Bones of Haven

the chance we might want to sneak up on someone. Now let's hurry, please. Some

poor hostage is running out of time."

Winter nodded stiffly, and led the SWAT team back into the cellar to change

their clothes. Saxon stayed at the top of the stairs and watched the corridor

for Madigan's people. Typical Guards. Here he was trying to help, and they were

trying to nail him for stealing an honor guard's uniform. Typical. The last he'd

heard, when someone wanted to join the Guard they made him take an intelligence

test—and if he failed, he was hired. Still, they had their uses. He'd use them

to get the hostages clear, but then he was going after Todd and Madigan, and to

hell with anyone who got in his way, mercenary or Guard.

The SWAT team came back up out of the cellar, wearing their new clothes, and

Saxon had to hide a smile. Despite a lot of swapping back and forth, their new

clothes mostly fitted where they touched. They each wore their black iron tores

ostentatiously, in the hope other mercenaries would look at them first, and the

clothes second. They'd cleaned themselves up with spit and handkerchiefs as best

they could, but it hadn't been all that successful, especially in Hawk's case.

But given the look on Hawk's face, Saxon didn't think too many people would

challenge him about it.

"All right, this is the plan," said Winter finally. "We haven't time for

anything complicated, so we'll make it very basic. Our mission is to rescue the

hostages, so their safety comes first. We'll split into two teams. Team One will

infiltrate the parlor, as mercenaries. Team Two will cause a diversion outside.

When the real mercenaries go to investigate, Team One will kill those

mercenaries remaining in the room and then barricade the parlor, thus sealing

off the hostages from the terrorists. Team Two will then get the hell out of

Champion House, and tell the army to come in and clean this place up. Anyone

have any problems with that? Hawk?"

"Yeah," said Hawk evenly. "When the terrorists figure out what's happening,

they're going to hit the parlor with everything they've got. How the hell is

Team One supposed to keep the hostages alive until the army gets there?"

"You'll think of something," said Winter. "According to your file, you and

Fisher specialize in last-minute miracles. Besides, you'll have Barber to help

you."

Hawk looked at Fisher. "I just knew she was going to say that. Didn't you just

know she was going to say that?"

"What's this about a file?" said Fisher. "Did you know we were in a file?"

"What kind of diversion did you have in mind?" asked Saxon. "These men are

professionals. I've got them all nicely stirred up, but they wouldn't leave

their posts guarding the hostages for just anything."

"They'd abandon their own families for a chance at you," said Winter. "You've

scared them, and mercenaries don't like being scared. Don't worry, Saxon; you'll

make excellent bait for our trap."

Never trust a bloody Guard, thought Saxon, nodding politely to Winter. "Shall we

go? The deadline for the hostages must be getting dangerously close."

"Of course. If Madigan chooses the wrong hostage to kill, there could be all

kinds of political repercussions. Let's go."

"You're all heart, Winter," said Saxon.

They made their way through the largely deserted House without attracting too

much attention. The mercenaries were watching for attacks from outside rather

than from within, and only those in the parlor knew what Saxon actually looked

like. Winter hurried along, saluting officers with brisk efficiency and glaring

at anyone who tried to speak to her. Saxon strolled along beside her as though

he owned the place. The rest of the team did their best to look unobtrusive,

while still keeping their hands near their weapons at all times. They reached

the main parlor without being challenged, and Winter, Saxon, and MacReady hung

back at the end of the corridor to let the others go on ahead.

Hawk looked at Barber. "I'll handle the talking. Right?"

"Sure," said Barber. "That seems to be what you're best at."

Hawk gave him a hard look, and then strolled casually up to the mercenary at the

parlor door. "Any trouble inside?"

"No, they're quiet as mice. Why? You expecting trouble?"

"Could be. Madigan will be here in a minute to select the next victim. We're

here to help make sure things go smoothly this time."

"Glad to have you," said the mercenary, pushing open the parlor door. "You hear

what that rogue guard did to us?"

"Yeah. Better keep an eye open; he might turn up here again."

"I hope he does," said the mercenary grimly. "I hope he does."

Hawk and Fisher strolled casually into the parlor and took up positions by the

buffet table. Barber leaned against the wall by the door. Hawk's stomach rumbled

loudly at such proximity to food, but he ignored it, trying to take in as much

of the situation as he could without being too obvious about it. There were

sixteen mercenaries, scattered round the room in twos and threes, and fifty-one

hostages, including the two Kings. Most of the hostages looked scared and

thoroughly cowed, but there were a few military types here and there who looked

as though they might be useful when the action started.

Hawk frowned slightly. Once the mercenaries in the parlor realized they were

under attack, the odds were they'd try and grab the most important hostages to

use as bargaining points; and that meant the two Kings. They had to be protected

at all costs. Winter had been very specific about that. According to her orders,

all the other hostages were expendable, as long as the two Kings came out of it

safe and sound. Hawk had nodded politely to that at the time, but as far as he

was concerned the Kings could take their chances with everyone else. They knew

the job was risky when they took it. Still, it might be a good idea to get a

message to them, so that their own people could protect them once the fighting

started.

He nodded for Fisher to stay where she was, and headed casually towards the two

Kings at the back of the room. Team One was now pretty much in position: Barber

by the door, ready to slam and barricade it, Fisher covering the middle of the

room, and Hawk by the Kings. Everything was going according to plan, which made

Hawk feel distinctly nervous. In his experience, it was always when a scheme

seemed to be going especially smoothly that Lady Fate liked to step in and

really mess things up. Still, he had to admit he couldn't see what could go

wrong this time. They'd covered every eventuality. He stopped before the two

Kings, and gave them his best reassuring smile. Both monarchs ostentatiously

ignored him, while the nearby Quality glared at him with undisguised loathing.

Hawk coughed politely, and leaned forward as though studying the Kings' finery.

"Don't get too excited," he murmured, his voice little more than a breath of

air, "but help has arrived. When the excitement starts, don't panic. It's just

part of a diversion to lure away the mercenaries. My associates and I will take

care of those who remain, and then barricade the room and hold it until help

arrives from outside. Got it?"

"Got it," said King Gregor, his lips barely moving. "Who are you?"

"Captain Hawk, Haven SWAT."

"How many of you are there?" said King Louis of Outremer quietly.

"Only three here in the room, but there are more outside, ready to start the

commotion."

"No offense, Captain Hawk," said King Gregor, "but it's going to take a lot more

than three men to hold this room against a concerted attack."

Hawk smiled. "I was hoping you might be able to suggest a few good men we could

depend on when things start getting rough."

King Gregor nodded slowly. "I think I might be able to help you there, Captain."

He gestured surreptitiously for a young noble to approach him. The noble looked

casually around to see if any of the mercenaries were watching, and then

wandered unhurriedly over to stand beside King Gregor. He glanced at Hawk, and

then looked again, more closely. King Gregor smiled.

"Exactly, my young friend. It seems we're about to be rescued, and this

gentleman is one of our rescuers. But he could use a little help. Alert those

with the stomach for a little action, would you, and tell them to stand by."

"Of course, Your Majesty. We've been waiting for something like this to happen."

Sir Roland bowed slightly to the two Kings, looked hard at Hawk, and moved back

into the crowd. Hawk looked carefully around, but the mercenaries didn't seem to

have noticed the brief, muttered conversations. Very slack, but mercenaries

functioned best as fighting men, not prison guards. He checked that Fisher and

Barber were still in position, and let his hand rest impatiently on the axe at

his side. Surely something should have happened by now. What were they waiting

for outside? He looked around him to see how the young noble was getting on with

his search for support, and then froze as he saw the man talking openly with a

group of mercenaries by the double windows. The mercenaries looked straight at

Hawk, and the noble gave him a smile and a mocking bow. Hawk swore, and drew his

axe.

"Isobel, Barber; we've been betrayed! Get Team Two in here, and then barricade

the door and hold it. Move it!"

He charged at the two nearest mercenaries, and cut them down with swift, vicious

blows while they were still trying to work out what was going on. The hostages

screamed, and scattered this way and that as mercenaries ploughed through them

to get to Hawk. He grinned broadly, and went to meet them with his axe dripping

blood. Barber yelled out the door to Team Two, and then had to turn and defend

himself against a concerted attack by three mercenaries. His sword flashed

brightly as he spun and thrust and parried with impossible grace and speed,

holding off all three men at once and making it look effortless. Fisher tried to

get to him, to keep the door open for Team Two, but was quickly stopped and

surrounded by more mercenaries. She put her back against the nearest wall and

cut viciously about her with her sword, manoeuvering constantly so that the

mercenaries got in each other's way as often as not.

The parlor was full of the din of battle, punctuated by screams and shouts from

the hostages, but the noise grew even louder as Team Two finally burst in

through the open door. Winter and Saxon tore into the scattered mercenaries like

an axe through rotten wood, and for a moment it seemed as though the reunited

SWAT team might have the advantage, but only a few seconds later a crowd of

mercenaries streamed through the open door, led by Glen and Bailey. The room

quickly filled to its limit, and the sheer press of numbers made fighting

difficult, but the terrorists didn't shrink from cutting a way through the

defenseless hostages to get at their opponents. Some of the hostages tried to

help their rescuers, grappling barehanded with the mercenaries, but others

worked openly with Sir Roland to help the soldiers. Screams filled the air, and

the rich carpets were soaked with blood and gore.

Glen launched himself at Barber as he cut down the last of his three assailants,

and the two swordsmen stood toe to toe, ignoring everything else, caught up in

their own private battle of skill and speed and tactics. Hawk made his way

slowly through the chaos to fight at Fisher's side, and they ended up together

with their backs to the double windows. Hawk fought furiously, trying to open up

some space around him so that he could use his axe to better advantage, but

there were just too many mercenaries, and more were pouring through the door

every minute.

Winter ducked and weaved and almost made it out the door a dozen times, but

always at the last moment there was someone there to block the way. She fought

on, desperate to break away. She had to get word out of the House that the SWAT

team's mission was a failure. Saxon ploughed through the soldiers, dodging their

blows easily and breaking skulls with his fists. He snatched up one opponent,

and tried to use him as a living club with which to beat the others, but there

wasn't enough room. He threw the unconscious body aside, and flailed about him

with his fists and feet, grinning widely as blood flew on the air, and

well-armed mercenaries fell back rather than face him. But for all his efforts,

he was still outnumbered and surrounded, and it was all he could do to hold his

ground. MacReady stood alone in a corner, unable to escape or intervene, but

protected by his magic from any personal danger. Mercenaries kept trying to

seize him, only to end up dead or injured as MacReady's charm turned their

attacks back against them. Even the hostages were afraid to go near him, though

their numbers kept him blocked off from the only exit.

Glen and Barber cut and stamped and thrust, grinning humorlessly as they panted

and grunted with every moment. Sweat ran down their faces as they both tried

every trick they knew, only to see their moves blocked or countered by the

other's skill or speed. Finally a mercenary bumped into Barber from behind,

throwing him off balance for a fraction of a second, and that was all Glen

needed. He lunged forward with all his weight behind it, and his sword slammed

between Barber's ribs and punched bloodily out of his back. Barber sank to his

knees, fighting for breath as blood filled his lungs, and tried to lift his

sword. Glen put his foot against Barber's chest and pushed him backwards,

jerking out his sword as he did so. Barber fell on his back, blood filling his

mouth. There was no pain yet, held off for the moment by shock, and his mind

seemed strangely clear and alert. He rolled awkwardly onto his side and

channeled all his will into his sole remaining talent: the ability to move

unseen and unheard. He crawled towards the door, where Winter was fighting

fiercely, leaving a trail of his own blood behind him on the thick pile carpet,

and neither the mercenaries nor the hostages paid him any attention. He grinned

crazily, feeling blood roll down his chin. He'd get out of there and hole up

somewhere till the army stormed the place. He'd done all that could be expected

of him. As far as he was concerned, the fight was over. And then a shadow fell

across his path, and he sensed someone leaning over him. A quiet voice spoke

right next to his ear.

"Nice try. But I know that trick too."

