Guard Against Dishonor

  "You do realize you don't have to?"

  "I want to."

  "Legally, you're not bound to do so…"

  "Please, let me confess! I want to! Honestly!"

  "Good man," said Hawk, standing back from him. "It's always refreshing to meet a citizen who believes in honesty and justice. Now, get in there and start talking while we're still in a good mood."

  Benny ran out of the alleyway and back into Guard Headquarters. Fisher smiled and put away her knife. The two Guards left the alley and made their way unhurriedly down the street, heading back to their beat in the Northside.

  The Northside was the rotten heart of Haven, where all that was bad in the city came to the surface, like scum on poisoned wine. Crime and corruption and casual evil permeated the Northside, where every taste and trade was catered to. Various gangs of drug dealers fought running battles over lucrative territories, ruthlessly cutting down any innocent bystanders who got in the way. Spies plotted treason behind shuttered windows, and many doors opened only to the correct whispered password. Sweatshops and crowded slum tenements huddled together under broken street lamps, and the smoke from local factories hung permanently on the air, clawing at the throats of those who breathed it. Some said the Northside was as much a state of mind as an area, but states of mind don't usually smell that bad.

  Hawk and Fisher strolled through the narrow streets, nodding to familiar faces in the bustling crowd. Speed was a way of life in the Northside; there were deals to be made, slights to be avenged, and you never knew who might be coming up behind you. Hawk and Fisher rarely let themselves be hurried. You could miss things that way, and Hawk and Fisher always liked to know what was going on around them. They'd had the Northside as their beat for five years now, on and off, but despite their best efforts, little had changed in that time. For every villain they put away, the Northside produced two more to take his place, and the soul-grinding poverty that was at the root of most crimes never changed from one year to the next. In their most honest moments, Hawk and Fisher knew that all they'd really done was to drive the worst crimes underground, or into other areas. Things tended to be peaceful as long as they were around, but they couldn't be everywhere at once. Occasionally one or the other would talk about quitting, but they never did. They wouldn't give up. It wasn't in their natures. They took each day as it came, and helped those they could. Even little victories were better than none.

  The stone-and-timber buildings huddled together as though for warmth, their upper stories leaning out over the streets till their eaves almost touched. Piles of garbage thrust up through the snow and slush, and Hawk and Fisher had to be careful where they put their feet. The garbage collectors came once a month, and then only with an armed guard. The beggars who normally lived off the garbage had been driven from the streets by the cold, but there were still many who braved the bitter weather for their own reasons. Business went on in the Northside, no matter what the weather. Business, and other things.

  In the light of a flickering brazier, an angel from the Street of Gods was throwing dice with half a dozen gargoyles. A fast-talking salesman was hawking bracelets plated with something that looked like gold. A large Saint Bernard with a patchy dye job was trying to bum a light for its cigar. Two overlarge rats with human hands were stealing the boots off a dead man. And two nuns were beating up a mugger. Just another day in the Northside.

  A sudden burst of pleasant flute music filled Hawk's and Fisher's heads as the Guard communications sorcerer made contact. They stopped to listen and find out what the bad news was. It had to be bad news. It always was. Anything else could have waited till they got back to Headquarters. The flute music broke off abruptly, and was replaced by the dry, acid voice of the communications sorcerer.

  Attention all Guards in the North sector. There's a riot in The Crossed Pikes tavern at Salt Lane. There are a large number of dead and injured, including at least two Constables. Approach the situation with extreme caution. There is evidence of Chacal use by the rioters.

  Hawk and Fisher ran down the street, fighting the snow and slush that dragged at their boots. Salt Lane was four streets away, and a lot could happen in the time it would take them to get there. From the sound of it, too much had happened already. Hawk scowled as he ran. Riots were bad enough without drugs complicating the issue.

