The assassin knelt amid the carnage, his sword deftly slashing at a bare spot on the floor. Torgar must have made a noise of some kind, for the assassin looked up. His face was hidden by a heavy black hood, his body wrapped in cloaks. Torgar lifted his sword.

“Come on,” he said, wishing he felt as tough as he sounded. “Come die, you sick fuck.”

The assassin stood, and his head shifted so Torgar could see a faint glimpse of his face in the dim moonlight streaming through the broken windows. He was smiling.

“Not tonight,” the man said. Smoke burst at his feet, flooding the room. Torgar coughed as it stung his eyes and throat. He slashed wildly a few times, but no attack came. When the smoke cleared, the man was gone. Torgar walked to the center of the room, creating footsteps in the drying layers of blood. His sword shook in his hand.

Taras and his wife Julie lay dead, and in pieces. Their maidservant’s body was slumped against the closet door, her throat opened by a gash that went from ear to ear. As Torgar’s heart caught in his throat, he heard a horrific sound break the silence-their newborn girl, Tori, wailing. Guards flooded the room as he picked up the child from the stained bed sheets. Her wrappings were bloodied, but she was unharmed.

“Where’d he go?” a guard asked as the others gasped and cursed at the sight.

Torgar shrugged, having no answer.

“Like a damned wraith,” said another. “We’d see him, and then he’d be gone.”

Hearing a cry, Torgar looked back to see Laurie fall to his knees before the doorway. Madelyn stood behind him, her face like glass but for the tears that ran down her cheeks. They dared not enter, for there was no reason, no way to clutch the bodies to their chests. The massacre was too horrific. Too complete.