"Something's coming," said Tomb softly.
Hawk drew his axe and Fisher hefted her sword. "What kind of something?" said Hawk.
"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."
"All right," said Hawk. "You're the sorcerer. Do something."
"It's not that simple," said Tomb.
Fisher grimaced. "I had a feeling he was going to say that."
"There are things I can do," said the sorcerer, "but in this dimension they take time to prepare. You'll just have to hold them off for a while."
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. "Hold them off," said Hawk.
"Twenty men," said Fisher.
"All religious fanatics, and armed to the teeth."
"Piece of cake."
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 traveled 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 fervor 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.
I must be getting old, she thought sourly, getting caught like that. Ten-to-one odds never used to bother me, either. Maybe I should get out of this business while I'm still ahead.
She cut down one Stalker, gutted a second, and blinded a third. Blood flew on the air, and she grinned nastily.
Forget it; I'd be bored in a week.
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."
"Then what the hell are we standing around here for?" snapped Hawk. "Move it!"
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.
"That should hold them," said Tomb. "Long enough for us to make ourselves scarce, anyway. I trust you found the visit useful?"
"Sure," said Hawk, his breathing slowly getting back to normal. "Nothing like being chased by an army of murderous fanatics to give you a good workout."
"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."
"We'll cope," said Fisher. "We're Captains of the Guard; we don't need our hands held. Right, Hawk?"
"Right," said Hawk.
"I'm relieved to hear it," said Tomb. "If you need me again, or any other member of the Squad, just ask around. Someone will always know where we are. It's part of our job to have a high profile. Good day."
He bowed politely to them both, and then set off down the Street at a pace obviously calculated to prevent any further discussion. Hawk looked at Fisher.
"He knows something. Something he doesn't want us asking him about. I wonder what."
Fisher shrugged. "On the Street of Gods, that could cover a whole lot of territory."
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.