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I had trained in Sir Ector’s combat ring. I had fought from the skies on the exmoor. I had dueled my brother face to face.

But now, as I looked at the leering faces of four bandits as they approached us, I felt suddenly unprepared.

I could not use flames, that much was clear. The horses were too near, as were Lancelet, Guinevere, and Hawl. I could not risk them.

Even now, Lancelet fought, one against two, pushing Guinevere back behind her, then back still more as her blade whirled through the air, shielding them both.

But then I had no time to think of our friends, their safety, or our horses. Excalibur was in my hand. My mate was at my back. And we were fighting where we stood as the group of bandits, looks of hunger and desperation in their eyes, rushed towards us.

As the first one approached me, a rusted dagger raised high, I pivoted on one heel. Metal clashed against metal as vibrations from the blow reverberated up my arm. I had just enough time to see the bandit’s eyes widen as Excalibur began to glow with its battlelight before the sword thrust through the man’s chest and he fell.

I turned to my next foe, breathing hard. A woman armed with a serrated blade charged towards me, looking furious. Had the man I’d just killed been her brother? Her husband?

I shoved pity aside. These people had expected us to be sleeping in our beds, unsuspecting and unarmed. We might have had children with us. Would they have cared? Or would they have slit our throats while we slept without a second thought and simply taken what they wanted?

Baring my teeth as Hawl had done, I sidestepped the woman’s thrust easily, feeling the rush of air as her weapon narrowly missed. A quick counterattack. The woman staggered back, the metallic scent of her blood joining the tang of sweat and fear.

Beside me, Draven’s dagger danced. His swift, precise strikes easily parried much larger weapons. With a deft flick of his wrist, he tossed aside a bandit’s wooden club, then darted his blade out again and again until the man fell to his knees, blood streaming from his mouth.

Our last adversary was a cautious but stupid man. Armed with a makeshift slingshot, he attempted to launch a stone projectile.

Ducking smoothly, Draven lifted his left hand and almost lazily let a band of shadow extend, yanking the slingshot from the man’s hand and tossing it aside before wrapping it around the bandit’s neck and twisting.

Shouts came up from around us. Other bandits had noticed what Draven had done.

I grinned as a few ran back towards the main road, probably to clamber up onto their horses as quickly as they could and flee.

But the majority stayed.

Still, the numbers were becoming more balanced.

“Morgan!”

I whirled at the sound of Lancelet’s cry. She was fighting another woman in single combat, but her eyes were frantic, darting to where Guinevere fled towards the treeline, pursued by a tall man.

I was already running as the man reached out a hand and ripped at Guinevere’s gown, tearing her sleeve as he laughed.

She let out a cry of fear that pierced the night. Fury filled my veins.

It would be my honor to slide Excalibur right through the man’s heart, I decided.

But as it turned out, the former high priestess did not need me for her champion.

A shrill hoot pierced through the air. The sound of an owl on the hunt.

The man was closing the distance, oblivious to the cry of the bird or what it might mean.

I slowed my pace slightly as I watched the owl’s descent, swift and purposeful, body of gold and brown slicing through the air with divine grace.

The man lifted his head at the sound of rustling feathers but it was too late. A guttural cry escaped his lips as the bird’s beak found its mark, piercing into his right eye.

The man screamed.

The owl lifted into the air once more, ascending and circling before diving again.

The bandit thrashed wildly as blood poured from his eye and he tried to fend off the vengeful owl, but Tuva’s attack was unyielding.

I reached the scene just in time to witness the man collapsing to the ground, his face a mess of torn flesh, hands still raised to futilely shield his battered face.