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He suddenly shoved the Wasp away, his off hand reaching for his quiver. She thought she had him then, for she was closing the ground between them so swiftly that he could never have drawn the bowstring, but his wings flowered at his shoulders, casting him backwards over the heads of the scrum, and an arrow lanced from his bow even as he reached the apex of his leap. She felt the arrowhead already in her shoulder grating shallowly against her flesh as she ducked, felt his shot kiss the blade of her sword, enough to divert the shaft from her, and then she was going after him, felling anyone luckless enough to get in her way. The Dragonfly already had another arrow nocked, but he was clearly loath to risk killing one of his own, so she used that against him, not allowing him a clear shot until she was almost on him. A spearman tried lunging for her, and she whipped her rapier across his throat almost casually, her eyes still fixed on the brigand chief. She saw the moment when he understood that he would have no choice but to shoot, and she shared it with him. As he let the arrow fly she was already moving, tipping the collapsing spearman into the way so that the shaft ploughed into his dying flesh and not into hers.

The Dragonfly’s wings flashed once more, as she lunged for him open-handed, catching his ankle and feeling the pull of his wings, almost fierce enough to wrench her arm from its socket. For a moment she was off the ground, and then the two of them tumbled back into the fray.

Her left hand, which had been weaponless for a moment in order to seize him, found the comforting grip of her sword in it again, the weapon coming and going obedient to her will in accordance with the secret lore of the Weaponsmaster. Alive, he must be alive. She lanced for his leg, seeking to cripple him, but he rolled aside, coming up into a crouch with his bow raised and ready. In the frozen moment she could only admire his mastery, delighted to find a worthy opponent amidst all this dross.

Just as he had the string drawn back to his ear, she drew the tip of her blade across the taut arch of the bow, cutting the weapon in two.

The arrow struck her ribs, his aim a moment from driving it through her body. As it was the shaft spun at her sideways, staggering her but drawing no blood.

The loose and jagged end of the bow whiplashed back into his face, and he hit the ground hard with his shoulder, one hand pressed to the wound.

She had a fight on her hands then, for all around were his followers, and enough of them had registered their leader’s jeopardy and were trying to save him. She disposed of three with swift, economic passes of her blade, but then Whitehand’s men were on all sides of her, the Mantis himself leading their rescue attempt.

She dismissed them, let Whitehand fight the minions while she went after their leader. The man had got back to his feet now, although there was a bloody weal across his face. In one hand he had a Commonwealer punch-sword: a short, vicious blade projecting straight from a shielded knuckleguard. He must have known that she was by far the better duellist, and she expected him to take flight again and force her to chase him, but he went for her instead, trying to get in under her longer reach.

She drilled him in the thigh, where she had intended to catch him all along, and he fell back on to one knee, but his eyes remained watchful and waiting.

There. She turned, sensing a threat from her right, but it almost caught her anyway. Not a man but a beast: a low-slung hunting scorpion bolting towards her from the melee, one pincer opened wide and reaching to crush her ankle. She hopped aside, awkward with surprise, and its sting missed her leg by only inches.

The Dragonfly took advantage of the distraction, but she tilted aside from his lunge, letting the punch-sword pass within an inch of her back, while smacking her elbow into his chin. She stepped this way and that, dancing an angled course around the scorpion’s claws as it tried to