Swords of Haven

Roxanne was furious, and the mercenaries were keeping their distance. Pike and Da Silva had disappeared the moment they reached Hardcastle’s safe house, ostensibly to lock Fisher safely away, but actually to get out of Roxanne’s reach until she calmed down a little and took her hand away from her sword belt. The twenty mercenaries Hardcastle had detailed to guard the safe house weren’t as quick-thinking, which meant they ended up taking the brunt of Roxanne’s displeasure. They stayed as far away from her as they could, nodded or shook their heads whenever it seemed indicated; mostly they just tried to fade into the woodwork. Roxanne paced back and forth, growling and muttering to herself. She’d never felt so angry, and what made it worse was that she wasn’t all that sure what she was so angry about.

Part of it came from losing so many men to Adamant’s sorcerer. If she hadn’t insisted on full magical protection from Wulf for herself and Pike and Da Silva, she and they would have died along with her men. Roxanne hated losing men. She took it personally.

Some of her anger came from not having taken Hawk as well as Fisher. She’d vowed to take them both, and she hated to fail at things she set her word to. Legends can’t afford to fail; if they do, they stop being legends.

But most of her anger came from how they’d taken Fisher. She’d been looking forward to crossing swords with the legendary Captain Fisher ever since she came to Haven, and in the end somebody had struck the Guard down from behind while she wasn’t looking. That was no way to beat a legend. Winning that way made Roxanne feel cheap; like just another paid killer. And on top of all that, she hadn’t even been allowed to kill Fisher cleanly. Hardcastle had specifically ordered that Fisher was to be kept alive for interrogation. Roxanne sniffed. She knew a euphemism for torture when she heard it.

She glared about her as she paced, and the mercenaries avoided her gaze. The safe house was a dump; a decaying firetrap in the middle of a row of low-rent tenements. Somehow that was typical of Hardcastle and his operations. Cheap and nasty. All in all, the whole operation had left a bad taste in Roxanne’s mouth. She was a warrior, and this kind of dirty political fighting didn’t sit well with her. She’d killed and tortured before, and delighted in the blood, but that was in the heat of battle, where courage and steel decided men’s fates, not dirty little schemes and back-room politics. If anyone had ever accused Roxanne of being honourable, she’d have laughed in their faces, but this... this whole mess just stank to high heaven.

She stopped pacing about, and took several deep breaths. It calmed her a little, and she took her hand away from her sword. The mercenaries began to breathe a little more easily, and stopped judging the distances to possible exits. Pike and Da Silva chose that moment to reappear. Roxanne glared at them.

Pike and Da Silva nodded quickly, and watched in silence as Roxanne disappeared into the adjoining room where they’d dumped Fisher. They waited until the door had swung shut behind her, and then looked at each other.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was developing scruples,” said Pike. “Still, Hardcastle knew there was a risk in using Roxanne for political work. Everyone knows Roxanne’s crazy. It doesn’t matter on a battlefield, but we can’t have her running wild in Haven. She knows too much.”

Pike grinned. “I wasn’t thinking of fighting a duel with her. I was thinking more along the lines of dosing her wine with a fast-acting poison, waiting until she’d collapsed, and then cutting her head off. There’s a good price for her head in the Low Kingdoms.”

Roxanne stood just inside the doorway of the adjoining room, listening. She’d always had good hearing. It had kept her alive on battlefields more than once. She’d known Pike and Da Silva were up to something, but the casualness with which they discussed her death made her blood boil. The orders had to have come from Hardcastle; they wouldn’t have dared make such a decision themselves. Hardcastle had sold her out to a couple of back-alley assassins. She wanted to just charge out into the next room, draw her sword, and cut them both down, but even she wasn’t crazy enough to take on twenty-two armed men in a confined space. She hadn’t made her reputation as a warrior by being stupid. She had to get out of there and think things over.

She threw the door open, stalked back into the main room, and pretended not to notice the sudden silence. “I’m going to see Hardcastle. Keep a close eye on Fisher, but don’t damage her any further. Hardcastle’s going to want that privilege for himself.”

She nodded briskly to Pike and Da Silva, and headed for the door before they could come up with some excuse to stop her. Her back crawled in anticipation of an attack, her ears straining for any hint of steel being drawn from a scabbard, but nothing happened. She stepped out into the street, and slammed the door behind her, almost disappointed. She moved quickly off down the street to lose herself in the crowds.

