Swords of Haven

The sorcerer Tomb led Hawk and Fisher down the Street of Gods, and the crowds parted before them to give them room. Curious eyes watched the Guards pass, but no one wanted to get too close. Word of their arrival on the Street had preceded them. Hawk and Fisher nodded politely to the few brave souls who ventured a greeting, and kept their eyes open for unfriendly faces. Their encounter with the High Priests hadn’t made them any friends. And besides, for no reason he could put his finger on, Hawk felt more than usually uneasy about his surroundings. The Street of Gods had changed since the last time he saw it. The buildings pressed more closely together, as though for comfort and support, and the occasional creatures and manifestations had a dangerous, openly threatening air. Even the street preachers seemed wilder, more intent on messages of destruction and damnation. The Street had grown darker, colder, more turned in upon itself. As though it wasn’t sure who it could trust anymore. Hawk looked at Fisher to see if she’d noticed the changes, and saw that her hand was back resting on the pommel of her sword. Fisher liked to be prepared.

The last time they’d visited the Street of Gods, Hawk and Fisher had been acting as bodyguards for the political candidate James Adamant, as he made the rounds of sympathetic Beings, looking for support in the elections. Adamant was now Councillor Adamant, though of course that didn’t necessarily prove anything. One way or the other. But though even then the Street of Gods had been a strange and eerie place, with its creatures and illusions and uncertain reality, the Street that Hawk walked now seemed somehow more sour, and more defensive. As though it was on its guard ... Hawk frowned. Presumably even Gods could get scared, with a God killer on the loose.

Hawk scowled, and let his hand fall to the axe at his side. More and more, he was feeling very much out of his depth. He’d faced some strange things in his time, but his experience in Haven was for the most part with human killers, with their everyday schemes and passions and hatreds. He knew how to handle them. But, for better or worse, he was stuck with the God Squad now, until either he found the killer or his superiors relented. He’d just have to get used to the Street, that was all. He’d seen worse, in his time.

A group of monks came striding down the Street of Gods, arms swinging with military precision. Their robes hung loosely about them, the cowls pulled forward to hide their faces. Tomb moved to one side to let them pass, and Hawk and Fisher did the same. Anything could be dangerous on the Street of Gods, and it paid to be careful. The monks went by, looking neither left nor right. Tomb waited until they’d passed, and then continued on his way. Hawk and Fisher followed on behind.

They were on their way to look at the churches of the three murdered Beings. Rowan wasn’t with them, because she wasn’t feeling well. Apparently she’d been quite ill recently, and spent a lot of time in bed, dosing herself with her herbal remedies. Hawk just hoped it wasn’t catching. And Buchan was off somewhere on business of his own. No one asked what. Buchan being Buchan, no one really wanted to know. Which left Tomb to act as their guide.

The first murder site was a huge, solid building right in the middle of the Street. The walls were made of great stone blocks, each of them as big as a man. The church was three stories high, with narrow slits for windows. There was only one door, made of solid oak, and reinforced with wide steel bands. Hawk studied the building thoughtfully as Tomb fumbled with his key ring. The place looked more like a fortress than a church. Which suggested this was a religion with enemies, in the Church’s mind if nowhere else. And it had to be said that worship of the Dread Lord hadn’t been an exactly popular religion. Human sacrifice wasn’t banned on the street of Gods, as long as it didn’t endanger the tourists, but it was frowned on. Tomb finally located the right key and unlocked the huge padlock affixed to the door. He pushed the door with his fingertips, and it swung silently open on its counterweights. Hawk studied the dark opening suspiciously.

“There’s no one in there, Captain Hawk,” said Tomb reassuringly. “After the murder was discovered I set up protective wards to keep out vandals and souvenir hunters, and they’re still in place. No one’s been here since I left. Follow me, please.”

Tomb walked confidently into the gloom, and Hawk and Fisher followed him in, hands hovering over their weapons. A bright blue glow appeared around the sorcerer, pushing back the darkness and illuminating the hallway. The hall was grim and oppressive, without ornament or decoration of any kind. Tomb allowed them a few moments to look around, and then led them toward a door at the far end of the hall. The front door slammed shut behind them. Hawk jumped, but wouldn’t give Tomb the satisfaction of looking back. The second door opened onto a rough wooden stairway, leading down into darkness.

They followed the stairs down into the darkness for a long time. Hawk tried to keep count, but he kept losing track. By the time they reached the bottom, Hawk realised they had to be uncomfortably far beneath the city, down in the bedrock itself. Tomb gestured abruptly with his left hand, and the bright blue glow flared up, shedding its light over a larger area. Hawk and Fisher looked wonderingly about them. The stairs had brought them to a vast stone chamber, hundreds of feet in diameter. The walls were rough and unfinished, but the sharp edges left by the original cutting tools had been mostly smoothed over by air and moisture in the many years since the cavern had been hewn from the living rock.

Stalactites and stalagmites hung down from the ceiling and jutted up from the cavern floor. There were pools of dark water, and thick white patches of fungi spattered across the walls. There were cobwebs everywhere, shrouding the walls and hanging in tatters between the stalactites and stalagmites. Fisher touched one strand with a fingertip, and it stretched unnaturally before it snapped. Fisher pulled a face, and wiped her hand clean on her cloak. It was very quiet, and the slightest echo seemed to linger uncomfortably before fading away into whispers. In the middle of the cavern, the webbing had thickened and come together to form a huge hammock, hanging suspended above their heads from the thickest stalactites. It was torn and tattered now, but there was enough left to suggest the immense size of the form that had once hung within it.

