“Beautiful, isn’t it? And just ripe for the picking…”

“Wonder who’s in there..?”

“Another duke I hope! That last one we snagged was so entertaining.”

“You mean the one that started sobbing when we pulled him out of his carriage?”

Two adolescent boys crouched together among the thick foliage, speaking to each other in hushed, excited voices. They were dressed in dark, hooded cloaks and each carried a hunting bow and arrows. Their eyes were locked on the horse drawn carriage that was making its way steadily down the dirt road, in their direction. Even at this distance, they could tell it belonged to someone noteworthy. It wasn’t overly extravagant, nor was it accompanied by an overwhelming number of guards. But the carriage was a quality one, and it’s large wooden wheels sunk heavily into the mud as it lumbered along, clearly carrying more goods than the average traveller. They knew they had hit the jackpot.

“Two horsemen in front, four in the back. Two guards on either side. This’ll be easy.”

“Come on, come on, what is she waiting for?”

“Hush. She knows what she’s doing…”

By this point, the procession was slowly passing in front of them. They were close enough to hear the guards speaking conversationally to one another. One of the guards on foot reached up and pulled off his helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow. His hair clung to his scalp.

“Shall I give him a little trim off the top?” breathed one of the boys, already aiming at the guard’s head, his bowstring taught.

“Wait for it…” replied the other, his voice barely a whisper.

Just then, a trill whistle cut through the air. The boy let loose his arrow and it sliced the top of the guard’s nose before sinking with a thud into the side of the carriage. Suddenly everything was chaos as more arrows began to rain down from the treetops. Figures in black cloaks appeared in every direction, never lingering in one spot for too long. Their arrows came relentlessly, and yet they never seemed to find their mark. They would scratch the skin, as the boy’s had done, or knock a helmet off. One of them struck a glass window of the carriage and shattered it to a million pieces.

“Why don’t you step out and tell your men to surrender?” came a strong, clear command from somewhere among the trees. “Otherwise, I fear you’ll find their aim improving…”

"My good ser, will you stand mercy to the sun the entire journey?" Ryia teased through the open window, the emerald skirts of her gown gathered around her on the seat, apile with cushions. Ser McMillan rode by the carriage, on his stallion, his face shrouded in shadows cast by the light behind him. He was jestingly annointed The Grey Knight - for his ashen whiskers and hair, and silver armour and chainmail. In its grey scabbard, his sword was oft a winking silver steel. She liked him well; he had scarce strayed from her side in girlhood, a protective shadow.

"Mayhaps, my lady," Ser McMillan replied, the twinkle in his eyes. "Though Janos here has the lion's share of drudgery between the two of us." He patted the neck of his horse familiarly, and Janos whickered.

Laughing, Ryia slid the glass pane shut, and picked up a goblet of watered wine. Just as she raised it to her lips, however, she heard a muffled whistle. Her eyes darted out the second window, to see Ser Orthin grab his nose suddenly. The carriage shuddered with a thud, as it was fletched.

She watched, helpless in her carriage, as a rain of arrows fell upon them. Helmets were knocked to the ground, and men were groaning as arrows skinned them. Ser MicMillan had drawn his visor, and was tugging his horse by the reins as it whinnied in a panic. An arrow found its mark in the window, and it burst into winking shards. Ryia's goblet clattered to the floor, and a voice sounded from the line of trees around them, its owner, their attacker hidden. “Why don’t you step out and tell your men to surrender? Otherwise, I fear you’ll find their aim improving…”

A fire stoked in her chest, Ryia stood up in the carriage, her eyebrows drawn together in a furor. She lurched open the door and stormed out to see beads of scarlet dropping from the horsemen. Unbled, lowborn boys, now moaning over their lost skin. Catching sight of her, Ser McMillan breathed sorrowfully, and reached out to her in warning. "Princess - "

She cut him off, facing the trees were she saw male youths perched on trees, bows strung taut. "How dare you!" she demanded of them, her vision painted red. "How dare you loose your arrows on my men! Gentle men who have never wielded swords but only knives and axes. And fine knights with more honour in their littlest finger than you would find in all your bandits!"

Ser McMillan and Ser Killian had handed their reins to the horsemen, and now stood by Ryia's elbows with both their swords drawn. "My lady speaks true," he spoke from behind his visor. "Craven men, the lot of you, hiding in the shadows. And most cowardly your leader. Where is he? Or does he dare not show his face, from behind the backs of ambushers and pig-boys?"