Bones of Haven

him, to pick him up when he fell over his own feet from trying to run too fast.

They'd always been there when he needed them, family and friends, and Mum and

Dad. Now they were gone, and there was no one left but him. So that would have

to be enough.

He'd drifted into Reform politics because he thought people needed him, to

protect them from the scum who preyed on them, both inside and outside the law.

That seemed more true than ever now. Except that things had got so bad he

couldn't tell the guilty from the innocent anymore. Something had to be done,

but he no longer had any faith in politics; he needed to take a more personal

stand. To get his hands on the bad guys and make them hurt, the way he was

hurting. He could do that. He was different now; stronger, faster, maybe even

unbeatable. He could find the people responsible for making Haven what it had

become, and exact vengeance for himself and everyone else who'd lost all hope

and faith in the future. He smiled slowly, his eyes cold and savage. He would

have his vengeance, and the Gods help anyone who got in his way.

He rose to his feet, and took one last look at the headstone. Whatever happened,

he didn't think he'd be coming back.

"Goodbye, Mum, Dad. I'll make you proud of me again. I'll put things right. I

promise."

He turned and left the cemetery, and walked back into the unsuspecting city.

Chapter Three

Hostages

The rain was still hammering down, and Hawk was getting distinctly tired of it.

He pulled his hood well forward and ran after Jessica Winter as she led the SWAT

team down the wide, empty road that led into Mulberry Crescent. They'd been

running flat out for the last five streets, ever since Winter got the emergency

call from the Guard communications sorcerer. She was still running well and

strongly, but Hawk was starting to find it hard going. Personally, he thought

she was just showing off. Whatever the emergency was, it couldn't be so

important they had to sprint all the way there. Hawk had never been much of a

one for running, mainly because he'd always tended towards stamina rather than

speed. But he couldn't afford to look bad before the rest of the team, so he

gritted his teeth and pounded along in Winter's wake, glaring at her

unresponsive back.

He still found the time to keep a wary eye on his surroundings, and was

surprised to find the street was totally empty. Even allowing for the foul

weather, there should have been some kind of crowd out on the street,

celebrating the Peace Treaty. But though strings of brightly colored bunting

hung damply above them, and flags flapped limply in the gusting wind, the SWAT

team were alone in the middle of the fashionable Westside street. And that was

strange in itself. Guards weren't usually welcome in the Westside. The

well-to-do and high-placed families who lived there tended to prefer their own

private guards when it came to keeping the peace; men who knew where their

loyalties lay, and could be relied on to look the other way at the proper

moments. Hawk smiled sourly. It would appear the private guards had run into

something they couldn't handle, and then been forced to call in the SWAT team.

Hawk's grin widened at the thought. He bet that had rankled. Hawk didn't have

much use for private guards. In his experience, they tended to be overpaid,

overdressed, and about as much use as a chocolate teapot.

Winter finally slowed to a halt at the end of the street, and looked out over

Mulberry Crescent. The rest of the team formed up around her. Hawk did his best

to hide his lack of breath, and squinted through the rain at the killing ground

before him. Bodies lay scattered the length of the Crescent. Men, women, and

children lay twisted and broken, like discarded toys a destructive child had

tired of. Water pooled around the bodies, tinted pink with blood. Hawk counted

twenty-nine in plain sight, and had a sick feeling there were probably more he

couldn't see yet. No one moved in the Crescent, and no one stared from the

windows. If there was anybody left alive, they were keeping their heads well

down. Which suggested that whatever had happened here, it wasn't over yet.

There was still no sign anywhere of the private guards, which didn't surprise

Hawk one bit. They were all very well when it came to moving on undesirable and

manhandling the occasional troublemaker, but show them a real problem and they

tended to be suddenly scarce on the ground. He looked at the pathetic contorted

bodies lying abandoned in the rain, and his hands curled into fists. Someone was

going to pay for this. One way or another. He looked at Winter, who was standing

silently beside him.

"I think it's time you filled us in on why we're here, Winter. The Crescent

looks like it was ambushed. What exactly are we dealing with here?"

"A sniper," said Winter, not taking her eyes off the scene before her. "He's

been active for less than forty minutes, but there are already thirty-two dead

that we know of. No wounded. He kills every time. And just to complicate things,

he's a magic-user, and a pretty powerful one at that. He's holed up in an upper

story of one of these houses, somewhere down the far end. He's been using his

magic to blast everything that moves, irrespective of who or what it might be.

Local guards have cleared the streets, but it's up to us to do something about

the sniper." She glanced briefly at Storm. "Well, do you See anything useful?"

"Not really," said Storm, scowling unhappily. "He's in the third house from the

end, down on the left, but he's protected himself very thoroughly against any

form of magical attack. I can break through his wards, given enough time, but he

could do a hell of a lot of damage to the surrounding area before I took him

out."

"Be specific. How much damage?"

"He could demolish every building for at least four blocks in every direction,

and kill hundreds of people. That specific enough for you?"

Winter scowled, and rubbed her chin thoughtfully with a thumb knuckle. "What

kind of magic has he been using?"

"All sorts. For a psychotic killer, he's very versatile. The air's heavy with

unexpended magic. I can still See his victims dying as they ran for safety. Some

had all the life drained out of them, so they could feel themselves dying.

Others were transformed into things that didn't live long. Luckily. And some

were just blown apart, for the fun of it. We've got a bad one here, Jessica.

He's powerful, versatile, and ready to do anything to get what he wants."

Winter nodded. "Question is, what does he want? Attention, revenge; what?"

Hawk spun round suddenly, his axe flashing out to stop a finger's breadth from

the throat of a private guard behind him. All the color drained from the man's

face, and Hawk grinned at him nastily. "I don't like people sneaking up on me,

particularly when they do it so badly. Takes all the challenge out of it. I

could hear you coming even through the pouring rain." He lowered his axe but

didn't put it away. "All right; who are you, and what do you want?"

The private guard swallowed hard. Color was slowly seeping back into his face,

but it was still pale enough to clash interestingly with the vivid vermilion and

green of his uniform. He cleared his throat and looked pleadingly at Winter.

"Corporal Guthrie, of Lord Dunford's guards, ma'am. I'm your local liaison

officer."

"About time you got here," said Winter. "Fill us in. What's the background on

this case?"

Corporal Guthrie moved over to join her, giving Hawk and his axe a wide berth.

"The sorcerer Domain has been a resident of Mulberry Crescent for years. Always

quiet and polite. Never any trouble. But about three-quarters of an hour ago, he

suddenly appeared at a window on the upper floor of his house and started

screaming at people down in the street. We don't know about what. Everybody who

was in the street at that time is dead. According to one eyewitness who watched

from his window, Domain just lashed out with his magic for no reason, killing

everyone in sight. No one's dared leave their houses since. We've sealed off the

Crescent at both ends, and evacuated the houses farthest from Domain, but we

daren't get too close for fear of starting him off again. A doctor went in a

while ago under a white flag to check the bodies, just in case there was anyone

alive. There wasn't, so he approached Domain's house, to try and reason with

him. The sorcerer told the doctor he wanted to be left alone, and that he'd kill

anyone who tried to interfere with him."

"I'd like to talk to this doctor," said Winter. "He might be able to tell us all

kinds of useful things."

"I don't think so," said Guthrie. "Domain destroyed his mind. All he does is

repeat the sorcerer's message, over and over again."

Fisher swore harshly. "Let's just take the bastard out. Storm can protect us

with his magic, and Hawk and I will go in and carve him up. It'll be a

pleasure."

"It's not as simple as that," said Guthrie.

"I had a feeling he was going to say that," said Hawk.

"Domain has a hostage," said Guthrie. "Susan Wallinger, twenty-one years old.

She was Domain's lady friend. We have reason to believe she wished to end the

relationship, and had gone to his home to tell him so. It would appear Domain

took this rather badly. He's threatened to kill her if she tries to leave, or if

we send anyone in after her."

"You know the city's policy on hostages," said Winter. "They're expendable."

"Yes, ma'am. But Susan Wallinger is Councilor Wallinger's daughter."

"That is going to complicate things," said Fisher.

Hawk nodded grimly. Councilor Wallinger was one of the leading lights of the

Conservatives, and his many businesses helped to provide a large part of the

Party's funds. No wonder the Council had called in the SWAT team so quickly.

They were expected to save the hostage as well as take out the sniper. Which, as

Fisher pointed out, complicated the hell out of things. Hawk looked out over the

corpse-strewn street, and his mouth tightened. As long as Domain was running

loose, he was a menace. From the sound of his mental state, anything might set

him off again, and next time he might not limit himself to the people in plain

sight. He might decide to blow up every house in the Crescent, along with

everyone in them. He might do something even worse. He was a sorcerer, after

all, and they had no idea as to the limits of his power. One way or another,

Domain had to be stopped. Hawk hefted his axe and studied the sorcerer's house.

He'd get the girl out alive if he could, but if push came to shove, she was

expendable—and to hell with who her father was.

Poor lass.

"We have a standard routine for handling hostage situations," said Winter,

looking hard at Hawk and Fisher. "And we're going to follow it here, by the

numbers. I don't want either of you doing anything without a direct order from

me first. Is that clear?"

"Oh sure," said Hawk. Fisher nodded innocently. Winter glared at them both,

unimpressed.

"I'm not unfamiliar with your reputations, Captains. Common belief has it that

you're as dangerous as the black death, and about as subtle. You'll find we do

things differently on the SWAT team. Whenever possible, our job is to resolve a

crisis situation without resorting to violence. Nine times out of ten we get

better results by talking and listening than we would if we used force. MacReady

is our negotiator, and a damned good one. Until he's tried everything he can

think of, and they've all failed, no one else does squat. Is that clear?"

"And if he does fail?" said Fisher.

"Then I'll unleash you and Hawk and Barber, and you'll go in after Domain, under

Storm's protection. But that's as a last resort only." She looked at Corporal

Guthrie. "You'd better get back to your people and tell them what's happening.

I'll be sending Mac down to talk to Domain in a few moments. Tell everyone to

get their heads down and keep them down. Just in case."

The Corporal nodded jerkily, and hurried off into the rain. Hawk stared after

him.

"Nice uniform," he said solemnly. "Vermilion and green. Cute."

Winter's mouth twitched. "Maybe he just wants to be sure he can be seen at

night. All right, Mac; let's do this by the numbers, nice and easy. Your first

job is to persuade him to let the girl go. Promise him whatever it takes.

Councilor Wallinger will make good on practically anything, if it will get him

his daughter back safe and sound. Once she's safely out of the way, then you can

concentrate on trying to talk him down."

MacReady looked at her steadily. "Assuming he won't give up the girl, which has

priority: getting her out or getting him down?"

"If it comes to that, the girl is expendable," said Winter. "Why do you think I

sent Guthrie away before I briefed you? Now get going. We're wasting time."

MacReady nodded, and headed unhurriedly down the street towards Domain's house.

Hawk looked sharply at Storm. "Aren't you going to give him any protection?"

"He doesn't need any," said Storm. "He's protected by a Family charm; magic

can't touch him, swords can't cut him, and drugs won't poison him. You could

drop him off a ten-story building, and he'd probably just bounce. At the same

time, the charm doesn't allow him to use any offensive weapons, which is just as

well, or he'd have taken over the whole damn country by now. As it is, he makes

a damned good negotiator."

He fell silent as a low, rumbling sound trembled in the ground under their feet.

Hawk looked quickly about him, but the street was still empty. The rumbling grew

louder and more ominous, and then the street next to MacReady exploded. Solid

stone tore like paper, and cobbles flew through the air like shrapnel. Hawk held

up his cloak as a shield, and cobblestones pattered against it like hailstones

in a sudden storm. It was all over in a few seconds, and Hawk slowly lowered his

cloak and looked around him. None of the others were hurt. Fisher had her sword

in her hand, and was glaring about her for someone to use it on. She looked down

the street, and her eyes widened. Hawk followed her gaze.

MacReady was standing unharmed amid vicious-looking fragments of broken stone

and concrete, staring calmly into a jagged rent in the ground. The explosion

didn't seem to have harmed him at all, even though it must have gone off

practically in his ear. His clothing wasn't even mussed. He shook his head,

turned his back on the gaping fissure, and walked on down the street. The outer

wall of a nearby house bulged suddenly outwards and collapsed over him. When the

dust cloud settled, washed quickly out of the air by the driving rain, MacReady

was still standing there, entirely unhurt, surrounded by rubble. He clambered

awkwardly over some of the larger pieces, and continued on his way. Lightning

stabbed down from the overcast sky, again and again, but didn't even come close

to touching him. Magic spat and sparkled around him, scraping across the air

like fingernails on a blackboard, but MacReady walked steadily on. He looked

almost bored. Eventually he came to the third house from the end on the left,

and looked up at the top floor. A dark shape showed briefly at one of the

windows, and then was gone. MacReady pushed open the front door and walked

inside.

Winter stirred at Hawk's side. "Well, if nothing else, I think we can be fairly

sure that Domain knows he's coming."

It was very quiet inside the house, out of the driving rain, and MacReady paused

in the gloomy hallway to take off his cloak and hang it neatly on the wall rack.

A woman's cloak was already hanging there, barely damp to his touch. Presumably

Susan Wallinger's. He looked around him. All was still except for the loud

ticking of a clock somewhere close at hand, and an occasional quiet creaking as

the old house settled itself. MacReady moved over to the nearest door. It was

standing slightly ajar, and he pushed it open. A headless body lay sprawled

before the open fireplace. Blood and gore had soaked into the rich pile carpet

where his head should have been. There was no sign of the head itself. Judging

by the ragged state of the neck, the head hadn't been neatly severed with a

blade. It had been torn off by brute force. MacReady stepped back into the hall

and headed for the stairs. The body might have been a failed negotiator, or

someone who lived in the house. It might even have been a friend of Domain's.

Hello, Domain. Guess what? I'm going to be your friend.

I'm going to win your trust and then abuse it. I'm going to persuade you to give

up your hostage and come down peacefully, so that we can put you on trial, find

you guilty, and execute you. I won't tell you that, of course. I'll tell you

comforting lies and make you think they're true. Why? Because it's my job, and

I'm good at it.

And because I get so horribly bored waiting to die, and outwitting kill-crazy

lunatics like you is the only fun I have left.

