"Now I've got you," he growled.
It was a vicious hold. Applied suddenly, to an unsuspecting victim, it could break a man's neck.
The assassin kicked savagely, writhed like an eel out of water. He slapped and pounded with his free hand. Bragi held on. The assassin produced another dagger, scarred Ragnarson's side repeatedly.
Where the hell was Haaken? And Varthlokkur? Or anybody?
The murderer's struggles weakened.
That, Bragi suspected, was feigned.
Slowly he dragged the man upright....
The assassin exploded, confessing his fakery.
Enough, Bragi thought. He leaned forward till the man was nearly able to toss him, then snapped back with all the strength and leverage he could apply.
He felt the neck go through his forearm and cheek. He heard the crunch.
The door burst inward. Haaken, Varthlokkur, and several soldiers charged in. Torchlight flooded the room. Bragi let the would-be murderer slide to the floor.
"Oh, my gods, my gods." He dropped to his bed, wounds forgotten, tears welling.
"He's alive," said Varthlokkur, touching the pulse in Mocker's throat.
"Get Wachtel!" Bragi ordered.
Varthlokkur rose, shedding tears of his own. "Stretch out," he told Ragnarson. "Let me stop that bleeding. Come on! Move!"
Ragnarson moved. There was no resisting the wizard's anger.
"Why?" He groaned as Varthlokkur spread the cut across his back.
"This will lay you up for a while. Wachtel will use a mile of thread. Cut to the bone. Side, too."
"Why, damnit? He was my friend."
"Maybe because they have his son." The wizard's examina-tion wasn't gentle. "I had a son once...."
"Damnit, man, don't open me up."
"... but I think he died in an alley in Throyes. The Curse of the Golmunes again. But for Ethrian he wouldn't be lying there now."
Wachtel bustled in. He checked Mocker's pulse, dug in his bag, produced a bottle, soaked a ball of wool, told Haaken, "Hold this under his nose." He turned to Bragi.
"Get hot water. Have to clean him before I sew." He poked and probed. "You'll be all right. A few stitches, a few weeks in bed. It'll be tender for a while, Marshall."
"What about Mocker,?"
"Neck's broken. But he's still alive. Probably be better off dead."
"How come?"
"I can't help him. No one could. I could only keep him alive."
While Wachtel washed, stitched, and bandaged Bragi, Varthlokkur reexamined Mocker carefully. Finally, he ven-tured, "He won't recover. He'll stay a vegetable. And I don't think you'll keep him that healthy long. You'll have trouble feeding him without severing his spinal cord." His tone betrayed his anguish, his despair.
Wachtel also reexamined Mocker. He could neither add to nor dispute Varthlokkur's prognosis.
"He'd be better off if we finish him," the wizard said. His eyes were moist. His voice quavered.
Bragi, the doctor, and Haaken exchanged looks. Ragnarson couldn't think straight. Crazy notions kept hurtling through his mind....
Mocker twitched. Weird noises gurgled from his throat. Wachtel soaked another ball of wool, knelt.
The others exchanged glances again.
"Damnit, I'll do it!" Haaken growled. There was no joy in him. He drew a dagger.
"No!" Varthlokkur snapped. His visage would have intimidated a basilisk.
"I'm the doctor," said Wachtel.
"No," the wizard repeated, more gently. "He's my son. Let it be on my head."
"No," Ragnarson countered. "You can't. Think about Nepanthe and Ethrian." He struggled up. "I'll do it. Let her hate me....She's more likely to listen if it was me.... Doctor, do you have something gentle?"
"No," said Varthlokkur.
"It has to be done?" Bragi surveyed faces. Haaken shrugged. Wachtel agreed reluctantly. Varthlokkur nodded, shook his head, nodded, shrugged.
"You men," Ragnarson growled at the soldiers who had come with Haaken and the wizard. "If you value your lives, you'll never forget that he was dead when you got here. Understood?"
He knelt, grunting. The cuts were getting sensitive. "Doctor, give me something."
Wachtel reluctantly took another bottle from his bag. He continued digging.
"Hurry, man. I've got a battle to get to. And I'm about to lose my nerve."
"Battle? You're not going anywhere for a couple weeks." Wachtel produced tweezers. "Lay one crystal on his tongue. It'll take about two minutes."
"I'll be at the fight. If somebody has to carry me. I've got to hit back or go mad."
He fumbled the little blue crystal three times.
Ragnarson stared across the Spehe at Norbury. Tears still burned his cheeks. He had scourged himself by walking all the way. His wounds ached miserably.
Wachtel had warned him. He should have listened.
He glanced up. It might rain. He surveyed Norbury again. It was a ghost town. The inhabitants had fled.
He fretted, waiting for his scouting reports. The Marena Dimura were prowling the banks of the Lynn.
Again he considered the nearer bridge. It was a stout stone construction barely wide enough for an ox cart. A good bottleneck.
Behind him archers and infantry talked quietly. Haaken and Reskird roamed among them, keeping their voices down. Up the Spehe, Jarl and the Queen's Own waited to ford the river and hit the enemy's rear.
If he came.
N ot today, Ragnarson thought as the sun settled into the hills of Moerschel. "Ragnar, tell the commanders to let the men pitch camp."
He was still standing there, ignoring his pain, when the moon rose, peeping through gaps in scurrying clouds. It was nearly full. Leaning on a spear, he looked like a weary old warrior guarding a forest path.
Trebilcock, Dantice, and Colonel Liakopulos joined him. No one said anything. This was no time to impose.
Mostly he relived his companionship with Mocker and Haroun. They, with the exception of Haaken and Reskird, had been his oldest friends. And the relationship with his fellow Trolledyngjans hadn't been the same. Haaken and Reskird were quieter souls, part-time companions always there when he called. There had been more life, more passion, and a lot less trust with the other two.
He reviewed old adventures, when they were young and couldn't believe they weren't immortal.
They had been happier then, he decided. Beholden to none, they had been free to go where and do what they pleased. Even Haroun had shown little interest in his role of exiled king.
"Somebody's coming," Trebilcock whispered.
A runner zipped across the gap between village and stream. He splashed into the river.
"Get him, Michael."
Trebilcock returned with a Marena Dimura. "Colonel Marisal, he comes, The Desert Rider, yes. Thousands. Many thousands, quiet, pads on feets of his horses, yes."
"Michael, Aral, Colonel, pass the word. Kill the fires. Everyone up to battle position. But quietly, damn it. Quietly." Of the scout, "How far?"
"Three miles. Maybe two now. Slow. No scouts out to give away."
"Uhm." Badalamen was cunning. He looked up. The gaps in the clouds were larger. There would be light for the bowmen.
"Ragnar. Run and tell Jarl I want him to start moving right away." Ahring's task would be difficult. His mounts wouldn't like going into action at night.
The men had barely gotten into position. Shadows were moving in the town. El Murid's horsemen came, leading their mounts. Soon they were piling up at the bridge.
Ragnarson was impressed with Badalamen. His maneuver seemed timed to reach Vorgreberg at sunrise.
A hundred men had crossed. Ragnarson guessed three times that would have crossed upriver. Five hundred or so had piled up on the south bank here.