Guard Against Dishonor h&f-5 Read online

  they were racking up, but it didn't help. His feet were numb, his forehead still

  ached from the cold, and his back was killing him. Hawk hated the winter. He

  collected Fisher, waved goodbye to the kids and their unresponsive mothers, and

  strode resignedly out into the waiting cold. And the first thing he saw was

  Benny the Weasel shivering in a borrowed cloak as he tried unsuccessfully to

  hail a sedan chair. Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and strolled casually

  over to join him. Benny saw them coming, and clearly thought about making a run

  for it, before better sense took over. He drew himself up to his full five foot

  six and tried to brazen it out.

  "Benny," said Hawk reproachfully, "what do you think you're doing out here?"

  "They let me go," said Benny quickly, his eyes darting from Hawk to Fisher and

  back again. "All the charges have been dropped. That's official. Told you I had

  friends."

  Hawk and Fisher stepped forward, took an elbow each, and carried Benny kicking

  and protesting into the nearest back alley. As soon as they put him down, he

  tried to bolt, but Hawk snagged him easily and slammed him against the wall,

  just hard enough to rattle his eyes and put a temporary stop to any complaints.

  Hawk brought his face close to Benny's, and fixed him with his single cold eye.

  "No one walks when we bring the charges, Benny. Not ever. I don't care what kind

  of friends you've got, you are guilty as hell and you're going to stand trial."

  "They won't accept your evidence," said Benny desperately. "The judge will let

  me off. You'll see."

  Hawk sighed. "You're not getting the message, Benny. If we let you walk, all the

  other scum will start thinking they can get away with things. And we can't have

  that, can we? So you are going to walk back into Headquarters, make a full

  confession, and plead guilty. Because if you don't, Fisher and I will take turns

  thinking up horrible things to do to you."

  "They won't convict me on just a confession."

  "Then you'd better be sure to provide plenty of corroborative evidence. Hadn't

  you?"

  Benny looked at Hawk's implacable face and then glanced at Fisher. She had a

  nasty-looking skinning knife in her hand, and was calmly paring her nails with

  it. Benny studied the knife with fascinated eyes and swallowed hard. Right then,

  all the awful stories he'd heard about Hawk and Fisher seemed a lot more

  believable than they had before. Hawk coughed politely to get his attention, and

  Benny almost screamed.

  "Benny…"

  "I think I'd like to confess, please, Captain Hawk."

  "You do realize you don't have to?"

  "I want to."

  "Legally, you're not bound to do so…"

  "Please, let me confess! I want to! Honestly!"

  "Good man," said Hawk, standing back from him. "It's always refreshing to meet a

  citizen who believes in honesty and justice. Now, get in there and start talking

  while we're still in a good mood."

  Benny ran out of the alleyway and back into Guard Headquarters. Fisher smiled

  and put away her knife. The two Guards left the alley and made their way

  unhurriedly down the street, heading back to their beat in the Northside.

  The Northside was the rotten heart of Haven, where all that was bad in the city

  came to the surface, like scum on poisoned wine. Crime and corruption and casual

  evil permeated the Northside, where every taste and trade was catered to.

  Various gangs of drug dealers fought running battles over lucrative territories,

  ruthlessly cutting down any innocent bystanders who got in the way. Spies

  plotted treason behind shuttered windows, and many doors opened only to the

  correct whispered password. Sweatshops and crowded slum tenements huddled

  together under broken street lamps, and the smoke from local factories hung

  permanently on the air, clawing at the throats of those who breathed it. Some

  said the Northside was as much a state of mind as an area, but states of mind

  don't usually smell that bad.

  Hawk and Fisher strolled through the narrow streets, nodding to familiar faces

  in the bustling crowd. Speed was a way of life in the Northside; there were

  deals to be made, slights to be avenged, and you never knew who might be coming

  up behind you. Hawk and Fisher rarely let themselves be hurried. You could miss

  things that way, and Hawk and Fisher always liked to know what was going on

  around them. They'd had the Northside as their beat for five years now, on and

  off, but despite their best efforts, little had changed in that time. For every

  villain they put away, the Northside produced two more to take his place, and

  the soul-grinding poverty that was at the root of most crimes never changed from

  one year to the next. In their most honest moments, Hawk and Fisher knew that

  all they'd really done was to drive the worst crimes underground, or into other

  areas. Things tended to be peaceful as long as they were around, but they

  couldn't be everywhere at once. Occasionally one or the other would talk about

  quitting, but they never did. They wouldn't give up. It wasn't in their natures.

  They took each day as it came, and helped those they could. Even little

  victories were better than none.

  The stone-and-timber buildings huddled together as though for warmth, their

  upper stories leaning out over the streets till their eaves almost touched.

  Piles of garbage thrust up through the snow and slush, and Hawk and Fisher had

  to be careful where they put their feet. The garbage collectors came once a

  month, and then only with an armed guard. The beggars who normally lived off the

  garbage had been driven from the streets by the cold, but there were still many

  who braved the bitter weather for their own reasons. Business went on in the

  Northside, no matter what the weather. Business, and other things.

