attention to her. It struck at Hawk again, and he ducked under the blow at the last moment. Its claws dug ragged furrows in the wall panelling. Hawk scuttled away from the creature, snarling curses at the thing as it turned to follow him.

  “Right,” he said breathlessly, “that’s it. We’re no match for this kind of magic.
Adamant, get your people together and then herd them out the back door. We’ll try and buy you some time. Most sendings can’t travel far from where they materialise. Maybe we can outrun the bloody thing.”

  Adamant nodded quickly, and urged his wife down the hall away from the creature. The rain of blood suddenly increased, pouring down even more thickly than before. Through the crimson haze, Hawk could just make out a second shape beginning to form between them and the other exit. Hawk wiped blood from his face, and took a firmer grip on his axe.

  He heard Fisher’s warning scream behind him, and had just started to turn when the first blood-creature swept over him like a wave and all the world went red. As the creature enveloped him, he staggered back a pace, scrabbling frantically at the blood that covered his face, cutting off his air. Fisher was quickly at his side, trying to wipe the blood away from his nose and mouth, but it resisted her efforts and clung to his face like taffy. Hawk fell forward onto his hands and knees, shaking his head frantically as his lungs screamed for air. He caught a glimpse of Adamant hovering before him, and gestured weakly for him to make a run for the front door while he had the chance. Adamant hesitated; then lifting his head, he raised his voice in a carrying shout:

  “Mortice! Help us!”

  A blast of freezing air suddenly swept through the hall, a bitter icy wind that froze the falling blood into shimmering scarlet crystals. The creature enveloping Hawk cracked apart around him and fell away in hundreds of crimson slivers. He stayed hunched on his knees for a moment, gratefully drawing the icy air into his lungs, then rose slowly to his feet and looked around him. The bloody rain had stopped, and the hall was covered in a sheen of crimson ice. Fisher was standing nearby, beating scarlet ice from her cloak. Adamant, Medley, and Dannielle looked shocked but otherwise unhurt. Beyond them stood the second blood-creature, caught half-formed by the icy wind. It stood, crouching and incomplete, like an insane sculpture carved from blood-stained ice. Hawk walked over to it and hit it once with his axe. It fell apart and littered the hall floor with jagged shards of crimson ice. Hawk kicked a few of them around, just to be sure, and then turned to face Adamant.

  “All right, sir Adamant; I think there are a few questions that need answering. Like, what was all that about, and who or what is Mortice?”

  Adamant sighed quietly. “Yes. I was hoping you wouldn’t have to know about him, but ... I think you had better meet him.”

  “May I suggest we get out of these clothes first?” said Dannielle. “I’m soaked and half-frozen, and this dress is ruined.”

  “She has a point,” said Fisher. “I look like I’ve been skinny-dipping in an abattoir.”

  “I’m sure we can find you and your partner some fresh clothes,” said Dannielle. “Come with me, Captain Fisher, and I’ll see what I can dig out for you. James, you look after Captain Hawk.”

  Fisher and Dannielle disappeared up the stairs together. Hawk looked at Adamant. “All right, first a change of clothes, but then I want to meet Mortice. No more delays; is that clear?”

  “Of course, Captain,” said Adamant. “But ... do try and make allowances for Mortice’s temper. He’s been dead for some five months now, and it hasn’t done a thing for his disposition.”

  Hawk walked up to the full-length mirror, and studied himself for some time. It didn’t help. He still looked like a poor relation down on his luck. He and Adamant were roughly the same height, but Adamant had a much larger frame. As a result, the clothes Adamant had lent Hawk hung around him like he’d shrunk in the wash overnight. It wasn’t even a particularly fetching outfit. Grey tights, salmon-pink knickerbockers, and a frilly white shirt; whatever the current fashion was, Hawk was pretty damn sure this wasn’t it. The frilly shirt in particular worried him. The last time he’d seen a shirt this frilly a barmaid had been wearing it. And no matter what Adamant said, he was damned if he was going to wear that bloody silly three-cornered hat.

  He looked at himself in the mirror one last time, and sighed deeply. He’d worn worse, in .his time. At least he still had his Guardsman’s cloak. He picked it up off the bed and put it on, pulling the heavy cloak around him so that it hid the clothes beneath. Luckily all Guards’ cloaks came with a built-in spell that kept them clean and immaculate no matter what indignities they were subjected to. It was part of the Guard’s image, and along with the occasional healing spell, was one of the few good perks of the job.

