The small entourage consisting of ten guards and two horse-drawn carriages—one ornately-decorated belonging to the Lady and her closest servants, and a larger, plainer one for supplies—traveled on narrow roads paved through dense pine forests and vast grasslands.

From what Meya knew of her country, there were a number of manors along the way from Crosset to Hadrian. Far at the horizon, she would sometimes spot castles, with villages and wheat fields surrounding their walls. The guard in the lead avoided all these settlements, however, sticking to the dreary emptiness of the wilderness and the course of the river, only stopping to refill water, ask for directions at inns or when daylight was receding. It made the journey swift but excruciatingly dull.

The sun was setting on the sixth day of their journey as they ventured on foot through yet another patch of forest which marked the border of Manor Clardarth. The guards wanted to breach the woods and cross into Hadrian before setting up camp for the night, and everyone was hurrying along on tired feet.

Meya stopped dead. She thought she’d heard sounds of movement coming from the forest on both sides of the road. It was brief and faint, but there was no mistaking it. Meya had taken enough trips into the forest back home either to feed her piglets or hunt for honey; she knew that wasn’t wind nor animal hoof on leaves—it was human feet.

“Get moving, lass! We need to get through this before sundown!”

A guard helming the supplies carriage hollered over as the group ventured on. However, before Meya could mouth anything in warning, all hell broke loose.

Dozens of black masses shot forth from the wall of trees like boulders from a catapult. Gleams of silver pierced the dimming light with reverberating clangs; the guards had unsheathed their swords to fend off enemy blades, forming a ragged circle around Lady Arinel’s carriage.

The maids were left to fend for themselves. Some stood rigid and screamed; others fought to scramble into the safety of the supplies carriage, which was too filled with supplies to accommodate them all.

Fortunate for once, Meya was standing behind the carriage when the bandits jumped out. With one vicious, practiced tug, she unclasped the collar from her neck and tossed it aside. The fog in her brain lifted and strength returned to her muscles in an instant. She dove for the space between the wheels and flattened her belly on the cold earth.

The air echoed with the sickening sound of metal splitting flesh, usually limited to Brodel’s butcher stall. Magenta blood sprayed and spattered on the ground, eliciting more shrieks.

Meya’s heartbeat thundered in her ears, and she panted hard for breath. Cold fear like she had never felt before coursed through her veins, threatening to freeze her limbs. On one side of the carriage was the forest. Her best chance of survival would be to make a break for it while they were busy fighting, run the rest of the way into Hadrian, or head back to Clardarth. With luck, she might stumble upon a patrol guard or a fellow peasant who would lead her to safety.

Two pairs of feet danced between the wheels, blocking her passage, and Meya gritted her teeth in desperation. She whipped around and peered out the other side. From what she could see through the gap between the wagon wheels, around twenty bandits were fighting the guards—two of them already spread-eagled on the ground, dead—and dragging screaming maids out of the carriage overhead. She turned back—the supplies guard and his bandit were still blocking her way out, and Meya wished one of them would just die already so she could finally get the Fyr out of here.

Again, Meya turned to the battle on the left, then back to the forest on the right—then to the left—and back again, and this time, she had to stuff her fist into her mouth to stifle a scream. As if to grant her wish, the lone guard dropped dead, obscuring her view with his blood-spattered face. His lifeless, haunting eyes bore into Meya’s yet unseeing. Meya scrambled back, then froze at the merciless voice thundering from the midst of the bloodbath.

“Surrender now. Or we kill you all.”

The ultimatum came from a bandit who seemed to be the largest and the most scarred of them all—the leader. The five remaining guards stood united around Lady Arinel’s carriage, panting, bloodstained swords raised. Five of their friends were dead on the ground. The nine maids were being dragged over by the bandits to join them, swords and knives held at their necks.

Stay safe. Don’t make any trouble for the Lady. Come home next Fest in one piece.

Maro’s voice echoed in Meya’s head, and she fumed at her rotten luck. With all the strength she could muster, Meya pushed the guard’s corpse out of her way and scrambled outside. Even without the collar, she didn’t trust her legs enough yet to stand and more or less rolled off the road into the banks of the forest, landing upon the carpet of fallen leaves with a dull flump.

“There’s one under there!”

A bandit yelled. Meya had no time to care. She picked herself up and made to dash off, when something cut through air and chafed her left cheek. She banked sideways to avoid it but ended up losing her balance, falling flat on her face and getting a good mouthful of leaves and dirt.

Ah, crap.

