Swords of Haven

Dressed in chequered black and white, with a white, clown’s face and a domino mask, Harlequin dances on the Street of Gods. No one has ever seen his eyes, and he casts no shadow. He dances with a splendid ease, graceful and magnificent, pirouetting elegantly to a music only he can hear. And he never stops.

Everyone needs something to believe in. Something to make them feel safe and secure and cared for. They need it so badly they’ll give up anything and everything, just for the promise of it. They’ll pay in gold and obedience and suffering, or anything else that has a market value. Which is why religion is such big business in Haven.

Right in the centre of the city, square in the middle of the high-rent district, lies the Street of Gods. Dozens of different churches and temples stand side by side and ostentatiously ignore each other. Then there are the smaller, more intimate meeting houses, for adherents of the lesser known or more controversial beliefs, who for the most part deal strictly in cash. And then there are the street preachers. No one knows where they come from or where they go, but every day they turn up by the hundreds to line the Street of Gods and spread the Word to anyone who’ll listen.

There’s never any trouble in the Street of Gods. Firstly, the Beings wouldn’t like it, and secondly, it’s bad for business. The people of Haven firmly believe in the right of everyone to make a profit.

Hawk and Fisher looked curiously about them as they accompanied Adamant down the Street of Gods. It wasn’t a part of Haven they knew much about, but they knew enough to be wary. Anything could happen on the Street of Gods. Not for the first time, Hawk wondered if they’d done the right thing in leaving the mercenaries behind, but Adamant had insisted. He’d left his followers behind as well. Apart from his bodyguards, only Medley and Dannielle remained with him now.

The Street itself was a mess. The assorted temples and churches varied widely in size and shape and style of architecture. Fashions from one century stood side by side with modes and follies from another. Street preachers filled the air with the clamor of their cries, and everywhere there was the din of bells and cymbals and animal horns, and the sound of massed voices raised in praise or supplication. The Street itself stretched away into the distance for as far as Hawk could see, and his hackles stirred as he realised the Street of Gods was a hell of a lot larger than the official maps made it out to be. He pointed this out to Medley, who just shrugged.

“The Street is as long as it has to be to fit everything in. With so many magics and sorceries and Beings of Power jammed together, it’s no wonder things get a little strange here from time to time.”

“You got that right,” said Fisher, watching interestedly as a street preacher thrust metal skewers through his flesh. He showed no sign of pain, and no blood ran from the wounds. Another preacher poured oil over his body, and set himself on fire. He waited until he’d burned out, and then did it again.

“Ignore them,” said Adamant. “They’re just exhibitionists. It takes more than spectacle to impress anyone here.” He looked expectantly at Medley. “What’s the latest news, Stefan?”

Medley gathered together a handful of notes and papers, presented to him by messengers reporting on the day’s progress. “So far, not too bad. Hardcastle’s mercenaries are wiping the streets with ours whenever the two sides meet, but they can’t be everywhere at once. All the main polls show us running neck and neck with Hardcastle, which is actually pretty good this early in the campaign. We could even improve as the day goes on. Wait until the drink wears off and they’ve spent all their bribe money; then we’ll see how many Conservative voters stay bought....

“Mortice has been keeping busy. Apparently. he’s broken up several Conservative meetings by teleporting rats into the crowd. His sense of humour’s got very basic since he died.

“As for the other candidates: General Longarm has been making some very powerful speeches. He seems to be building quite a following among the city men-at-arms. Megan O’Brien isn’t getting anywhere. Even his fellow traders don’t believe he can win. And Lord Arthur Sinclair was last seen hosting one hell of a party at the Crippled Cougar Inn, and getting smashed out of his skull. No surprises there.”

They walked on a while in silence. In the Street of Gods the time of day fluctuated from place to place, so that they walked sometimes in daylight and sometimes in moonlight. Once it snowed briefly, and rained frogs, and the stars in the sky outshone the sun. Gargoyles wept blood, and statues stirred on their pedestals. Once, Hawk looked down a side alley and saw a skeleton, held together by copper wire, beating its skull against a stone wall over and over again, and for a time a flock of burning birds followed Adamant’s party down the Street, singing shrilly in a language Hawk didn’t recognise. Adamant looked always straight ahead, ignoring everything outside of his path, and after a while Hawk and Fisher learned to do the same.