Tomb smiled. “I’m not sure I believe in anything, anymore, my dear. Working on the Street of Gods will do that to you. It makes you doubt too many things. Or perhaps it just makes you cynical. We need Gods, all of us. They offer hope and comfort and forgiveness, and most of all they offer reassurance. We’re all afraid of dying, afraid of going alone into the dark. And perhaps even more than that, we need to believe in something greater than ourselves, something to give our lives meaning and purpose.”

Tomb led them across the gloomy cavern to what Hawk had taken for an exceptionally large boulder. It turned out to be a huge pile of sharp-edged objects, dark and glazed, held together in one place by strands of webbing. It took Hawk a while to work out what he was looking at, but eventually some of the shapes took on sense and meaning, and his lip curled in disgust. Going by the size of the carapace segments and the many jointed legs, the Dread Lord had been more insect than anything else. The pile of broken pieces stood nearly ten feet tall, and was easily as broad. The Being itself must have been huge. Hawk shivered involuntarily. He’d never liked insects.

“By the amount of blood,” said Hawk. “It stops flowing after you’re dead. So if there’s not much blood splashed around a dismembered body, it’s a safe enough bet the victim was dead at the time. You learn things like that in the Northside.”

“Great,” said Hawk. “No witnesses to the murder, no clues at the scene of the crime, and no one left to question. I’ve only been on this case a few hours, and already it’s driving me crazy. Nothing in this damned case makes sense. I mean, how did the killer get down here? I assume the church was well-guarded?”

Hawk looked at the pile of broken and splintered chitin that had once been worshipped as a God, shook his head slowly, and turned his back on it. “We’re not going to learn anything useful here. I’ll call in the forensic sorcerers, and see what they can turn up.” He stopped. Tomb was shaking his head. “All right. What’s wrong now?”

At first glance it was just an ordinary house. Two storeys, slate roof, good brickwork. Windows and brasswork had been recently cleaned. It looked as out of place on the Street of Gods as a lamb in a wolfpack. Tomb knocked politely on the door, and there was a long pause.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” said Fisher. “This is the closest I’ve ever seen to archetypal merchant-class housing. All it needs is a rococo boot-scraper and a lion’s-head door-knocker and it’d be perfect. What kind of God would live here?”

They waited some more. People passed by on the Street of Gods, going about their business in the warm summer sun, but all of them seemed to have some kind of smile for the people waiting outside the tacky little two up, two down merchant’s house. Fisher took to glaring indiscriminately at anyone who even looked in their direction.

There was the sound of bolts being drawn back from inside, and they turned to face the door again. It swung suddenly open, revealing a plain-faced, average-looking woman in her late forties. She was dressed well but not expensively, in a style that had last been fashionable a good ten years ago. She looked tired and drawn, and somehow defeated by life. She smiled briefly at Hawk and Fisher, and bowed politely to Tomb.

She stood back, and Tomb led the two Guards into the hall. It was just as narrow and gloomy as Hawk had expected, with bare floorboards and plain wool paneling on the walls. But everything was neat and tidy, and the simple furniture glowed from recent polishing. Sister Anna shut the door, and slid home four heavy bolts. She caught Hawk looking at her, and smiled self-consciously.

“Our God has been dead barely a week, and already the vultures are gathering on the Street. If sir Tomb hadn’t put protective wards round the house on his first visit, they’d have torn the place apart by now, searching for objects of power and whatever loot they could lay their hands on. Not that they’d have found much of either. We were never a rich or powerful Order. We had our God, and his teachings, and that was all. It was enough. As it is, the memory of the wards keep most of them away, and the locks and bolts take care of the rest. This way, please.”

She led them into a pleasant little drawing room, and saw them all comfortably seated before departing for the kitchen to get them some tea. Hawk slipped his hand inside his shirt and felt for the bone amulet that hung from his neck. It was still and quiet to his touch. If there was any magic left inside the house, it was so small the amulet couldn’t detect it. Hawk took his hand away from the amulet and looked round the drawing room. It was comfortably appointed, but nothing special. Cups and saucers had been carefully laid out on the table, along with milk and sugar and paper-lace doilies. Hawk looked hard at Tomb.

Tomb smiled slightly. “You’ll find all kinds on the Street of Gods, Captain Hawk. Allow me to tell you the story of the Sundered Man. It’s really very interesting. His life until his twenty-fourth year was quiet, comfortable, and quite uninteresting to anyone save himself. He was a junior clerk in the shipping offices. A little dull, but good prospects. And then the miracle happened. For reasons we still don’t understand, he took it into his head to visit the Street of Gods. And whilst there he started to perform wonders and speak prophecy. For twenty-four hours he walked the Street of Gods, wrapped in Power and dispensing miracles. And then... something happened. His followers called it the final miracle. He levitated into the air, smiled at something only he could see, and never moved again. He had somehow become sundered from Time; frozen in a single moment of eternity. Unmoving, unchanging, never aging. Nothing could reach him, or harm him, or affect him in any way.

“It was never a very big religion, but those who’d been with him on that day, and saw his wonders and heard him preach, proved very loyal. They believed their man had become more than human, a God who had stepped outside of Time to commune with realities beyond our own. One day, he would return and share his knowledge with the faithful. That was twenty-two years ago. They waited all that time, and then somebody killed their God.”