Glen thrust his sword through the back of Barber's neck, skewering him to the

floor. Blood gushed out of Barber's mouth in a seemingly endless flow.

Winter hit Glen from behind, slamming him against the wall and knocking the

breath out of him. She drew back her sword for a killing thrust but then had to

turn and run as mercenaries burst out of the milling crowd after her. She

glanced briefly at Barber's unmoving body, and then sprinted out the door and

down the empty corridor, not daring to look back at her pursuers. All thoughts

of plans and revenge were forgotten for the moment, her mind filled only with

the need to survive. She ran on, from corridor to corridor, never slowing, long

after her pursuers had given up and turned back.

Hawk and Fisher were backed right up against the double windows, facing a solid

block of mercenaries. None of them seemed particularly anxious to get within

sword's range and risk their lives unnecessarily. There were more than enough of

them to block off any hope of escape, and they were happy to settle for that.

Hawk and Fisher stood side by side, weapons at the ready, using the opportunity

to get their breath back. They had a strong feeling there might not be another.

Bailey ploughed through the crowd towards Saxon, using his great size to open up

a path before him. Hostages and mercenaries alike hurried to get out of his way,

reacting as much to the grim determination in his face as his imposing size.

Saxon spun round to face the new threat, not even breathing hard. There was

blood on his hands and his clothing, and none of it was his. Bailey bore down on

Saxon, swinging his great sword with both hands. Saxon waited till the last

minute, and then ducked easily under the blow and sank his fist into Bailey's

gut. The fist drove clean through Bailey's chain mail and brought him to a

sudden halt, as though he'd run into a wall. He convulsed as the fist plunged

on, burying itself in his gut, and the heavy sword slipped from his numb hands.

Bailey felt the strength go out of his legs and deliberately slumped forward,

trying to bring Saxon down with the sheer weight of his huge frame. Saxon

stopped Bailey's fall and picked him up easily, as though the huge mercenary

weighed practically nothing, and threw him against the nearest wall.

Bailey hit the wall hard, the impact driving all the breath out of him. Ribs

cracked audibly, driving spikes of pain into his side, and his eyesight faded

out for a moment, but somehow he got his feet under him again, and his hands

curled into fists before him. Saxon stepped forward and drove his fist into

Bailey's stomach, crushing it between his fist and the wall. Blood flew from

Bailey's mouth, and he collapsed as the last of his strength went out of him. He

sat with his back against the wall, looking unflinchingly up at Saxon as he

raised his fist for the final blow that would crush Bailey's skull. And then

Saxon hesitated, and lowered his fist. He crouched down before the huge man and

looked at him thoughtfully. The watching hostages and mercenaries made no move

to intervene. Bailey stared back at Saxon, breathing slowly and painfully.

"Finish it. I'm dying anyway. Feels like you broke something important inside."

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

Bailey smiled, and blood ran from the corners of his mouth. "It's been a long

time, Wulf. Twenty-three years, since you ran out on us."

Saxon looked at him for a long moment, and then his blood ran cold as he saw the

ghost of familiar features in Bailey's battered and weather-worn face. "No…

Curt? Is that you, Curt?"

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

"They told me you were dead!"

Bailey smiled again. "They said the same about you. But I recognized you the

first moment I saw you, pretending to be a guard. You haven't changed at all,

Wulf."

"You have. Look at the size of you. Dammit, Curt, you were always such a scrawny

kid… Why the hell did you fight me? We're family."

"No," said Bailey flatly. "You stopped being family when you ran out on us.

These people are my family now. I would have killed you if I could. But you

always were a better fighter than me. Finish it, Wulf. Don't let me die slow, if

there's a spark of honor left within you."

"Curt, don't make me do this. I can't let you go, not after finding you again.

Don't leave me here alone."

"Selfish as ever, Wulf. Do it, damn you! Put me out of my misery! You owe me

that much."

Bailey coughed harshly, spraying blood across Saxon's face. Saxon brushed it

away with his sleeve, and then reached out tenderly and took Bailey's head in

his hands. "Rest easy, brother."

He snapped Bailey's head round sharply, and there was a loud crack as the neck

broke. Saxon released him, and Bailey slumped back against the wall and was

still. Saxon looked at him for a long moment, and then reached out and closed

his brother's eyes. He rose clumsily to his feet, and looked around him, and the

mercenaries shrank back from the rage and despair in his eyes. He strode over to

the hidden door in the wall, still wedged half-open, and disappeared into the

concealed passageway. No one made any move to stop him, or follow after him.

By the time Madigan and Ritenour appeared on the scene, shortly afterwards, the

fighting was over. The hostages had been rounded up and put under guard again.

Hawk and Fisher stood at bay before the windows, and MacReady watched calmly

from his corner. Madigan looked at the dead and injured lying scattered across

the room, and beckoned to Glen, who hurried over to join him, grinning broadly.

"What happened?" said Madigan.

"Local SWAT team tried for a rescue," said Glen. "One's dead, two ran away,

including that bastard Saxon, and we've got the other three boxed in. They're

not going anywhere. I thought you'd want to talk to them before we killed them."

"Quite right," said Madigan, smiling at him briefly. "You've done well, Glen.

Now have the bodies removed, and see to the wounded."

Glen frowned. "Does that include the hostages?"

"Of course. They'll die when I decide, not before." He nodded for Ritenour to

accompany him, and strode unhurriedly over to MacReady. "And who might you be?"

"John MacReady, negotiator for the Haven SWAT team. I assure you there's no need

for any further violence. If we could just sit down somewhere and talk, I'm sure

we could find a way out of this situation."

"That's very kind of you," said Madigan. "But I really have no need for a

negotiator. I like the situation the way it is." He looked across at Glen. "Kill

this one."

"You can't," said MacReady quickly. "I cannot be harmed."

Madigan looked at Ritenour. "Is that right?"

"Normally, yes." Ritenour looked at MacReady, and smiled. "But, unfortunately

for him, there's so much magic built into these walls it's quite simple for me

to put aside the charm that protects him. He's all yours, Madigan. But I should

cut off the head, just to be sure."

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

Glen gestured to two mercenaries, who grabbed MacReady by the arms and dragged

him out of his corner. At first it seemed he couldn't believe it, but then he

began to struggle and shout as they forced him onto his knees in front of Glen.

They held him easily. Glen raised his sword, took careful aim, and brought it

down in a long, sweeping stroke. The blade bit deeply into the back of

MacReady's neck, and blood spurted over a wide area. He heaved against the

mercenaries' hands, and almost got his feet under him before they forced him

down again. Glen struck again and again, hacking at MacReady's neck like a

woodsman with a stubborn tree trunk. Many of the hostages cried out, or turned

their faces away as MacReady's screams gave way to horrid sounds. Glen's sword

cut through at last, and MacReady's head rolled away across the carpet, the

mouth still working though the eyes were glazed. The two mercenaries dropped the

twitching body, stepped back, and tried to wipe some of the blood from their

clothes. Glen wiped the sweat from his forehead, and grinned at Madigan.

"Never actually beheaded a man before. Hard work, that. Executioners always make

it look so easy."

"Imagine the wooden block makes a lot of difference," said Madigan. "Remove the

head and the body. Burn the body, but give the head to the city negotiators, so

they can see what happens to those foolish enough to try and stage a rescue." He

turned away and looked at Hawk and Fisher, staring grimly at him from their

place before the double windows. "And now, finally, we come to you. The infamous

Captains Hawk and Fisher. I always thought you'd be taller. No matter. I think

we'll make your deaths last a little longer, as an example to those who would

dare defy me. I wish I had more time, to allow for some real inventiveness, but

even so, I promise you you'll beg for death before I'm done." He turned to the

nearest mercenary. "Heat some irons in the fire." He smiled at Hawk and Fisher.

"I've always been a traditionalist in such things." He gestured for his men to

come forward. "Disarm them, and then strip them."

Hawk glanced over his shoulder, out the windows. Madigan smiled. "Don't even

think about it, Captain. We're on the top floor, remember? It's four stories,

straight down. The fall would undoubtedly kill you both."

Hawk put away his axe, and gestured for Fisher to do the same. He grinned back

at Madigan, his single eye burning coldly. "Better a quick death than a slow

one. Right, Isobel?"

"Right, Hawk. Burn in hell, Madigan."

Hawk turned and kicked the windows open. The mercenaries surged forward. Hawk

took Fisher's hand in his, and together they jumped out of the windows, and

disappeared from sight.

Chapter Five

At Play in The Fields of the Lord

Madigan looked at the open windows for a moment, and then shrugged and turned

away. "A pity. Now I'll never know whether or not I could have broken them.

Still, that's life. Or in their case, death."

"Shall I take the irons out of the fire, sir?" asked the mercenary by the

fireplace.

Madigan considered the matter briefly, and then shook his head. "No, leave them

there. You never know; someone else might annoy me. In the meantime, send

someone down to recover Hawk and Fisher's bodies, and then deliver them to the

city negotiators. When they ask how their famous Captains died, you can tell

them that the illustrious Hawk and Fisher leapt to their deaths rather than face

me."

Madigan dismissed the mercenary and the subject with a wave of his hand, and

moved away to stare thoughtfully down at Bailey's body. The big man looked

somehow even larger in death, despite the blood and the limply lolling head.

Glen was crouching beside him, staring into Bailey's empty face as though

waiting for him to explain what had gone wrong. A lock of Bailey's hair had

fallen across his eyes, and Glen tucked it back out of the way with an almost

gentle touch. He realized Madigan was standing over him, and looked up quickly,

expecting some scathing comment at such a show of weakness. Instead, to his

surprise, Madigan crouched down beside him.

"It's not wrong to grieve, boy. We've all lost friends and loved ones. That's

what brought most of us into the Cause in the first place. You'll get your

chance to avenge him."

"He always looked out for me," said Glen. "Taught me how to work as part of a

team. I wish I'd listened to him more now."

"I wonder what they talked about," said Madigan.

Glen looked at him, puzzled. "Who?"

"Bailey and the man who killed him, Wulf Saxon. They talked for a moment, before

Saxon broke Bailey"s neck. If I can find the time, I think I'll have Ritenour

call up Bailey's spirit, and ask him. It might be important. Saxon is becoming

dangerously meddlesome." He realized Glen was staring at him, shocked. "Is

something wrong, Ellis?"

"Bailey's dead. He died for us! It isn't right to disturb his rest."

Madigan put his hand on Glen's shoulder. "He died for the Cause, because he knew

nothing was more important than what we plan to do here tonight. He'd understand

that sometimes you have to do unpleasant things because they're necessary. We

took an oath, Ellis, remember? All of us. Anything for the Cause."

"Yes," said Glen. "Anything for the Cause." He got to his feet and sat on the

edge of the buffet table while he cleaned the blood from his sword with a piece

of cloth. He didn't look at Madigan or Bailey.

Madigan sighed quietly, and moved to the other end of the table, where the

sorcerer Ritenour was dubiously sampling some of the more exotic side dishes. He

picked up a wine bottle to study the label, and Madigan produced a silver hip

flask and offered it to him. "Try some of mine. I think you'll find it a far

superior vintage to anything you're likely to find here. Whoever stocked this

House's cellar had a distinctly pedestrian palate."

Ritenour took the flask, opened it, and sniffed the bouquet cautiously. His

eyebrows rose, and he studied Madigan with a new respect. "You continue to

surprise me, Daniel. It's hard to picture you sampling vintages in between the

kidnappings and assassinations."

Madigan shrugged easily. "Every man should have a hobby."

Ritenour poured a healthy measure into a glass, and then stopped and looked at

Madigan suspiciously. "Aren't you joining me, Daniel?"

"Of course," said Madigan. He took back the flask, found himself a glass, and

filled it almost to the brim. He rolled the wine in the glass to release the

bouquet, savored it for a moment, and then drank deeply. He sighed

appreciatively, and then lowered the glass and looked coldly at the sorcerer.

"Really, Ritenour, you don't think I'd poison my own wine, do you? Particularly

a fine vintage like this."

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

"A toast, then. I think we're ready to begin the final phase. To success!"

