Marcus raised his hands slowly. He kept his palms open and visible.
"Do as he says," Marcus said to the others. He forced his voice to be steady. "Don't make sudden moves. Don't panic."
The young husband, Thomas, grabbed his wife Elara's hand. His knuckles were white.
He looked terrified. He tried to shield her with his body, a futile gesture against a crossbow bolt.
"Out!" the bandit roared again. He gestured sharply with the weapon.
Marcus stepped out of the carriage first.
The fresh air hit him. It smelled of pine needles, horse sweat, and fear. It brought no relief.
There were six of them. Maybe seven.
They stood in a loose semi-circle around the carriage and held the high ground.
They were all armed and looked very serious.
The driver was tied up by the side of the road. He was curled in a ball in the dirt.
He looked bruised. Blood trickled from his nose. He was groaning softly.
"Line up!" the bald man shouted. He stood in the center of the road.
