Bones of Haven

  He wondered if Eleanour had seen him blushing. He worshipped her almost as much as he did Madigan, though for different reasons. He'd kill for Madigan, but he'd die for Eleanour. She was everything he dreamed of being—a cool professional killer who stood at Madigan's right hand, his trusted support and confidante. She was also heart-stoppingly beautiful, and on the few occasions when she actually smiled at him, he walked around in a daze for minutes on end. He'd never told her how he felt, of course. He'd seen the way she looked at Madigan. But still he dreamed. And it was only in his dreams that it occurred to him that Eleanour might look more kindly on him if Madigan wasn't around any longer…

  Bailey strode through the crowd to rejoin his associates, and people hurried to get out of his way. His huge frame was intimidating, even when he was trying his best to be inconspicuous. Ritenour was glad to see the big man back again, even though he couldn't stand the fellow. Madigan had sent the warrior out on reconnaissance almost an hour ago, and the long wait had been wearing at everyone's nerves. Everyone except Madigan, of course. Bailey ground to a halt before Madigan, and nodded briefly.

  "Everything's set. The men are all in position, awaiting your signal to begin."

  "Are you sure we can trust these men?" said Ritenour. "If they let us down, or turn against us, we're dead."

  "Relax, shaman," said Madigan easily. "These are professional fighting men, every one; a hundred of the very best, gathered and placed under contract outside Haven so as not to draw unwelcome attention. We can trust them to fight and die like any other mercenary, particularly on the wages they've been promised."

  "I'd have thought you'd be happier with fanatics, ready to die for their Cause."

  "I don't want men who can die; I want men who can win. That's enough questions for now, shaman. We have work to do."

  "If you'd take the time to fill me in on what's happening, I wouldn't have to keep asking questions."

  "You know all you have to. Now be quiet. Or I'll have Bailey remonstrate with you."

  Ritenour looked at the huge warrior looming over him, and decided there was nothing to be gained by pushing Madigan any further. He had to know more about the terrorists' plans if he was to know the best time to cut and run, but that could wait. He had no intention of leaving without his money, anyway, and he also had to be sure that Madigan was in no position to come after him. He gazed haughtily up at Bailey, and turned his back on him. The huge warrior chuckled quietly. Ritenour pointedly ignored him, and fixed his attention on Champion House. A light flared briefly in an upper window. There was a slight pause, and then it flashed again. Madigan nodded calmly.

  "About time, Sir Roland. Bailey, give the signal. The wards are finally down, and we can proceed."

  Bailey waved his hand over his head, and the mercenaries appeared from everywhere, with swords and axes in their hands. They came from among the gawking crowd, from the beggars at the main gate, and from every side street and alleyway. They were in a multitude of disguises, but all of them wore the identifying black iron tore of the mercenary on their wrist. They howled a deafening mixture of battle cries, and threw themselves at the various gates in the House's outer walls. The honor guards fought well and valiantly, but were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer number of their attackers. The mercenaries hurdled their twitching bodies and raced on into the grounds.

  Madigan led his people through the panicking crowd, and approached the main gate. A small band of guards had slammed the gate in the mercenaries' faces, and were somehow still holding their ground behind the gate's heavy steel framework. Madigan looked at Ritenour, who nodded quickly. He gestured at the guards and spoke a minor Word of Power. The guards fell screaming to the ground as the blood boiled like acid in their veins. Steam rose from their twisting bodies as the acid ate holes in their flesh. Ritenour gestured again, and the gate swung open, pushing the guards' bodies out of the way. Madigan led his people though the open gate and into the grounds, smiling quietly at the chaos his mercenaries had caused.

