Free Fire Country by David Estes

scared or hurt or surrendering. No, his cry is one of anger and defiance. Not on my watch , it says to me.
    A banger with a death wish runs up and jabs his spear straight into the tug’s side, but it just breaks o ff before it penetrates more’n an inch. In a move so agile a burrow mouse would be proud, the tug twists itself around and kicks out with his hind leg, which catches the bold (or maybe wooloo) Hunter directly in the face. He goes down harder’n a sack of tug dung and lies still.
    Enter Circ.
    Somehow I knew he was coming, one way or t’other. It’s exactly the type of situation he can’t seem to stay away from. One that’s impossible. One that’ll challenge him to the very end of, or perhaps beyond, his level of ability.
    He races in from the side, leaps on the biggin’s back with reckless abandon, slashing with his slasher-blade again and again as the tug leader bucks and kicks like he’s under attack by a swarm of angry soldier bees. Circ’s hanging on with one arm, jerking and cracking around like the business end of my father’s snapper. But he’s still stabbing, just a flurry of bronzed skin riding a monster tug whose brown coat is slick with red to match the sky.
     
    ~~~
     
    It shouldn’t be possible for an animal that large to die, at least not from injury. But die it does, slowly at first, stopping its kicking, still snorting and huffing, but no longer fighting. It’s a strange sight: a tug the size of a Glassy fire chariot, walking and stamping his feet, with Circ on his back, like a pesky fly. I know there’s all kinds of other stuff happening all around him—like slashers finishing off their kills, a stampede of retreating tugs thundering into the distance, and apprentice healers rushing onto the field to attend to the dead and injured—but I can’t seem to pull my eyes from him.
    Circ.
    I don’t know why I worry ’bout him. He’s the most capable person I know, always coming out on top. In this case, literally.
    Flush with the tug’s bloody body, he lowers his head to its ear, whispers something. The killing words: In the name of the sun goddess, I claim your body for the use of my people, the Heaters. You have died with honor, and your passing will save the lives of many. I send you to a better place, Warrior.
    Circ wraps his arm around its neck, and is about to draw his blade across the biggin’s throat, when a blur swoops in from the side and smashes into him and the tug.
    What the scorch? I think.
    Circ loses his balance and topples off the injured tug, which suddenly has a bit of fight in him again, unloosing a bellow that sweeps across the field like a plague. I stand, straining to see who ruined Circ’s perfect kill. Hawk comes into view, stalking around the front of the tug, his spear raised to killing height. Beneath the tug, which is stomping and kicking again—not dead yet!—Circ’s rolling around, trying to avoid getting trampled. Hawk, the baggard! He’s going to get Circ killed!
    Hawk thrusts his spear at the tug, but it ducks its head at the last second and the sharp point glances off one of its horns.
    Then it charges.
    Hawk dives to the side, narrowly avoiding getting gored. Circ’s sprawled out form comes into view. He’s clutching his stomach, like he mighta caught a glancing blow from a hoof, but clearly he didn’t get fully stepped on or kicked, ’cause he wouldn’t be able to stand after something like that. Other’n that, he looks okay. Still, I hold my breath until he gets back on his feet.
    The tug turns and starts pawing the ground, staring at Hawk and Circ. The two that tried to kill him. Circ yells something, but I’m too far away to hear what. All I know is that Hawk glances back and nods. With three more years of experience—and a scorch of a lot more natural ability—Circ is the one calling the shots.
    They run, the two of them, in opposite directions, circling the monstrous red-and-black-splotched tug . It turns one way and then