Part 21 (2/2)
Then he stepped inside. ”Guro.”
He spoke softly, but his voice brought the woman rus.h.i.+ng downstairs. She looked at him, and her face became a study in horror.
He tossed a coin. ”Three more. In the street.”
”You. ...You....”
”I didn't draw the first blade, Guro. I came to see a man. I'll see him. Why did they die? Must I slay every man in Hammerfest? I will. Tell them. I'm leaving now. I hope I won't have to pay for any more funerals.”
He stepped over the neatly ranked bodies. Each bore a small crown-shaped brand on its forehead.
He strode uphill, his blade sheathed once more. He doubted that anyone would be bold enough to attack him now. He had already killed the best men in town.
When he pa.s.sd the last building he looked back. Storybook town, storybook houses, filled with storybook people-till the sun went down.
Hammerfest would lose its fairy tale l.u.s.ter as the news spread.
h.e.l.l had visited this night.
He lifted his gaze to the crumbling little castle.
His man was there.
Was he awake? Waiting?
Certainly. He would be, in the man's position. Waiting for word of success-or of failure. Or for the intended victim to come asking questions.
A thin, cruel little smile crossed his lips.It was a cold, chill walk. Each time he glanced back more windows showed light.
Guro was busy.
Would they have the nerve to come after him? To save a man who had sent six of them to their deaths?
He came within bowshot of the curtain wall. His guerrilla's sensitivities probed for another ambush. Senses beyond the human also reached out. He detected nothing outside the keep. Inside, there were three life-sparks.
Just three? Even a tumbledown, cruddy little shed of a castle rated a bigger garrison. Especially when one of the sparks was female.
He paused, thought. There seemed to be a numerological relations.h.i.+p.... Three a.s.sa.s.sins in his room. Three outside the inn. Three here.
Woman or not, she was part of it.
How? Women seldom bore swords in Trolledyngja.
A witch. That had to be the answer.
Then they knew he was coming.
Though he knew where they waited, he poked around like a man carefully searching.
They knew a hunter was coming, but not who.
He used the time to prepare himself for the witch.
He readied his most powerful, most reliable spells. Though these Trolledyngjan wild women had little reputation, he hadn't survived thirty years under the sword without being cautious.
He probed. Still all in one room. And nothing sorcerous waiting anywhere else.
Whatever, it would happen there.
Again, they couldn't know who he was, only that he had come from the south. They would want to know who and why before they killed him.
They were going to be surprised.
He approached their room with right hand on sword hilt and left protruding from his greatcloak. He had the position of the woman fixed clearly in mind.
Now!
His left forefinger felt as though he had jabbed it into fire.
The woman screamed.
He stepped inside. The thin, cruel smile was on his lips. He tipped back his hood.
The woman kept screaming. She was strong. She had survived.
The others stared. The fat one with the mane gone silver had to be the Thane of Hammerfest.
”Bin Yousif!” the other gasped.
”Colonel Balfour. You seem surprised.” He threw back his cloak. ”He was my friend.”Balfour didn't reply.
”He has other friends,” said Haroun. ”I'm just the first to arrive.” His left forefinger jabbed again. The woman stopped screaming. Another cruel smile. ”You. Do you want to see the sun rise?”
The heavy man nodded. He was too frightened, too shocked, to speak.
”Then get up-carefully-and go down to Bors' inn. They need someone to tell them what to do. And don't look back.”
The man went out like a whipped dog.
”He'll find his courage,” Balfour predicted.
”Possibly. Having a mob behind you helps. Now. We talk.”
”You talk.”
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