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

by Simon R. Green

  Hawk held his axe out before him, and strained his ears against the silence. A fire was burning fitfully at the far end of the tavern, and some light fell past the shuttered windows. The tavern slowly took form out of the gloom, and Hawk was able to make out chairs and tables overturned and scattered across the floor, as though a sudden storm had swept through the long room, carrying all before it. Dark shapes lay still and silent among the broken furniture, and Hawk didn’t need to see them clearly to know they were bodies. He counted fourteen that he was sure of. There was no sign of their killers.

  Hawk moved slowly forward, axe at the ready. Broken glass crunched under his boots. Fisher appeared silently out of the gloom to move at his side. He stopped by a wall lamp, and working slowly and carefully, he took out his box of matches and lit it, while Fisher stood guard. It wasn’t easy lighting the lamp with one hand, but he wouldn’t put his axe down. The sudden light pushed back the darkness, and for the first time Hawk and Fisher were able to see the full extent of the devastation. There was blood everywhere, splashed across the walls and furniture and pooled on the floor. Most of the bodies had been mutilated or disfigured. Some had been torn apart. Loops of purple intestine hung limply from a lamp bracket, and a severed hand beckoned from a barbecue grill by the fire. Most of the bodies had been gutted, ripped open from throat to groin. Whoever or whatever had done it hadn’t bothered to use a blade. Fisher swore softly, and her knuckles showed white on her sword hilt. Hawk put the lamp back in its niche, and the two of them moved slowly forward. The tavern was still and silent, full of the stench of blood and death.

  They went from body to body, methodically checking for signs of life, but there were none. They found the three Guards who’d gone in to face what they thought was a simple riot. The only way to identify them was by their Constable’s scarlet cloak and tunic. Their heads were missing. There was no sign anywhere of their attackers. Hawk wondered briefly if they might have made their escape during the confusion, but he didn’t think so. Every instinct he had was screaming at him that the killers were still there, watching, and waiting for their chance. He could almost feel the weight of their gaze on his back.

  The tavern’s bar had been wrecked. There wasn’t an intact bottle or glass left on the shelves, and the floor was covered with a thick carpet of broken glass. Hawk drew Fisher’s attention to the bartop. The thick slab of polished mahogany was crisscrossed with long, curving scars that made Hawk think again about claws. He looked at Fisher, who nodded slowly.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Hawk?”

  “Could be. We’ve been working on the assumption this was the work of chacal-users, but more and more this is starting to look like something else entirely. I don’t see how anything human could have caused injuries like those, or claw marks like these. I think we’ve got a werewolf here, Isobel.”

  Fisher reached down and pulled a silver dagger from inside her boot, and held it loosely in her left hand. Just in case. She moved behind the bar, and then signalled quickly for Hawk to come and join her. He did so, and the two of them stood looking down at the bartender, lying wedged half under the bar. His throat had been torn out, and there were bite marks on his arms where he’d lifted them to defend himself.

  “Werewolf.” said Fisher.

  “Maybe,” said Hawk. “I don’t know. The bite marks look wrong. A wolf’s muzzle would leave a larger, narrower bite....”

  Something growled nearby. Hawk and Fisher moved quickly out from behind the bar to give themselves room to fight. They glared about them, but nothing moved in the shadowy, blood-spattered room. The growl came again, louder this time, and then a heavy weight hit Hawk from above and behind, throwing him to the floor. Glass crunched loudly beneath him as he rolled back and forth, trying desperately to tear himself free from the creature that clung to his back, pinning his arms to his sides with its legs and reaching for his throat with clawed hands. He tucked his head in, chin pressed to his chest, and then nearly panicked as he felt teeth gnawing at the back of his head. He got his feet underneath him, glanced quickly about to get his bearings, and then slammed himself back against the heavy wooden bar behind him. The creature’s grip loosened as the breath was knocked out of it, and Hawk pulled free. He threw himself to one side, and Fisher stepped forward in a full extended lunge, pinning the creature to the bar with her sword.