“This was his house,” said Sister Anna. “Or as near as we could get to duplicating it. We built it around him, room by room. We wanted him to feel at home when he returned.” She put her tray down on the table, picked up the china teapot and silver tea-strainer, and poured tea for all of them. She finally sat down facing them, and they all sipped their tea in silence for a while. Hawk studied her over his cup. There were deep lines in her face, and her eyes had a bruised, puffy look, as though she’d been crying recently. Her shoulders were slumped, and her gaze was polite but unfocused. Delayed shock, thought Hawk. The longer you stave it off, the harder it finally hits. He looked at Tomb and raised an eyebrow, but the sorcerer seemed content to leave the questioning to him. Hawk looked at Sister Anna and cleared his throat.

“Four o’clock in the morning, six days ago,” said Sister Anna. Her voice was calm and even. “One of our people was always with him, so that he wouldn’t be alone when he finally returned to us. Brother John was on duty. He went to sleep. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t like him. When he awoke, the God was no longer standing by the altar we made for him. He was lying crumpled on the floor, a knife in his heart. The blood was everywhere. Brother John spread the alarm, but there was no trace of the killer. We still don’t know how he got in or out.”

“No you don’t, Captain.” Sister Anna looked at him squarely. “For twenty-two years we’d waited, devoting our lives to the Sundered Man, only to find it was all a lie. He wasn’t a God after all. Gods don’t bleed and die. He was just a man; a man with power perhaps, but nothing more. I’m the only one left now. The others are all gone. Some killed themselves. Some went home, to the families they’d given up for their God. Some went to look for a new God to worship. Some went mad. They all left, as the days passed and our God stayed dead.”

She led the way up the narrow stairs to the next floor and ushered them into a small, cosy bedroom. The Sundered Man was lying on the floor, curled around the knife that had killed him. There was dried blood all around the body, but no sign of any struggle. Hawk knelt down beside the dead man. There was only the one wound; no cuts to the hands or arms to suggest he’d tried to fend off his attacker. It was a standard-looking knife hilt; the kind you could buy anywhere in Haven. The dead man’s face was calm and peaceful. Hawk got to his feet again, and shook his head slowly.

Sister Anna looked down at the body, and smiled slightly. “I was there, on the Street of Gods, twenty-two years ago, when it all began. I was just passing through, but he looked at me and smiled, and I stopped to hear him preach. He was magnificent. When he left I went with him, and from that moment on, I was always at his side. After he was taken from us, sundered from Time, I made this place my home, and waited for him to come back to me.

The church of the Carmadine Stalker turned out to be a door in a wall. To one side of the door stood a pleasant little chapel of the Bright Lady, all flowers and vines and pastel colors. On the other side was an open, airy temple dedicated to the January Man. The door itself didn’t look like much. It was six feet high and three feet wide, with peeling paint, splintering wood, and a large discoloured steel padlock. It was the kind of door that in Hawk’s experience usually fronted lock-up warehouses down by the docks, spe cialising in the kind of goods no one would publicly admit to wanting. He studied the door thoughtfully, aware that Tomb was watching him and waiting for him to comment. Obviously Tomb expected him to get all upset again. He was damned if he’d give the sorcerer the satisfaction.

“They’re waiting for him to rise from the dead. With all due respect, Captain Fisher, Captain Hawk, I think we should keep this visit as short and to the point as possible. The Carmadine Stalker was an unpleasant God of an extremely unpleasant Order. If his followers were to take exception to our presence, I’m not at all sure we’d get out of their lair alive.”

Tomb looked at him for a moment, and then turned to face the door. He gestured at the padlock, and it snapped open. He pushed the door, and it swung back, revealing a sickly green light. Tomb stepped forward into it. Hawk started to follow and then stopped short as the smell hit him. It was a thick, choking smell of corruption and decay. The green light seemed to take on a more sinister aspect, reminding Hawk of the corpse fires that danced on recently built cairns. He braced himself and followed Tomb into the light. Fisher followed close behind, her hand at her sword belt.

The door slammed shut behind them, and they found themselves in a long brick tunnel, slanting downwards, lit only by the eerie green light that came from everywhere and nowhere. The tunnel was only just tall enough for Fisher to stand upright, and no more than three or four feet wide. The brick walls were cracked and crumbling from age and neglect, and the floor was covered with pools of dark, scummy water. Mosses and fungi pockmarked the brickwork, and the smell of death and decay was almost overpowering. Far off in the distance a bell tolled endlessly, like the slow remorseless beating of a great brazen heart.

Tomb led the two Guards through an endless maze of narrow brick tunnels that twisted and turned and folded back upon themselves. The bell tolled on and on in the distance, but never seemed to draw any closer. Moisture dripped from the low ceiling and ran down the walls in sudden little streams. Hawk kept a wary eye on where they were going, but even so, the first priest caught him by surprise. The scrawny figure was sitting cross-legged in a niche set into the tunnel wall. He was old and shrivelled, corpse-pale and quite naked. Bones pushed out against his taut flesh. His breathing was slow and shallow, and his eyes were closed. A length of discoloured steel chain ran from a heavy ring set in the wall to a great steel hook buried in the priest’s shoulder. The tip of the hook poked out of the priest’s flesh just below the armpit. From the way the puckered skin had healed around the sharp point, the hook had obviously been there a long time.