She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do next. She was damned if she’d go on working for Hardcastle, but she couldn’t just walk out on him either. Deserting ship in mid-contract would ruin her name. Most of the time Roxanne didn’t give a rat’s arse what anyone thought of her, but her professional name was a different matter. If word got round she couldn’t be trusted to complete her commissions, no one would hire her.

But she couldn’t let Hardcastle get away with threatening her, either. That would do her reputation even more damage. She scowled as she strode along, and people all around her hurried to get out of her way. All this thinking made her head hurt. She needed someone she could talk to, someone she could trust. But she’d never trusted anyone... except Stefan Medley.

The thought surprised her, as did the warmth of feeling that went through her at the thought of seeing him again. Stefan had been a good sort, for a politician. He understood things like honesty and honour. She’d go and see him. He was probably still mad at her, but they’d work something out. She headed back to the tavern where she’d left him. Someone there would be able to tell her where he’d gone.

The tavern was full of customers. Smoke hung heavily on the air, and the crowd round the bar were singing a Reform anthem, cheerfully if not too accurately. Roxanne made her way to the bar, elbowing people out of her way. She yelled for the bartender, but he was busy taking orders and pretended he hadn’t heard her. Roxanne leaned across the bar, grabbed him by the shirtfront, and pulled his face close to hers. The bartender started to object, realised who she was, and went very pale.

Roxanne frowned, dropped the bartender and turned away. What the hell was Stefan doing, hanging around here? He must know the Reformers would already be hot on his trail, and it wouldn’t take them long to find out about this place. Medley had always been very careful about their assignations here, but Roxanne had deliberately left clues all over the place. That had been part of her job, then. She shook her head. The sooner she talked to Stefan and got the hell out of here, the better. She hurried up the stairs behind the bar, taking the steps two at a time. Everything would be all right once she’d talked to Stefan. He’d know what to do. He always did.

The door to their room was locked. Roxanne looked quickly around, knocked twice and waited impatiently. There was no sound from inside the room. She knocked again, and called his name quietly. There was no answer. Roxanne frowned. He must be there; the door was still locked. Was he sulking? That wasn’t like Stefan. Maybe he was asleep. She knocked again, and called his name as loudly as she dared, but there was no reply. Roxanne began to get a bad feeling about the room. Something was wrong. Maybe the Reformers had already caught up with him....

She drew her sword, and kicked at the door savagely with the heel of her boot. The door shuddered, but held. Roxanne cursed it briefly and tried again. The crude lock broke, and the door swung inwards. The room beyond was dark and quiet. Roxanne moved quickly into the room and darted to one side so that she wouldn’t be caught silhouetted against the light from the open door. She stood poised in the gloom, sword at the ready, but it only took her a few moments to realise there were no ambushers in the room. She put away her sword and lit one of the lamps.

Light filled the room, and for a moment all Roxanne could see was the blood. It covered the bedclothes, and had spilled down the sides to form pools on the floor. Some of it had already dried. Roxanne moved forward quietly and felt for a pulse on Medley’s neck. It was still there, slow and feeble, but his skin was deathly cold. At first she thought the Reformers had got to him, and then she looked at his arms and saw the ugly black wounds at his wrists. Her breath caught in her throat as she realised what he’d done, and why. She turned and ran from the room.

Roxanne dropped the bartender, and ran back up the stairs. It didn’t take her long to find Room Nine, but it seemed like ages. She hammered on the door with her fist until it opened a crack, and a suspicious eye looked out at her.

Roxanne kicked the door in, grabbed a handful of the woman’s gown, and slammed her up against the wall. She struggled feebly, her feet kicking helplessly several inches above the floor. She started to call out for help, and Roxanne thrust her face up close to the witch’s. The witch went very quiet and stopped struggling.

She put Vienna down and hauled her up the stairs to the next floor and Medley’s room. Vienna took one look at the blood and started to leave, then stopped as she met Roxanne’s gaze. The witch was a tiny frail little thing, in a shabby green dress, and at any other time Roxanne might have felt guilty about bullying her, but this was different. All she could think of was Stefan, dying alone in a dirty tavern room, because of her. She gestured curtly at Medley, and Vienna turned back and examined his wrists.

