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the more. She was so tired, so sore, so bereft. Tears again formed, and though she tried to keep them inside, she had no strength to fight them back. They fell silently, wetting her cheeks and dripping down on her food-stained bodice.
    Suddenly, a horsed man could be seen coming down the cart road. He trotted along, whistling some jaunty tune. Brandywyn saw her chance.
    “Help! Help! I am Princess Brandywyn of Ring! I am stolen! Help!”
    Smith slapped her thigh and she cried out. The fellow stopped in the road and looked the group over suspiciously.
    Brandywyn cared not if her leg was black and blue, so long as she was freed. “Oh, help! I am a prisoner! Ow!” This time, Smith pinched her tender flesh.
    “Halt!” the man said strongly. “What goes?”
    “‘Tis nothing of your business, sirrah. Do you keep your queries to yourself,” Smith responded, his voice hard and menacing.
    The man slid from his horse, and drawing a bow, he nocked an arrow. “Stop, or I shall loose this arrow ‘pon you!”
    Smith’s men drew swords. Some were quite rusty, but most looked shiny and well-kept, too sharp by half.
    The bowman was tall, broad-shouldered, fair of face, though browned by the sun. His eyes were piercing blue, forming a handsome contrast to his dark brown hair. He shot an arrow over Smith’s head and Smith quickly drew his own weapon and jumped off his horse. As Smith strode toward him with sword at the ready, the bowman loosed a second arrow, this time slicing through Smith’s travel-stained doublet at the shoulder.
    “My aim is true, sirrah. The next will pierce your heart.”
    Smith’s men shouted to each other, disagreeing over whether to attempt to overwhelm the armed man or not. Most decided to run away, and they spurred their horses into the trees, scattering like mice in the light.
    Smith had but one man left. He nodded for the fellow to approach the bowman from behind. But the bowman’s horse was in the way. No sword could reach him, save Smith’s.
    Smith lunged, getting under the arrow’s reach. Quickly the bowman stepped aside, and Smith’s blade missed by inches. The bowman drew an old, ugly sword from a scabbard on his horse, and faced Smith squarely, still keeping his horse between Smith’s lone helper and himself.
    Brandywyn carefully slid off the destrier, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. No one appeared to notice her. She stealthily moved around the horse, and prepared to run.
    Once again, Smith lunged. It was a clumsy move, and the bowman actually laughed, striking Smith with the flat of his blade. More insult than harm.
    Smith growled and swung at his opponent’s head. It was a slow exchange, his burly muscles useless when faced by the more slender bowman in these close quarters. Indeed, Smith would have been a frightening opponent if armored, but as he was, he was nearly helpless despite his sword.
    The bowman easily parried the strike, and slashed Smith’s doublet across the front, leaving a wide opening. It was obvious that Smith could not win this battle. He stepped back and dropped his sword.
    “Now, now, fellow. ‘Tis naught but a lover’s quarrel that makes the maid uneasy. There is nothing amiss.”
    Narrowing his eyes, the bowman kicked Smith’s sword away. Paralyzed with fear, Smith’s helper sat, his mouth agape, no help at all.
    “I shall hear it from the maid herself,” the stranger said.
    Brandywyn took that moment to take to her heels, running down the road as though the devil himself was chasing her. Her feet smarted on the sharp rocks, but she kept running. The men shouted for her, but she continued. Unused to running, she became winded, and her strides slowed. There was a skirmish behind her; she could hear the men scrambling.
    As she thought maybe she should make for the trees and the shelter of the forest, she was tackled from behind. Down she fell, in a heap, her breath—what was left of it—knocked from lungs with a whoosh. Her hands