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Nakir."
"Uhm," Frita grunted. The silver coin the stranger had given him had been of
the same source, but of an earlier mintage.
Bared, the dead man's chest appeared virtually uninjured. The only mark was a
small crown branded over his heart.
"Hey," said the ex-sailor. "I've seen that mark before. It's got , something
to do with the refugees from Hammad al Nakir, doesn't it?"
"Yes," Frita replied. "We shared our meal with a celebrity. With a king."
"Really?" Alowa's eyes were large. "I touched him...."
The sailor shuddered. "I hope I never see him again. Not that one. If he's who
I think you mean. He's accursed. Death and war follow him wherever he
goes...."
"Yes," Frita agreed. "I wonder what evil brought him to Trolledyngja?"
SIX: The Attack
Three men lurked in the shadows of the park. They appeared to be devotees of
the Harish Cult of Hammad al Nakir. Dusky, hawk-nosed men, they watched with
merciless eyes. They had been there for hours, studying the mansion across the
lane. Occasionally, one had gone to make a careful circuit of the house. They
were old hunters. They had patience.
"It's time," the leader finally murmured. He tapped a man's shoulder, stabbed
a finger at the house. The man crossed the lane with no more noise than the
approach of midnight. A dog woofed questioningly behind the hedges.
The man returned five minutes later. He nodded.
All three crossed the lane.
They had been studying and rehearsing for days. No one was out this time of
night. There was little chance anyone would interfere.
Four mastiffs lay rigid on the mansion's lawn. The three dragged them out of
sight. Poisoned darts had silenced them.
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The leader spent several minutes examining the door for protective spells.
Then he tried the latch.
The door opened.
It was too easy. They feared a trap. A Marshall should have guards,
enchantments, locks and bolts protecting him.
These men didn't know Kavelin. They couldn't have comprehended the little
kingdom's politics had they been interested. Here political difficulties were
no longer settled with blades in darkness.
They searched the first floor carefully, smothering a maid, butler, and their
child. They had orders to leave no one alive.
The first bedroom on the second floor belonged to Inger,
Ragnarson's four-year-old daughter. They paused there, again using a pillow.
The leader considered the still little form without remorse. His fingers
caressed a dagger within his blouse, itching to strike with it. But that blade
dared be wielded against but one man.
To the Harish Cult the assassin's dagger was sacred. It was consecrated to the
soul of the man chosen to die. To pollute the weapon with another's blood was
abomination. Deaths incidental to a consecrated assassination had to be
managed by other means. Preferably bloodless, by smothering, drowning,
garroting, poisoning, or defenestration.
The three slew a boy child, then came to a door with light showing beneath it.
A murmur came through. Adult voices. This should be the master bedroom. The
three decided to save that room for last. They would make sure of the sleeper
on the third floor, Ragnarson's brother, before taking the Marshall himself,
three to one.
The plans of mice and men generally are laid without considering the fbibles
of fourteen-year-old boys who have been feuding with their brothers.
Every night Ragnar booby-trapped his door certain that some morning Gundar
would again sneak in to steal his magic kit....
Water fell. A bucket crashed and rattled over an oaken floor. From the master
bedroom a woman's frightened voice called, "Ragnar, what the hell are you up
to?" Low, urgent discussion accompanied the rustle of hasty movement.
A sleepy, "What?" came from behind the booby-trapped door, then a frightened,
"Ma!"
Ragnar didn't recognize the man in his doorway.
The intruder pawed the water from his eyes. His followers threw themselves
toward the master bedroom. The door was locked, but flimsy. They broke
through.
Inside, a man desperately tried to get into his pants. A woman clutched furs
to her nakedness.
"Who the hell... ?" the man demanded.
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An assassin flicked a bit of silken handkerchief. It wrapped the man's throat.
A second later his neck broke. The other intruder rushed the woman.
They were skilled, these men. Professionals. Murder, swift and silent, was
their art.
Their teachers had for years tried to school them to react tothe unexpected.
But some things were beyond their teachers.
Like a woman fighting back.
Elana hurled herself toward the bodkin laying on a nearby wardrobe, swung it
as the assassin rounded the bed.
He stopped, taken aback.
She moved deftly, distracting with her nakedness. Seeing him armed with
nothing more dangerous than a scarf, she attacked.
He flicked that scarf. It encircled her throat. She drove the dagger in an
upward thrust. He took it along his ribs.
Gagging, Elana stabbed again, opened his bowels.
Ragnar suddenly realized that death was upon him. He scrambled to the shadowed [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]