He made his way up the stairs, making no attempt to be quiet. He wanted Domain

to know he was coming. If the sorcerer thought he was sneaking up on him, he

might panic and harm the girl. MacReady shook his head in mock disapproval. He

couldn't allow that. Getting the girl out alive was part of the game, and he

didn't like to lose. He stepped onto the dimly lit landing, bracing himself

mentally against any further sorcerous attacks, but nothing happened. There was

a door at the end of the hall with a light showing round its edges. He started

towards the door, and it flew open suddenly as Domain lurched out into the hall.

His robe of sorcerer's black was torn and ragged, and there was dried blood on

his sleeves and hands. He was tall and painfully thin, and barely into his early

twenties. His face was deathly pale, split almost in two by a wide death's-head

grin. His eyes were wide and staring, and they didn't blink often enough. He was

shaking with suppressed emotion, ready to lash out at anyone or anything that

seemed to threaten him. MacReady stayed where he was, and smiled calmly at the

sorcerer.

"Stay where you are!" snapped Domain, his voice harsh and tinged with hysteria.

"One step closer and I'll kill her! I will!"

"I believe you," said MacReady earnestly. "I'll do whatever you say, sir

sorcerer. You're in charge here. My name is John MacReady. I've come to talk to

you and Susan."

"You've come to take her away from me!"

"No, I'm just here to talk to you, that's all. You've got yourself in a bit of a

mess, Domain. I'm here to help you find a way out of it. The authorities have

promised not to interfere. You just tell me what you want, and I'll tell them.

There must be something you want. You don't want to stay here, do you?"

"No. Something bad happened here." Domain's gaze turned inward for a moment, and

then the crazy glare was back in his eyes, as though he couldn't bear to think

about what he'd seen in that moment. "I'm getting out of here, and Susan's

coming with me. I'll kill anyone who tries to stop us!"

"Yes, Domain. We understand that. That's why I'm here. We don't want any more

deaths. Could I speak to Susan? Perhaps between the three of us we can come up

with a plan that will get you both out of the city without anyone else having to

be hurt."

The sorcerer studied him suspiciously for a dangerously long moment, and then

jerked his head at the open door behind him. "She's in here. But no tricks. I

may not be able to hurt you, but I can still hurt her. I'll kill her if I have

to, to keep her with me!"

"I'll do exactly as you say, Domain. Just tell me what to do. You're in charge

here."

MacReady kept up a low, soothing monologue as he slowly approached Domain. It

didn't really matter what he said. The man had clearly gone beyond the point

where he could be reached with logic, but he could still be soothed, charmed,

manipulated. The important thing now was to keep pressing home the idea that

Domain was in charge of the situation, and MacReady was only there to carry out

his wishes. As long as Domain was feeling confident and in control, he shouldn't

feel the need to lash out with his magic. And then MacReady entered the room,

and his words stuck in his throat.

Blood had spattered the walls and pooled on the floor. Dark footprints showed

where Domain had walked unheedingly through the blood. The corpse of a young

woman stood unsupported in the middle of the room, her head hanging limply to

show a broken neck. Her eyes were open, but they saw nothing at all. Blood had

run thickly from her nose and mouth, and dried blackly on her neck and chest.

Flies buzzed around her. MacReady wondered briefly if she'd died before or after

Domain lost his mind.

I'll kill her if I have to, to keep her with me.

"It's all right, darling," said Domain to the dead woman. "Don't be frightened.

This is John MacReady. He's just come to talk to us. I won't let him take you

away. You're safe here, with me."

The corpse walked slowly towards him, her head lolling limply from side to side.

The corpse stood beside the sorcerer, and he put a comforting arm round its

shoulders, and hugged it to him. MacReady smiled at them both, his face open and

guileless.

"Hello, Susan; it's nice to meet you. Well, the first thing I have to do is

report back to my superiors that you're alive and well, and with Domain of your

own free will."

"Of course she is," said Domain. "We love each other. We're going to be married.

And nothing will ever part us. Nothing…" His voice trailed away, and his gaze

became troubled for a moment, as though reality was nudging at his mind, but the

moment passed and he smiled fondly at the dead woman, animated only by his

magic. "Don't worry, darling. I won't let them hurt you."

"Is there anything you want me to tell the authorities?" said MacReady

carefully. The response would tell him a lot about what was going on in the

madman's mind.

"Yes," said Domain flatly. "Tell them to go away and leave us alone. Susan and I

will be leaving here soon. If anyone gets in our way, I'll kill them. Tell them

that, John MacReady."

"Of course." MacReady bowed formally. "May I go now, sir sorcerer?"

Domain dismissed him with a wave of his hand, all his attention fixed on the

dead woman at his side. Quiet music rang out on the air from nowhere, some

pleasant, forgettable melody that had been popular recently. Domain took the

dead woman in his arms and they danced together to music that had been their

song, once.

The SWAT team had found a columned porch to shelter under, and stood huddled

together in the narrow space, staring out into the rain. Hawk scowled, and

shifted impatiently from foot to foot. He hated standing around doing nothing. A

thought struck him, and he looked suddenly at Winter.

"If MacReady's immune to any kind of attack, why doesn't he just grab the girl

and punch out Domain?"

"The charm won't let him," said Winter sharply. "If he behaves aggressively, the

charm stops working. If he tried anything with Domain, he'd be dead in a second.

His job is to talk to Domain, and that's all. Don't worry about it. Captain;

he's very good at his job. He'll get the girl out alive if anyone can."

"Something's happening," said Fisher. "There's movement down the street."

They all turned to look. A stream of people were pouring out of a house halfway

down the street and running towards the SWAT team. Some of them glanced back at

Domain's house, or at the bodies lying sprawled in the rain, but for the most

part the only thing in their minds was flight. Their eyes were fixed and

staring, and they ran with the awkward, determined speed of desperation and

sheer terror.

"They must have been caught in the street when people started dying," said

Winter. "Dammit, why couldn't they have stayed in the house? Do they think it's

all over, just because it's been quiet for a while?"

"You have to stop them," said Storm. "If Domain should see them…"

"There's nothing I can do," said Winter. "Nothing anyone can do now."

They stood together, watching the group run, hoping they'd make it to safety and

knowing the odds were they wouldn't. They were close enough now for the SWAT

team to hear their pounding footsteps on the broken ground, even through the

rain.

"Run," said Storm quietly. "Run your hearts out, damn you."

There were seven men in the group, and three women. Hawk could just make out

their faces through the rain. His breathing speeded up as he silently urged the

runners on. They were closer now, only a few seconds from safety. The man in the

lead faltered suddenly, frowning as though confused, and his head exploded in a

flurry of blood and gore. His body stumbled on for a few more steps, and then

fell twitching to the blood-slick cobbles. The woman behind him screamed

shrilly, but ran on through his blood and brains. Her screams were cut off

suddenly as she was jerked up off the ground and high up into the air. She

clawed desperately at her throat, as though pulling at some invisible noose. Her

eyes bulged, and her tongue protruded from her mouth. She fell back towards the

ground, gathering speed with every second until she was falling impossibly fast.

She hit the street with a sickening sound, her body crushed by the impact into

something no longer human. The others kept running.

One woman just disappeared. For a moment the rain outlined an empty silhouette,

and then there was a fiat, popping sound as air rushed in to fill the space

where she'd been. Two men collapsed and fell screaming to the cobbles. Their

bodies melted and ran away in the rain, leaving nothing behind. Their screams

seemed to echo on the air long after they'd gone. The five surviving runners

suddenly stumbled to a halt, four men and a woman soaked to the skin by the

pouring rain. They looked at each other, and started laughing. They stood

together in the rain, their faces blank and their eyes empty, and laughed their

minds away.

Hawk beat at one of the portico's columns with his fist. Fisher was cursing in a

flat, angry whisper. Storm had looked away, but Winter watched the scene before

her with a cold, detached professionalism. Barber was still watching Domain's

house at the end of the street. The front door opened, and MacReady stepped out

into the rain. He pulled the hood of his cloak well forward and walked

unhurriedly back up the street, stepping carefully to avoid the pools of blood.

He gave the laughing group a wide berth, but they didn't even know he was there.

Hawk looked at Storm.

"Wasn't there anything you could have done to protect them?"

"No," said Winter. "There wasn't. Domain mustn't know about Storm yet. He's our

ace in the hole, in case we have to end this siege the hard way. How many times

do I have to say it, Captain Hawk? Our responsibility is to the city, not

individuals. Compared to the hundreds Domain could kill if we don't stop him,

those few people were expendable. They should have stayed where they were.

There's no room in a SWAT team for sentiment, Captain; we have to take the long

view."

"Is it all right if I feel sorry for the poor bastards?" said Fisher tightly.

"Of course. As long as it doesn't get in the way of the job."

The SWAT team watched in silence as MacReady made his way through the rain to

join them. He stepped into the porticoed shelter, shook himself briskly, then

looked at Winter and shook his head.

"How bad is it?" said Winter.

"About as bad as it could be. Susan Wallinger is dead. Domain has animated her

corpse, and talks to it as if it were alive. He's quite mad. There's no way I

can reach him with logic or promises. I hate it when they're mad. Takes all the

fun out of it. I was really looking forward to rescuing the girl." He looked

back at Domain's house. "Bastard."

"What's the present situation?" said Winter, ignoring his bad temper.

MacReady sniffed and shrugged. "At the moment I'm supposed to be negotiating a

safe passage for Domain and Susan to leave the city. But you can forget that. In

his present condition he's too dangerous to be allowed to run loose, even if we

were leading him into a trap. He could lash out at anyone or anything, for any

reason. In his madness he's tapping into levels of power that would normally be

far beyond him. As long as we've got him bottled up here, there's a limit to the

damage he can do."

"So we're going to take him out," said Barber showing an interest in the

proceedings for the first time. "Good. I haven't killed a sorcerer in ages."

Storm gave him a sideways look but said nothing. Hawk coughed loudly, to get

everyone's attention.

"I think we can safely assume that the time for negotiations has passed. From

the sound of it, Domain very definitely doesn't have both his oars in the water

anymore. So what's the procedure, Winter? Do we just burst in under Storm's

protection and kill Domain?"

"Not exactly," said Winter. "You and Fisher will go in first, making as much

noise as possible, and hold Domain's attention while Barber sneaks in the back

and cuts him down from behind. Not very sporting, I'll admit, but I'm not taking

any chances with this one. He could do a lot of damage before we take him down.

So please; no heroics, from anyone. If you screw up on this, you won't be the

only ones to suffer."

"Wait a minute," said Fisher, frowning. "What can go wrong? I thought Storm was

going to protect us against Domain's magic?"

"I can protect you from any direct magical attack," said Storm quickly, "but

Domain's a very versatile sorcerer. He'll almost certainly animate the bodies of

those he killed and use them to defend himself. He might even animate the

physical structure of the house itself. I can't protect you from things like

that without dropping the wards that protect you from his magic."

"Relax," said Fisher. "We can look after ourselves."

"I'm sure you can," said Winter. "After all, you're the infamous Hawk and

Fisher, aren't you? If you're as good as your reputation, this should be a walk

in the park for you."

Hawk smiled coldly. "We're not as good as our reputation. We're better."

"Then this is your chance to prove it."

Fisher glared at Winter, her hand resting on her sword hilt. Hawk drew his axe.

Barber stirred, and moved a little closer to Winter. The atmosphere on the

crowded porch was suddenly uncomfortably tense. Hawk smiled coldly at Winter,

and looked across at Barber.

"I don't suppose you've any of those incendiaries left?"

"Sorry. They were only experimental prototypes, and I used them all in Hell

Wing."

"Got anything else we could use?"

Barber shrugged. "Nothing you could learn to use quickly, and like Winter said,

we're pushed for time. You just go in there and do what you're good at; hit

anything that moves. I'll be around, even if you can't see me. Now let's go,

before Domain figures out he's not going to get what he's waiting for."

Hawk nodded, pulled his hood up over his head and stepped out into the rain.

Fisher gave Winter one last glare, and hurried after him. She sniffed loudly.

"Walk in the park," she growled to Hawk. "Has she seen the park lately?"

They strode down the middle of the street, not bothering to hide themselves.

Domain would know they were coming. They avoided the laughing victims, staring

sightlessly ahead as the rain ran down their contorted faces like tears. They

stepped carefully over and around the dead bodies, and Hawk gripped his axe

tightly. He looked constantly around him, but there was no sign of movement

anywhere in the street, and the roar of the rain cut off every other sound. The

first he and Isobel would know about any attack was when it hit them.

Hawk and Fisher were almost halfway down the street when the sky opened up.

Lightning stabbed down, dazzling them both with its glare. The cobbled street

split open under the bolt's impact, sending Hawk and Fisher staggering sideways

as the ground heaved beneath them, but the lightning didn't even come close to

touching them. Hawk broke into a run, with Fisher right beside him. Storm's

magic might be able to protect them as thoroughly as MacReady's charm had

protected him, but Hawk didn't feel like putting it to the test. Domain's house

loomed up before them, strange lights glowing at its windows. Hawk kicked in the

front door, and they darted into the hallway while lightning flared impotently

in the street outside. Hawk slammed the door shut behind them, and put his back

against it.

They stood together a moment, getting their breath back and staring round the

gloomy hall. Hawk pointed at the stairs, and Fisher nodded. They moved forward

silently and took the steps one at a time, checking for booby traps and keeping

a careful watch on the dark shadows around them. They'd barely reached the

halfway mark when the front door slammed open behind them. Hawk and Fisher

looked back, blades at the ready. A dead man stood in the doorway, rain running

down its face and trickling across its unblinking eyes.

Hawk ran back down the stairs and threw himself at the lich. His axe flashed

briefly as he buried it in the lich's chest. The dead man staggered back under

the impact, but didn't fall. It reached for Hawk with clutching hands, its

colorless lips stretching slowly in another man's smile. Domain's smile. Hawk

wrenched his axe free and struck at the lich again, this time aiming for the

hip. The impact drove the lich to the ground this time, and Hawk bent over it.

He pressed a boot on its chest to hold it down, and jerked the axehead free. The

lich grabbed his ankle with a pale hand, the dead fingers closing like a vise.

Hawk grimaced as pain shot up his leg, and swung his axe with both hands. The

heavy axehead tore through the lich's throat and sank into the cobbles beneath.

The dead hand's hold tightened, and Hawk had to grit his teeth to keep from

crying out. He used the axe as a lever and tore the lich's head from its body.

The head rolled away into the rain, its mouth working soundlessly. The grip on

Hawk's ankle didn't loosen, and the body heaved beneath his foot as it tried to

rise again.

