two will need to carry your friend back to his horse,' said the young man amiably.
'Kill him!' grunted Brys. 'Kill the bastard.' The other two men did not move or speak.
The newcomer knelt beside Brys. 'I think your friends are brighter than you,' he said, picking up the man's dagger and slipping it back into the mercenary's sheath. Rising, he turned back to the old man.
'Do you have any salt?' he asked.
Browyn nodded and the newcomer smiled. 'You have no idea what a relief that is.'
'What the hell's the matter with you two?' shouted Brys, struggling to his knees.
'He's Tarantio,' replied one of them. 'I saw him fight that duel in Corduin. I'm right, aren't I?' he said, looking at the newcomer.
'Indeed you are.'
'There's no gold here,' said the mercenary. 'We would have found it.'
Tarantio shrugged. 'Whatever you say.'
'Are you going to kill us?'
'No. I am not in a killing mood.'
'Well, I am, you scum-sucking bastard!' shouted Brys, drawing his sword.
'Brys! Don't!' shouted his comrades. But he ignored them.
'You'd better let me take him,' said Dace.
'No,' answered Tarantio. 'Sigellus trained us both, and I am not afraid.'
'Don't try to disarm him,' warned Dace. 'Just kill the whoreson.'
The mercenary attacked, his sword slashing towards Tarantio's head. The two short swords flashed up to block the stroke, but Brys was ready for the move and spun to his left, his elbow slamming against Tarantio's cheek. Tarantio staggered back, vision blurring. Brys aimed a wild cut at Tarantio's head. The blade slashed high, as Tarantio dropped to one knee and then surged upright, the left-hand blade snaking out. Brys made a desperate block, but the weapon pricked his shoulder, tearing the skin of his chest. Brys fell back. He grinned. 'You're good, Tarantio,' he said. 'But you are not that good. I am better.'
'He is right, you know,' said Dace. 'He'll wear you down and kill you. Let me have him.'
Brys launched a sudden attack, sword raised high. As Tarantio made to block, the voice of Dace hissed at him: 'He's got a knife in his left hand!' Tarantio leapt back -then launched himself forward. The move caught Brys by surprise and before he could react Tarantio's right-hand sword had slashed down on his hand. Three fingers were chopped away, the dagger falling clear.
'You bastard!' screamed Brys, charging forward. Terrible pain exploded in the mercenary's body . . . his sword fell from his hand and he stared down at the blade embedded in his belly. An agonized groan burst from his lips as acid fire filled him. His knees buckled, but the jutting sword held him upright, the blade driving deeper.
'Let me feel the joy!' shouted Dace.
'There is no joy,' said Tarantio, dragging the sword clear. Brys toppled to his right. Take the body with you,'
ordered Tarantio, turning to the other mercenaries. 'And leave his horse behind.'
'We don't want to die,' said the first man.
'No-one wants to die,' Tarantio told him.
Together the man and his companion lifted the dead man, and heaved him over the saddle of a brown mare.
Then they mounted.
As they rode away, Tarantio swung to the old man. 'How badly are you hurt?' he asked him.
'Not half as badly as I would have been. I am grateful to you. What they said is true. There is no gold.'
'No. But there is salt,' said Tarantio wearily.
'You were lucky,' whispered Dace. 'Where would you have been had I not seen the knife?
'Dead,' answered Tarantio, moving across the open ground to the dead man's horse. Just over sixteen hands tall, the gelding stood quietly as Tarantio ran his hand over the beast's flanks. The coat was flat with a healthy sheen, and the skin below was supple and strong. Its front conformation was good, the point of the shoulders in line with knee and hoof. At the rear it tended towards a slight cow-hocked stance, which in humans was called knock-kneed. This was probably why a mercenary could afford such a potentially expensive mount. Cow-hocked horses often strain
'Kill him!' grunted Brys. 'Kill the bastard.' The other two men did not move or speak.
The newcomer knelt beside Brys. 'I think your friends are brighter than you,' he said, picking up the man's dagger and slipping it back into the mercenary's sheath. Rising, he turned back to the old man.
'Do you have any salt?' he asked.
Browyn nodded and the newcomer smiled. 'You have no idea what a relief that is.'
'What the hell's the matter with you two?' shouted Brys, struggling to his knees.
'He's Tarantio,' replied one of them. 'I saw him fight that duel in Corduin. I'm right, aren't I?' he said, looking at the newcomer.
'Indeed you are.'
'There's no gold here,' said the mercenary. 'We would have found it.'
Tarantio shrugged. 'Whatever you say.'
'Are you going to kill us?'
'No. I am not in a killing mood.'
'Well, I am, you scum-sucking bastard!' shouted Brys, drawing his sword.
'Brys! Don't!' shouted his comrades. But he ignored them.
'You'd better let me take him,' said Dace.
'No,' answered Tarantio. 'Sigellus trained us both, and I am not afraid.'
'Don't try to disarm him,' warned Dace. 'Just kill the whoreson.'
The mercenary attacked, his sword slashing towards Tarantio's head. The two short swords flashed up to block the stroke, but Brys was ready for the move and spun to his left, his elbow slamming against Tarantio's cheek. Tarantio staggered back, vision blurring. Brys aimed a wild cut at Tarantio's head. The blade slashed high, as Tarantio dropped to one knee and then surged upright, the left-hand blade snaking out. Brys made a desperate block, but the weapon pricked his shoulder, tearing the skin of his chest. Brys fell back. He grinned. 'You're good, Tarantio,' he said. 'But you are not that good. I am better.'
'He is right, you know,' said Dace. 'He'll wear you down and kill you. Let me have him.'
Brys launched a sudden attack, sword raised high. As Tarantio made to block, the voice of Dace hissed at him: 'He's got a knife in his left hand!' Tarantio leapt back -then launched himself forward. The move caught Brys by surprise and before he could react Tarantio's right-hand sword had slashed down on his hand. Three fingers were chopped away, the dagger falling clear.
'You bastard!' screamed Brys, charging forward. Terrible pain exploded in the mercenary's body . . . his sword fell from his hand and he stared down at the blade embedded in his belly. An agonized groan burst from his lips as acid fire filled him. His knees buckled, but the jutting sword held him upright, the blade driving deeper.
'Let me feel the joy!' shouted Dace.
'There is no joy,' said Tarantio, dragging the sword clear. Brys toppled to his right. Take the body with you,'
ordered Tarantio, turning to the other mercenaries. 'And leave his horse behind.'
'We don't want to die,' said the first man.
'No-one wants to die,' Tarantio told him.
Together the man and his companion lifted the dead man, and heaved him over the saddle of a brown mare.
Then they mounted.
As they rode away, Tarantio swung to the old man. 'How badly are you hurt?' he asked him.
'Not half as badly as I would have been. I am grateful to you. What they said is true. There is no gold.'
'No. But there is salt,' said Tarantio wearily.
'You were lucky,' whispered Dace. 'Where would you have been had I not seen the knife?
'Dead,' answered Tarantio, moving across the open ground to the dead man's horse. Just over sixteen hands tall, the gelding stood quietly as Tarantio ran his hand over the beast's flanks. The coat was flat with a healthy sheen, and the skin below was supple and strong. Its front conformation was good, the point of the shoulders in line with knee and hoof. At the rear it tended towards a slight cow-hocked stance, which in humans was called knock-kneed. This was probably why a mercenary could afford such a potentially expensive mount. Cow-hocked horses often strain
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