  Chacal was something new on the streets. Relatively cheap, and easy enough to produce by anyone with a working knowledge of alchemy and access to a bathtub, the drug brought out the animal side of man's nature. It heightened all the senses while turning off the higher functions of the mind, leaving the user little more than a wild animal, free to wallow in the moment and indulge any whim or gratify any desire, free from reason or remorse or any stab of conscience. The drug boosted the users' strength and speed and ferocity, making them almost unstoppable. It also burned out their nervous systems in time, leaving them paralysed or mad or dead from a dozen different causes. But life wasn't worth much in the Northside anyway, and there were all too many who were willing to swap a hopeless future for the savage joys of the present.

  Hawk and Fisher charged round the last corner into Salt Lane and then skidded to a halt. A large crowd had already gathered, packing the narrow street from side to side. The two Guards bulled their way through without bothering to be diplomatic about it, and quickly found themselves at the front of the crowd, facing The Crossed Pikes tavern from a safe distance. The tavern looked peaceful enough, apart from its shattered windows, but a Guard Constable was sitting on a nearby doorstep, pressing a bloody handkerchief to a nasty looking scalp wound. Blood covered half his face. He looked up dazedly as Hawk and Fisher approached him, and tried to get to his feet. Hawk waved for him to stay seated.

  "What happened here?"

  The Constable blinked and licked his dry lips. "My partner and I were the first here after the alarm went out. There was fighting and screaming inside the tavern, but we couldn't see anything. The crowd told us there were two Constables already in there, so my partner went in to check things out while I watched the crowd. I waited and waited, but he never came back. After a while it all went quiet, so I decided I'd just take a quick look through the door. I'd barely got my foot over the doorstep when something hit me. I couldn't see for blood in my eyes, so I got out of there quick. I'll try again in a minute, when I've got my breath back. My partner's still in there."

  Hawk clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. "You take a rest. Fisher and I'll have a look. If any more Guards come, keep them out here till we've had a chance to evaluate the situation. Are you sure it's chacal-users in there?"

  The Constable shrugged. "That's what the crowd said. But there's no way to be sure. As far as I can tell, anyone who was in the tavern when the trouble started is still in there."

  Hawk squeezed the Constable's shoulder comfortingly, and then he and Fisher moved off a way to discuss the matter.

  "What do you think?" said Hawk.

  "I think we should be very careful how we handle this. I don't like the sound of it at all. Three Guards missing, another injured and so spooked he can't bear to go near the place, and an unknown number of rioters who might just be out of their minds on chacal. The odds stink. How come we never get the easy assignments?"

  "There aren't any easy assignments in Haven. We've got to go in, Isobel. There could be innocent people trapped in there, unable to get out."

  "It's not very likely, Hawk."

  "No, it's not. But we have to check."

  Fisher nodded unhappily. "All right; let's do it, before we get a rush of brains to the head and realize what a dumb idea this is. What's the plan?"

  "Well, there's no point in trying to sneak in. If there are chacal-users in there, they'll be able to see, hear, and smell us coming long before we even get a glimpse of them. I say we burst in through the door, weapons at the ready, and hit anything that moves."

  "Planning never was your strong suit, was it, Hawk?"

  "Have you got a better id
ea?"

  "Unfortunately, no."

  Hawk grinned. "Then let's do it. Don't look so worried, lass. We've faced worse odds before."

  He drew his axe and Fisher drew her sword, and they moved cautiously over to the tavern's main entrance. The door was standing ajar, with only darkness showing beyond. Bright splashes of blood marked the polished wood, below a series of gouges that looked unnervingly like claw marks. Hawk listened carefully, but everything seemed still and quiet. He put his boot against the door and pushed it wide open. The two Captains braced themselves, but nothing happened. Hawk hefted his axe thoughtfully, and glanced at Fisher. She nodded, and they darted through the doorway together. Once inside they moved quickly apart to stand on either side of the door, so they wouldn't be silhouetted against the light, and waited silently for their eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  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 signaled 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 recognize 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."