She crashed into the warrior, the two of them rolling together, Riv throwing punches and using elbows all the while. Someone grabbed her collar, hoisting her away. A glimpse of Jost punching someone flush on the chin.

He has long arms, as they’re finding out, Riv thought, feeling a rush of joy sweep through her, a grin splitting her face as she let the frustrations in her bubble over into a physical release of violence. She twisted in the grip about her neck, knee lashing out, connecting with something soft. There was a whoosh of air and a gurgled groan and she was no longer being held. People all around her, faces, limbs, all one long, furious, blurred drunken dance. She threw punches and kicks, felt some land, dimly, through her euphoria, saw a flash of a face that looked like Vald.

Couldn’t have been.

And then, abruptly, she was airborne, weightless, legs kicking, the snarl of bodies below her stopping in mid-punch or kick. She saw Jost upon the floor, someone’s arm around his neck, but he had another’s leg in his grip, his mouth open to bite their calf.

The rushing of air about her, a sound. She looked up, saw broad white wings beating, Kol’s grim face looking down at her.

Dawn was close, a grey stain seeping across the horizon, turning the solid black of night into shifting shadows. Riv’s mouth throbbed, pains everywhere clamouring for her attention and she put a hand to her face, felt a cut on her lip, a loose tooth.

She was in a wain with the baggage train, her head on a grain sack, peering out through a slot in the wain’s tall sides. It was the closest to an isolation cell that Kol had been able to find at short notice. Jost and Vald had their very own wains a few score of paces away. Riv could hear Vald snoring, could hear the rhythmic shaking and rattling of his wain’s brackets as if they were in a storm.

It had been Vald’s face she’d seen in fight last night. He’d seen what had happened and come rushing, diving bodily into the melee.

He’s a good friend, coming to help like that. And now he’s in isolation for deserting his post!

Must control my temper, must control my temper, Riv recited to herself, over and over.

If I don’t get my temper under control I’ll never get to pass my warrior trial. I’ll never even get to take it. When Israfil hears about this . . .

She punched the side of the wain, hissed a string of curses and then sighed, setting about removing the splinters from her knuckles.