Declan wanted to tell him that the man had tried to make a bloody mess of him, and had nearly succeeded, but he held his tongue because he knew that this was not the time for logical argument. Sean had turned away to look at Ma'el.

"You are a great wizard, master," he said in a pleading voice. "I have seen you work wonders, near miracles with your magic and charms. Can you…?"

Sean's words trailed away into silence because Ma'el was shaking his head.

"Both of you withdraw to the wagon," Declan said firmly. "This will not be a pleasant sight for the eyes of the young or the old."

While their footfalls faded with distance he stared down at the leader of the robbers, a cruel and violent man laid low. His intention had been to slay the tinkers and Declan did not like him for that, but neither did he hate him enough to let the man suffer for hours or days of continuing agony from such a terrible belly wound that he could have no hope of surviving. Declan's eyes moved upward to the other's face as he grasped the hilt of his gladius in both hands with the point hovering above the man's body.

"Are you certain in your mind about this?" he said.

The man nodded slowly.

"Are there last words you would speak?" said Declan quietly.

The man opened his mouth, coughed blood again for a moment then shook his head. Declan raised his sword high and drove the sharp, broad point into the middle of the other's bared chest.

He caught up with the other two just before they reached the wagon. Ma'el's face was impassive as usual, Sean's showed anger, and neither of them spoke to him.

"If you carry a pick and shovel," said Declan, pointing at the wagon. "I would borrow them."

The old man climbed to the driving seat, ducked below the awning, and as he moved between the heavy curtain of animal skins behind it, a light much brighter than that of the moon shone briefly from inside the wagon.