Adamant shrugged. “I was raised orthodox, Brotherhood of Steel. I suppose I’m still a believer. It appeals to my pragmatic nature, and unlike most religions they’re not always bothering me for donations.”

“Right,” said Medley. “You pay your tithes once a year, show up at meetings once a month, and they pretty much leave you alone. But it’s a good church to belong to; you can make very useful contacts through the Brotherhood.”

“Tell me about the Brotherhood,” said Hawk. “Isobel and I haven’t had much contact with them here, and they’re not very well-known in the Northlands where we were raised.”

“They’re pretty straightforward,” said Adamant. “Part militaristic, part mystical, based upon a belief in the fighting man. It started out as a warrior’s religion, but it’s broadened its appeal since then. They revere cold steel in all its forms as a weapon, and teach that all men can be equal once they’ve trained to be fighting men. It’s a particularly practical-minded religion.”

“Normally, yes,” said Adamant. “But luckily for us, Hardcastle has not only not paid his tithes in years, he also had the effrontery to levy a special tax on the Brotherhood in his territory. And on top of that, just recently the Brotherhood’s been split down the middle by an argument over how involved they should get in local politics. The new militant sect already has one Seat on the Council: The Downs. Their candidate in the Steppes is General Longarm. We’re going to see the High Commander of the orthodox sect, and see if we can stir up some support for us, as part of their struggle against the militants.”

“Because if one got involved, they all would, and it wouldn’t be long before we had a God War on our hands. No one wants that, least of all the Beings. They’ve got a good racket here, and no one wants to rock the boat. But there are a few Beings who’ve developed a taste for a little discreet and indirect meddling. The trick is to get to them before Hardcastle does. I think we’ll start with the Speaking Stone.”

The Speaking Stone turned out to be a huge jagged boulder of granite, battered and weather-beaten beyond all shape or meaning. Plainly robed acolytes guarded it with drawn swords all the time Adamant and his party were there. After all the things he’d seen so far on the Street of Gods, Hawk was very disappointed in the Stone. He tried hard to feel some holy atmosphere or mystical aura, but the , Stone looked like just another lump of rock to him. Adamant spoke with the Stone for some time, but if it had anything to say for itself, Hawk didn’t hear it. Adamant seemed.neither pleased nor displeased, but if he had got anything out of his visit, he kept it to himself.

The Madonna of the Martyrs had a bad reputation. Her church was tucked away in a quiet little backwater of the Street of Gods. There were no signs to proclaim what it was; the people who needed to would always find their way there. There was a constant stream of supplicants to the Madonna’s doors; the lost and the lonely, the beaten and the betrayed. They came to the Madonna with heavy hearts, and she gave them what they asked for: an end to all pain. After they died, they rose again in her service, for as long as she required them.

The Madonna herself turned out to be a plain, pleasant woman dressed in gaudily colored robes. She had a tray of sickly looking boiled sweets at her side and sucked one noisily all the time they were there. She didn’t offer them round, and Hawk, for one, was grateful. Dead men and women shuffled through her chamber on unknown errands. Their faces were colorless and slack, but once or twice Hawk thought he caught a quick glimpse of something damned and suffering in their eyes. He kept his hand near his axe, and his eye on the nearest exit.

Adamant and the Madonna made a deal. In return for her withdrawing her support for the DeWitt brothers, Adamant would allow the Madonna access to the High Steppes hospitals. It wasn’t quite as cold as it sounded. The Madonna was bound by her nature only to take the willing, and every hospital has some who would welcome death as a release from pain. Even so ... Hawk studied Adamant thoughtfully. He’d always suspected the politician had a ruthless streak. He caught Medley’s eye on the way out, but the Advisor just shrugged.

La Belle Dame du Rocher, the Beautiful Lady of the Rocks, refused to see them. So did the Soror Marium, the Sister of the Sea. They were both old patrons of Haven, and Adamant was clearly disappointed. He left an offering for each of them anyway, just in case.

The Hanged Man was polite but noncommittal, the Carrion In Tears asked too high a price, and the Crawling Violet’s answer made no sense at all. And so it went down the Street of Gods. Even those few Beings who would allow Adamant to approach them were usually uninterested in his problems. They had their own affairs and vendettas to pursue. Adamant remained calm and polite throughout it all, and Hawk kept his hand near his axe. The various Beings were disturbing enough, but their followers gave him the creeps. They all had the same flat, unwavering stare of the fanatic.

