Guards of Haven

Fisher peered out the study window, chewing thoughtfully on a chicken leg she’d liberated from the delegates’ lunch time snack after they’d disappeared back into the pocket dimension. She’d spent the last half hour checking out the house security and searching for weak spots, but she had to admit ap Owen seemed to know what he was doing. Every door and window had locks or bolts or both, and they were all securely fastened. There were men-at-arms in servants’ livery on every floor, making their rounds at random intervals so as not to fall into a predictable routine. Routines could be taken advantage of. There were caches of weapons stashed all over the house, carefully out of sight but still ready to hand in an emergency. Outside, the grounds were a security man’s dream. All the approaches were wide open—nowhere for anyone to hide—and the thick covering of snow made the lawns impossible to cross without leaving obvious tracks.

All in all, everything was calm and peaceful, and showed every sign of staying that way. Which was probably why Fisher was so bored. Ap Owen’s people seemed to regard her as an outsider, and her appointment as some kind of negative appraisal of their own abilities. As a result, none of them were talking to her. Ap Owen himself seemed friendly enough, but it was clear he was the worrying type, constantly on the move, checking that everything was running smoothly. Fisher wandered aimlessly around for a while, committing the layout of the house to memory and trying to get the feel of the place.

It was an old house, creaking and groaning under the weight of the winter cold, with a somewhat erratic design. There were rooms within rooms and corridors that led nowhere, and shadows in unexpected places. But everything that could be done to make the house secure had been done, and Fisher couldn’t fault ap Owen’s work. She should have felt entirely safe and protected, and it came as something of a surprise to her to find that she didn’t. Deep down inside, where her instincts lived, she couldn’t shake off the feeling she—and everyone else in the house—was in danger. No doubt part of that uneasiness came from knowing there was a pocket dimension nearby. After what had happened in the Hook she was more than a little leery of such magic, for all of ap Owen’s reassurances. But more than that, she had a strong feeling of being watched, of being under siege. She had only to look out of a window to feel the pressure of unseen watching eyes, as though somewhere outside a cold professional gaze was studying her dispassionately. and considering options.

And so she’d ended up back in the study, staring out the wide window at the bare, innocent lawns and wondering if she was finally getting paranoid. Ap Owen acted as if he was expecting an attack at any moment, and she was beginning to understand why. There was a definite feeling of anticipation in the air, of something irrevocable edging closer; as though her instincts were trying to warn her of something her mind hadn’t noticed yet. She threw aside her chicken leg, turned her back on the window defiantly, and looked around for something to distract her. Unfortunately, the study was briskly austere, with the bare minimum of chairs and a plain writing table. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, but their leather-bound volumes had a no-nonsense, businesslike look to them. There was one portrait, on the wall behind the desk, its subject a straight-backed, grim-faced man who apparently hadn’t approved of such frivolities as having your portrait painted. The study had clearly been intended as a room for working, not relaxing.

Fisher leafed through some of the papers on the desk, but ap Owen’s handwriting was so bad they might have been written in code for all she could tell. She looked thoughtfully at the wine decanters left over from the delegates’ break, and then looked away. She’d been drinking too much of late. So had Hawk. Haven did that to you.

There was a definite crawling on the back of Fisher’s neck, and she strode back to the window and glared out at the featureless scene again. The snow-covered lawns stretched away before her, vast and unmarked. There were no trees or hedges, nothing to hide behind. Everything was quiet. Fisher yawned suddenly, and didn’t bother to cover her mouth. She’d been hoping to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep here, but it seemed her nerves were determined to keep her restless and alert. She almost wished that someone would attack, just to get it over with.

She started to turn away from the window, and then stopped, startled, and looked quickly back again. The wide open lawns were empty and undisturbed; no one was there. But for a moment she could have sworn... It came again, a sudden movement tugging at the edge of her vision. She looked quickly back and forth. and pounded her fist on the windowsill in frustration. There couldn’t be anyone out there. Even if they were invisible, they’d still leave tracks in the snow. Things moved at the corner of her eyes, teasing her with glimpses of shapes and movement that refused to come clear. She backed slowly away from the window and drew her sword. Something was happening out there. There was a sound behind her and she spun round, dropping into a fighter’s crouch. Ap Owen raised an eyebrow, and she flushed angrily as she straightened up.

