Guards of Haven

  “Oh, great. Now we’re in real trouble,” said Glen. “Want me to go get the sorcerer?”

  “Let’s not panic just yet,” said Bailey. “We don’t know that it’s really Wulf Saxon. He could be using the name just to throw us. The Saxon I knew was never a killer.”

  “A lot can happen to a man when he’s been dead for more than twenty years,” said Todd sharply. “You’re missing the point, Bailey, as usual. What Madigan has planned for this place is very delicate. We can’t afford any magical interruptions. And we definitely can’t afford to lose any more men, or we won’t be able to hold the House securely. Damn this Saxon! He could ruin everything!”

  “From what I remember of him,” said Bailey, “I think he could.”

  Down in the cellar, the sorcerer shaman Ritenour strode unhappily back and forth, staring about him. The single lamp on the wall behind him cast a pale silver glow across the great stone chamber and glistened on the moisture running down the wall. The cellar was a vast open space, and Ritenour’s footsteps echoed loudly on the quiet. The place had been a real mess until Madigan had had his men clear it out for the ritual, but Ritenour wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have preferred the cellar the way it was. It was too empty now, as though waiting for something to come and fill it.

  It was painfully cold, and his breath steamed on the still air, but that wasn’t why his hands were trembling. Ritenour was scared, and not just at the thought of what Madigan wanted him to do down here. All his instincts, augmented by his magic, were screaming at him to get out of the cellar while he still could. The House’s wards interfered with his magic and kept him from Seeing what was there too clearly, for which he was grateful. Something was bubbling beneath the surface of reality, something old and awful, pushing and pressing against the barriers of time and sorcery that held it, threatening to break through at any moment. Ritenour could smell blood on the air, and hear echoes of screams from long ago. He clasped his trembling hands together, and shook his head back and forth.

  I’ve torn the heart from a living child and stood over dying bodies with blood up to my elbows, and never once given a damn for ghosts or retribution. I’ve gone my own way in search of knowledge and to hell with whatever paths it took me down. So why can’t I stop my hands shaking?

  Because what lay waiting in the cellar knew nothing of reason or forgiveness, but only an endless hatred and an undying need for revenge. It was a power born of countless acts of blood and suffering, held back by barriers worn thin by time and attrition. It could not be harmed or directed or appeased. And it was because of this power that Madigan had brought him to Champion House.

  Ritenour scowled, and wrapped his arms around himself against the cold. He had to go through with it. He had to, because Madigan would kill him if he didn’t, and because there was no way out of the House that Madigan hadn’t got covered. It was at times like this that Ritenour wished he knew more about killing magics, but his research had never led him in that direction. Besides, he’d always known Madigan was protected by more than just his bodyguards.

  There was a clattering on the steps behind him, and a mercenary appeared, staring down into the gloom. “Better get your arse back up here, sorcerer. We’ve got problems. Real problems.”

  He turned and ran back up the stairs without waiting for an answer. Ritenour took a deep breath to try and calm himself. He didn’t want the others to be able to tell how much the cellar scared him.

  A quiet sound caught his attention and he looked quickly around, but the cellar was empty again now that the mercenary had left. He smiled briefly. He’d been down there on his own too long. His nerves were getting to him. The sound came again, and his heart leaped painfully in his chest. He glared about him, wanting to run, but determined not to be chased out of the cellar by his own fear. His gaze fell up on a wide circular drain set into the floor, and the tension gradually left his body and his mind. The drain had clearly been built into the floor back when the cellar had been a part of the old slaughterhouse. Probably led directly into the sewers, and that was what he could hear, echoing up the shaft. He strolled casually over to the drain and looked down it. The yard-wide opening was blocked off with a thick metal grille, but there was nothing to be seen beyond it save an impenetrable blackness. As he stood there, he heard the quiet sound again, this time clearly from somewhere deep in the shaft. Ritenour smiled. Just nerves. Nothing more. He cleared his throat and spat into the drain. He listened carefully, but didn’t hear it hit anything. He shrugged, and turned away. No telling how far down the sewers were. He supposed he’d better go back up and see what Madigan wanted. Maybe, if he was really lucky, Madigan had changed his mind about the ritual, and he wouldn’t have to come back down here again after all.