They both drank deeply, and Madigan took the opportunity to look around the

room. Most of the hostages were still in shock from the sudden death and

violence, and the dashing of their hopes of rescue, but some were clearly

seething with anger at being betrayed by those they'd thought they could trust.

Violence was bubbling just below the surface, and several of the mercenaries

were watching the situation carefully, swords at the ready. Sir Roland and his

fellow conspirators had been herded off to one side by the mercenaries, at their

own request, and now stood close together, their faces wearing an uneasy blend

of self-righteousness and apprehension. Some of them looked to Madigan for

support, but he just looked back impassively. The traitors had done as he'd

expected, but their usefulness had passed. They were expendable now. Just like

everyone else.

As he watched, the crowd of hostages suddenly parted as the two Kings strode

forward together to glare at the traitors. A thin line of mercenaries kept the

two groups apart with raised swords. King Gregor of the Low Kingdoms ignored

them, fixing Sir Roland with a burning gaze. The traitor stared back

unflinchingly, with mocking self-assurance.

"Why?" said King Gregor finally. "Why did you betray us? I trusted you, Roland.

I gave you wealth and position and favor. What more could you want?"

"Power," said Sir Roland easily. "And a great deal more wealth. I'll have both,

once Outremer and the Low Kingdoms are at war. My associates and I had been

planning for some time on how best to take advantage of a small, carefully

controlled war on our outer borders, and we weren't about to abandon all our

plans just because both Parliaments suddenly got cold feet. War is too important

to the right sort of people to be left to politicians."

"You won't get away with this," said King Louis of Outremer, his voice calm and

quiet and very dangerous.

"There's nowhere you can go, nowhere you can hide, that my people won't find

you. I'll see you dragged through the streets by your heels for this."

Sir Roland smiled arrogantly. "You're in no position to threaten anyone, old

man. You see, you don't really understand what's going on here. To begin with,

you can forget about being ransomed. Madigan doesn't give a damn about the

money. Like us, he's in favor of war, so he's planned an atrocity so shocking

that war will be inevitable, once carefully planted rumors have convinced both

sides that the other is really to blame."

"What… kind of atrocity?" said King Gregor.

"You're going to be executed, Your Majesty," said Sir Roland. "You, and King

Louis, and all the other hostages, save for those few like myself, who can be

trusted to tell the story in the right way. Isn't that right, Madigan?"

"In a way," said the terrorist. He looked at Ritenour, ignoring Sir Roland's

angry, puzzled gaze. "It's time, sorcerer. Have you absorbed enough magic from

the House?"

"Yes," said Ritenour, putting down his empty glass and patting his mouth

delicately with a folded napkin. "It's been a slow process. I couldn't risk

hurrying it, or the buildup of power would have been noticed by those monitoring

the situation from outside. But your hostage negotiations brought me the time I

needed. I'm ready now. We can begin."

"Begin?" snapped Sir Roland. "Begin what?" He started toward Madigan, and then

stopped as the mercenaries raised their swords threateningly. "What is this,

Madigan? What is he talking about?"

Madigan looked at him calmly. "You didn't really think I'd settle for just the

Kings and a handful of hostages, did you? That wouldn't have had nearly enough

impact. No, traitor, my hatred for the Low Kingdoms and Outremer Parliaments

requires a more extravagant gesture than killing two political figureheads and a

crowd of toadying hangers-on. I'm going to destroy your whole city. Starting

with everyone in this House. Do it, sorcerer."

Ritenour grinned, and gestured sharply. An oppressive weight fell across the

room, crushing everyone to their knees, except for Madigan, Glen, and Ritenour.

Hostages and mercenaries alike screamed and cursed and moaned in horror as the

life drained slowly out of them. A few tried to crawl to the door, dragging

themselves painfully across the rich pile carpet, but Glen moved quickly to

block their way, grinning broadly. The victims clawed and clutched at each

other, but one by one their eyes glazed and their breathing slowed, and the

sorcerer Ritenour glowed like the sun. Stolen lives boiled within him, the

mounting energy pressing against his controlling wards, and he laughed aloud as

his new power beat within him like a giant heart. The glow faded away as his

control firmed, and he looked slowly around him. Lifeless bodies covered the

floor from wall to wall. Mercenaries in their chain mail, hostages in their

finery, and the two Kings, staring up at the ceiling with empty eyes. Ritenour

wanted to shout and dance and shriek with glee. He looked triumphantly at

Madigan, who bowed formally. Over by the doorway, Glen was giggling. They all

looked round sharply as they heard hurried footsteps approaching down the

corridor outside, and then relaxed as Horn and Eleanour Todd appeared in the

doorway. Horn and Todd looked briefly at the bodies on the floor, and then

nodded to Madigan.

"Everyone inside Champion House's walls is now dead, Daniel," said Todd briskly.

"Everyone but us, of course."

Horn laughed. "You should have seen the mercenaries' faces when the spell hit

them! Dropped like flies, they did."

"We'll have to move fast," said Todd, ignoring Horn. "The mercenaries out in the

grounds are unaffected, but it won't be long before the city sorcerers watching

this place realize something's happened. They'll hold off for a while out of

caution, but once they realize there's no longer any contact with anyone inside

the House, they'll come charging in here like a brigade of cavalry to the

rescue."

"They'll be too late," said Madigan calmly. "By the time they've worked up their

courage, the ritual will have taken place. And then it will be too late for many

things."

Horn chuckled quietly, brimming with good humor as he stirred a dead body with

his foot. "You know, in a few minutes we're going to do what no army's been able

to do for centuries. We're going to destroy the city of Haven, and grind it into

the dust. They'll write our names in the history books."

"If we don't get a move on, they'll write it on our tombstones," growled Todd.

Madigan raised a hand, and they fell silent. "It's time, my friends. Let's do

it."

Down below the parlor's double windows, Hawk was clinging grimly to the thick,

matted ivy that covered the ancient stone wall. Fisher was clinging equally

grimly to his waist and trying to dig her boots into the greenery. Hawk clenched

his hands around the ivy, and dug his feet deeper into the thick, spongy mass.

For the moment it was holding his weight and Fisher's, but already he could hear

soft tearing sounds as parts of the ivy pulled away from the wall. Fisher tested

the mass of leaves under her feet with some of her weight, and when it held she

cautiously transferred her hands to the vines, one at a time, taking care not to

throw Hawk off balance as she did so. They both froze where they were for a

moment, and struggled to get their harsh breathing back under control.

"Tell me something," said Fisher. "Did you know this ivy was here when you

jumped out the window?"

"Oh, sure," said Hawk. "I saw it when I looked out the windows that first time.

Mind you, I was only guessing it would hold our weight. But it looked pretty

thick. Besides, under the circumstances we didn't have much choice. Didn't you

know about the ivy?"

"No. I just assumed you had something in mind. You usually do."

"I'm touched. You want your head examined, but I'm touched."

They grinned at each other, and then looked carefully about them.

"All right, clever dick, what do we do now?" said Fisher.

"There's a window directly below us. We climb down, break the glass with as

little noise as possible, and climb in. And we'd better do it quickly, before

some bright spark up above thinks to look out the window to see where we

landed."

They slowly clambered down the thick carpet of green leaves, which creaked and

tore under their weight, but still clung stubbornly to the wall. Hawk wondered

vaguely if perhaps the magic in the House's walls had somehow affected the vines

as well, but didn't have time to dwell on the matter. He was pretty sure they

couldn't be seen against the ivy in the evening gloom, but once someone

discovered their bodies weren't where they were supposed to be, all hell would

break loose. He pushed the pace as much as he dared, but while it was only a few

more feet down to the third-floor window, it seemed like miles.

He grabbed at another strand of ivy as he lowered himself toward the window, and

it came away in his hand. He swung out away from the wall, holding desperately

on with his other hand, suddenly all too aware of the long drop beneath him. He

tried to pull himself back towards the wall, and the vine creaked threateningly.

Fisher saw what was happening and reached out a hand to grab him. She couldn't

reach him, and pushed herself further out from the wall. The whole mass of ivy

beneath her ripped away from the wall, and she fell like a stone. Hawk snatched

at her as she fell past him, and grasped her hand in his. She jerked to a halt

and swung back towards the wall. Her feet thudded to a halt beside the

third-floor window, but there was no ivy within reach of her free hand or her

feet, which she could use to stabilize herself. She hung beneath Hawk, twisting

and turning, and his mouth gaped soundlessly in agony as her weight pulled at

his arm, threatening to tear it from its socket. The vine he clung to jerked and

gave under his other hand as their combined weight pulled it from the old stone

wall bit by bit.

"Drop me," said Fisher.

"Shut up," said Hawk quickly. "I've got you. You're safe."

"You've got to let me go, Hawk," said Fisher, her voice calm and steady. "If you

don't, our weight is going to rip the ivy right off that wall, and we're both

going to die."

"I won't let you go. I can't."

"If you die, who's going to avenge me? Do you want those bastards to get away

with it? Do it, Hawk. While there's still time. Just tell me you love me, and

let go. Please."

"No! There's another way! There has to be another way." Hawk thought furiously

as the ivy jerked and trembled beneath his hand. "Isobel, use your feet to push

yourself away from the wall. Get yourself swinging, work up a good momentum, and

then crash right through the bloody window!"

"Hawk," said Fisher, "that is the dumbest plan you've ever come up with."

"Have you got a better idea?"

"Good point. Brace yourself, love."

Hawk set his teeth against the awful pain in his shoulder, and clutched

desperately at the ivy as though he could hold it to the wall by sheer

willpower. Sweat ran down his face, and his breathing grew fast and ragged.

Fisher pushed herself away from the wall, swinging out over the long drop, back

and forth, back and forth. It seemed to take forever to build up any speed, like

a child trying to get a swing moving on its own. She could hear Hawk panting and

groaning above her, and she could tell both their hands were getting dangerously

sweaty. She pushed hard against the wall, swinging out and away, and then

twisted her arm slightly so that she was flying back towards the window. The

heavy glass loomed up before her, and she tucked her knees up to her chest. Her

heels hit the glass together, and the window shattered. She flew into the room

beyond, and fell clumsily to the floor as Hawk's hand was jerked out of hers by

the impact. She scrambled to her feet and was there at the window to catch him

as he half climbed, half fell through the window. They clung to each other,

shaking and trembling and gasping for breath.

"Drop you?" said Hawk, eventually. "Did you really think I'd do a dumb thing

like that?"

Fisher shrugged. "It seemed a good idea at the time. But your idea was better.

For a change."

"I will rise above that remark. Go and take a look out the door. The amount of

noise we made crashing in here, someone must have heard us."

Fisher nodded, and padded over to the door, sword in hand. She eased it open a

crack, looked out into the corridor, and then looked back at Hawk and shook her

head. He nodded, and collapsed gratefully into the nearest chair.

"I hate heights."

"You needn't think you're going to sit there and rest," said Fisher mercilessly.

"We haven't got the time. We've got to figure out what the hell we're going to

do next. Our original plan was based on us having the element of surprise, and

we've blown that. So what do we do? Get the hell out of here, tell the Council

we failed, and they'd better start getting the ransom money together? Or do we

stick around, and see if maybe we can pick off the terrorists one by one?"

"No," said Hawk reluctantly. "We can't risk that. They'd just start executing

the hostages, in reprisal. Standard terrorist tactic, But, on the other hand, we

can't afford to leave just yet. We need more information about what's going on

here." He frowned suddenly, and looked intently at Fisher. "You know, we could

be all that's left of the SWAT team. Barber and MacReady are dead, Winter's

hiding somewhere in a panic, and Storm's trapped outside, unable to reach us.

Whatever happens now, it's down to us."

Fisher smiled and shrugged. "As usual. Mind you, Saxon's still around here

somewhere. At least, I suppose he is. He disappeared during the fighting."

Hawk sniffed. "Yeah, well, Saxon didn't exactly strike me as being too stable,

even at the best of times. Hardly surprising, I suppose, after spending all

those years trapped in the Portrait. I just hope he hasn't had a relapse, ripped

all his clothes off, and reverted back to the way he was when we first met him.

