The Eastern Front(99)

With his free hand, though. He didn't let go of the knife. An experienced brawler, it seemed.

Not that it would do him the least bit of good. Now, Baldur did come to his feet.



It was no contest. Gui Ancelin was indeed considered a formidable man with a blade, in his own circles. But those were the circles of assassins and street fighters. Baldur Norddahl had learned his swordplay as an Algerine corsair and guarding caravans in the Sahara from Tuareg raiders.

Not to mention that Gui had a knife and Baldur had a sword. The knife was razor sharp and the sword blade wasn't, but it hardly mattered since the first thing Baldur did was cut off his right arm just below the elbow. With the Norwegian's strength and experience, the precise condition of the blade didn't matter. Even a relatively dull sword is a sword, not a butter knife.

Ancelin stared down in shock. Not for long. Baldur's next strike severed the right side of his neck down to the spinal column. Blood gushed everywhere and he collapsed to the cobblestones. Slottsbacken was not flat. The rain was coming down so heavily that the blood was carried away almost as fast as it came out.



Brillard fired. The queen was knocked flat on her back. The guards stared down at her, still not moving. Clearly the Swedes were not using elite troops to guard the palace.

They should have spotted the gunsmoke coming from the window where he was positioned. In good weather, even dullards like these couldn't have missed the sound and sight of the shot. But the heavy rain distorted sound and obscured the smoke. He thought he was still undetected.

He began reloading the rifle. There was time for another shot. Perhaps he could still help Charles after all.



Mademann finally had his pistol. He started to get up again—and slipped again.

Down onto one knee, this time, not on his belly. But he'd fallen hard and the knee was badly bruised. If he survived the next few moments, he'd be walking with a limp for a while.

If he was lucky. The knee might also be broken. The pain was intense.

Damn this rain!



Robert Ouvrard fired when was ten feet from the prince. At this range, he could hardly miss.

But he did. Ouvrard was not experienced at this sort of gun fight. He did not understand how often people missed their shots even at what seemed point blank range. They got excited and agitated—as he was—and the surge of adrenaline swept away all fine motor control. Ancient fight-or-flight reflexes took over, designed for crude actions like running or striking with fists, not the comparatively delicate work of aiming a pistol and squeezing a trigger.

Instead, he jerked the trigger wildly—but he would have missed by a foot even if he hadn't. The shot struck the wall of the royal palace, causing no damage at all beyond dimpling a brick.



Ulrik fired back. And also missed, at point blank range.

Both men cursed and both fired again—but Ulrik's shot came just an instant sooner. That was the advantage of the revolver's mechanism over that of the double-barreled flintlock pistol.

His shot struck Ouvrard in the stomach. The Huguenot clutched himself, his pistol swinging wide. The shot he fired by reflex hit the cobblestones and caromed off to strike the wall of the church, where it caromed off again.

With that sort of abdominal wound, Ouvrard was almost sure to die eventually. He was still alive but no longer part of the fight. He was disarmed and already falling to the street.

So, naturally, Ulrik shot him again. A good shot, right in the center mass, certain to cause the man's death even if the first shot didn't.

Also a completely stupid wasted shot, which left the prince with an empty gun.

He was not experienced at this sort of thing either.

But he didn't have time to curse himself. Abraham Levasseur had been just behind Ouvrard and now he fired, also at point blank range.

Two shots in very quick succession. Levasseur was familiar with double-barreled pistols and their somewhat intricate trigger mechanism.

He'd also been in a gun fight before, unlike Ouvrard.

Both of his shots hit the prince. Ulrik slumped to the ground.



Locquifier started to clamber over the upended table, in order to stab the princess huddled behind it. He ignored Baldur altogether. His instruction from Michel had said nothing about irrelevant Norwegian adventurers.

Such is the folly of paying too much instruction to orders.

By now, Kristina had taken one of her jeweled hairpins out of her hair. The thing was only three inches long and not particularly sharp, but it was all she had. As soon as she saw Locquifier coming over the table, with an upraised knife in his hand, she shrieked and lunged upward, jagging at his face.

The hairpin did no damage, because Locquifier flinched away from it. But his attack was delayed for two seconds or so.

That was all the time Baldur needed, now that he'd finished with Ancelin.