Guards of Haven

Hawk pulled and tugged at a stubborn piece of rubble, and bit by bit it slid aside. The stone’s sharp edges tore at his gloves and the flesh beneath, but he hardly felt the pain through the bitter cold and the creeping numbness of utter exhaustion. He’d lost track of how long he and the others had been digging through the wreckage, searching for survivors. It seemed ages since the collapsing pocket dimension had pulled the whole tenement building down with it, but the air was still thick with dust that choked the throat and irritated the eye. There were still occasional screams or moans or pleas for help from people trapped deep within the huge pile of broken stone and timber, which stretched across the narrow street and lapped up against the opposite building.

Hawk supposed he should be grateful that only the one building had come down, but he was too numb to feel much of anything now. He looked slowly about him as he stopped for a brief rest. The adjoining buildings were slumped and stooped, with jagged cracks in their walls, yet somehow holding together. The Guard had evacuated them, just in case, and their occupants had willingly joined the dig for survivors. Even in the Devil’s Hook, people could sometimes be touched by tragedy.

There was no telling how many might still be trapped under the debris. Slum landlords didn’t keep records on how many desperate people they squeezed into each dingy little room. The Guard were trying to keep a count, but most of the dead they dug out were too disfigured to be easily identified, and sometimes all that could be found of the bodies were scattered bits and pieces. The rescuers worked on, fired now and then from their exhaustion by the sudden appearance of a living soul, pulled raw and bloodied from the darkness under the rubble. Guards and prisoners worked side by side, along with people from the Hook, all animosities forgotten in the driving need to save as many as they could.

Not that everyone had proved so openhearted. Morgan had flatly refused to lift so much as a finger to help. Hawk was already half out of his mind with concern for the injured, and knew he couldn’t spare even one Constable to watch over the drug baron. So he just punched Morgan out, manacled the unconscious man to a nearby railing and left him there. No one objected, not even his own people. A few of them even cheered. Hawk smiled briefly at the memory, and returned to work.

They had no real tools to work with, so they attacked the broken bricks and stone and wood with their bare hands, forming human chains to transfer the larger pieces. They worked with frantic speed, spurred on by the screams and sobbing of those trapped below, but soon found it was better to work slowly and carefully rather than risk the debris collapsing in on itself, if a vital support was unwittingly removed. Most of the bodies were women and children, crushed and broken by the horrid weight. Crammed together in one room sweatshops and factories, they never stood a chance. But some survived, sheltered by protecting slabs of masonry, and they were reason enough to keep on digging.

And all the time he worked, Hawk was haunted by a simple, inescapable thought; it was all his fault. If he hadn’t led the raid on Morgan’s factory, the pocket dimension wouldn’t have collapsed, taking the tenement with it, and all those people, all those women and children, would still be alive.

Eventually the fire brigade arrived, encouraged by the presence of so many Guards. Normally they wouldn’t have entered the Devil’s Hook without an armed escort and a written guarantee of hazard pay. They quickly took over the running of the operation, and things began to go more smoothly. They set about propping up the adjoining buildings, and dealt efficiently with the many water leaks. Doctors and nurses arrived from a nearby charity hospital, and began sorting out the real emergencies from the merely badly injured. Fisher took the opportunity to drag Hawk over to a doctor, and insisted he have his wounds treated. He didn’t have the strength to argue.

More volunteers turned up to help, followed by a small army of looters. Hawk waited for the doctor to finish the healing spell, and then rose to his feet, feeling stiff but a damn sight more lively. He walked over to confront the looters, Fisher at his side. The first few took one look at what was coming towards them, went very pale, and skidded to a halt. Word passed quickly back, and most of the would-be looters decided immediately that they were needed somewhere else, very urgently. The ones who couldn’t move or think that fast found themselves volunteered to help dig through the rubble for survivors.

The work continued, interrupted increasingly rarely by a sudden shout as someone thought they heard a cry for help. Everyone would stop where they were, ears straining against the quiet as they tried to locate the faint sound. Sometimes there was nothing but the quiet, and work would slowly resume, but sometimes the cry would come again, and then everyone would work together, sweating and straining against the stubborn stone and wood until the survivors could be gently lifted free. There were hundreds of dead in the rubble, and only a few dozen living, but each new life snatched from the crushing stone gave the exhausted volunteers new will to carry on. Nurses moved among the workers with cups of hot soup and mulled ale, and an encouraging word for those who looked as though they needed it. And still more volunteers came to help, drawn from the surrounding area by the scale of the tragedy.