That's all we need."

"I don't know," said Fisher. "If nothing else, a naked, bloodthirsty madman

stalking the corridors would make one hell of a distraction." Hawk gave her a

hard look, and she laughed. "I know; don't tempt Fate. Come on, get up out of

that chair. We've got work to do."

Hawk hauled himself out of the chair, stretched painfully, and together they

moved silently over to the door and slipped out into the corridor, weapons at

the ready. It was completely deserted, and deathly quiet. They moved cautiously

down the corridor, and up the stairs to the next floor, but there was no trace

of movement anywhere. Hawk scowled unhappily. They ought to have run across some

kind of patrol by now. Madigan hadn't struck him as the type to overlook basic

security measures. He and Fisher hurried down the empty corridors, impelled by a

strange inner sense of urgency, the only sound the quiet scuffling of their

feet. They rounded a corner and then stopped abruptly as they discovered the

first bodies. Two mercenaries lay sprawled on the floor, their bulging eyes

fixed and sightless. Hawk and Fisher looked quickly about them, but there was no

sign of any attackers. Hawk moved quickly forward, and knelt by the bodies to

examine them while Fisher stood guard.

"Could it have been Saxon?" said Fisher quietly. "After all, he killed

twenty-seven mercenaries before he joined up with us."

"I don't think so," said Hawk. "I can't find any wound, any cause of death. This

stinks of magic."

"Maybe Storm finally broke through the House's wards and decided to help."

"No. He'd have contacted us by now, if he could. And the only other sorcerer in

this place belongs to Madigan."

They looked at each other. "Double cross?" said Fisher finally. "Maybe they had

a falling out."

"Could be," said Hawk. He got to his feet again, and hefted his axe

thoughtfully. "I think we'd better head back to the main parlor and see if we

can get a look at what's happening there. I'm starting to get a really bad

feeling about this."

They padded quickly down the corridor. As they made their way through the fourth

floor they came across more and more bodies, and by the time they reached the

corridor that led to the main parlor they were running flat out, no longer

caring if anyone saw or heard them. They slowed down as they approached the

parlor, stepping carefully around the dead mercenaries lying scattered the

length of the hall. The parlor door stood open, and the air was still and silent

as a tomb. Hawk and Fisher moved forward warily, weapons held out before them,

and peered in through the doorway. The dead lay piled together, hostage and

mercenary, so that it was almost impossible to tell them apart. Hawk and Fisher

checked the room with a few quick, cursory glances, but it was obvious the

killers were long gone. They examined some of the bodies for signs of life, just

in case, but there were no survivors, and nothing to show how they died. There

was no trace of Madigan or any of his people among the bodies, but they'd

expected that. And then they found the two Kings, and the heart went out of

them.

"So it will be war, after all," said Fisher dully. "We failed, Hawk. Everything

we've done has been for nothing. Why did they do it? Why did they kill them

all?"

"I don't know," said Hawk. "But one thing's clear now; the situation isn't what

we thought it was. Madigan never had any interest in the ransom money, or any of

his other demands. He had his own secret agenda, and the hostages were just

window dressing. A distraction, to keep us from guessing what he was really up

to."

"But why kill his own men, too?" said Fisher. "He's left the House practically

undefended. It doesn't make sense!"

"It has to, somehow! Madigan's not stupid or insane. He always has a reason, for

what ever he's doing."

Hawk! Fisher! Storm's voice crashed into their minds like thunder, and they both

winced. Listen to me! You must get down to the cellar immediately! Something's

happening down there. Something bad.

What kind of something? snapped Hawk. We've got our own problems. The Kings and

the hostages are all dead.

Forget them! Ritenour's getting ready to perform a forbidden ritual. No wonder

Madigan chose him; he's a shaman as well as a sorcerer.

Fisher looked at Hawk. "What's a shaman?"

"Some kind of specialized sorcerer, I think. Deals with spirits of the dead,

stuff like that." Storm! Talk to us; what's happening down in the cellar? Is it

part of Madigan's plan?

Yes. They're going to open the Unknown Door.

What?

Run, damn you! Get to the cellar while there's still time. A storm is building

in the Fields of the Lord, and the beasts are howling, howling…

Down in the cellar, Ritenour was on his knees, painstakingly drawing a blue

chalk pentacle on the floor. Glen and Eleanour Todd watched with interest, while

Madigan stood a little apart, his gaze turned inward. Horn padded up and down at

the base of the stairs, scowling impatiently. He didn't trust Ritenour, and deep

down he didn't trust the spell to do what it was supposed to. Madigan had

explained the plan to him many times, and he still didn't really understand it.

He had no head for magic, and never had. His scowl deepened. It was bad enough

they were depending on untried magic to destroy Haven, but they were also

dependent on Ritenour, and Horn didn't trust that shifty-eyed kid-killer any

further than he could throw him.

It had all seemed different, up in the main parlor. He'd been happy and

confident and full of enthusiasm for the plan, then. But now he was down in the

gloom of the cellar, the only illumination a single lamp on the wall, and his

mood had changed, darkened. He didn't like the cellar. The place felt bad;

spoiled, on some elemental level. He shuddered suddenly, and made a determined

effort to throw off the pessimistic mood. Everything was going to be fine.

Madigan had said so, and he understood these things. Horn trusted Madigan. He

had to, or nothing in his life had meaning anymore.

He deliberately turned his back on the sorcerer, and scowled nervously up the

stairs. He kept thinking he heard movement somewhere up above, just beyond the

point where the light gave way to an impenetrable darkness. It was just nerves.

There couldn't be anyone there. The sorcerer had killed them all. For a moment

his imagination showed him dead bodies rising to their feet and stumbling slowly

through the House, making their way down to the cellar to take a hideous revenge

on those who had killed them. Horn shook his head, dismissing the thought. He'd

killed many men in his time, and none of them had ever come back for revenge. It

took a lot of magic to resurrect the dead, and the only sorcerer in Champion

House was Ritenour. Horn breathed deeply, calming himself. Not long now, and

then the ritual would be under way. Once started, nothing could stop it. And his

long-awaited vengeance on Outremer would finally begin. He looked round sharply

as Ritenour rose awkwardly to his feet, his knees making loud cracking sounds in

the quiet.

"Is that it?" said Horn quickly. "Can we start now?"

"We're almost ready," said Madigan, smiling pleasantly. "How long have you been

my man, Horn?"

Horn frowned, thrown for a moment by the unexpected question. "Six years. Why?"

"You've always obeyed my orders and followed my wishes. You swore the oath to

me. Anything for the Cause. Remember?"

"Sure I remember." Horn looked at Madigan warily.

This was leading up to something, and he didn't like the feel of it. "You want

me to do something now? Is that it?"

"Yes, Horn. That's it. I want you to die. Right here and now. It's an important

part of the ritual."

Horn gaped at him, and then his mouth snapped shut and set in a cold, straight

line. "Wait just a minute…"

"Anything for the Cause, Horn. Remember?"

"Yeah, but this is different! I joined up with you to avenge my family. How can

I do that if I'm dead? If you need a sacrifice, take that weird kid, Glen. You

don't need him anyway, as long as you've got me."

Madigan just stared at him calmly. Horn began to back away, a step at a time. He

looked to Eleanour Todd for support, but she just stared at him, her face cold

and distant. Glen looked confused. Horn raised his sword, the lamplight shining

on the blade.

"Why me, Madigan? I'm loyal. I've always been loyal. I've followed you into

combat a hundred times. I would have died for you!"

"Then die for me now," said Madigan. "Trust me. It's necessary for the ritual,

and for the Cause."

"Stuff the Cause!"

Horn turned and ran for the stairs. Madigan looked at the sorcerer. Ritenour

smiled, and gestured briefly with his left hand. Horn crashed to the floor as

something snatched his feet out from under him. The impact knocked the breath

out of him, and his sword went flying from his numbed hand. He tried to get his

feet under him, but something took him firmly by the ankles and began to drag

him back towards the sorcerer waiting in his pentacle. He saw again the

mercenaries dying slowly as Ritenour drained the life out of them, and he

panicked, thrashing wildly and doubling up to beat at his own ankles with his

fists. None of it made any difference. He tried to grab at the floor to slow

himself down, but his fingernails just skidded across the worn stone. He snarled

soundlessly, wriggled over onto his back, pulled a knife from a hidden sheath,

and threw it at Ritenour. The sorcerer stepped to one side at just the right

moment, and the knife flew harmlessly past his head. Horn was almost at the edge

of the pentacle when he opened his mouth to scream. Ritenour gestured sharply,

and life rushed out of Horn and into the sorcerer. What would have been a scream

came out as a long, shuddering sigh as Horn's lungs emptied for the last time.

Glen looked at Horn's body, and then at Madigan. "I don't understand. Why did he

have to die? Did he betray us?"

"No," said Madigan patiently. "Weren't you listening, Ellis? His death was a

necessary part of the ritual. Just as yours is, and Eleanour's."

"No!" said Glen immediately. "Leave Eleanour out of this! I don't know what's

going on here, but you never mentioned any of this before. And you can bet I

wouldn't have come anywhere near you if you had. You're crazy, Madigan! Come

over here, Eleanour; we're getting out of this madhouse. Damn you, Madigan! I

believed in you! I thought you believed in me."

"Do be quiet, Ellis. Eleanour's not going anywhere, and neither are you."

He turned to Eleanour Todd, and Glen threw himself at Madigan, his sword

reaching for the terrorist's heart. Madigan went for his sword, but it was

already too late. Ritenour raised his hand, knowing even as he did so, that the

spell wouldn't work fast enough to save Madigan. But even as Glen made his move,

Eleanour Todd's blade swept out to deflect his, and then swept back to cut

Glen's throat. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees. His hands went to his

throat, as though trying to hold shut the wound, and blood poured between his

fingers. He looked up at Eleanour, standing before him with his blood dripping

from her sword, and mouthed the word Why?

"Anything for the Cause, Ellis," said Eleanour Todd.

Glen fell forward as the sorcerer's spell sucked out what was left of his life.

Todd looked down at the still figure and shook her head.

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to that, Eleanour," said Madigan, sheathing his

sword. "He liked you, you know."

"Yes. I know." Todd returned her sword to its scabbard and smiled at Madigan.

"My turn now, my love."

"Are you ready?"

"Oh yes. I've been waiting for this ever since we first discussed it." She took

a long, shuddering breath, and let it out again. "After all this time, my

parents will finally be avenged. Do it, sorcerer." She smiled widely at Madigan.

"No regrets, Daniel. And… it's all right that you never loved me. I understand."

Ritenour gestured, and the life went out of her. Madigan caught her as she fell

forward, and lowered her gently to the floor.

"So you did know, after all. I'm sorry, Eleanour. But there was never room in my

life for you." He looked at Ritenour. "Two willing sacrifices. That was the last

ingredient of the ritual, wasn't it?"

"That's right," said Ritenour carefully. "She'll count as one, but you'll have

to be the other. Or everything we've done so far will have been for nothing."

"Take it easy, sorcerer. I've no intention of backing out. I just want to see

the ritual begin. I've waited a long time for this moment, and I want to savor

it. You start the ball rolling, and I'll tell you when I'm ready."

Ritenour shrugged, and turned away. He took up a position in the exact center of

the pentacle and began a low, strangely cadenced chant accompanied by quick,

carefully timed gestures. A vicious headache was pounding in his left temple,

and he was feeling uncomfortably hot and sweaty. Probably the close air in the

cellar. He'd never liked confined spaces. He made himself concentrate on what he

was doing, but after all the work he'd put into memorizing the spell he could

have practically done it in his sleep.

The blue chalk lines of his pentacle began to glow with an eerie blue light, and

the air outside the lines seemed to ripple as though in a heat haze. A sudden

rush of excitement swept through him, leaving him giddy. He could feel the

forces building around the pentacle. He'd known of this spell for years, but had

never dreamed that one day he'd be able to use it. Of course, it could still go

wrong. If Madigan was getting cold feet…

He shot a quick glance at the man, but Madigan was just sitting quietly not far

away, with his back to the wall, watching the ritual. Madigan would come through

eventually. He wasn't the type to back down, once he'd set his mind to

something. Everyone said so. Ritenour smiled. It'd be his name they'd remember

now, not Madigan's. When this was all over and he was safely away from the ruins

of what had once been Haven, he'd be both rich and famous, as the sorcerer who

dared to open the Unknown Door.

