The surviving man lifted Natasha by the shirtfront, ignoring her clawing fingernails as she raked at his arms and threw her bodily at Marius.  The went down in a pile of arms and legs, Natasha yowling in pain from the cut along her chest. The thug used his opportunity to pull out a heavy horse pistol and thumb back the hammer. Natasha rolled, hit the foot of the bed and grabbed the nearest object she could find and threw it with all her might. The boot knocked the pistol from the thugs hand and it fell to the floor, bounced once, then went off with a crash that seemed flat compared to the thunder outside. The report momentarily lit the face of the surprised thug, who turned and ran through the door and out into the night. The sound of the storm roaring as he threw open the door and vanished into the rain, the sudden blast of chill wind drawing curses from those in other rooms who had been unmoved by struggle or gunfire.

"Irsan Bawls," Natasha groaned as Marius got to his feet. He recovered the pistol and used the flint to light one of the oil lamps, filling the room with golden light. The thug on the floor was unconscious or dead though judging from the blood streaming from his ear, the latter was more likely. Natasha's cotton night shirt was soaked with blood from the armpits down.

"Are you hurt," Marius demanded.

"Nyet, jist bleeding for show," Natasha responded sourly. She peeled up her shirt and made a half hearted effort to brush away the blood. For a moment a long cut was visible stretching from her lower fibs down to her hip bone. Welling blood quickly concealed it again.

"Well it's quite a show," Marius responded nervously.

"Kit myself varse shaaving," Natasha responded, reaching over and pulling the bedclothes from the bed. She wadded up the blanket and pushed it against the wound, attempting to staunch the blood loss.

"May need... a fyaw steeches," she conceded breathlessly.