An open seat at the front of the wagon held three people, the one in the middle being a young woman. All three faces were turned toward the fight, but for a moment it appeared that the wagon was going to rush straight on past. It did not. Instead the driver, another wiry man somewhat older than Mark's assailants, cried out to his team and reined in sharply on one side. The vehicle had already passed the rocks, but now it swerved sharply and came back, leaving the road in a sharp, tilting turn.
When the man at the foot of the rock saw this, he set up his own cry for aid. 'Help! We got us a runaway and a thief treed here. There's a reward, that's a stolen weapon he's got in his hands.'
His voiceless associate, running back from the far side of the rocks, grunted and waved his arms, achieving nothing but a short distraction. While Mark, in outrage momentarily greater even than his fear, yelled: 'Not so! It's mine!'
The wagon had braked to a halt in a swirl of dust, a pebble's toss from where Mark stood. The wiry man who gripped the reins now had his eyes raised judgmatically toward Mark, thinking things over before he acted. The girl in the middle of the seat had straight black hair, cut short, and a round, button-nosed, somehow impertinent face, looking full of life if not exactly pretty. On the other side of her, the seat sagged under a heavy-set youth who wore a minstrel's plumed cap, and a look of no great intelligence upon his almost childish face. In his thick fingers this youth was nursing a lute, which instrument he now slowly and carefully put back into the covered rear portion of the wagon.
In the momentary silence, a thin whining sound arose from somewhere, to fade out again as abruptly as it had begun. Mark's hopes soared for an instant; but the sound, whatever it had been, had not proceeded from the sword.
His enemy who could speak still urged the wagondriver: 'Help us get him down, and we'll split the reward.'
Mark pleaded loudly: 'I'm no runaway, they're trying to rob me. This sword is mine.'
'Reward?' asked the wiry driver. He squinted from one to another of the two men on foot.
The spokesman nodded. 'Split 'er right down the middle:'
'Reward from who?'
'Duke Fraktin himself.'
The driver nodded slowly, coming to his conclusion. He looked up once more at the anguished Mark, then shook his head. 'Fetch out the crossbow, Ben — go on, do it, I say.'
The crossbow produced by the large youth from inside the wagon was bigger than any similar weapon in Mark's limited experience. He could feel his inward parts constricting at the very sight of it. Ben cocked it with a direct pull, not using stirrup or crank, and without apparent effort. Then he loaded a bolt into the groove, and handed the weapon to the driver.
'Now,' said the driver, in his most reasonable voice yet. And with a faint smile he laid his aim directly on the man who was standing closest to his wagon. 'You and your partner, mount up. And ride away.'
The man who was looking at the wrong end of the crossbow turned color. He made a tentative motion with his knife, then put it back into its sheath. He stuttered over an argument, then gave it up in curses. Meanwhile his speechless companion stood by looking hangdog.
Ben's hands now held a formidable cudgel, and the look on his childish face was woeful but determined. The young woman, her expressive features all grimness now, had brought out a small hatchet from somewhere.
'Of course,' remarked the wagon-driver distantly, 'if you two don't want your mounts, we sure could use 'em.'
The two he was confronting exchanged a look between them. Then they stalked to where they'd left their animals, and mounted. With a look back, and a muttering of curses, they rode off along the road to the northeast.
The muscular youth called Ben let out a tremulous sigh, a puffing of relief, and tucked his club away. The driver carefully watched his two opponents out of sight; then he handed the crossbow back to Ben, who carefully unloaded it, easing the taut cords.
Mark looked more closely at the driver now, and was reminded vaguely of the militia drillmaster he'd once heard shouting commands at Kenn and a hundred others. But there was kindness in the driver's voice as he said: 'You can put the sword down now, boy…'
'It's mine.'
'Why, surely. We don't dispute that.' The driver had blue eyes that tended to squint, a nose once broken, and a thick fall of sandy hair. The muscular youth, looking friendly and overgrown, was regarding Mark with sympathy. As was the pert girl, who had put away her hatchet. Mark carefully set the sword down on the rock at his feet and rubbed his fingers, which were cramped from the ferocity with which he'd gripped the hilt. 'Thank you,' he said.
The driver nodded almost formally. 'You're welcome. My name is Nestor, and I hunt dragons to earn my bread. This is Barbara sitting next to me, and that's my apprentice, Ben. You look like maybe you could use a ride somewhere.'
Again the keening, moaning sound rose faintly. Mark thought that he could locate it now inside the wagon; some kind of captive animal, he thought, or a pet.
'My name is Einar,' said Mark. It was a real name, that of one of his uncles, and another answer that he'd thought out ahead of time. And now, because his knees had started to tremble, worse than ever before, he sat down on the rock. And only now did he notice how dry his mouth was.
And only after he'd sat down did it sink in: I hunt dragons…
'We can give you a ride, if you're agreeable,' Nestor was saying. 'And maybe a little something to munch on as we travel, hey? One advantage of a wagon, you can do other things while you keep moving:'
Mark pulled himself together and rewrapped the sword. Then with it in hand he slid down from atop the boulder.
'Can I take that for you?' asked Nestor, reaching down from the elevated seat. Mark had made his decision, and handed up the sword; Nestor put it back inside the wagon. Then one of Ben's thick fingered hands closed on Mark's arm, and he was lifted aboard as if he were a babe.
Barbara had made room on the seat for Mark by going back into the comparatively dim interior of the wagon. She was fussing about with something there, in a place crowded with containers, bales, and boxes.
Nestor already had the loadbeasts pulling. 'Going south all right with you, Einar?'
'I was headed that way.' Mark closed his eyes, then opened them again, because of images of knives. He could feel his heart beating. He let things go, and let himself be carried.
Chapter 5
Riding the wagon's jouncing seat, Mark was startled out of an incipient daze by the return of the squealing noise. This time it came insistently, from close behind him. He looked back quickly. Barbara, crouching in the back of the wagon, had just removed a cloth cover from a small but sturdy wooden cage. Inside the cage — by Vulcan's hammer and Ardneh's bones! — was a weasel-sized creature that could only be a dragon. Mark had never seen one before, but what else could be as scaly as a snake and at the same time be equipped with wings?
Seeing Mark turn his head, Barbara smiled at him. She delayed whatever she was doing with the dragon long enough to hand Mark a jug of water, and then, when he'd had a drink, a piece of fruit. As he bit into that, she got busy feeding the dragon, handing it something that she fished out of a sizable earthen crock. Mark faced forward again, chewing. Ben had a different, smaller jug in hand. 'Brandy?'
'No thanks.' Mark had never tasted strong drink of any kind before, and didn't know what effect it might be likely to have on him. He'd seen a village man or two destroyed by constant heavy drinking. Ben — who was getting a frown from Nestor stowed away the jug.
'Is that blood on your shirt, Einar?' Barbara called from the rear. 'You all right?'
'No m'am. I mean, yes it is, but it's old. I'm all right.'
Ben's curiosity was growing almost visibly. 'That's sure some sword you got.'
'Yes,' agreed Nestor, who was driving now at a brisk pace, mostly concentrating on the road ahead, but