“Nasty,” said the witch quietly. “But you’re in luck, warrior. He didn’t make a very good job of it. He cut across the veins instead of lengthwise. The blood’s been able to clot and close off the wounds. He’s lost a lot of blood, though....”

“I think so. A simple healing spell on the wrists, and another to speed up production of new blood ...” She started reciting a series of technicalities that Roxanne didn’t understand, but she just let the witch babble on, unable to concentrate on anything but the great wave of relief surging through her. He wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t going to die because of her. She nodded harshly to Vienna, and the witch began her magic. The rites were simple and rather unpleasant, but very effective. The torn flesh at the wrists closed together and fused, and faint tinges of colour began to seep back into Medley’s face. His breathing became steadier and deeper.

“That’s all I can do,” said Vienna finally. “Let him rest for a couple of days, and he’ll be as good as new. Keeping him alive is your problem. Those cuts on his wrists were deep. He meant business.”

“Yes,” said Roxanne. “I know.” She untied the purse from her belt and tossed it to Vienna, without checking to see how much was in it. “Not a word to anyone,” said Roxanne, still looking at Medley. The witch nodded, and left quickly before Roxanne could change her mind.

Roxanne sat on the edge of the bed beside Medley, ignoring the blood that soaked into her trousers. He looked drawn and tired, as though he’d been through a long fever. She let her hand rest on his forehead for a moment. The flesh felt cool and dry.

“Why not?” said Medley hoarsely. He licked his lips and swallowed dryly. Roxanne poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, and held the glass to his mouth while he drank. He managed a few swallows, and she put the glass down. Medley lifted his arms and looked at the healed wounds on his wrists. He smiled sourly, and let his arms fall back onto the bed. “You shouldn’t have bothered, Roxanne. I’ll only have to do it again.”

“It’s not enough just to live,” said Medley. “You have to have something to live for. Something, or someone. For a while I had politics, and when I grew tired of that, I found Adamant. He needed me, made me feel important and valued; made me his friend. But even at its best I was just living someone else’s life, following someone else’s lead.

“And then I met you, and you gave my life meaning. I was so happy with you. You were all the things that had been missing from my life. You made me feel that I mattered, that I was someone in my own right, not just someone else’s shadow. And then you told me it was all a lie, and walked out of my life forever. I can’t go back to being what I was, Roxanne. I’d rather die than do that. I love you, and if what we had was just a lie, then I prefer that lie to reality. Even if I have to die to keep it.”

“No one ever felt that way for me before,” said Roxanne slowly. “I’m going to have to think about that. But I promise you this, Stefan; I’ll stay with you for as long as you need me. I’m not sure why, but you’re important to me, too.”

Medley looked at her for a long moment. “If this is ... just another game you’re playing, a way to get more information out of me, I don’t mind. Just tell me what you want to know, and I’ll tell you. But don’t pretend you care for me if you don’t. Please. I can’t go through that again.”

Hawk was tired, and his arm and back muscles ached from too much use and too little rest. During the past hour he’d been through half the dives in the Steppes, looking for a lead on Fisher. No one knew anything, no matter how forcefully he put the question. Eventually he came to the reluctant belief that they were telling the truth. And that only left one place to look. Brimstone Hall. Hardcastle’s home.

He stood outside the great iron gates, and stared past the two nervous men-at-arms on duty. The old Hall looked quiet and almost deserted, with lights showing at only a few windows. Somewhere in there he’d find what he was looking for; someone or something that would put him on the right trail.

The two men-at-arms looked at each other uncertainly, but said nothing. They recognised Hawk, and knew what he was capable of. They hadn’t missed the fresh blood dripping from the axe in his right hand. Hawk ignored them, concentrating on the Hall. Hardcastle and his people would be out on the streets now, so the chances were good he’d only have to face a skeleton staff. Maybe he’d get really lucky and find Isobel locked away in some cellar here. He remembered the way she’d looked as she’d been dragged away, bloody and unconscious, and the slow cold rage began to build in him again. He shifted his gaze to the two men-at-arms, and they stirred uneasily.

Hawk hit him low, well below the belt. He doubled up and fell writhing to the ground. The other man-at-arms backed quickly away. Hawk pushed the gates open, stepped over the man on the ground, and entered the grounds of Brimstone Hall. The man-at-arms left standing took one look at Hawk’s face and turned and ran for the Hall. Hawk went after him at a steady walk. No point in hurrying. No one was going anywhere.