More Guards arrived, expecting riots, chaos, and mass looting, and were shocked to find so many people from the Hook working together to help others. Fisher set some of them to blocking off the street, to keep out sightseers and ghouls who’d just get in the way, and put the rest to work digging in the ruins, so that those who’d been working the longest could get some rest. Some of the Guard Constables weren’t too keen on dirtying their hands with manual labour, but one cold glare from Hawk was enough to convince them to shut up and get on with it.

It was at this point that the local gang leader, Hammer, arrived, along with twenty or so of his most impressive-looking bullies, and insisted on talking to the man in charge. Hawk went over to meet him, secretly glad of an excuse for a break—and a little guilty at feeling that way. So he wasn’t in the best of moods when the gang leader delivered his ultimatum. Hammer was a medium-height, well-padded man in his early twenties. He dressed well, if rather flashily, and had the kind of face that fell naturally into a sneer.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” he said flatly. “This is my territory, and no one works here without paying me. No one. So either pay up, right here, where everyone can see it, or I’ll be forced to order my people to shut you down. Nothing happens in my territory without my permission.”

The bullies looked at him, looked at their fallen leader, and decided he just might mean it. They shrugged more or less in unison, and moved over to work in the ruins. The local people raised a brief cheer for Hawk, surprising him and them, and then they all got back to work. The gang leader was left lying huddled in a ball, handcuffed by his ankle to a railing.

The hours dragged on, and the search turned up fewer and fewer survivors. The fire brigade’s engineers set up supports for the adjoining buildings; nothing elaborate, but enough to keep them secure until the builders could be called in. People began to drift away, too exhausted or dispirited to continue. Hawk sent most of his Guards back to Headquarters with Morgan and his people, the crates of chacal now carefully labelled and numbered, and the gang leader Hammer, under Captain Burns’s direction. But Hawk stayed on, and Fisher stayed with him. Hawk didn’t know whether he stayed because he felt he was still needed or because he was punishing himself, but he knew he couldn’t leave until he was sure there was no one still alive under the wreckage. Someone cried out they’d heard something, and once again everything came to a halt as the diggers listened, holding their breath, trying to hear a faint cry for help over the beating of their own hearts. One of the men yelled, and everyone converged on a dark, narrow shaft that fell away into the depths of the ruins. One of the diggers dropped a small stone down the shaft. They all listened hard, but no one heard it hit bottom.

He stood by the shaft in his shirt and trousers, looking down into the darkness, and shivered suddenly, not entirely from the cold. He didn’t like dark, enclosed places, particularly underground, and the whole situation reminded him uncomfortably of a bad experience he’d once had down a mine. He didn’t have to go down the shaft. There were any number of others ready to volunteer. But if he didn’t do it, he’d always believe he should have.

Someone came back with a length of rope, and Fisher fastened one end round his waist. Someone else tied the other end to a sturdy outcropping of broken stone, and Hawk and Fisher took turns tugging on the rope to make sure it was secure. One of the men gave him a lantern, and he held it out over the shaft. The pale golden light didn’t penetrate far into the darkness. He listened, but couldn’t hear anything. The hole itself was about three feet in diameter and looked distinctly unsafe. Hawk shrugged. It wouldn’t get any safer, no matter how long he waited. He sat down on the edge, very slowly and very carefully, swung his legs over the side, and then lowered himself into the darkness, bracing his back and his knees against the sides of the shaft. He took a deep breath and let it out, and then inch by inch he made his way down into the darkness, the lantern resting uncomfortably on his chest.

