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Rytlock followed, his scowl clearing the way—that is, until another charr approached. The two locked eyes and traded fuming expressions as they marched into each other. They crashed like a pair of bulls, horns clacking and shoulders shoving.

“Out of my way,” Rytlock thundered, hurling the other charr aside.

The other staggered a moment, dug his claws in, and drew a sword. “Says who?”

Sohothin leaped up, and Rytlock smiled. “Says he.”

The fool eyed the epic blade, clamped his teeth together, and swung his own sword.

Sohothin cracked through the fool’s weapon, cutting it in half and dropping the tip in the dirt.

The attacker stared down at his suddenly short sword, turned, and ran.

Rytlock humphed. He now had an open lane, especially since Sohothin still flamed in his grip. He strode down the vacated street between buildings fashioned of boats, heading toward a large circular theater in timber and plaster. Judging from the roar of the crowd, a show was going on within—a show that had drawn Caithe and Logan. Striding up to them, Rytlock sheathed his sword and said, “What is it?”

Caithe turned to him, eyes wide. “An atrocity.”

“Bearbaiting,” Logan said ruefully.

“Bear what?” Rytlock craned to peer through the archway into the triple-decked theater within.

A circling throng surrounded a patch of sand where a grizzly bear stood on its hind legs. A spiked collar was cinched around its neck, and a chain bound it to a stout post. Within its black coat ran rivulets of blood.

The same blood painted a spiked mace in the hand of a muscular brute. The man wore a grimacing grin and breathed excitedly as he circled just outside the reach of the bear’s claws. “Want this? Want this?” the man asked, swiping the mace at the creature.

The bear roared and batted the weapon away. The crowd, their enthusiasm strengthened by the rows of bottles along the walls, roared back.

The man spun about, swinging the mace in a full arc and bringing it back to smash the bear’s face. Spikes pierced the muzzle and cracked fangs. The bear reeled back, blood spraying from its jowls. A mad cheer rang from the crowd as the beast staggered against the post and almost fell.

But it didn’t fall. Someone was holding it up with slender arms.

“I will stand with you, brother,” Caithe said.

The crowd’s bloodthirsty cheer faltered.

At the back of the crowd, Rytlock wondered, “How’d she get up there?”

“She’s going to get herself killed,” Logan said, pressing forward.

The bear could have bitten her throat or torn out her stomach, but it didn’t. It seemed to know by touch that she was a friend.

The man with the mace thought otherwise. “Get away! I paid for five licks, and I’ll get them.”

“Yes, you will,” Caithe replied, drawing her white stiletto and spinning it before her.

The man eyed the dagger and then his gory mace. He cocked a grin. “Seems you got a problem with reach, girl.” He swung the mace at her head.

Caithe ducked, the spiked ball scraping along her shoulder. Lunging, she rammed her dagger into the man’s hand and split his middle finger from his ring finger. Blood gushed, and the mace tumbled to the sand.

The man staggered back, cradling his bleeding hand. “She stabbed me! Get her!”

Six of the man’s mates leaped over the half-wall that kept back the crowd. Swords rose from scabbards and cudgels from belts. The men grinned, and the crowd cheered.

Until Logan and Rytlock stepped up beside their friend.

Caithe smiled. “You love bears?”

Rytlock scowled. “I hate bullies.”

“I thought you hated sylvari.”

“I hate bullies more.”

Logan muttered, “There’s six of them and three of us.”

“Hardly fair,” Rytlock agreed, “for them.”

One of the thugs snapped a whip, which lashed around Rytlock’s neck. He reared back, yanked the man off his feet and into the air, and head-butted him. The man crumpled in a heap at the charr’s feet.

“Now there’s five.”

A thug swung his sword at Logan. He bashed the blade down, stepped on the end, and smashed his hammer