Fisher was suddenly at his side, and her sword sliced through the lich's wrist,

severing the gripping hand. Hawk staggered back, and between them, he and Fisher

pried the hand from his ankle. It fell away into the street, its fingers still

flexing angrily, like a huge fleshy spider. The headless body heaved itself up

onto its knees. Fisher moved in behind it, and cut through its leg muscles. More

dark shadows appeared in the rain, heading towards Hawk and Fisher with fixed

eyes and reaching hands.

Hawk cursed quickly and darted back through the open front door. Fisher glared

at the approaching liches, and then hurried into the house after him. The dead

moved purposefully forward. Hawk pushed the door shut and slammed the bolts

home. There were only two, and neither of them looked particularly sturdy. Hawk

looked quickly about him.

"I wonder if there's a back door to this place?"

Fisher raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting we make a run for it?"

"The thought had occurred to me. I don't like the situation, and I definitely

don't like the odds."

"It's going to make a bad impression on the SWAT team if we run away."

"It'd make an even worse impression if we got killed." Hawk scowled. "But you're

right. We can't leave. We've got to hold Domain's attention until Barber can get

to him. Or there's no telling how many more Domain might kill."

"So what's the plan?" said Fisher. "Make a stand here, and hope we can hold off

the liches until Barber makes his move?"

"To hell with that," said Hawk. "There's too many of the damn things, and if

they're all as determined as that first one, they're going to take a lot of

stopping. All it needs is for one of them to get in a lucky blow, and we could

be in real trouble. We can't even keep them out of the house. That door won't

last five minutes against a determined assault. I've got a better idea. Let's

head up those stairs, find Domain, and cut him into little pieces. That should

hold his attention."

"Sounds good to me," said Fisher. "Assuming Storm's protection holds up under

attack at such close quarters."

"Would you rather face the liches?" asked Hawk.

"Good point," said Fisher. "Let's go."

A headless body lurched out of the room to their left, reaching for them with

blindly grasping hands. Hawk and Fisher separated, and hit it from different

sides. Hawk slammed his axe into the lich's ribs, throwing the dead thing back

against the wall. Fisher's sword licked out and sliced through the back of the

lich's left leg, and the creature sank to one knee. Hawk pulled his axe free,

and swung it with both hands. The heavy blade all but severed the lich's right

leg below the knee, and the dead man sprawled helplessly on the floor. Hawk

indicated the stairs with a jerk of his head, and Fisher nodded quickly. Hawk

kicked the headless body aside, and ran for the stairs with Fisher right beside

him. Behind them, the lich scrabbled furiously on the floor, trying to pull

itself after them with its arms. The front door shuddered suddenly in its frame

as dead fists hammered on it. A window shattered somewhere close at hand. Hawk

and Fisher pounded up the stairs, and didn't look back.

Barber made his way unhurriedly down the rain-swept street, and neither the

living nor the dead saw him pass. He carried his sword at the ready, but he

didn't expect to have to use it yet. No one knew he was there, and no one would,

until he'd thrust his sword into Domain's back and put an end to all this

nonsense. In the end, as in so many SWAT operations, it all came down to him and

his sword. Storm could cast his spells, and MacReady could talk, and Winter

could plot her strategies, but in the end they always turned to him and his

sword. Which was why he stayed with them. He needed to kill just as much as they

needed him to put an end to killers.

Not that he enjoyed the killing; he took no pleasure in death or suffering. It

was simply that he was so very good at what he did, and he took a real

satisfaction in doing a difficult job that no one else could do, and doing it

superbly. He didn't care who he killed; he barely remembered their faces, let

alone their names. He didn't even care what they'd done; their various crimes or

outrages were of no interest to him. All that mattered was the opportunity to

kill; to kill with a style and expertise that no one else could match.

And the Council actually paid him to do it.

He drifted down the street, unseen and unheard, and made his way round to the

rear of Domain's house, searching for the back door. The door stuck when he

tried it, but it swung open easily enough when he put his shoulder to it. He

stepped into the gloom, wary but unconcerned, and pushed the door shut behind

him. He wasn't expecting any trouble. When he was working, no one could see or

hear him, unless he wanted them to. A useful talent for an assassin.

Domain would never even know what hit him.

Hawk and Fisher were only halfway up the stairs when the front door burst open,

and dead things spilled into the hall. Hawk pressed on, heading for the narrow

landing with Fisher only a step or so behind him. The stairs suddenly lurched

and heaved beneath them like a ship at sea, and they had to fight to keep their

balance. Jagged mouths and staring eyes formed in the wall beside them. The

wooden paneling steamed and bubbled. Hawk moved to the middle of the stairs,

away from the manifestations, and glanced back over his shoulder. The first of

the dead had reached the stairs. The hall was full of liches, soaked and

dripping with rainwater that couldn't entirely wash away the blood from their

wounds, their empty eyes fixed unwaveringly on the two Guards.

The stairs lurched again, and Hawk grabbed at the banister to steady himself. It

writhed under his hand like a huge worm; all cold and slimy and raised segments.

Hawk snarled and snatched his hand away, and plunged forward, heading for the

landing. Fisher called out behind him, and he looked back to see her struggling

to pull her foot free from a step that had turned to bottomless mud. She cut at

the step with her sword, but the blade swept through the thick mud and out again

without even slowing. Hawk grabbed her arm and pulled hard, and her foot came

free with a slow, sucking sound. They threw themselves forward and out onto the

landing, and ran towards the door MacReady had described in his briefing.

Blood ran down the wall in thick streams, and a dirty yellow mist curled and

twisted on the air, hot and acrid. Jagged holes appeared in the floor beneath

their feet, falling away forever. Hawk and Fisher jumped over them without

slowing. Behind them, something large and awful began to form out of the

shadows. The air was suddenly full of the stench of decaying meat and freshly

spilled blood, and something giggled softly in anticipation. Hawk and Fisher

reached Domain's door and Fisher kicked it open. They ran into the room, and

Hawk slammed the door shut behind them.

Everything seemed still and calm and quiet in the comfortable, cozy little room.

For a moment it seemed almost a sanctuary from the madness running loose in the

house, until Hawk took in the blood splashed across the wall and floor, and the

dead woman standing beside the seated sorcerer, one hand resting on his

shoulder. Hawk met Domain's gaze, and knew the real madness was right there in

the room with him, held at bay only by Storm's protection. Outside in the

hallway, heavy footsteps moved slowly closer, the floor trembling slightly with

each impact. Fisher glanced back at the door.

"Call it off, Domain," she said harshly.

"Or what? Do you really think you can do anything to threaten me?" Domain

smiled, the same smile Hawk had seen on the faces of the dead men. "This is my

house, and I don't want you here. You've come to take Susan away from me."

"That's why you have to stop whatever's out there," said Hawk quickly. "If it

comes in here after us, Susan could get hurt. Couldn't she?"

Domain nodded reluctantly, and there was a sudden silence as the heavy footsteps

stopped, followed by a small clap of thunder as air rushed in to fill a gap

where something large had been only a moment before. The sorcerer leaned back in

his chair as though it were a throne, and looked crossly at Hawk and Fisher.

"I thought I'd made it clear I didn't want to be disturbed.

How many people do I have to kill to make you leave us alone?"

"We don't want you to kill anyone," said Hawk. "That's why we're here."

Domain made a dismissive gesture, as though he'd caught them in an obvious lie.

"I know why you're here. Perhaps if I changed you into something amusing, and

sent you back that way, then they'd understand not to play games with me."

"You can't hurt us," said Fisher. "We're protected."

Domain looked at her narrowly, and then at Hawk. "So you are. A very

sophisticated defense, too. I could break it, but that would take too much out

of me. I have to keep something back to protect Susan. So unless you're stupid

enough to attack me, I'll just wait, and let the things I've called up come and

take you." He scowled suddenly. "I should have known I couldn't depend on the

city to bargain in good faith. I'll punish them for this. I'll turn their

precious city into a nightmare they'll never forget."

In the corners of the room, the shadows grew darker. A presence was gathering in

the room, something huge and awful pressing against the walls of reality. And

beyond that, Hawk could hear dead feet ascending the stairs and making their way

onto the landing. The dead woman standing beside Domain's chair smiled emptily

at nothing, like a hostess waiting to greet expected guests. Hawk and Fisher

looked desperately at each other, but saw no answer in each other's faces. The

presence growing in the shadows was almost overpowering, and the dead were

almost outside the door.

"Don't worry, Susan," said Domain comfortingly to the dead woman. "It'll all be

over soon, and then we'll be together, forever. No one's ever going to take you

away from me."

The door swung silently open, and Barber eased into the room, his sword at the

ready. Hawk and Fisher looked quickly away, to avoid drawing Domain's attention

to him. They'd been briefed on Barber's special talent, but it was still hard to

believe Domain couldn't see him. Barber moved slowly forward across the room,

making no more noise than a breath of air. Hawk found he was holding his breath.

The sorcerer smiled at his dead love, unconcerned.

Barber moved in behind Domain and raised his sword. And then Domain raised his

left hand. Light flared briefly around the upraised fingers, and Barber froze

where he was, unable to move. Domain turned unhurriedly in his chair to look at

him.

"Did you really think you could break into my house, and I wouldn't know?

There's a power in me, assassin, a power beyond your worst nightmares, and it's

more than enough to see through your simple glamour. I knew the city would send

someone like you. They want to take my love away from me. I won't let them. I'll

destroy this whole stinking city first!"

He gestured sharply, and Barber flew across the room to crash into the opposite

wall. He slid to the floor, only half conscious but still somehow hanging onto

his sword. Footsteps clumped heavily in the hallway outside, and Domain smiled

broadly as the dead spilled into the room. Fisher raised her sword and went to

meet them. Hawk lifted his axe and threw it in one swift motion, with all his

strength behind it. The axe flew through the air and buried itself to the haft

in Susan's skull. The impact slammed the dead woman backwards, and she staggered

clumsily in a circle. Domain screamed, and jumped out of his chair to grab her

by the arms. He howled wordlessly in horror and despair, and the dead woman

crumpled limply to the floor, no longer sustained by the sorcerer's will. Domain

sank to his knees beside her, and started to cry. The dead men in the doorway

fell to the floor and lay still, and the invading presence was suddenly gone.

The room seemed somehow lighter, and the shadows were only shadows. The only

sound in the small, unexceptional room were the anguished sobs of a heartbroken

young man crying for his lost love.

Fisher lowered her sword, and nodded to Hawk. "Nice thinking. Even he couldn't

believe she was still alive with an axe buried between her eyes."

"Right. He's no danger anymore. Poor bastard. Though I think we'd better get

Storm in here as soon as possible, just in case." He shook his head slowly.

"What a mess. So many dead, and all for love."

"I'm fine, thank you," said Barber, getting slowly and painfully to his feet.

Hawk turned and grinned at him. "Next time, try not to make so much noise."

Barber just looked at him.

The beggars sat clustered together outside the main gate of Champion House,

lined up ten or twelve deep in places. They were of all ages, from babes to

ancients, and wore only the barest rags and scraps of clothing, the better to

show off their various diseases and deformities. Some were clearly on the edge

of starvation, little more than skin stretched over bone, while others lacked

legs or hands or eyes. The rain poured down upon their bare heads, but they paid

it no attention. It was the least of their troubles. Some wore the vestiges of

army uniforms, complete with faded campaign ribbons. They stood out from the

others, in that they seemed to have a little pride left. If they were lucky,

they'd soon lose it. It just made being a beggar that much harder.

The beggars huddled together, as much for company as comfort, their eyes fixed

on the main gate, waiting patiently for someone to go in or out. The honor

guards supplied by the Brotherhood of Steel for the two Kings' protection stared

out over the beggars, ignoring them completely. They posed no threat to the

House's security, as long as they continued to keep a respectable distance, and

were therefore of no interest. The beggars sat together in the rain, heads

bowed, and among them sat Wulf Saxon.

He watched the main gate carefully, from beneath lowered brows. He'd been there

almost two hours, shivering in the damp and the cold, and had put together a

pretty good picture of the House's outer security system. The honor guards were

everywhere, watching all the entrances and checking everyone's credentials

carefully before allowing them to enter. They took their time and didn't allow

anyone to hurt them, no matter how important-seeming or obviously aristocratic

the applicant might be. The Brotherhood of Steel trained its people well. Saxon

frowned, thinking his way unhurriedly through the problem. There had to be

magical protections around the House as well, which suggested that the

successful applicants had been issued charms of some kind which allowed them to

enter the grounds without setting off the alarms. He'd have to acquire one.

After he found a way in.

He hugged his knees to his chest, and ignored the rain trickling down his face

with proper beggarlike indifference. He'd suffered worse discomfort in his early

career as a confidence trickster, before he discovered politics. Though there

were those who'd claimed he'd just graduated from the smaller arena to the

large. He smiled to himself, and his fingers drifted casually over his left

trouser leg, pressing against the long leather canister strapped to his shin.

The baggy trousers hid it from view, but he liked to remind himself of its

presence now and again. It helped fuel his anger. The contents of the canister

would be his revenge against the two Kings. The first of many blows against the

heartless and corrupt authorities who'd made Haven the hellhole it was and kept

it that way because it suited their interests to do so. He was going to hurt

them, hurt them all in the ways that would hurt them the most, until finally his

vengeance forced them to make reforms, for fear of what he'd do next.

He made himself concentrate on the problem at hand, and reluctantly decided

against a frontal assault. No matter how good his disguise, or how persuasive

his arguments, there were just too many guards at the main gate and too many

ways for things to go wrong. Not to mention too many witnesses. Fouling up in

public would destroy his reputation before he even had a chance to re-establish

it. And there was still the problem of the House's protective wards. He wasn't

going to get anywhere without the right charms. Saxon shrugged. Fate would

provide, or she wouldn't. He tended to prefer simple plans, whenever possible,

mainly because they allowed more room for improvisation if circumstances

suddenly changed. Though he could be as obscure and devious as the next man,

when he felt like it. The more intricate schemes appealed to his creative

nature, if not his better judgment.

He rose to his feet and stumbled off through the crowd of beggars, his head

carefully bowed, his whole attitude one of utter dejection. No one looked at

him. Beggars tended to be invisible, except when they got under people's feet.

