Simon R. Green - Haven 05 - Guard Against Dishonor

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Haven - 05 - Guard Against Dishonor

Simon R. Green

Chapter One

Chacal

There are bad cities, there are worse cities; and then there's Haven.

By popular acclaim the vilest and most corrupt city in the Low Kingdoms, Haven in midwinter gleams

purest white under falls of frozen snow, and its towers shine with frost and ice like pillars of crystal.

But only from a distance. The snow on the ground is a dirty grey from the unceasing factory smoke,

and grey-faced people trudge wearily through the snow-choked streets.

Seen up close, Haven is an ugly city, in more ways than one. Even in the early morning, when the

killing cold grips the streets like a clenched fist, there is still no peace for the city. There are still deals

to be made, conspiracies to be entered into, and blood to be spilled. Death is a way of life in Haven,

and sudden violence the pulse of its narrow streets.

And only the city Guard, stretched to breaking point at the best of times, stands between the city and

open, bloody chaos.

Hawk and Fisher, husband and wife and Captains in the city Guard, strode briskly down the crowded

street towards Guard Headquarters, their prisoner scurrying along between them. Winter had finally

come to Haven, despite everything the city weather wizards could do, and the bitter air was several

degrees below freezing. The street was ankle-deep in snow and slush, and thick icicles hung from

every building. Roofs groaned under the weight of a week's accumulated snow, and the iron-grey sky

promised more blizzards to come. But still people packed the street from end to end; men, women, and

children jostling each other impatiently as they hurried to and from work. No one jostled Hawk and

Fisher, of course. It wouldn't have been wise.

It was eight o'clock in the morning, but so dark that street lamps still burned at every corner, their

amber glare doing little to dispel the gloom. Hawk hated the winter, and not just because the recent flu

epidemic had hit the Guard badly and he and Fisher were working a double shift for the third day

running. Winter meant hard times in Haven, and hardest of all for the poor and destitute. In every

street, in every part of the city, there were bodies lying stiff and cold, caught out in the freezing night

because they had nowhere else to go. They ended up in sheltered doorways, or huddled together under

tarpaulins in back alleyways, sharing their meager warmth as best they could. Every day the garbage

squad made their rounds and hauled the bodies away, but there were always more. Hawk found a

young girl once, curled in a tight little ball over a street grating. She couldn't have been more than five

or six years old, and her staring eyes had frozen solid in her head. Hawk hated the winter, and

sometimes he hated Haven too.

Captain Hawk was tall, dark-haired, and no longer handsome. A series of old scars ran down the right

side of his face, and a black silk patch covered his right eye. He told lots of stories about how he got

the scars, most of them contradictory. His thick furs and official black cloak made him look

impressively bulky, but underneath his winter uniform he was lean and wiry rather than muscular, and

building a stomach. He wore his shoulder-length hair loose, mostly to keep his ears warm, and kept it

out of his vision with a plain leather headband. He'd only just turned thirty, but already there were

streaks of grey in his hair. At first glance he seemed like just another bravo, a sword-for-hire already

past his prime, but few people ever stopped at a first glance. There was something about Hawk,

something cold and unyielding that gave even the most belligerent hardcase pause to think twice. On

his right hip, Hawk carried a short-handled axe instead of a sword. He was very good with an axe.

He'd had lots of practice.

Captain Isobel Fisher walked confidently at his side, echoing her partner's stance and pace with the

naturalness of long companionship. She was tall, easily six feet in height, and her long blond hair fell

to her waist in a single thick plait, weighted at the tip with a polished steel ball. She wore a battered

and almost shapeless fur hat, pulled down low to protect her ears from the bitter cold. There was a

rawboned harshness to her face, barely softened by her deep blue eyes and generous mouth. She was

handsome rather than pretty, her gaze was cool and direct, and she didn't smile much. Sometime,

somewhere in the past, something had scoured all the human weaknesses out of her, and it showed.

She wore the same furs and cloak as Hawk, though with rather more grace and style. She wore a sword

on her hip, and her skill with it was legendary, in a city not easily impressed by legends.

Hawk and Fisher, feared and respected by one and all as the toughest and most honest Guards in

Haven. They had a lot of enemies, both inside and outside the Guard.