  A small army of guards and men-at-arms spilled out of the House and stared wildly about them, confused and disoriented because the security wards had failed them. The mercenaries fell upon them like starving wolves, and blades flashed dully in the rain. The air was full of screams and war cries, and blood pooled thickly on the sodden ground. Madigan cut down the first defender to get in his way with a single stroke of his sword, and passed on without slowing. Bailey strode at his side, wielding his great sword with casual, professional skill. No one could stand against his strength and skill, and only the desperate or the foolish even tried. Horn and Eleanour Todd busied themselves opening up a bloody path for Madigan to walk through. Glen fought where he would, cutting down opponents as fast as he could reach them. His face was wild and horribly happy, and his chain mail was thickly spattered with other men's blood. He was always in the thick of the fighting, but no one could touch him. He killed wherever his eyes fell, and it was never enough. Ritenour hurried to keep up with the others, saving his magic as much as he could. He was going to need all his power for the horrible thing Madigan wanted him to do later.

  Men-at-arms and honor guards threw themselves at the advancing terrorists, and fell back dead and dying. All across the grounds the defenders were being killed or beaten back, and mercenaries were streaming into the House itself. Madigan led his people through the open front door, and into the entrance hall. He paused just long enough to congratulate the mercenaries who were guarding the door, and then led his people quickly through the panic-filled corridors, ignoring the screaming servants who scattered before the terrorists' bloody blades like startled geese. A small group of men-at-arms tried to ambush them in an open hall, and the terrorists quickly closed around Madigan to protect him. Bailey scattered the men-at-arms with wide sweeps of his great sword, and Glen and Eleanour Todd cut them down with savage efficiency. The last remaining man-at-arms tried to turn and run, and Horn disemboweled him with a casual sideways sweep of his sword. The man sank to his knees, and tried to stuff his bloody guts back into his stomach. The terrorists left him sitting there, and continued on their way. Ritenour hurried along in the rear, fighting for breath but not wanting to be left behind. Here and there the House's defenders still struggled with Madigan's mercenaries, but they were clearly outnumbered and outmatched. Blood and gore soaked the thick pile carpets and spattered the priceless tapestries.

  Finally they came to the main parlor on the fourth floor, and Madigan stood for a moment in the doorway, smiling round at the terrified guests. The guards and men-at-arms in the room were all dead, the bodies left to lie where they had fallen. Twenty mercenaries surrounded the guests with drawn swords, and a small pile of mostly ceremonial swords and daggers at one side showed that the prisoners had already been disarmed. Madigan nodded approvingly, and walked unhurriedly into the room, flanked by Horn and Eleanour Todd. He stopped before the two Kings, sitting stiffly in their chairs with knives at their throats, and bowed politely. His voice was smooth and assured and only lightly mocking.

  "Your Majesties, I do beg your pardon for this intrusion. Allow me to assure you that as long as you and your guests behave yourselves, there is no reason why most of you shouldn't leave this room alive. Please don't delude yourselves with any thought of rescue. My men now control this House and its surrounding grounds. Your men are dead."

  "You won't get away with this!" A gray-haired General from the Outremer delegation stepped forward, ignoring the swords that moved to follow him. His uniform had been pressed within an inch of its life, and his right breast bore ribbons from a dozen major campaigns. His face was flushed with anger, and his eyes met Madigan's unflinchingly. "By now this whole area is surrounded by enough armed men to outnumber your little army a hundred times over. You don't have a hope in hell of getting out of here alive. Surrender now, and I'll see you get a fair trial."

  Madigan nodded to Horn, who stepped forward and plunged his sword into the General's belly. There were muffled scream
s from some of the ladies, and gasps from the men. The General looked down at the sword unbelievingly. Horn twisted the blade, and blood poured down between the General's legs. He groaned softly and sank to his knees. Horn withdrew the blade, and the General fell forward onto the bloody carpet. Over by the door. Glen giggled quietly. Madigan looked calmly about him.

  "I trust there'll be no more outbursts. Any further unpleasantness will be dealt with most firmly."

  No one said anything. The General was breathing heavily as blood pooled around him, but no one dared approach him. Ritenour took advantage of the pause to surreptitiously study four bodies in sorcerer's black that had been dumped unceremoniously in a pile by the door. Their faces were pale, their eyes bulged unseeing from their sockets, and their lips were tinged with blue.

  Poison, thought Ritenour approvingly. No wonder the Kings' sorcerers were unable to maintain the House's wards or defend against the mercenaries' attack. Madigan's pet traitors must have doctored their wine.

