“They’ll gouge us just as badly as if they were. Us”—she twists around to assess our three rescue victims—“and them.” I look at our weighted cargo and their stitched burlap skin with fresh anxiety. We’re assigned to the second group of three, so maybe we can watch for strategies. And mistakes.

A whistle splits the air—and nothing happens.

A breeze snakes through the trees. My heartbeat hammers against my ribs.

The arena is still.

Vaughn and Spencer leap from their base—and take off like rockets. Each boy carries a sword in one hand and a mannequin over a shoulder. Their hellboars squeal and thunder after them.

Whitty and Blake run next. Blake leads, twirling his quarterstaff with deadly precision. The spinning distracts both boars—and Whitty makes for the other side, mannequin in tow.

Down the field, Carson twirls a long-handled flail, keeping both boars at bay. Greer follows, the two lightest mannequins slung in a fireman’s carry.

Sounds pierce the night: rotating weapons, whirring. Shouts. Squeals. Grunts. Each the sign of a potential victory or injury.

Vaughn and Spencer are closest—and I’d love nothing more than to watch Vaughn lose—so I study their attempt more than the others’.

The boars are still hot on their heels—until the boys zag sharply in opposite directions, nearly slipping in the wet grass. The constructs split up too, pivoting to follow—but their hooves slide in the dirt, kicking up mud and soil. They hit the ground hard and screaming.

The boars get to their feet. As if on cue, the boys heave their “Onceborn victims” off their shoulders. The mannequins hit the ground with a heavy splat.

At first, I think they’ve planned to fight the boars while their victims are out of harm’s way, but Spencer doesn’t draw his sword. Instead, he sprints back toward the base, his boar on his heels, and slides into the ditch to safety. Leaving Vaughn to face both boars alone.

“Coward!” Sydney hisses with disgust.

Spencer’s boar reaches the lantern boundary, then turns back. It can’t go any farther. It moves toward Vaughn, who has already used his sword to leave two gaping slashes in the sides of its companion. It’s only when Spencer’s boar has almost reached Vaughn that the boys’ true strategy is revealed:

Spencer’s head pops out of the bushes. He emerges carrying the smallest mannequin in a fireman’s hold, then sprints straight across the arena.

“Not a coward,” I whisper. “He’s their runner.”

I have to admit, it’s smart: use Vaughn, the stronger fighter, to distract the two boars while Spencer, the faster of the two, completes the first third of the task.

Back on the field, Vaughn’s slowing down. The boars have him pinned on both sides. He gets in quick slashes—one! two!—before darting back, barely escaping a snapping jaw.