Madigan blinked as sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. He was feeling

very weak now, and he'd had to sit down before his legs betrayed him. The poison

was taking hold of him. It was quicker than he'd expected, but hardly

surprising. The wine in his hip flask had held enough poison to kill a dozen

men. Which was, of course, why he'd insisted Ritenour share it with him. There

was no way he was going to let the sorcerer run free after this was all over,

boasting about his part in it. This was going to be remembered as Madigan's

greatest triumph. No one else's.

Madigan had given his life to the Cause, to the destruction of Outremer, but he

wasn't the man he used to be, and he knew it. He'd been a legend in his time,

but the best days of his legend were gone, lost in the past, and other, newer

names had appeared to replace his. No one doubted his loyalty to the Cause, but

among those who mattered it was whispered more and more that he was getting old

and cautious, slowing down. So the money went to younger men, and he had to find

support for his plans where he could. But after this night, his legend would be

secure. He'd already planted rumors in all the right places, so that when the

investigators finally came to sift through the rubble of the city, word would

already be going round that he was the one responsible. The rumors would blame

both sides for hiring him, of course, and as the outrage mounted, the right

people would quietly fan the flames until war was inevitable.

Madigan smiled as the sorcerer shot another quick glance at him. Probably

thought he had cold feet, or second thoughts. Fool. He wasn't afraid to die.

Better to die at the height of his fame, at his greatest moment, than to grow

old and bitter watching his schemes collapse for lack of funding, or lack of

skill. The Cause would go on without him, and that was all that really mattered.

Poor Eleanour had never understood. The Cause had been friend and lover and

religion to him, and he had never wanted anyone or anything else in his life.

He watched the sorcerer work, smiling slightly. Madigan knew he wouldn't live to

see the opening of the Unknown Door, but it was enough to know that his own

willing death would open it. The sorcerer would live a little longer, since he'd

drunk less of the wine, but when he finally saw the horror he'd helped to

unleash, he'd probably be glad of an easy death. Because once the Door had been

opened, no one in this world could shut it again. No one. Madigan smiled and

closed his eyes.

Hawk and Fisher ran through the fourth floor, heading for the stairs. The bodies

of the fallen mercenaries seemed to watch them pass with horrified, unmoving

eyes. Hawk started counting the bodies, but had to give up. There were too many.

He scowled furiously as he pounded down the stairs to the third floor, pushing

his pace a little to keep up with Fisher. Why the hell had Madigan killed his

own people, as well as the hostages? Hawk knew better than to expect honor or

loyalty among terrorists, but even so, to wipe out his own people on such a

scale suggested a coldness on Madigan's part that was more frightening than any

number of dead bodies. And even apart from that, didn't the man feel the need

for any protection anymore? Whatever he and his pet sorcerer were involved with

down in the cellar, surely he still needed some protection, if only to keep them

from being interrupted at the wrong moment. Unless whatever they were planning

was so powerful that nothing could stop it once it had been started…

Hawk didn't like the turn his thoughts were taking. It was becoming clearer all

the time that this whole business had been very carefully planned, right from

the beginning. Which suggested the deaths had also been planned. But why? What

could Madigan have hoped to gain from such a massacre? Power. That had to be the

answer. Some sorcerers could use stolen life energy to power spells that

couldn't otherwise be controlled. But what kind of ritual could Madigan and

Ritenour be contemplating, that needed so many lives to make it possible?

Something's happening down there. Something bad.

He and Fisher had just reached the bottom of the second flight of stairs when

Fisher stopped suddenly and leaned against the banisters, breathing hard. Hawk

stopped with her, and looked at her worriedly. He was usually the first to run

out of breath, as Isobel never tired of reminding him. On the other hand, she

hated to be coddled.

"You all right, lass?" he said carefully.

"Of course I'm all right," she muttered. "Don't be too obvious about it, but

take a look around. I thought I saw something moving, down the corridor to your

right. Could be someone Madigan left here to guard his back."

"Good," said Hawk. "I'm in the mood to hit someone."

"I'd be hard pressed to remember a time when you weren't, Captain Hawk," said

Winter, as she stepped out of the shadows of the corridor. She looked angrily at

both Captains. "What kept you? I've been waiting here for ages. I take it Storm

has contacted you? Good; then you know as much about the situation as I do.

Which is, essentially, damn all, except that it's bloody urgent we get to the

cellars. Let's go."

She set off down the stairs to the next floor, without looking back to see if

they were following. Hawk and Fisher exchanged a brief look, shrugged more or

less in unison, and went after her. Hawk felt he ought to say something, but was

damned if he knew what. The last he'd seen of the SWAT team's leader, she'd been

running from the parlor in a blind panic with half a dozen mercenaries right

behind her. Hawk couldn't honestly say he blamed her. The odds against her had

been overwhelming, and she'd just seen her strongest team member cut down as

though he was nothing. Hawk would have run too, if he and Isobel hadn't been

trapped by the windows.

But she'd panicked, and she knew that they'd seen it. Which could lead to all

sorts of problems. Panic was hard for some people to acknowledge, never mind

deal with. Winter was the sort who prided herself on her courage and

self-control, and that pride would make dealing with her problem that much

harder. Hawk had seen this kind of thing before. She'd come up with all kinds of

rationalizations that would let her believe she hadn't really panicked, and that

way she wouldn't have to think about it. But put her under real stress again,

and there was no telling what she might do. Given the situation they were

heading into. Winter could be a disaster waiting to happen. As though she could

feel his gaze on her back, Winter suddenly began talking, though she was still

careful not to look back at Hawk or Fisher.

"I thought I was the only one left and the rest of the team were dead. I shook

off my pursuers easily enough, and went to ground till they gave up looking for

me. I used the time to put together a plan that would get me safely out of the

House. It was imperative that I get word to the Council that our mission was a

failure, and they couldn't count on us to save the Kings. Then… something

happened. After our narrow escape from the creatures of power in Hell Wing, I'd

taken the precaution of removing a suppressor stone from Headquarters'

Storeroom. I thought we might need protection against magic at some point on

this case, and the stone has always worked well for me in the past, even if it

has fallen out of favor at the moment. Anyway, the stone suddenly started

glowing brightly, and the House seemed to shake. I braced myself, but the stone

protected me from whatever magic it was. The glow soon faded away, but I thought

it best to lie low until I had some idea of what had happened. Then Storm

contacted me, told me that Mac was dead and you were still alive, and that our

mission wasn't over yet."

"Did Storm tell you what was happening down in the cellar?" said Fisher, when

Winter paused for a moment.

"Not really. Just that the sorcerer Ritenour was up to something nasty. It

doesn't matter. We'll stop him. The Kings may be dead, but we can still avenge

them."

"It may not be as simple as that," said Hawk carefully. "According to Storm, the

whole city may be in danger from what Madigan has planned."

"Storm worries too much," said Winter. "There are any number of powerful

sorcerers in the city, not to mention all the Beings on the Street of Gods.

You're not telling me that between them they couldn't handle anything Ritenour

can come up with. After all, what could one shaman sorcerer call up that all the

Powers and Dominations in Haven couldn't put down?"

"Good question," said Fisher. "And if we don't get to the cellar in time, I have

an awful suspicion we're going to find out the hard way."

Winter sniffed, but increased her pace. Hawk and Fisher hurried after her.

Winter was careful always to keep just a little ahead of them, so they wouldn't

see her face. She'd managed to stop herself trembling, but she knew that if they

got a good look at her face, they couldn't help but see the fear that was still

there. She'd been afraid before, but never like this. She'd never run from

anything in her life before, but she'd run from the parlor. It wasn't just the

number of mercenaries, though that had been part of it. No; it had been the

speed, the almost casual way in which Barber had been killed. He'd always been

so much better than her, and Madigan's man had swept him aside as though he were

nothing. And then Saxon was gone, and Mac and Hawk and Fisher had been cornered,

and all she could think of was that she had to get out of there, out of there!

She'd hidden from her pursuers in the back of a dusty little cupboard,

underneath a pile of old clothing she'd pulled over herself. She'd concentrated

on the thought that it was vital she didn't get caught, that she had a

responsibility to stay free so she could get a message out to the Council. But

when she finally heard the mercenaries depart, and it was time to leave, she

couldn't bring herself to leave the safety of the cupboard. She stayed there, in

the dark, curled into a ball and trembling violently, clutching the suppressor

stone in her fist like a child's lucky charm. After a while, a long while,

Storm's voice came to her, telling her that Hawk and Fisher were still alive,

and that the mercenaries were dead, and she was finally able to leave her hiding

place. She wasn't alone after all, and she had a chance for revenge. It didn't

matter what Madigan and Ritenour were doing down in the cellar; she was going to

kill them both, they would pay for the murders of the two Kings, and for the

theft of her courage and conviction.

She strode along, looking neither left nor right, and bit at the inside of her

cheeks until they ached, to keep her teeth from chattering. She couldn't afford

to let Hawk and Fisher see how badly Madigan had got to her. She was the leader

of the SWAT team. She had to lead.

Winter led the way down the steps into the cellar, moving quietly and

confidently, her sword held out before her. Hawk and Fisher followed close

behind, keeping a wary eye on her. If Winter had a plan of attack, she hadn't

seen fit to confide in them. Hawk found that worrying; normally Winter was full

of herself over that kind of thing, and couldn't wait to impress everyone with

her latest plans and strategies. Perhaps this time she didn't have a plan, and

was just playing it by ear. If she was, Hawk for one didn't blame her. He hadn't

got a clue what to do for the best. On the other hand, the only actual fighter

in the cellar was Madigan, according to Storm, and they outnumbered him three to

one. But on the other hand, Madigan was a first-class swordsman and had with him

a sorcerer who was probably brimming over with stolen power and just looking for

a target to use it on. Which would seem to argue against a frontal attack.

Personally, Hawk favored sneaking up on them from behind, and taking out both of

them with his axe before they even knew what was happening. Hawk was a great

believer in keeping things simple and to the point.

Winter eased to a stop at the point where the stairway curved round a long

corner before leading down into the cellar itself. Hawk and Fisher stopped too,

and listened to the silence. There wasn't a sound to be heard, but a strange,

eerie blue light flickered across the wall below them. Hawk looked at Fisher,

who shrugged. Winter stared at the flickering light for a long moment, and then

moved slowly forward, keeping her shoulder pressed against the inner wall so as

to stay hidden in the shadows. Hawk and Fisher moved silently after her. As they

eased around the corner, the vast stone chamber swung gradually into view, and

Hawk swore to himself as he saw the sorcerer Ritenour, standing in the middle of

a glowing pentacle. They were too late. Whatever the ritual was, it had already

started. The eerie blue light that blazed from the lines of the pentacle filled

the cellar, and gave the sorcerer's skin the look of something that had been

dead for a week. In between the stairway and the pentacle lay Glen and Todd,

both dead. Madigan was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his

eyes closed. Hawk thought for a moment he might be dead too, but his hopes were

quickly dashed as he realized the terrorist's chest was still rising and

falling. Pity, thought Hawk. It would have simplified things no end. Fisher

leaned in beside him, looked at Madigan, and raised an eyebrow. Hawk shrugged.

Maybe the man was asleep. He'd had a busy day.

The air in the cellar had a tense, brittle feel, as though any loud noise or

sudden movement might shatter it like glass and reveal what lay behind it. The

blue light clung to the wall like lichen, and the solid stone seemed to stir and

seethe with slow, viscous movements. Shadows flickered here and there, come and

gone in an eye blink, though there was nothing in the cellar to cast them.

Ritenour began chanting in an unfamiliar tongue, but his voice seemed strangely

quiet, as though it had crossed some great distance to reach them. He turned

slowly in a circle, widder-shins, slowly against the course of the sun's path

right to left, light to darkness. Hawk could see his eyes were tightly shut.