  He looked up quickly as a mercenary came running into the room and whispered at length to Bailey. The big man nodded, and moved forward to murmur in Madigan's ear. The terrorist smiled and turned back to face his reluctant audience.

  "You'll no doubt be relieved to hear that the authorities have been informed of your plight and negotiations for your release will soon begin. Now, I suppose you're wondering what this is all about. It's really very simple. Everyone here will be released unharmed when the authorities agree to meet my demands, which are very reasonable under the circumstances. I want one million ducats in gold and silver, carts to transport it, and a ship waiting at the docks to carry us away from Haven. I also want a number of political prisoners freed from jails in the Low Kingdoms and Outremer. A list of names and locations will be provided."

  King Gregor of the Low Kingdoms leaned forward slightly, careful of the knife at his throat. His narrow, waspish features did little to hide the anger boiling within him, but when he spoke his voice was calm and even. "And if our respective Parliaments should refuse to go along with your demands; what then?"

  King Louis of Outremer nodded firmly, imperiously ignoring the knife at his throat. His unremarkable face had the constant redness that comes from too much good food and drink, but his smile was unflinchingly arrogant, and his eyes were full of a cold, contemptuous fury. "They won't pay. They can't afford to give in to terrorist scum. Not even for us." His smile widened slightly. "If we'd been the Prime Ministers you might have got away with it. But our Parliaments won't pay a single penny for us, or release a single prisoner. They can't afford to look weak, or they'd end up a target for every terrorist group with a grudge or a Cause."

  "I hope for your sake that you're wrong," said Madigan calmly. "If my demands are not met before the deadline I've set, I'll have no choice but to begin by killing your guests, one at a time, and sending out the bodies to convince the authorities I mean business. If that doesn't impress them, I'll start sending out pieces of your royal anatomy. I think I'll begin with the teeth. They should last a while." He looked away from the silent Kings and smiled at the assembled guests, who shrank before his cold gaze. "Do make yourselves comfortable, my friends. We're in for something of a wait, I fear, before Haven's authorities can get their scattered wits together enough to begin negotiations. Remember: as long as you behave yourselves, you'll be well treated, annoy me, and I'll have my men hurt some of you severely, as an example to the others. And please; put all thoughts of rescue out of your minds. You're mine now."

  He looked at Horn and Todd. "Take them into the adjoining rooms in small groups, and have the mercenaries search them thoroughly. I don't want anyone harboring any nasty surprises. Strip them if necessary, and confiscate anything that even looks dangerous." He looked back at the white-faced guests. "Anyone who wishes to give up their little secrets now, to avoid any unpleasantness, is of course welcome to do so."

  There was a pause, and then several men and a few of the ladies produced hidden knives and dropped them on the floor. Two mercenaries quickly gathered up the weapons and put them with the other confiscated blades. Madigan waited patiently, and one lady pulled a long hat pin from her hair and offered it to the nearest mercenary, who took it with a grin and a knowing wink. The lady ignored him. Wulf Saxon raised his hand politely. Madigan looked at him.

  "If you want to visit the jakes, you'll have to wait."

  "I have a document container strapped to my leg," said Saxon. "I don't want it confused for a weapon."

  "Then I think we'd better have a look at it, just to be sure," said Madigan. "Drop your trousers." Saxon looked around him, and Madigan smiled. "We're all friends together here. Now take them off, or I'll have someone take them off for you."

  Saxon undid his belt, and lowered his trousers with immense dignity. Madigan approached him, and prodded the leather canister with the tip of his sword. Saxon didn't flinch.

  "What's in the container?" said Madigan, not looking up.

  "Documents," said Saxon vaguely. "I'm a courier."

  "Take it off and give it to me."

