Gathon Dard was on his feet at once; he hurled the wine flagon at the three murderers and leaped across the room.  Antrath Alv went bounding after him, and by this time three or four of the group around Nebu-hin-Abenoz’s chair had recovered their wits and jumped to their feet.  One of the three assailants turned and slashed with his knife, almost disemboweling a Calera who had tried to grapple with him.  Before he could free the blade, another Calera brought a brandy bottle down on his head.  Gathon Dard sprang upon the back of a second assassin, hooking his left elbow under the fellow’s chin and grabbing the wrist of his knife-hand with his right; the man struggled for an instant, then went limp and fell forward.  The third of the trio of murderers was still slashing at the fallen chieftain when Antrath Alv chopped him along the side of the neck with the edge of his hand; he simply dropped and lay still.

Nebu-hin-Abenoz was dead.  He had been slashed and cut and stabbed in twenty places; his throat had been cut at least three times, and he had almost been decapitated.  The wounded Calera wasn’t dead yet; however, even if he had been at the moment on the operating table of a First Level Home Time Line hospital, it was doubtful if he could have been saved, and under the circumstances, his life-expectancy could be measured in seconds.  Some cushions were placed under his head, and women called to attend him, but he died before they arrived.

The three assassins were also dead.  Except for a few cuts on the scalp of the one who had been felled with the bottle, there was not a mark on any of them.  Cavu-hin-Avoran kicked one of them in the face and cursed.

“We killed the skunks too quickly!” he cried.  “We should have overcome them alive, and then taken our time about dealing with them as they deserved.”  He went on to specify the nature of their deserts.  “Such infamy!”

“Well, I’ll swear I didn’t think a little tap like I gave that one would kill him,” the bottle-wielder excused himself.  “Of course, I was thinking only of Nebu-hin-Abenoz, Safar receive him—­”

Antrath Alv bent over the one he had hand-chopped.

“I didn’t kill this one,” he said.  “The way I hit him, if I had, his neck would be broken, and it’s not.  See?” He twisted at the dead man’s neck.  “I think they took poison before they drew their knives.”

“I saw all of them put their hands to their mouths!” a Calera exclaimed.  “And look; see how their jaws are clenched.”  He picked up one of the knives and used it to pry the dead man’s jaws apart, sniffing at his lips and looking into his mouth.  “Look, his teeth and his tongue are discolored; there is a strange smell, too.”

Antrath Alv sniffed, then turned to his partner.  “Halatane,” he whispered.  Gathon Dard nodded.  That was a First Level poison; paratimers often carried halatane capsules on the more barbaric time-lines, as a last insurance against torture.