Chapter 9 — The Ambush

Morning came pale under the violet sky. The stream glittered, mist rising off its surface, and the air smelled of sharp grass and cold stone. For a moment I almost forgot we weren't home.

Merlin stretched, shook out his fur, then bounded into the shallows, sending water flying. His bark rang bright and foolish in the valley.

That was when the arrow hit the ground beside me.

The shaft quivered in the earth, its black fletching slick with some oily resin. I froze, the sound of the stream suddenly too loud, too exposed.

Merlin spun, growling low.

Figures stepped out from the treeline. Five, maybe six. Rough leather armor, faces smeared with ash, blades curved and ugly. Bandits, or their local equivalent. Their leader carried a bow still drawn, the next arrow aimed square at my chest.

"On your knees," he barked in a language I shouldn't have understood—but I did. The same way I had understood the summoners.

My heart hammered. I had no weapon. No power. Nothing.

Merlin growled, his hackles high, chest flickering faintly as though his body remembered the light but couldn't summon it.

The bowman's eyes flicked to him. His expression shifted, just for a heartbeat, to something like fear. Then it hardened again.

"Bind the beast first," he ordered. "Then the man."

Two of the bandits advanced, ropes in hand.

Merlin bared his teeth, ready to lunge. He'd give everything again if he had to—but he was still drained, still not whole.

I had seconds. Maybe less.

The peace of the stream shattered, and the world turned sharp and dangerous again.

— Third day, morning, captured by bandits —