Iven saw the crossbow before he saw the man’s face.
Its end moved above the broken wall on the right of the road. A gloved hand steadied it. The quarrel pointed toward the front wagon, where the driver had both hands on the reins.
“Down,” Iven said.
He stepped between them and brought plate across his chest.
The bolt struck with a hard, flat crack.
For a moment the whole road seemed to hear it.
Then the driver dropped behind the wagon’s high front, and Kesh pulled the second team toward the bank.
Iven was already moving.
