Free All Darkness Met by Glen Cook

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 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.
    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,