Saxon made his way into a nearby dark alley, listened for a long moment to be

sure he was alone, and then straightened up with a low sigh of relief. All that

bowing his head and hunching over was doing his back no good at all. He stepped

briskly over to the nearest drainpipe, took a firm grip, and climbed up onto the

roof. The pipe creaked threateningly under his weight, but he knew it would

hold. He'd checked it out earlier, just to be on the safe side. He pulled

himself up over the guttering and onto the sloping roof in one easy motion, so

quietly he didn't even disturb a dozing pigeon in the eaves. He padded softly

over the rain-slick slates to the far edge of the roof, and jumped easily onto

the adjoining roof. The gap was only a few feet, and he didn't look down. The

length of the drop would only have worried him; he was better off not knowing.

He crossed two more roofs in the same fashion, and crouched down on the edge of

the final roof, a ragged gargoyle in the driving rain. A narrow alley was all

that separated him from Champion House.

The wall surrounding the grounds stared aggressively back at him: ten feet of

featureless stone topped with iron spikes and a generous scattering of broken

glass. A single narrow gate looked out onto the alley, a tradesman's entrance

manned by two large, professional-looking men-at-arms. They both wore chain

mail, and had long, businesslike swords on their hips. Saxon had spotted the

gate on his first reconnoitre, and had marked it down in his memory as a

definite possibility. Tradesmen had been in and out of Champion House all

morning, bringing extra supplies for the new guests and their entourages. At the

moment, a large confectioner's cart was parked at the end of the alley, and a

stream of white-coated staff were carrying covered trays past the men-at-arms.

Saxon grinned. Perfect. The confectioner hadn't even questioned the unexpected

order when Saxon delivered it to him, clad in his most impressive-looking

footman's outfit. Of course, it had helped that the order had been written on

engraved notepaper bearing the Champion House crest. Saxon believed in getting

all the details right.

He was just grateful he'd had the foresight to store all his con man's props in

his secret lock-up all those years ago. Actually, it hadn't really been

foresight. He just hadn't wanted to take a chance on any of them turning up

unexpectedly to embarrass him after he'd become an eminently respectable

Councilor…

And he never could bear to throw anything away.

He slid silently over the edge of the roof, and padded quickly down the fire

escape, the few unavoidable sounds drowned out by the pounding rain. He stood

very still in the shadows, under the fire escape, and waited patiently for just

the right moment. A white-coated confectioner's assistant came out of the side

gate with his hands in his pockets, and headed unhurriedly for the cart at the

end of the alley. He passed by the fire escape, whistling tunelessly, and two

strong hands shot out of nowhere and dragged him into the shadows.

Saxon emerged from the shadows a few moments later wearing a white coat, and

headed for the confectioner's cart. The coat fit like a tent, but you couldn't

have everything. More's the pity. At the cart, a harried-looking supervisor

handed him down a covered tray, and Saxon balanced it on his shoulder as he'd

seen the others do. He kept his face carefully averted, but the supervisor was

too busy to notice anyway.

"Get a move on," he growled to Saxon, without looking up from the list he was

checking. "We're way behind schedule, and if the boss chews on my arse because

we got back late, you can bet I'm going to chew on yours. And don't think I

didn't spot you sloping off to lounge about behind the fire escape. You pull

that again, and I'll have your guts for garters. Well, don't just stand there;

get the hell out of here! If those pastries are ruined, it's coming out of your

wages, not mine!"

Saxon grunted something vaguely placating, and headed for the side gate. The

men-at-arms didn't even look at him, just at the white coat. Saxon timed his

pace carefully, not too slow and not too hurried, and tucked his chin down

against his chest, as though trying to keep the rain out of his face. As he

neared the gate, one of the men-at-arms stirred suddenly, and Saxon's heart

jumped.

"Stay on the path," said the man-at-arms in a bored monotone, as though he'd

said it before many times, and knew he'd have to say it a great many more times

before the day was over. "As long as you stay on the path the alarms won't go

off. If you do set off an alarm, stay where you are till someone comes to get

you."

Saxon grunted again, and passed between the two men-at-arms. He braced himself

for a last-minute shout or blow, but nothing happened. He strode quickly along

the gravel path, speeding up his pace as much as he dared. The path led him

through the wide-open grounds to a door at the rear of the House. He followed

slow-moving white coats into the kitchens, put down his tray with the others,

and leaned against a wall to get his breath back and wipe the rain from his

face, surreptitiously taking in the scene as he did so. The kitchen was bigger

than some houses he'd known, with ovens and grills on all sides, and a single

massive table in the middle of everything, holding enough food to feed a

medium-sized army. The air was full of steam and the smells of cooking, and a

small battalion of servants bustled noisily back and forth, shouted at

impartially by the three senior cooks. A single guard was leaning easily against

the far door, gnawing on a pork rib and chatting amiably with a grinning servant

girl. Saxon smiled. Just what the doctor ordered. He headed straight for the

guard, oozing confidence and purpose, as though he had every right to be there,

and people hurried to get out of his way. He came to a halt before the guard and

coughed meaningfully. The guard looked at him.

"Yeah? You want something?"

"Through here," said Saxon crisply. "You'd better take a look at this."

He pushed open the door behind the guard, stepped through, and held the door

open for the guard to follow him. The guard shrugged, and smiled at the servant

girl. "Don't you move, little darling. I'll be back before you know it. And

don't talk to any strange men. That's my job." He stepped out into the corridor,

and Saxon pulled the door shut behind him. The guard glared at him. "This had

better be important."

"Oh, it is," said Saxon. "You have no idea." He looked quickly around to be sure

no one was looking, then briskly kneed the guard in the groin. The guard's eyes

bulged, and he bent slowly forward. His mouth worked as he tried to force out a

scream and couldn't. Saxon took him in a basic but very efficient stranglehold,

and a few seconds later lowered the unconscious body to the floor. It was good

to know he hadn't lost his touch. He dragged the body over to a cupboard he'd

spotted, and yanked it open. From now on, speed was of the essence. Anyone could

come along, at any moment. The cupboard proved big enough to take both of them

easily, and he took the opportunity to change his white coat and beggar's rags

for the guard's honor outfit and chain mail. Leaving the door open a crack

provided all the light he needed. The mail fit tightly in all the most

uncomfortable places, but it would do. He kicked the guard spitefully for being

the wrong size, and strapped the man's sword to his own hip. He wished briefly

for a mirror, and then pushed open the cupboard door and stepped out into the

corridor. A passing servant stopped in his tracks and stared blankly at Saxon.

"Excuse me… this is probably a silly question, but what were you doing in the

cupboard?"

"Security," said Saxon darkly, closing the door. "You can't be too careful."

He met the servant's gaze without flinching, and the man decided to continue

about his business and not ask any more stupid questions. Saxon grinned at the

servant's departing back. It was his experience that people will believe

practically anything you care to tell them, as long as you say it firmly enough.

He fingered the bone medallion he'd found on the guard, and which was now

hanging round his own neck. Presumably this was the charm that protected the

guard against the House's protective wards. With it, he should be able to go

anywhere he wanted. Of course, if it wasn't the charm, or the right charm, he

was about to find out the hard way. He shrugged. Whatever happened, he'd think

of something. He always did.

He strode leisurely through the House as though he belonged there, nodding to

people as they passed. They nodded back automatically, seeing only his uniform,

sure he must have a good reason for being where he was. Saxon smiled inwardly,

and studied his surroundings without seeming to do so. Everywhere he looked

there was luxury, in the thick carpets and antique furniture, and the portraits

and tapestries covering the walls. And so much space. He remembered the single

room where his sister now lived, and his fury burned in him.

He had to find the two Kings. He needed to see them, study their faces, look

into their eyes. He wanted to know the people he was going to destroy. There was

no satisfaction in taking vengeance on faceless people, on titles and positions

rather than individuals. He wanted this first act of revenge to be entirely

personal. He stepped out of a side corridor into a high-ceiling hall, and

stopped to get his bearings. Servants scurried back and forth around him, intent

on their various missions. He couldn't just stand around watching without

appearing conspicuous. So, when in doubt, be direct. Saxon stepped deliberately

in front of a hurrying footman, and gave the man his best intimidating scowl.

"You; where are the Kings?"

"Fourth floor, in the main parlor, sir. Where they've been for the past two

hours."

There had been more than a hint of insolence in the footman's tone, so Saxon

cranked up his scowl another notch. "And how do you know I'm not some terrorist

spy? Do you normally give away vital information to the first person who walks

up to you and asks? Shape up, man! And stay alert. The enemy could be anywhere."

Saxon stalked off in the direction of the stairs, leaving a thoroughly confused

and worried footman behind him. He threaded his way through the bustling crowd,

nodding briskly to the few guards he passed. He'd almost reached the stairs when

a guard officer appeared out of nowhere right in front of him, and he had to

stop or run the man down. The officer glared at him, and Saxon remembered just

in time to salute him. The officer grunted and returned the salute.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, appearing on duty looking like that?

Your uniform's a disgrace, your chain mail looks like it was made for a deformed

dwarf, and that was the sloppiest damn salute I've ever seen. What's your name

and your unit?"

Oh, hell, thought Saxon wearily. I don't need this. I really don't.

He glanced quickly around to be sure no one was looking and then gave the

officer a vicious punch well below the belt. All the color drained out of the

officer's face, and his legs buckled. Saxon grabbed him before he fell and

quickly walked him across the hall and back into the side corridor. He shook his

head woefully at a passing guest.

"Don't touch the shellfish."

The guest blinked, and hurried on his way. Saxon waited a moment till the

corridor was deserted, and then knocked the officer out with a crisp blow to the

jaw. It was only a matter of a few seconds to stuff him into the cupboard along

with the first guard. He considered for a moment whether to swap his outfit for

the officer's, but decided against it. Officers tended to stand out; the rank

and file drew less notice. He hurried back down the corridor into the hall, and

ran straight into another officer. This time he remembered to salute. The new

officer returned it absent-mindedly.

"I'm looking for Major Tierman! Have you seen him?"

"No, sir. Haven't seen him all day."

"What do you mean, you haven't see him all day? This is your commanding officer

we're talking about! What's your name and unit?"

Oh, hell.

"If you'll follow me, sir, I think I can take you right to the Major."

Back in the side corridor, Saxon finished stuffing the unconscious officer into

the cupboard, and forced the door shut. He'd better not run into any more

officers, or he'd have to find another cupboard. He set off again at a brisk

walk, with a very determined expression that he hoped suggested he was going

somewhere very important and shouldn't be detained. He flexed the fingers of his

right hand thoughtfully. There was one thing to be said for his new strength:

when he hit someone they stayed hit. He doubted the two officers and the guard

would be waking up for a good few hours yet. More than enough time for him to

take his vengeance on the two Kings and depart.

The main parlor turned out to be full of people trying to look important. The

two Kings sat in state at the back of the room, surrounded by an ever-shifting

mob of courtiers, local Quality, and guards. Any assassin trying to get close to

the monarchs would probably have been trampled underfoot in the crush long

before he got anywhere near his targets. Politicians and military mixed more or

less amicably around the punch bowl, while merchants and nouveau riche Quality

hovered desperately on the edges of conversations, angling hopefully for

introductions to the right people. Polite conversation provided a steady roar of

noise, easily drowning out the string quartet murdering a classical piece in the

corner. No one even noticed Saxon's entrance. He took up a position by the door,

not too far from the buffet table, and studied the layout of the room. No one

paid him any attention. He was just another guard.

He watched the two Kings for a time. They didn't look like much. Take away their

crowns and their gorgeous robes of state, and you wouldn't look at them twice in

a crowd. But those two men, both in their late forties, were symbols of their

countries and the Parliaments that governed them. A blow struck against them

would be heard across the world. But of even more importance was the Peace

Treaty, standing on display in a simple glass case between the two Kings.

There were two copies of the Treaty, standing side by side under the glass; one

for each Parliament. Two sheets of pale-cream parchment covered with the very

best copperplate calligraphy, awaiting only the Kings' signatures to make them

law. Saxon smiled slowly. He flexed his leg, and felt the leather canister press

against his bare skin. Inside the canister were two sheets of pale-cream

parchment, carefully rolled, and protected by padding. From a distance, they

looked exactly like the Treaty. And once Saxon had swapped them for the real

Treaty, no one would be able to tell the difference. At least, not until it was

far too late.

Saxon had put a great deal of thought into his first act of vengeance. It wasn't

enough just to hurt those in authority; they had to be publicly humiliated. His

two sheets of parchment were covered with copperplate calligraphy, but a minor

avoidance spell which Saxon had purchased from the son of one of his old

contacts would ensure that no one studied the text too closely. The spell was

too subtle and too minor to set off any security alarms and would fade away

completely in a matter of hours anyway, but by then the damage would have been

done. Both the Kings would have put their signatures, and thereby their

Parliaments' approval, to a Treaty that declared the authorities of both

countries to be corrupt, incompetent, and complete and utter bastards without a

single trace of human feeling.

The text went on like that for some time, in increasingly lengthy and insulting

detail. Saxon had written it himself in a fury of white-hot inspiration, and was

rather proud of it.

And the Kings were going to sign it. Right there in public, with everyone

watching. They'd never live it down. When word got out, as it inevitably would,

as to exactly what they'd put their names to, a shock wave of incredulous

laughter would wash across Outremer and the Low Kingdoms. The more the

authorities tried to suppress and deny the story, the more people would flock to

read or listen to pirated copies of the false Treaty, and the wider the story

would spread. The first part of Saxon's vengeance would have begun. More

practical jokes and humiliations would follow, and no one would be safe from

ridicule. Powers that would stand firm against intrigue and violence were

helpless when it came to defending themselves against derisive laughter. It's

hard to be scared of someone when their very appearance is enough to start you

giggling. Saxon's grin broadened. After today, both the Kings and their

Parliaments were going to be laughingstocks.

He looked around one last time, and let his hands drift casually into his

trouser pockets, reaching for the smoke bombs he'd put there. One to go into the

open fire, and the second for an emergency exit, if necessary. Under cover of

the smoke and chaos, and while the security people were busy protecting the

Kings from any attack, it would be child's play for him to open the glass case

and make the substitution. The real parchments would disappear into his leather

canister, and it would all be over before the smoke cleared. And afterwards it

should be easy enough for a single guard to disappear in all the confusion.

It was a superb plan; simple but elegant. Nothing could go wrong.

Daniel Madigan stood openly in the street under a rain avoidance spell, watching

Champion House from the middle of a crowd of onlookers waiting patiently for a

glimpse of the two Kings. Horn and Eleanour Todd stood on either side of him,

watching the crowd. Just in case. The young killer Ellis Glen stood beside Todd,

shifting impatiently from foot to foot. They'd been watching the House for the

best part of an hour, waiting for a signal from the traitors inside the House.