“I have a very nasty suspicion,” said ap Owen, moving over to join her before the window. “I think there’s someone out there, hiding behind an illusion spell. It must be pretty powerful to hide his trail as well, but as he gets closer to the house the protective wards are interfering with the spell, giving us glimpses of what it’s hiding.”

There was a sudden, vertiginous snap and the world jerked sideways and back again, as the house’s wards finally broke down the illusion spell and showed what lay behind it. The wide lawns were covered with armed men, and more were pouring through the open gates. Dressed in nondescript furs and leathers. they advanced on the house in a calm, professional way. Fisher swore respectfully. There had to be at least two hundred men out there.

The four marble statues had come alive, and were cutting a bloody path through the invaders. They were coldly efficient and totally unstoppable, but were hard put to make any impression on so many invaders. Half a dozen guard dogs blinked in and out of existence as they threw themselves at the intruders, leaping and snapping and now and again tearing at a man on the ground, but again there were simply too few of them to make any real difference. No one had expected or planned for an invasion on such a scale as this.

“You could well be right. From the look of them, they’re mercenaries.” He yelled something out the study door, and four footmen burst in, each carrying a longbow and a quiver of arrows. Ap Owen grinned at Fisher. “They don’t have much use for bows in the Guard, but I’ve always believed in them. You can do a lot of damage with a few bowmen who know what they’re doing.”

The footmen set up before the window, pulling off their long frock coats to give them more freedom of movement. Fisher and ap Owen struggled with the bolts that held the window shut, until Fisher lost her temper and smashed the glass with the hilt of her sword. Ap Owen threw the window open and stepped back to let the archers take up their position. Bitter cold streamed in from outside, and the archers narrowed their eyes against the glare of the snow. The attacking force realised the grounds were no longer hidden behind the illusion spell, and ran towards the house, howling a dissonant mixture of war cries and chants. Sunlight flashed on swords and axes and morningstars. Fisher couldn’t even guess how many attackers there were anymore. The archers drew back and released their bowstrings in a single fluid movement, and four of the attackers were thrown backwards with arrows jutting from their bodies. Their blood was vividly red on the snow. The archers let fly again and again, punching holes in the attacking force, but they just kept coming, ignoring their dead and wounded.

“They’re professionals, all right,” said ap Owen calmly. “Mercenaries. Could be working for any number of people. Whoever it is must want us shut down really badly. An army that size doesn’t come cheap. I didn’t think there were that many mercenaries for hire left in Haven.”

Fisher growled something under her breath. The first handful of mercenaries to reach the window ducked under the flight of arrows and clambered up onto the windowsill. The archers threw aside their bows and grabbed for their swords. Fisher thought briefly of the door behind her. She didn’t believe in suicide missions. On the other hand, she didn’t believe in running, either. She moved quickly forward to join ap Owen and the archers, and together they threw the first mercenaries back in a flurry of blood and gore. More of the attackers crowded in to take their place. The war cries and chants were almost deafening at close range. Fisher glanced at ap Owen, saw him palm a pill from a small bottle, and swallow it. He caught her gaze and smiled.

The main bulk of the attack force hit the window like a breaking wave, and forced the archers back by sheer force of numbers. Fisher was swept aside, fighting desperately against a forest of waving blades. In moments the room was full of mercenaries, most of whom ran past the small knot of beleaguered defenders and on into the house. Fisher and ap Owen ended up fighting back to back, carving bloody gaps in the shifting press of bodies. The archers fell one by one, and Fisher and ap Owen were slowly driven back across the room, away from the window, as more mercenaries poured in. There seemed no end to them.

Ap Owen laughed happily and mocked his opponents as he fought, and none of the mercenaries could get anywhere near him in his euphoric state. Fisher fought doggedly on. Mercenaries fell dead and dying around her, their blood staining the expensive carpet. Her footing became uncertain as bodies cluttered the floor, and it was getting harder to find room to swing her sword. She yelled at ap Owen to get his attention.

They made a break for the door, ploughing through the startled mercenaries, and cutting down anyone who got in their way. They burst out into the hall, and Fisher was surprised to find it deserted. Ap Owen headed for the stairs, with Fisher close behind.

“They don’t know where the Talks are really being held, so they’re wasting time searching the house,” said ap Owen breathlessly, as he took the steps two at a time. “But I know where there’s an emergency entrance into the pocket dimension. We can hide out in there till the fighting’s over.”