Tomb and the two Guards moved ahead quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible, but still the priest’s eyelids crawled open as they passed. Hawk froze in his tracks, his hand at his axe. The priest had no eyes, only empty sockets, but still his head turned to face Hawk. He smiled slowly, revealing filed pointed teeth, and then his eyelids closed again. Hawk nodded to Fisher and Tomb, and they moved on. They passed more priests, from time to time, sitting unmoving in their niches in the walls. None of them stirred or spoke, but they all watched with empty eye sockets as the intruders passed.

And finally they came to a large, echoing chamber, empty save for a huge brass throne set in the centre of the open space. On the throne sprawled what was left of the Carmadine Stalker. Hawk moved slowly forward, keeping a watchful eye on the other tunnels leading off from the chamber. He stopped before the throne and wrinkled his nose at the remains of the Stalker. The discoloured bones were held together by rotting scraps of muscle, and the grinning skull had been stripped almost clean of flesh. The Carmadine Stalker was an ugly sight in death, and had probably looked even worse when it was alive. It had to have been at least eight feet tall, with a broad chest and a wide flat head. The arms and legs were too long, and much thicker than a man’s. There were vicious talons on the hands and feet, and the grinning teeth were long and pointed. Hawk tried to imagine what the thing must have looked like in its prime, and for a moment his breath caught in his throat.

“The Stalker was a grisly kind of God,” said Tomb. His voice was hushed, as though he was afraid of waking .. something. “Its religion was based around ritual sacrifice, mutilation, and cannibalism. Let’s keep this short, Captain Hawk. This is a bad place to be. It’s going to get even worse when the Stalkers realise their God isn’t going to rise from the dead.”

Tomb nodded, and headed quickly for the tunnel mouth that had brought them there. Fisher followed close behind, sword in hand. Hawk backed out of the chamber, keeping a careful watch on the dead God all the way. He had a strong feeling that at any moment the tattered corpse might raise its bony head and look at him.... He kept watching it until he reached a bend in the tunnel which cut off his view, and then he turned and hurried after Tomb and Fisher. The great brass bell tolled on, its slow sonorous sound prophesying blood and doom.

Tomb led them confidently back through the maze of brick tunnels, and then stopped suddenly and bit his lip. Hawk frowned. By his reckoning, they were barely halfway back to the door on the Street of Gods. Tomb stood very still, his gaze vague and far away. Hawk looked quickly about him. The tunnel stretched off in both directions, silent and empty, bathed in the sickly light of the ubiquitous green glow.

“A group of men. A large group. Maybe as many as twenty. All of them armed. Apparently the Carmadine Stalker’s followers don’t want us to leave.” Tomb shivered suddenly, and his gaze cleared. “I may be wrong, but I think it’s very likely they’re planning on sacrificing us to their God, in the hope it will help him return.”

The two Guards fell silent. In the darkness of one of the side tunnels, someone was moving. Whoever, it was, was trying to be quiet, but even the faintest of sounds travelled clearly in the quiet of the tunnels. Hawk and Fisher stood side by side, weapons at the ready. Tomb gave the tunnel a quick glance, and then began muttering something under his breath. The first of the Stalkers came charging out of the side tunnel, and Hawk braced himself to meet him. The Stalker was tall and wiry, with a wide grin and staring eyes. He wore a dark, flapping robe, and carried a vicious-looking scimitar. He threw himself at Hawk, the curved blade reaching for the Guard’s throat. Hawk batted the sword aside easily, and buried the axe in the Stalker’s face on the backswing. The Stalker fell to his knees, blood coursing down his grinning face, and then he crumpled to the floor as Hawk jerked the axe free.

More Stalkers came boiling out of the side tunnel, their eyes glaring wildly. Swords and axes gleamed in the eerie green light. Hawk and Fisher launched themselves at their attackers. The flood of Stalkers stumbled to a sudden halt as Hawk and Fisher slammed into them. Hawk swung his axe in short, vicious arcs, and Stalkers fell dead and dying to the floor. Fisher stamped and thrust at his side, warding off the few Stalkers with reflexes fast enough to start their own attacks. Blood splashed the tunnel walls and collected in pools on the floor.

The narrow tunnel meant that only a few of the Stalkers could press their attack at one time, and Hawk and Fisher were more than a match for them. But even so, the fanatical hatred and fervour of the Stalkers drove them forward over the bodies of the slain, and step by step Hawk and Fisher were driven back down the tunnel. Tomb retreated behind them, still lost in his muttering.

Hawk swung his axe double-handed, trying to open up some space before him, but the press of bodies was too strong. Everywhere he looked there were darting swords and glaring eyes and pointed teeth bared in snarling smiles. Fisher gutted a Stalker with a quick economical cut, and turned to face the next attacker while the first was still falling. A sharp jolt of surprise went through her as the dying Stalker grabbed her legs with both arms and tried to bring her down. She met a flailing sword with an automatic parry, and tried to kick the Stalker away, but he hung on with grim determination. Blood from his wound soaked her trousers. The first twinges of panic had begun to gnaw at Fisher’s self-control, when Hawk spotted her problem and cut through the Stalker’s neck with his axe. The Stalker went limp and fell away, and Fisher kicked herself free. The whole thing had only taken a moment or two, but there was a cold sweat on Fisher’s forehead as she hurled herself back into the fray.

