‘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 ligaments on the inside of the limb. Speaking to it gently Tarantio moved around the horse, stroking its long nose and looking into its bright, brown eyes. Lastly he checked the legs. They were powerful, with no sign of heat or swelling, and the gelding had been recently re-shod. Moving to the rear of the horse, Tarantio watched the swelling of its rib-cage; its breathing was even and slow. ‘Well, well,’ said Tarantio softly, patting the
gelding’s flank, ‘he may have been a vile man, but he certainly looked after you. I’ll try to do the same.’
Browyn moved alongside him, checking the gelding’s nose and mouth. ‘I’d say around nine years old,’ said the old man, ‘with plenty of speed and strength.’
Tarantio stood back from the gelding, casting his eye along the line of its back, the length of the neck and the shape of the head. ‘Without the cow-hocked stance, he would bring around four hundred in silver. As he is, he would fetch less than fifty.’
‘There’s no sense in it,’ agreed Browyn. ‘He is a fine animal.’
Browyn relaxed. In that moment a great weariness descended upon him. The aftershock of the attack caused him to tremble and Tarantio took his arm. ‘You need to sit down,’ said the warrior. ‘Come, I’ll help you inside.’
The cabin was a mess, papers strewn about the floor among shards of smashed pottery and two broken shelves. There was a beautifully carved bench seat by a large open hearth and Tarantio half carried the old man to it. Browyn sank down gratefully, and Tarantio fetched him a cup of water. Browyn began to shiver. The fire had died down, and Tarantio added logs from a stack in the hearth.
‘Age makes fools of all of us,’ said Browyn miserably. ‘There was a time when I would have fancied my chances of taking all three.’
‘Is that true?’ Tarantio asked him.