Fisher heard boots hammering on the stairs behind her, and threw herself forward. The mercenary’s sword swept past her head, the wind of its passing tugging at her hair. Fisher kicked backwards, and the swordsman’s breath caught in his throat as the heel of her boot thudded solidly into his groin. Fisher turned around to finish him off, and found herself facing a dozen more mercenaries charging up the stairs towards her. She put a hand on the groaning swordsman’s face and pushed him sharply backwards. He fell back down the stairs and crashed into his fellows, bringing them all to an abrupt halt. Fisher smiled angelically at the chaos, and turned her back on them. Ap Owen was nowhere to be seen.

She swore harshly, and hurried up the stairs to the landing. She paused at the top of the stairs to get her bearings, and an axe buried itself in the wall beside her. She ran along the hallway, glaring about her. Ap Owen couldn’t have gone far. If he had, she was in trouble. He’d never got around to telling her where the doorway to the pocket dimension was. Sounds of hot pursuit grew louder behind her, and from all around came shouts and curses and war cries as the invaders spilled through the house, searching for the Peace Talks.

A mercenary burst out of a door just ahead of her, and Fisher ran him through while he was still gaping at her. She jerked the sword free and then had to back quickly away as two more men charged out of the room at her.

She put her back against the railing that ran the length of the hall and swung her sword in wide arcs to keep them at bay. Two-to-one odds didn’t normally bother her, but this time she was facing two hardened professionals in very cramped surroundings, with nowhere to retreat and no one to guard her blind sides. It was at times like this that she realised how much she missed Hawk. She cut viciously at one mercenary’s face, and he stepped back instinctively. Fisher darted for the gap that opened up, but the other swordsman was already there, forcing her back with a flurry of blows. Fisher fought on, but she could feel her chances of getting out alive slipping away like sand between her fingers.

And then one of the mercenaries went down in a flurry of blood, and ap Owen was standing over him, flashing his lunatic grin. Fisher quickly finished off the other mercenary, and the two Guards sprinted down the hallway, with more mercenaries in hot pursuit.

A mercenary appeared out of nowhere before them and ap Owen cut him down with a single slash. Fisher hurdled the writhing body without slowing, and followed ap Owen up a winding stairway. Footsteps hammered on the steps behind her, and she glanced back over her shoulder to see half a dozen mercenaries charging up the stairs after her. Fisher looked away and forced herself to run faster. She was already bone-tired after the long day, and her legs felt like lead, but somehow she forced out a little extra speed. Ap Owen, of course, was running well and strongly, buoyed up by his battle drug. Sweat ran down Fisher’s face, stinging her eyes, and her sides ached as her lungs protested. She just hoped she wouldn’t get a stitch. That would make it a perfect bloody day.

Ap Owen led her down a wide corridor at a pace she was hard pressed to match, but somehow she kept up with him. The growing crowd of mercenaries snapping at her heels helped. It worried her that she hadn’t seen any of ap Owen’s men. Surely some of them should have got this far.... A growing suspicion took root in her that they were all dead. That all the house’s defenders were dead, apart from her and ap Owen. Which made it all the more urgent they reach the pocket dimension and warn the delegates.

Ap Owen darted suddenly sideways through an open doorway, and Fisher threw herself in after him. She whirled to slam the door shut, but three mercenaries forced their way in. Fisher cut down one with a single, economical stroke, and his blood flew on the air, but another swordsman darted in under her reach and cut at her leg. Her thick leather boot took most of the impact, but she could still feel blood trickling down her leg inside the boot. She drove the man back with a frenzied attack, and for a moment held off both opponents by the sheer fury of her attack. And then ap Owen was with her, cutting and hacking like a madman, and between them they finished off the mercenaries, slammed the door shut, and bolted it. It rattled angrily in its frame as men on the other side put their shoulders to it.

Fisher looked behind her, and saw an open door hanging unsupported in the air. Beyond the door there was only darkness. “About time. I just hope the pocket dimension turns out to be a damn sight more secure than this house.”

He grabbed her arm and hauled her through the doorway. The door slammed shut behind them, and disappeared from the room. There was a brief sensation of falling, and then Fisher was in the Peace Talks’ hidden room. The delegates rose startled from their seats around a long table, staring at her and ap Owen. She quickly put up a hand to forestall their questions.

