Women and children screamed. Men ducked under the table.
The stranger rose calmly, bundled himself tightly, and vanished into the frigid night.
Frita peeked from beneath the table. "He's gone now." He joined his surviving guests beside the body.
"He was a sorcerer," the sailor muttered.
"Was that the man he was watching for?" Alowa asked. Her excitement was pure thrill.
"I think so. Yes. I think so." Frita opened the Watcher's shirt.
"Who was he?" the sailor asked.
"This here fellow's version of He Who Laughs, I reckon, the way he went on."
"Look at this," said the other man. He had recovered the coin the dead man had dropped when going for his knife. "You don't see many of these. From Hammad al 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.
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
The stranger rose calmly, bundled himself tightly, and vanished into the frigid night.
Frita peeked from beneath the table. "He's gone now." He joined his surviving guests beside the body.
"He was a sorcerer," the sailor muttered.
"Was that the man he was watching for?" Alowa asked. Her excitement was pure thrill.
"I think so. Yes. I think so." Frita opened the Watcher's shirt.
"Who was he?" the sailor asked.
"This here fellow's version of He Who Laughs, I reckon, the way he went on."
"Look at this," said the other man. He had recovered the coin the dead man had dropped when going for his knife. "You don't see many of these. From Hammad al 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.
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
Similar Books