The Stalker before her paused suddenly, his mouth gaping with surprise, and then his head exploded. Blood and brains spattered the tunnel roof and walls as Fisher jumped back, startled. There was a series of brisk popping sounds, and within the space of a few moments the tunnel floor was littered with headless bodies. Hawk and Fisher lowered their weapons, looked at each other, and then turned to stare at Tomb.

“Sorry it took so long,” said the sorcerer calmly, “but that kind of spell is rather tricky to work out. You have to be very careful where you put the decimal point.” He stopped suddenly, his head cocked to one side, listening to something only he could hear. “I think it might be wise to press on. There are more Stalkers on their way. Rather more than I can handle, I’m afraid.”

He pushed Tomb ahead of him, and the three of them ran swiftly through the brick tunnels, heading for the outside world. They hadn’t gone far when they heard the sound of running feet behind them. Hawk and Fisher ran faster, urging Tomb on. He led them through the maze of tunnels with unwavering confidence, and suddenly they were through the doorway and out on the Street of Gods, blinking dazedly in the bright summer sun. Tomb turned to face the door, gestured sharply, and the door disappeared, leaving a blank wall behind it.

“Good,” said Tomb. “Because I’m afraid I have to leave you now. I do have other work to attend to, you know.” He produced a folded piece of paper from a hidden pocket, and handed it to Hawk. “This is a list of Beings who may agree to speak to you. It would help you to have an overview of what’s happening on the Street of Gods at the moment. Beyond that, I’m afraid I really don’t know what else to suggest. Tracking down murderers is a little outside my experience.”

Charles Buchan sat on the edge of his chair, and waited impatiently for them to bring Annette to him. The Sisters of Joy were officially classed as a religion, and had one of the largest establishments on the Street of Gods, but when you got right down to it, their lounge looked like nothing more than an upmarket brothel. Which wasn’t really that far from the mark, if you thought about it.

The Sisters of Joy were an old established religion. Older than Haven itself, some said. It had branches all across the Low Kingdoms, to the impotent fury of equally old and established, but more conservative, religions. The Sisters had started out as temple prostitutes for a now forgotten fertility Goddess, probably not unlike the Bright Lady, and had somehow evolved through their discovery of tantric magic into something far more powerful. Not to mention sinister.

Tantric magic is based on sex, or to be more exact, sexuality. Basically, the Sisters of Joy drained people’s strength and vitality through sex, leeching at their very life force. The stolen energy gave them greatly extended life spans, and made them powerful magicians, but only as long as the energy level was maintained. They needed a lot of people to maintain their power and their long lives, but human nature being what it was, the Sisters were never short of visitors. Or victims, depending on how you looked at it.

Tantric magic wasn’t strictly speaking part of the High Magic at all, having its roots squarely in the older, less reputable Wild Magic, which was partly why most modem sorcerers would have nothing to do with it. The other reason was that women were a hell of a lot better at tantric magic than men, and the High Magic was still largely a male province. So the High Magic was socially acceptable, while tantric magic very definitely was not. The Sisters of Joy didn’t give a damn. They went their own way, as they always had. Their door were always open, day and night, to those who came to them in need or despair. The Sisters offered care and comfort and affection, and in return bound all who came to them in a tightening web of emotional dependency and obligation. There were those who said the Sisters of Joy were addictive, and that those who fell under their influence became little more than slaves. No one said it too loudly, or too publicly, of course. It wouldn’t have been wise.

The lounge was almost indecently luxurious. A thick pile carpet covered the floor, and the walls had disappeared behind a profusion of paintings and hanging tapestries, most of them obscene. Perfumes sweetened the air. There were comfortable chairs and settees and love seats, and delicately crafted tables bearing wines and spirits and cordials, and every kind of drug or potion. Nothing was forbidden here, and it was all free. To begin with. The Sisters of Joy had amassed a considerable fortune over the many centuries, and they still received very generous donations from their grateful clients. No one ever mentioned blackmail, of course. It wouldn’t have been wise.

With an effort, Buchan stopped himself pacing. It was a sign of weakness, and he couldn’t afford to be weak. He looked again at the brass-bound clock on the mantelpiece, and frowned. He couldn’t stay long, or Tomb and Rowan might wonder where he was. They might ask questions. So might Hawk and Fisher. He would have to be careful around the two Guards. They had a reputation for sniffing out secrets and getting to the bottom of things. Buchan was always careful to go disguised when he made his visits to the Sisters of Joy, but no disguise was perfect, especially on the Street of Gods. Still, only the Quality knew for sure of his connection with the Sisters, and they didn’t know as much as they thought they did. And when you got right down to it, the chances of the city aristocracy deigning to discuss such matters with the likes of Hawk and Fisher were pretty damned remote.

He smiled slightly. It wasn’t that long ago he’d been an important figure in the Quality, a member in good standing and much in demand. No one cared about his reputation then; it just gave them something juicy to gossip about. The Quality do so love their gossip. But even the most sybaritic, most debauched member of the Quality had drawn the line at his associating with the Sisters of Joy. The Sisters were beyond the pale, utterly forbidden. First his friends talked to him about it, and then his enemies. His Family forbade him to visit the Sisters, on pain of disowning him. But he couldn’t stay away, and he wouldn’t tell them why, so in the end the Quality had turned their back on him, and his Family had cut him off without a penny.