Possibly to help him concentrate, or possibly because he was afraid of what he

might see if he opened them. Hawk moved down a step for a better look, and then

stopped abruptly. His stomach muscles tensed, and sweat broke out on his

forehead. He felt as though he were looking out over some vast, unimaginable

gulf. The cellar seemed to be stretching, with Madigan and Ritenour moving

slowly away from the stairs, until the gap between them seemed horribly great

and impossible to cross. Fisher grabbed Hawk by the arm, and he all but jumped

out of his skin. She gestured that she and Winter were moving back up the stairs

round the curve of the wall, and Hawk nodded quickly. He looked back at the

cellar, and then away again, and followed Fisher and Winter back up into the

concealing shadows. He realized he was breathing too quickly, and made himself

take several deep breaths to calm himself down.

They stopped just beyond the curve, and Hawk leaned in close to Winter, keeping

his voice little more than a murmur. "We've got to do something while we still

can. Things down there are getting out of hand fast."

"I'm open to suggestions, Captain," said Winter sharply. "In order to stop the

ritual we have to get to Ritenour, but as long as he stays within the pentacle

we can't touch him. It'll knock us out if we even get too close to it."

"What about your suppressor stone?" said Hawk.

"Burned out by whatever happened earlier."

"No problem," said Fisher. "Hawk can throw an axe like you wouldn't believe. He

can cut the wings off a fly at twenty paces, and if flies had other things he

could cut them off too. Right, Hawk?"

"More or less," said Hawk. "My axe is rather special, and it should cut through

any magical protection, but I've still got to get within throwing range. An axe

is too heavy to throw accurately over any distance. And you can bet once any of

us step out into plain sight, Madigan is going to come up off that floor like a

cat with a thorn up its arse and carve whoever's there into bite-sized chunks. I

saw him fight in the parlor. He's good, Winter. Very good."

"We can handle him," said Winter confidently. "You get into a position where you

can throw your axe, and Fisher and I will keep Madigan occupied."

"Right," said Fisher. "We kill Madigan, you kill the sorcerer, and then we all

get the hell out of here. Simple as that."

"I'm afraid not," said Madigan calmly. "It's a good plan, and it might even

work, though I hate to think what might happen to your precious city if the

forces Ritenour is working with were to break free. But it's all immaterial. To

get to him you have to get past me. And you're not that good. Any of you."

He was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at them, and his smile was

a death's-head grin. He looked pale and drawn and ill, but his back was straight

and the sword in his hand was quite steady.

Hawk and Fisher ran down the stairs and circled around him, weapons at the

ready. He moved easily to follow them, never letting either of them entirely out

of his sight. He laughed softly, charged with energy, as though all the strength

he'd ever had was his again, gathered for just this moment. He laughed at them,

and in that harsh, mocking sound there was no trace of weakness, or thought of

failure. His eyes burned in his gaunt face, and every move he made was calm,

calculated, and very deadly.

It's like he knows we can't win, thought Hawk. That whatever happens, he's

already won.

He pushed the thought aside, and moved warily forward. Madigan was all that

stood between him and Ritenour, and no matter how good he was, Madigan was only

one man. Hawk had faced a hell of a lot worse in his time. He swung his axe in a

vicious arc, and Madigan's sword was in just the right place to deflect it. The

return thrust had Hawk jumping desperately back, and Fisher darted in quickly to

draw Madigan's attention. Their swords clashed again and again in a flurry of

spark, but Fisher was the one who was forced to retreat. Hawk tried to circle

round behind Madigan, but the terrorist drove him back with a flurry of blows

that took all of Hawk's skill to counter.

Hawk and Fisher threw themselves at Madigan, but neither of them could touch

him. He moved as though inspired, parrying and striking back with a tireless

energy. His strength was incredible, his speed bordering on inhuman. He thrust

and cut and parried with a simple economy of movement that was too brutal to be

truly graceful, but somehow he was always in just the right place to block a

blow or strike at his opponent's weakness. Hawk was hard put to save himself a

dozen times over, and blood ran thickly down his side from a blow he hadn't seen

coming till it was almost too late. If he or Fisher had been fighting alone they

would have been dead by now, and all of them knew it. Madigan was never where he

should be, and their weapons swept harmlessly past him again and again while his

sword crept gradually closer with every attack. Madigan had been a legend in his

day, and there in the cellars under Champion House, it was his day again, for a

while. Hawk and Fisher fought on determinedly, grunting with the effort of their

blows and fighting for breath, but Madigan just smiled at them, his eyes wild

and fey, his time come round again in the last minutes of his life.

Ritenour's chant grew louder as he shuffled round and round in his pentacle,

eyes squeezed shut as though against a blinding light. The air in the cellar

grew steadily more tense, and an alien presence slowly permeated the stone

chamber, pressing relentlessly against the barriers that held it back from

reality and the waking world.

Winter watched the fighting from the foot of the stairs, unable to move. There

was no point in trying to help. Hawk and Fisher were much better fighters than

she, and Madigan was making them look like fools. If she even raised a sword

against him, he'd kill her. She thought about trying to sneak past him to try

and get to Ritenour, but she'd seen what happened when Hawk tried to circle

round Madigan. The terrorist had blocked him off without even trying. There was

nothing she could do. Nothing.

Think, dammit, think! You're supposed to be the tactician, the one with plans

and strategies for every contingency. There's always something you can do!

And of course there was. The answer came to her in a flash of inspiration, and

she knew she had to act on it immediately, while she still had the courage.

Because if she stopped and thought about it, she'd come up with all kinds of

reasons not to do it. She ran forward, her sword held high above her head, and

threw herself at Madigan. He spun round impossibly quickly, and his sword

plunged into her stomach and out her back. Winter dropped her sword and forced

herself along the blade until she could grab his sword arm with both hands. He

tried to break her grip, but her hands had closed like vises. She smiled at him.

There was blood in her mouth, and it rolled down her chin as she spoke.

"Did you think you were the only one prepared to die for what they believe in?"

Madigan snarled at her and backed desperately away, dragging her with him, but

Hawk's axe came swinging round in a wide arc out of nowhere and smashed into his

rib cage. Bones broke and splintered, and the force of the blow drove him to his

knees, crying out in pain and shock. Winter sank down with him, still smiling.

Their eyes met for a moment, sharing hatred, and then the light went out of

Winter's eyes and she slumped forward.

Hawk jerked his axe free in a gusher of blood, and Madigan cried out again as

the pain cleared his head. He clung somehow to his sword as he lurched to his

feet, avoiding Fisher's sword with desperate speed. Blood was pouring from the

gaping wound in his side, but he ignored it. He was dying anyway, and the

knowledge gave him strength. He bolted for the stairs, blood spilling onto the

ground as he ran. A slow numbness crept through his body as the poison began to

win out over his need and desperation. He could no longer feel his hands or his

feet, and the strength was draining out of his legs. He forced himself on,

concentrating on the flaring pain in his side to keep his head clear. He coughed

painfully, and blood filled his mouth. He spat it out, and glanced back over his

shoulder. Hawk and Fisher were pounding up the stairs after him.

He laughed giddily. Let the fools chase him. While they were preoccupied with

him, Ritenour was completing the ritual. All he had to do was buy the sorcerer a

little more time, and he'd spite Hawk and Fisher yet. He was glad he hadn't

killed them, after all. He wanted them alive when the Unknown Door opened, so

that they could see what he'd let loose on their precious city. He wanted them

to know they'd failed before they died screaming, in agony and despair. He

laughed breathily, ignoring the pain and the blood, and then Wulf Saxon appeared

on the steps before him. Madigan snarled at him and lunged forward, his sword

still steady in his numb hand. Saxon slapped the blade aside and hit Madigan in

the face with all his strength. The blow picked Madigan up and threw him back

down the stairs, almost crashing into Hawk and Fisher. They pressed back against

the wall, and Madigan slid and tumbled the rest of the way down the steps and

back into the cellar. He lay still at the bottom of the stairs, his head at an

unnatural angle, his neck broken.

Hawk and Fisher ran back down the stairs, and stood staring down at Madigan's

body. Hawk stirred it with his boot, and the head lolled limply from side to

side. And then Madigan's eyes snapped open, and Hawk fell back a step, his heart

jumping painfully. Fisher raised her sword and stood ready to strike. Madigan

stared up at them, and his mouth stretched slowly in a ghastly grin.

"You've achieved nothing. Won nothing. I was dying anyway. I've beaten you.

Beaten you all. Your precious city's going to burn, and everyone and everything

you ever cared for is going down into Hell. You lose, heroes! You lose!"

Hawk lifted his axe and brought it sweeping down with all his strength behind

it. The razor edge sliced through Madigan's neck and bit deeply into the stone

floor beneath. The terrorist's head rolled away across the floor, still smiling.

Hawk glared down at the twitching body, and jerked his axe out of the floor as

though he meant to strike at the body again. Fisher grabbed him by the arm.

"Forget about him, Hawk! We still have to stop the sorcerer. He made us forget

the bloody sorcerer!"

They spun round to stare at Ritenour, standing fixed and frozen in his pentacle.

His eye sockets were empty, and bloody trails down his face showed where the

eyes had melted and run. He must have finally opened his eyes and looked,

thought Hawk numbly.

Saxon appeared out of the shadows of the stairway and came to stand beside Hawk

and Fisher. He started to ask what was going on, but his voice dried up as he

stared at the sorcerer. Power beat on the still air like the wings of an

enormous bird, and the gathering presence swept through their minds like an icy

wind. It was very close now. Countless, unblinking eyes watched hungrily from

the borderlands of reality, driven by an ancient hatred and an unwavering

purpose.

Hawk shook his head violently, and looked across at the sorcerer, who had fallen

to his knees inside his pentacle. The light from the chalk lines was almost

blinding now. On some basic level beyond his understanding, Hawk could sense the

stolen life energy pouring out of the sorcerer and passing beyond reality, to

where the presence was waiting. He tried to lift his axe, but his arm seemed far

away, and the sounds in his head roared and screamed, drowning out his thoughts.

Saxon stepped forward, and the air seemed to press against him as though he were

wading through deep water. Hawk and Fisher were as still as statues, though

sweat ran down their empty faces, and sudden tremors ran through them as they

fought to lift their weapons. Saxon concentrated on the sorcerer in his

pentacle. There was no one to help him; he was on his own, as he had been ever

since he left the Portrait. He pressed on, putting everything out of his mind

except the pentacle, as it drew nearer step by step. Something was screaming.

Something was howling. The air stank of blood and death. The blazing blue lines

of the pentacle flared up before him as he lashed out with his fist. The cellar

shuddered like a drumhead, but the pentacle held. Saxon struck at it again and

again, calling up every last vestige of his unnatural strength, but though the

blazing light shuddered and trembled beneath his blows, it would not fall.

And then something bright and shining flashed past him, and Ritenour lurched

suddenly forward, Hawk's axe buried between his shoulder blades. His hands came

back to paw feebly at the axe's haft, and then he fell, face down, and lay

still, one outflung hand crossing a line of the pentacle. The blinding blue

light snapped off in an instant, and Saxon lurched forward to kneel at the

sorcerer's side. Ritenour turned his head and looked up at him with his bloody

eye sockets.

"Listen. Can you hear them? The beasts are here…"

The breath went out of him. He was dead, and the last part of the ritual was

complete. The Unknown Door swung open a crack, and the presence slammed through

into reality, throwing aside the barriers of time and space, life and death. And

what had waited for so long for revenge was finally loose in the world.

From out of the shadows of the slaughterhouse, from the time of blood and pain

and horror, the beasts returned. Thousands upon thousands of animals, butchered

and torn apart in the bloody cellar by men who laughed and joked as they killed.

And from every scream and every death, and all the long years of suffering, came

a legacy of hatred that drew upon the strange magics in that place, derived in

turn from the unnatural building that had been replaced by the slaughterhouse.