  For a moment, no one moved. Hawk and Fisher stared incredulously at the blood-soaked man transfixed by Fisher’s sword. His clothing hung in rags, and he held his hands like claws. Blood soaked his hands and forearms like crimson gloves, and there was more blood spattered thickly over his livid white flesh. His eyes were wide and staring. He snarled silently at the two Guards, showing his bloody teeth, but he was still just a man. And then he lunged forward, forcing himself along the impaling blade, his bloody hands reaching for Fisher’s throat. She held her ground, watching in fascination as the jagged-nailed hands grew steadily nearer. Part of her wondered crazily what had happened to wreck his nails like that.

  Hawk lurched to his feet, lifting his axe. The killer lunged forward again, blood spilling down his gut from where Fisher’s sword pierced him, snarling and growling like a wild animal. And then Fisher lifted her hand with the silver dagger in it, and cut his throat. Blood sprayed across her arm, and she watched warily as the light went out of his eyes and he slumped forward, dead at last. She pulled out her sword and he fell limply to the floor and lay still. Hawk came over to stand beside her.

  “He must have been up in the rafters,” he said finally. “All this time, just watching us, and waiting.”

  Fisher looked up at the ceiling. “There’s no one else up there. But I can’t believe one man did all this, drug or no drug.”

  Hawk looked down at the dead user. “Maybe we shouldn’t have killed him after all. There are a lot of questions we could have asked him.”

  “He didn’t exactly give us a choice,” said Fisher dryly. “Besides, he wouldn’t have been allowed to talk. We’d have had to keep him in gaol till he came down, and by then word would have reached his suppliers. They’d either have sprung him or killed him to keep his mouth shut.”

  Hawk scowled. “It has to be said Headquarters’ security isn’t worth spit these days. Particularly when it comes to drug arrests. You know, it wasn’t this bad when we first joined the Guard.”

  “Yes it was,” said Fisher. “We just weren’t experienced enough to recognise the signs. There’s a lot of money in drugs, and where there’s a lot of money there’s a line of Guards with their hands out.”

  “This day started out depressing,” said Hawk, “and it’s not getting any better. Let’s get the hell out of here and file our report. If one chacal-user can do this much damage on a rampage, then this city is in for some interesting times.”

  A low growl trembled on the air behind them. Hawk and Fisher spun round, weapons at the ready. The tavern looked just as still and quiet as before. None of the bodies had moved. The growl came again, but this time low and subdued, sounding almost more like a groan. Hawk glared in the direction of the sound, and his gaze came to rest on an overturned table leaning against a wall. It was a big table, with room for one, maybe two, people behind it. Hawk silently indicated the table to Fisher, and they moved slowly forward. There were no more growls or groans, but as he drew nearer, Hawk thought he could hear something dripping. Something ... feeding.

  They reached the table in a matter of moments, moving silently through the gloom. Hawk put away his axe and grabbed the rim of the table with both hands, while Fisher stood ready with her sword. They counted to three silently together, and then Hawk braced himself and pulled the heavy table away from the wall with one swift movement. Fisher moved quickly forward to stand between him and whatever was waiting, and then both she and Hawk stood very still as the table revealed its secret.

  The second chacal-user was a young woman, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Her face was bone-white, with dark, staring eyes, and her hands
and forearms were slick with other people’s blood. She held her hands like claws, but made no move to attack Hawk or Fisher. Someone, presumably the other user, had ripped open her stomach. It was a wide, hideous wound that should have killed her immediately, but the chacal was keeping her alive. She lay propped against the wall in a widening pool of her own blood, and as Hawk and Fisher watched she dipped a hand into the ragged wound in her gut, pulled out a bloody morsel, and ate it.

  Oh, dear God, she’s been feeding on herself....

  Hawk moved forward, and put a gentle restraining hand on the girl’s arm. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

  “Get away from her, Hawk. She’s still dangerous. We don’t know how many people she’s killed here.”

  “Get a doctor,” said Hawk, without looking round.

  “Hawk ...”

  “Get a doctor!”