“The house is overrun with mercenaries. We had to cut and run. No choice. How many more of our people made it here?” She took in their blank faces, and looked away. “Damn. Then I think it’s fair to assume they won’t be coming. We’re the only survivors.”

She looked quickly round the sparsely furnished, medium-sized room, and then blinked as she found there was no sign of the doorway. All four walls were blank. She shrugged, and looked at ap Owen, who was sitting on the floor beside her with his head hanging down. He was deathly pale, with sweat streaming off his face, and obviously using all his willpower to keep from vomiting. Fisher smiled sourly. That was battle drugs for you. Great as long as adrenalin kept you going, but once you stopped there was hell to pay. She manhandled him onto a chair, and then turned back to the delegates. They were obviously waiting for a more detailed report, and it was clear from their faces that their patience had just about run out. Really, the report should come from ap Owen, as the senior Captain in charge of security, but since he was out of it and likely to stay that way for some time ... Fisher realised she was still holding her sword, and sheathed it. She drew herself up to parade rest, thought briefly about saluting the delegates, and then decided the hell with it.

“We’re in trouble.” she said bluntly. “Someone hired a small army of mercenaries, backed them up with some heavy-duty sorcery, and sent them here looking for you. Our security forces didn’t stand a chance; the mercenaries rolled right over us. Unless some more of our people arrive in the next few minutes, you’d better get used to the idea that your entire security force now consists of ap Owen and me. And there aren’t going to be any reinforcements. We’re trapped in here. and the house is crawling with mercenaries.”

“It’s not quite as bad as you make it sound, Captain,” said Lord Regis calmly. “Firstly, we are quite safe here. The dimensional doorways won’t open to the mercenaries, and the only other way in is to open a new doorway. Even a high-level sorcerer couldn’t do that without first knowing the exact co-ordinates of this dimension, and those are, of course, only known to a select few. All we have to do is sit tight and wait for the mercenaries to leave. They won’t hang around once they realise we’re not in the house: an attack like this is bound to have been noticed, especially in Low Tory. I think we can be fairly confident that the Guard is on its way here even as we speak.”

The senior Captain nodded unhappily. “Somebody must have talked. Someone always talks, eventually. But since they couldn’t know about this dimension, it doesn’t really matter. The mercenaries will just ransack the house, find no trace of the Talks, and report back to their masters that you weren’t here. They’ll be called off, and you can resume the Talks undisturbed, secure in the knowledge they won’t be back again. And if the Guard reacts fast enough, they might even be able to follow the mercenaries back to their masters, and we can round them all up in one go.”

“Hold it just a minute,” said Fisher, and there was a harshness in her voice that drew all eyes to her. “A lot of good men died out there, trying to protect you and your precious Talks. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“His lordship is right, Fisher,” he said carefully. “The safety of the delegates must come first. That’s what they told us when we took on this job, remember? Now take it easy. We’re all perfectly safe in here; nothing can reach us.”

He broke off suddenly, as far away in the distance a bell tolled mournfully. The sound seemed to echo on and on, faint but distinct, as though it had travelled impossible distances to reach them. They all stood silently, listening. The bell tolled again and again, growing slowly louder and more mournful, like the bell from a forgotten church deep in the gulfs of hell. Fisher’s breathing quickened, and her hand fell to her sword. Something was out there in the dark, she could feel it; something awful. The pealing of the bell grew louder still, painfully loud, until everyone in the hidden room had their hands pressed to their ears. And then the air split open above them, and nightmares spewed out into the waking world.

Creatures with insane shapes that hurt and disturbed the human eye fought and oozed and squirmed out of nowhere, and fell writhing to the floor. There were things with splintered bones and snapping mouths, and nauseating shapes that twisted through strange dimensions as they moved. Creatures with flails and barbs and elongating limbs. A monstrous slug with grinding teeth in its belly fell heavily onto the conference table, its weight cracking the thick wood from end to end. A clump of ropy crimson intestines squeezed out of the split in the air, and dropped squirming to the floor, where it dripped acid, eating holes in the carpet. The conference room rang to a cacophony of screams and howls and roars, drowning out the madly tolling bell.