He heard the approach of soft, padding feet, and looked round to see three huge dogs charging silently towards him. Hawk studied them carefully. Hardcastle’s dogs were supposed to be man-killers and man-eaters, but they looked ordinary enough to Hawk. He took a bag of powder from his belt, opened it, held his breath, and threw the powder into the air right in front of the dogs. The dogs skidded to a halt, sniffed suspiciously at the air, and then sat down suddenly with big sloppy grins on their faces. Hawk waited a moment to be sure the dust had done its job, then walked cautiously past them. Two of the dogs ignored him completely, and the third rolled over on its back so that Hawk could rub its belly. Hawk smiled slightly, careful not to breathe till he was well past the dogs. He’d known the second bag of dust he’d found in Dannielle’s room would come in handy.

He headed for the Hall. Everything seemed quiet. He’d almost reached the main door when it suddenly swung open before him, and five men-at-arms in full chain mail spilled out to block his path. Hawk smiled at them, and held his bloody axe so they could see it clearly.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” said the foremost man-at-arms. “I’m Brond. I speak for Hardcastle in his absence, and he doesn’t want to speak to you. You’d better leave now. You’re already in a lot of trouble.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” said Brond. He half-turned away and addressed the other men. “Throw him out. Don’t be gentle about it. Show the man what happens when he messes with his betters.”

Hawk slammed his axe into Brond’s side. The heavy steel head punched clean through Brond’s chain mail, and buried itself in his rib cage. Brond stood and stared at it for a moment, unable to believe what had happened, then fell to his knees, blood starting from his mouth. Hawk jerked his axe free, and the four remaining men-at-arms jumped him. The first to reach Hawk went down screaming in a flurry of blood and guts as Hawk’s axe opened him up across the belly.

The other three tried to surround Hawk, but his axe swept back and forth, keeping them at arm’s length. They surged around him, darting in and jumping back, like dogs trying to bring down a bear. Hawk smiled at them coldly, calculating the odds. The men-at-arms were good, but he was better. He could take them. It was only a matter of time. And then four more men-at-arms came running out of the main door, and Hawk knew he was in trouble. With Fisher to watch his back, he’d have taken them on without a second thought, but fighting on his own the odds were murder. Nevertheless he was damned if he’d back down. Fisher needed him. Besides, he’d faced worse odds in his time. He took a firm hold on his axe and threw himself at his nearest opponent.

And then suddenly there was another figure, fighting at his side; tall and lithe and very deadly. Two men-at-arms fell to the newcomer’s blade in as many seconds, Hawk cut down a third and suddenly the men-at-arms scattered and ran for their lives. Hawk slowly lowered his axe, and turned to face Roxanne. For a long moment they stood looking at each other, and then Roxanne lowered her sword.

He hesitated, and then put away his axe. Roxanne sheathed her sword, and the three of them walked back through the grounds to the main gates. They had to go slowly so that Medley could keep up with them. Hawk looked at him more closely.

Pike had been stuck in the safe house for over an hour, and the ale had run out. He couldn’t send out for more because they weren’t supposed to draw attention to themselves. He leaned his chair back against the wall and looked thoughtfully at the locked door that stood between him and Captain Isobel Fisher. The beautiful, arrogant Captain. Not so arrogant now, though. Pike smiled at the thought. And let his hand drop to the key ring at his belt. Hardcastle’s orders had been quite specific about delivering her alive, but no one had said anything about intact....

Pike looked around him. Six of his men were playing dice and arguing about the side bets. Two more were doing running repairs on their chain mail. The rest were scattered around the house, acting as lookouts. All in all, the house was thoroughly secure, and no one would miss him if he took a little break. He called quietly to Da Silva, and the mercenary left the dice game and came over to join him.

Da Silva looked at the locked door, and frowned. “Wondered how long it would take for you to get the itch for her. Forget it, Pike. That’s Captain Fisher in there. We can’t afford to take any chances with her.”

Pike took a silver mark from his purse, and handed it to Da Silva, who examined both sides carefully before returning it. Pike flipped the coin and caught it deftly before slapping it flat on his arm. Da Silva called heads, and then swore when Pike revealed the coin. Pike grinned and put it away. Da Silva glanced at the other mercenaries.

