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The exmoors had left to hunt or we would have been alerted sooner.

As it was, the campfire had been put out and everyone had retired.

I was lying in our tent, just beginning to close my eyes and drift off, when Draven’s hand clamped down on my arm. A warning. I looked over and saw him sitting up, an unsheathed dagger already in his other hand.

At the same moment, the tent flap rustled and Guinevere’s head popped into sight, eyes wide and frightened.

She had just enough time to open her mouth and whisper a single word—“Bandits!”—before there was a whistling sound over our tent. One all-too familiar.

In the next instant, our tent lit up, flames dancing in wild patterns along the canvas.

A tent was on fire. But it wasn’t ours.

Draven was rolling out of the shelter in an instant, swift and decisive, then reaching a hand back to pull me out behind him.

I had just enough time to drag Excalibur along. Strapping the leather belt it hung from around my waist, I looked about, my eyes struggling to adjust to the chaotic scene—just as the tent beside us erupted in a thunderous explosion of fur and canvas.

A furious roar echoed through the night.

Having never been stupid enough to ever really annoy Hawl, I had never seen the Bearkin look as they did now.

The entire camp—friends and foes alike—seemed to freeze in unison as Hawl rose to their full height from the wreckage of their tent, revealing themselves in all their primal splendor, an embodiment of untamed, terrifying power.

Bared jaws showcased rows of formidable teeth glinting in the fiery glow of the flaming tent behind them. The Bearkin’s eyes blazed with fury as they lifted their massive paws, sharp claws extending.

Slowly, Hawl looked around them.

“Bandits,” they bellowed. “I hate bandits. Which one of you sniveling, thieving insects dared to wake me?”

I found myself trembling—and I wasn’t even a bandit.

I caught the eye of the attacker closest to us. The bandit’s face was the picture of panic. I assumed this was the man who had disturbed Hawl in their tent.

And then the bear exploded into action. Snatching the bandit with one colossal paw, Hawl lifted him effortlessly into the air.

The bandit had just enough time to scream before the grizzly tossed him over the nearby cliff. For a moment, his cries echoed back to us as he fell, then there was a crunch as he presumably hit the rocks below and they abruptly ceased.

With a speed that surprised me, the Bearkin turned their attention to the next bandit—a man standing near the edge of Hawl’s tent. Closing the distance between them in a single thunderous step, Hawl seized the hapless man by the throat.

There was a sickening crack of breaking bones as the grizzly snapped the bandit’s neck then dropped him to the dirt.

A shout went up behind me. The remaining bandits, shaken from their initial shock, were trying to rally.

I looked around me wildly, my hand on Excalibur’s hilt.

We were better armed than our attackers. Better than they could possibly know if one took into account what Draven and I could do. Not to mention the Bearkin.

But there were only six of us. And of the six, only five of us were fighters.

Whereas the bandits had numbers. There were at least twenty or more scurrying around the camp and forest edges that I could see. I prayed no more were waiting deeper in the forest.

I scanned swiftly until I found Guinevere. She stood behind Lancelet, her eyes wide and frightened. For once, the owl was not on her shoulder. Tuva was off hunting, I supposed, like the exmoors.

The sound of steel on steel. I turned towards it as Gawain’s earsplitting bellow broke through the air. The towering, red-haired warrior was moving like a force of nature. Bearing a massive battle-ax that gleamed in the moonlight, he swung it effortlessly as he faced a ring of bandits.

I had never seen the big man fight in real combat before. He had no shadows to coil or flames to throw. But his skill was enough. Each time his ax carved through the air, it cut through his foes one by one with merciless grace. His wild, red mane of hair flew around him as he moved with an innate understanding of his enemies, positioning himself strategically to intercept each attack. And since it was Gawain after all, he grinned the entire time.

“He’ll be fine, Morgan,” Draven shouted, mistaking my awe for concern. “Stand with me now. Back to back. Here they come.”