Guards of Haven

  Glen and Barber cut and stamped and thrust, grinning humourlessly as they panted and grunted with every moment. Sweat ran down their faces as they both tried every trick they knew, only to see their moves blocked or countered by the other’s skill or speed. Finally a mercenary bumped into Barber from behind, throwing him off balance for a fraction of a second, and that was all Glen needed. He lunged forward with all his weight behind it, and his sword slammed between Barber’s ribs and punched bloodily out of his back. Barber sank to his knees, fighting for breath as blood filled his lungs, and tried to lift his sword. Glen put his foot against Barber’s chest and pushed him backwards, jerking out his sword as he did so. Barber fell on his back, blood filling his mouth. There was no pain yet, held off for the moment by shock, and his mind seemed strangely clear and alert. He rolled awkwardly onto his side and channeled all his will into his sole remaining talent: the ability to move unseen and unheard. He crawled towards the door, where Winter was fighting fiercely, leaving a trail of his own blood behind him on the thick pile carpet, and neither the mercenaries nor the hostages paid him any attention. He grinned crazily, feeling blood roll down his chin. He’d get out of there and hole up somewhere till the army stormed the place. He’d done all that could be expected of him. As far as he was concerned, the fight was over. And then a shadow fell across his path, and he sensed someone leaning over him. A quiet voice spoke right next to his ear.

  “Nice try. But I know that trick too.”

  Glen thrust his sword through the back of Barber’s neck, skewering him to the floor. Blood gushed out of Barber’s mouth in a seemingly endless flow.

  Winter hit Glen from behind, slamming him against the wall and knocking the breath out of him. She drew back her sword for a killing thrust but then had to turn and run as mercenaries burst out of the milling crowd after her. She glanced briefly at Barber’s unmoving body, and then sprinted out the door and down the empty corridor, not daring to look back at her pursuers. All thoughts of plans and revenge were forgotten for the moment, her mind filled only with the need to survive. She ran on, from corridor to corridor, never slowing, long after her pursuers had given up and turned back.

  Hawk and Fisher were backed right up against the double windows, facing a solid block of mercenaries. None of them seemed particularly anxious to get within sword’s range and risk their lives unnecessarily. There were more than enough of them to block off any hope of escape, and they were happy to settle for that. Hawk and Fisher stood side by side, weapons at the ready, using the opportunity to get their breath back. They had a strong feeling there might not be another.

  Bailey ploughed through the crowd towards Saxon, using his great size to open up a path before him. Hostages and mercenaries alike hurried to get out of his way, reacting as much to the grim determination in his face as his imposing size. Saxon spun round to face the new threat, not even breathing hard. There was blood on his hands and his clothing, and none of it was his. Bailey bore down on Saxon, swinging his great sword with both hands. Saxon waited till the last minute, and then ducked easily under the blow and sank his fist into Bailey’s gut. The fist drove clean through Bailey’s chain mail and brought him to a sudden halt, as though he’d run into a wall. He convulsed as the fist plunged on, burying itself in his gut, and the heavy sword slipped from his numb hands. Bailey felt the strength go out of his legs and deliberately slumped forward, trying to bring Saxon down with the sheer weight of his huge frame. Saxon stopped Bailey’s fall and picked him up easily, as though the huge mercenary weighed practically nothing, and threw him against the nearest wall.

  Bailey hit the wall hard, the impact driving all the breath out of him. Ribs cracked audibly, driving spikes of pain into his side, and his eyesight faded out for a moment, but somehow he got his feet under him again, and his hands curled into fists before him. Saxon stepped forward and drove his fist into Bailey’s stomach, crushing it between his fist and the wall. Blood flew from Bailey’s mouth, and he collapsed as the last of his strength went out of him. He sat with his back against the wall, looking unflinchingly up at Saxon as he raised his fist for the final blow that would crush Bailey’s skull. And then Saxon hesitated, and lowered his fist. He crouched down before the huge man and looked at him thoughtfully. The watching hostages and mercenaries made no move to intervene. Bailey stared back at Saxon, breathing slowly and painfully.

  “Finish it. I’m dying anyway. Feels like you broke something important inside.”

