In spite of the incongruity, Geoffrey asked curiously: "What's a second?"
"A division of time, lad—one sixtieth of a minute."
"Oh. What on Earth would you want to measure that accurately for?"
"For getting women out of trailers in a hurry, lad. Now—let's look for sentries."
There were two guarding the trailer—men-at-arms from Dugald's holding, Geoffrey noticed—carrying shotguns and lounging in the shadows. One of them had a wineskin—Geoffrey heard the gurgle plainly—and the other was constantly turning away from the trailer to listen to the shrieks and shouting coming from among the other vehicles of the train, where other guards were not being quite as careful of their masters' new property.
"I see they've found the quartermaster's waggons," The Barbarian said drily. "Now, then, lad—you work away toward the right, there, and I'll take the left. Here—take my knife. I won't need it." The Barbarian passed over a length of steel as big as a short-sword, but oddly curved and sharpened down one side of the blade. "Stab if you can, but if you have to cut, that blade'll go through a man's forearm. Remember you're not holding one of those overgrown daggers of yours."
"And just why should I kill a man for you?"
"Do you think that man won't try to kill you?"
Geoffrey had no satisfactory answer to that. He moved abruptly off into the brush, holding The Barbarian's knife, and wondering just how far he was obligated for a bandaged chest and half a pint of water. But a man's duty to his rescuer was plain enough, and, besides, just what else was there to do?