And finally, when they had been everywhere else, Adamant brought his party to the Brotherhood of Steel. Their Headquarters looked less like a church, and more like an upmarket barracks. The carved wood and stonework was only a few hundred years out of date, which made the place look almost modem compared to most of the Street of Gods. Armed guards patrolled the front of the building, but fell back respectfully once they recognised Adamant. Hawk looked at him sharply.

A scarred man-at-arms in brightly shining chain mail led them through a series of open corridors to an impressively large library, where he left them. Fisher grabbed the most comfortable chair and sank into it, stretching out her long legs with a satisfied sigh. Hawk was tempted to do the same. His feet were killing him. But every instinct he had was telling him to keep alert. Every man he’d seen in the Headquarters had been wearing a sword, and looked like he knew how to use it. If by some chance Hardcastle had already been here and struck a deal with the Brotherhood, getting out of the Headquarters might prove a lot more difficult than getting in. He sat on the arm of Fisher’s chair and fixed Adamant with a steady gaze.

“Couldn’t care less, one way or the other. Officially, the Brotherhood is above politics. Actually, they’ll work with anyone, if it’s kept under the table and the price is right. And the Brotherhood strikes a very hard bargain.”

“More than you’d think,” said Medley. “Essentially, any man who can wield a sword or an axe can apply for membership in the Brotherhood. Once admitted, they can learn skills and tactics preserved over hundreds of years and become part of a mystical fellowship that owes loyalty to nothing save itself. A Brother of Steel will defy any law, ruler, or religion—if the Brotherhood requires it.”

“This is Haven, remember? Nothing stays secret here for long.” Adamant looked at Hawk steadily. “According to my sources, the Brotherhood has spread throughout the Low Kingdoms; even among the King’s Advisors. So far, they’ve managed to avoid a purge by declaring themselves totally impartial when it comes to politics, but the new militants may change all that.”

“So why have we come here?” said Hawk. “Why should the orthodox Brotherhood want to make a deal with Reform?” And then he paused, and his face cleared suddenly. “Of course; the most important thing for them is to see that the militants lose this election. In the Steppes, that means backing either Hardcastle or you, and they know they can’t trust Hardcastle. I think I’m getting the hang of politics.”

“There’s more to politics than just being cynical,” said a deep, resonant voice behind him. Hawk spun round, one hand dropping to his axe. A tall, impressively muscled man in his mid-forties stood smiling in the library doorway. He paused a moment to make sure they’d all got a good look at him, and then he strode forward into the room. His polished chain mail gleamed brightly in the lamplight, and a long sword hilt peered over his left shoulder. The sword on his back reached almost to the floor. He had jet-black hair, sharp classical features that were a little too perfect to be handsome, and a broad smile that wasn’t reflected in his eyes. All in all, he looked more like a politician than Adamant did. Hawk decided that if he had to shake hands, he’d better count his fingers afterwards. He nodded warily to the newcomer, who smiled briefly in his direction before bowing formally to Adamant.

“Don’t worry; I won’t damage him too much. Just take some of the wind out of his sails. Come on, Rukker, what do you say? Best out of five, and I’ll give you two points to start with. Just to make the match even.”

“Don’t look at me,” said Hawk. “She goes her own way. Always has. Besides, if Rukker’s stupid enough to take her on, he deserves everything that happens to him. If I were you, I’d send for a doctor. And a mop.”

Rukker stared haughtily at Fisher. The effect was rather spoiled because he had to look up slightly to do it. “A Brother of Steel does not fight with women,” he said coldly. “It is not seemly.”

“Don’t dismiss us so casually, Captain. We have much to offer.” Rukker fixed Hawk with a burning gaze, and his voice became earnest and compelling. “The Brotherhood is dedicated to the glory of Steel. It is the symbol that holds mankind together, that enables him to impose order on a savage and uncaring universe. Steel gives us mastery over the world and ourselves. In learning to control our bodies and our weapons, we learn to control our minds and our destinies.

“Think of what we could teach you, Captain. Every move, every trick and skill of fighting there has ever been is to be found here somewhere, in our libraries and instructors. Our fighters are unbeatable, our warriors suitable to advise Kings. We are the future; we decide the way the world will turn.”

Hawk smiled suddenly. “Commander, I’m giving you a lot of slack, because I’m here as Adamant’s guest. But if you insult my wife one more time, I will hurt you severely. Even worse, I might let Isobel do it. Now, be a good fellow and get on with your business with Adamant.”

