"Smile," I advised him.
We then, together, slipping a bit, descended from the camp to the road.
"You did not bring your wares," said the man, grinning. His two fellows moved away from him. In this fashion they would have room for the movement of steel.
"Packs are heavy," I said. "I thought it best to first ascertain your interests." Surely he did not seriously think I was going to encumber myself with a pack, not descending the hill, not regaining my balance at its foot, not carrying it to the road.
"You are still afraid," said the man.
"No," I said.
He drew forth from his tunic a blue armband, which he thrust up, over his sleeve, above the left elbow, grinning. "You see," he said, "there is nothing to fear. We are not of Ar." His two fellows, too, grinning, affixed identificatory insignia on their left arms, one an armband, the other a knotted blue scarf. Many mercenaries do not wear uniforms. Insignia such as armbands, scarves, ribbons and plumes, of given colors, serve to identify them, making clear their side. Needless to say, such casual devices may be swiftly changed, the colors sometimes alternating with the tides of battle. Many mercenary companies consist of little more than rabbles of armed ruffians, others, like those of Dietrich of Tarnburg, Pietro Vacchi and Raymond, of Rive-de-Bois, are crack troops, as professional as warriors of Ar or Cosian regulars. In dealing with mercenaries, it is extremely important to know the sort of mercenaries with which one is dealing. That can make a great deal of difference, both with respect to tactics and strategy. More than one regiment of regular troops has been decimated as a result of their commanders having taken a mercenary foe too lightly. With respect to switching sides, given the fortunes of the day, incidentally, the "turncoat," so to speak, to use the English expression, is not unknown on Gor. A tunic may be lined with a different color. The tunic may then, after dark, for example, be turned inside out. Such tunics, however, are seldom worn on Gor. For one thing, a fellow found wearing one is usually impaled, by either side. They have been used, of course, for infiltration purposes, much like civilian garb, false uniforms, and such.
"You are mercenaries," I observed, "in the pay of Cos."
"And you," grinned he, "are also loyal to the cause of Cos, as was clear from your presence in the Vosk camp."
"Perhaps you wish to purchase something?" I asked.
The three of them, together, drew their swords. My sword, too, had left the sheath.
"It is him we want," said the leader of the men to Marcus. "Do not interfere."
Marcus, of course, stood his ground.
"Stand back," I said to Marcus.
He did not move.
"Who is first sword?" I asked the leader.
"I am," said a fellow to the leader's left. I was sure then that it would not be he. Too, he was on the leader's left, where he could protect his unarmed side. His strengths would probably be in defense. It is difficult to break the guard of a man who is purely on the defensive. While concerning myself with the fellow on the left, or worrying most about him, the leader himself might have freer play to my own left. Too, I suspected the leader would be himself first sword. In small groups, it is often superior swordplay which determines that distinction. In Kaissa matches between clubs and towns, and sometimes even cities, incidentally, a certain form of similar deception is often practiced. One sacrifices the first board, so to speak, and then has one's first player engaging the enemy's second player, and one's second player engaging the enemy's third, and so on. To be sure, the enemy, not unoften, is doing the same thing, or something similar, and so things often even out. This tends not to be practical among members of the caste of Players, of course, as their ratings are carefully kept, and are a matter of public record.
"Very well," I said, seeming to measure the fellow on the left.
"Who is first sword?" asked the leader.
"I am," said Marcus. That interested me. It was possible, of course.
"We are not interested in you," said one of the men, uneasily. "You may withdraw."
Marcus did not move. If he withdrew, of course, that would put three against one. And then, of course, if they wished, it could be again three against one.
"I thought you wished to buy something," I said to the leader.
He laughed. "What are you selling?" he inquired.
"Steel," said Marcus, evenly.
The fellow on the leader's left backed a little away, putting another stride between himself and Marcus. The young man emanated menace.
"Bold young vulo cock," mocked the leader.
"Steady!" I said to Marcus.
I feared he would be lured prematurely forward, rashly.
"Go away," said the fellow on the leader's left to Marcus. "We do not want you."
Marcus did not move.
"Because I am young," said Marcus, "you think that I am stupid. You are mistaken."
"No," said the fellow on the left.
It seemed to me for a moment that the earth seemed to move a bit beneath our feet. Certainly it was a very subtle thing.
"You think we are spies," said Marcus. "You want us both, but only one at a time."
"No," said the fellow. "No!"
"So that is what this is all about," I exclaimed, as though in relief. "You are not mere brigands out to rob honest folks, as we feared. I think we may clear this all up quickly. It is simply a case of mistaken identity."
"Squirm," said the leader.
"Who do you think we are?" I asked.
"Our quarry," said the leader, grinning.
"Spies?" I asked.
"It makes no difference to me whether you are spies or not," said the leader.
"How did you find us?" I asked. There were three of them. I did not know Marcus' skill with the blade. I wished, if at all possible, to protect him.
"Policrates himself, it was," said he, "leader of the expeditionary force in the north, who summoned us to his tent. It was he who speculated that you might be most easily found to the south, in which direction lay Holmesk, after the official searches had concluded. It was then he speculated that you would least expect pursuit, that you would be most off your guard. Too, it was he who forbade the taking of the young fellow, but rather that he be permitted to leave the camp, unmolested, that he might lead us to you. He left southward, toward Holmesk."
"I am sorry, Tarl, my friend," said Marcus. "Aii!"
The leader looked at me, wildly, and then his sword lowered, slowly. He slipped to his knees, and fell to the dust in the road. I turned then to face the fellow who had been to the leader's right. Marcus stood quickly, white-faced, between myself and the fellow who had been on the left.
"Your leader," I said to the fellow who had been on the leader's right, "might have been better advised not to have engaged in explanations, conversation, and such. Had he been as clever as his commander, Policrates, I do not think he would have done so."
The fellow before me backed away.
"I did not even see your sword move," said Marcus, in awe.
"Your leader," I said to the man before me, "permitted himself to be distracted. Perhaps you will do the same."
The fellow shook his head, backing away.
The leader had thought himself the aggressor. He had thought me diffident, frightened. If there was a blow to be struck first he thought it his prerogative. He did not expect the thrust when it came, laterally, between the ribs, smoothly, only to the heart, no deeper, withdrawn instantaneously.
The earth then again seemed to move. Moreover, there was dust about.
I did not want to take my eyes off the man in front of me.
I heard a scream of fear from in back, from Marcus' man. Then the fellow before me, looked back, wildly, and then turned and ran.
I heard a voice behind me, from the dust. It was only when the ground had shaken near me, and I had spun half about, almost buffeted by a saddle tharlarion, and saw the running mercenary caught between the shoulder blades with the point of the lance, thrown then to the dust, rolling and bloody, and saw the tharlarion trampling the body, then turning about in a swirl of dust, the rider lifting the blood-stained lance, that I registered the voice I heard. "Tarsk!" it had said. That is a command used often in tarsk hunting, a signal to ride the animal down, plunging your lance into its back or side.