“Win or lose, we abide by your rules,” Barlow growled. “Ten strikes only. Meilin is our champion.”

“There is no honor in this,” Derawat spat. “Afterward, you will suffer double for this offense.”

Barlow kept silent, but cast a meaningful glance at Meilin.

After Derawat’s cape was removed, he stormed over to the vat and dipped his knuckles in the sludge again. Meilin followed him and did likewise. It was neither warm nor cool, and had a thick, greasy feel.

The rest of the Ravens gathered to watch in silence, more than two hundred strong — old and young, male and female. Meilin hoped she was right about her chances. She had no way to gauge the skill of her opponent. What if he had hands like Master Chu? She would lose in two heartbeats.

This was obviously a contest these people practiced frequently. Derawat had the right build and acted confident. His reach would give him an advantage, as would his greater strength. If he connected solidly, she would go down, and he would rain blows on her.

Derawat led Meilin into the circle. He looked down at her fiercely. “Any strike to the arm below the elbow does not count,” he said, indicating his forearms. “Anyplace else is a hit. If you step out of the circle, you lose. No second chance. Ten strikes. Mohayli will count.”

“I’ll be counting too,” Barlow put in.

“Questions?” Derawat asked Meilin. “I will still let you choose another champion.”

Meilin sized him up. They weren’t allowed to use spirit animals in this fight, otherwise she would have let Tarik take her place. The way he could jump and move with Lumeo was unreal. But without help from the beasts, she felt certain that if Derawat could defeat her, he could easily beat any of the others. She had to win. For the mission, for personal honor, for her life.

“No questions,” she said.

Derawat’s lips tightened and he backed away to crouch into a fighting stance. “Mohayli will start us.”

Meilin shook her arms and legs, trying to loosen up. What if the masters she had trained with had all gone easy on her? She knew they often held back, but what if it was more than she realized? What if she was about to be humiliated?

No! Such doubts were poison. She had to keep her head.

A short Raven held up a hand, then dropped it, shouting, “Go!”

“You can do it, Meilin!” Conor called.

She appreciated the sentiment, but would have preferred no distraction.

Derawat danced lightly toward her, lean muscles rippling. She held still, fists ready, stance balanced. He made a couple of fake attacks, but she didn’t flinch. Drawing near, he tried to coax her into attacking, but she resisted. First she wanted to determine his quickness.

Growing impatient, he finally took a true swing at her. She dodged it, sliding away from him. He attacked with more vigor, swinging multiple times and forcing her to spin and duck to avoid getting touched.

He was quick. There would be no room for error. She let him back her toward the edge of the circle, positioning herself so that a well-placed punch would push her out.

Derawat took the bait, and Meilin gave him a taste of her actual abilities. Instead of dodging away, she ducked toward him, slipping under his punch and striking the side and back of his thigh three times, left-right-left, then skipping away before he could retaliate.

“Three,” Mohayli called in a surprised tone, holding up three fingers.

Meilin heard Conor and Rollan laughing with delight, but she tried not to savor the small success. She had to stay in the moment.

Derawat looked down at his leg. She had hit him in three distinct places, to ensure the marks from the sludge would be easily distinguished. He gazed at her with new respect, and no longer stepped quite so smoothly. Meilin knew what spots on the thigh would provide maximum discomfort, and she had hit her targets.

Derawat drew near with real caution, his guard up, ready to dart forward or back. It would have been easier if he had remained overconfident.

He attacked suddenly. Twice Meilin felt the breeze from his fist before she blocked the third swing and almost tagged him in the ribs with a counterpunch. He hopped away, hands raised protectively.

His next attacks were more measured, almost hesitant, and he stayed ready to defend himself. Meilin realized she would have to take the offensive. She showed him three subtle feints, and he committed hard to defend the third. Then she slid close and delivered a flurry of sharp blows — stomach, stomach, thigh, side, block, stomach, block, block, knee. She somersaulted away and scrambled to the far side of the circle.

“Five for Meilin,” Mohayli said.

“Six,” Derawat corrected, wincing. The blow to his knee had been ruthless, and her blocks had hammered the weak parts of his wrists. He was much stronger, but she knew how to focus her blows, and precisely where to land them.

As he tried to walk off his knee injury, Derawat looked at Meilin in disbelief. She returned his gaze gravely. Any gloating would dishonor him and fuel resentment. She ignored the onlookers outside the circle and stayed near the edge as Derawat claimed the center. He shook his head and waved her toward him.

With her hands down, Meilin walked slowly toward him. When he tried a sneaky punch, she avoided it and struck him twice below the ribs.

“Two,” Mohayli announced. “That makes eleven for the girl.”

As Meilin backed away, Derawat acknowledged her with a nod. She returned it politely.

Tarik, Barlow, Monte, Rollan, and Conor gathered around Meilin, barely restraining their excitement, showering her with astonished praise. The compliments made her glow inside. Only her trainers had ever seen her fighting skills, and they had never praised her like this — like it really mattered.

Tarik placed his large hand on her shoulder. “Meilin, you are full of surprises. I’ll be slow to doubt you again, or Essix for that matter. We’re lucky to have you.”

15 ARAX

ONLY A DAY AFTER LEAVING THE RAVENS BEHIND, SCRUBBER found the first oversized prints. The land around them was completely wild and there was no longer any trail to follow. The three prints were old, preserved when Arax had stepped in a muddy patch that had long since dried.

As the others mounted up to move on, Rollan remained crouched by the prints, tracing them with his finger, trying to imagine the size of Arax. Since the prints were much larger than any the horses made, Rollan knew the ram must be enormous. What ram was the size of a horse? Let alone larger!

“Are you coming?” Conor asked from astride his mount.

Rollan looked up. Having sniffed the prints, Briggan had run up front to travel with Barlow. But Conor had lingered behind.