One of the Mercers continued to spar with Durwith, curved blade in hand and threatening to thrust it forward, but they were beaten, it was clear. The other gathered their fallen comrade up and helped him to his feet. He groaned groggily as he was pulled up, and the two beat a hasty, if encumbered, retreat. As they cleared themselves from striking distance, the Mercer squared off with Durwith began backing off as well, and as soon as he was out of the dwarf's reach he turned tail and ran. The three thugs made off into the night, slipping into the shadows of Teres. 

Their victim, the older man, struggled to his feet, supporting himself with an arm against a building wall. "Gods bless you, sir guardsman," he stuttered in between gasps, clutching at his ribs.