MAEV

The tattooed fist drove into Maev's face, and the world blazed with blood and white light.

Her back hit the ground.

"Gorn! Gorn!" The crowds spun around her, chanting her assailant's name. Their faces were twisted with bloodlust, red in the torchlight. "Finish her!"

The fist drove down again, connecting with her temple, and blood splattered across the ground. Maev felt herself losing consciousness. She spat out a glob of saliva and blood.

Pain is strength, she told herself, repeating the mantra that had always run through her. Pain is life. Pain drives you.

She raised her arms. The fists fell left and right, blows that nearly shattered her bones. She blocked them. She screamed as her blood flew.

"Gorn! Gorn!"

Somewhere in the distance, her brother called out to her, the only voice in this crowd that wanted her to live.

"Maev! Get out of there!"

She blinked. Her one eye was swollen shut. The other peered between strands of her matted blond hair. She looked up at the man above—more a beast than a man, she thought. His face was leathery and covered with tattoos. Sweat dripped off his nose, and blood—shed by her own fist—fell from his mouth, splattering against her. He growled, pinning her down with his knees, driving his fists against her arms. A blow drove past her defenses, connecting with her cheek, and she could see no more, only white, only pain.

I can become a dragon, she thought in a haze. I am Vir Requis. I can fly, blow fire, kill him.

Through the blood in her mouth, she smiled.

But where is the fun in that?

She roared.

I am Maev Blacksmith. I am the Hammer. I will rise and triumph.

Screaming and spitting out blood, she kicked, flipped, and knocked Gorn over. The brawny man slammed into the earth. Maev was a powerful woman, but he was twice her size. She liked the sound he made falling. At once, she leaped upon him, wrapped her thighs around his neck, and twisted his head painfully downward. His spine ridge rose, ready to crack, and she rained blows upon him. Her fists drove into his kidneys, hard and fast as her old smithy's hammers. She was raised a blacksmith's daughter and she fought with the fury of metal hitting metal.

He screamed beneath her. Maev twisted harder, stretching her legs back, twisting his head, trying to rip it clean off. She managed to grin at the crowd. They surrounded the dirt square, pounding fists into palms, calling out.

And now they were calling her name.

"Hammer! Hammer!"

With a twist, she grabbed Gorn's arm. She yanked him sideways, rolled across him, and landed hard in the mud. His arm gave a delightful pop as it dislocated from its socket.

Maev rose to her feet and licked the blood off her lips. She spat on him. "Had enough, little boy?"

His face was swollen and bloody, and his arm hung at an odd angle. Groaning, the man rose to his feet. Maev was tall and strong; she had inherited her father's height and his powerful arms. She was no delicate gatherer of berries; she was a warrior, her muscles wide, her body lean and fierce. And yet Gorn towered above her, twice her width, and managed to grin. He spat out a tooth with a shower of blood and saliva.