Fabrian rushed through the wood with her stave in hand, skidding to a stop when she reached the edge.

Five horsemen circled a coach that had been overturned. There was a single man backed against the upended vehicle—he wielded a torch and a short sword; in the dim firelight that he cast, Fabrian could make out a dark wetness on his sword arm. His blond hair and copper skin caked with mud and blood. The side of his dark green gambeson was torn, and his trousers had a hole at the knee. He unclasped his cape, and wielded his sword defensively. Compared to the horsemen with their long lances with hooks at the end, he was outnumbered and out-weaponed. 

Quietly crouching along the edge of the woods, Fabrian took note of three men already downed, their bodies strewn further away from the coach, a long trail of blood seeping into the earth. Their clothes matched the current man’s, and Fabrian wondered if that meant it was a uniform. The horsemen must have grabbed them from the outside of the coach.

This guy is going to get himself killed, Fabrian grimaced. He needs to get away from the carriage in an open space and we need to get the riders off their stupid horses. 

She dumped the contents of her bag onto the ground and grabbed the bottle of malt—rifling through her belongings for her flint and stone. Tearing her tunic at the hem, she shoved as much of the strip of fabric into the bottle and the liquid. Bracing herself, she pulled the whistling arrow from her breast pocket and gave herself a small pep talk. 

“Don't screw up.”

She sparked the flint, caught the fabric on fire, and diverted her efforts to the whistling arrow. With a quick tug, she pulled the red ribbon and pointed it upward. 

A loud shriek split through the sky. Fabrian covered her ears as the ringing caused a momentary spill of vertigo. A light shot up toward the stars, tailing the sound like a signal flare. 

Grabbing her stave, Fabrian took off running toward the back of the coach, flaming bottle in hand. She had approximately fifteen minutes before the others arrived.

The horsemen were yelling in alarm, turning their attention away from the man and instead toward where the whistling arrow had gone off. Good, she had given the guy a chance to put some distance between himself and the riders. The lone fighter must have had the same thought because he crept away from where he was cornered, away from the immediate reach of the riders. 

Please don't actually be a bandit I’m saving, she begged before inhaling deeply and shouting, “Inbound, duck for cover!”

Thankfully, the blond man dove to the ground and Fabrian wasted not a second launching the malt bottle over the carriage. It shattered and hit the ground in front of the horsemen, causing the horses to rear up in shrieking fright. Four of the riders were cast to the ground as their mounts fled from the scene. The other two riders skittered back, attempting to calm their horses. Fire pooled along the ground, licking along the ground ravenously. 

Fabrian jumped through the flames, wielding the stave like a bat. The end-socket filled with rocks collided with the first person she met. A sickening crunch broke the air as it collided with the rider's skull. They fell to the ground like a doll, body folding at weird angles. 

She rushed to the next person before they could grab their lance, sweeping the staff at their legs as they reached to grapple with her. When they tumbled to the ground, she swung the stave down, breaking their nose in and collapsing the front of their face. 

Before she could do any further damage, the back of her cloak was grabbed and she was yanked away. Her body seized up in panic before she forced out a yell and swung the stave around. It was knocked from her grip by the blade of a spear, forcing her to the ground. Her body thrummed with pain when she felt a hook tear through her shoulder, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from screaming out or biting her tongue. The bandit who injured her seemed pleased, while a second one braced himself to spear her through. A sudden shout caught them off guard, and the blond man from before tore his sword through the lance in her shoulder. She fell from the bandit’s grasp,  granting her enough time to grab her stave and bash in the second bandit's temple. 

The man who had saved her held out his empty hand, and she grabbed it with her uninjured arm. 

“Thanks,” she gritted out as he pulled her to her feet. 

He eyed her up and down, and nodded. “There are three left. One on the ground and the two riders.”

“We need to get those guys off their horses,” Fabrian huffed, the wind and exhaustion catching up with her. Her body viciously shook, protesting the sudden rush of adrenaline and agony. 

“How far away are your comrades?” he asked, observing her. 

“Far enough.” Taking one last gulping breath, Fabrian forced her shaking limbs to steady. “Take care of the guy on the ground, my weapon is at a disadvantage for close combat.” 

“You're at a disadvantage with the horsemen too.” He gestured to her injured arm.

“So are you,” Fabrian said, eyeing his sword with doubt. 

He pursed his lips together. 

She gestured with her chin to the tree line. “We’ll head into the forest then. They won't be able to follow us on horseback.”

