Later maybe, there will be some space for a flicker of approval to be spared in Derrica's direction. At present however, Flint simply briskly corroborates the suggestion as he cuts up from the rear with his unsheathed sword still in hand:

"Move them down the roadway two dozen paces in that direction and collect their weapons. Edgard—" This, barked with the terse carrying volume of an order passed down the length of a ship. There is a dead man in the mud of the road, an arrow shaft jutting from the eye slot of his helmet.

(Aim to incapacitate, he'd said.)

"Gather their horses and lead them a ways back in the other direction. You,"—is addressed to the agent in the light leather armor—"Step down."