The signal would tell them that the protective wards had been temporarily

lowered, and then the fun could begin. But until then, they could only wait and

watch. Even with the sorcerer shaman Ritenour working for him, Madigan wasn't

prepared to take on the kind of magical defenses the Kings' sorcerers would have

set up. He hadn't made his reputation by being stupid. Or impatient.

Ritenour himself stood a little away from his new associates. Their constant

aura of suppressed violence disturbed him. To his eyes, the House was surrounded

by an ever-shifting aurora of lights and vibrations, flaring here and there with

deadly intent. The magic within him stirred at the sight of it. He looked

thoughtfully at the terrorists. He still wasn't sure why he was there. The more

he thought about what Madigan had planned, the less tempting the money seemed.

He could still leave. Ritenour had no loyalty to anyone save himself, let alone

anything as nebulous as a Cause. And he didn't trust fanatics, particularly when

it came to their paying their bills. But when all was said and done, he was

intrigued, curious to see if Madigan could bring off his plan. And perhaps, just

perhaps, he stayed with Madigan because he knew the terrorist would kill him if

he tried to back out now.

"Can't keep still for a moment, can you?" said Horn to Glen, as the young man

shifted his position yet again. "Like a big kid, aren't you, Alice?"

"Don't call me that," said Glen. He was blushing despite himself, but his eyes

were cold. "I've told you; my name is Ellis."

"That's what I said, Alice. It's a nice name; suits a good looker like you. Tell

you what: you do good in there today and I'll get you a nice big bunch of

flowers and a ribbon for your hair. How about that?"

"If you don't shut up, I'm going to kill you, Horn. Right here and now."

"Now, Alice, behave yourself, or I'll have to spank you."

Glen's hand dropped to the sword at his side, and Todd glanced at Horn. "That's

enough. Leave the boy alone."

Glen shot her a look of almost puppyish adoration and gratitude, and looked

away. Horn chuckled.

"I think he fancies you, Eleanour. Isn't that nice? All girls together."

Todd glared at him, and Horn looked away, still chuckling. He didn't say

anything more. Much as he enjoyed teasing Glen and challenging Todd's authority,

he knew he could only push it so far before Madigan would step in. Horn wasn't

stupid enough to upset Madigan. Over anything. He glanced surreptitiously at

Eleanour Todd. Before Madigan brought her into the group, he'd been

second-in-command, Madigan's voice. And if something were to happen to her, he

might be again. Of course, he'd have to be very careful. If Madigan even

suspected he was plotting something against another member of the group… The

thought alone was enough to stop him chuckling, and he went back to studying the

House.

Glen stared straight ahead of him, not really seeing the crowd or the House. He

could feel the warmth of the betraying blush still beating in his face, and his

hands had clenched into fists at his sides. The need to cut and thrust and kill

was almost overpowering, but he held it back. If he let it loose too soon,

Madigan would be disappointed in him, and Glen would have cut off his own hand

rather than disappoint Madigan. He had turned Glen's life around, given him a

Cause and a purpose. Told him that his talent for death was a skill and an

asset, not something to hide or be ashamed of. Madigan understood his dark needs

and bloody dreams, and had taught him to control and channel them. Now he killed

only at Madigan's order, and the joy was that much sweeter.

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 screams 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 Bailey 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.

Jessica Winter plodded along just behind the two Guards, looking around her with

interest. If the smell bothered her, it didn't show in her face. Hawk smiled

slightly. Winter wasn't the sort to admit to any weakness, no matter how

trivial. Barber and MacReady brought up the rear, ploughing steadily along in

Winter's wake. Barber carried his sword at the ready, and studied every side

tunnel and moving shadow with dark suspicion. MacReady held the other lantern,

his eyes thoughtful and far away. Nothing much bothered MacReady, but then if

Storm's explanation about his charmed life was right, he didn't have much to

worry about. Storm… Hawk scowled. While they were all up to their knees in it

and gagging on the stench, the sorcerer was probably sitting in some nice dry

office with his feet up, following it all with his Sight and grinning a lot. He

couldn't go with them, he'd explained in a voice positively dripping with mock

disappointment, because the terrorists had raised the House's defensive wards

again, and no sorcerer could even approach Champion House without setting off

all kinds of alarms.

Hawk's scowl deepened. The situation got more complicated every time he looked

at it. The city negotiators had been talking earnestly with the terrorists from

the moment they made their first demands, but so far they hadn't got anywhere.

The terrorists wouldn't budge an inch in their demands, and the city Council

couldn't agree to meet them because both Parliaments were still arguing over

what to do. Sorcerers were working in relays passing messages back and forth

across the two countries, but so far nothing had been decided. Some factions

were pressing for a full-scale assault on Champion House, arguing that a

powerful enough force could smash through the House's defenses and reach the

hostages before the terrorists even knew what was happening. Fortunately for the

hostages, no one was listening to these people. Apart from the obvious danger to

the two Kings, most of the hostages were extremely well-connected—socially,

politically, or economically—and those connections were making it clear to both

Parliaments that they would take it very badly if any kind of force was used

before every other avenue had been investigated.

So the negotiators talked and got nowhere, the city men-at-arms trained

endlessly for an attack they might never make, and the Brotherhood of Steel told

anyone who'd listen that this insult to the honor guards they'd provided would

be avenged in blood, whatever happened. It wasn't clear whether the Brotherhood

was referring to the terrorists or the people who wouldn't let them send in a

rescue force, and no one liked to ask. On top of all that, the city's sorcerers

couldn't do a damned thing to help because the ' House's wards were apparently

so powerful it would have taken every sorcerer in the city working together to

breach them, and the terrorists had threatened to kill both Kings if the wards

even looked like they were going down. Champion House was an old house, with a

great deal of magic built into its walls. It had been built to withstand a

siege, and that was exactly what it was doing.

The city Council listened to everyone, had a fit of the vapors, threw its

collective hands in the air, and called in the SWAT team. Wild promises and open

threats were made. And that was why Hawk was up to his knees in stinking water

and wishing he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. A study of the House's

architectural plans revealed it had been built directly over the ruins of an old

slaughterhouse (the Westside hadn't always been fashionable), and supposedly

there were still tunnels leading from the cellar straight into the sewers. So,

theoretically it should be possible for the SWAT team to break into the cellar

from the sewers without being noticed. The wards were worn thin down there, for

some reason Storm didn't understand, and could be breached by a small force that

had been suitably prepared.

Hawk had pressed Storm on this point, but the sorcerer had been unusually

evasive. He just insisted that he could keep any alarms from going off, and that

was all that mattered. And then he looked away, and said quietly that the cellar

had originally belonged to another, even older building, and the slaughterhouse

had been built on its ruins. He didn't know what the original building had been,

but just making mental contact with the cellar had made his skin crawl. Storm

didn't tell Hawk to be careful. He didn't have to. All of which hadn't exactly

filled Hawk with confidence, but as Winter kept pointing out, she was the team

leader, and she was determined to go in. So they went in.

Hawk studied the sewer tunnel as he trudged along, and supposed he ought to be

impressed. There were said to be miles of these tunnels, winding back and forth

under the better parts of the city before carrying the wastes out to sea. Of

course such tunnels are expensive, which is why you only found them beneath the

better parts of the city. Everyone else had to make do with crude drains,

runoffs, and sinkholes. Which is why you always knew which way the downmarket

areas of the city were, especially when the wind was blowing. The thought made

Hawk aware of the sewer's stench again, and he made a determined effort to think

about something else. He and the rest of the team had been given the House's

plans and the sewers' layout as a mental overlay before they left, and he could

tell they were getting close to the right area. The tunnels leading up to the

cellar weren't actually marked on either set of plans, but they had to be around

here somewhere.

Hawk smiled sourly. Actually, there were lots of things about the sewers that

weren't on any map. Half the sorcerers and alchemists in Haven flushed their

failed experiments down into the sewers, producing an unholy mixture of

chemicals and forces that gave nightmares to anyone who thought about it too

much. Oversized rats were the least of the unpleasant things said to prowl the

sewer darkness. There were cobwebs everywhere, strung across the walls and

beaded here and there with moisture. Hanging strands of slimy gossamer twitched

occasionally as wafts of warm air moved through the tunnels. In places the webs

became so thick they half blocked the tunnels, and Hawk had to cut his way

through with his axe. Sometimes he found the remains of dead rats and tiny

homunculi cocooned in the webbing, along with other things he couldn't identify,

and wasn't sure he wanted to. He tried hard not to think about Crawling Jenny,

or how big a spider would have to be to produce such webs.

He'd never liked spiders.

Fisher moved in close beside him, so that they could talk quietly without being

overheard. "I once talked with one of the maintenance men whose job it is to

clean out these tunnels twice a year. He said there wasn't enough money in the

world to get him to come down here more often than that. He'd seen things, heard

things…"

"What sort of things?" said Hawk, casually.

Fisher moved in even closer, her voice little more than a murmur. "Once, they

found a blind angel with tattered wings, from the Street of Gods. They offered

to guide it out, but it wouldn't go. It said it was guilty. It wouldn't say what

of. Another time, the slime on top of the water came alive and attacked them.

Someone smashed a lantern against it, and it burst into flames. It rolled away

into the darkness, riding on top of the water, screaming in a dozen voices. And

once, they saw a spider as big as a dog, spinning a cocoon around something even

larger."

"Anything else?" asked Hawk, his mouth dry.

Fisher shrugged. "There are always stories. Some say this is where all the

aborted babies end up, neither living nor dead. They crawl around in the

tunnels, in the dark, looking for a way out and never finding it."

"If you've got any more cheerful stories, do me a favor and keep them to

yourself," said Hawk. "They're just stories. Look, we've been down here almost

an hour now, and we haven't seen a damned thing so far. Not even a rat."

"Yeah," said Fisher darkly. "Suspicious, that."

Hawk sighed. "Whose stupid idea was this, anyway?"

"Yours, originally."

"Why do you listen to me?"

Fisher chuckled briefly, but didn't stop frowning. "If there aren't any rats, it

can only be because something else has been preying on them." She stopped

suddenly, and Hawk stopped to look at her. She cocked her head slightly to one

side, listening. "Hawk, can you hear something?"

Hawk strained his ears against the quiet. The rest of the team had stopped too,

and the last echoes from their progress through the water died away into

whispers. The silence gathered around them like a watchful predator, waiting for

them to make a mistake. Fisher held her lantern higher, her hand brushing

against the tunnel roof, but the light still couldn't penetrate far into the

darkness. Winter moved forward to join them.

"Why have we stopped?"

"Isobel thought she heard something ahead," said Hawk.

"I did hear something," said Fisher firmly.

Winter nodded slowly. "I've been aware of something too, just at the edge of my

hearing. Sometimes I think it's behind us, sometimes out in front."

"There's something out there," said MacReady flatly. "I can feel its presence."

They all looked at him. "Any idea what it is?" asked Hawk.

"No. But it's close now. Very close."

"Great. Thanks a lot, MacReady." Hawk reached out with his mind to Storm, using

the mental link the sorcerer had established with the team before they left.

Hey, Storm. You there?

For the moment, Captain Hawk. The closer you get to the House's wards, the

harder it is for me to make contact.

Can you tell what's ahead of us in the dark?

I'm sorry, Captain. My Sight is useless under these conditions. But you should

all be wary. There's a lot of magic in Champion House, old magic, bad magic, and

its proximity to the sewers is bound to have had unfortunate effects on whatever

lives there.

A lot of help you are, sorcerer. Hawk broke the contact, and hefted his axe.

"Well, we can't go back, and according to the plans, there's no other way

that'll get us where we're going. So we go on. And if there is anything up

ahead, we'd better hope it's got enough sense to stay out of our way."

"Everyone draw their weapons," said Winter crisply. "And Hawk, since you're so

keen to make all the decisions, you can lead the way."

"You're so good to me," said Hawk. "Let's go, people."

He led the way forward into the dark, feeling Winter's angry look burning into

his back. He didn't mean to keep undermining her position as leader, but he

wasn't used to taking orders. And he couldn't wait around and keep quiet while

she made up her mind. It wasn't in his nature. Fisher waded along beside him,

holding her lantern in one hand and her sword in the other. The rest of the team

ploughed along behind them, spread out enough not to make a single target, but

not so far apart they could be picked off one at a time without the others

noticing. The silence pressed in close around them, weighing down so heavily it

was almost like a physical presence. Hawk had an almost overpowering urge to

shout and yell, to fill the tunnel with sound, if only to emphasize his

presence. But he didn't. He had an unsettling feeling his voice would sound

small and lost in this vast network of tunnels, no matter how loudly he shouted.

And apart from that, there was also the rumor he'd heard that any loud sound in

the tunnels never really died away. It just echoed on and on, passing from

tunnel to tunnel, growing gradually quieter and more plaintive but never fully

fading away. Hawk didn't like the idea of any part of him being trapped down

here in the dark forever, not even just his voice.

After a while, it seemed to him he could hear something moving in the tunnel up

ahead, a sound so faint and quick he could only tell it was there by the deeper

silence that came when it stopped. His instincts were clawing at his gut, urging

him to get the hell out of there while he still could, and he clutched the haft

of his axe so tightly his fingers ached. He made himself loosen his grip a

little, but the faint sounds in the dark wore at his nerves like sandpaper. He

took to checking each new side tunnel thoroughly before he'd let the others pass

it, torn between his need for action and the urgency of their mission, and the

necessity of not allowing himself to be hurried. Hurried people make mistakes.

He couldn't help the hostages if he got himself killed by acting carelessly.

The sounds grew suddenly louder and more distinct and he stopped, glaring ahead

into the gloom. The others stopped with him, and Fisher moved in close beside

him, her sword at the ready. Something was coming towards them out of the

darkness, not even bothering to hide its presence anymore, something so large

and heavy its progress pushed the air before it like a breeze. Hawk could feel

the air pressing against his face.

A dozen red gleams appeared high up in the gloom before him, shining like fires

in the night. Hawk lifted his axe as a horrid suspicion stirred within him. The

glaring eyes, the soft sounds, and everywhere he looked, the endless webbing… Oh

hell, no. Anything but that. The blazing eyes drew closer, hovering up by the

tunnel roof, and then the huge spider burst out of the darkness and lurched to a

stop at the edge of the lantern light, its eight spindly legs quivering like

guitar strings. It swayed silently before them, the top of its furry body

pressing against the roof, its legs splayed out into the water and pressing

against the tunnel walls. The vast oval body all but filled the tunnel, its

thick black fur matted with water and slime. Its red eyes glared fiercely in the

lantern light, watchful and unblinking. Thick gobbets of saliva ran from its

twitching mandibles. Hawk stood very still. There was no telling what sudden

sound or movement might prompt it to attack.