Jagged edges of stone and wood cut at him viciously as he descended, and the circle of daylight overhead grew smaller and smaller. He moved slowly down in his pool of light, stopping now and again to call out to the child below, but there was never any reply. He pressed on, cursing the narrow confines around him as they bowed in and out, and soon came to the bottom of the shaft. He held up the lantern and looked around him. Rough spikes of broken wood and stone protruded from every side, and a dozen openings led off into the honeycomb of wreckage. Most were too small or too obviously unsafe for him to try, but one aperture led into a narrow tunnel barely two feet high. Hawk called out to the child, but there was only the silence and his own harsh breathing. He looked back up the main shaft, but all he could see was darkness. He was on his own. He looked again at the narrow tunnel, cursed again briefly, and got down on his hands and knees.

The rope played out behind him as he wriggled his way through the tunnel darkness in his narrow pool of light, stopping now and then to manoeuvre past outcroppings from the tunnel walls. The child had to be around here somewhere. He couldn’t have come all this way for nothing. He thought briefly about the sheer weight of wreckage pressing from above, and his skin went cold. The roof of the tunnel bulged down ahead of him, and he had to lie on his back and force himself past the obstruction an inch at a time, pulling the lantern behind. The unyielding stone pressed against his chest like a giant hand trying to crush the breath out of him. He breathed out, emptying his lungs, and slowly squeezed past.

In the end, he found the child by bumping into her. He’d just got past the obstruction when his head hit something soft and yielding. His first thought was that he’d run into some kind of animal down in the dark with him, and his imagination conjured up all kinds of unpleasantness before he got it back under control. He squirmed over onto his stomach, wishing briefly that he’d brought his axe, and then stopped as he saw her, lying still and silent on the tunnel floor. She looked to be about five or six years old, covered in dirt and blood, but still breathing strongly. Hawk spoke to her, but she didn’t respond, even when he tapped her sharply on the shoulder. He pulled himself along beside her, and saw for the first time that one of her legs was pinned between two great slabs of stone, holding her firmly just below the ankle.

Hawk put his lantern down and pushed cautiously at the slabs, but they wouldn’t budge. He took hold of the girl’s shoulders and pulled until his arms ached, but she didn’t budge either. The stones weren’t going to give her up that easily. Hawk let go of her, and tried to think. The air was full of dust, and he coughed hard to try and clear it from his throat. The side of his face grew uncomfortably warm from having the lantern so close, and he moved it a bit further away. Shadows leapt alarmingly in the cramped tunnel and then were still again. He scowled, and worried his lower lip between his teeth. He had to get the child out of there. The tunnel could collapse at any time, bringing tons of stone and timber crashing down on her. And him too, for that matter. But there was no way he could persuade the stone slabs to give up their hold on her foot. He had no tools to work with, and even if he had, there wasn’t enough room to apply any leverage. No, there was only one way to get the child out. Tears stung his eyes as the horror of it clenched at his gut, but he knew he had to do it. He didn’t have any choice in the matter.

He squirmed and wriggled as best he could in the confined space, and finally managed to draw the knife from his boot and slide his leather belt out of his trousers. There was a good edge on the blade. It would do the job. He took a close look at the stone slabs where they held the child’s foot, checking if there was room enough to work, but he already knew the answer. There was room. He was just putting it off. He looped his belt around the girl’s leg, close up against the stone, and pulled it tight, until flesh bulged thickly up on either side of it. Hawk hefted the knife, and then brushed the little girl’s hair gently with his free hand.

There was a lot more blood than he’d expected, and he had to tighten the belt twice more before he could stem most of the flow. When he was finished, he tore off one of his sleeves and wrapped it tightly round the stump. His arms and face were splashed with blood, and he was breathing in great gulps, as though he’d just run a race. He turned over on his back again, grabbed his lantern, and began inching his way back down the tunnel, dragging the unconscious girl along behind him. He didn’t know how long he’d spent in the narrow tunnel, but it felt like forever.

The tunnel roof soon rose enough to let him get to his hands and knees again, and he crawled along through the darkness, hugging the child to his chest. He suddenly found himself at the base of the main shaft, and stopped for a moment to get his breath. He ached in every muscle, and he’d torn his hands and knees to ribbons. But he couldn’t let himself rest. The little girl needed expert medical help, and she was running out of time. He held the girl tightly to his chest with one arm and slowly began to climb back up the shaft, with only his legs and his back to support his weight and that of the child.