Their prisoner was a short, scrawny, harmless-looking man, wrapped in a long fur coat, topped off

with a pair of fluffy earmuffs. His thinning black hair was plastered to his head with rather more grease

than necessary, and he had a permanent scowl. Benny the Weasel was not a happy man.

"You're making a terrible mistake," he repeated for the tenth time, in what he imagined was an

ingratiating tone. "Let's be reasonable about this."

"Sorry," said Hawk, without looking round. "I'm only reasonable at weekends. And Fisher doesn't

believe in being reasonable. Says it's bad for her image."

"Right," said Fisher, glaring horribly at a nun who hadn't got out of her way fast enough.

"This is all a misunderstanding," said Benny doggedly. "I am a legitimate businessman."

Hawk snorted derisively. "Benny, you are a small-time villain who makes most of his money running a

nasty little protection racket, advising local shopkeepers of all the awful things that might happen to

them or their premises if they don't keep up the payments. Only this time you were dumb enough to do

it in person, in front of Fisher and me. What's the matter, both your leg-breakers down with the flu?"

Benny sniffed. "You can't get good help these days. Look, I am an important figure in the community.

I know my rights. I pay my taxes. Technically, you work for me."

"Then you should be pleased to be getting such value for your money," said Fisher. "We witnessed a

crime and arrested the criminal on the spot. What more do you want?"

"You won't get away with this!" said Benny desperately. "I have friends. I have influence. You won't

be able to make this charge stick. I'll be out on the streets again before you can blink!"

Hawk looked at him. "You know, Benny, you're starting to get on my nerves. Now, be a good fellow

and shut your face or I'll have Fisher take you into the nearest dark alley and reason with you for a

while."

Benny glanced at Fisher, and then looked quickly away when he discovered she was smiling at him.

He'd heard about Fisher's idea of reasoning with people. If she did it where they lived, it tended to play

hell with the furniture. Benny had second thoughts, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

Guard Headquarters loomed up before them, a massive squat stone building with heavy oaken doors

and arrow-slit windows. It had the look of a place constantly under siege, which wasn't far off the

mark. Riots, hexes, and fire-bombings were a part of everyday life for the Headquarters, but no one

had ever closed it down for more than a few hours. It had its own sorcerers, and everyone in the

building went armed at all times, from the clerks to the Commanders. It took a lot to disrupt the

Headquarters' even running, though last year's rash of possessions had come close.

The main doors were always open, but everyone knew that could change in a second if danger

threatened. A long-established spell on the doors saw to that, and tough luck if anyone got in the way.

A steady stream of people bustled in and out of the building as Hawk and Fisher approached with their

prisoner. There was the usual mixture of Constables and the people helping them with their enquiries,

along with anxious relatives searching for the recently arrested, and backstreet lawyers touting for

business. And of course there were always those who'd come to the Guard for help, all with the same

thinly disguised look of fear and desperation. Most people only went to the Guard when they'd tried

everything else. The law was harsh and brutal, and weighted heavily in favor of the rich and powerful.

There were Guards who were sympathetic, and would do what they could for those in real need, but

for the most part the poor had no reason to trust the Guard. Like everything else in Haven, justice was

for sale. Everyone had their price.

Everyone except Hawk and Fisher.

Benny thought fleetingly of making a run for it, then noticed that Fisher's hand was resting casually on

the pommel of her sword, and quickly thought better of it. He sighed heavily, and accompanied Hawk

and Fisher through the main doors and into the crowded lobby of Guard Headquarters. The wide, low-

ceilinged room was packed from wall to wall, and the noise was deafening. Mothers and grandmothers

sat in little groups against the walls, chatting and gossiping and keeping a watchful eye on their

children as they scampered back and forth, getting in everyone's way. None of them had any real

business at Headquarters, but the Guard let them stay. It was the only place in that area where small

children could play safely. Besides which, the Guard Constables had found they could pick up a lot of

useful information by casually listening in on the women's gossip.

Over by the booking desk in the center of the lobby, a seething mob of people screamed and shouted

and pleaded, together with much shedding of tears and beating of breasts, but the three desk Sergeants

took it in their stride. They'd heard it all before. They nodded more or less sympathetically to worried

relatives, glared at the lawyers, and got on with booking the various criminals as the Constables

brought them forward, as though the utter bedlam around them was of absolutely no interest.