What the hell, he thought firmly. You can handle this. You've faced a lot worse

in your time.

That was true, but not particularly comforting. Truth be told, he'd never liked

spiders, and in particular he'd never liked the sudden darting way in which they

moved. If he found one in the jakes, he usually called for Isobel to come and

get rid of it. Of course, she was so softhearted she couldn't bear to kill a

helpless little insect, so she just dumped it outside, whereupon it immediately

found its way back inside again to have another go at terrorizing him. He

realized his thoughts were rambling, and brought them firmly back under control.

He could handle this. He looked surreptitiously back at the others, and was a

little relieved to see that they looked just as shaken as he was.

"Well?" he said steadily. "Anyone got any ideas?"

"Let's cut its legs off, for a start," said Barber. "That should ruin its day."

"Sounds good to me," said Fisher. "I'll go for the head. Hack its brain into

mincemeat, and it's got to lie down and die. Hasn't it?"

"Strictly speaking," said Hawk, "it doesn't appear to have a head. The eyes are

set in the top part of its body."

"All right. I'll go for the top part of its body, then. God, you can be picky

sometimes, Hawk."

"That's enough!" hissed Winter sharply. "Keep your voices down, all of you. I

don't want it panicked into attacking before we're ready to handle it. Or hasn't

it occurred to you that the bloody thing is hardly going to just stand there and

watch while you step forward and take a hack at it? If it can move as fast as

its smaller cousins, we could be in big trouble."

"It might also be poisonous," said MacReady.

They all looked at him. "Something that big doesn't need to be poisonous," said

Fisher, uncertainly.

"Are you willing to bet your life on that?" asked MacReady.

"We're wasting time," said Winter. "While we're standing around here arguing,

the terrorists could be killing hostages. We've got to get past this thing, no

matter how dangerous it is. We need someone to hold the creature's attention

while Barber and Fisher attack its weak spots. Hawk, I think it's time we found

out just how good you are with that axe."

Hawk nodded stiffly. "No problem. Just give me some room."

He moved slowly forward, the scummy waters swirling about his knees. The tunnel

floor was uneven, and he couldn't see where to put his feet. Not exactly ideal

fighting conditions. The spider's huge body quivered suddenly, its legs

trembling, and Hawk froze where he was. The serrated mandibles flexed silently,

and Hawk took a firmer grip on his axe. He stepped forward, and the spider

launched itself at him, moving impossibly fast for its bulk. He braced himself,

and buried his axe in the spider's body, just above the mandibles. Thick black

blood spattered over his hands, and he was carried back three or four feet by

the force of the spider's charge before he could brace himself again. He could

hear the SWAT team scattering behind him, but couldn't spare the time to look

back. The spider shook itself violently, and Hawk was lifted off his feet. He

clung desperately to his axe with one hand, and grabbed the mandibles with the

other, keeping them at arm's length from his body. At his side, Barber cut

viciously at the creature's nearest leg, but the spider lifted it out of the way

with cat-quick reflexes. Barber stumbled, caught off balance by the force of his

own blow, and the leg lashed out and caught him full in the chest, sending him

flying backwards into the water. He disappeared beneath the surface, and

reappeared coughing and spluttering but still hanging onto his sword.

Fisher cut at the spider's eyes with the tip of her sword, and it flinched back,

dragging Hawk with it as he tried to tear his axe free. The spider's body had

seemed as soft as a sponge when he hit it, but now the sides of the wound had

closed on the axehead like a living vise. He braced one foot against the tunnel

wall and pulled hard with both hands, putting his back into it. The axe jerked

free with a loud, sucking sound and he fell back into the water, just managing

to keep his feet under him. The spider reared up over him, and he swung his axe

double-handed into the creature's belly. The heavy weapon sank into the black

fur, the force of the blow burying the axe deep into the spider's guts. Thick

blood drenched Hawk's arms and chest as he wrenched the axe free and struck at

the belly again.

Barber coughed up the last of the water he'd swallowed and staggered back into

the fight. Winter was trying to cut through the spider's front legs, but it

always managed to pull them out of reach at the last moment, and she had to

throw herself this way and that to avoid the legs as they came swinging

viciously back. Barber chose his moment carefully, and cut at one leg just as it

lashed out after Winter. His blade sank deep into the spindly leg and jarred on

bone. He pulled the sword free and cut again, and the leg folded awkwardly in

two, well below the joint.

The spider lurched to one side, and Fisher scrambled up on top of it, grabbing

handfuls of the thick fur as she went. She thrust her sword in between the

glaring red eyes again and again, burying the blade to the hilt. The edge of the

sword burst one of the eyes and its crimson light went out, drowned in black

blood. The spider reared beneath her, slamming her against the tunnel roof and

trying to throw her off. She hung on grimly, probing for the creature's brain

with her sword. Barber and Winter cut through another leg between them, and the

spider collapsed against the tunnel wall, thrown off balance by its own weight.

Hawk cut deeply into the spider's belly above him, kneeling in the water to get

more room to swing his axe. Blood and steaming liquids spilled over him as he

hacked and tore at the creature's guts. Barber severed a third leg, and Fisher

slammed her sword into a glaring red eye. The spider reared up, crushing Fisher

against the tunnel roof, and then collapsed on top of Hawk. He just had time to

see the great bulk coming down on top of him, and then the spider's great weight

thrust him down beneath the surface of the water and held him there.

The spider's last breath went out of it in a long shuddering sigh, its mandibles

clattering loudly, and then it was still. The light went out of its remaining

eyes, and black blood spilled out into the filthy water. Winter and Barber

leaned on each other for support while they got their breath back. Fisher

clambered slowly down off the spider's back, wincing at the bruises she'd got

from being slammed against the tunnel roof. She dropped back into the water, and

looked around her.

"Where's Hawk?"

Winter and Barber looked at each other. "I lost track of him in the fight," said

Winter. "Mac, did you see what happened to him?"

MacReady looked at Fisher. "I'm very sorry. Hawk was trapped beneath the water

by the spider when it collapsed."

Fisher looked at him speechlessly for a moment, then demanded, "Why the hell

didn't you say something? We can still get him out! There's still time. Help me,

damn you!"

She splashed back through the water and tried to grab the spider's side to lift

it, but her hands sank uselessly into the spongy mass. Barber and Winter moved

in on either side of her to help, but even when they could find a hold, they

couldn't lift the spider's body an inch. They couldn't shift the immense weight

without leverage, and the soft yielding body wouldn't allow them any.

"There's nothing you can do, Isobel," said MacReady. "If there was, I'd have

done it. I'm sorry, but it was obvious Hawk was a dead man from the moment the

spider collapsed on top of him."

"Shut up!" said Fisher. "And get over here and help, damn you, or I swear I'll

cut you down where you stand, charm or no bloody charm!"

MacReady shrugged, and moved in beside Barber. Fisher sank her arms into the

spider's body up to her elbows, and strained upwards with all her strength, but

the body didn't move. She tried again and again, hauling at the dead weight till

her back screamed and sweat ran down her face in streams, but it was no use.

Finally she realized that the others had stopped trying and were staring at her

compassionately. She stumbled back from the dead spider, shaking her head slowly

at the words she knew were coming.

"It's no good," said Barber. "We can't lift it, Isobel. We'd need a dock crane

just to shift the bloody thing. And it's been too long anyway. He's gone,

Isobel. There's nothing more we can do."

"There has to be," said Fisher numbly.

"I'm sorry," said Winter. "He was a good fighter, and a brave man."

"You couldn't stand him!" said Fisher. "You thought he wanted your stupid

command! If you hadn't sent him in first, on his own, he might still be alive!"

"Yes," said Winter. "He might. I'm sorry."

Storm! yelled Fisher with her mind. You're a sorcerer! Do something!

There's nothing I can do, my dear. This close to the House, my magic is useless.

"Damn you! Damn you all! He can't die here. Not like this."

They stood for a while in the tunnel, saying nothing.

"It's time to go," said Winter finally. "We still have our mission. The hostages

are depending on us. Hawk wouldn't have wanted them to die because of him."

"We can't just leave him here," said Fisher. "Not alone. In the dark."

"We'll send someone back for him later," said Barber. "Let's go."

The spider's back pressed upwards suddenly, and the whole body lurched sideways.

The SWAT team stumbled backwards, lifting their swords again. It can't be alive,

Fisher thought dully. It can't be alive when Hawk is dead. The spider's back

protruded suddenly in one spot and then burst apart as a gore-streaked axehead

tore through it. A bloody hand appeared after the axe, and then Hawk's head

burst out beside it, gulping great lungfuls of the stinking air. The SWAT team

stared at him uncomprehendingly, and then Fisher shrieked with savage joy and

scrambled up on top of the spider again. She cut quickly at the torn hide with

her sword, opening the hole wider. Barber and Winter climbed up beside her, and

between them they hauled Hawk out of the spider's body and helped him clamber

down into the water again. Fisher clung to him all the way, unable to let go, as

though afraid he might vanish if she did. He was covered in blood and gore from

head to toe, but none of it seemed to be his. He was still breathing harshly,

but he found the strength to hug her back, and even managed a small, reassuring

smile for her.

"What the hell happened?" she said finally. "We'd all given you up for dead!"

Hawk raised a sardonic eyebrow. "I demand a second opinion."

Fisher snorted with laughter. "All right, then; why didn't you drown?"

Hawk grinned. "You should have known I don't die that easily, lass. When the

damned thing collapsed on top of me, the weight of its body forced me through

the hole I'd made in its guts, and I ended up inside it. Turned out the thing

was largely hollow, for all its size. There was just enough air in there to keep

me going while I cut my way through its body and out the top. It was hard going,

and the air was getting pretty foul by the end, but I made it." He took a deep

lungful of the tunnel air. "You know, even this stench can smell pretty good if

you have to do without it for a while."

Fisher hugged him again. "We tried to lift the spider off you, but we couldn't

budge it. At least, most of us tried. MacReady had already given you up for

dead. He wouldn't have helped at all if I hadn't made him."

"That right?" Hawk gave MacReady a long, thoughtful look. "I'll have to remember

that."

MacReady stared back, unconcerned. Winter cleared her throat loudly. "If you're

feeling quite recovered, Captain Hawk, we ought to get a move on. The hostages

are still depending on us, and they're running out of time."

The atmosphere in the parlor was getting dangerously tense, and Saxon was

getting worried. There'd been no word on how negotiations were going, but

whatever the terrorists' deadline was, it had to be getting closer. Madigan had

disappeared with his people some time back, leaving twenty mercenaries to watch

the hostages. Talking wasn't allowed, and the mercenaries had taken an almost

sadistic pleasure in denying the hostages food or drink while taking turns at

stuffing their own faces. Time dragged on, and the mercenaries grew bored while

the hostages grew restless. Sooner or later, someone on one side or the other

was going to do something stupid, just to break the monotony. Which would be all

the excuse the mercenaries needed to indulge in a little fun and games…

Saxon smiled coldly. Whatever happened, he wasn't going to make any trouble. The

terrorists could kill every man and woman in the room, and he wouldn't give a

damn. These people represented all the vile and corrupt authority that had made

Haven what it was. He was in no real danger himself. He had a way out, just in

case things started getting really out of hand. He knew Champion House well from

his earlier days, when he'd been a rising politician and much courted by those

seeking patronage or influence with the Council. What he knew, and presumably

the terrorists didn't, was that the House was riddled with secret doors and

hidden passageways, a holdover from the House's original owners, who'd raised

the fortune needed to build Champion House by being Haven's most successful

smugglers. Apparently the passages, with their magically warded walls, had come

in handy more than once for concealing goods and people from investigating

customs officers who were outraged at being denied their rightful cut.

As far as Saxon knew, the passages were still there, unless they'd been

discovered and blocked off during the years while he was away. Either way, if he

remembered correctly, there was a concealed door right there in the parlor, not

too far away. All he had to do was press a section of the paneling in just the

right place, the wall would open, and he'd be gone before the mercenaries knew

what was happening. That was the theory, anyway. But he didn't think he'd try it

until he had no other choice. The way his luck had been going, the secret door

would probably turn out to be nailed shut and booby-trapped.

The tension was so thick on the air now, he could practically taste it. The two

Kings were sitting stiffly but not without dignity, trying to set a good

example, but no one was paying them much attention. The military types were

watching the mercenaries like hawks, waiting for someone to make a slip. The

Quality were pointedly ignoring the mercenaries, as though hoping they might go

away once they realized how unwelcome they were. The merchants stood close

together and kept a hopeful watch on the closed door. They'd given up on trying

to bribe the mercenaries, but they obviously still thought they could make some

kind of deal with Madigan or one of his people. Saxon knew better. He knew

fanatics when he saw them, and this bunch worried the hell out of him. It was

clear they had their own agenda, and if they were as committed to their Cause as

they seemed, once they'd started they wouldn't turn aside for hell or high

water. You'd have to kill them all to stop them.

Saxon glanced again at the hidden door, and his hand tightened around the smoke

bomb he'd palmed while he was being searched. If trouble broke out, he was off,

and to hell with all of them. Whatever the terrorists were up to, it was none of

his business.

The door slammed open and everyone jumped, including most of the mercenaries.

Eleanour Todd stood in the doorway with the young killer Glen at her side, and

Saxon's heart sank. He could tell from their faces that the deadline had come

and gone without being met. Todd looked calm, almost bored, but there was an air

of unfocused menace about her, as though she was readying herself for some

bloody but necessary task. Glen was grinning broadly. Todd looked unhurriedly

about her, and the hostages stared back like so many rabbits mesmerized by a

snake.

"It seems your city Council has chosen not to take us seriously," said Todd.

"They have refused to meet our legitimate demands. It's time we showed them we

are not to be trifled with. It's time for one of you to die."

She let her gaze drift casually over the hostages, and faces paled when her gaze

lingered for a moment before passing on. People began to edge away from each

other, as though afraid proximity to the one chosen might prove dangerous. No

one raised a voice in protest. A few of the braver souls looked as though they

might, but one look from Glen was all it took to silence them. Saxon held the

smoke bomb loosely in his hand, and cast about for a good spot to lob it. He'd

wait until Todd had chosen her victim, and all eyes were on them, and then he'd

make his move.

