Men died around Kyembe like flies.

The Sengezian danced and leapt from their encirclement, but they swarmed over the seats like enraged bees. His sword-staff struck out in a blur, slaying or wounding with each cut, and the haft grew slick with gore.

And not just with that of his foes.

A score of cuts marked his own body, inflicted by fortunate lupine claws or sword-blows. They stalked him, not giving him leave to draw forth his healing energies.

He growled, frustrated.

Wurhi and Merrick struggled with the black-coated Berard, the silver-coated Sacred Alpha drove titanic blows into Cristabel, and Kyembe struggled for his life with rabble. Below, the acolytes swarmed the pit fighters throughout the blood-stained sands.

He cursed his choices: were he to slip away and join Wurhi or Cristabel, he would bring this army down on them. Yet, he could not stand against this force alone forever. He glanced back down to the sands. There was only one way for it.

With a roar, he charged the cult directly. His lips pulled back in a snarl as he raised his weapon above his head. The acolytes paused at his rush - none too eager to be the first to die to his blade - while the werewolves surged forward with claws extended.

They closed.

Kyembe’s sword-staff came down-

-but not on his foes.

The Sengezian drove the haft into the ground, ivory flexing as it caught his weight. The half-dark elf vaulted over the onrushing lycanthropes - their jaws snapping at his heels above - and soared down the slope of the arena seats. Startled, masked acolytes ducked.

As he flew, he shortened his blade and channeled his eldritch power.

His sword awakened in hellfire.

He struck the moment his feet touched stone.

Blazing heat fell among the acolytes.

Bodies erupted into boiling gore as his blade sheared through black robed figures. Their comrades recoiled from scalding viscera as he charged, sweeping his blade in arcs to drive them back. Forcing his way toward the arena floor, he cut a path of flaming ruin through the cult, and at last reached the edge of the arena. He leapt down onto the sands with his lithe arms coated in burns, and a road of hellfire and broken bodies lying in his wake.

Channelling his healing magics, Kyembe jumped into the horde of acolytes attacking the pit fighters, and slew cultists with every step. He had sheared through the line and made to join with the slaves when a young captive, spying his blood-soaked form, struck at him.

“Wait!” He parried the spear. “I am with you! Friend to Wurhi!”

“Then you’re a friend of ours!” A squat man stabbed down one of the cultists. “There’s no end to these bastards and we need all the help we can get!”

“Then must make an end to them.” He turned, shedding golden witch-light to heal the burns across his arms. “Let us behead these snakes.”

“Less talking! More fighting for our lives!” a red-headed woman shrieked.

In the seats above, the tide that Kyembe had fought split into two groups. Some rushed for the captives. Others charged to support Berard. None would approach the terrible struggle between the Sacred Alpha and Solidblade Knight, yet Kyembe’s sharp eyes spied one who did.

Recovered from its earlier trepidation, the titanic sabre-toothed tiger circled the duel. The cat’s eyes watched for an opportunity to strike…

…but were drawn by another sight.

Cristabel gritted her teeth.

A bone-mace smote her shield.

Agony stabbed through her forearm as it cracked, but the pain washed away as her god’s nimbus embraced her, healing as it did. Three times did one of his blows rupture a bone, but the knight held steadfast.

“Mangy cur!” she roared.!

Her blade bit deep into one of the clubs, but the bone-weapon shuddered and split, shedding outer layers like a moth’s cocoon. In heartbeats, it was restored. She struck at him again, but he quickly retreated, using superior reach to keep her at bay. Both ire and excitement grew within the knight. “You are indeed a mighty foe!” she called. “The song of this battle will balm some of Amitiyah’s grief!”

“

Cristabel stiffened.

For an instant, her attention shifted.

Milos pounced.

He thrust through her guard to strike his bone-club against her helm and breastplate. The impact rocked through the saint’s skull and she flew from her feet, landing with the force of a collapsing smithy.

He leapt upon her recumbent form with giant cudgels raised.

They fell in a flurry.

Monstrous blows crashed against her body, driving her into the sand. She warded them off with blade and shield, but her arms numbed from their force.

The stone began to crack beneath her.

“Rat! Behind us!” Merrick cried.

Wurhi chittered at him. ‘Stop saying that!’ she screamed internally. She already knew what he spoke of: claws rushed across stone and her nose had caught the scent of blood and lupine musk. The wolf-demons were coming to reinforce their brother.

And she and Merrick still could not bring this big bastard down.

They had flanked him quickly, but Berard had taken to ignoring the Hawk, focusing only on Wurhi. Despite Merrick’s spear driving into him again and again, it did not pierce deep and the wounds healed in an instant. The lycanthrope’s primal celerity had nearly ended the Zabyallan half-a-dozen times. He was an unschooled brawler, but his experience, speed, and power kept the thief off-balance.

Her eyes narrowed on the monster that had dragged her to this mountain and he glared back at his bane, flicking his head as the blood ran from his brow…magic

Wait! The blood!

