Hans surged forward, grabbed Jurgen’s shoulders and smashed his forehead into his foe’s face, shattering his nose and spraying blood over both of them. He pushed the dazed Jurgen away and rounded on Otto, who was moving in to stab him again. Before he could block it, Otto’s knife had sheathed itself in his left side, low down below the rib wrappings.
A cold pain shot through Hans. He knew that now his minutes were limited. He could feel blood beginning to flow out.
Hans’ left hand dropped down to pinion Otto’s hand on the hilt of the knife. His right hand flew out to grasp the front of the other man’s throat. With a grunt and a heaving twist, Hans crushed and tore his foe’s larynx.
Dropping the convulsing Otto to die where he lay, Hans turned back to Jurgen, who was standing still and clutching his bleeding nose. Still holding the knife in place in his wounded side, hissing at the fresh pain felt with every movement of his body, Hans delivered a kick to demolish Jurgen’s right knee. Then he aimed a boot at the other man’s throat. But before he could deliver it, he felt a blow on his back, and a fresh stinging. He turned his head slowly, to see Ernst backing away, staring first at his knife and then at Hans. Obviously the coat and wrappings had played their part one more time.
Hans followed through with the kick to Jurgen’s throat. The crunch was a pleasing validation that there was another foe down. All the while he stared at Ernst, standing wide-eyed in the moonlight.
“Come take me now, Ernst,” Hans husked. He could feel his legs starting to tremble, his arms droop from the blood loss. He didn’t have long.
Ernst obviously hesitated. Hans had taken out a half-dozen of his men before his eyes. Four of them were dead and another might well be.
On the other hand, it had to be obvious that Hans was hurt.
Hans waited. He had no hope of chasing Ernst if he ran. He hunched over a little more, not altogether feigning hurt.
Ernst stepped closer, then with a rush he stabbed at Hans. The knife didn’t penetrate the rib wrappings. Just as Hans gripped his shoulder, Ernst drew the knife back and thrust again.
“Die, damn you!”
This time the knife went in low, between the hips and below the wrappings. It was sharp, and penetrated the trousers, skin, and abdomen with ease.
Hans hissed at another wave of cold pain. This one would kill him, he knew. The blood was flowing faster. He so much wanted to rant and rail at Ernst, tell him what he thought of him and his master the devil Schardius. But there was no time.
He wrenched Otto’s knife out of his body with his left hand, turned it, and thrust it into Ernst’s belly. Hans watched as the other man’s eyes opened wide in shock and his mouth dropped open. He gave a heave with his shoulder, and ripped Ernst open from navel to sternum. Ernst’s eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed, sliding off of the blade of the knife.
Hans dropped Otto’s knife and stumbled a step or two away before he dropped to his knees, then sagged to one side and rolled onto his back.
“Thank you, God,” he murmured, “for allowing me to defend my sister. If my hands are too bloody to enter heaven, then I will enter hell knowing that she is safe.”
The darkness closed around his vision, narrowing until only the whiteness of the moon could be seen. As that grayed out and the darkness continued to close in, one last thought passed through his mind.
Consequences.
Chapter 63
Franz awoke to a feeling of weight on his chest and something tickling his nose. He opened his eyes to see Marla’s face just inches from his own, a tress of her own long hair in her fingers teasing his upper lip and nostrils.
When she saw his eyes open, she swooped in for a languorous and lingering kiss, then bounced up to sit beside him in the bed.
“It’s opera day, Franz. Get up! We have so much to do!”
She jumped to her feet and began getting ready for the day. Franz rolled over on his side, and watched her gathering clothing and washing her face, all the while humming a melody that he finally recognized as “I Feel Pretty,” from West Side Story. One of these days he hoped that Andrea Abati would follow through with his oft-stated plan to stage that musical. He would really like to see how the Adel and the patricians and the bürgermeisters would react to it. Probably not going to happen soon, though, given how dissonant the music was. One day, though.
“Franz!” Marla pounced on him again, dragging on his hand. “Get up!”
No help for it, he decided. And in truth, today was going to be a busy day. So he sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed.
It didn’t take long to prepare. Franz donned his normal conductor’s suit: black velvet long trousers in the up-time style, and a short-waisted royal blue velvet jacket over a white shirt. He ran a comb through his hair, and he was ready to go.