It didn’t take long before the pain in his tired muscles became excruciating, but he wouldn’t stop. The girl was depending on him. Foot by foot he fought his way up the shaft, grunting and snarling with the effort, his gaze fixed on the gradually widening circle of light above him. He finally drew near the surface, and eager hands reached down to take the child and help Hawk the rest of the way. He clambered laboriously out and lay stretched out on the rubble, squinting at the bright daylight and drawing in deep lungfuls of the comparatively clean air. Fisher swore softly at the state of his hands and knees, helped him sit up, and wrapped his cloak around him. Someone brought him a cup of lukewarm soup, and he sipped at it gratefully.

Eventually he got to his feet again, and Fisher found him a doctor who could work the right healing spells. The wounds closed up easily enough, but there was nothing the doctor could do for physical and emotional exhaustion. Hawk and Fisher looked around them. The dead and injured had been laid out in neat rows on the snow, the dying and the recovering lying side by side. A large pile of unidentified body parts had been tactfully hidden under a blood-spattered tarpaulin. Hawk shook his head numbly.

“Stop that,” said Fisher sharply. “None of this is your fault. It’s Morgan’s fault, for having set up a pocket dimension here in the first place. And if we hadn’t acted to stop the super-chacal being distributed, there’s no telling how many thousands might have died across the city.”

Hawk didn’t answer. He looked slowly about him, taking in the situation. Engineers and sorcerers had got together to stabilize the surrounding buildings, and people were being allowed back into them again. That should please the slum landlords. Even they couldn’t charge rent on a pile of rubble. Firemen were moving among the wreckage, shoring up the few broken walls and inner structures that hadn’t collapsed completely. A few people were still sifting through the rubble, but the general air of urgency was gone. Much of the real work had been done now, and most people had accepted that there probably weren’t going to be any more survivors. The volunteers had gone home, exhausted, and Hawk felt he might as well do the same. There was nothing left for him to do, he was out on his feet, and it had to be well past the end of his double shift. He was just turning to Fisher to tell her it was time to go, when there was the sound of gentle flute music, and the dry, acid voice of the communications sorcerer filled his head.

He finally realised he couldn’t break free from Fisher without hurting her, and stopped struggling. He took a deep breath and nodded curtly to Fisher. She let go of him and stepped back a pace, still watching him warily. Hawk fixed Commander Glen with a cold, implacable glare. “Talk to me, Glen. Convince me there’s some reason behind this madness. Or I swear I’ll do something one of us will regret.”

Commander Glen sniffed, and met Hawk’s gaze unflinchingly. Glen was a tallish, blocky man in his late forties, with a permanent scowl and a military-style haircut that looked as though it had been shaped with a pudding bowl. He had large, bony hands and a mouth like a knife-cut. He’d spent twenty years in the Guard, and amassed a reputation for thief-taking unequalled in the Guard. He’d been day Commander for seven years, and ran his people like his own private army, demanding and getting complete obedience. Ordinarily, he didn’t have to deal much with Hawk and Fisher, which suited all of them.

Glen pushed his chair forward, and leaned his elbows on the desk. “You want me to explain myself, Captain Hawk? Very well. Thanks to your going after Morgan without waiting for orders or a backup, we now find ourselves faced with major loss of life and destruction of property within the Devil’s Hook. We still don’t know exactly how many died because of your actions, but the current total is four hundred and six. The Hook’s still in shock at the moment, but when they finally realise what’s happened, and that the Guard was responsible, we’re going to be facing riots it’ll take half the Guard to put down! On top of that, there’s the cost of rebuilding and repairs, which is going to run into thousands of ducats. The landlord of the tenement is suing the Guard for that money, and he’ll probably win. And finally, you assaulted a gang leader in front of his own people. Does the word vendetta mean anything to you, Captain Hawk?”

“I don’t give a damn about any of that,” said Hawk, his voice carefully controlled. “What I did was justified by the circumstances. Morgan was preparing to distribute a drug that would have killed thousands of people and torn Haven apart. Now, explain to me, please, why this man was allowed to go free.”

