A foot stomped precariously close to my ear. Ambulance driver? Then a male voice.

"Is he alive?"

A different voice, oily, closer: "It's a woman."

"What's a woman doing in the middle of nowhere?"

"And why is she wearing pants?"

"Shut up!" shouted the close one. The chatter ceased. He lifted me and my head lolled. "Who are you?" he growled, shaking me. "What are you doing here?" He shook harder, and the violence of it shocked my eyes open. I stared into a fierce, unshaven face.

"What's the matter with you?" the man shouted. "Why don't you speak?"

"Are you wounded?" asked another man standing nearby.

I couldn't answer. I must have hit my head, as well as my arm. My vision wavered and I saw trees. I didn't remember riding near a forest. Where was the car?

"There's blood on her head."

Panic made me thirsty for air. A third voice chimed in. "I've never seen pants on a woman. It's unseemly."

Provincial rube.

"Look! Her fingertips are painted red." A collective "Oh" followed, as though they'd never seen nail polish before, then a voice from a few feet away: "Have you ever seen a saddle like this one?" The bully tossed me aside like litter, and they moved off.

The rain had ceased, but my chain-mail sweater was too loosely-woven to be of any use against the cold. I tried to focus, though my arm was in serious pain.

Horses stomped nearby, their nostrils steaming. Beyond them, perhaps a dozen bedraggled, filthy men stood around Lucy in the light of a full moon. Their belts were decorated with knives, axes, and wide, short swords. Some of them wore chain mail. The fierce guy who had shaken me was frightening enough, but next to the brawn of the others, he was a skinny weakling.

Lucy neighed, and I swear she shivered from fright instead of the cold. Who were these guys? A local Society for Creative Anachronism? Soldiers in a play? It would be just my luck to be kidnapped by a gang of supernumeraries.

They debated about what to do with me, and everyone had an opinion.

"Her wounds need nursing."

"We don't have time."

"We'll take her with us."

"Why not just leave her?"

"She'll die."

"We should at least take the horse."

"She can't harm us. What's one woman against a band of men?" My defender was a handsome man with a thick mustache and brown hair. He looked younger than the others. "Besides, she might be an emissary."

"From whom? I say we kill her," said the skinny, fierce guy.

"You what?" I gasped. With shocking speed the men drew their swords and surrounded me. One guy yanked my arms and pulled me to my feet.

That's when I saw the rest of them: fifty more armored riders waited in the dark. Adrenaline ran through me like fire on a fuse.

The skinny guy took charge. "Tie her hands and remove her pack." Someone tied my wrists behind me with what felt like steel wool.

Skinny signaled to a broad, dark-haired brute who resembled a dour Fred Flintstone. Fred drew a knife from his belt. My knees wobbled. Whoever was behind me had a merciless grip, and when I tried to break free, the grip grew tighter. I tasted blood.

"Listen guys I don't know what the trouble is but I'm just a tourist and if you let me go I won't tell I'll go back to Small Common and pack up and--"

A rough paw clamped over my mouth. Fred approached, dagger drawn, his dreary frown inches from my face. He emitted a sigh, sending a cloud of rancid breath up my nostrils. I jerked, but the paw held me still while Fred cut the belt of my fanny pack with a swift, upward slice. He tossed the pack to Skinny.

The grip on me loosened, but I didn't dare move. We all watched Skinny examine the pack, his jaw set in concentration, brown hair hanging in his eyes. His fingers toyed with the zipper but he didn't pull it, as though he didn't understand its function.

"There's cash and credit cards in there, sir. You can have 'em if you please just let me go."

Skinny looked up, his eyes cold. He tossed his hair over his shoulder.

"You're my prisoner. I decide if you live or die."

He tucked the pack into his belt, picked up his sword and advanced on me with a smirk. As casually as he'd tossed his hair, he tossed a remark to his cohorts: "I'll keep the horse."

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