The outlaw paced, then gestured toward the sword. “Oh yes. Fine. Fight me, but not with your blade—the branch it hangs from is the weapon I choose for you.”

Brother Qown couldn’t help but blink. The proffered “weapon”—a horizontal limb—spilled out from the main tree’s trunk. The bough was as thick as Count Janel’s arm; removing it required an ax.

They hadn’t brought an ax.

The bandit saw the look on Qown’s face, the raised eyebrows on Janel’s. “Now we’ll have no more games, little girl. All your valuables in the camp center and consider yourselves lucky we have no use for your horses.”

Something moved in the woods behind them. In the distance, hooves galloped.

The woman must have believed the galloping signaled that much-feared guard, returning to protect his noble lady. “Circle out!” she cried. “Make ready!”

As the bandits focused on the imagined reinforcements, Janel Theranon, twenty-fourth Count of Tolamer, reached over and ripped away the tree branch. The crack of splintering wood echoed through the clearing.

“I accept your terms,” said Janel. “Now let’s begin.”

The clearing stilled as the bandit leader realized her mistake. Brother Qown almost felt sorry for her. Who would ever think the count dangerous? Just a girl. So helpless.

The trembling, vulnerable worm wasn’t a free meal after all.

The air smelled like green resin and old woodsmoke and the coming day’s rain as men and women spilled from the woods. As many women as men, which startled Qown, but they didn’t look any friendlier than their male counterparts.

“What are you doing?” the bandit woman asked, shocked from her silence. “By the Eight! Why are you leaving cover? Back into the trees, you lot!”

Brother Qown was at a loss as well. He didn’t understand why her band had fled concealment instead of shooting when they had the chance. Mare Dorna and Brother Qown hadn’t yet made a break for shelter. They were unshielded, unprotected.

The bandits not only left the woods but put away their weapons, slung their bows over their shoulders.

The biggest, a large man with black-splattered gray skin, looked askance as he pointed to Janel. “She challenged you. You accepted.” His expression suggested the explanation was obvious.

A second man tugged on the big man’s sleeve. “Five chances the fancy mane goes down with the first hit.”

Dorna straightened. “Ah, now you’re running in my pasture. Put me down for ten thrones my count kicks your boss’s ass.” She tapped Brother Qown on the shoulder. “Priest, I need to borrow ten thrones.”

“Dorna, no!” Brother Qown said.

“You have to spend metal to make metal, you know.”

“You idiots,” their boss snapped, “I wasn’t serious!”

“This is Jorat.” The big outlaw folded his arms.

A woman with a white blaze down the center of her face said, “You don’t joke about contests in Jorat.”