  “Who are you?” said Saxon. “I feel like I ought to know you.”

  Bailey smiled, and blood ran from the comers of his mouth. “It’s been a long time, Wulf. Twenty-three years, since you ran out on us.”

  Saxon looked at him for a long moment, and then his blood ran cold as he saw the ghost of familiar features in Bailey’s battered and weather-worn face. “No ... Curt? Is that you, Curt?”

  “Took you long enough, Wulf. Or had you forgotten all about your baby brother?”

  “They told me you were dead!”

  Bailey smiled again. “They said the same about you. But I recognized you the first moment I saw you, pretending to be a guard. You haven’t changed at all, Wulf.”

  “You have. Look at the size of you. Dammit, Curt, you were always such a scrawny kid.... Why the hell did you fight me? We’re family.”

  “No,” said Bailey flatly. “You stopped being family when you ran out on us. These people are my family now. I would have killed you if I could. But you always were a better fighter than me. Finish it, Wulf. Don’t let me die slow, if there’s a spark of honor left within you.”

  “Curt, don’t make me do this. I can’t let you go, not after finding you again. Don’t leave me here alone.”

  “Selfish as ever, Wulf. Do it, damn you! Put me out of my misery! You owe me that much.”

  Bailey coughed harshly, spraying blood across Saxon’s face. Saxon brushed it away with his sleeve, and then reached out tenderly and took Bailey’s head in his hands. “Rest easy, brother.”

  He snapped Bailey’s head round sharply, and there was a loud crack as the neck broke. Saxon released him, and Bailey slumped back against the wall and was still. Saxon looked at him for a long moment, and then reached out and closed his brother’s eyes. He rose clumsily to his feet, and looked around him, and the mercenaries shrank back from the rage and despair in his eyes. He strode over to the hidden door in the wall, still wedged half-open, and disappeared into the concealed passageway. No one made any move to stop him, or follow after him.

  By the time Madigan and Ritenour appeared on the scene, shortly afterwards, the fighting was over. The hostages had been rounded up and put under guard again. Hawk and Fisher stood at bay before the windows, and MacReady watched calmly from his corner. Madigan looked at the dead and injured lying scattered across the room, and beckoned to Glen, who hurried over to join him, grinning broadly.

  “What happened?” said Madigan.

  “Local SWAT team tried for a rescue,” said Glen. “One’s dead, two ran away, including that bastard Saxon, and we’ve got the other three boxed in. They’re not going anywhere. I thought you’d want to talk to them before we killed them.”

  “Quite right,” said Madigan, smiling at him briefly. “You’ve done well, Glen. Now have the bodies removed, and see to the wounded.”

  Glen frowned. “Does that include the hostages?”

  “Of course. They’ll die when I decide, not before.” He nodded for Ritenour to accompany him, and strode unhurriedly over to MacReady. “And who might you be?”

  “John MacReady, negotiator for the Haven SWAT team. I assure you there’s no need for any further violence. If we could just sit down somewhere and talk, I’m sure we could find a way out of this situation.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Madigan. “But I really have no need for a negotiator. I like the situation the way it is.” He looked across at Glen. “Kill this one.”

  “You can’t,” said MacReady quickly. “I cannot
be harmed.”

  Madigan looked at Ritenour. “Is that right?”

  “Normally, yes.” Ritenour looked at MacReady, and smiled. “But, unfortunately for him, there’s so much magic built into these walls it’s quite simple for me to put aside the charm that protects him. He’s all yours, Madigan. But I should cut off the head, just to be sure.”

  “An excellent suggestion.” Madigan nodded to Glen. “Cut off his head.”