Da Silva looked at the locked door and licked his lips thoughtfully. “We’re going to have to be very careful with her, Pike. If we give her a chance, she’ll cut our throats with our own knives.”

“So we won’t give her a chance. Will you stop worrying? First, she’s already had a hell of a beating. That should have taken some of the starch out of her. And secondly, I tied her up hand and foot while she was unconscious, remember? She’s in no position to give us any trouble. So, I untie her feet, and then you hold her steady while I give her a good time. Afterwards, we swop over. Right?”

They walked purposefully towards the locked door. A few of the other mercenaries looked in their direction, but nobody said anything. Pike unlocked the door, and took a lamp off the wall. He grinned once at Da Silva, and then the two of them went to see Captain Fisher.

The room had no windows or other light, and Fisher screwed up her eyes at the sudden glare. She’d been awake for some time, but alone in the dark she had no way of telling how much time had passed. Her head ached fiercely, and she knew she was lucky not to have a concussion. There were cramps in her arms from being tied behind her, and her hands were numb because the ropes at her wrists were too tight. Her ankles were hobbled and there was no sign of her sword. All in all, she’d been in better condition.

She struggled to sit upright, and looked at the two men standing by the door. They closed it carefully behind them, and from the way they looked at her, she had a good idea of what they had in mind. A sudden horror gripped her, and she had to grit her teeth to stop her mouth from trembling. She’d faced death before, been hurt so many times she’d lost count of the scars, but this was different. She’d thought about rape, she supposed every woman had, but she’d never really thought it would happen to her. Not to her, not to Captain of the Guard Fisher; the warrior. She was too strong, too good with a sword, too determined to protect herself for anything like that to happen to her. Only now her sword was gone, the strength had been knocked out of her, and determination on its own wasn’t going to be enough to protect her.... She bit down firmly, on her growing panic. She had to keep her wits about her, and watch for a chance to thwart them. If all else failed, there was always revenge.

Pike put the lamp into a niche high up on the wall. He could feel Fisher watching him. He moved unhurriedly towards her. Her eyes were steady, but just a bit too wide. He grinned, knelt down beside her, and put one hand on her thigh. In spite of herself, Fisher shrank away from his touch.

“No need to worry, Captain,” said Pike, giving her thigh a little squeeze, just hard enough to let her feel the strength in his hand. “My friend and I won’t hurt you, as long as you behave yourself. No. You just be nice and cooperative and show us a nice time, and you don’t have to get hurt at all. Of course, if you’re determined to be unpleasant about it, my friend Da Silva here knows some real nasty tricks with a skinning knife. Isn’t that right, Da Silva?”

Pike’s hand lashed out, slapping her viciously across the face. Her head rang from the force of the blow. She could feel blood running down her chin from her crushed mouth. She gritted her teeth against the pain and the dizziness. She’d been hurt worse in her time, but this kind of cold and casual violence was new to her, and all the more intimidating because of her utter helplessness.

He drew a knife from his boot, and Fisher tensed, but he only used it to cut the ropes binding her ankles together. Da Silva moved quickly in to hold her ankles while Pike put away his knife. Fisher’s heart speeded up, and her breathing became ragged and uneven. Pike put a hand on her breast and pushed her so that she fell onto her back. He began to undo his trousers. Fisher struggled to sit upright again, as though that could somehow put off the inevitable. Pike laughed. He leaned forward and grabbed her hair, tilting her head back. He held her head steady as he put his face down to kiss her.

Fisher sank her teeth into his lower lip. Her teeth met, and she jerked her head back, taking most of Pike’s lip with her. Blood ran from his mouth, and for a moment the pain and shock held him rigid. Fisher spat out the lip and snapped her head forward in a savage butt to Pike’s face. There was the flat, definitive sound of his nose breaking, and he fell backward against Da Silva, sending him sprawling. Fisher scrambled to her feet while Da Silva pushed Pike aside and struggled up onto his knees. Fisher stepped forward and kicked Da Silva squarely in the groin, putting all her weight behind it. Da Silva’s breath caught in his throat before he could scream, and he fell forward onto the floor, clutching at the awful pain between his legs. Pike was rolling back and forth on the floor with both his hands at his face, unable to think straight for the pain. Fisher kicked him solidly in the head until he stopped moving.