  In the light of a flickering brazier, an angel from the Street of Gods was

  throwing dice with half a dozen gargoyles. A fast-talking salesman was hawking

  bracelets plated with something that looked like gold. A large Saint Bernard

  with a patchy dye job was trying to bum a light for its cigar. Two overlarge

  rats with human hands were stealing the boots off a dead man. And two nuns were

  beating up a mugger. Just another day in the Northside.

  A sudden burst of pleasant flute music filled Hawk's and Fisher's heads as the

  Guard communications sorcerer made contact. They stopped to listen and find out

  what the bad news was. It had to be bad news. It always was. Anything else could

  have waited till they got back to Headquarters. The flute music broke off

  abruptly, and was replaced by the dry, acid voice of the communications

  sorcerer.

  Attention all Guards in the North sector. There's a riot in The Crossed Pikes

  tavern at Salt Lane. There are a large number of dead and injured, including at

  least two Constables. Approach the situation with extreme caution. There is

  evidence of Chacal use by the rioters.

  Hawk and Fisher ran down the street, fighting the snow and slush that dragged at

  their boots. Salt Lane was four streets away, and a lot could happen in the time

  it would take them to get there. From the sound of it, too much had happened


  already. Hawk scowled as he ran. Riots were bad enough without drugs

  complicating the issue.

  Chacal was something new on the streets. Relatively cheap, and easy enough to

  produce by anyone with a working knowledge of alchemy and access to a bathtub,

  the drug brought out the animal side of man's nature. It heightened all the

  senses while turning off the higher functions of the mind, leaving the user

  little more than a wild animal, free to wallow in the moment and indulge any

  whim or gratify any desire, free from reason or remorse or any stab of

  conscience. The drug boosted the users' strength and speed and ferocity, making

  them almost unstoppable. It also burned out their nervous systems in time,

  leaving them paralysed or mad or dead from a dozen different causes. But life

  wasn't worth much in the Northside anyway, and there were all too many who were

  willing to swap a hopeless future for the savage joys of the present.

  Hawk and Fisher charged round the last corner into Salt Lane and then skidded to

  a halt. A large crowd had already gathered, packing the narrow street from side

  to side. The two Guards bulled their way through without bothering to be

  diplomatic about it, and quickly found themselves at the front of the crowd,

  facing The Crossed Pikes tavern from a safe distance. The tavern looked peaceful

  enough, apart from its shattered windows, but a Guard Constable was sitting on a

  nearby doorstep, pressing a bloody handkerchief to a nasty looking scalp wound.

  Blood covered half his face. He looked up dazedly as Hawk and Fisher approached

  him, and tried to get to his feet. Hawk waved for him to stay seated.

  "What happened here?"

  The Constable blinked and licked his dry lips. "My partner and I were the first

  here after the alarm went out. There was fighting and screaming inside the

  tavern, but we couldn't see anything. The crowd told us there were two

  Constables already in there, so my partner went in to check things out while I

  watched the crowd. I waited and waited, but he never came back. After a while it

  all went quiet, so I decided I'd just take a quick look through the door. I'd

  barely got my foot over the doorstep when something hit me. I couldn't see for

  blood in my eyes, so I got out of there quick. I'll try again in a minute, when

  I've got my breath back. My partner's still in there."

  Hawk clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. "You take a rest. Fisher and I'll

  have a look. If any more Guards come, keep them out here till we've had a chance

  to evaluate the situation. Are you sure it's chacal-users in there?"

  The Constable shrugged. "That's what the crowd said. But there's no way to be

  sure. As far as I can tell, anyone who was in the tavern when the trouble

  started is still in there."

  Hawk squeezed the Constable's shoulder comfortingly, and then he and Fisher

  moved off a way to discuss the matter.

  "What do you think?" said Hawk.

  "I think we should be very careful how we handle this. I don't like the sound of

  it at all. Three Guards missing, another injured and so spooked he can't bear to

  go near the place, and an unknown number of rioters who might just be out of

  their minds on chacal. The odds stink. How come we never get the easy

  assignments?"

  "There aren't any easy assignments in Haven. We've got to go in, Isobel. There

  could be innocent people trapped in there, unable to get out."

  "It's not very likely, Hawk."

  "No, it's not. But we have to check."

  Fisher nodded unhappily. "All right; let's do it, before we get a rush of brains

  to the head and realize what a dumb idea this is. What's the plan?"

  "Well, there's no point in trying to sneak in. If there are chacal-users in

  there, they'll be able to see, hear, and smell us coming long before we even get

  a glimpse of them. I say we burst in through the door, weapons at the ready, and

  hit anything that moves."

  "Planning never was your strong suit, was it, Hawk?"

  "Have you got a better idea?"

  "Unfortunately, no."