  He ought really to be rejoining the others, but it wouldn’t do them any harm to wait a while. He had several things he wanted to think through, while he had the chance. He looked around Adamant’s spare bedchamber. It was clean, tidy, and very comfortably appointed. The bed itself was a huge four-poster, with hanging curtains. Very elegant, and even more expensive. What was a champion of Reform doing, living like a king? All right; no one expected him to live like a pauper just to make a point, but this ostentatious display of wealth worried Hawk. According to Adamant, the house had been provided by Reform higher-ups. So where were they getting the money from? Who funded the Reform Cause? The Trade Guilds, obviously, and donations from the faithful. Wealthy patrons like Adamant. But that wouldn’t be enough to pay for houses like this. Hawk frowned. This wasn’t really any of his business. He was just here to protect Adamant from harm.

  Not that he was doing such a great job so far. The blood-creatures had caught him off guard. If Mortice hadn’t saved their hides with his sorcery, the election would have been over before it had even begun. More mysteries. Mortice had to be a sorcerer of some kind. And Adamant had to know that associating with a sorcerer was grounds for disqualification. So why was he willing to let Hawk and Fisher meet him? And what was that crack about him being dead for five months? What was he? A ghost? Hawk sighed. He’d only been on the case an hour and already he had more questions than he could shake a stick at. This was going to be just like the Blackstone case all over again, he could tell. He settled his axe comfortably on his right hip, and made his way out onto the landing and down the stairs.

  The hall was sparkling clean, with no trace of blood or ice. Mortice again, presumably. Fisher was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in her Guard’s cloak. One look at the thunderclouds in her face was enough to tell Hawk that she’d been no luckier in her choice of new clothes than he. He went down to join her, looked ostentatiously round to make sure they were alone, and then whispered “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

  Fisher snorted a quick laugh, and smiled in spite of herself. “You first.”

  Hawk opened his cloak with a flourish and stood posed in the traditional flasher’s stance. Fisher shook her head. “Hawk, you look like a Charcoal Street ponce. And it’s still not as bad as mine.”

  She opened her cloak, and Hawk had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Apparently they hadn’t been able to find any of Dannielle’s clothing that would fit Fisher, and had compromised by lending her men’s clothing. Very old and very battered men’s clothing. The shirt and trousers had probably started out white, but had degenerated over the years into an uneven grey. The cuffs were frayed, there were patches of different colors on the elbows and knees, and there were several important buttons missing.

  “Apparently they originally belonged to the gardener,” said Fisher through gritted teeth. “We can’t go out looking like this, Hawk; people will laugh themselves to death.”

  “Then we’ll just have to keep our cloaks shut and save what’s underneath as a weapon of last resort,” said Hawk solemnly.

  “Ah, Captain Hawk,” said Medley, poking his head out of the study door. “I thought I heard voices. Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” said Hawk. “Just fine.”

  Medley stepped out into the corridor, followed by Adamant and Dannielle. They were all in fresh clothes and looked very smart.

  “If you’re quite ready, could we please get a move on?” said Medley. “Mortice knows we’re coming, and he hates to be kept waiting. The last time he got impatient, he cal
led down a plague of frogs. It took us hours to get those nasty little creatures out of the house.”

  “If he’s your friend,” said Fisher dryly, “your enemies must really be something.”

  “They are,” said Adamant. “If you’d care to follow me ...”

  He led them down the hall and through a series of corridors that opened eventually onto a simple stone-walled laundry room. There were tables and towels and a freshly scrubbed stone floor. Hawk looked expectantly around him, and wondered if he was supposed to make a comment of some sort. As he hesitated, Medley moved over to the middle of the floor and bent down. He took hold of a large steel ring set into the floor, and for the first time Hawk spotted the outlines of a trapdoor. Fisher looked at Adamant.

  “You keep your sorcerer in the cellar?”

  “He chose it,” said Medley. “He finds the dark a comfort.”

  Hawk looked at Adamant. “You said Mortice was dead. Perhaps you’d care to explain that.”

  Adamant gestured for Medley to move away from the trapdoor, and he did. Adamant frowned unhappily. When he spoke, his voice was low and even, and he chose his words with care. “Mortice is my oldest friend. We’ve faced many troubles together. I trust him implicitly. He’s a first-class sorcerer; one of the most powerful in the city. He died just over five months ago. I even went to his funeral.”

  “But if he’s dead,” said Fisher, “what have you got in your cellar?”

  “A lich,” said Medley. “A dead body, animated by a sorcerer’s will. We don’t know exactly what happened, but Mortice was defending us from a sorcerous attack when something went wrong. Terribly wrong. The spell killed him, but somehow Mortice managed to trap his spirit within his dead body. In a sense he’s both living and dead now. Unfortunately his body is still slowly decaying, despite everything he can do to prevent it. The pain and rot of corruption are always with him. It makes him rather ... short-tempered.”