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 corner where he had hidden the weapons Haaken had been training him to use. They were there by sheer chance. He had been too lazy to return them to the family armory after practice, and Haaken had forgotten to check on him.
He went after the assassin in the wild-swinging northman fashion before the man recovered from the drenching. His blows were fierce but poorly struck. He was too frightened to fight with forethought or calculation.
The assassin wasn't armed for this. He retreated, skipping and weaving and picking up slash wounds. He watched the boy's mad eyes, called for help. But there would be none. Through the door of the master bedroom he saw one of his comrades down. The other wrestled with a woman.... And someone was stirring upstairs.
The man. though, was dead. He lay halfway between bed and door, silk knotted round his throat.
The night was almost a success. The primary mission had been accomplished.
The leader fled.
Ragnar chased him to the front door before he realized that his mother was fighting for her life. He charged back upstairs. "Ma! Ma!"
The house was all a-scream now. The little ones wailed in the hall. Haaken thundered from the third floor, "What's going on down there?"
Ragnar met the last assassin coming from the bedroom. His mouth and eyes were agape in incredulity.
Ragnar cut him down. For an instant he stared at the bodkin in the man's back. Then he whipped into his parents' bedroom. "Ma! Papa! Are you all right?"
No.
He saw the dead man first, his pants still around his knees.
It wasn't his father.
Then he saw his mother and the disemboweled assassin.
"Ma!"
It was the howl of a maddened wolf, all pain and rage....
Haaken found the boy hacking at the assassin Elana had gutted. The corpse was chopped meat. He took in the scene, understood, despite his own anger and agony did what he had to do.
First he closed the door to shield the other children from their mother's shame. Then he disarmed Ragnar.
It wasn't easy. The boy was ready to attack anything moving. But Haaken was Ragnar's swordmaster. He knew the boy's weaknesses. He struck Ragnar's blade aside, planted a fist.
The blow didn't faze Ragnar. "Like your grandfather, eh, Red?" He threw another punch. Then another and another. The boy finally collapsed. Ragnar's grandfather had, at will, been capable of killing rages. Berserk, he had been invincible.
Shaking his head dolefully, Haaken covered Elana. "Poor Bragi," he muttered. "He don't need this on top of everything else."
He poked his head into the hall. The surviving children and servants were in a panic. "Gundar!" he roared. "Come here. Pay attention." The ten-year-old couldn't stop staring at the assassin lying in the hall. "Run to the Queen's barracks. Tell Colonel Ahring to get your father. Right now."
Haaken closed the door, stalked round the bedroom. "How will I tell him?" he mumbled. He toyed with disposing of the dead man. "No. Have to do it in one dose. He'll need all the evidence.
"Somebody's gonna pay for this." He inspected the chopped corpse carefully. "El Murid has got himself one big debt."
The hand of the Harish had reached into Vorgreberg before.
There was nothing he could do there. He slipped out, sat down with his back against the door. He laid his sword across his lap and waited for his brother.
One oil lamp flickered on Ragnarson'sdesk. He bent close to read the latest protest from El Murid's embassy. They sure could bitch about petty shit.
What the hell was Haroun up to?
Haroun was what he was, doing what he thought necessary. Even when he made life difficult, Bragi bore him no ill will. But when bin Yousif stopped conforming to his own nature....
There hadn't been a serious protest in a year. And Valther said there had been no terrorist incursions for several. Nor had many bands of Royalist partisans passed through Kavelin bound for the camps. Nor had Customs reported the capture of any guerrilla contraband.
It was spooky.
Ragnarson wasn't pleased when people changed character inexplicably.
"Derel. Any word from Karak Strabger?"
"None, sir."
"Something's wrong up there. I'd better...."
"Gjerdrum can handle it, sir."
Ragnarson's right hand fluttered about nervously. "I suppose. I wish he'd write more often."
"I used to hear the same from his mother when he was at the university."
"It'd risk letters falling into unfriendly hands anyway." The Queen's condition had to remain secret. For the good of the state, for his own good-if he didn't want his wife planning to cut his throat.
Bragi didn't know how to manage it, but the news absolutely had to be kept from Elana.
Rumors striking alarmingly near the truth ran the streets already.
He massaged his forehead, crushed his eyelids with the heels of his hands. "This last contribution from Breidenbach. You done the figures yet?"
"It looks good. There's enough, but it'll be risky."
"Damned. There's got to be an honest, legal way to increase revenues."
In the past, when he had been on the other end, Bragi's favorite gripes had been government and taxes. Taxes especially. He had seen them as a gigantic protection racket. Pay off or have soldiers on your front porch.
"By increasing the flow of trade."
Economics weren't his forte, but Ragnarson asked anyway. "How do we manage that?"
"Lower the transit tax." Prataxis grinned.
"Oh, go to hell. The more you talk, the more I get confused. If
I had the men I'd do it the Trolledyngjan way. Go steal it from the nearest foreigner who couldn't defend himself."
Prataxis's reply was forestalled by a knock.
"Enter," Ragnarson growled.
Jarl Ahring stepped in. His face was drawn.
Premonition gripped Ragnarson. "What is it? What's happened, Jarl?"
Ahring gulped several false starts before babbling, "At your house. Somebody.... Assassins."
"But.... What... ?" He didn't understand. Assassins? Why would... ? Maybe robbers? There was no reason for anyone to attack his home.
"Your son.... Gundar.... He came to the barracks. He was hysterical. He said everybody was dead. Then he said Haaken told him to have me find you. I sent twenty men over, then came here."
"You checked it out?"
"No. I came straight here."
"Let's go."
"I brought you a horse."
"Good." Ragnarson strapped on the sword that was never out of reach, followed Ahring at a run. And then at a wild gallop through deserted streets.
A quarter mile short of home Ragnarson shouted, "Hold up!" A patch of white in the park had caught his eye.
The man was on the verge of dying, but he recognized Ragnarson. Surprise shown through agony. He tried to use a dagger.
Bragi took it away, studied him. Soon he was dead. "Loss of blood," Ragnarson observed. "Somebody cut him bad." He handed the knife to Ahring.
"Harish kill-dagger."
"Yeah. Come on."
The news was spreading. Lean, sallow Michael Trebilcock had arrived already, and Valther and his wife, Mist, showed up as Bragi did. Their house stood just up the lane. Neighbors clogged the yard. Ahring's troops were keeping them out of the house.