Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher) (85 page)

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Authors: Simon R. Green

BOOK: Guards of Haven: The Adventures of Hawk and Fisher (Hawk & Fisher)
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They spun round to stare at Ritenour, standing fixed and frozen in his pentacle. His eye sockets were empty, and bloody trails down his face showed where the eyes had melted and run.
He must have finally opened his eyes and looked,
thought Hawk numbly.
Saxon appeared out of the shadows of the stairway and came to stand beside Hawk and Fisher. He started to ask what was going on, but his voice dried up as he stared at the sorcerer. Power beat on the still air like the wings of an enormous bird, and the gathering presence swept through their minds like an icy wind. It was very close now. Countless, unblinking eyes watched hungrily from the borderlands of reality, driven by an ancient hatred and an unwavering purpose.
Hawk shook his head violently, and looked across at the sorcerer, who had fallen to his knees inside his pentacle. The light from the chalk lines was almost blinding now. On some basic level beyond his understanding, Hawk could sense the stolen life energy pouring out of the sorcerer and passing beyond reality, to where the presence was waiting. He tried to lift his axe, but his arm seemed far away, and the sounds in his head roared and screamed, drowning out his thoughts.
Saxon stepped forward, and the air seemed to press against him as though he were wading through deep water. Hawk and Fisher were as still as statues, though sweat ran down their empty faces, and sudden tremors ran through them as they fought to lift their weapons. Saxon concentrated on the sorcerer in his pentacle. There was no one to help him; he was on his own, as he had been ever since he left the Portrait. He pressed on, putting everything out of his mind except the pentacle, as it drew nearer step by step. Something was screaming. Something was howling. The air stank of blood and death. The blazing blue lines of the pentacle flared up before him as he lashed out with his fist. The cellar shuddered like a drumhead, but the pentacle held. Saxon struck at it again and again, calling up every last vestige of his unnatural strength, but though the blazing light shuddered and trembled beneath his blows, it would not fall.
And then something bright and shining flashed past him, and Ritenour lurched suddenly forward, Hawk’s axe buried between his shoulder blades. His hands came back to paw feebly at the axe’s haft, and then he fell, face down, and lay still, one outilung hand crossing a line of the pentacle. The blinding blue light snapped off in an instant, and Saxon lurched forward to kneel at the sorcerer’s side. Ritenour turned his head and looked up at him with his bloody eye sockets.
“Listen. Can you hear them? The beasts are here....”
The breath went out of him. He was dead, and the last part of the ritual was complete. The Unknown Door swung open a crack, and the presence slammed through into reality, throwing aside the barriers of time and space, life and death. And what had waited for so long for revenge was finally loose in the world.
From out of the shadows of the slaughterhouse, from the time of blood and pain and horror, the beasts returned. Thousands upon thousands of animals, butchered and torn apart in the bloody cellar by men who laughed and joked as they killed. And from every scream and every death, and all the long years of suffering, came a legacy of hatred that drew upon the strange magics in that place, derived in turn from the unnatural building that had been replaced by the slaughterhouse. The small souls gathered together into something larger and more powerful that would not rest, but waited at the borders of the spirit lands, determined to return and take vengeance for what had been done to them. And finally, after all the many years, the willing and unwilling sacrifices of the forbidden ritual had opened the Unknown Door, and the beasts surged forward using Ritenour’s stolen life energies to manifest themselves once again in the lands of the living. The beasts had returned, and they would have their revenge.
Champion House trembled on its foundations, and jagged cracks split open the massive stone walls. The restraining magics built into the stone were ripped apart and scattered in a moment, and all the souls of all the many animals went rushing out into the city, a spiral of raging energy that swept outward from the House, leaving madness and devastation in its wake. Herds of scarlet-eyed cattle thundered through the narrow streets, trampling fleeing crowds underfoot. Blood soaked their hooves and legs, but it was never enough. Weapons tore and cut at them, but they felt no pain and took no hurt. They were dead, beyond fear or suffering anymore, and nothing could stop them now. They crushed men and women against walls, and tossed the broken bodies effortlessly on their splintered horns. Blood ran down the curving horns and disappeared into gaping holes in the cattle’s skulls, made by sledgehammers long ago. The herd thundered on, and behind them their lesser cousins tore and worried at the bodies of the fallen, as even the mildest of creatures gloried in the taste of human flesh and blood. Sheep and lambs buried their faces in ripped-open guts, and blood stained their woollen muzzles as they bolted down the warm meat.
The soulstorm of raging spirits roared through the city, driving people insane with its endless cry of blood and pain and horror. Centuries of accumulated suffering and abuse were turned back upon their ancient tormentors, and men and women ran wild in the streets, screaming and howling with the voices of animals. Many killed themselves to escape the agony, or killed each other, driven by a fury not their own. There were islands of sanity in the madness, as isolated sorcerers and Beings from the Street of Gods struggled to hold back the soulstorm, but they were few and far between.
In the great prison of Damnation Row, cell doors burst from their hinges and blood ran down the walls. Shadows prowled the narrow corridors with glowing eyes, ignoring locks and bars, and prisoners and prison staff alike fell to cruel fangs and claws. Inmates grew hysterical in their cells and turned on their cellmates, tearing at them viciously, like creatures that had been penned together too long in battery cages, and had never forgotten or forgiven.
At Guard Headquarters the doors were locked and the shutters closed, but still beasts rampaged through the building, and no one could stand against them. Guards fought running battles where they could, gathering together in groups to protect each other, and Guard sorcerers roared and chanted and raised their wards, but the beasts were everywhere and would not be denied.