Hawk and Fisher made their way through the shifting mass of bodies by sheer determination and

liberal use of their elbows. Hawk hammered on the desk with his fist until he got a Sergeant's attention,

and then handed Benny over into his keeping. The Sergeant fixed him with a malicious grin.

"Well, well, what have we here? It's not often you grace us with your loathsome company, Benny.

What did you do to upset Hawk and Fisher?"

"Nothing! I was just minding my own business…"

"Your business is illegal, Benny, and if you were stupid enough to do it in front of those two, you

deserve everything that happens to you." He struck the large brass bell beside him, the sharp sound

cutting cleanly through the surrounding babble, and a Constable came over to the desk and led Benny

away. Hawk and Fisher watched them go, Benny the Weasel still loudly protesting his innocence.

"We won't be able to hold him, you know," said the desk Sergeant.

Fisher looked at him sharply. "Why the hell not? We'll both give evidence against him."

"It'll never come to trial," said the Sergeant. "Benny has friends, hard though that is to believe. The

word will come down, and we'll have to let him go."

Fisher scowled. "Sometimes I wonder why we bother making arrests at all. These days, it seems

practically every villain and thug we meet has connections with someone higher up. Or the judge gets

bribed. Or the jury gets intimidated."

"That's Haven for you," said the Sergeant. "Hey, don't look at me. I just work here."

Fisher growled something indistinct, and allowed Hawk to pull her away from the desk. They elbowed

their way back through the crowd, glaring down any objections, and found a place by the huge open

fireplace to warm their hands and take a seat for a moment. They nodded amiably to the half-dozen

Constables already there. None of them actually had any business that required their presence at

Headquarters, but none of them were that keen to give up the nice warm lobby for the freezing cold

outside. Hawk turned around and lifted his cloak to warm his backside at the fire. He smiled happily

and looked out over the lobby.

A small group of whores, looking bright and gaudy and not a little chilly in their working finery, were

waiting patiently to be booked, fined, and released so that they could get back to work as quickly as

possible. Some politician or newspaper editor must have had a sudden attack of principles, or been

leaned on by some pressure group, and declared loudly that Something Should Be Done about the

rising tide of vice in Our Fair City. So the Guard made a big show of arresting whoever happened to be

around at the time, the pimps paid the fines out of their petty cash, and business went on as usual.

Hawk shrugged. It was none of his business. He nodded to a few familiar faces, and then tensed as one

of the girls was viciously backhanded by her pimp. Hawk strode quickly over to them and dropped a

heavy hand on the pimp's shoulder. The pimp spun round, knocking the hand away, and then froze as

he realized who it was. He was young and muscular, with a ratty-looking moustache, dressed to the

nines and proud of it. He studied Hawk warily.

"What do you want, Captain? I'm clean."

"You wouldn't be clean if you washed every day with sulphuric acid. You are a pimp, Sebastian, the

lowest of the low, and I know you of old. I thought I warned you about maltreating your girls."

"Me? Hurt my girls?" said Sebastian, looking around him as though to invite the world to witness his

harassment. "I love my girls like sisters! Who sees they always have nice clothes to wear, and looks

after all their needs? They're like family to me, all my girls. They just need a little firm guidance from

time to time, that's all."

"Your associate and business partner, that nasty little thug Bates, is currently awaiting trial for 'firmly

guiding' one of your girls by slashing her face with a razor," said Hawk. "I know you, Sebastian; I

know you and all your nasty little ways. And if I discover you've been firmly guiding any of your girls

again, I shall be annoyed with you. You do remember what happened when I got annoyed with Bates,

don't you?"

The pimp nodded reluctantly. "He's making good progress. He should be out of hospital soon."

"Really? I must be losing my touch. Keep your hands off the girls, Sebastian. Or I'll tie your fingers in

knots."

Sebastian smiled and nodded as though it hurt him, and disappeared into the crowd. Hawk watched

him go, nodded politely to the whores, who ignored him, and made his way back to the fire. Fisher was

down on her knees, playing with a few children too young to be afraid of a Guard's uniform. Hawk

watched for a while, smiling gently. Isobel was good with kids. They'd talked about having children of

their own more than once, but somehow it never seemed to be the right time.