  Yeah. And the tides might go out backwards.

  He strode stiffly over to the stairs and made his way back up into the House, away from the cellar. He wasn’t hurrying. He wasn’t hurrying at all.

  Down in the sewers, at the bottom of the shaft that connected with the drain, Hawk look at the gob of spittle that had landed on his shoulder, and pulled a disgusted face. “The dirty bastard ...”

  “Count your blessings,” said Barber, trying to hide a grin and failing. “He could have been looking for a privy.”

  “I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about,” said Fisher calmly. “You’re already covered in blood and guts from the spider and God knows what else from the sewer water, so what harm’s a little spittle going to do you?”

  Hawk looked down at himself, and had to admit she had a point. He supposed he must have looked worse sometime in the past, but he was hard pressed to think when. “It’s the principle of the thing,” he said stiffly. “Anyway, it sounds like he’s left, so we can finally get a move on. I thought he was never going to go....”

  He looked unenthusiastically at the opening above him. The cellar drain emptied out into the sewer through a broad circular hole in the tunnel ceiling. It was about three feet wide, and dripping with particularly repellent black slime that Hawk quickly decided he didn’t want to study too closely. He looked back at Winter. “What was this, originally?”

  “Originally, it carried blood and offal and other things down from the old slaughterhouse,” said Winter offhandedly. “These days, Champion House uses it for dumping garbage and slops and other things.”

  “Other things?” repeated Hawk suspiciously. “What other things?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to tell you,” said Winter. “Because if I did you’d probably get all fastidious and refuse to go, and we have to go up that shaft. It’s the only way in. Now get a move on; we’re way behind schedule as it is. It’s quite simple; you just wedge yourself into the shaft, press hard against the sides with your back and your feet, and wriggle your way up. As long as you watch out for the slime, you’ll be fine. It’s not a long climb; only ten or twelve feet.”

  Hawk gave her a look, and then gestured for Fisher to make a stirrup with her hands. She did so, and then pulled a face as he set a dripping boot into her hands. Hawk braced himself, and jumped up into the shaft, boosted on his way by Fisher. It was a tighter fit than he’d expected, and he had to scrunch himself up to fit into the narrow shaft. His knees were practically up in his face as he set his feet against the other side and began slowly inching his way up. The others clambered in after him, one at a time, and light filled the shaft as MacReady brought up the rear, carrying his lantern. Fisher had put hers away so that she could concentrate on her climbing. As it turned out, one was more than enough to illuminate the narrow shaft, and emphasize how claustrophobic it was.

  The slime grew thicker as they made their way up, and Hawk had to press his feet and back even harder against the sides to keep from slipping. He struggled on, inch by inch, sweat running down his face from the effort. A growing ache filled his bent back, and his shoulders were rubbed raw. Every time he shifted his weight, pain stabbed through him in a dozen places, but he couldn’t stop to rest. If
he relaxed the pressure, even for a moment, he’d start to slip, and he doubted he had the strength left to stop himself before he crashed into the others climbing below him. He pressed on, bit by bit—pushing out with shoulders and elbows while repositioning his feet, and then pressing down with his feet while he wriggled his back up another few precious inches. Over and over again, while his muscles groaned and his back shrieked at him.

  “Not unlike being born, this, only in reverse,” said Fisher from somewhere down below him, in between painful-sounding grunts.

