"Domenec!"
Mervyn's shout tore through the cold night air, drawing all eyes toward the wounded, white-bearded baron.
"I'm fine," the old man said through gritted teeth. "Kill the rest of them."
Mervyn dashed across the square and planted himself in front of the old man like a wall, his cutlass raised high while his left arm hung loosely at his side.
"Behind me," Mervyn growled. "Stay behind me."
"I'm sitting on a crate, boy," Domenec said. "Where exactly would I go?"
There weren't many left to fight.
The two who were still on their feet took one look at their bosun lying in the snow and decided they wanted no more of it. They were already running down the cross street toward the north quay, shouting about invaders at the top of their lungs.
"Let them go," Roch snapped when one of the Blackwell sailors started after them. "There's no time."