The crowd suddenly erupted in shouts and screams, and backed quickly away as a prisoner who'd

broken away from his escort lashed about him with a knife he'd somehow kept hidden. He grabbed for

one of the children by Fisher, obviously intending to use the child as a hostage. Fisher glanced round

and back-elbowed him viciously in the groin. She rose unhurriedly to her feet as the prisoner hunched

forward over his pain, then rabbit-punched him. He collapsed and lay still. Fisher kicked the knife

away from his hand and went back to playing with the children. Two Constables dragged the

unconscious prisoner away.

Hawk decided regretfully that they'd killed about as much time as they could get away with, and they

ought really to get back to the job. They were barely halfway through their second shift. He tried

concentrating on all the overtime they were racking up, but it didn't help. His feet were numb, his

forehead still ached from the cold, and his back was killing him. Hawk hated the winter. He collected

Fisher, waved goodbye to the kids and their unresponsive mothers, and strode resignedly out into the

waiting cold. And the first thing he saw was Benny the Weasel shivering in a borrowed cloak as he

tried unsuccessfully to hail a sedan chair. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and strolled casually

over to join him. Benny saw them coming, and clearly thought about making a run for it, before better

sense took over. He drew himself up to his full five foot six and tried to brazen it out.

"Benny," said Hawk reproachfully, "what do you think you're doing out here?"

"They let me go," said Benny quickly, his eyes darting from Hawk to Fisher and back again. "All the

charges have been dropped. That's official. Told you I had friends."

Hawk and Fisher stepped forward, took an elbow each, and carried Benny kicking and protesting into

the nearest back alley. As soon as they put him down, he tried to bolt, but Hawk snagged him easily

and slammed him against the wall, just hard enough to rattle his eyes and put a temporary stop to any

complaints. Hawk brought his face close to Benny's, and fixed him with his single cold eye.

"No one walks when we bring the charges, Benny. Not ever. I don't care what kind of friends you've

got, you are guilty as hell and you're going to stand trial."

"They won't accept your evidence," said Benny desperately. "The judge will let me off. You'll see."

Hawk sighed. "You're not getting the message, Benny. If we let you walk, all the other scum will start

thinking they can get away with things. And we can't have that, can we? So you are going to walk back

into Headquarters, make a full confession, and plead guilty. Because if you don't, Fisher and I will take

turns thinking up horrible things to do to you."

"They won't convict me on just a confession."

"Then you'd better be sure to provide plenty of corroborative evidence. Hadn't you?"

Benny looked at Hawk's implacable face and then glanced at Fisher. She had a nasty-looking skinning

knife in her hand, and was calmly paring her nails with it. Benny studied the knife with fascinated eyes

and swallowed hard. Right then, all the awful stories he'd heard about Hawk and Fisher seemed a lot

more believable than they had before. Hawk coughed politely to get his attention, and Benny almost

screamed.

"Benny…"

"I think I'd like to confess, please, Captain Hawk."

"You do realize you don't have to?"

"I want to."

"Legally, you're not bound to do so…"

"Please, let me confess! I want to! Honestly!"

"Good man," said Hawk, standing back from him. "It's always refreshing to meet a citizen who

believes in honesty and justice. Now, get in there and start talking while we're still in a good mood."

Benny ran out of the alleyway and back into Guard Headquarters. Fisher smiled and put away her

knife. The two Guards left the alley and made their way unhurriedly down the street, heading back to

their beat in the Northside.

The Northside was the rotten heart of Haven, where all that was bad in the city came to the surface,

like scum on poisoned wine. Crime and corruption and casual evil permeated the Northside, where

every taste and trade was catered to. Various gangs of drug dealers fought running battles over

lucrative territories, ruthlessly cutting down any innocent bystanders who got in the way. Spies plotted

treason behind shuttered windows, and many doors opened only to the correct whispered password.

Sweatshops and crowded slum tenements huddled together under broken street lamps, and the smoke

from local factories hung permanently on the air, clawing at the throats of those who breathed it. Some

said the Northside was as much a state of mind as an area, but states of mind don't usually smell that

bad.

Hawk and Fisher strolled through the narrow streets, nodding to familiar faces in the bustling crowd.

Speed was a way of life in the Northside; there were deals to be made, slights to be avenged, and you

never knew who might be coming up behind you. Hawk and Fisher rarely let themselves be hurried.