She heard movement behind her, and turned quickly to find Da Silva was back on his feet again. He was crouched around his pain, but he had a knife in his hand, and his eyes were cold and angry. Fisher backed away, and Da Silva went after her. He feinted at her with his knife, but she saw it for what it was, stepped quickly inside his reach while he was off balance, and kicked him in the knee. Da Silva fell forward as his leg collapsed under him, and Fisher’s knee came up and caught him squarely on the chin. Da Silva’s head snapped back, and he fell limply to the floor and lay still.

Fisher leaned back against the cold stone wall, shaking violently. Her head ached so badly she could barely think, but she knew she couldn’t stop and rest. If the other mercenaries had heard anything of the fight, they might decide to see what was happening. And she was in no condition to take on anyone else. She took a deep breath and held it, and some of her shakes went away. She got down on her knees and groped around on the floor until she found the knife Da Silva had dropped. All she had to do now was cut the bonds at her wrists, which were knotted in the middle of her back where she couldn’t see them, then work out a plan that would get her out of here without having to take on however many other mercenaries were waiting in the next room. Fisher smiled sourly, and concentrated on cutting the ropes and not her arms. One thing at a time.

The narrow street was almost completely dark, with only a single street lamp shedding pale golden light across the decaying, stunted houses. The parties and parades had passed them by, and nothing disturbed the street’s sullen quiet. In the shadows, Hawk and Roxanne drew their weapons, while Medley kept a careful watch on the safe house. The shutters were all closed and there was no sign of any life. Hawk studied the house for some time, and scowled unhappily.

“There are spy-holes and concealed viewing slits all over the house,” said Roxanne quietly. “Hardcastle’s used this place before. There’s at least twenty armed men inside that house, just waiting for you to. try and rescue Captain Fisher.”

“We can’t risk a straightforward assault,” said Hawk carefully. “They might just kill Isobel at the first sign of a rescue attempt. We need some kind of diversion, something to distract their attention.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Hawk. “Since they’re going to see us approaching anyway, let’s show them something they won’t find threatening. We just walk up to the door with me unarmed, and Roxanne’s sword at my back. Medley can carry my axe. They’ll think you’ve captured me. Once inside, we study the situation and choose our moment. With any luck they’ll want to lock me up with Fisher. So, we wait until they unlock the right door, then Medley passes me my axe and we kill everything that moves. Any questions?”

Fisher shook the last of the rope bindings from her wrists and flapped her hands hard to try and get the blood moving again. There were angry red cuts on her arms and wrists from where the knife had cut her as well as the ropes, but she ignored them. Feeling began to come back into her hands, and she winced as pins and needles moved in her fingers. She padded silently over to the closed door and listened carefully. So far, no one seemed to have missed Pike and Da Silva, but she didn’t know how long that would last. She went back to Pike and drew his sword from its scabbard. It was a good blade.

She looked at the two men lying bloody and unconscious on the floor. They would have raped her, abused her, and then handed her over to Hardcastle for a slow, painful death. Assuming she got out of this mess alive, she could have them both sent to the mines for the rest of their lives. No one messes with a Guard and gets away with it. But there was always the chance Hardcastle would buy the judge and Pike and Da Silva would go free. She couldn’t allow that to happen. As long as they were free, she would never feel safe again.

She knelt beside Pike and put the edge of his sword against his throat. She could do it. No one would ever know. She knelt there for a long time, and then she took the sword away from his throat and stood up. She couldn’t kill a helpless man in cold blood. Not even him. She was a Guard, and a Guard enforces the law; she doesn’t take revenge.

She turned her back on Pike and Da Silva, moved over to the door and eased it open an inch. She didn’t know how many mercenaries were out there, but from the muttered talk it sounded like quite a few. Her best bet would be to throw open the door and then make a mad dash for the main door. She might make it. If she was lucky. She eased the door open a little further, and then froze as there was a sudden pounding on the front door.

Hawk looked calmly about him, as though he couldn’t feel the point of Roxanne’s sword digging into his back. It occurred to him that if he’d misjudged the situation, he was in a whole lot of trouble. There were twelve mercenaries in the room, some carrying weapons, some not. According to Roxanne, there were more mercenaries on the next floor up. So, assume twenty men, all told. Ten to one odds. Hawk smiled. He’d faced worse in his time. One of the mercenaries walked over to him. Tall, muscular, chain mail. Wore a sword in a battered scabbard and looked like he knew how to use it. Regular issue mercenary. He nodded briefly to Roxanne, and looked Hawk up and down.