  Fisher nodded, and hurried over to the main door. Hawk put the girl’s hand in her lap, and brushed her long, stringy hair from her face. The user looked at him for the first time.

  “Something went wrong,” she said slowly, her voice barely rising above a murmur. Hawk had to lean close to understand her. Her breath smelled of blood and something worse. Her dead white skin was beaded with sweat. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. They said it would make us feel like Gods. I’m cold.”

  “I’ve sent for a doctor,” said Hawk. “Take it easy. Save your strength.”

  “They lied to us. . . .”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” said Hawk. “You said something went wrong. What went wrong?”

  “It was a new drug. Supposed to be the best. Like chacal, only stronger. We were going to be like Gods. We were packing it up at the factory, ready to ship it out. Leon took some, for a lark. We tried it here, just a little. And then everything went bad.”

  “Tell me about the factory,” said Hawk. “Where is it?”

  The girl’s hand drifted towards her wound again. Hawk stopped it, and put it back in her lap. She looked at him. “I’m cold.”

  Hawk took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. She was shivering violently, and sweat ran down her face in rivulets. There was no color left in her face. Even her lips were white. Her breathing grew increasingly shallow, and when she spoke Hawk had to concentrate hard to make out the words.

  “Morgan’s place. The Blue Dolphin. In the Hook.”

  “All right, lass, take it easy. That’s all I need. We’ll get the bastards. You rest now. The doctor will be here soon.”

  “Would you hold my hand? Please?”

  “Sure.” Hawk took off one of his gloves and held her left hand, squeezing it comfortingly. Warm blood spilled down his wrist. “All right?”

  “Hold it up where I can see it. I can’t feel it.”

  Hawk started to lift her hand up before her face, but she’d stopped breathing. He was still holding her hand when Fisher finally came back with the Guard doctor.

  “I didn’t even find out her name,” said Hawk, pulling his cloak around his shoulders. Guard Constables and Captains summoned to the scene by the communications sorcerer spilled around Hawk and Fisher as they moved in and out of The Crossed Pikes tavern. They were carrying out the dead and lining them up in neat rows on the snow, ready for the meat wagon when it arrived. The Guard doctor hovered over them like an anxious relative, making notes on cause of death, for when the forensic sorcerer arrived. A large crowd had gathered, but were being kept back by two Constables. Hawk knelt down suddenly, and started roughly cleaning the blood from his hand with a handful of snow. Fisher put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly.

  “You did all you could, Hawk.”

  “I know that.”

  “She killed at least a dozen people in there. Probably more.”

  “I know that too.” He got to his feet and pulled his glove back on. “Before she died, she told me where they’re making the stuff she took. It’s Robbie Morgan’s place, down in the Devil’s Hook.”

  Fisher looked at him sharply. “Standard procedure would be to contact Headquarters and tell them the factory’s location. Since you haven’t done that, I assume there’s a good reason why not?”

  “I want these bastards, Isobel. I want them bad. It’s a new drug, you see; they haven’t released it yet. Can you imagine what the Northside will be like once this super-chacal hits the streets? We’ve got to stop it now. While we can.”

  “So let the Drug Squad handle it. That’s what they’re paid for.”

  “Oh no; I’m not risking this one going wrong. You can guarantee some Guard would tip Morgan off, in return for a sweetener. The Drug Squad would get there just a little too late and find nothing but an empty warehouse. That’s happened too many times just recently. So I think we’ll do this one ourselves.”

  “Us? You mean, just you and me?”

  “Isobel, please; I haven’t gone completely crazy. Morgan’s probably got a small army of security people protecting the Blue Dolphin. But we’ve got a small army ourselves, right here. There’s a dozen Constables, five Captains, and even a sorceress. We’ll leave a few people here to mind the store, and take the rest.”

  “On whose authority?”

  “Mine. If we bring this off, no one’s going to ask any questions.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  Hawk looked at her steadily. “This is important to me, Isobel. She died right in front of me, scared and hurting, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to help her. Just this once, we’ve got a chance to make a difference. A real difference. Let’s do it.”