You could miss things that way, and Hawk and Fisher always liked to know what was going on around

them. They'd had the Northside as their beat for five years now, on and off, but despite their best

efforts, little had changed in that time. For every villain they put away, the Northside produced two

more to take his place, and the soul-grinding poverty that was at the root of most crimes never changed

from one year to the next. In their most honest moments, Hawk and Fisher knew that all they'd really

done was to drive the worst crimes underground, or into other areas. Things tended to be peaceful as

long as they were around, but they couldn't be everywhere at once. Occasionally one or the other

would talk about quitting, but they never did. They wouldn't give up. It wasn't in their natures. They

took each day as it came, and helped those they could. Even little victories were better than none.

The stone-and-timber buildings huddled together as though for warmth, their upper stories leaning out

over the streets till their eaves almost touched. Piles of garbage thrust up through the snow and slush,

and Hawk and Fisher had to be careful where they put their feet. The garbage collectors came once a

month, and then only with an armed guard. The beggars who normally lived off the garbage had been

driven from the streets by the cold, but there were still many who braved the bitter weather for their

own reasons. Business went on in the Northside, no matter what the weather. Business, and other

things.

In the light of a flickering brazier, an angel from the Street of Gods was throwing dice with half a

dozen gargoyles. A fast-talking salesman was hawking bracelets plated with something that looked like

gold. A large Saint Bernard with a patchy dye job was trying to bum a light for its cigar. Two

overlarge rats with human hands were stealing the boots off a dead man. And two nuns were beating

up a mugger. Just another day in the Northside.

A sudden burst of pleasant flute music filled Hawk's and Fisher's heads as the Guard communications

sorcerer made contact. They stopped to listen and find out what the bad news was. It had to be bad

news. It always was. Anything else could have waited till they got back to Headquarters. The flute

music broke off abruptly, and was replaced by the dry, acid voice of the communications sorcerer.

Attention all Guards in the North sector. There's a riot in The Crossed Pikes tavern at Salt Lane. There

are a large number of dead and injured, including at least two Constables. Approach the situation with

extreme caution. There is evidence of Chacal use by the rioters.

Hawk and Fisher ran down the street, fighting the snow and slush that dragged at their boots. Salt Lane

was four streets away, and a lot could happen in the time it would take them to get there. From the

sound of it, too much had happened already. Hawk scowled as he ran. Riots were bad enough without

drugs complicating the issue.

Chacal was something new on the streets. Relatively cheap, and easy enough to produce by anyone

with a working knowledge of alchemy and access to a bathtub, the drug brought out the animal side of

man's nature. It heightened all the senses while turning off the higher functions of the mind, leaving the

user little more than a wild animal, free to wallow in the moment and indulge any whim or gratify any

desire, free from reason or remorse or any stab of conscience. The drug boosted the users' strength and

speed and ferocity, making them almost unstoppable. It also burned out their nervous systems in time,

leaving them paralysed or mad or dead from a dozen different causes. But life wasn't worth much in

the Northside anyway, and there were all too many who were willing to swap a hopeless future for the

savage joys of the present.

Hawk and Fisher charged round the last corner into Salt Lane and then skidded to a halt. A large crowd

had already gathered, packing the narrow street from side to side. The two Guards bulled their way

through without bothering to be diplomatic about it, and quickly found themselves at the front of the

crowd, facing The Crossed Pikes tavern from a safe distance. The tavern looked peaceful enough, apart

from its shattered windows, but a Guard Constable was sitting on a nearby doorstep, pressing a bloody

handkerchief to a nasty looking scalp wound. Blood covered half his face. He looked up dazedly as

Hawk and Fisher approached him, and tried to get to his feet. Hawk waved for him to stay seated.

"What happened here?"

The Constable blinked and licked his dry lips. "My partner and I were the first here after the alarm

went out. There was fighting and screaming inside the tavern, but we couldn't see anything. The crowd

told us there were two Constables already in there, so my partner went in to check things out while I

watched the crowd. I waited and waited, but he never came back. After a while it all went quiet, so I

decided I'd just take a quick look through the door. I'd barely got my foot over the doorstep when

something hit me. I couldn't see for blood in my eyes, so I got out of there quick. I'll try again in a

minute, when I've got my breath back. My partner's still in there."

Hawk clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. "You take a rest. Fisher and I'll have a look. If any

more Guards come, keep them out here till we've had a chance to evaluate the situation. Are you sure

it's chacal-users in there?"