They quickly broke apart as the last two horsemen sped towards them. Frabrian gave her new ally a nod, and he moved to cover her as she ran toward the tree line. Just as she made it to the first trees, he shouted out a warning, lunging for her. Fabrian hit the ground first before she felt the pain. 

Something sharp sliced through her thigh, and she felt the familiar barbed point like the lance head still in her shoulder. 

Gasping, she clutched at the dirt, pushed herself up,  and examined her leg. A lance stuck out from the back of her thigh like a skewer. Her companion skidded to a stop beside her before turning sharply on his toes. He pointed his sword at the horsemen who now circled them. It was the man without a mount that threw the spear.

“Good shot,” Fabrian grunted. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs and her breathing escalated as she began to hyperventilate. Calm down, she told herself, until you're out of danger you can't lose it. Breath through your nose.

She managed to rise up to one knee, bracing her weight against her polearm.

“Any ideas?” The swordsman asked.

“Fresh out,” Fabrian choked out. “Why don't you try being the pin cushion next? Might give me some time to think.”

Before he could respond, the first rider fell off his horse with a gurgle. A glaive blade protruded from his chest.

“Fabrian!” Cleri shouted. They were approaching, along with Armon, on horseback at a faster pace than what was probably safe for the mounts. 

Armon sped past Cleri, running over the man who had thrown the lance on the ground. He screamed beneath the hooves before Armon gave chase to the last horseman. The remaining rider started galloping away, aware that they were the one outnumbered now.

Fabrian felt herself collapse and go limp.

The swordsman she'd protected instantly knelt by her side. “I'm going to break the shaft of the spear so it stops tearing through your leg.”

“Should've saved some of that malt,” Fabrian grunted, too conscious of when he grabbed the polearm. 

“And worsen the bleeding?” His voice sounded mildly amused.

“But then it wouldn't hurt like a bi—” Fabrian's voice cracked and she cried out as he cut the spear shaft in half and forced the lance forward through her leg.

Cleri shoved him aside in an instant. “You idiot, unless you have any medical gear on you, don’t remove the spearheads yet. She's going to bleed out everywhere.”

“Removing them would lessen the pain,” he protested.

“Being in pain means she’s not dead yet!” Fabrian heard Cleri push him back. “What are you going to staunch the open wounds with? Or clean them with? Were you going to let them fester before we could cauterize or sew them?”

“I…” The man petered off before saying weakly, “have never had to consider that.”

“It shows.”

Fabrian was rolled onto her back and Cleri crouched beside her.

“Hi,” she said. 

“Don't ‘hi’ me,” Cleri growled out, taking stock of the two spear heads. “What did Netali tell you? If you see anything dangerous, you report back. She did not tell you to engage.”

“I wasn't going to leave this guy to die,” Fabrian said, trying to point at the man. Instead, her arm stayed stubbornly by her side. 

“This ingrate?”

“Hey!” The man protested. 

Fabrian smiled. “I looked pretty cool, though.”

Cleri stared at her in disbelief before turning toward the man. He shrugged in defeat. Running a hand over their face, Cleri seemed to totter between slapping Fabrian and patting her head like a child. They did neither of those and instead hoisted Fabrian over their shoulder. 

“Hurts!” Fabrian inhaled as the movement knocked the air from her lungs.

“It’s going to keep hurting because you were stupid,” Cleri bit back. They helped arrange Fabrian on their horse first before hoisting themselves up behind her, caging her between their arms as they gripped the reins.

Slumping to the side, Fabrian noted the edges of her vision going black. 

“Wait for my companion to come back, he’ll give you a ride to our encampment.” Cleri snapped.

The man shook his head. “I need help transporting my men…They deserve burials.”

Cleri paused—Fabrian could feel when they nodded. “Then tell him I said to wait here. I’ll send another group with a cart. You’ll have to buy it off of us, but you’ll be able to take them home.”

“Thank you,” the man murmured.

Fabrian’s eyes fluttered, and the world swayed drastically. She caught sight of the man though, his bright amber eyes watched her begin to tip out of consciousness.

“Thank you as well. I don’t think I would’ve made it out alive if it weren’t for you.” He bowed at the waist.

Fabrian felt her lips twist into a crooked smile. “I’m just pretty rad like that.”

The last thing she saw before she felt her eyes roll back was the confused furrow of his brow and the bemused upturn of his lips. Cleri shouted something before Fabrian lost all recollection of sound and touch. All she wanted was to follow the lull of sleep.