The small souls gathered together into something larger and more powerful that

would not rest, but waited at the borders of the spirit lands, determined to

return and take vengeance for what had been done to them. And finally, after all

the many years, the willing and unwilling sacrifices of the forbidden ritual had

opened the Unknown Door, and the beasts surged forward using Ritenour's stolen

life energies to manifest themselves once again in the lands of the living. The

beasts had returned, and they would have their revenge.

Champion House trembled on its foundations, and jagged cracks split open the

massive stone walls. The restraining magics built into the stone were ripped

apart and scattered in a moment, and all the souls of all the many animals went

rushing out into the city, a spiral of raging energy that swept outward from the

House, leaving madness and devastation in its wake. Herds of scarlet-eyed cattle

thundered through the narrow streets, trampling fleeing crowds underfoot. Blood

soaked their hooves and legs, but it was never enough. Weapons tore and cut at

them, but they felt no pain and took no hurt. They were dead, beyond fear or

suffering anymore, and nothing could stop them now. They crushed men and women

against walls, and tossed the broken bodies effortlessly on their splintered

horns. Blood ran down the curving horns and disappeared into gaping holes in the

cattle's skulls, made by sledgehammers long ago. The herd thundered on, and

behind them their lesser cousins tore and worried at the bodies of the fallen,

as even the mildest of creatures gloried in the taste of human flesh and blood.

Sheep and lambs buried their faces in ripped-open guts, and blood stained their

woollen muzzles as they bolted down the warm meat.

The soulstorm of raging spirits roared through the city, driving people insane

with its endless cry of blood and pain and horror. Centuries of accumulated

suffering and abuse were turned back upon their ancient tormentors, and men and

women ran wild in the streets, screaming and howling with the voices of animals.

Many killed themselves to escape the agony, or killed each other, driven by a

fury not their own. There were islands of sanity in the madness, as isolated

sorcerers and Beings from the Street of Gods struggled to hold back the

soulstorm, but they were few and far between.

In the great prison of Damnation Row, cell doors burst from their hinges and

blood ran down the walls. Shadows prowled the narrow corridors with glowing

eyes, ignoring locks and bars, and prisoners and prison staff alike fell to

cruel fangs and claws. Inmates grew hysterical in their cells and turned on

their cellmates, tearing at them viciously, like creatures that had been penned

together too long in battery cages, and had never forgotten or forgiven.

At Guard Headquarters the doors were locked and the shutters closed, but still

beasts rampaged through the building, and no one could stand against them.

Guards fought running battles where they could, gathering together in groups to

protect each other, and Guard sorcerers roared and chanted and raised their

wards, but the beasts were everywhere and would not be denied.

The Council chambers rang to the sound of a hundred hoofbeats as wild-eyed

horses thundered back and forth through the corridors and meeting rooms. Desks

and chairs were overturned, and the great round ceremonial table was split from

end to end. People ran before the raging herd until their breath gave out or

their hearts burst in their chests and it was not enough, never enough.

Down in the Docks the waters boiled as things came crawling up out onto the

harbourside, clacking claws and waving antennae a dozen times the size they were

in life. Death changes all things, and rarely for the better. They had grown as

their hatred grew, and people ran screaming before them as they clattered across

the Docks on their huge, segmented legs.

Around the great houses and mansions of the Quality dark shadows gathered,

pressing against hastily erected wards with remorseless strength, and both those

inside and outside knew it was only a matter of time before the wards fell.

Prayers went up on the Street of Gods, to all the many Beings and creatures of

Power that resided there, but none of them answered. The beasts could not enter

the Street of Gods, and that was all that mattered. The Gods had turned their

faces away, for a time. They would not interfere. They understood about hatred

and revenge.

Restaurants became abattoirs, and kitchens ran with blood. Death filled the

streets, and buildings shook and shattered at the voice of the soulstorm. Fires

broke out all over Haven, and there was no one to stop them. And from every

street and every house and every room, came the howling of the beasts.

In the cellar under Champion House, Hawk and Fisher and Saxon huddled together

inside the pentacle, and watched dark formless shapes drifting around the

perimeter, never quite crossing the palely-glowing blue chalk lines. Storm's

voice has told them to shelter inside the pentacle, and had raised its glowing

wards around them, but that had been a long time ago, and they hadn't heard from

him since. At least it seemed a long time. It was hard to be sure of anything

anymore. Screams of dying animals echoed back from the blood-spattered walls.

There was a quiet clattering from steel hooks and chains that hung on the air,

reaching up into an unseen past. Torsos and heads hung on the chains and hooks,

long dead but still suffering. Blood fell from the ceiling in sudden spurts and

streams, steaming on the cold air.

Hawk would have closed his eye against the grisly sights, but when he did he saw

visions of what was happening in Haven, and that was worse. He saw the buildings

fall and the fires mount, and watched helplessly as the people he had sworn to

protect died screaming in pain and anguish and horror. He clutched his axe until

his hands ached, but he didn't leave the pentacle. He didn't need a vision to

show him what would happen if he did. He looked at Fisher, kneeling beside him.

Her face was drawn and gaunt, but her mouth was set and her gaze was steady. She

saw he was looking at her worriedly, and squeezed his arm briefly. Saxon sat

with his back to them, ignoring everything, lost in his private world of regrets

and self-recriminations. He didn't answer when Hawk or Fisher spoke to him, and

eventually they gave up. They sat up a little straighter as Storm's voice

crashed into their minds again.

Can you hear me? Are you still all right?

Depends on how you define all right, said Hawk roughly. We're still trapped in

this pentacle, we're still surrounded by blood and madness, and Saxon's still

out to lunch. That sound all right to you?

Trust me, Captain; it's worse out here. The city's being torn apart, and the

people massacred. Some of us are fighting back, but it's all we can do to hold

our ground. There are centuries of accumulated hatred running loose in the

streets. I've never seen such concentrated malevolent power…

Are you saying there's nothing we can do? said Fisher. That it's hopeless?

No. There is something. If you're willing.

Of course we're willing! snapped Hawk. We can't just sit here and watch Haven

being destroyed! Tell us what to do, sorcerer. And you'd better make it fast.

The pentode's lines aren't burning anywhere near as brightly as they were.

There's only one solution, Captain. The beasts must be comforted, and the

Unknown Door must be closed. Two people died willingly to open the Door; it will

take two more willing sacrifices to close it.

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. Let me get this straight, said Hawk. You

want us to kill ourselves?

Yes. Your souls will pass through the Unknown Door into the Fields of the Lord,

the spirit land of the animals. Once there, you must make peace with the unquiet

spirits of the beasts. Maybe then they will return to their rest, and the Door

will close behind them.

Maybe? said Fisher. Did I just hear you say maybe? You want us to kill

ourselves, and you're not even sure it will work?

It's the only hope we've got.

Then why don't you do it?

I can't get to Champion House, and the ritual must take place where the Unknown

Door was opened.

Great, said Hawk. It's all down to us, again. What are these spirit lands like,

anyway? And are we going to end up trapped there, or do we go on to our own…

spirit lands?

I don't know. To my knowledge, no one has ever passed beyond the Unknown Door

and returned to tell of it.

"This gets better by the minute," growled Fisher. All right, Storm, you've said

your piece. Now shut up and let us think for a minute.

Hawk and Fisher sat for a while in silence, looking at each other. Dark shadows

pressed close against the lines of the pentacle, and the air was thick with the

stench of blood and offal.

"I never thought we'd die like this," said Hawk finally. "I never really

expected to die in my own bed, but I always hoped it would be a lot further down

the line than this. At the very least, I wanted it to be on my feet, fighting

for something I believed in."

"You believe in the city," said Fisher. "And its people. Just like me. You said

it yourself; we can't sit back and do nothing. And at least this way, we get to

die together. I wouldn't have wanted to go on without you, Hawk."

"Or me, without you." Hawk sighed, and put his axe down on the floor beside him.

He patted it once, like an old dog that had served well in its time, and smiled

at Fisher. "A short life, but an interesting one. Right, lass?"

"You got that right. We squeezed a lifetime's love and adventure into our few

years together. We can't really complain. We came close to dying many times in

the Forest Kingdom, during the long night. Everything since then has been

borrowed time anyway."

"Yeah. Maybe. I'm not ready to die, lass."

"No one ever is."

"There's so much I wanted to do. So many things I wanted to tell you, and never

did."

Fisher put her fingertips against his lips to hush him. "I knew them anyway."

"Love you, Isobel."

"Love you, Hawk."

They clasped each other's hands and smiled tenderly. A kind of peace came over

them, not unlike the relief one feels after finally putting down a heavy burden.

"How shall we do it?" said Hawk. His mouth was dry, but his voice was more or

less steady. "I couldn't stand to see you suffer. I could… kill you quickly, and

then throw myself on your sword."

"I couldn't ask you to do that," said Fisher, her eyes gleaming with tears she

wouldn't let go. "Let the sorcerer do it. He probably knows all kinds of ways to

kill from a distance."

"Yeah. He strikes me as that type." They shared a small smile. Hawk looked out

into the darkness. "Spirit land of the animals… Never occurred to me that all

animals would have souls."

"Makes sense, when you think about it. I had a dog once, when I was a kid. Died

in an accident, when I was twelve. He was never what you'd call bright, but I

was always convinced I'd meet him again, after I died. He had too much

personality to just disappear."

Hawk nodded slowly. "So; one last adventure together, then."

They both jumped as Saxon turned suddenly and glared at them. "You were just

going to go and leave me behind, I suppose?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" said Hawk. "You don't have to die. Storm

said it only needed two willing sacrifices. And that's us."

"He also said the beasts have to be comforted, and from the way they've been

acting, they're going to take a hell of a lot of persuading. Which is where I

come in. No offense, but you two aren't exactly known for your diplomatic

skills. I, on the other hand, have years of experience as a politician and con

man. I could persuade a blue whale it could fly, and teach it to loop the loop

while it was up there. I'm coming too. You need me."

"Think about what you're saying," said Fisher. "It's one thing for us to die;

we're not leaving anyone behind. But what about you? Don't you have any friends,

family?"

"My family are all dead," said Saxon. "And I don't know my friends anymore.

There's no one and nothing I'll regret leaving behind. This city isn't the one I

remember. Haven was always a cesspit, but it was never this bad."

"It's still worth saving," said Hawk. "There are villains and bastards beyond

counting, but most of the people in Haven are good people, just trying to get

through their lives as best they can, protecting their family and friends, and

looking for what love and comfort they can find along the way."

"I know," said Saxon. "That's why I'm coming with you."

"You don't have to do this," said Fisher. "Hawk and I… It's our job. Our duty."

"This is my city," said Saxon. "My home. Much as I loathe it sometimes, it's

still my home, and I couldn't bear to see it destroyed. I'm really not afraid of

dying. I was dead for twenty-three years anyway. At least this time, I'll have

died for something that mattered. Now let's get on with it. While our nerve

still holds out."

"Sure," said Hawk. Have you been listening, sorcerer?

Yes. I'm here.

Then do it.

Goodbye, my friends. You will not be forgotten.

Elsewhere in the city the sorcerer Storm spoke a Word of Power, and Hawk and

Fisher and Saxon slumped forward. They sprawled limply on the cold stone floor,

and their breathing slowed and then stopped as the life went out of them. They

died together, and the blue lights of the pentacle flickered and collapsed,

until there was only darkness in the cellar.

There were fields and meadows that stretched away into an endless horizon. A

forest stood to one side, full of sunlit glades and dark, comforting shadows. A

river ran, bright and sparkling, and the riverbanks were honeycombed with holes

and warrens. The summer sky was soft and blue, with gray-tinged clouds that

promised soothing rain for the evening. The sun was fat and warm, and the air

lay heavily upon the earth like the height of summer, when the heat warms your

bones and makes all thoughts calm and drowsy, and winter seems so far away it

may never come again. Insects murmured on the quiet, and butterflies fluttered

by like animated scraps of color. A gentle breeze stirred the long grass, rich

with the scent of earth and grass and living things. And everywhere, the beasts

at play, running and hiding, jumping and tumbling, chasing and being chased with

never a care or worry for predators or the fall of night. The land was theirs,

and nothing could hurt them ever again.

