Someone pulled at his belt. He felt the leather strap loosen. Someone yanked his trousers down to his knees, then farther, past his boots. The cold air hit his bare skin. The men laughed. It was a wet, ragged sound, passed between them like a joke that got funnier each time they repeated it.

"Please," Marek said. The word came out small and high. He hated how it sounded. "Please don’t. I will give you anything. Please!"

"You have nothing," the leader said. He was unbuckling his own belt now. "You don’t have a horse or a coin, which only means one thing. You got robbed by the Hill tribe."

One of the men holding Marek’s arms laughed. "Should we take rounds after you’re done? I call second."

"Third," another man said.

"You can all have a turn," the leader said. He pulled his trousers down just enough and knelt behind Marek. "He’s not going anywhere."

Marek squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to think of something else. Rowena. The Mourning Peaks. He had one day left to get there. One day to find the witch. And now this.

Marek heard the leader shift his weight and whistled. Then he heard a wet, soft sound, as if a piece of fruit dropped from a height onto a stone.

The leader’s cock did not penetrate his ass hole. Instead, the man made a short grunt and collapsed sideways, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud. Marek opened his eyes and tried to shift his weight to look. The leader lay on his back, face up, an arrow buried in his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. The arrow had gone in deep. Only a few inches of the shaft and the fletching were visible.

The men holding Marek froze. One of them opened his mouth to shout. Before he could make a sound, another arrow struck him in the throat. He dropped Marek’s arms and stumbled backward, both hands clutching at his neck, blood pouring between his fingers. A third arrow hit the man who had been caressing Marek’s spine. It took him in the side, just below the ribs, and he folded over with a high-pitched wheeze.

More arrows came from the treeline. They were silent and fast. One man tried to run and made it three steps before an arrow pinned his shoulder blade. He fell screaming. Another man dropped his bow and raised his hands, shouting something Marek could not understand. An arrow went through his chest. He dropped to the ground.

Within ten seconds, all eight men were dead or dying. The one with the arrow in his throat was still kicking his legs, making a gurgling noise. The others lay still.

Marek lay on the ground, his trousers around his ankles, unable to move. He was shaking. His teeth chattered. He did not know if the shaking was from cold, fear, or the shock of still being alive.

Two women approached him.

The first was tall, with long red hair pulled back from her face. She had green eyes and pale skin, and around her neck she wore a thin leather choker with a pendant. The pendant was a small red stone that seemed to glow faintly, even in the muted daylight under the trees. She carried no weapon. Her hands were empty, relaxed at her sides.

The second woman was younger, about twenty-three. She had short dark hair and a hard, watchful face. She held a bow in one hand and a loose arrow in the other. She was already notching the arrow as she walked, her eyes scanning the bodies on the ground. When she did not find any movement, she lowered the bow slightly but did not put the arrow away.

Marek tried to scramble backward, away from them, but his trousers were still around his ankles, and he fell over onto his side. He pulled at the fabric, trying to drag it up, but his hands were shaking too badly to work even the laces. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

The red-haired woman stopped a few feet away and looked down at him. Her expression was calm, almost bored. She glanced at the bodies, then back at Marek’s face.

"Lift him," she said to the younger woman.

The young woman hesitated. "He could have a knife." She said.

"He doesn’t have a knife. Look at him. He’s half dead from running, and he can barely pull up his own trousers." The red-haired woman tilted her head. "Help him."

The young woman sighed, relaxed her bow in the traps, and walked over to Marek. She grabbed him under the arm and hauled him to his feet with surprising strength. Marek fumbled with his trousers, finally got them up, and tied the laces with clumsy fingers. He stepped back from her, nearly tripping over the body of the leader.

"Don’t touch me," he said. His voice was raw. "Don’t come closer."

The young woman retrieved her bow and pointed it at his chest. Not threateningly, just ready. "You might want to say thank you."

Marek looked at the arrow in her hand. He looked at the bodies. He looked at the red-haired woman with the glowing pendant.

"Thank you," he said. It came out flat.

The red-haired woman waved her hand, and the young woman lowered the bow. "Where are you headed?" she asked. "And why are you in this part of the realm alone with no weapon and no horse?"

Marek did not answer. He was staring at the pendant. The red glow pulsed once, slowly, like a heartbeat. He had never seen anything like it.

"You’re safe now," the red-haired woman said. "If we wanted to hurt you, we would have let them finish what they started. Answer my question."

Marek swallowed. His throat was dry. "I’m going to the Mourning Peaks."

The red-haired woman raised an eyebrow. "That’s one day’s walk from here, even with good boots. You look like you have just a few hours left in you, at most."

"I’m fine. I need to get to the Mourning Peaks as soon as possible." Marek said. He was visibly shaking.

"Why the hurry?" The red-haired asked again.

He hesitated. He had no reason to trust them. They had killed eight men in cold blood, which meant they were either outlaws or something worse. But they had killed the men who were about to rape him, which meant they were not allies of those men. In this part of the realm, that was as close to friendship as anyone was likely to get.

"Who are you?"

"You will find out eventually." She replied.

"I need to know. Are you hunters? Do you want gold? I...I...need to be sure you are not trying to get the reward for bringing back me alive."

The red-haired woman raised her brows. "Are you an outlaw?"

"No. No. No. No." He rushed out his words.

"Then what are you looking for?"

Marek hesitated again. "I’m looking for someone," he said finally. "A wanderer. A witch. No. A wanderer-witch. Her name is Odhran."

The young woman with the bow made a small sound. A laugh, almost, cut off before it became one. The red-haired woman did not look at her.

"Odhran," the red-haired woman repeated. "What do you want with her?"

"That’s my business."

"It’s my business if I’m going to help you. You asked if we were hunters. We’re not. You asked if we wanted gold for you. We don’t. Now I’m asking you a simple question. What do you want with Odhran?"

Marek wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand. His cheek was swelling fast. He could feel the skin pulling tight over the bone. "I seek the path to the Blighted Lands."

The red-haired woman did not react for a long moment. She just stood there, green eyes fixed on his face, the red pendant glowing steadily against her throat. Then she smiled. It was a small smile, neither warm nor cold—the smile of someone who had just had a suspicion confirmed.

"Put the bow down, Elian," she said to the young woman.

Elian lowered the bow. She was not smiling. She was watching Marek with a new kind of attention, like a cat watching a bird that had just flown into a window.

The red-haired woman took a step closer to Marek. Close enough that he could smell the scent in her hair and see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, she touched the pendant with two fingers.

"I’m the one you seek." She said.