"I'm going to rip your guts out with my own hands," he said. "And I'm going to feed them to you."

He swung.

Maev ducked and his fist flew over her head. She kicked, hitting his belly. As he doubled over, Maev leaped, driving her fist upward. It connected with his chin, knocking his head back. A left hook drove into his temple, splitting open skin, and for an instant his face turned to wobbly jelly.

He stood before her, teetering.

She drove her fist forward again. Her knuckles slammed into his nose, shattering it. It hurt like punching a brick wall.

It was enough to send him down like a sack of turnips.

He crashed to the ground and did not rise.

Maev placed her foot upon the fallen man, then raised her bloodied fists and shouted out hoarsely. "I am the Hammer! I pound flesh!"

She could barely see through her swollen eyes. The unconscious man's face was a fleshy mess, all lumps and cuts. Maev knew that she looked no better, and she spat out more blood. But she could see enough. She could see the crowd of villagers cheering.

What was this village's name? Maev didn't even remember. Too many villages, too many fights. Gorn woke and began to moan; his friends dragged him out of the square, leaving a trail of blood. As Maev made her way through the crowd, villagers patted her on the back, offered her clay mugs of ale, and cried out her name.

She wiped back strands of her yellow hair. It was slick with blood—a mix of hers and his.

"Give me my prize," she demanded, head spinning. She thrust out her bottom lip and raised her chin. "Give me what I earned or I'll pound every last one of you."

The village elder approached her, clad in canvas, his belly ample and his cheeks rosy. He held forth the silver amulet. When he tried to place it around her neck, Maev grabbed the jewel, spat onto his feet, and stuffed it into her pocket.

"I don't wear no jewelry." She glared at the elder through her one good eye; the other saw only blood. "I can barter this in the next village over. It would get me some good mutton—better than the shite you serve in this backwater." She pushed her way through the crowd, following her nose. "I smell stew and ale! Feed me and give me enough booze to knock out a horse."

Ahead rose craggy tables of logs held together with nails. Other logs served as benches, and the villagers sat here, eating steaming barley bread, gnawing on legs of lamb, and washing down the food with frothy ale. Maev stumbled toward a table, desperate for a hot meal and cold drinks—free fare for the victor, and she was in no position to turn down free meals.

Before she could reach the table, however, a familiar figure leaped forward, blocking her way.

Maev groaned. "Get out of here, Tanin, or I'm going to knock your face into the back of your skull." She raised a fist. The knuckles were raw and bleeding.