The Council chambers rang to the sound of a hundred hoofbeats as wild-eyed horses thundered back and forth through the corridors and meeting rooms. Desks and chairs were overturned, and the great round ceremonial table was split from end to end. People ran before the raging herd until their breath gave out or their hearts burst in their chests and it was not enough, never enough.
Down in the Docks the waters boiled as things came crawling up out onto the harbourside, clacking claws and waving antennae a dozen times the size they were in life. Death changes all things, and rarely for the better. They had grown as their hatred grew, and people ran screaming before them as they clattered across the Docks on their huge, segmented legs.
Around the great houses and mansions of the Quality dark shadows gathered, pressing against hastily erected wards with remorseless strength, and both those inside and outside knew it was only a matter of time before the wards fell.
Prayers went up on the Street of Gods, to all the many Beings and creatures of Power that resided there, but none of them answered. The beasts could not enter the Street of Gods, and that was all that mattered. The Gods had turned their faces away, for a time. They would not interfere. They understood about hatred and revenge.
Restaurants became abattoirs, and kitchens ran with blood. Death filled the streets, and buildings shook and shattered at the voice of the soulstorm. Fires broke out all over Haven, and there was no one to stop them. And from every street and every house and every room, came the howling of the beasts.
In the cellar under Champion House, Hawk and Fisher and Saxon huddled together inside the pentacle, and watched dark formless shapes drifting around the perimeter, never quite crossing the palely-glowing blue chalk lines. Storm’s voice has told them to shelter inside the pentacle, and had raised its glowing wards around them, but that had been a long time ago, and they hadn’t heard from him since. At least it seemed a long time. It was hard to be sure of anything anymore. Screams of dying animals echoed back from the blood-spattered walls. There was a quiet clattering from steel hooks and chains that hung on the air, reaching up into an unseen past. Torsos and heads hung on the chains and hooks, long dead but still suffering. Blood fell from the ceiling in sudden spurts and streams, steaming on the cold air.
Hawk would have closed his eye against the grisly sights, but when he did he saw visions of what was happening in Haven, and that was worse. He saw the buildings fall and the fires mount, and watched helplessly as the people he had sworn to protect died screaming in pain and anguish and horror. He clutched his axe until his hands ached, but he didn’t leave the pentacle. He didn’t need a vision to show him what would happen if he did. He looked at Fisher, kneeling beside him. Her face was drawn and gaunt, but her mouth was set and her gaze was steady. She saw he was looking at her worriedly, and squeezed his arm briefly. Saxon sat with his back to them, ignoring everything, lost in his private world of regrets and self-recriminations. He didn’t answer when Hawk or Fisher spoke to him, and eventually they gave up. They sat up a little straighter as Storm’s voice crashed into their minds again.
Can you hear me? Are you still all right?
Depends on how you define all right,
said Hawk roughly.
We’re still trapped in this pentacle, we’re still surrounded by blood and madness, and Saxon’s still out to lunch. That sound all right to you?
Trust me, Captain; it’s worse out here. The city’s being torn apart, and the people massacred. Some of us are fighting back, but it’s all we can do to hold our ground. There are centuries of accumulated hatred running loose in the streets. I’ve never seen such concentrated malevolent power....
Are you saying there’s nothing we can do?
said Fisher.
That it’s hopeless?
No. There is something. If you’re willing.
Of course we’re willing!
snapped Hawk.
We can’t just sit here and watch Haven being destroyed! Tell its what to do, sorcerer. And you’d better make it fast. The pentacle’s lines aren’t burning anywhere near as brightly as they were.
There’s only one solution, Captain. The beasts must be comforted, and the Unknown Door must be closed. Two people died willingly to open the Door; it will take two more willing sacrifices to close it.
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other.
Let me get this straight,
said Hawk.
You want us to kill ourselves?
Yes. Your souls will pass through the Unknown Door into the Fields of the Lord, the spirit land of the animals. Once there, you must make peace with the unquiet spirits of the beasts. Maybe then they will return to their rest, and the Door will close behind them.
Maybe?
said Fisher.
Did I just hear you say
maybe?
You want us to kill ourselves, and you’re not even sure it will work?
It’s the only hope we’ve got.
Then why don’t you do it?
I can’t get to Champion House, and the ritual must take place where the Unknown Door was opened.
Great,
said Hawk.
It’s all down to us, again. What are these spirit lands like, anyway? And are we going to end up trapped there, or do we go on to our own... spirit lands?
I don’t know. To my knowledge, no one has ever passed beyond the Unknown Door and returned to tell of it.
“This gets better by the minute,” growled Fisher.
All right, Storm, you’ve said your piece. Now shut up and let us think for a minute.
Hawk and Fisher sat for a while in silence, looking at each other. Dark shadows pressed close against the lines of the pentacle, and the air was thick with the stench of blood and offal.
“I never thought we’d die like this,” said Hawk finally. “I never really expected to die in my own bed, but I always hoped it would be a lot further down the line than this. At the very least, I wanted it to be on my feet, fighting for something I believed in.”
“You believe in the city,” said Fisher. “And its people. Just like me. You said it yourself; we can’t sit back and do nothing. And at least this way, we get to die together. I wouldn’t have wanted to go on without you, Hawk.”
“Or me, without you.” Hawk sighed, and put his axe down on the floor beside him. He patted it once, like an old dog that had served well in its time, and smiled at Fisher. “A short life, but an interesting one. Right, lass?”
“You got that right. We squeezed a lifetime’s love and adventure into our few years together. We can’t really complain. We came close to dying many times in the Forest Kingdom, during the long night. Everything since then has been borrowed time anyway.”
“Yeah. Maybe. I’m not ready to die, lass.”
“No one ever is.”
“There’s so much I wanted to do. So many things I wanted to tell you, and never did.”

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