Eleanour Todd finally stepped forward and smiled at a young girl in the front

row, not far from where Saxon was standing. The girl couldn't have been more

than fourteen or fifteen, some merchant's daughter wearing her first formal gown

to an important function. She'd been vaguely pretty before, but now sheer terror

made her face ugly as she tried to back away from Todd's smile. Her father

stepped forward to stand before her, opening his mouth to protest, and Todd hit

him with a vicious, low blow. He fell to the floor, moaning. Glen strolled

forward and kicked him casually in the face a few times. The girl stared

desperately around her for help, but no one would meet her eyes. She turned back

to Todd and held herself erect with a pathetic attempt at dignity. She didn't

know she was whimpering quietly, and that her face was so pale her few

amateurish attempts at makeup stood out against her pallor like a child's

daubings.

"It's nothing personal," said Todd. "We always choose a young girl for our first

execution. Makes more of an impact. Don't worry; it'll all be over before you

know it."

"My name is Christina Rutherford," said the girl steadily. "My family will

avenge my death."

"Your name doesn't matter, girl. Only the Cause matters. Now, will you walk or

would you rather be dragged?"

"I'll walk. I just want to… say goodbye to my family and friends."

"How touching. But we don't have time. Glen; drag her."

His grin broadened, and Christina shrank away from him. She started to cry, and

tears ran down her face as Glen grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards

the door. Saxon swore tiredly, and stepped forward to block their way.

"That's enough. Glen. Let her go."

"Get out of the way, guard, or we'll take you too."

"Try it."

Glen chuckled suddenly, and thrust Christina behind him. Todd took her firmly by

the arms. Glen studied Saxon thoughtfully. "So; someone here's got some guts

after all. I was hoping someone had. Now I get to have some fun. How far do you

think you can run, hero, with your intestines dragging down around your ankles?"

His sword was suddenly in his hand, and he lunged forward incredibly quickly.

Saxon sidestepped at the last moment, and the blade's edge just caressed the

chain mail over his ribs as it hissed past. Glen stumbled forward, caught off

balance, and Saxon brought his knee up savagely. Glen fell to his knees, the

breath rattling in his throat. Saxon kicked him in the ribs, slamming him back

against the wall. He leant forward and picked up Glen's sword, ignoring the

unpleasant sounds behind him as the young killer vomited painfully. He turned to

face Eleanour Todd, who had a knife at Christina's throat. The young girl was

looking at him with the beginnings of hope. The mercenaries standing around the

room were staring at him open-mouthed. Saxon flashed them his most confident

politician's smile and then looked back at Todd.

"Let the girl go. We can talk about this."

"No," said Todd. "I don't think so." She drew the knife quickly across

Christina's throat, and then pushed the girl away from her. She fell onto her

knees, her eyes wide in horror. She tried to scream, but only a horrid bubbling

sound came out. Blood ran thickly down her neck and chest, and she put her hands

to her throat as though she could hold the wound together, but the blood gushed

through her fingers. She held out a bloody hand to Saxon, but she was already

dead by the time he took it. He lowered her body to the floor, then looked up at

Todd. There was death in his eyes, but she didn't flinch.

"You bitch," Saxon said numbly. "You didn't have to do that."

"She wasn't important," said Todd. "And at least she died in a good Cause. Now

it's your time to die, hero. Can't have the sheep getting ideas, can we?"

She gestured impatiently to the watching mercenaries, and they began to close

in.

"I'll kill you for this," said Saxon flatly. "I'll kill you all."

He threw the smoke bomb onto the floor before him and it cracked open, spilling

out thick clouds of choking black smoke that billowed quickly through the

parlor. Todd lashed out with her sword but Saxon was already gone, sprinting for

the hidden door. Mercenaries loomed out of the smoke in front of him and he

smashed his way through, tossing them aside like broken dolls. The hostages were

shouting and screaming, and some made a dash for the door. Saxon hoped some of

them made it. He found the right stretch of paneling, hit it smartly in just the

right place, and a section of the wall swung open on silent counterweights. He

darted forward into the gloomy passageway, and a knife came flying out of

nowhere to bury itself in the paneling behind him. He hurried on without looking

back, and a sourceless glow appeared around him, lighting the way ahead. It was

nice to know the passage's built-in magics were still functioning. He glanced

back, and swore harshly as he saw the concealed door had jammed half shut,

caught on the thrown knife. Todd would be sending mercenaries into the passage

after him any time now. He grinned coldly. Good. Let them come. Let them all

come. There were secrets in these passageways that only he knew about, and

anyone foolish enough to come after him was in for some nasty surprises. And

when they were all dead, he would go out into the House and kill Madigan and

Todd and all the other terrorists.

They shouldn't have killed the girl. He'd make them pay for that.

Back in the parlor, the smoke was slowly starting to clear, but terrorists and

hostages alike were still coughing helplessly and wiping tears from their

smarting eyes. The mercenaries had rounded up the escaping hostages without too

much trouble, and the situation was more or less back under control. Todd glared

into the hidden passageway, and gestured quickly to two mercenaries. "Horse,

Bishop; take five men and go in there after him. You needn't bother to bring all

of him back; just the head will do. After that, check the passage for other

concealed exits. I don't want anyone else suddenly disappearing on me. Move it!"

The two mercenaries nodded quickly, gathered up five men with a quick series of

looks and nods, and led the way into the passage. Glen started to go in after

them, but Todd stopped him.

"Not you, Glen. I need you here, with me."

"I want that bastard. No one does that to me and gets away with it."

"He won't get away. Even if he gets out of the passage, there's nowhere he can

go. The House is full of our people."

Glen scowled unhappily. "I don't know, Eleanour. He's fast. I've never seen

anyone move like that. And anyway, I want to kill him myself."

"Glen, we've got work to do. The guard can wait. He isn't important. Not

compared to our purpose here. Now, get yourself another sword, and get the

girl's body out of here. Show it to the city negotiators, and tell them we'll

kill another hostage every half hour until our demands are met."

Glen looked at her, puzzled. "I thought the hostages were just a cover," he said

quietly.

"They are," said Todd, just as quietly, "but as long as the city's concentrating

on them, they won't be getting suspicious about what we're really up to. Now, do

as you're told, Ellis; there's a dear."

Glen blushed at the endearment, and turned quickly away to bark orders at the

mercenaries. The hostages watched silently as the girl's body was dragged out.

Todd coughed suddenly as the smoke caught in her throat again.

"Someone open those bloody windows!"

Horse and Bishop led their men cautiously down the narrow stone corridor of the

secret passage, checking for other exits as they went. A sourceless glow had

formed around them, enough to show them the way ahead, but it didn't carry far

into the darkness. The rogue guard could be lurking just ahead of the light,

waiting in the dark to ambush them, and they'd never know it until it was too

late. Horse shook his head determinedly, pushing aside the thought. The guard

had enough sense to keep running. He'd be long gone by now. But if he was dumb

enough to be still hanging around, then he and Bishop would take care of him.

They'd dealt with would-be heroes before, and in Horse's experience they died

just as easily as anyone else. Particularly if you outnumbered them seven to

one.

Horse was a large, heavily built man in his late twenties, with thick, raggedly

cut black hair and a bushy beard. He'd fought in seventeen campaigns, for

various masters, and had never once been on the losing side. Horse didn't

believe in losing. In his experience, the trick to winning was to have all the

advantages on your side, which was why he'd teamed up with Bishop. His fellow

mercenary was the same age as he, a head or so taller, but almost twice Horse's

size. It wasn't all muscle, but then, it didn't have to be. He wasn't the

brightest of men either, but Horse was bright enough for both of them, and they

both knew it. Besides, Bishop was very creative when it came to interrogating

prisoners. Especially women. Horse grinned. Bishop stopped suddenly, and Horse

stopped with him, glaring back at the other mercenaries when they almost ran

into him.

"What is it, Bishop?" he said quietly.

"I'm not sure." The big mercenary fingered the heavy iron amulet he wore on a

chain round his neck, and glowered unhappily into the gloom ahead. "Something's

wrong, Horse. This place doesn't feel right."

"Have you seen something? Heard something?"

"No. It just doesn't… feel right."

The other mercenaries looked at each other, but Horse glared them into silence.

He respected Bishop's hunches. They'd paid off before. He gestured to the two

nearest men. "Check out this section. Inch by inch, if necessary."

The two men looked at each other, shrugged, and moved warily forward, swords at

the ready. The light moved with them. There was still no sign of the rogue

guard. The passageway was eerily silent, the only sound the scuffing of their

boots on the plain stone floor. They'd gone about ten paces before part of the

floor gave slightly under one of the men's feet, and there was a soft clicking

noise. They both looked down automatically, and consequently never saw the many

long, pointed wooden stakes which shot out of concealed vents in both walls. The

stakes slammed into the two men with brutal force, running them through in a

dozen places. They hung there limply, their feet dangling, and blood pooled on

the floor below them. They didn't even have time to scream. There was another

soft click as the lever in the floor reset itself, and then the stakes retracted

silently into the walls. The two bodies sagged slowly to the floor, the

blood-slick wood making soft, sucking noises as it slid jerkily out of the dead

flesh. Bishop swore slowly, his voice more awed than anything else.

"Booby trap," said Horse grimly. "And if there's one, you can bet there are

more. For all we know, the whole place could be rigged with them."

"Then there's no point in going on," said one of the mercenaries behind him. "Is

there?"

"Do you want to go back and tell Todd that?" said Horse, without bothering to

look round. He smiled briefly at the silence that answered him. "All right,

then; we're going on. I'll take the lead. Walk where I do, and don't touch

anything."

He set off slowly, studying the ground before him carefully before gradually

lowering his foot onto it. Bishop followed close behind him, all but treading on

his heels. The other mercenaries brought up the rear, grumbling quietly among

themselves. Horse glowered into the dark ahead of him. The guard they were

pursuing had to have known about the booby traps and how to avoid them, which

suggested he was no ordinary guard. It had been obvious from the other hostages'

faces that they'd known nothing about the hidden passageway. If they had, they'd

have used it.

With the guard's special knowledge, he could avoid all the traps and be anywhere

in the House by now, but even so, they had to press on. They might not be able

to run down the man himself, but at least they could identify the other hidden

exits and block them off.

There was a soft click from somewhere close at hand, and Horse threw himself

forward instinctively, Bishop at his side as a heavy crash sounded behind them

and a cloud of dust puffed up, filling the passage. Horse clutched briefly at

Bishop to make sure he was all right, and then looked back. A huge slab of solid

stone had dropped from the passage ceiling, crushing two of the mercenaries

beneath it. Blood welled out from under the stone and lapped at the toes of

Horse's boots. The sole surviving mercenary on the other side of the stone block

was standing very still, his face white as a sheet. Horse called out to him, but

he didn't answer. Horse called again, and the man turned and ran. Some of the

light went with him as he fled down the passageway, and then a section of the

floor dropped out from beneath his feet and he disappeared screaming into a

concealed pit. There was a flash of shining blades, and then the trapdoor swung

shut, cutting off his scream, and the passage was still and silent again.

"This place is a deathtrap," said Bishop.

"Yeah," said Horse. "But the guard got through alive. Probably somewhere out

there in the dark right now, watching us and laughing."

"He's no ordinary guard, Horse. Did you see the way he flattened Glen? I didn't

think anyone was faster than Glen."

"He's just one man. We can take him. And then you can show him some of your

nasty little tricks with a hot iron."

"You're welcome to try," said Saxon.

The two mercenaries spun round to find Saxon standing behind them, just out of

sword's reach. He was smiling. Horse could feel his heart beating hard and fast

in his chest, but somehow he kept the shock out of his face. He lifted his

sword, and Bishop did the same a second later. Saxon's sword was still in his

scabbard, and his hand was nowhere near it.

"You shouldn't have come back," said Horse. "You're a dead man now. You're

walking and you're breathing, but you're dead. And we're going to make it last a

long time."

Saxon just smiled back at him, his eyes cold. "I've had a really bad day. You're

about to have a worse one."

Bishop growled something indistinct, and launched himself at Saxon, his sword

out before him, his great bulk moving with surprising speed. Saxon casually

batted the sword blade aside, and slammed a fist into Bishop's side. The big

mercenary stopped as though he'd run into a wall. The sound of his ribs breaking

was eerily loud on the quiet. He stood hunched over before Saxon, breathing in

short, painful gasps, trying to lift his sword and failing. Saxon hit him again,

burying his fist in the man's gut up to his wrist. Blood flew from Bishop's

mouth, and he sank to his knees. Horse looked at him incredulously. It had all

happened so fast. He looked back at Saxon, his sword forgotten in his hand.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"I'm Saxon. Wulf Saxon."

Horse tried for some of his usual bravado, but the words came out flat and

empty. "You say it like it's supposed to mean something, but I've never heard of

you."

Saxon shrugged. "I've been away for a while. People forget. But they'll

remember, once I've reminded them a few times. You shouldn't have killed the

girl, mercenary."

"That wasn't me. That was Todd."

"You stood by and let it happen. You're guilty. You're all guilty, and I'm going

to kill every last one of you."

"What was she to you, Saxon? Your girlfriend? Family?"

"I never saw her before in my life."

"Then why… ?"

"She was so young," said Saxon. "She had all her life before her. She had

friends and family who cared for her. And you took all that away." He leaned

forward and took Bishop's head in his hands. The big mercenary shuddered, but

hadn't the strength to pull away. Saxon looked at Horse.

"I'm going to send you back to the others with a message, mercenary. Be sure to

tell them who sent it. Tell them Wulf Saxon is back."

A moment later, the passage was full of someone screaming.

Eleanour Todd paced up and down, scowling angrily, and the hostages shrank back

from her as she passed. She didn't bother to hide her contempt for them. Nothing

but sheep, all of them, shocked and terrified because their comfortable little

world had been overthrown and the wolves had finally caught the flock

undefended. They deserved everything that was going to happen to them. The guard

had been the only one with any backbone. And that was the problem. It had been

almost a quarter of an hour since she'd sent her mercenaries into the hidden

passage after him, and there'd been no word from them since. There couldn't be

that many passages to search, surely? She stopped herself pacing with an effort.

The guard was only one man; there was nothing he could do to upset the plan.

Nothing could go wrong now. But what the hell had happened to the mercenaries?

Could they have got lost in the passages? She glared out over the hostages,

taking a quiet satisfaction in the way their faces paled.