  Hawk grinned. "Then let's do it. Don't look so worried, lass. We've faced worse

  odds before."

  He drew his axe and Fisher drew her sword, and they moved cautiously over to the

  tavern's main entrance. The door was standing ajar, with only darkness showing

  beyond. Bright splashes of blood marked the polished wood, below a series of

  gouges that looked unnervingly like claw marks. Hawk listened carefully, but

  everything seemed still and quiet. He put his boot against the door and pushed

  it wide open. The two Captains braced themselves, but nothing happened. Hawk

  hefted his axe thoughtfully, and glanced at Fisher. She nodded, and they darted

  through the doorway together. Once inside they moved quickly apart to stand on

  either side of the door, so they wouldn't be silhouetted against the light, and

  waited silently for their eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  Hawk held his axe out before him, and strained his ears against the silence. A

  fire was burning fitfully at the far end of the tavern, and some light fell past

  the shuttered windows. The tavern slowly took form out of the gloom, and Hawk

  was able to make out chairs and tables overturned and scattered across the

  floor, as though a sudden storm had swept through the long room, carrying all

  before it. Dark shapes lay still and silent among the broken furniture, and Hawk

  didn't need to see them clearly to know they were bodies. He counted fourteen

  that he was sure of. There was no sign of their killers.

  Hawk moved slowly forward, axe at the ready. Broken glass crunched under his

  boots. Fisher appeared silently out of the gloom to move at his side. He stopped

  by a wall lamp, and working slowly and carefully, he took out his box of matches

  and lit it, while Fisher stood guard. It wasn't easy lighting the lamp with one

  hand, but he wouldn't put his axe down. The sudden light pushed back the

  darkness, and for the first time Hawk and Fisher were able to see the full

  extent of the devastation. There was blood everywhere, splashed across the walls

  and furniture and pooled on the floor. Most of the bodies had been mutilated or

  disfigured. Some had been torn apart. Loops of purple intestine hung limply from

  a lamp bracket, and a severed hand beckoned from a barbecue grill by the fire.

  Most of the bodies had been gutted, ripped open from throat to groin. Whoever or

  whatever had done it hadn't bothered to use a blade. Fisher swore softly, and

  her knuckles showed white on her sword hilt. Hawk put the lamp back in its

  niche, and the two of them moved slowly forward. The tavern was still and

  silent, full of the stench of blood and death.

  They went from body to body, methodically checking for signs of life, but there

  were none. They found the three Guards who'd gone in to face what they thought

  was a simple riot. The only way to identify them was by their Constable's

  scarlet cloak and tunic. Their heads were missing. There was no sign anywhere of

  their attackers. Hawk wondered briefly if they might have made their escape

  during the confusion, but he didn't think so. Every instinct he had was

  screaming at him that the killers were still there, watching, and
waiting for

  their chance. He could almost feel the weight of their gaze on his back.

  The tavern's bar had been wrecked. There wasn't an intact bottle or glass left

  on the shelves, and the floor was covered with a thick carpet of broken glass.

  Hawk drew Fisher's attention to the bartop. The thick slab of polished mahogany

  was crisscrossed with long, curving scars that made Hawk think again about

  claws. He looked at Fisher, who nodded slowly.

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Hawk?"

  "Could be. We've been working on the assumption this was the work of

  chacal-users, but more and more this is starting to look like something else

  entirely. I don't see how anything human could have caused injuries like those,

  or claw marks like these. I think we've got a werewolf here, Isobel."

  Fisher reached down and pulled a silver dagger from inside her boot, and held it

  loosely in her left hand. Just in case. She moved behind the bar, and then

  signaled quickly for Hawk to come and join her. He did so, and the two of them

  stood looking down at the bartender, lying wedged half under the bar. His throat

  had been torn out, and there were bite marks on his arms where he'd lifted them

  to defend himself.

  "Werewolf," said Fisher.

  "Maybe," said Hawk. "I don't know. The bite marks look wrong. A wolf's muzzle

  would leave a larger, narrower bite…"

  Something growled nearby. Hawk and Fisher moved quickly out from behind the bar

  to give themselves room to fight. They glared about them, but nothing moved in

  the shadowy, blood-spattered room. The growl came again, louder this time, and

  then a heavy weight hit Hawk from above and behind, throwing him to the floor.

  Glass crunched loudly beneath him as he rolled back and forth, trying

  desperately to tear himself free from the creature that clung to his back,

  pinning his arms to his sides with its legs and reaching for his throat with

  clawed hands. He tucked his head in, chin pressed to his chest, and then nearly

  panicked as he felt teeth gnawing at the back of his head. He got his feet

  underneath him, glanced quickly about to get his bearings, and then slammed

  himself back against the heavy wooden bar behind him. The creature's grip

  loosened as the breath was knocked out of it, and Hawk pulled free. He threw

  himself to one side, and Fisher stepped forward in a full extended lunge,