The Constable shrugged. "That's what the crowd said. But there's no way to be sure. As far as I can

tell, anyone who was in the tavern when the trouble started is still in there."

Hawk squeezed the Constable's shoulder comfortingly, and then he and Fisher moved off a way to

discuss the matter.

"What do you think?" said Hawk.

"I think we should be very careful how we handle this. I don't like the sound of it at all. Three Guards

missing, another injured and so spooked he can't bear to go near the place, and an unknown number of

rioters who might just be out of their minds on chacal. The odds stink. How come we never get the

easy assignments?"

"There aren't any easy assignments in Haven. We've got to go in, Isobel. There could be innocent

people trapped in there, unable to get out."

"It's not very likely, Hawk."

"No, it's not. But we have to check."

Fisher nodded unhappily. "All right; let's do it, before we get a rush of brains to the head and realize

what a dumb idea this is. What's the plan?"

"Well, there's no point in trying to sneak in. If there are chacal-users in there, they'll be able to see,

hear, and smell us coming long before we even get a glimpse of them. I say we burst in through the

door, weapons at the ready, and hit anything that moves."

"Planning never was your strong suit, was it, Hawk?"

"Have you got a better idea?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Hawk grinned. "Then let's do it. Don't look so worried, lass. We've faced worse odds before."

He drew his axe and Fisher drew her sword, and they moved cautiously over to the tavern's main

entrance. The door was standing ajar, with only darkness showing beyond. Bright splashes of blood

marked the polished wood, below a series of gouges that looked unnervingly like claw marks. Hawk

listened carefully, but everything seemed still and quiet. He put his boot against the door and pushed it

wide open. The two Captains braced themselves, but nothing happened. Hawk hefted his axe

thoughtfully, and glanced at Fisher. She nodded, and they darted through the doorway together. Once

inside they moved quickly apart to stand on either side of the door, so they wouldn't be silhouetted

against the light, and waited silently for their eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Hawk held his axe out before him, and strained his ears against the silence. A fire was burning fitfully

at the far end of the tavern, and some light fell past the shuttered windows. The tavern slowly took

form out of the gloom, and Hawk was able to make out chairs and tables overturned and scattered

across the floor, as though a sudden storm had swept through the long room, carrying all before it.

Dark shapes lay still and silent among the broken furniture, and Hawk didn't need to see them clearly

to know they were bodies. He counted fourteen that he was sure of. There was no sign of their killers.

Hawk moved slowly forward, axe at the ready. Broken glass crunched under his boots. Fisher appeared

silently out of the gloom to move at his side. He stopped by a wall lamp, and working slowly and

carefully, he took out his box of matches and lit it, while Fisher stood guard. It wasn't easy lighting the

lamp with one hand, but he wouldn't put his axe down. The sudden light pushed back the darkness, and

for the first time Hawk and Fisher were able to see the full extent of the devastation. There was blood

everywhere, splashed across the walls and furniture and pooled on the floor. Most of the bodies had

been mutilated or disfigured. Some had been torn apart. Loops of purple intestine hung limply from a

lamp bracket, and a severed hand beckoned from a barbecue grill by the fire. Most of the bodies had

been gutted, ripped open from throat to groin. Whoever or whatever had done it hadn't bothered to use

a blade. Fisher swore softly, and her knuckles showed white on her sword hilt. Hawk put the lamp

back in its niche, and the two of them moved slowly forward. The tavern was still and silent, full of the

stench of blood and death.

They went from body to body, methodically checking for signs of life, but there were none. They

found the three Guards who'd gone in to face what they thought was a simple riot. The only way to

identify them was by their Constable's scarlet cloak and tunic. Their heads were missing. There was no

sign anywhere of their attackers. Hawk wondered briefly if they might have made their escape during

the confusion, but he didn't think so. Every instinct he had was screaming at him that the killers were

still there, watching, and waiting for their chance. He could almost feel the weight of their gaze on his

back.

The tavern's bar had been wrecked. There wasn't an intact bottle or glass left on the shelves, and the

floor was covered with a thick carpet of broken glass. Hawk drew Fisher's attention to the bartop. The

thick slab of polished mahogany was crisscrossed with long, curving scars that made Hawk think again

about claws. He looked at Fisher, who nodded slowly.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Hawk?"