  No one had the breath to laugh, but Hawk managed to grin. The grin stretched into a grimace as muscles cramped agonizingly in his thighs, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. A pale light showed, further up, marking the end of the shaft and sparking the beginning of a second wind in Hawk. He struggled on, trying to keep the noise to a minimum just in case there was someone still in the cellar. If anyone was to take a look down the drain and spot them, they’d be helpless targets for all kinds of unpleasantness. He tried very hard not to think about boiling oil, and concentrated on maintaining an even rhythm so his muscles wouldn’t cramp up again. As a result, when his head slammed into something hard and unyielding, he was taken completely by surprise and slid back a good foot or more before he could stop himself. He stayed where he was for a moment, his heart hammering, feeling very glad that he hadn’t dropped onto the person below, and then he craned his neck back to get a look at what was blocking the shaft.

  “Why have we stopped?” asked Winter, from somewhere below. “Is there a problem?”

  “You could say that,” said Hawk. “The top of the shaft’s sealed off with an iron grille.”

  “Can you shift it?”

  “I can try. But it looks pretty solid, and I don’t have much room for leverage. Everyone stay put, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  He struggled back up the shaft, braced himself just below the iron grille, and studied it carefully. There were no locks or bolts that he could see, but on the other hand there were no hinges either. Damned thing looked as though it had been simply wedged into a place, and left to rust solid. He reached up and gave it a good hard push with one hand, but it didn’t budge. He tried again, using both hands, but only succeeded in pushing himself back down the shaft. He fought his way back up again, set his shoulders against the grille, and heaved upwards with all his strength. He held the position as long as he could, but his strength gave out before the grille did, and he started sliding slowly back down the shaft. He used his aching legs to bring himself to a halt again, and thought furiously. They couldn’t have come all this way, just to be stopped by a stubborn iron grille. There had to be a way to shift it.

  An idea came to him, and he forced his way back up the shaft until he was right beneath the grille. He drew his axe, with a certain amount of painful contorting, and jammed the edge of the blade into the fine crack between the grille and the shaft itself. He braced himself again, took several deep breaths, and then threw all his weight against the axe’s haft, using the weapon as a lever. The iron grille groaned loudly, shifted a fraction, and then flew open with an echoing clang.

  Hawk grabbed the edge of the hole to keep from falling, and hauled himself painfully out into the cellar. He glared quickly about him, in case anyone had heard the noise, but there was no one else in the vast stone chamber. He crawled away from the hole and tried to stand up, but his legs gave way almost immediately, the muscles trembling in reaction to everything he’d put them through. He sat up, put his axe to one side, and set about massaging his leg muscles. His back was killing him too, but that could wait. He just hoped no one would come to investigate the noise. In his present condition he’d be lucky to hold off a midget with a sharpened comb. He shook his head, and concentrated on kneading some strength back into his legs.

  Fisher hauled herself out of the drain shaft next, her back dripping with slime, and pulled herself over to collapse next to Hawk. They shared exhausted grins, and then helped each other to their feet as MacReady scrambled out of the drain, still clutching his lantern. For the first time, Hawk realised that there was already a lamp burning on the far wall. Considerate of someone. He frowned suddenly. It might be a good idea to get the hell out of the cellar before whoever it was came back for their lamp. Winter pulled herself out of the drain, waving aside MacReady’s offer of help, and stretched painfully as she moved away from the shaft on slightly shaking legs. Barber was the last one up, and bounded out of the drain as though he did this sort of thing every day and twice on holidays. Everyone looked at him with varying degrees of disgust, which he blithely ignored, ostentatiously studying the cellar. Hawk sniffed. He never had liked showoffs.

  “This is a bad place,” said MacReady suddenly. “I don’t like the feel of it at all.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Hawk. “Hang on and I’ll take it back to the store and get you another one. What do you mean, you don’t like the feel of it?”

  “Ease off, Hawk,” said Winter. “Mac has a sensitivity to magic. I trust his hunches. Still, this used to be part of the old slaughterhouse, remember? There’s bound to be a few bad resonances left over.”

  “It’s more than that,” said MacReady, without looking at her. “Contact Storm. See what he makes of this.”

  Winter shrugged. Storm? Can you hear me?

