“Depends. What are you paying?” a man shouted from somewhere beyond the tree line. Others, also unseen, laughed in response, revealing the woman had brought all her friends to the party.

The bandit sighed. She was dressed in an ornate leather tunic dyed in contrasting brown and green shades. Two pieces of embroidered green fabric comprised the mask over her face, overlapped to leave a slit for her eyes. Brown skin surrounded one eye, while wine-red skin surrounded the other. She had a bow stowed across her pack and a sickle in her hand.

Probably a farmer gone feral. That quality seemed infectious, given how often brigands had attacked them since Count Janel’s canton, Tolamer. However, there was an upside. Most ruling nobles in Jorat offered a bounty on captured bandits.

A fine way to earn a living if one didn’t mind the risk.

Brother Qown minded rather a lot, but it wasn’t his place to tell his count how to fill her coffers with metal.

The outlaw turned toward the woods. “Shut it!”

Janel’s smile broadened to a grin. “Give your men time. No horse is born saddled.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” the bandit admitted, then squared her shoulders as if reminding herself not to be distracted by a friendly victim. “See here. We’ve been following you and yours ever since you crossed the river, asking ourselves the whole while what a fancy mane like you is doing out here. You expect us to believe you have nothing but an ancient mare and a fat gelding for company?”

Brother Qown straightened. “Now hold on…”

“Oh, she don’t miss the obvious, do she?” Dorna said as she pulled herself up to her feet, still holding on to the iron fry pan. “I’m old, and you ain’t never passed by a second helping of noodles in your life.”

Brother Qown frowned. “Dorna, whose side are you on?”

A whistle interrupted them. Brother Qown jumped backward, not from training as much as animal instinct. An arrow hit Dorna’s fry pan, sending it flying.

Everyone stopped.

Count Janel’s lips thinned. She no longer looked amused.

“Ow! Why’d you do that for? I weren’t done cleaning that!” Dorna rubbed her hand and scrunched up her face in protest.

Brother Qown’s heart beat so fast he thought it might turn into a rabbit and scamper away. The last bandits they’d encountered had been all pitchforks and long knives—close-combat melee weapons, which played to the count’s strength. She looked so helpless; it always brought the wolves near.

Arrows were another matter. She possessed no immunity to arrows.

Neither did Qown nor Dorna.

The bandit tightened her grip on the sickle in her hand. “We’re not here to entertain you, crone. Give over your valuables. Now.” She pointed to Janel’s family sword, sheathed and hanging by its belt from a thick branch. “Whose is that?”