Rukker flushed pinkly, and his hand rose to the sword hilt at his shoulder. Hawk and Fisher were both on their feet facing him, weapons drawn and at the ready, before Rukker’s hand could close around the hilt. Adamant moved quickly forward to stand between them.

“That’s enough! Hawk, Fisher, put your weapons away. That’s an order. I do apologize, Commander. We’ve had a very trying day, and I fear all our nerves are somewhat on edge.”

Rukker nodded stiffly and took his hand away from his sword. Bright spots of color burned on his cheekbones, but when he spoke his voice was perfectly steady. “Of course, James. I quite understand. Let’s get down to business, shall we? What exactly can I do for you?”

“Hardcastle’s mercenaries are grinding my campaign into the ground,” said Adamant. “My people are holding their own for the moment, but they can’t last long without armed support. I need your support, Jeremiah; I need your men.”

“They’re fools. We’re only allowed free rein as long as we support all sides equally. We’re not strong enough yet to stand as a political force in our own right. We survive because we’re useful, but the powers that be would crush us in a moment if they thought we were dangerous. No, James. We’ve worked together in the past when we found ourselves walking the same path, but we can’t afford to be openly allied with your Cause.”

“You can’t afford not to,” said Adamant. “According to all the reports, General Longarm and his militants are doing vèry well at the moment. They haven’t got enough support to win on their own, but if they were to ally themselves with Hardcastle, they’d make an unbeatable team. And Hardcastle’s just rattled enough by their successes and mine to agree to such an alliance.”

“Who said anything about trust? For the moment they need each other, but all kinds of things could happen once the election is safely over. After all, Hardcastle maintains his position through armed force. Forces that in the future would be exclusively controlled by General Longarm ... But you’re missing the point, Jeremiah. The point is, can you afford to bet that Longarm won’t make an alliance with Hardcastle?”

“No,” said Rukker. “I can’t. All right. James. I’ll have to consult with the High Commander, but I’m pretty sure he’ll say yes. We can’t allow Longarm to win this election. You’ll have your men in a few hours. And we should be able to call off most of Hardcastle’s mercenaries. A large proportion of them belong to the Brotherhood. You’ve got your support, James. But you’d better make damned sure I don’t have reason to regret it.”

Out on the Street of Gods, three different clocks were striking fifteen, although it was still barely midday. Given some of the Street’s earlier excesses, Hawk felt only a mild relief that nothing worse was happening. He looked carefully about him, and then stopped as a commotion broke out further down the Street. Fisher noticed his reaction, and her hand dropped to her sword.

Halfway down, on the other side of the Street, a very tall woman dressed in bright yellow and battered leathers was beating up half a dozen nuns from the Convent of the Bright Lady. The nuns were armed with wooden staves and lengths of steel chain, but the tall woman was wiping the floor with them, using only her bare hands.

“That is Roxanne,” said Medley. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.” He winced as Roxanne lifted a nun bodily into the air and slammed her face first into the nearest wall.

Hawk and Fisher looked back just in time to see two new figures dragging Roxanne away from her latest victims, just as she was about to start putting the boot in. She shrugged them off easily, but made no move to attack them. Hawk whistled softly as he realised one of them was Councillor Hardcastle. The other man, dressed in ill-fitting chain mail, was the sorcerer Wulf. Hawk studied him thoughtfully. He’d heard about Wulf.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Medley quickly. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. Officially, we were never here. Our agreement with the Brotherhood will last only as long as we can keep it quiet. In fact, we’d better get out of here now, before Hardcastle spots us. Right, James?”

“It isn’t,” said Hawk shortly. “She’s wanted on a dozen warrants, most of them for murder and arson. But she can wait. Protecting you has top priority until I receive fresh orders. Let’s go.”

Roxanne liked the Street of Gods. Its constantly shifting realities appealed to her own mercurial nature. She almost felt at home. Of course, not everyone felt the same. The Street had terrorised Jillian to the point that not even Hardcastle’s threats could make her accompany them. He’d had to send her home, along with all his followers and mercenaries. The Grey Veil had insisted on that. Apparently his God didn’t like large audiences when it came to hard bargaining. Roxanne kept a close watch on Veil. She didn’t trust him any further than she could spit into the wind.

