Solis swished his long rapier from side to side, cutting the spring breeze. He didn’t properly know what to call it—didn’t know what half these weapons were—but that wouldn’t stop him from calling it Slicey-Poker in his head. Though he might switch to “Swishy Fishbone.” The former was descriptive of his uses for it, the latter of its single-bladed edge—nearly three feet in length—and slightly curved shape. Plus, it rather rolled off the proverbial tongue. He’d just have to refrain from letting the name slip around Phoenix; somehow, he knew she wouldn’t approve.

  Maybe just Fishbone.

  “Hey!” called a voice from his right. “You going to stop waving that around and come with?”

  It was the Ornis called Tissan. His feathers were ruffled atop his neck, but Solis didn’t think he was really that upset. Most Ornis weren’t prone to wild fits of anger over something as simple as . . . well . . . Okay, maybe I ought to get going.

  He promptly stopped, resuming a neutral stance as though he hadn’t been overcome with the natural instinct of a child with a particularly fine stick.

  Telsan dropped down from the sky, where he’d been treading air, looking over the wall. Catching Solis’ eye, he gestured out toward the main arena gate, where a melee unfolded. A melee they were supposed to be watching. The scuffle had tipped drastically in favor of Filian Cornel’s fighters, their new teammates. None appeared to have found weapons.

  “Guess our guys won that little skirmish, huh?” he said. “But uh . . . does Filian know we lost the southeast fort?”

  “Filian doesn’t know squat,” Solis muttered, brushing the comment aside automatically. “We still going in search of their treasures?” As he said it, he took a sweeping gaze around, allowing himself to briefly remember that there were still hundreds or thousands watching awkwardly from the bleachers not far to the south. What did they think of the proceedings? What were the Magnates going to do to push the game on? At this rate, it could go on all night.

  Chester the Flameborn’s voice came from behind him: “We should get to the southeast fort. Of course . . . we also need to keep Filian out of the keep here.”

  Recalling their purpose, Solis looked about him and saw agreement on all faces. “Oh, right. Tissan?”

  The Ornis nodded and beat his wings, taking to the air. His choice was a pair of spears, apparently a staple weapon in the northern Ornis reaches, while Solis of course took Swishy Fishbone. He felt good about their odds. Lane was to stay with the other elementalists, and Telsan would back them up if needed. The nincompoops in the central arena could do whatever they wanted.

  A minute later, they were gliding in upon the wind, arcing toward the facing wall of the smaller keep. Some manner of fight, apparently quite a vicious one. A pair of seemingly unconscious combatant were being carried off by the medics, leaking blood from wounds. Solis recognized a few of those still putting up a resistance, members of their own team, and called out to one, only succeeding in distracting him. Publis? Was that his name?

  Diving in, Solis took aim at his opponent, deciding how best to repel the buff Tapiq without harming him . . .

  Wait. He’s got a weapon too.

  Solis’ eyes widened in fear, and he felt an uncomfortable tickle at the back of his mind. A warning bell. But he stayed his course. A quick glance showed that Tissan was still beside him. Crying for him to hold up, but he wasn’t going to listen to whining. He landed in a flurry of footsteps, approaching from the attacker’s right as the defender backed off. Solis jabbed with Swishy Fishbone and was turned aside by the long spear of his opponent.

  So he moved in closer, grabbing the spear’s shaft with his off hand and sweeping the guy’s leg out. He jerked the spear away as he fell.

  “Solis!” Tissan’s voice alerted him to a threat from his right: Another armed attacker, this one with an axe. Solis ducked and thrust out instinctively, feeling and hearing his thin blade punch into flesh. Just the small slab of muscle below the armpit, probably only penetrating shallowly there, but Solis’ heart pounded hard as the small, grey-winged man bellowed in pain, swinging again even though Fishbone was still stuck in him. Solis ducked away, careful to keep his wing out of the weapon’s arc, and in doing so yanked his blade out at a slightly different angle. Another groan accompanied the motion, and finally the attacker bent over with a moan, clutching his left hand to his side awkwardly. Blood leaked between the fingers.

  “I, uh,” Solis started to say, unsure what he was trying to say. I’ll just hope the medics will come for him soon, he thought, looking upwards. He waved at one of the circling figures, but before he could gesture toward the fallen axeman, Tissan’s cry of alarm alerted him. He turned to see a young man he recognized attacking the Ornis boy with a double-edged sword; one of Daryn Gobross’s henchmen.

  With a low, almost animalic growl, Solis launched himself at the older boy, swiping for his leg. Doofus, or whatever his name was, turned just in time, and Fishbone scored only a few layers of skin. Perhaps a hair deeper, judging by the annoyed look on Dummkopf’s face as he retreated.

  “So it’s you, Solis,” he said with a sort of dark guffaw. “Didn’t think we’d see you so soon! Hey boys, it’s Lightwing! What’d ya do, switch sides now?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Only as he looked about him did Solis realize how many were here from Erika’s side, armed with weapons. At least three men, one woman. Judging by the brute’s confidence and words . . . Solis wondered if somehow Gobross had indeed won dominance. Last he knew, the two were still competing over whose side of the field it was.

  The young man saved by Solis had taken a spot beside his two backup rescuers. Why didn’t I think to take extra weapons? But Tissan was already solving that problem, handing the man one of his spears. The poor guy seemed almost at a loss for what to do with it. Two more of his companions were awaiting pickup by the medics on the floor. Did they even know about them?

  “Just give up,” said the brute, slowly circling Tissan but looking at Solis. “The fort’s ours. We got to the weapons first, you know?” As he spoke, two more backup wingmen stepped out of the other rooms. “So you up and switched sides for your friends, huh?”

