Without hesitation, Talon answered, “The taller one, the calm one, wore a long sword on his right hip—he’s left-handed. He wore a long dagger on his left hip, and I glimpsed the hilt of a throwing knife inside the top of his right boot.
“The nervous fellow wore a short sword on his left hip and had two daggers in the right side of his belt. He had several knives inside that black sleeveless overjacket he wore and another small blade in the sweatband inside his slouch hat, on the side with the black crow’s feather.’’
Caleb laughed, an even more rare occurrence than his smiling. “I missed that last one.’’
“It deformed the hat slightly.”
“You’ve taken to your lessons at Kendrick’s well. All you missed was the blade behind the buckle of the nervous man’s belt. I noticed it only because he took care standing up and put his thumb behind it for a moment, as if preventing getting cut by it.’’
“Sounds like a bad place to keep a blade.’’
Caleb said, “If done right, it’s a good place, really. If done poorly . . .” He shrugged.
They rode along at a good clip as the sun traveled across the sky. As they crested a hill, Caleb said, “There.’’
In the distance, Talon could see the road rise up on the left and fall away on the right. The city was clearly in view in the distance: they would easily have reached it before nightfall if things had gone as planned.
At the far end of the road, Talon saw movement. “Four riders.’’
Caleb snapped the reins and set the horses to a faster trot. “They’re going to reach the ravine sooner than I thought!’’
The wagon picked up speed, and Talon hung on to the seat with both hands as the heavy axles sent every bump from the wheel straight up into his back. This wagon was built to haul heavy loads, not provide comfort for those riding it.
The sound of the wagon flying down the road should have alerted the riders, but by the time Talon and Caleb drew near they could see the four men had squared off, the two merchants arguing with the two guards. The mercenary Talon thought of as “the nervous one” drew his sword, just as his companion turned to see the wagon approaching. He yelled, and the first man turned to see what the problem was.
The two merchants turned their horses and attempted to ride away, causing the nervous mercenary to swing his sword at the nearest merchant, cutting him on the left shoulder. The man shrieked and fell from his mount.
Caleb steered the now-galloping horses to the left of the three who were milling around. The merchant who had fallen scuttled like a crab, scrambling backward away from the two riders. The other merchant was charging down the road, arms flapping as if he were attempting to fly off the back of his horse.
Talon stood and launched himself off the wagon as it sped past, knocking the nervous rider from his horse, sending his sword flying. Caleb did his best to keep the wagon from overturning as it slowed down. The other mercenary quickly evaluated the situation and spurred his own mount to a gallop up the road, back the way they had come.
Talon landed on top of the nervous one, who grunted as the breath was knocked out of him, then thrashed as Talon rolled off him. Talon came to his feet, sword in hand, expecting the man to be rising.
Instead the man lay on the ground clutching at his stomach. Blood fountained through his fingers and he looked at Talon. “Look what you’ve done to me! You’ve killed me!’’
Talon kept his sword in his hand as he went and knelt next to the man. “That blade behind the buckle?” he asked.
“Damn thing never worked,” said the injured man. “Now I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.’’
Caleb had turned the wagon around and driven back to where Talon and the other two men waited. Talon pushed aside the wounded man’s hands and disengaged the buckle. He pulled out the blade, a three-inch-long piece of sharp steel with a T cross handle; it was designed to slip out of the buckle and sit between the two middle fingers of the hand, the handle resting on the palm. It would be a dangerous jabbing weapon.
Caleb said to the merchant, “Are you hurt?’’
The man held his hand over his bleeding shoulder. “I’ll live, no thanks to that blackheart.” He was a stocky man with a balding pate, a fringe of grey hair circling the back of his head. His eyes were dark, and his chin sported a tiny beard.
Caleb got down from the wagon and came to stand beside Talon. He looked down at the mercenary on the ground, at the knife and the wound, and said, “You’ll live to hang. That little blade didn’t cut too deep.’’
He took the palm-knife from Talon, cut off some cloth from the mercenary’s shirt, and wadded it up. “Press it hard against the wound with both your hands.” To Talon he said, “Help me get him in the back of the wagon.’’
Between them they got the wounded would-be robber in the back of the wagon. Then Caleb took a look at the merchant’s shoulder. After a moment he said, “You’ll be fine.’’