And then the door opened, and she came in. His breath caught in his throat as it always did, and he stood there for a long moment, just drinking in the sight of her. She was tall and slender and graceful and very lovely. Long blond hair curled down around her shoulders, and her eyes were the same. blue as his own. She smiled at him, the special smile she saved for him and him alone, and ran forward into his waiting arms.

Tomb slowly climbed the stairs to Rowan’s room, a silver tray floating on the air beside him, bearing a cup of steaming tea. The sorcerer was worried about Rowan. She’d been ill on and off for months now, and she still wouldn’t let anyone call in a doctor to see her. She didn’t believe in doctors, preferring to dose herself with her own foul mixtures. Tomb didn’t know what went into them, but every time Rowan prepared a fresh batch in the kitchen, the cook threatened to quit. Having smelt the fumes himself on more than one occasion, Tomb didn’t blame her. If the smell had been any stronger, you could have used it to pebble-dash walls. Tomb’s mouth twitched, but he was too worried to smile. Rowan had been taking her vile doses for weeks, and she was still no better. If her condition didn’t improve soon, he’d bring in a doctor, no matter what she said. He couldn’t stand to see her looking so drawn and tired.

He moved quietly along the landing and stopped outside Rowan’s door. He knocked politely, and glared at the tea tray when it showed signs of wavering. There was no reply, and he knocked again. He looked round vaguely as he waited. Rowan rarely answered the first few knocks. She liked her privacy, and often she didn’t care for company. Rowan had never been what you’d call sociable. Tomb sighed quietly, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

The house seemed very quiet. Buchan was out, and it was the servants’ day off. Tomb had been a member of the God Squad for almost eleven years now, and he knew the house and its moods well. Of late, however, the quiet seemed to have an almost sinister nature; a quiet of unspoken words and too many secrets. Of course, the house was used to secrets. No one came to the God Squad with an entirely clean past. Which was probably why so few of them stayed long. It wasn’t everyone who could cope with the eccentric realities of the Street of Gods. Tomb had seen many warriors and mystics come and go down the years. He hoped Rowan would stay. She was special. He knocked on the door again, a little louder.

There was still no reply. Tomb opened the door and entered quietly, the tea tray floating uncertainly behind him. Rowan was fast asleep, looking small and helpless and wor risomely frail in the oversized bed. Rowan stirred slowly without waking, and then settled again. She’d disarrayed the bedclothes in her sleep, like a fretful child, and Tomb moved quietly forward to straighten them. He stood back, looked round the room, and then looked at Rowan again. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully now. There didn’t seem to be anything else he could do. There was no reason for him to stay.

He sat down on the chair beside the bed. The room was the same featureless square as his own, but she’d done more to personalize hers in the short time she’d been there than he had in all his eleven years. There were oil paintings on the walls that she’d executed herself. They showed promise. A cuddly toy with a stitched-on smile lay on the floor beside the bed. Rowan liked to take it to bed with her when the others were away on cases and she was left alone in the house at night. Tomb could understand that. There are times we all need something to cling to in the night. The rug on the floor was a new addition. Tomb had spent a whole afternoon in the markets with her, trying to find one just the right shade to complement the bedclothes.

She stirred again in her sleep, and Tomb looked at her quickly, but she didn’t waken. Tomb sat and watched her for a while. He liked to watch her. He could quite happily have sat where he was all day and all night, watching over her, caring for her. Loving her. He smiled slightly. He never used the word love except in his thoughts. He’d told her once how he felt about her, after an hour or so of talking around the subject while he worked up his nerve, and the best he could say of the outcome was that at least she hadn’t laughed at him. She just told him that she didn’t care for him, and seemed to think that was the end of it. Tomb smiled tiredly. If only it was that easy. He hadn’t asked to fall in love with her. She wasn’t especially bright or pretty. But she owned his heart and always would, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Reluctantly he got to his feet. Rowan could wake up anytime now, and he’d better not be here when she did. He didn’t want to upset her. He left the room quietly, and eased the door shut behind him. He made his way back down the stairs, frowning slightly as he tried to work out what he ought to do next. There was a hell of a lot of paperwork that needed seeing to, but then there always was. It could wait a little longer. He supposed he could take a walk down the Street, talk to people, get a feel of how the Street was reacting to Hawk and Fisher’s arrival.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He couldn’t go now. It was far too dangerous, with Hawk and Fisher out on the Street. They wouldn’t understand. But he couldn’t stay away either. It was already too long since his last visit. He glanced back up the stairs. Rowan would be all right. The protective wards around the house would make sure she wasn’t disturbed. And if she wanted anything, she only had to call and Tomb would hear her, wherever he was. She knew that.

He hurried down the hall, took his cloak from the rack, and swung it round his shoulders. He pulled the hood forward, adjusting it so that its shadow covered his face. He could have used a disguise spell, but there were too many places on the Street where magic couldn’t be relied on.

Hawk and Fisher slogged up and down the Street of Gods, working their way through the list of names Tomb had given them. Hours passed, but the sun overhead didn’t move. It was noon on the Street of Gods, and had been for several days. Robed acolytes hurried past them on unknown missions, heads bowed to show respect and humility, and to avoid having to see churches and temples more splendid than their own. The street preachers were still working themselves into hysterical rages and setting fire to each other, but no one was paying much attention except the tourists. Hawk and Fisher tramped grimly back and forth, getting what information they could from the Beings that Tomb had named as potentially helpful, and doing their best to ignore the wonders and terrors that thronged the Street.