  Glen gestured to two mercenaries, who grabbed MacReady by the arms and dragged him out of his corner. At first it seemed he couldn’t believe it, but then he began to struggle and shout as they forced him onto his knees in front of Glen. They held him easily. Glen raised his sword, took careful aim, and brought it down in a long, sweeping stroke. The blade bit deeply into the back of MacReady’s neck, and blood spurted over a wide area. He heaved against the mercenaries’ hands, and almost got his feet under him before they forced him down again. Glen struck again and again, hacking at MacReady’s neck like a woods-man with a stubborn tree trunk. Many of the hostages cried out, or turned their faces away as MacReady’s screams gave way to horrid sounds. Glen’s sword cut through at last, and MacReady’s head rolled away across the carpet, the mouth still working though the eyes were glazed. The two mercenaries dropped the twitching body, stepped back, and tried to wipe some of the blood from their clothes. Glen wiped the sweat from his forehead, and grinned at Madigan.

  “Never actually beheaded a man before. Hard work, that. Executioners always make it look so easy.”

  “Imagine the wooden block makes a lot of difference,” said Madigan. “Remove the head and the body. Burn the body, but give the head to the city negotiators, so they can see what happens to those foolish enough to try and stage a rescue.” He turned away and looked at Hawk and Fisher, staring grimly at him from their place before the double windows. “And now. finally, we come to you. The infamous Captains Hawk and Fisher. I always thought you’d be taller. No matter. I think we’ll make your deaths last a little longer, as an example to those who would dare defy me. I wish I had more time, to allow for some real inventiveness, but even so, I promise you you’ll beg for death before I’m done.” He turned to the nearest mercenary. “Heat some irons in the fire.” He smiled at Hawk and Fisher. “I’ve always been a traditionalist in such things.” He gestured for his men to come forward. “Disarm them, and then strip them.”

  Hawk glanced over his shoulder, out the windows. Madigan smiled. “Don’t even think about it, Captain. We’re on the top floor, remember? It’s four stories, straight down. The fall would undoubtedly kill you both.”

  Hawk put away his axe, and gestured for Fisher to do the same. He grinned back at Madigan, his single eye burning coldly. “Better a quick death than a slow one. Right, Isobel?”

  “Right, Hawk. Burn in hell, Madigan.”

  Hawk turned and kicked the windows open. The mercenaries surged forward. Hawk took Fisher’s hand in his, and together they jumped out of the windows, and disappeared from sight.

  5

  At Play in the Fields of the Lord

  Madigan looked at the open windows for a moment, and then shrugged and turned away. “A pity. Now I’ll never know whether or not I could have broken them. Still, that’s life. Or in their case, death.”

  “Shall I take the irons out of the fire, sir?” asked the mercenary by the fireplace.

  Madigan considered the matter briefly, and then shook his head. “No, leave them there. You never know; someone else might annoy me. In the meantime, send someone down to recover Hawk and Fisher’s bodies, and then deliver them to the city negotiators. When they ask how their famous Captains died, you can tell them that the illustrious Hawk and Fisher leapt to their deaths rather than face me.”

  Madigan dismissed the mercenary and the subject with a wave of his hand, and moved away to stare thoughtfully down at Bailey’s body. The big man looked somehow even larger in death, despite the blood and the limply lolling head. Glen was crouching beside him, staring into Bailey’s empty face as though waiting for him to explain what had gone wrong. A lock of Bailey’s hair had fallen across his eyes, and Glen tucked it back out of the way with an almost gentle touch. He realized Madigan was standing over him, and looked up quickly, expecting some scathing comment at such a show of weakness. Instead, to his surprise, Madigan crouched down beside him.

  “It’s not wrong to grieve, boy. We’ve all lost friends and loved ones. That’s what brought most of us into the Cause in the first place. You’ll get your chance to avenge him.”

  “He always looked out for me,” said Glen. “Taught me how to work as part of a team. I wish I’d listened to him more now.”

  “I wonder what they talked about,” said Madigan.

  Glen looked at him, puzzled. “Who?”

  “Bailey and the man who killed him, Wulf Saxon. They talked for a moment, before Saxon broke Bailey’s neck. If I can find the time, I think I’ll have Ritenour call up Bailey’s spirit, and ask him. It might be important. Saxon is becoming dangerously meddlesome.” He realized Glen was staring at him, shocked. “Is something wrong, Ellis?”

  “Bailey’s dead. He died for us! It isn’t right to disturb his rest.”