  Solis thought about replying, but he was increasingly distracted by the number of enemies in the room, multiple with blades stained redder than his own. He didn’t like this. Any close combat with one of these goons was a game of trust, trust that the opponent had the mercy not to kill. What could the medics possibly do if someone risked the rules just to carry out a little grudge? Or perhaps to endear themselves to Gobross. That might just be the way to do it, huh? Would even he really be that cold, though?

  Yes. Maybe.

  “Solis, um . . .” Tissan said.

  Solis didn’t even look his way. He didn’t have to. There was one option here. “Let’s cut our way out of here and get back!” he shouted, making for the opponent on his right, the closest. It was the woman, somewhere in her thirties and armed with a sword and shield. Solis was no expert with weapons, but even he could see she didn’t know how to use them. He didn’t know anyone who ever used a shield. Her diminutive size made her an easy target, or so he hoped, although the young man next to her made to immediately back her up. In fact, his peripheral vision indicated that one of the newcomers had as well.

  Forget about them. One at a time. Solis lunged for the woman, hoping she would block. She did. He swiveled, spinning on his momentum before kicking directly for her shield before her sword could go anywhere. He felt bad for her shoulder—in fact, her whole light frame—because that was a solid kick. Telsan would be proud. Maybe a bit lucky with the spacing. She was thrown backward with a cry, and Solis spun on his male opponent, who wielded a halberd. Great Earth, he’d always wanted to see one of those up close. Not pointing at him like this, though. He’d passed one up in the armory, not because he didn’t want one but because he had at least rudimentary weapon skills with blades.

  The man started their combat with a forward jab, which seemed downright unfair to the white-winged boy. He used his wings to backstep three paces, right up against the wall behind him. Great. They were in a courtyard of sorts, and he wasn’t sure how close he was to the nearest door—which was unfortunate, since they were supposed to be escaping. Solis closed back in with a dual swipe of his curved saber. The halberd’s iron end was far longer overall than most spears, and caught his blade steel on steel on the second swipe. With a low curse, he sidestepped, trying to maintain momentum, and retaliated with another double cut. The man evaded with surprising agility. Just as Solis made a second attack, something slammed into him, throwing him into an unintended roll. He saw the walls of the keep go by, and then he was staring up at the sky. Multiple faces leered over him. Somewhere dimly in the background, voices shouted, “Get him!” and maybe something about traitors? What traitors?

  “Solis! Hey!” squawked Tissan. Solis jerked away on reflex as a blow landed, an enemy’s weapon glancing off the cobblestones where his chest had been. Could’ve killed me, the blighters! He tried to rise, then raised his blade instead to block a halberd blow. Then a form overtook the halberdier, rolling with him in a tumble of wings and a spray of feathers. In the confusion, Solis rolled to his feet and faced his other two opponents. One was the woman. A third was fast approaching with a ball-and-chain.

  Out of the rolling mass of feathers, one form rose, spinning a halberd in a vicious arc and approaching the others, who shied back. Those speckled wings, that beak . . . “Telsan!”

  His friend didn’t reply, sweeping into the enemy with an unstoppable fury, halberd spinning to crack one full on the head with the flat, subsequently thrusting the hilt backward into the woman. The blow to her chest looked painful, but she had asked for it. Breathing might be painful for her for a while . . . but it was for Solis right now, too. Solis had one other attacker, one of the newcomers with some manner of spiked weapon on a whip.

  As it came at him, Solis sliced and caught the whip’s cord, but not full-on, and the metal end wrapped around his long blade. Grinning, the attacker yanked and pulled it from his hands. Solis took that opportunity to leap right in and slam an elbow into the young man’s chest. The shock hurt him, even though it was the other shoulder he’d landed on, and he wished he’d simply gone for the face. There was nothing remotely fair about this fight, and he’d never been offered any quarter.

  “Tissan!” was the first thing he heard out of Telsan’s mouth. Solis had just begun to grin, seeing they had beaten their opponents, but turned now with a frown. He saw the last Gobross loyal fighting not Tissan but the remaining teammate from the fort guard, who gushed blood from one leg. Tissan was . . . well, he didn’t look good.

  Solis growled again, even more animalic in both tone and intensity. Telsan threw the halberd butt-end first, taking the man in the back, and immediately ran to his countryman, stooping at his side. Solis leapt into the fight, beating the bully’s weapon from his hands as he righted himself. His teammate tried to go in for another blow, but Solis stopped him. He didn’t want the casualties to grow worse. Instead, he knelt on the thick man’s chest, squeezing out a heavy grunt. “What is wrong with you!” he hissed into his face, the level of his own anger shocking him. It was the protective urge to avenge someone for a wrong, even one he didn’t know personally.

  He got only a sneer in reply. “The others would have done worse. He put up a fight. I—”

  “Oh, shut up!” Solis struck him across the mouth, just once, before he got hold of himself.

  Telsan had pointed his beak to the sky and was shouting, “Medics!”

  But they were already coming, and indeed had made off with the first wounded combatant Solis had come upon. Two more descended, faces grim, and briefly inspected the fallen contestant. “Will he be all right? Please!” Telsan pleaded. All he got was a slight darkening of the medics’ expressions, but they kept their professional integrity and said nothing, lifting the body on a flexible stretcher between them with powerful wingbeats.

  All was still. The keep felt lonely and abandoned, the wind whistling through slitted windows. All other sounds seemed infinitely distant.

  Solis shared a look with his friend. “Thanks. They’re . . . they’re gonna pay for this.”

  Telsan gave only a short, sharp nod in reply.