Veil led them past churches and temples decorated with imps and gargoyles and demons. None of them looked particularly healthy places. Veil passed them all by, and Roxanne pouted disappointedly. Finally they came to the Temple of the Abomination, and Veil smiled sardonically as he took in their reactions. It wasn’t much to look at, just a plain stone building with no windows, the stonework scarred and pitted by long years of neglect, but something about it put Roxanne’s teeth on edge.

Veil gestured for his guests to enter. Hardcastle and Wulf looked at the rough wooden door hanging slightly ajar, and then looked at Roxanne. She grinned broadly, drew her sword, and moved forward to kick the door open. At the last moment, the door swung open before her. Roxanne stopped and waited a moment, but there was no one there. The gloom beyond the door was still and quiet. She looked back at Veil. He was watching her mockingly with his disquieting eyes. Roxanne turned her back on him and swaggered into the Temple of the Abomination.

A dim crimson glow filled the huge stone hall, radiating in some obscure fashion from a broken stone altar. The hall stretched away into the distance, and the ceiling towered impossibly high above her. She moved slowly forward, her sword held out before her. There was a sluggish movement of shadows, but nothing came out of the gloom to challenge her. Roxanne curled her lip disappointedly. Faint scuffing sounds behind her spun her round, but it was only Veil, leading Hardcastle and Wulf into the Temple. Roxanne went back to join them.

Hardcastle looked briefly about him, and did his best to look unimpressed. “All right,” he growled finally. “We’re here. Now tell me why I’ve come all this way to a deserted Temple when I could be talking with Beings of real Power.”

“An abstraction given shape and form,” said Wulf. “A concept clothed in flesh and blood and bone. They have Power beyond reason, for their birth lies in the Wild Magic, and once summoned into the world of men they cannot easily be dismissed.”

Veil laughed, but when he spoke his voice was subtly different, as though something else spoke through him. “The Lord of the Gulfs has been asleep for centuries, and it will be some time before he can physically manifest himself in this world again. For now, he needs a host to walk in the world of men.”

The light around them grew subtly darker, like sunset fading into night. Here and there in the gloom, pale sparks of light appeared, growing quickly into transparent human shapes. Soon there were hundreds of ghosts glowing palely in the great hall, drifting endlessly back and forth as though in search of something they could no longer remember. All of them were hideously shrivelled and emaciated, reduced by some awful hunger to nothing more than flesh-covered skeletons with distended bellies and wide, agonised eyes. More and more appeared until they filled the hall from end to end, and then without warning they turned upon each other, tearing ravenously at their ghostly flesh with frenzied hands and teeth. They ate each other with desperate haste, screaming silently at the horror of what they did, but the broken bones and ripped flesh brought no end to their hunger. \

“Bring me followers. The more who worship me, the greater my power will become. They will feed me with their devotion, and my influence will spread across the land, as . it did before. My host must be protected. I cannot be destroyed by the living or the dead—that gift was given to me at my creation—but my host is always ... vulnerable.”

“Excellent,” said the Lord of the Gulfs. “But this host has done all it can. It had enough power to raise me, but not enough to sustain me. As a sign of good faith, you must provide me with a new host.”

The Grey Veil grinned widely, the smile spreading and spreading until the mouth cracked and broke, splitting the cheeks and opening up the face to show the bones and muscle beneath. The face sloughed off like a mask, and the muscles turned to dust and fell away. The eyes sank back into the sockets and disappeared, leaving only a grinning skull. Dust fell out of the gray robe in streams, and then it crumpled and fell limply to the floor. The jaw fell away from the skull in one silent laugh, and then they too were gone and there was only dust and an empty gray robe. A wind rose up out of nowhere and blew the dust away.

Wulf put an unsteady hand to his mouth and shook his head slightly. His eyes were glazed, as though he was listening to a faint voice very far away. Hardcastle looked at Roxanne, and then back at Wolf.

“I’m all right, Cameron,” said Wulf quietly. He lowered his hand slowly and smiled at Hardcastle. “He really wasn’t very bright, for a God. He hasn’t been awake long, and he wasn’t nearly as strong as he thought he was. I’ve got him, held securely within my wards, and all his power is mine. Adamant doesn’t know it yet, but the election is yours, Cameron. No other sorcerer can stand against me now. Let’s go.”

The wooden door swung open, and Hardcastle and Wulf went back out into the Street of Gods. Roxanne looked round the deserted hall one last time and then followed them out. She put away her sword, and wondered if there’d be time to stop for dinner any time soon.