  “All right. Let’s do it. But how are we going to get the others to go along on an unofficial raid?”

  Hawk smiled. “Easy. We won’t tell them it’s unofficial.”

  Fisher grinned back at him. “I like the way you think, Hawk.”

  They finally ended up with an impromptu task force of ten Constables, two more Captains, and the sorceress Mistique; all blithely unaware that they were about to break every rule in the book. Which was probably for the best. That way, if anything did go wrong. Hawk and Fisher could take all the blame on themselves. Besides, no one with the brains they were born with would have volunteered if they’d known the truth. At which point Hawk decided very firmly that he wasn’t going to think about the situation anymore. It was depressing him too much. All that mattered was shutting down the drug factory, and Morgan as well, if possible.

  Hawk had heard about Morgan. Most people in Haven had, one way or another. He’d made enough money down the years from drugs, prostitution, and murder to buy himself respectability. He was seen in all the best places, belonged to all the right clubs, and these days was officially regarded as above suspicion. In fact, he still had a dirty finger in every pie in Haven, though no one had ever been able to prove anything. But Hawk and Fisher knew, like every other Guard. They had to deal every day with the violence and suffering his businesses caused. Hawk frowned thoughtfully. It wasn’t like Morgan to get so personally involved in a scheme like this, having the super-chacal packed and distributed from one of his own warehouses. And it also wasn’t like him to get involved with such a dangerous drug. The more traditional drugs brought less publicity, were just as addictive, and therefore just as profitable. Hawk shrugged mentally. Every villain makes a mistake sooner or later, and Morgan had made a bad one.

  Hawk and Fisher led their people through the Northside at a quick march, heading for the Devil’s Hook. They made an impressive spectacle, and the crowds drew back to let them pass. It was almost like a parade, but nobody cheered. The law wasn’t popular in the Northside. Hawk looked back at his people, and smiled to himself. They might just bring this off after all. The Constables were some of the toughest Guards in Haven. They had to be, or they wouldn’t have been working the Northside. And he knew both the Captains, by reputation, if not personally.

  Captain Andrew Doughty was a medium-height, stocky man in his late forties: a career Guard, with all the courage, cunning, and native caution tha
t implied. He was blond-haired, blue-eyed, and glacially handsome, and his job was his life. He had a good enough reputation with his sword that he didn’t have to keep proving it, but he liked to anyway, given the chance. He’d had a lot of partners in his time, but worked best alone. Mostly because he didn’t trust anyone but himself.

  Captain Howard Burns was a tall, lean man in his late thirties, with an unruly mop of dark hair and a thick spade beard. He was an expert in personal and company security, and worked mostly in the Westside, overseeing the transfer of money or valuables from one location to another. He took his work very seriously, and had several official commendations for bravery. He had no sense of humour at all, but then, no one’s perfect. Especially not in Haven.

  Hawk had worked with both of them in his time, and was glad he had someone apart from Fisher to watch his back this time. They were both good men, men he could depend on. The only real wild card in the pack was the sorceress Mistique. She was new to the Guard, and still looking for a chance to show what she could do. Mistique was a tall, slender, fluttering woman in her early thirties, dressed in sorcerer’s black, carefully cut in the latest fashion to show lots of bare flesh. If the cold bothered her at all, she didn’t show it. She had a long, horsey face, and a friendly, toothy grin that made her look ten years younger. She had a husky, upper-class accent and wouldn’t answer questions about her background. She also had a thick mass of long black curly hair she had to keep sweeping back out of her eyes. All together, she wasn’t exactly the most organized person Hawk had ever met, but she was supposed to be bloody good at what she did, and he’d settle for that. Morgan’s warehouse would undoubtedly be crawling with defensive magic and booby traps. The only real problem with Mistique was that she hardly ever seemed to stop talking. And she wore literally dozens of beads and bangles and bracelets that clattered loudly as she walked. Hawk made a mental note not to include her in any plans that involved sneaking up on the enemy.