“I never saw any drugs,” said Glen. “Neither has anyone else. And none of the prisoners had any drugs in their possession when they were searched here. None of them had even heard of this super-chacal you keep mentioning. And thanks to your efforts, we don’t even have any proof the pocket dimension ever existed. That leaves only your word and that of your men. And that’s not good enough, against someone like Morgan. He’s a man of standing in the business community, and a pillar of society. He also has a great many friends in high places. People with influence. He hadn’t been in Headquarters ten minutes before pressure began coming down from Above. Without real evidence, we didn’t have a case. So I let him go, along with all of his people. I might add that Morgan is strongly considering suing us for false arrest, and you in particular for assault. I can’t believe you were stupid enough to hit him in front of witnesses.”

“There were crates of the drug,” said Hawk finally. “If they’ve disappeared, it can only mean they vanished on their way here, or they were removed by people working inside Headquarters. Either way, we’re talking about corrupt Guards. I demand an official investigation.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. They’ve already been detailed to other duties. Haven’t you got the picture yet, Captain? As far as our superiors are concerned, this whole incident is a major embarrassment, and they want it forgotten as soon as possible. You’ve got some very important people mad at you. At both of you. They’re looking for scapegoats, and you’re tailor-made to fill the bill.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” said Hawk, his voice dangerously calm. “Morgan has walked. So have all his people. And several tons of the most dangerous drug Haven has ever seen have gone missing. Have I missed anything?”

“Yes.” said Glen. “I’ve been instructed to suspend both of you, indefinitely, while a number of official charges against you are investigated. Charges such as reckless endangering of life and property, disobeying orders, assaulting citizens without provocation, brutality, and possible collusion in a vendetta against a faultless pillar of society. That last was Morgan, in case you were wondering.”

Hawk grabbed Glen’s desk with both hands and threw it to one side. Papers flew on the air like startled birds as he grabbed two handfuls of Glen’s uniform, picked him up, and slammed him against the nearest wall. He thrust his face close to the Commander’s, until they were staring into each other’s eyes.

The door burst open behind them and two Constables rushed in with drawn swords, alarmed at the sounds of violence from the Commander’s office. Fisher drew her sword and quickly moved to stand between them and Hawk and Glen. Hawk slowly put Glen down, but kept a tight hold on him.

He let go of Glen, and stepped back a pace, his right hand resting casually on the axe at his side. The Commander nodded, and gestured for the two Constables to leave. They looked at each other, shrugged, put away their swords and left, not quite slamming the door behind them. Glen looked at Hawk.

Hawk did so, while Fisher leaned against the wall, still holding her sword. Glen picked up his chair, and sat down behind his desk again. He glanced briefly at the papers scattered over the floor, then fixed his attention on Hawk and Fisher.

“I can’t have you working together; word would be bound to get out. But as it happens, I’ve got two jobs to fill that should suit the pair of you nicely. As you know, even though officially you shouldn’t, Peace Talks are taking place in Haven at the moment, to try and put an end to the border clashes between the Low Kingdoms and our traditional enemy Outremer, before they get out of hand. The Talks themselves seem to be going well enough, but there are a number of political and business interests on both sides who would like very much to see them fail. Captain David ap Owen is currently in charge of security, but he’s been under a lot of pressure and could use some assistance. Think you could handle that, Captain Fisher?”

“Absolute minimum. Officially, the Talks aren’t happening here at all. We can’t use troops to guard the delegates; that would be too conspicuous, so there’ll just be yourself, Captain ap Owen, and a dozen Constables in plainclothes. We can’t use any magical protection, either. Same reason; it would just attract attention. So if anything happens, you’re on your own. By the time you could get word to us it would all be over, one way or the other. You’ll have to cope with what you’ve got.”

Glen looked at her for a moment, and then turned to Hawk. “I need someone to find the drugs that went missing. Surprisingly enough. I had worked out for myself how dangerous this super-chacal could be. I want to know how the stuff disappeared, and where it is now. And if you should find a way to incriminate Morgan in the process, I wouldn’t be at all displeased. Find yourself another partner, someone you can trust, but keep your head down, and stay out of the public eye. If anything goes wrong, I’ll swear blind you were acting on your own, and it’s all nothing to do with me. I can’t afford to have Morgan’s friends as enemies. You’ll report directly to me, and no one else. Is that acceptable, Captain Hawk?”