The Night People were an old necromantic sect, not as well-supported as they had once been. Their High Priest met Hawk and Fisher in the Ossuary, the Cathedral of Bone. Intricate patterns of polished bones formed the floor and walls and ceilings of the Ossuary. Some were recognisa bly human. Others were so large and grotesque that Hawk preferred not to think about where they might have come from originally. The air smelt of musk and cinnamon, and strange lights flickered in far off windows. All the time they were there, Hawk had a strong feeling they were being watched, as though something awful and implacable lurked just out of sight, waiting patiently for him to drop his guard. He kept his hand near his axe.

The Night People were blind, their eyelids stitched together, but they all moved and spoke with an eerie certainty that bordered on the unnerving. Hawk did his best to ignore the uneasy prickling on the back of his neck, and asked to see the nameless Being the Night People worshipped. The High Priest shook his head slowly. Only the faithful might see God, and that sight was so glorious it burned out the eyes of all who saw. Hawk tried to press the matter further, but the High Priest would not be moved. He wouldn’t even ask questions on the Guards’ behalf. Neither would he allow them to question the faithful. No one knew anything that might help the Guards. No one knew anything about the God killings. No one knew anything about anything.

And so it went the length of the Street, until finally they came to the Legion of the Primevil. The Legion’s church was a tall building of spires and domes and crenellated towers. There were magnificent stained-glass windows, and flags and banners in a dozen different hues. Some other time Hawk might have been impressed, but as it was, all he could think of was his aching feet. It had been a long day.

The Legion priests, however, were frankly disturbing. Each and every one had a staring alien eye embedded somewhere in his flesh. It was large and crimson with a dark split pupil, and it blazed unblinkingly from forehead, chest, or hand. In a few cases it had displaced one of the priest’s original eyes, and it bulged uncomfortably in the too-small socket, glaring balefully at the world. Legend had it that the Legion was the means whereby an ancient Being from another plane of existence was able to observe the world of men.

The High Priest seemed happy enough to talk to Hawk and Fisher, but could do little to help them. With three Beings murdered in a matter of weeks, gossip ran wild on the Street of Gods. But no one knew anything for sure. People were scared. So were some of the Beings. Everyone was looking for a villain; someone to blame and strike back at. No one had mentioned God War yet, but everyone was thinking about it.

Hawk and Fisher talked with the High Priest for some time, trying to avoid staring at the great crimson eye that glared unblinkingly from his forehead. Nothing much came of it until right at the end, when the High Priest suddenly leaned forward on his throne and fixed Hawk with his unnerving stare.

And that was all he would say. In a matter of minutes the two Guards were back on the Street again, not much wiser than when they’d started. It was still midday, and the air was uncomfortably warm. Hawk and Fisher decided simultaneously that what they really needed to help put things in perspective was a stiff drink. Or two. Accordingly, they made their way to the nearest temple dedicated to John Barleycorn, and ordered a ceremonial libation in tall glasses. They took their drinks and settled into a private booth at the back of the temple where the lights were comfortably dim. Hawk stretched out his legs with a luxurious sigh, and propped his aching feet on a nearby chair. Fisher took off one of her boots and massaged her toes. Some moments were just too precious to interrupt, but eventually they turned their attention to their drinks, and the matter at hand.

“All right,” said Hawk. “Let’s run through what we’ve got. Three Beings are dead. Since they are dead, I think it’s safe to call them Beings rather than Gods. The Dread Lord died nine days ago. His body had been torn apart. The Sundered Man was stabbed to death six days ago. And the Carmadine Stalker apparently aged to death three days ago. Doesn’t take a genius to spot the pattern, does it?”

Hawk sniffed. “Anywhere else, I could persuade someone to talk to us. But the mystic was right; strong-arm tactics aren’t going to work here. If I start shoving my axe in a Being’s face, I’ll probably end up snapping at flies on a lily pad. Intimidation is very definitely out. That just leaves diplomacy.”

“I had noticed,” said Hawk. “What do we have on the killer? He comes and goes at will, even when the temples are heavily guarded by well-armed fanatics. Which means he’s either invisible, which means a sorcerer, or a master of disguise. Or it’s someone they expect to see, someone they don’t recognise as a threat.

“Don’t give up so easily. Look at it this way. The killer has to be immensely strong, and able to pass unseen. So how about a supernatural killer, like a vampire? He could get past the guards by shapeshifting into a bat or a mist, and he’d be more than strong enough to tear apart the Dread Lord. It would even explain why all the killings took place in the early hours of the morning.”

Hawk thought about it. “It’s a possibility, lass, but I can’t believe the Beings wouldn’t have protective wards specifically designed to keep out supernatural vermin like that. Everybody else does, that can afford them. No, Isobel; I think magic is the key here.”

“That makes my head hurt,” said Fisher. She took a long drink from her glass, and frowned hard as she concentrated. “Wait a minute, though.... Turn it around. You can also see the killings as being linked by a lack of magic. The wards couldn’t keep the killer out. The magic keeping the Stalker alive failed. So did the magic keeping the Sundered Man out of time. And maybe it was only magic that was holding the Dread Lord together. He was hollow, remember? So maybe what we’re looking for is a sorcerer, or a man with an object of Power, that can dispel magic and leave the Beings vulnerable.”

