A chill goes down my spine as the cry is answered all along the banks of the stream—from both sides—as well as from inside the Wasteland. This isn’t the small, half-competent band of thugs we encountered on our way to Lankenshire. This is a huge, well-organized group of fighters. They’ve cut us off from one another, and if we don’t figure out a strategy fast, they’re going to kill us one by one.

The highwayman attacking me spurs his horse forward again. I dig my boots into the slippery soil beneath me, pivot into the side of the horse, and grab the man’s weapon belt.

He twists in the saddle, attempting to pry my fingers off the belt before I can drag him off the horse, but I’m not letting go. I need both the weapons and the horse.

I need to stay alive long enough to rescue my people.

He grabs a dagger and slashes toward my hands. I let the leather belt slide through my fingers and snatch his leg instead. He leans away from me, instinctively anticipating an attempt to pull him off the horse. I knock the stirrup away from his boot, hook my hands beneath his foot, and heave with all my might.

He goes over the other side, but doesn’t let go of the reins. The horse crashes down on top of him. I snatch the horse’s bridle, pull it to its feet, and scramble into the saddle. The man lies unmoving beneath the water.

Quickly, I take stock of the situation. The Commander, Frankie, Orion, and Smithson are fighting back-to-back against a pair of mounted attackers. Adam and Connor are at the edge of the stream, their swords drawn while more horsemen circle them. I can’t see Drake, Gregory, Peter, or the girls.

I need weapons. I slide off the horse, reach beneath the water, and tug the belt of weaponry off the dead highwayman. Something bumps my foot, hard. I fumble for it in the dark and finally wrap my hands around the object. Pulling it free, I hold it up and time seems to slow down as I stare at Willow’s bow.

A tremor runs through me. Willow wouldn’t give up her weapon unless . . .

I refuse to finish the thought. She’s alive and fighting somewhere. The bow was probably on the bank of the stream while she bathed, and it got kicked into the water by a horse. That’s a logical explanation. That’s the only explanation.

It has to be.

Hauling myself up into the saddle, I sling the bow over my back and grab a machete with a wicked-looking blade from the dead highwayman’s belt. Then I yell a war cry of my own as I spur my horse toward the shore.

The horsemen circling Connor and Adam wheel to face me. Adam lunges forward and drives his sword into the leg of the closest rider while I gallop straight for the other three.

Another cry echoes across the water, but this one is a high-pitched whistle like a farmer might use to call his dog. Instantly, the riders wheel about and spur their mounts northeast. All of our horses are gone. We’re left with the horse I stole from my attacker and the horse beneath the highwayman Adam stabbed. The man jerks his reins, but Adam slaps the flat of his blade against the rider’s hands. Connor jumps forward, his weapon slicing into the rider, and then I reach them.

I grab the man’s heavy leather coat and throw him toward Adam. The Commander grabs the riderless horse’s reins and glares down at the man lying on the ground. “Kill him.”

“No!” I leap from my horse and shove the reins into Connor’s hands. “We need answers first. They have our horses. The girls are missing. And who knows what else they took from camp?” I meet the Commander’s gaze and see the moment he realizes that his tent was left unguarded while he dealt with the attack. The device could be gone. Anger floods me at the thought that everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed to find a way to rescue Rachel and take down Rowansmark, could be ruined by a band of thugs.

The man coughs out a pained laugh and says in a rough voice, “Why would I tell you anything? You’re going to kill me either way.”

The Commander crouches, grabs the man’s face, and then says, “All he needs to be able to give us answers are his tongue, his lungs, his heart, and his brain.” He looks up at Adam. “Carve the rest of it out of him, one piece at a time. Start with the eyes.”

The man blinks, his gaze darting wildly between the Commander and Adam. I lean down, and the man’s gaze lands on me.

“Do you know who this is?” I nod toward the Commander.

The man tries to shake his head, but he can’t get free of the Commander’s grip. “Just a small group of travelers with a few items of value.”

“Where are the girls?” Adam asks, his voice shaking with rage. The point of his sword hovers inches above the man’s left eye.

When the man doesn’t reply, I say, “How much do you know about the city-states?”

“I don’t—wait. Wait!” The man digs his heels into the ground and tries to push himself away as Adam’s sword drops lower. “I know a little about the city-states. Some of them.”

“What do you know of Baalboden?” I ask.

The man swallows. “It’s . . . we don’t go there.”

“And why not?” the Commander asks, his voice a lethal slice of fury.

The man’s eyes dart toward the Commander and then focus again on Adam’s sword. “Because the leader won’t give you a trial or time in the dungeon like some of the other leaders. He’ll . . .” The man stares as the moonlight glides over the Commander’s face, lingering on his scar. “You’re Commander Chase.”

“I am. And I’m very interested to hear what you think I do to those who anger me.”