A hot trail of blood trickled down her cheek to her lips. A rough hand grabbed the back of her tunic, choking her. Meya stood up on unsteady feet as she fought to pull the collar of her dress away from her neck. The bandit took no notice. He dragged her sputtering and staggering back up to the road, then tossed her into the other maids, who sent up a fresh round of screams.

The head bandit walked back to his place in the midst of his minions. His sweaty, suntanned face was riddled with white scars. He surveyed his captives one by one.

“Your Lady Arinel will be married to Lord Hadrian. As per Latakian tradition, the bride must bring with her assets of value according to her pricing category as dowry. We need to know the contents of her dowry, and its whereabouts.”

He spoke slowly and clearly with a foreign accent. His voice, soft and calm, clashed with his roughened exterior. A heavy silence everyone dreaded being the one to break descended as the five remaining guards glanced at each other, then looked to their leader.

The head guard gave a soundless yet enormous gulp—Meya could tell from the bulge rolling down his neck. As sweat trickled down his pallid cheek, he turned his fearful gaze back to the bandit’s leader.

“We don’t have the dowry with us.” He shook his head, and Meya saw the truth in his pleading look. “We don’t know of the Lords’ deal. How much it’s worth. Whether it’s to be handed before, during or after the wedding. Or it might even be at the betrothal. And that was six years ago!”

The guard’s yell of desperation petered into a whimper when the head bandit snatched him up by the front of his shirt.

“Am I supposed to care when it is handed?” His voice was colder than a midwinter lake. “Unless you want Lady Crosset to join her sisters, I suggest you learn what and where it is very soon.”

“I swear by Freda, we don’t have any treasure here! And we know nothing about the dowry!” The guard shouted, his voice trembling as hard as his body. “You won’t get anything even if you kill us! And you’d have to give us more time if you want Lord Crosset or Lord Clardarth to prepare a ransom!”

“I believe I have made myself very clear. I do not want a ransom. Nor a dowry. I want Lady Arinel’s dowry.” The bandit reiterated. He set the guard down to sputter and cough, then turned to his subordinates,

“It seems Lord Crosset exercised more caution than we had expected. If they really do not have it with them, we might have to improvise.” He said serenely, then his gaze swept over his nonplussed hostages once more.

“Yesterday, we ran into another entourage which seemed to be carrying Lady Crosset to her wedding, travelling on the usual route. As it turned out, they were decoys. So, we gave them what they signed up for by sending them to the waiting arms of their goddess Freda. Then, we searched them inside out. Literally. There was no dowry.”

That nonchalant revelation stole the very air away from the clearing. Meya felt strength leave her as she realized how much of a close shave it was. Was this the actual reason Lord Crosset hired peasants to accompany his daughter? If she had been assigned to that earlier group—

The thought numbed her. Though it wasn’t as if she wouldn’t meet the same fate, unless they find that dowry quick. Whatever it was, it must have been priceless and dangerous enough. Perhaps something the Hadrians wanted so much they agreed to accept powerless, dowerless Arinel as their bride. Perhaps that was why the bandits were so particular in their ransom demand.

Satisfied by their fear, the head bandit turned back to the guard.

“You may or may not have the dowry with or within one of you. There are only two ways we could be sure. Either you hand it to us and we go on our way. Or we cut you all open to retrieve it, then we go on our way.”

“Please—No—We really don’t have it.” The guard stammered, and they all turned to the silent white carriage behind them. Their only hope. Lady Arinel would know best about her own marriage, wouldn’t she?

Yet, no-one dared demand the Lady show herself and negotiate. Seconds edged by. Not a sound escaped the carriage.

For Freda’s sake! Aren’t nobles supposed to protect commoners? Why in Fyr’s name is she still hiding like a snail in its shell?

Meya reached for the carriage door’s handle in desperation, but her stupid, loyal peers pulled her away. Their loyalty was soon rewarded in kind when the head bandit marched over, yanked one of the girls up by her reddish hair and pulled her shrieking and struggling away from her friends’ flailing arms.

“I’m told spilling innards is an effective means of persuasion. You left me no choice but to experiment.”

With that understating remark, the bandit raised his sword high. The girl screamed for her life. The guards made to charge in as the other maids panicked. Meya’s eyes grew wide in terror as she saw the blade lower slowly as though time itself had been hindered.

For Freda’s sake! Just how important was that dowry? How many of them would have to die before Arinel relented? And who was to say Meya herself wouldn’t be one of them? Wouldn’t someone do something? Couldn’t she do something?

And then, the words were out of her mouth.

“Wait! I have a plan!”