  Saxon did so, as slowly as he dared. He'd hoped that by revealing the canister openly, he could bluff them into thinking it was unimportant and therefore not worth opening, but he couldn't refuse a direct order from Madigan. Not if he wanted to keep his teeth where they were. On the other hand, he couldn't afford to hand over the fake Treaties. They'd break the avoidance spell easily, once they realized what it was, and once they read the parchments they'd be bound to ask all sorts of awkward questions. And whatever happened then, his chance of vengeance would be gone. Terrorists! He'd planned for anything but that. He still had his smoke bombs, but it was a long way to the door, and the solitary double windows overlooked a hell of a long drop to the unforgiving flagstones below. Even he might not survive a fall of four stories. Besides, both the house and the grounds were apparently occupied by mercenaries. There could be a whole army out there for all he knew. And there were definite limits to his new strength and speed… especially with his trousers round his ankles. He handed the leather canister over to Madigan as casually as he could. There was a way out of this. There had to be. A dozen possible stratagems ran through his mind as Madigan opened the canister, looked briefly at the parchments, and then turned the receptacle upside down and shook it, to check there was nothing else inside but the padding. He sniffed, unimpressed, and dropped the canister and parchments onto the buffet table. Saxon almost gaped at him. The terrorist obviously considered him completely harmless and unimportant. The nerve of the man! Saxon was so outraged, he almost forgot to be relieved about the parchments. He'd make the terrorist pay for this insult. He didn't know how yet, but he'd think of something. In the meantime… He coughed loudly. "Excuse me, but can I pull my trousers back up?"

  "Of course," said Madigan. "we're not barbarians." Saxon pulled his pants back up, and forced the belt shut, regretting once again that he couldn't have found a larger guard to steal a uniform from. It suddenly struck him that it was only a matter of time before Madigan's people discovered the guard and the two officers he'd stuffed into the closet. And Madigan didn't look the type to suffer mysteries long. Saxon scowled mentally. The sooner he figured out a way to shake off the terrorists and disappear, the better. Not that he had any intention of leaving Champion House just yet. No one insulted him and ruined one of his scams and got away with it. He had his reputation to think of. The Kings could wait. Madigan and his terrorists were going to rue the day they ever crossed Wulf Saxon.

  Ritenour found himself a comfortable chair, and gave some serious attention to the plateful of food he'd gathered from the buffet. Nothing like hard work to give you a good appetite. He offered a chicken leg to Bailey, but the big man ignored him, presumably too professional to allow himself to be distracted while on duty. Idiot. Ritenour took a healthy bite from the chicken leg, and chewed thoughtfully as he studied his fellow conspirators.

  Glen was almost falling over himself trying to impress B
ailey with accounts of his part in the storming of Champion House. Bailey was listening indulgently, though his gaze never left the captives. Madigan and Todd were talking quietly together. Ritenour still wasn't sure about them. Sometimes they seemed like partners, or even lovers, but at other times Madigan treated her as just another follower. Horn was watching the two of them covertly, clearly jealous of the attention Todd was getting from Madigan. Ritenour filed the thought away for future reference. It might come in handy to have something divisive to use against his new associates. They were all too eager to give everything for their precious Cause, for his liking. Ritenour had no intention of giving anything that mattered for anybody's Cause.

  He thought again of what Madigan wanted him to do, down in the cellar, and the parlor seemed suddenly colder.

  Chapter Four

  Something in the Dark

  Hawk waded slowly through dark, knee-high water in the sewers under the Westside, and tried hard not to recognize some of the things that were floating on the surface. Fisher moved scowling at his side, holding her lantern high to spread the light as far as possible. She kept a careful eye on the flame. If it flickered and changed color, it meant the gases in the air were growing dangerously poisonous. There were supposed to be old spells built into the sewers to prevent the build-up of such gases, but judging by the smell, they weren't working too well. Hawk wrinkled his nose and tried to breathe only through his mouth. If the air had been any thicker, he could have cut it with his axe.

  He glared about him, searching the low-ceilinged tunnel for signs of life, but everything seemed still and quiet. The only sounds came from the SWAT team splashing along behind him, and Fisher cursing monotonously under her breath. The lantern's golden light reflected back from the dark water and glistened on moisture running down the curved brick walls, but it didn't carry far down the tunnel, and the shadows it cast were lengthened and distorted by the curving brickwork. Hawk glowered unhappily, and pressed on through the filthy water and the stench. It was like moving through the bowels of the city, where all the filth and evil no one cared about ended up.