other, and then Hawk launched himself at the spy. Fenris fell back, shock and
alarm fighting for control of his features. Hawk glanced quickly round the room,
and his gaze fell on the spy's contact—a grey, anonymous man with an icily calm
face.
'Stand where you are, both of you!' barked Hawk. 'You're under arrest. Throw
down your weapons!'
The contact drew his sword and advanced on Hawk. The spy fumbled for a throwing
knife. Oh hell, thought Hawk tiredly. Just once, why can't they do the sensible
thing and give up without a fight? He decided he'd better take out the contact
first; he looked to be the more dangerous of the two. Once the contact had been
subdued, Fenris would likely give himself up without a struggle. Hawk closed in
on the contact; the man's face was utterly bland and forgettable, but his eyes
were cold and deadly calm. Hawk began to have a very bad feeling about him. He
pushed the thought aside and launched his attack. The grey man brushed aside
Hawk's axe effortlessly, and Hawk had to retreat rapidly to avoid being
transfixed by the contact's follow-through.
The grey man moved quickly after him, cutting and thrusting with awesome skill,
and it was all Hawk could do to hold him off. Fenris' contact was an expert
swordsman. Hawk's heart sank. When all was said and done, an axe was not
designed as a defensive weapon. Hawk usually won his fights by launching an
all-out attack and not letting up until his opponent was beaten. As it was, only
frantic footwork and some inspired use of the axe was keeping him alive. Hawk
had been an excellent swordsman in his younger days, before he lost his eye, but
even then he would have been hard pressed to beat the grey man. He was fast,
brilliant, and disturbingly methodical. Unless Hawk could come up with something
in a hurry, he was a dead man, and both he and the grey man knew it. Out of the
corner of his eye, Hawk could see Fenris circling around them with a throwing
knife in his hand, looking for an opening. That settled it. When in doubt, fight
dirty.
He struck at the grey man's head with his axe, forcing him to raise his sword to
parry the blow, and while the two blades were engaged, Hawk pivoted neatly on
one foot and kicked the grey man squarely in the groin. The man's face paled and
his sword arm wavered. Hawk brought his axe across in a sudden, savage blow that
sliced through the man's throat. Blood spurted thickly as the grey man
collapsed. Hawk spun quickly to face Fenris. He might have lost the contact, but
he was damned if he'd lose the spy as well, Fenris aimed, and threw his knife in
a single fluid movement. Hawk threw himself to one side, and the knife shot past
his shoulder but pinned his cloak firmly to the wall. Hawk scrabbled frantically
at the cloak's clasp as Fenris turned and bolted out the door. Some days,
nothing goes right.
The clasp finally came undone, and he jerked free, leaving the cloak hanging
pinned to the wall behind him. He charged out of the room and onto the landing.
He'd come back for the cloak later. He peered over the banister and caught a
glimpse of Fenris standing at the foot of the stairs, looking frantically about
him. Hawk clattered down the stairs, cursing quietly to himself. He hated
chases. He was built for stamina, not speed, and he was already out of breath
from the exertions of the fight. Still, Fenris wouldn't get that far. The wedge
under the front door should see to that.
In the darkened parlor, the seance was well under way. A mysterious pool of
light illuminated a small circular table, throwing sinister shadows on the faces
of the six people gathered hopefully around it. Darkness pressed close about the
circle of light, hiding the pokey little parlor and giving the six participants
a feeling of being adrift in eternity. The air was heavy with the scent of
sandalwood, and over all there was an atmosphere of unease and anticipation.
Madam Zara rocked back and forth on her chair, as though all around her spirits
were jostling for possession of her voice, desperate to pass on messages of hope
and comfort to those they had left behind. Madam Zara's head lolled limply on
her neck, but her eyes kept a careful if unobtrusive watch on her clients.
It was just her regulars this week. The Holbrooks, a middle-aged couple wanting
to contact their dead son. David and Mercy Peyton, still hopeful their dear
departed grandfather would reveal to them where he'd hidden the family fortune.
And old Mrs. Tyrell, timidly grateful for any fleeting contact with her dead
cat, Marmalade. The two couples were easy enough; all they needed were general
platitudes on the one hand and vague hints on the other, but having to make cat
noises was downright demeaning. If trade hadn't dropped off so much recently
she'd have drawn the line at pets, but times were hard, and Madam Zara had to
make do with what she could get.
She let her eyes roll back in her head, and produced her best sepulchral moan.
She was rather proud of her moan. It had something of the mystic and the eternal
in it, and was guaranteed to make even the most skeptical client sit up and take
notice. She took a firm grip on the hands of Graeme Holbrook and David Peyton on
either side of her, and let a delicate shudder run down her arms into her hands.
'The spirits are with us,' she said softly. 'They are near us in everything we
do, separated from us by only the thinnest of veils. They wish always to make
contact with us, and all we have to do is listen… Hush. I feel a disturbance in
the ether. A spirit draws near. Speak with my voice, dear departed one. Have you
a message for someone here?'
The atmosphere grew taut and strained as Madam Zara threw in a few more moans
and shivers, and then pressed her foot firmly onto the lever hidden in the
floorboards. A block of wood thudded hollowly against the underside of the
table, making the clients jump. She hit the lever a few more times, producing
more mysterious knockings, and then concentrated on getting the right
intonations for the Peyton grandfather's voice. People didn't appreciate what
mediums had to go through for their money. She could have been a legitimate
actress, if only she'd had the breaks.
'The spirit is drawing closer. I can feel a presence in the room. It's almost
here…'
The door flew open and the tall thin gentleman from upstairs charged in, glared
wildly about him, and then headed for the window. The Holbrooks screamed, and
Mercy Peyton fell backwards off her chair. Madam Zara looked confusedly about
her, completely thrown. Another figure burst in through the open door, his
clothes soaked with blood, fresh gore dripping from the axe in his hand. The
Holbrooks screamed even louder and clutched each other tightly, convinced that
the Grim Reaper himself had come to claim them for meddling in his affairs. The
gentleman from upstairs threw open the window and slung a leg over the
windowsill. The second figure charged forward, overturning the table. He grabbed
at the young gentleman's shoulder, and just missed as he dropped into the
alleyway outside. The second figure cursed horribly and clambered out the window
in hot pursuit. The Holbrooks were still clutching each other and whimpering,
