Chapter 11 — The Camp

They bound my wrists behind my back, rough rope biting skin. Another pair of cords looped around Merlin's neck and chest, as though he were livestock. He growled once, but the strength had gone from him. He limped beside me as they prodded us into line.

We walked for hours, through forest and scrub, the bandits speaking little. Their weapons never lowered.

At last the trees thinned, and firelight flickered ahead. A ramshackle camp sprawled in a clearing: lean-tos of patched cloth, fires smoldering in pits, piles of stolen goods stacked like offerings. Men and women lounged on logs and crates, all rough-faced, all armed.

They shoved me down beside one of the fires. Merlin collapsed at my feet, eyes half-shut, chest rising too quickly. I twisted to check the ropes, but they were knotted tight. No easy way out.

A shadow flopped down beside me. Not one of the guards—too small, too loose in posture. He was wiry, maybe twenty, hair sticking up in wild tufts, clothes patched so many times they looked more stitch than fabric. A grin split his face, showing a gap where a tooth should've been.

"Well," he said brightly, "you don't look like a prize pig. Shame. They don't usually bother dragging the pretty ones back."

I blinked, too tired for humor. "...Excuse me?"

He leaned closer, eyes darting to the guards, then back. "Relax. Name's Tov. Best thief in the camp. Also the worst cook. Which makes me indispensable, don't you know?" He winked. "You're new. Obviously. Don't worry, I'll give you the tour if you live past breakfast."

Merlin raised his head, gave a faint growl. Tov yelped, scrambling back. Then he squinted. "What is that thing? Not a wolf. Too floppy. Too—fluffy."

I glared. "His name's Merlin."

"Merlin," Tov repeated, tasting the word. He grinned wider. "Grand name for a walking rug."

I didn't answer. My wrists burned against the ropes, Merlin wheezed faintly at my side, and all I could do was sit by the fire and endure the laughter rippling through the camp.

Tov leaned in again, lowering his voice. "Cheer up. Not all's lost. Bandits are greedy, not clever. Stick with me, and maybe you'll get out of this yet."

His grin stayed fixed, but his eyes—quick, sharp, calculating—told me he wasn't entirely joking.

— Third day, evening in the bandit camp —