Page 25
Esme
We’ve just skirted the next village, which lies down a side road a short distance away, when we’re greeted by the crackle from the flanking forest. Six men emerge from between the trees on the western side of the dirt road. While their clothes are patched and faded, their blades and bows are perfectly maintained. The woods are darker here, denser and older, with gnarled trees and mysterious depths.
The four in homespun tunic and breeches look like farmers. The two others have patchwork leather armor added on top of thick cotton padding. Not what you wear to stand in a field all day, unless it’s a training field.
As they hop across the drainage ditch between the forest and road, they reveal the well-tread path behind them, a trail that’s been used often since winter ended going by the lack of trampled plants or sprouted seedlings.
I grab Agnar’s sleeve without thinking. “Bandits.”
“You’ve got armed men rounding up the sick, but bandits are still bold enough to attack in the middle of the day on a well-traveled route?”
He tracks them as they line up across the road to block us. How does he not know about the bandit problem? Warnings have been hung in every temple for a month. This only strengthens my suspicion that he’s not from Meridia. Who is he, though? I’m struck by the desire to unwrap him like a present, to discover the layers buried underneath.
“It wasn’t a problem before the Withering. But desperate times create desperate people. Most are former soldiers who lost their posts when the nobles fled. They’ve been roving in packs for months.”
Agnar doesn’t tear his eyes off the men as they raise their weapons and wait for us. “How fast can you run?”
“Pretty fast.” Light Walking lets me travel faster than most people expect. I can glide over terrain that would impede others and easily outrun half of them.
“I don’t think it’ll be fast enough.” He hooks his arm around my waist, spinning me until we face the opposite way.
Six more men skulk in the woods on our left, their bows raised.
We’re surrounded.
Agnar pivots back to the larger group, a disarming smile curling his lips. “We’re not looking for trouble, but—”
A sound like wind blowing through reeds hisses close enough for me to feel the air split. More darkness streaks out of the brush, and pain explodes through my left arm. I peer down and gasp.
Half of an arrow protrudes from my shoulder. Agony spikes through flesh and muscle, and blood dampens my worn pink tunic.
My brain struggles to process this reality, my vision stuttering over the arrow like my eyes can’t comprehend it. I’ve been shot. Someone shot me. A foreign object is lodged inside my body, the excruciating torment shooting bile up my throat.
“Get down before you get hurt, you daft woman!” Agnar seizes me around the waist and hurls me toward the thick grasses on the side of the road. “Run!”
My wounded shoulder suffers the brunt of the impact, and everything goes white. A scream rips from my throat as the world spins around me. The arrow shaft snaps off. As I stumble, grasses whip my face and arms and stones bite into me.
Finally, I come to a shaky halt.
I’m going to be sick. I clamp my lips shut, fighting the nausea pulsing in time with the fire spreading from my shoulder.
More arrows whiz overhead.
Most thud into tree trunks. One buries itself in the dirt a finger’s width from my face, vibrating with the force of the impact. I flinch away, garbling a terrified sob.
Lifting my head, I spot a stock-still Agnar in the middle of the road. With his trim waist and broad shoulders outlined by the sun, he resembles one of those statues from the palace gardens that glorifies masculine grace.
Why aren’t the bandits shooting at him? He’s a much better target than my prone form.
Then an arrow zips toward him, and I bite back a scream.
I didn’t mean it!
But the arrow never gets close.
Agnar doesn’t twitch a finger, but a lump of dirt jumps into the air, intercepting the arrow before collapsing to the ground.
Several such clods litter the road, their barbed tips glinting dully in the sunlight.