Hawk smiled sourly. “If this was an easy case, they wouldn’t need us to solve it. It has to be one of the God Squad, Isobel; it’s the only theory that fits all the facts. The killer must have found some way to bypass the geas.”

“We don’t dare accuse any of them without a hell of a lot of proof,” said Fisher. “These people have friends in high places. Sometimes literally. Dammit, Hawk, we’re supposed to be working with these people. How can we keep something like this from them?”

Hawk and Fisher left the temple of John Barleycorn, and found that night had fallen without warning. Here and there, street lamps pushed back the night as best they could, but darkness pooled thickly between them. Unfamiliar stars shone in the night sky, forming alien constellations that bore no resemblance to those seen elsewhere in Haven. There was no moon, and the night air had a feverish, unsettled quality. The Street of Gods was almost deserted. The street preachers had disappeared, and only a few hooded figures still bustled back and forth on their eternal errands. Hawk frowned unhappily. The Street wouldn’t normally be this quiet just because it suddenly got dark. But with a God killer on the loose, most people had clearly decided against taking unnecessary risks.

The two Guards headed back down the Street toward the God Squad’s headquarters. For once, Hawk’s internal clock agreed with the Street’s time, and he was quietly looking forward to a good supper. He wondered what kind of cook the Squad had. He usually did the cooking at home. Fisher hadn’t the temperament for it.

They’d just passed the mouth of a narrow alleyway when they heard a muffled cry for help. As one, they spun quickly to face the dark opening, weapons in hand, but didn’t immediately rush in to see what was happening. In the Northside, a cry for help in a dark place was bait for a trap as often as not. A single lamppost glowed dully at the end of the alley, casting more shadows than light. There was no sign of whoever had called out. Hawk looked at Fisher, and she shrugged briefly. It might just be genuine. Hawk nodded, and stepped cautiously into the alleyway. Fisher moved quietly at his side, the amber lamplight gleaming on her sword blade.

Hawk scowled unhappily as the two of them moved slowly down the alley, alert for any sign of movement. The buildings on each side were dark and silent, with no lights showing at their windows. A low scraping sound cut across the quiet somewhere up ahead, and the two Guards froze where they were, eyes straining at the shadows. Nothing moved. The silence was so deep it was like a physical presence. Fisher gently tapped Hawk’s arm to get his attention, and nodded at the structure just ahead and to their right. A window shutter was open just a crack. No light shone from inside. Fisher padded silently forward, and set her back against the wall next to the shutter. She reached up with her sword and eased the shutter open. She waited a moment, and when there was no reaction, she moved away from the wall and peered in through the window. She couldn’t see anything but the darkness, and there wasn’t a sound anywhere. Fisher looked back at Hawk, and shrugged.

She turned to move away, and the window burst outwards as a dark figure smashed through it. Powerful arms grabbed Fisher from behind and hauled her back through the shattered window. Hawk lunged forward, but she’d already disappeared into the dark building. He took a deep breath, and pulled himself up and through the window in one quick, graceless movement.

He hit the floor rolling and threw himself to one side. He scrambled up into a defensive crouch, axe held out before him, and then froze where he was. He couldn’t see a damn thing, and all he could hear was his own carefully controlled breathing. There was always the chance the attacker had already fled, but Hawk didn’t think so. This whole thing smelled like a planned ambush. He started to wonder why and then pushed the thought firmly to one side. That didn’t matter now. All that mattered was what had happened to Fisher.

He bit his lip angrily. He couldn’t just stay put. The attacker’s eyes were bound to be more used to the dark than his. For all Hawk knew, the bastard was already creeping up on him from behind. That thought was enough to push Hawk into a decision. Moving quickly but carefully, he put his axe down on the floor, ready to hand, and then eased a box of matches from his pocket. He opened the box and took out a single match. He pressed it against the side of the box and then hesitated. It had to light on the first try. If it didn’t, the sound would be enough to give away his position and what he was doing. He’d be an easy target. Hawk took a deep breath, let it out, and struck the match.

Fisher threw herself forward without hesitation, and in that brief moment before the match reached the floor and went out, Hawk aimed and threw his axe with all his strength behind it. Darkness filled the room. There was the sound of a body hitting the floor, and then silence. Hawk scrabbled at his box of matches and quickly lit another match. Light flared up again. The hooded figure was lying on its back, the heavy steel blade of the axe buried in its chest. Fisher was in a defensive crouch not far away, unharmed, sword at the ready. Hawk let out a long sigh of relief. He took his emergency stub of candle from his pocket and lit it with the match. He put it down on the floor and walked over to Fisher.

Fisher loomed up behind the attacker, snarling with rage, and her sword flashed once in the candlelight as it swept round to sink deep into his neck. Hawk pulled at the hands round his throat and felt them loosen. Fisher jerked her sword free in a flurry of blood and struck again, grunting with the effort. Blood flew again as the sword half-severed the head from the body. Hawk pulled free, and with that, all the strength seemed to go out of the hooded figure, and it fell to the floor and lay still. Hawk kicked the body several times, just to be sure, and then tugged his axe free. Fisher knelt down and pulled back the figure’s hood. Her hand came away bloody, but that wasn’t what made her gasp. Even in the dim light, both she and Hawk recognised the face.