Hawk and Fisher and Saxon stood together on the bank of the river, and felt no

need to move. They were where they were, and for a long time in that timeless

summer morning, that was enough. Hawk's face bore no scars, and he had both his

eyes again. Fisher's scars were gone too, and they both stood a little taller,

as though no longer bowed down by the weight of years and memories. Saxon looked

like a different man, his face at peace for the first time since they'd met.

"It's like coming home," said Hawk finally. "Everyone's home."

"It reminds me of Hillsdown, and the Forest Kingdom," said Fisher. "Only more

so. This is where we began, in the days before cities, when we all lived in the

woods."

"I'd never pictured the afterlife as being so rural," said Saxon. "But then, I'm

a city boy at heart."

"This is the animals' heaven," said Hawk. "It's shaped by their needs and

natures, not ours."

"Heaven," said Fisher slowly. "Are we really dead? I don't feel dead…"

"I remember dying," said Hawk, and for a long moment no one said anything.

"All right," said Saxon. "We're in animal heaven. What do we do now?"

Hawk smiled and shrugged. "Talk to the animals, I suppose. That's why we came

here. All we have to do is find some that look as though they might listen."

He broke off as a lion walked slowly out of the wood towards them. Even at a

distance it looked huge and majestic, the father of every lion that ever was. It

walked unhurriedly among the gamboling animals and they gave way before it, but

none of them seemed to fear the lion, or be alarmed by its presence. Hawk and

Fisher and Saxon watched it approach, but felt no need to run or fight. It

finally came to a halt before them, and the warm, sharp smell of cat washed over

them. It stood a good five feet tall at the shoulder, its broad, massive head on

a level with theirs. It sheer presence was almost overwhelming. Its eyes were a

tawny gold, and full of all the understanding in the world. When it spoke, its

breath was warm and sweet.

You can't stay here, growled a voice in their minds, low and soft like the wind

that has within it the promise of a storm. This is not your place. You don't

belong here.

"Where is here?" said Hawk tentatively. "Is this… the animals' spirit lands? The

Fields of the Lord?"

No, said the lion, and there was amusement in the deep, calm voice. You have not

traveled that far. This is the place the slaughtered beasts made for themselves.

Dying in pain and horror, they drew on the power in the place they came from,

the magic that had been invested in that place long before the slaughterhouse

was built over it. As more and more blood was spilled, so the many deaths

awakened the ancient magic and made it strong again, and the beasts used it to

build this place. Their bodies died in the slaughterhouse, but their spirits

lived on, here. And here they stayed, down all the many years, nursing their

fears and hatreds and planning their revenge, until finally the Unknown Door was

opened in the only way it could be; from the other side.

The lion paused, and looked briefly around him before returning his ancient,

discomforting gaze to the humans before him. Not all the animals have gone,

despite the opening of the Door. The small and the timid have stayed, happy in

their rest from the cares of the world. And some beasts with greater hearts

would not go, having put aside thoughts of vengeance. Hatred has never come

easily to the animal kind. It is not in their nature, though some have learned

it from humans.

"The ones who did go are killing people," said Hawk, his voice seeming small and

insignificant after the restrained thunder of the lion. "We came here to try and

put a stop to the hatred. If we can."

Why should they stop? They are only doing what you did to them.

"That doesn't make it right," said Saxon. "You can't put right a wrong by doing

wrong yourself. I found that out. Vengeance feels really good while you're

planning it, but in the end you've achieved nothing, and all you feel is empty."

"The soulstorm must stop," said Fisher. "They're killing the good along with the

bad, the innocent along with the guilty, the caring along with the uncaring."

"And if they don't stop," said Hawk, "they'll become exactly what they've hated

all these years, and then they'll never know peace."

The lion nodded its great head slowly. You're right. The soulstorm has stopped.

The three humans looked at each other. "Just like that?" said Fisher.

Just like that. Through me the beasts have heard your words and seen the colors

of your hearts, and they have listened. You have shown them the darkness in

their own hearts, and they are ashamed. The soulstorm is over, and the beasts

are returning. They wanted blood and vengeance for so long, but having tasted

its cold cruelty, they found it sickened them. Beasts may kill and even torture

in the heat of their blood, but vengeance is a human trait, and they have turned

their back on it.

"So, what happens now?" said Hawk.

The beasts will leave this place. It has served its purpose, and they are now

free to go on to what awaits them. And you must go back to your own world.

"We can't," said Fisher. "We gave up our lives to get here."

And the beasts give them back to you, and all the other lives they took.

Goodbye, my children. Until we meet again.

The lion turned, and walked back towards the woods. Hawk stumbled a step or two

after it. He felt deep within him that he was saying goodbye to something great

and wonderful, and part of him didn't want to go.

"Wait! Who are you?"

The lion looked back over its shoulder and smiled. Don't you know?

The spirit lands faded away and were gone.

Back in the cellar under Champion House, Hawk sat up slowly and looked around

him. Fisher and Saxon lay beside him in a scuffed chalk pentacle, and as he

watched, they began to stir and sit up. Hawk rose awkwardly to his feet and

stretched slowly, feeling the muscles reluctantly unkink. The blood and the

chains and the dark presences were gone, and the cellar was just an old stone

chamber again.

Fisher and Saxon got to their feet and looked around them. Hawk chuckled. They

looked just as bewildered as he felt. He grabbed Fisher and hugged her to him,

and she hugged back with a strength that threatened to force all the breath out

of him.

"We're alive!" yelled Hawk. "We're alive again!"

Hawk and Fisher whooped and shrieked and staggered round in circles, still

clinging tightly to each other, as though afraid that one might vanish if the

other let go. Saxon moved quietly away, and crouched down beside Horn's body,

still lying on the floor. He examined it carefully, and then moved over to

Eleanour Todd's body. Hawk and Fisher finally broke apart, and went to see what

he was doing. Saxon rose to his feet again, and there was a knife in his hand,

dripping blood. Hawk looked quickly at the bodies. Both Horn and Todd had had

their throats cut. Saxon met Hawk and Fisher's gaze calmly.

"I just wanted to make sure they stayed dead. Unlike Madigan and Ritenour and

Glen, they didn't have a mark on them, and since the beasts are supposed to be

returning all the life forces Ritenour stole…"

Fisher suddenly froze, and clutched at Hawk's arm. "Listen… can you hear

movement up above?"

Hawk looked at Fisher, and then they both bolted for the stairs, with Saxon

close behind. They ran through the House with broad, disbelieving grins on their

faces, passing bewildered mercenaries who'd also apparently just risen from the

dead. Hawk and Fisher knocked them unconscious again, just to be on the safe

side, and then pounded up the stairs to the fourth floor, with Saxon right there

at their side. They heard the clamor of voices from the main parlor long before

they got there. Finally they stood in the doorway and watched as the two Kings

and their fellow hostages milled round the room, talking excitedly and trying to

figure out what the hell had happened. Apparently some of the hostages had

shaken off their daze faster than the mercenaries, and had taken advantage of

their captors' dazed state to get in the first blow. As result of which, the

hostages were now in charge of a rather battered-looking group of disarmed

mercenaries.

Take it easy, said Storm's voice in their heads suddenly. I've alerted the

Council as to what's happened, and they're

sending men in to secure the House. And maybe then you'd care to explain exactly

what the bloody hell has been going on, and how come you've all come back from

the dead! Hawk grinned. You'd never believe me. …

Chapter Six

Goodbyes

The council sent a small army of men-at-arms into Champion House to mop things

up, and the Guard sent in an equally small army of Captains and Constables, just

to make sure they weren't left out of anything. Even in the aftermath of a

disaster, there were still politics to be played. Also present were a hell of a

lot of honor guards from the Brotherhood of Steel, watching the entrances and

exits. They weren't really needed, but nobody wanted to be the one to tell them

that. Their pride was still hurting from how easily they'd been brushed aside by

Madigan's people. The Council carefully assigned them lots of busywork to keep

them out of everybody's hair.

The two Kings and their fellow hostages were still in the main parlor, trying to

get their wits together long enough to work out whether they should postpone the

Treaty-signing for a more auspicious occasion, or sign the bloody thing now

before anything else could go wrong. The raised voices could be heard on the

floor below, but luckily most of those arguing were still feeling too poorly

after their narrow escape from death to get really out of hand. Everyone else

stayed well out of their way and let them get on with it.

The cellar was full of mercenaries, tied hand, foot, and throat, waiting to be

carted off to gaol as soon as enough cells could be found to hold them all.

Being a mercenary wasn't illegal in Haven. Neither was planning assassinations

or a coup d'etat. But taking part in one and losing was. Particularly when the

intended royal targets survive, and are known for holding grudges. The rest of

the hostages weren't too keen on the mercenaries either. At the moment they were

taking turns using the cellar for a latrine. Some made several trips.

Sir Roland and his fellow traitors had already been escorted to Damnation Row,

where special cells had been reserved for them. They were mostly Quality, after

all.

With so many people in Champion House, the place was packed from wall to wall,

and it was fairly easy for Hawk, Fisher, and Saxon to blend into the crowd and

disappear. They finally ended up in the kitchens, where Hawk eyed a joint of

beef uneasily.

"You thinking about turning vegetarian?" asked Fisher.

Hawk shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. But I don't think that was what they were

really mad about. Animals eat other animals on a regular basis, after all. I

think it was more to do with the way they were treated. Maybe if the abattoirs

were more humanely run…"

"You mean kill them in a nice way?" said Saxon.

"I'm going to have to think about this," said Hawk.

"While he's busy doing that, I think you'd better make yourself scarce," said

Fisher to Saxon. "With everything that's going on at the moment, it's probably

going to be some time before they get around to taking an interest in you, but…"

"Quite," said Saxon. "I think I've pretty much outworn my welcome here."

"I've got a question for you," said Hawk. "Why didn't Ritenour's spell affect

you? It drained the life right out of everyone else. Isobel and I survived only

because we were outside the House at the time clinging to some ivy. But you…"

"But I," said Saxon, "was back in the hidden passages again, and they're

shielded against all offensive magics, by spells built into the walls themselves

long ago. Simple as that."

"What will you do now?" said Fisher.

"Beats me. But I'll think of something. Maybe I'll start a society for the

prevention of cruelty to animals."

"In Haven?" said Fisher.

Saxon grinned. "There are soft hearts everywhere, if you just know the right

ways to approach them. You know, it wouldn't surprise me if there was a tasty

amount of money to be made out of such a society. See you around."

He nodded quickly to them both, slipped out the back door, and was gone. Hawk

carefully shut the door after him, and then he and Fisher sat down together on a

bench before the open kitchen fire, leaning against each other companionably,

and staring at nothing much in particular.

"As with most of our cases, we won some and we lost some," said Fisher. "Most of

the SWAT team are dead, rest their souls, but at least we saved the Kings."

"Not just the Kings," said Hawk. "We put the beasts to rest, saved most of Haven

from destruction, and prevented a war between Outremer and the Low Kingdoms. Not

bad for one day's work."

"I just hope we're getting overtime," said Fisher.

"I've a strong feeling that will depend on whether we can come up with a story

our superiors can believe. I don't even want to try and explain about the

beasts' spirits and the Fields of the Lord. Never mind our part in it."

"Right," said Fisher. "Hawk, how much do you remember about the spirit lands? It

seems to me the more I try to remember, the hazier things get."

Hawk nodded. "Same here. It's all fading away. Probably just as well. I've a

feeling we got a little too close to things the living aren't supposed to know

about."

"So, in the meantime, we just make up some comforting lies for our superiors?"

"Got it in one."

They both jumped guiltily as the kitchen door opened, but it was only the

sorcerer Storm. He nodded to them both.

"It's all right, there's no need for you to get up."

"That's good," said Fisher. "Because we weren't going to. Anything we can do for

you, sir sorcerer?"

"Just a few questions. I was most impressed by your fortitude in all this. Most

people would have been driven insane by all you've endured, but you survived

with all your wits intact. How is that?"

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and Hawk smiled at the sorcerer. "We've

seen worse, in our time."

"You got that right," said Fisher.