The Zabyallan dove low, her wounded hand scooping up a palm-full of stone dust. He brought his hammer down to catch her, but she halted at the edge of his reach.

The cudgel went wide.

She cast the debris in his face.

He yelped, staggering back, and Merrick jabbed his spear to tangle the beast’s hind legs. Berard stumbled, trying to rub the debris from his eyes as the blood ran from his brow and coated his hand, spoiling his vision.

With the werewolf blinded, Wurhi dove into his reach.

An impact shook her arm as she drove the wizard king’s sword into his belly. Silver bit home, skewering his insides. A bestial scream ripped from Berard. He grimaced and clawed at his gut. Wurhi tore her blade free within a spray of red.

She stabbed him again.

And again.

The werewolf snarled, swiping blindly with his claws, but she dropped below his reach. Her blade whipped into his powerful thigh, shearing the great artery in it. Crimson sprayed with every pump of his heart. Berard’s snarls withered to yelps of panic as he tried to staunch the wound.

He bent by instinct.

Blind as he was, he could not see Wurhi’s silver rising to meet him.

Her blade sank into his throat and burst out the other side, impaling the werewolf’s neck. He shuddered, choking on blood and metal as flesh rapidly transformed back into that of a man. With lifeblood fountaining from two great wounds, the black-coated beast’s voice died in his throat and his golden eyes dulled.

Wurhi the Rat rose, withdrawing her blade as Berard collapsed into a pool of spreading red; her retribution dispatched.

A deep, shuddering breath rasped from the large man’s chest.

It proved to be his last.

The massive wolf-man fell as Wurhi rushed away, for howls of remorse and anger had erupted at her back. These wolf-devils’ vengeance would be swift. Merrick had fled before she had inflicted the second wound. She sprinted to catch him.

“Bloody piss! We’re not going to make it!” He paled, glancing over his shoulder.

Wurhi grimaced and followed his gaze.

Five werewolves had broken ahead of the enraged acolytes. On all fours, the lycanthropes sheared away the distance between them and their quarry. The Rat and Hawk vaulted over the wall and rolled onto the sands, bounding to their feet and breaking into a flat run. Her nostrils flared. The sound and scent of lycanthrope did not fade. She heard the dull impact of bodies landing on sand.

The sound of claws scratched the earth, growing in volume.

She glanced past the struggle between the saint and the cult leader, her blood freezing at the dreadful blows driven into her companion. ‘Cristabel!’ she thought in horror. Beyond the duelling titans raged the battle of Lycundar’s cult and their captives.

Kyembe had joined the latter and stiffened their resistance with the violence of twenty slayers, but more of the cult surrounded them. The werewolves circled the escapees as a pack of wild dogs stalking a herd of gazelle. They avoided the mighty Spirit Killer and instead picked at the weaker captives, dragging them away from the ranks and falling upon them with savage claws. As more fell, Wurhi knew they could not hold out, and the two thieves could not break through the encirclement to aid them.

The sabre-toothed tiger stalked closer to Milos’ back, primal will crushing its fear. Their eyes met for an instant, and she gave it a grimace before whirling about.

The Zabyallan thief dropped low, spreading arms, sword and tail. She glared at the loping shapeshifters and bit down on her own terror: fear did not matter now. She had come too far to die. If she had to slay wolf-demons to live, then she would slay five dirty, filthy, flea-ridden, privates-licking, behind-sniffing, cringing, mangy wolf-demo-

“Rat! Behind you!” Merrick cried.

She snarled. If the Hawk said that one more time, she might kill first-

Wind rushed over head as something massive leapt through the air.

The werewolves yelped and skidded to a halt.

The titanic sabre-toothed tiger collided with them like an avalanche. Large wolf-demons were flung about like reed dolls. Some were driven to the earth with bones snapping while one was catapulted into the air. Watching the flailing shapeshifter, the hunting cat bounded up and caught him in his massive jaws. Fangs impaled the lycanthrope’s chest, which cracked and collapsed from the immense force.

He landed hard on two others, pinning them with his front paws, and looked to Wurhi expectantly.

“ Best cat that ever lived!” Merrick charged toward one of the werewolves as it attempted to scramble to its feet. Wurhi chittered her agreement and fell upon the other who was free of the hunting cat.

Her blade struck five times in quick succession; the first finding the heart of the werewolf she had fallen upon, the next to slash open an artery of the one that Merrick had pinned with his spear, and three more times slitting the throats of the trio in the tiger’s grip.

She wiped her silver on the fur of the last, gave the tiger an appreciative pat on the side - not paying attention when it stared at her again - then whirled back toward the battle. Her eyes narrowed at Milos as he continued trying to crush the stubborn saint.

The cat’s eyes narrowed with hers.

Palpable loathing rose between them.

The Hawk looked at them. “Where are you-” He followed their gazes. “…oh, you’re not serious? Look, best we stay out of that, we get close and likely we’ll get melted or clawed or chewed up or slashed oooooh ”

The Rat and the cat were already charging toward the leader of wolves.

Cursing himself, his fortune and every god he could, the Hawk reluctantly followed.