“So this is the famous Captain Hawk. Do come in, Captain. Don’t stand on ceremony.” He laughed softly. “You know, Captain, Hardcastle’s just dying to see you. As for you, you’re just dying.”

“You speak when you’re spoken to, Captain. I can see we’re going to have to teach you some manners before we let you meet Councillor Hardcastle. But don’t worry about your wife. We haven’t forgotten her. Even as we speak, she’s being entertained by two of our men. I’m sure they’re giving her a real good time.”

He laughed, and Hawk kneed him in the groin. The mercenary bent forward around his pain, almost as though bowing to Hawk, and Hawk rabbit-punched him on the way to the floor. The other mercenaries jumped to their feet and grabbed for their weapons.

Hawk snatched his axe from Medley, yelled for Roxanne to guard his back, and started toward the first mercenary without looking to see if Roxanne was there. Hawk swung his axe up and then buried it almost to the hilt in the shoulder of the first mercenary, shearing through the chain mail. The force of the blow drove the mercenary to his knees. Hawk put his boot against the man’s chest and pulled the blade free. Blood flew on the air as Hawk turned to face his next opponent. There was a clash of steel on steel as Roxanne struck down a second mercenary, and Hawk allowed himself a small smile of relief.

And then the door on the other side of the room burst open, and Fisher charged out, sword in hand. Hawk’s smile widened. All this time he’d been worried about her, and here she was safe and sound. He should have known. She seemed a little startled to see Roxanne guarding his back, but she quickly set about carving a path through the mercenaries to reach him.

Hawk swung his axe double-handed, and blood splashed across the filthy floor. The heavy steel blade easily deflected the lighter swords, and punched through chain mail as though it wasn’t there. Fisher fought at his side, her sword a steel blur as she cut and parried and thrust. Roxanne laughed and danced and cut her way through her fellow mercenaries with a deadly glee. Medley stayed out of the way. He knew his limitations.

A bearded mercenary duelled Hawk to a halt, his heavy long-sword almost a match for Hawk’s axe. They locked blades, and stood face to face for a moment. Muscles bunched across the mercenary’s shoulders, and Hawk quickly realised he couldn’t hold the man back for long. So he spat in his eyes. The mecenary jerked back his head instinctively and lost his balance. Hawk swept the sword aside and slammed the axe into the man’s chest.

Fisher stood toe to toe with a tall, slender mercenary, trading blow for blow. She knew she daren’t keep that up for long. He was bigger than her, and she was still weakened, from what she’d been through. She locked eyes with him, stepped forward and brought her heel down hard on the instep of his right foot. She could feel bones crush and break in his foot. The sudden pain sucked the colour from his face and the strength from his arms. Fisher beat aside his blade and cut his throat on the backswing. The mercenary dropped his sword and clutched at his throat with both hands, as though he could somehow hold the ghastly wound together. He was already sinking to his knees as Fisher turned to face her next opponent.

Roxanne swung her sword in wide, vicious arcs, and the mercenaries fell back before her. Her eyes were wide with uncomplicated delight, and she laughed breathlessly as her blade cut through their flesh. She was doing what she did best, what she was born to do. She moved among her former companions with neither mercy nor compassion, and none of them could stand against her. She killed them with professionalism and style, and the blood sang in her head.

Suddenly the mercenaries broke and ran, even though they still outnumbered their attackers. Pike and Da Silva might have been able to rally them, but without their leaders the mercenaries hadn’t the nerve to face three living legends.

Hawk looked round the suddenly empty room, and lowered his axe. He was almost disappointed the fight was over so soon. He had a lot of pent-up anger to work off. He turned, smiling, to Fisher, and his anger turned suddenly cold and merciless as he saw what they’d done to her. Her mouth was bruised and swollen, and blood from a nasty cut on her scalp had spilled down one side of her face. He took her in his arms and held her tightly, and she hugged him back as if she would never let him go. Finally Medley coughed politely, and Hawk and Fisher broke apart. Fisher looked at Medley, and then at Roxanne.

Fisher shrugged. “That’s politicians and mercenaries for you. Let’s hope Adamant’s the forgiving kind. There are two more mercenaries in the other room, out cold. We’re taking them with us; I’ll be pressing charges.”