"Could be. We've been working on the assumption this was the work of chacal-users, but more and

more this is starting to look like something else entirely. I don't see how anything human could have

caused injuries like those, or claw marks like these. I think we've got a werewolf here, Isobel."

Fisher reached down and pulled a silver dagger from inside her boot, and held it loosely in her left

hand. Just in case. She moved behind the bar, and then signaled quickly for Hawk to come and join

her. He did so, and the two of them stood looking down at the bartender, lying wedged half under the

bar. His throat had been torn out, and there were bite marks on his arms where he'd lifted them to

defend himself.

"Werewolf," said Fisher.

"Maybe," said Hawk. "I don't know. The bite marks look wrong. A wolf's muzzle would leave a larger,

narrower bite…"

Something growled nearby. Hawk and Fisher moved quickly out from behind the bar to give

themselves room to fight. They glared about them, but nothing moved in the shadowy, blood-spattered

room. The growl came again, louder this time, and then a heavy weight hit Hawk from above and

behind, throwing him to the floor. Glass crunched loudly beneath him as he rolled back and forth,

trying desperately to tear himself free from the creature that clung to his back, pinning his arms to his

sides with its legs and reaching for his throat with clawed hands. He tucked his head in, chin pressed to

his chest, and then nearly panicked as he felt teeth gnawing at the back of his head. He got his feet

underneath him, glanced quickly about to get his bearings, and then slammed himself back against the

heavy wooden bar behind him. The creature's grip loosened as the breath was knocked out of it, and

Hawk pulled free. He threw himself to one side, and Fisher stepped forward in a full extended lunge,

pinning the creature to the bar with her sword.

For a moment, no one moved. Hawk and Fisher stared incredulously at the blood-soaked man

transfixed by Fisher's sword. His clothing hung in rags, and he held his hands like claws. Blood soaked

his hands and forearms like crimson gloves, and there was more blood spattered thickly over his livid

white flesh. His eyes were wide and staring. He snarled silently at the two Guards, showing his bloody

teeth, but he was still just a man. And then he lunged forward, forcing himself along the impaling

blade, his bloody hands reaching for Fisher's throat. She held her ground, watching in fascination as

the jagged-nailed hands grew steadily nearer. Part of her wondered crazily what had happened to

wreck his nails like that.

Hawk lurched to his feet, lifting his axe. The killer lunged forward again, blood spilling down his gut

from where Fisher's sword pierced him, snarling and growling like a wild animal. And then Fisher

lifted her hand with the silver dagger in it, and cut his throat. Blood sprayed across her arm, and she

watched warily as the light went out of his eyes and he slumped forward, dead at last. She pulled out

her sword and he fell limply to the floor and lay still. Hawk came over to stand beside her.

"He must have been up in the rafters," he said finally. "All this time, just watching us, and waiting."

.Fisher looked up at the ceiling. "There's no one else up there. But I can't believe one man did all this,

drug or no drug."

Hawk looked down at the dead user. "Maybe we shouldn't have killed him after all. There are a lot of

questions we could have asked him."

"He didn't exactly give us a choice," said Fisher dryly. "Besides, he wouldn't have been allowed to talk.

We'd have had to keep him in gaol till he came down, and by then word would have reached his

suppliers. They'd either have sprung him or killed him to keep his mouth shut."

Hawk scowled. "It has to be said Headquarters' security isn't worth spit these days. Particularly when it

comes to drug arrests. You know, it wasn't this bad when we first joined the Guard."

"Yes it was," said Fisher. "We just weren't experienced enough to recognize the signs. There's a lot of

money in drugs, and where there's a lot of money there's a line of Guards with their hands out."

"This day started out depressing," said Hawk, "and it's not getting any better. Let's get the hell out of

here and file our report. If one chacal-user can do this much damage on a rampage, then this city is in

for some interesting times."

A low growl trembled on the air behind them. Hawk and Fisher spun round, weapons at the ready. The

tavern looked just as still and quiet as before. None of the bodies had moved. The growl came again,

but this time low and subdued, sounding almost more like a groan. Hawk glared in the direction of the

sound, and his gaze came to rest on an overturned table leaning against a wall. It was a big table, with

room for one, maybe two, people behind it. Hawk silently indicated the table to Fisher, and they

moved slowly forward. There were no more growls or groans, but as he drew nearer, Hawk thought he

could hear something dripping. Something… feeding.

