Unicorn Vengeance [antikvár]

Prologue A sword age, a wind age, a wolf age. No longer is there mercy among men. —The Sybil's Prophecy, circa 1000 a.d. Montsalvat—August 1307 To think that idealism could dictate one's end. Wolfram watched his victim's breathing slow until it stopped. He waited patiently for the next breath without really expecting it. When it did not come, he reached cahnly to check the dead man's pulse. There was none. Wolfram permitted himself a curt nod of satisfaction in a job well done and exhaled shakily. It had been almost too easy, though this task could never be easy enough for him. Indeed, Wolfram had expected a king of kings to have better personal security and that his task would be more arduous. He spared a glance to the hall surrounding hun, listening to the labored breathing of those slumbering with rising disgust. A useless lot were these. The military man within him curled his lip at such behavior. They were all asleep, he observed, scanning the room once more to confirm the truth of that.