For a moment everyone froze where they were, and then Fisher threw herself forward, swinging her sword in wide, vicious arcs. Strangely colored blood flew steaming on the air as her blade sank deep into unnatural flesh, and howling shapes rose up in fury all around her. Ap Owen was quickly at her side, and together they forced the demons back. Major Comber and Major de Tournay drew their swords and fought back to back, old enmities forgotten in the face of a common foe. They cut and thrust with professional efficiency, and nothing could stand against them for long.

The two traders, Rook and Gardener, retreated into a corner and defended themselves with unfamiliar swords as best they could. Creatures swarmed eagerly about them, scenting easy prey. Lord Regis fought stubbornly with his back to a wall, barely keeping the fangs and claws from his throat but determined not to give in. Lord Nightingale cleared a space around him with inspired swordsmanship, chanting all the while in a harsh forced rhythm. Human blood.flowed as the creatures pressed closer, forcing their way past flashing steel by sheer force of numbers. And still more shapes poured through the split in the air, and there seemed no end to them.

“We can’t,” he answered, grunting with the effort of his blows. “Only Regis and Nightingale can open the door. And they both look a bit busy at the moment. See if you can work towards them, take some of the pressure off.”

Fisher tried, but the growing tide of creatures forced her back foot by foot, and ap Owen had to struggle to keep his place at her side. A jagged cut on his forehead leaked blood steadily down one side of his face, and he had to keep blinking his eye to clear it. A raking claw suddenly opened up a long, curving gash across Fisher’s hip and stomach, and she stumbled and almost fell as the pain flared through her. Ap Owen darted in to try and cover her, and a long, serrated tentacle whipped around his shoulders and snatched him up into the air. Fisher hacked at the tentacle, but it wouldn’t let him go. Comber and de Tournay were soaked with blood from a dozen minor wounds, but were still holding their ground and grimly defying the creatures to move them. Rook and Gardener had already fallen and disappeared beneath a heaving throng of frenzied shapes. Lord Regis was struggling, tears of exhaustion running down his cheeks, but Lord Nightingale ignored him, concentrating on his rhythmic chanting.

And then Nightingale’s voice rose sharply to a shout, and the split in the air slammed together and was gone. The creatures burst into flames, screaming and thrashing as a searing golden fire consumed them, leaving nothing but ash. The faraway bell was quiet, and the only sound in the hidden room was the harsh breathing and groans of the two Guards and the surviving delegates.

Fisher sat with her back braced against a wall, watching exhaustedly as ap Owen slowly picked himself up from where the burning tentacle had dropped him. The two Majors leaned on each other, exchanging quiet compliments. Lord Regis bent wearily over two bodies lying twisted and still in a corner, then straightened up and turned away. Rook and Gardener were beyond help. Regis looked across at Lord Nightingale, calmly cleaning the blood from his sword in the middle of the room.

“You have got to be joking,” said Fisher. “If there’s one thing we can be certain about, it’s that our enemies know where we are. Both the mercenaries and those stinking creatures knew exactly how best to catch us off guard. Somebody’s talked. We’re not a secret anymore. So forget the low profile nonsense, and get some real protection in here. We were lucky this time. We won’t be again. And get me a bloody doctor, dammit! If this wound gets infected, I’ll sue.”

Some time later, after a number of hasty but effective healing spells, Fisher and ap Owen made their rounds of the house, looking over their new, improved security force and checking the faces of the dead mercenaries before they were carried out. None of the mercenaries had been taken alive. Those who hadn’t managed to escape before Guard reinforcements arrived killed themselves rather than be captured.

“Which suggests to me they were under a geas,” said ap Owen. “It had to be some kind of magical compulsion. Mercenaries don’t believe in that kind of loyalty to a cause. Any cause. We fight strictly for cash; nothing else. I had wondered if I might know any of these poor bastards, but I don’t recognise any faces. Probably hired outside Haven, to prevent any rumours of the attack from getting out. You couldn’t hope to hire this many men in Haven and keep it quiet.”

“That’s not our only problem,” said ap Owen dourly. “Nightingale’s knowledge of magic has got everyone worked up. Admittedly he saved all our arses when the creatures broke through, but now Regis and Major Comber are worried sick he could be using his magic to influence their minds during the Talks. But they accepted him as a delegate and if they reject him now, Outremer will undoubtably retaliate in kind, and what progress they have achieved so far will all have been for nothing. So, for the moment the Talks are officially in abeyance until Rook and Gardener can be replaced. And you can bet Haven’s replacement will know some sorcery, just to be on the safe side.”