“Well, that’s terrible form,” Bastian muttered. “Her knuckles aren’t even wrapped.”
“I don’t think she needs them.” Lore eyed the other girl’s hands—a mess of bruises and swollen joints, the signs of a seasoned fighter.
She clenched her own into tight fists. Her pulse beat through them, as if they were external hearts.
The bearded referee stepped into the center of the ring. “Last call for bets!”
“If they find out I lost on purpose, we’ll be chased out of the city with pitchforks,” Lore said.
“Then you’d better make it look like you didn’t lose on purpose,” Gabe replied.
At the crook of the bearded man’s finger, Lore stepped forward, Gabe and Bastian’s last words of tentative encouragement drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears. Her opponent approached, giving Lore an up-and-down glance that finished in a sneer.
It made Lore very irritated that she had to lose.
“Bets are in,” the referee called. “Let’s see which one of you can send the other to your own personal hell first, ladies!”
Hoots and catcalls echoed through the harbor street. Lore paused, waiting for the official sign they were supposed to start.
It came with a fist in her gut.
The red-haired girl swept out her foot while Lore was still hunched over her aching stomach, but Lore saw it coming and jumped out of the way. Her opponent, disturbingly unperturbed, smacked an open palm across Lore’s ear with her opposite hand, and Lore stumbled to her knees, ears ringing.
“At least get one hit in!” Bastian’s voice, yelling from the sidelines.
“I’m trying,” Lore gritted out. She looked up—the other girl stalked slowly across the ring, a feral smile on her face, the cheers of the crowd encouraging her to take her time with an obviously weaker opponent. Lore heaved in deep breaths as she drew closer, willing her stomach to expand, pushing the pain in her head to the edges. She shifted her aching body—ass on the ground, legs bent before her, hands braced behind. A halfhearted struggle made it look like she was trying to get up and failing, which only sharpened the redhead’s smile.
The girl finally came close enough to touch, though Lore didn’t lash out, not yet. She cocked her head and looked down at Lore the way one might look at a petulant child. “I would offer you the chance to yield, but I need the practice.” Her fist closed, pulled back.
Lore’s seated position put her at eye level with the other girl’s stomach. Perfect.
Leg rising, leaning back on her hands, a quick look to make sure she aimed correctly, all in the span of a second. Lore kicked at the other girl’s kneecap, and it sent her sprawling backward with a hoarse cry of pain.
“The eyes of the legs,” Lore muttered, and heaved herself up from the ground.
The crowd cheered, their loyalties changeable as the weather. Bastian whooped, but Gabe looked worried. He wanted her to yield, she could see it in his eyes, but she didn’t think her opponent would give her the opportunity, especially not now.
Losing big it was, then. Lore winced preemptively.
“You’ll pay for that.” The other girl shook her leg out, barely limping, though agony shone in the rictus of her mouth as she ran forward.
“Yes, I suppose I will,” Lore sighed.
“Break it up!”
The shouts came from the streets back toward the city, accompanied by the sounds of boots on cobblestones. The cheers of the crowd turned to shouts of surprise.
“Bloodcoats! Clear out!”
The hay ring was abandoned; spectators and waiting fighters alike turned tail and hauled ass, disappearing into alleyways as a group of bloodcoats surged into the street, bayonets catching the orange glow of the streetlights. It made them look like spears of flame.
The girl Lore had been fighting cursed, turning to run on her sore leg. She didn’t give Lore a second glance. Revenge came long down the list of priorities when escaping the Burnt Isles was number one.
A hand on her arm, steering her forward. Gabe. “Let’s go. This was a dead end.”
They ran with the crowd up the streets, the sounds of capture and occasional gunfire spurring them on from behind, until Bastian darted out of an alley’s narrow mouth. “Over here!”
Gabe didn’t break his stride as he turned, steering them both into the relative safety of the dark. Lore leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her stomach. It still hurt from getting punched, and the impromptu run hadn’t helped.
“We need to go back to the Citadel before this gets out of hand.” Bastian stood right inside the lip of the alley, shadow cutting across his face as he peered out into the street. A group of bloodcoats ran by, and he pressed against the wall, disappearing into dark. “We’ll come back tomorrow—”