Hawk was working on his second beer when Captain Bums found him. The Cloudy Morning was a semiofficial off-duty tavern for the Guard, a traditional place for winding down at the end of a long shift. It was fairly basic as taverns go, with no frills and few comforts, but the beer was good and reasonably cheap, and the Guards needed a place where they could talk freely without having to worry about who might be listening. The place was run by an ex-Guard, and the general public were politely encouraged to drink elsewhere, unless they were Guard groupies. There were such, though not many Guards encouraged them. They tended to get obsessive.

The place was crowded, as usual at the end of a shift, and Captain Burns had to squeeze his way through the press of bodies to reach the bar. Several Guards called out to him, and clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, but he just smiled and kept going. Hawk’s message had sounded fairly urgent. He finally reached the bar, grabbed a seat as it became vacant, and sat down beside Hawk. For a moment Hawk didn’t look up, staring into his beer. Then he took a long swallow, and gestured for the bartender to bring Bums a beer.

“I’ve seen you fight, and I thought you might like a chance to get back at the bastards who killed your partner. Besides, Morgan isn’t going to stop with Fisher and me. Eventually, he’s going to go after everyone who helped destroy his factory. He takes setbacks personally. If you don’t go after him now, while he’s vulnerable, you can bet that sooner or later he’s going to be coming after you.”

“Of course I’m in. I don’t really have any choice, do I? And you’re right about one thing, at least. I’d worked with Doughty on and off for nearly eight years. He was a good partner. Never had much to say for himself, but the best damned swordsman I ever saw. I always felt safer with him to guard my back. I didn’t see who killed him at the factory. Everything was happening too fast. But even if I didn’t see whose hand held the sword. I know who was responsible for his death.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that,” said Hawk calmly. “It’s not going to stop me. I can be dangerous too, when I put my mind to it. But I shouldn’t worry about his precious friends too much. If we bring Morgan down hard enough, his friends will desert him like rats leaving a sinking ship rather than risk being brought down with him.”

“You’re probably right,” said Hawk. “But it has to be said, there’s something about Haven that drives a man to drink.” He looked at his empty glass, then pushed it regretfully away. “You know, when I first joined the Guard, I really thought I could make a difference. I was going to be a force for justice, and put all the bad guys behind bars, where they belonged. It didn’t work out that way. Crime and corruption are a way of life for most people here. Some days I think the only way to clean up Haven would be to burn it down and start over again.”

Burns shrugged. “I’ve lived here all my life, but from what I’ve heard, Haven isn’t really that different from any other city. We’re just more honest about it here. You mustn’t let it get to you, Hawk. You can’t expect to undo centuries of corruption overnight. Real change always takes time. In the meantime, we do our best to hold things together, and every now and again we get a chance to put away a piece of slime like Morgan. Settle for that.”

“Name two.” Hawk looked thoughtfully into his empty glass. “It was my fault, you know. If I hadn’t gone barging in, without checking the situation properly, I might have found a way to shut down Morgan’s factory without destroying everything. And all those men and women and children would be alive now.”

“Maybe,” said Burns. “But I doubt it. Morgan was ready to ship those drugs out. If we’d burst in even an hour later, we’d probably have found nothing but an empty warehouse. But either way, it doesn’t make any difference. You did what you thought was right at the time. That’s all any of us can do. Beyond a certain point, worrying about past mistakes just becomes self-pity and self-indulgence.”

Hawk looked at him, and smiled. “Maybe. Let’s talk about Morgan, the bastard. The first thing we have to do is figure out where the super-chacal disappeared to, and then try and link it directly to Morgan in a way he can’t shrug off. Which means asking pointed questions and making a nuisance of ourselves until people tell us what we want to know.”

“Just once,” said Burns, “wouldn’t you like to try it the easy way? Morgan is going to have to shift the super-chacal in a hurry, so that he can’t be caught with it in his possession. Which means using established channels of distribution. And there aren’t that many people in Haven who can handle a deal that size. All we have to do is discover which distributor has suddenly become very busy, and we’ll have our first lead.”

“If you say so,” said Burns. “But Hawk, we’re going to do this professionally, right? Getting personally involved in a case is always a bad idea. It stops you thinking clearly. In Haven, you win some and you lose some. That’s just the way it is.”