1635_ The Eastern Front - Eric Flint [124]
Two shots gone! He had only three bullets left.
The prince's first shot struck Tourneau in the arm, just above the wrist. Howling, he jerked around, dropping the gun—and moved right into the path of the second bullet. It was that one, despite being completely unaimed, that killed him instantly. The bullet entered his left temple and destroyed much of his brain before coming to a stop against the occipital bone.
It was already obvious things were going badly. Mathurin took aim at the figure standing up above the table rim. He, also, thought it was probably the prince, although this cursed rain degraded visibility in the most terrible manner. It would not be an easy shot under these conditions, but he thought he could make it. If he missed, he would have time for a second shot.
A sudden noise to the right drew his attention.
The queen was coming out of the palace! Brillard hadn't expected that. She was trailed by half a dozen palace guards.
All of them had now stopped. They were just within the entrance, still out of the rain. The queen was staring at the bizarre tableau in Slottsbacken, her mouth wide open.
The guards wouldn't be much use. They were armed with ceremonial halberds, not firearms. The weapons could still do a lot of damage even if those great blades probably weren't keep very sharp. But it would take them a while to reach the prince and princess.
Mademann would have to manage without his help. Brillard's assigned target was Maria Eleonora.
He brought the rifle around. The queen still hadn't moved. She seemed completely paralyzed with shock.
This was much closer range. Even in the rain, he could hardly miss.
Kristina managed to work the dead guard's sword out of the scabbard. Shakily, she passed it on to Baldur.
"My profound thanks, Your Highness." For once, there was not a trace of mockery in the Norwegian's tone of voice.
One of the assailants came around the table, a knife in his hand. Baldur flung himself straight at him, not even trying to get to his feet. The sword point went into the meat of the attacker's right thigh.
His aim had been off a little. He'd been trying for the femoral artery. Still, the wound was severe enough to stop the assailant. He howled and clutched his leg.
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.