“He was with the General when I left, Sire.” Haas kicked his mount again. The animal had been pushed hard for a long time. Bragi recognized its fatigue and eased the pace. Dahl added, “He seemed to take it personal. Like it was an attack on him.”

“Good.” Bragi eased the pace even more. It had been a long day for his animal, too.

And this long day was not over yet. Not for him.

FIVE: YEAR 1016 AFE
MYSTERY ATTACKERS

Ragnarson pushed into the room where General Liakopulos lay. The Guildsman was as pale as bone china. “How is he?”

Doctor Wachtel, a grizzled old man who had been Royal Physician forever, replied, “He’s resting.”

“Will he make it?”

“It could go either way. He lost a lot of blood. The wounds aren’t that bad. Nothing vital injured. But when you’ve been cut so many times….”

“This the dead man?”

“The assassin? Yes.”

Ragnarson lifted the linen covering. He saw an unprepossessing young man of medium height, slightly overweight. He tried to imagine the man on his feet, moving around. He reminded himself that they looked smaller and meeker when they were dead. “Where’s Trebilcock?”

“The General came to an hour ago. He described his assailants. He’d cut the other two. Michael went looking for wounded men.”

“Uhm. You talk to Varthlokkur about this?”

The doorway sentries stirred. Wachtel shrugged. “He may know. I haven’t told him. Didn’t see any need.”

“Maybe he could give you a hand.”

The old man scowled. “Am I incompetent?” He was the best physician in Kavelin, and jealous of his reputation.

“Guards. One of you get the wizard. He’s in the brown guest suite.” To Wachtel, Ragnarson added, “Who better to question our friend?” He indicated the dead man.

“Uhm.” Wachtel put a world of disgust into his grunt. He and the wizard had collaborated before. He had a profound loathing for sorcery in every form, though he grudgingly admitted that Varthlokkur was a master of life magicks, and occasionally offered hope when his own science failed him.

He did not protest much. He was a truly good man, incapable of a spiteful or wicked act. If there had been no other hope for Liakopulos, he would have summoned the wizard himself.

It would not have occurred to him, though, to yield the corpse to the sorcerer. He only concerned himself with the living.

He was quite civil when a sleep-fuddled Varthlokkur arrived. He quickly accounted the locations, depths, and severity of his patient’s wounds. He controlled his scowl as Varthlokkur ran his hands over the General, making another examination.

“You’ve done all you can? Hot broth, and so forth? Herbs for the pain?”

Wachtel nodded.

“He ought to recover. Might have trouble using the one arm, and there’ll be scars. No point me getting involved.”

Wachtel’s scowl lapsed into a somber smile. He turned it on Ragnarson.

“Check this one,” Bragi told the wizard. “This’s the man Liakopulos killed.”