They reached the table in a matter of moments, moving silently through the gloom. Hawk put away his

axe and grabbed the rim of the table with both hands, while Fisher stood ready with her sword. They

counted to three silently together, and then Hawk braced himself and pulled the heavy table away from

the wall with one swift movement. Fisher moved quickly forward to stand between him and whatever

was waiting, and then both she and Hawk stood very still as the table revealed its secret.

The second chacal-user was a young woman, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Her face was bone-white,

with dark, staring eyes, and her hands and forearms were slick with other people's blood. She held her

hands like claws, but made no move to attack Hawk or Fisher. Someone, presumably the other user,

had ripped open her stomach. It was a wide, hideous wound that should have killed her immediately,

but the chacal was keeping her alive. She lay propped against the wall in a widening pool of her own

blood, and as Hawk and Fisher watched she dipped a hand into the ragged wound in her gut, pulled out

a bloody morsel, and ate it.

Oh, dear God, she's been feeding on herself…

Hawk moved forward, and put a gentle restraining hand on the girl's arm. "Don't. Please don't."

"Get away from her, Hawk. She's still dangerous. We don't know how many people she's killed here."

"Get a doctor," said Hawk, without looking round.

"Hawk…"

"Get a doctor!"

Fisher nodded, and hurried over to the main door. Hawk put the girl's hand in her lap, and brushed her

long, stringy hair from her face. The user looked at him for the first time.

"Something went wrong," she said slowly, her voice barely rising above a murmur. Hawk had to lean

close to understand her. Her breath smelled of blood and something worse. Her dead white skin was

beaded with sweat. "This wasn't supposed to happen. They said it would make us feel like Gods. I'm

cold."

"I've sent for a doctor," said Hawk. "Take it easy. Save your strength."

"They lied to us…"

"Can you tell me what happened?" said Hawk. "You said something went wrong. What went wrong?"

"It was a new drug. Supposed to be the best. Like chacal, only stronger. We were going to be like

Gods. We were packing it up at the factory, ready to ship it out. Leon took some, for a lark. We tried it

here, just a little. And then everything went bad."

"Tell me about the factory," said Hawk. "Where is it?"

The girl's hand drifted towards her wound again. Hawk stopped it, and put it back in her lap. She

looked at him. "I'm cold."

Hawk took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. She was shivering violently, and sweat ran down

her face in rivulets. There was no color left in her face. Even her lips were white. Her breathing grew

increasingly shallow, and when she spoke Hawk had to concentrate hard to make out the words.

"Morgan's place. The Blue Dolphin. In the Hook."

"All right, lass, take it easy. That's all I need. We'll get the bastards. You rest now. The doctor will be

here soon."

"Would you hold my hand? Please?"

"Sure." Hawk took off one of his gloves and held her left hand, squeezing it comfortingly. Warm blood

spilled down his wrist. "All right?"

"Hold it up where I can see it. I can't feel it."

Hawk started to lift her hand up before her face, but she'd stopped breathing. He was still holding her

hand when Fisher finally came back with the Guard doctor.

"I didn't even find out her name," said Hawk, pulling his cloak around his shoulders. Guard Constables

and Captains summoned to the scene by the communications sorcerer spilled around Hawk and Fisher

as they moved in and out of The Crossed Pikes tavern. They were carrying out the dead and lining

them up in neat rows on the snow, ready for the meat wagon when it arrived. The Guard doctor

hovered over them like an anxious relative, making notes on cause of death, for when the forensic

sorcerer arrived. A large crowd had gathered, but were being kept back by two Constables. Hawk knelt

down suddenly, and started roughly cleaning the blood from his hand with a handful of snow. Fisher

put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly.

"You did all you could, Hawk."

"I know that."

"She killed at least a dozen people in there. Probably more."

"I know that too." He got to his feet and pulled his glove back on. "Before she died, she told me where

they're making the stuff she took. It's Robbie Morgan's place, down in the Devil's Hook."

Fisher looked at him sharply. "Standard procedure would be to contact Headquarters and tell them the

factory's location. Since you haven't done that, I assume there's a good reason why not?"

"I want these bastards, Isobel. I want them bad. It's a new drug, you see; they haven't released it yet.

Can you imagine what the Northside will be like once this super-chacal hits the streets? We've got to

stop it now. While we can."

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Simon R. Green - Haven 05 - Guard Against Dishonor

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