  They waited, but there was no reply in their minds.

  “Damn,” said Winter. “I was afraid of that. Now we’re in the House proper, the defensive wards are blocking him off from us. We’re on our own.”

  “Terrific,” said Hawk. “I already figured that out when he didn’t offer to levitate us up the drain shaft.”

  “There’s more here than just old slaughterhouse memories,” said MacReady slowly. “There have always been stories about Champion House. Hauntings, apparitions, strange sightings; uneasy feelings strong enough to send people screaming out into the night rather than sleep another hour in Champion House. The place has been quiet the past year or so, ever since the sorcerer Gaunt performed an exorcism here, but all the recent activity has awakened something. Something old, and powerful.

  “Did any of you ever wonder why Champion House has four stories? Four stories is almost unheard of in Haven, with our storms and gales. The amount of magic built into this House to keep it secure from even the worst storms staggers the imagination. But there had to be four stories. The original owner insisted on it. According to legend, the owner said the House would need the extra weight to hold something else down.”

  “If you’re trying to spook me,” said Fisher, “you’re doing a bloody good job. How come you never mentioned this before?”

  “Right,” said Hawk.

  “I never really believed it before,” said MacReady. “Not until I came here. Something’s down here with us. Watching us. Waiting for its chance to break free.”

  “Mac,” said Winter firmly, “stop it. When our mission is over, we can send a team of sorcerers down here to check things out, but in the meantime let’s just concentrate on the job at hand, shall we? The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can get out of here.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” said a voice behind them.

  The SWAT team spun round as one, automatically falling into defensive positions, weapons at the ready. The stairs leading from the House down into the cellars were packed with armed men, dressed in various clothing but all wearing the distinctive black iron tore of the mercenary on their left wrist. Their leader was a large, squarish figure with a barrel chest wrapped in gleaming chain mail. He grinned down at the SWAT team, raising an eyebrow at their generally filthy condition.

  “One of my men came down here to collect the lamp the sorcerer left behind, and heard suspicious noises down the drain. So, being a good and conscientious lad, he came and told me, and I brought a whole bunch of my men with me, just in case. And here you are! The Gods are good to me today. I reckon Madigan will be good for a tidy little bonus once I turn you over to him. Now
you can drop your weapons and walk out of here, or be dragged. Guess which I’d prefer.” He looked them over one at a time, waiting for a response, and seemed a little shaken at their calm silence. His gaze stopped on Hawk, covered from head to foot in blood and gore, and for the first time his confidence seemed to slip. “Who the hell are you people?”

  Hawk grinned suddenly, and a few of the mercenaries actually flinched a little. “We’re the law,” said Hawk. “Scary, isn’t it?”

  He launched himself forward, swinging his axe with both hands, and suddenly the mercenaries realised that while they were crowded together on the stairway they had no room in which to manoeuver. They started to retreat up the stairs, pushing each other aside for room in which to draw their swords. Their leader leveled his sword at Hawk, but Hawk batted it aside easily and buried his axe in the man’s chest. The heavy axehead punched clean through the chain mail, and the force of the blow drove the dead mercenary back against his men. Hawk jerked his axe free and charged into the mass of mercenaries, cutting viciously about him. Fisher and Barber were quickly there at his side, with Winter only a second or two behind them. Hawk burst through the crowd and blocked off the stairs so that none of them could break free to warn Madigan.

  Winter and Fisher fought side by side, cutting down the mercenaries one by one with cold precision, while Barber spun and danced, his sword lashing out with incredible speed, spraying blood and guts across the cold stone walls. His face was casual, almost bored. Soon there were only two mercenaries left, fighting back to back halfway up the stairs. Winter ran one through, and the other immediately dropped his sword and raised his arm in surrender. The SWAT team leaned on each other, breathing hard, and looked thoughtfully at the single survivor.

  “We don’t have the time to look after prisoners,” said Barber.

  “We can’t just kill him in cold blood!” said Hawk.