"Who can tell me about the hidden passageways?" she said flatly. The hostages

looked at each other, but no one said anything. Todd let her scowl deepen into a

glare. "Someone here must know something about the passageways. Now, either that

someone starts talking, or I'm going to have my men pick out someone at random

and we'll take turns cutting him or her into little pieces until someone else

starts remembering things."

"Please believe me, no one here knows anything about the passageways," said Sir

Roland. He stepped forward diffidently, and the crowd shrank back to give him

plenty of room. "You see, the only people who might know anything are the

House's actual owners, and they're not here. The whole Family moved out so we

could have the place to ourselves."

Todd nodded unhappily. It figured Madigan's pet traitor would turn out to be the

one with the answers, even if they weren't the ones she wanted. "So how did that

guard know about them?"

"I don't know. He was one of a number of men the Brotherhood of Steel supplied

us for use as honor guards. Perhaps he'd been here before and knew the Family.

After all, the Brotherhood recruits from all the social strata."

Todd grunted, and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. Sir Roland bowed

politely, and stepped quickly back into the crowd. There was a murmur of praise

for his courage from the other hostages, but it died quickly away as the

watching mercenaries stirred menacingly. Todd beckoned to Glen, who was lounging

by the door, and he hurried over to her with his usual puppyish grin.

"The mercenaries I sent into the hidden passage have been gone too long," she

said quietly. "Something must have happened. Take a dozen men and search the

passageways from end to end. I want to know exactly what happened to Horse and

his men, and I want that guard dead. Is that clear?"

"Oh, sure. But I won't need a dozen men."

"Take them anyway. There's something about that guard…"

"I can take him," said Glen confidently. "I just wasn't ready for him last

time."

"Take the men. That's an order. I don't want anything to happen to you."

Glen's face brightened. "You don't?"

"Of course not. You're a valuable member of our group."

Glen's face dropped, and he nodded glumly. "Don't worry," he said, for something

to say. "Horse will probably have caught him by now. He's a good man."

"Horse? He couldn't catch the clap from a Leech Street whore. I should never

have sent him. Now get a move on."

Glen winced slightly at her crudeness, and turned away to pick out his men. He

wished she wouldn't talk like that. It wasn't fitting in a woman. And it seemed

she still didn't see him as anything more than an ally. She never would… as long

as Madigan was around. The thought disturbed him, and he pushed it aside, but it

wouldn't go away entirely. He scowled. That guard had made him look bad in front

of Eleanour. He'd make the bastard bleed for that. It was amazing how long you

could keep the other party in a sword fight alive before finally killing them.

Sometimes they even begged him to do it.

He liked that.

He chose his men quickly, impatient to be off, and set them over to the opening

in the wall to wait for him. He glanced back for one last look at Eleanour, and

then stopped as he saw Bailey was talking to her urgently. From the expression

on both their faces, it had to be something important, and bloody unwelcome news

at that. He hurried back to join them. Bailey acknowledged his presence with a

nod, but Eleanour ignored him, her gaze fixed on Bailey.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Bailey struggled to keep his voice low, but his eyes were

angry. "Do you think I'd have come to you with something like this if I wasn't

sure?"

"Keep your voice down. This isn't something we want the hostages to hear. It

just seems impossible, that's all. How can we have lost twenty-seven men without

anyone seeing anything?"

Bailey shrugged. "They were all found dead at their posts. No one even suspected

anything was wrong until some of them didn't report in at the proper times. We

did a check, and found twenty-seven of our people had been killed, all in the

last twenty minutes or so."

"How did they die?" asked Glen, frowning.

"Some were stabbed, some were strangled. And two," said Bailey, his voice never

wavering, "were torn literally limb from limb."

Todd and Glen looked at him for a moment, trying to take it in. Bailey shrugged,

and said nothing. Todd glowered, her face flushing angrily as she tried to make

sense of the situation.

"These deaths took place not long after the guard disappeared into the hidden

passageways. There has to be a connection."

"One man couldn't be responsible for twenty-seven deaths," said Bailey. "Not in

such a short time. And I saw the bodies that had been torn apart. Nothing human

is that strong."

"All right," said Todd, "Maybe there was some kind of creature living in the

passages, and he let it loose."

"If there was, then he's probably dead as well," said Glen. "Damn. Now I'll

never know whether I could have taken him."

"Oh, stop whining, Glen! This is important." She didn't bother to look at Glen,

her gaze turned inward as she struggled with the problem. So she didn't see the

hurt in his face quickly give way to anger, and then disappear behind a cold,

impassive mask. Todd glared once at the secret doorway, and then turned the

glare on Glen and Bailey.

"We can't afford to have things going wrong this late in the game. We're spread

too thin as it is. So, this is what we're going to do. Bailey, pass the word

back that from now on our people are to work in groups of five or six, and under

no conditions are they to let their partners out of their sight, even for a

moment. And they're to check in every ten minutes, regardless. As soon as you've

done that, take Glen and round up a dozen men and search those hidden passages

from end to end. Don't come back until you've found the guard or the creature or

some kind of answer. Got it?"

Bailey started to nod, and then turned away suddenly and looked at the opening

in the wall. "Did you hear that?"

Todd and Glen looked at each other. "Hear what?" said Todd.

"There's something in the passage," said Bailey, "and it's coming this way."

"It could be Horse and his men," said Glen.

"I don't think so," said Bailey.

He drew his sword and headed towards the opening, followed quickly by Glen. Todd

snapped orders to the mercenaries to watch the hostages closely, and then

hurried after Glen, her sword in her hand. They stood together before the

opening, blocking it off from the rest of the room, and strained their eyes

against the gloom in the passageway. Slow, scuffing footsteps drew steadily

closer. One man's footsteps. And then a glow appeared in the passage, and Horse

came walking towards them out of the dark. His face was unnaturally pale, and

his eyes were wild and staring. Drool ran from the corners of his mouth. Blood

had splashed across the front of his clothes, soaking them, but there was no

sign of any wound. In his hands he carried Bishop's head.

He came to a stop before Todd and the others, and his eyes were as unseeing as

Bishop's. The severed head wore an expression of utter horror, and the mouth

gaped wide, as though in an endless, silent scream. Some of the hostages were

whimpering quietly, only kept from screaming by fear of what the mercenaries

might do to them if they did. A few had fainted dead away. Even some of the

hardened mercenaries looked shocked. Todd glanced quickly round, and knew she

had to do something to take control of the situation before it got totally out

of hand. She stepped forward and slapped Horse hard across the face. His head

swung loosely under the blow, but when it turned back his eyes were focused on

hers.

"What happened, Horse?" said Todd. "Tell me what happened."

"Wulf Saxon sends you a message," said Horse, his calm, steady voice unsettling

when set against the horror that still lurked in his eyes. "He says that all the

terrorists in this House are going to die. He's going to kill us all."

"Who the hell's Wulf Saxon?" said Glen, when it became clear Horse had nothing

more to say. "Is he the guard? What happened to the rest of your men?"

"They're in the passages," said Horse. "The House killed them. And then Saxon

killed Bishop, and sent me back here with his message."

"Why did he cut off Bishop's head?" asked Bailey.

Horse turned slowly to look at him. "He didn't. He tore it off with his bare

hands."

Glen recoiled a step, in spite of himself. Bailey frowned thoughtfully. Todd

found her voice again and gestured to the two nearest mercenaries. "Take that

bloody thing away from him, and get him out of here. Find an empty room and then

grill him until you've got every detail of what happened. Do whatever it takes,

but get me that information. Find the sorcerer Ritenour, and give him Bishop's

head. Maybe he can get some answers out of that. Then get word to Madigan about

what's happened, including the twenty-seven deaths. I know he gave orders he

wasn't to be disturbed, but he's got to be told about this. I'll take full

responsibility for disturbing him. Now move it!"

The two mercenaries nodded quickly, took Horse by the arms, and led him away.

The hostages retreated quickly as he passed. Blood dripped steadily from the

severed head in his hands, leaving a crimson trail on the carpet behind him. The

hostages began to murmur among themselves, some of them clearly on. the edge of

hysteria. Todd glared at the other mercenaries. "Keep these people quiet! Do

whatever it takes, but keep them in line. I'll be just outside if you need me

for anything."

She nodded curtly for Bailey and Glen to follow her, and strode hurriedly out of

the parlor and into the corridor. She shut the door carefully behind them, and

then leaned back against it, hugging herself tightly. "What a mess. What a

bloody mess! How could everything go so wrong so quickly? Everything was going

exactly to plan, and now this… At least now we know who killed the twenty-seven

men. Wulf bloody Saxon, whoever or whatever he is."

"He used to be a city Councilor, but that was some time ago," said Bailey. "He

was supposed to have died more than twenty years ago."

"Then what the hell's he doing here now, disguised as a guard?" said Todd. "And

how come you know so much about him?"

"I knew him, long ago. But I don't see how it can be him. He'd be my age now, in

his late forties, and the guard was only in his twenties." Bailey paused

suddenly. "About the age Saxon would have been when he died…"

They all looked at each other. "He hasn't aged… he's incredibly strong… and he's

supposed to be dead," said Todd slowly. "I think we may have a supernatural on

our hands."

"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 realized 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 realized 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.

Barber smiled. "Sure we can. I'll do it, if you're squeamish."

He moved closer to the mercenary, and Hawk stepped forward to block his way. The

prisoner looked at them both frantically.

"Barber's right," said Winter slowly. "We can't take him with us, and we can't

risk him escaping to warn the others."

"He surrendered to us," said Hawk. "He surrendered to me. And that means he's

under my protection. Anyone who wants him has to go through me."

"What's your problem, Hawk?" said Barber. "Got a soft spot for mercenaries, have

we? It didn't stop you from carving up this young fellow's friends and

colleagues, did it?"

"That was different," said Hawk flatly. "Isobel and I kill only when it's

necessary, to enforce the law. And the law says a man who has surrendered cannot

be killed. He has to stand trial."

"Be reasonable, Hawk," said Winter. "This scum has already killed the Gods know

how many good men just to get in here, and he was ready to stand by while

defenseless hostages were killed one by one! The world will be a better place

without him, and you know it. Talk to him, Fisher."

"I agree with Hawk," said Fisher. "I'll fight anyone dumb enough to come at me

with a sword in his hand, but I don't kill helpless hostages. And isn't that

what he is? Just like the ones we've come to rescue?"

"I don't have time for this!" snapped Winter. "Barber, kill that man. Hawk,

Fisher; stand back and don't interfere. That's an order."

"Come here, friend," said Barber to the sweating mercenary. "Cooperate, and I'll

make it quick and easy. If you like, I'll give you back your sword."

He stopped as Hawk and Fisher stood side by side between him and the mercenary.

"Back off," said Fisher flatly.

"We only kill when we have to," said Hawk to Winter, though his eyes never left

Barber. "Otherwise, everything we do and everything we are would be

meaningless."

"You've got soft, Hawk," said Barber, his voice openly contemptuous. "Is this

the incredible Captain Hawk I've heard so much about? Sudden death on two legs,

and nasty with it? One should never meet one's heroes. They're always such a

disappointment in the flesh. Now get out of my way, Hawk, or I'll walk right

through you."

Hawk grinned suddenly. "Try it."

At which point the mercenary took to his heels and ran up the stairs as though

all the devils in Hell were after him. Hawk and Barber both charged after him,

with Fisher close behind.

"Stop him!" yelled Winter. "Damn you, Hawk, he mustn't get away, or all the

hostages are dead!"

Barber pulled steadily ahead of Hawk as they pounded up the stairs. Hawk fought

hard to stay with him, but it had been a long, hard day. His stamina was shot to

hell, and his legs were full of lead after climbing up the drain. Fisher ran at

his side, struggling for breath. Somehow they managed to at least keep Barber

and the mercenary in sight. There was a door at the top of the stairs, standing

slightly ajar, and Hawk felt a sudden stab of fear as he realized that if the

mercenary could get to it first, he could slam it in their faces and lock them

in the cellar while he spread the alarm. Winter would be right. He would have

thrown the hostages' lives away for nothing. His face hardened. No. Not for

nothing.

The mercenary glanced back over his shoulder, saw Barber gaining on him, and

found an extra spurt of speed from somewhere. He'd almost reached the door when

it flew open suddenly, and Wulf Saxon stepped through to punch the mercenary

out. He flew backwards into Barber, and the two of them fell sprawling in a heap

on the stairs. Hawk and Fisher stumbled to a halt just in time to avoid joining

the heap, and looked blankly up at Saxon. He smiled at them charmingly.

"I take it you're here to rescue the hostages. So am I. From the look of things,

I'd say you needed my help as much as I need yours."

They bundled the unconscious mercenary into a convenient closet on the ground

floor, and then found an empty room to talk in. MacReady stood in the doorway,

keeping an eye out for Madigan's patrols, while the rest of the SWAT team sank

gratefully into comfortable chairs, ignoring his visible irritation. Saxon

leaned casually against the mantelpiece, and waited patiently for them to settle

themselves. Barber and Hawk had exchanged some pointed looks, but had declared

an unspoken truce for the time being. They listened silently with the rest of

the team as Saxon brought them up to date on what had been happening in Champion

House. Fisher whistled admiringly when he finally stopped.

"Twenty-seven men in twenty minutes. Not too shabby, Saxon. But the last time I

saw you, you'd just escaped from Messerschmann's Portrait, stark naked and mad

as a hatter, and were busily attacking everything in sight. What happened?"

Saxon smiled. "I wasn't really myself at the time. I'm a lot calmer now."

"You still haven't explained where you got that honor guard's uniform from,"

said Winter. "You're not telling us you came by that honestly, are you?"

"We've got about five minutes before Madigan kills the next hostage," said

Saxon. "Let's save the interrogation till later, shall we? They've already

killed one girl; I'm damned if I'll stand by and let them murder another. Now,

I'm going to stop Madigan, with or without your help, but it seems to me the

hostages' chances for survival would be a lot better if you were involved.

Right?"

"Right," said Hawk, getting to his feet. "Let's do it."

"I'm the leader of this team, dammit!" Winter jumped to her feet and glared at

Hawk. Then she turned to face Saxon. "If you want to work with us, you'll follow

my orders. Is that clear?"

"Oh, sure," said Saxon. "But first, may I suggest you swap your clothes for

those of the mercenaries you just killed? I don't know what you people have been

doing, or what that stuff is you have all over you, but it's bound to raise

awkward questions. Besides, you all smell quite appalling, and there's always