  Madigan put his hand on Glen’s shoulder. “He died for the Cause, because he knew nothing was more important than what we plan to do here tonight. He’d understand that sometimes you have to do unpleasant things because they’re necessary. We took an oath, Ellis, remember? All of us. Anything for the Cause. ”

  “Yes,” said Glen. “Anything for the Cause.” He got to his feet and sat on the edge of the buffet table while he cleaned the blood from his sword with a piece of cloth. He didn’t look at Madigan or Bailey.

  Madigan sighed quietly, and moved to the other end of the table, where the sorcerer Ritenour was dubiously sampling some of the more exotic side dishes. He picked up a wine bottle to study the label, and Madigan produced a silver hip flask and offered it to him. “Try some of mine. I think you’ll find it a far superior vintage to anything you’re likely to find here. Whoever stocked this House’s cellar had a distinctly pedestrian palate.”

  Ritenour took the flask, opened it, and sniffed the bouquet cautiously. His eyebrows rose, and he studied Madigan with a new respect. “You continue to surprise me, Daniel. It’s hard to picture you sampling vintages in between the kidnappings and assassinations.”

  Madigan shrugged easily. “Every man should have a hobby.”

  Ritenour poured a healthy measure into a glass, and then stopped and looked at Madigan suspiciously. “Aren’t you joining me, Daniel?”

  “Of course,” said Madigan. He took back the flask, found himself a glass, and filled it almost to the brim. He rolled the wine in the glass to release the bouquet, savored it for a moment, and then drank deeply. He sighed appreciatively, and then lowered the glass and looked coldly at the sorcerer. “Really, Ritenour, you don’t think I’d poison my own wine, do you? Particularly a fine vintage like this.”

  Ritenour bowed slightly. “My apologies, Daniel. Old habits die hard.”

  “A toast, then. I think we’re ready to begin the final phase. To success!”

  They both drank deeply, and Madigan took the opportunity to look around the room. Most of the hostages were still in shock from the sudden death and violence, and the dashing of their hopes of rescue, but some were clearly seething with anger at being betrayed by those they’d thought they could trust. Violence was bubbling just below the surface, and several of the mercenaries were watching the situation carefully, swords at the ready. Sir Roland and his fellow conspirators had been herded off to one side by the mercenaries, at their own request, and now stood close together, their faces wearing an uneasy blend of self-righteousness and apprehension. Some of them looked to Madigan for support, but he just looked back impassively. The traitors had done as he’d expected, but their usefulness had passed. They were expendable now. Just like everyone else.

  As he watched, the crowd of
hostages suddenly parted as the two Kings strode forward together to glare at the traitors. A thin line of mercenaries kept the two groups apart with raised swords. King Gregor of the Low Kingdoms ignored them, fixing Sir Roland with a burning gaze. The traitor stared back unflinchingly, with mocking self-assurance.

  “Why?” said King Gregor finally. “Why did you betray us? I trusted you, Roland. I gave you wealth and position and favor. What more could you want?”

  “Power,” said Sir Roland easily. “And a great deal more wealth. I’ll have both, once Outremer and the Low Kingdoms are at war. My associates and I had been planning for some time on how best to take advantage of a small, carefully controlled war on our outer borders, and we weren’t about to abandon all our plans just because both Parliaments suddenly got cold feet. War is too important to the right sort of people to be left to politicians.”

  “You won’t get away with this,” said King Louis of Outremer, his voice calm and quiet and very dangerous. “There’s nowhere you can go, nowhere you can hide, that my people won’t find you. I’ll see you dragged through the streets by your heels for this.”

  Sir Roland smiled arrogantly. “You’re in no position to threaten anyone, old man. You see, you don’t really understand what’s going on here. To begin with, you can forget about being ransomed. Madigan doesn’t give a damn about the money. Like us, he’s in favor of war, so he’s planned an atrocity so shocking that war will be inevitable, once carefully planted rumors have convinced both sides that the other is really to blame.”

  “What ... kind of atrocity?” said King Gregor.

  “You’re going to be executed. Your Majesty,” said Sir Roland. “You, and King Louis, and all the other hostages, save for those few like myself, who can be trusted to tell the story in the right way. Isn’t that right, Madigan?”