'Gurgh,' growled Logen as a stick cracked into his arm, then another into his shoulder, one in his side. He stumbled back, half on his knees, fending them away as best as he could.
He could hear Ferro screaming somehwere behind him, fury or pain he couldn't say, he was too busy taking a battering'
Something smacked across his skull, hard enough to send him reeling towards the seats.
He fell on his face and the front bench hit him in the chest, driving the air from his lungs.
There was blood running down his scalp, on his hands, in his mouth. His eyes were watering from a blow to the nose, his knuckles were all skinned and bloody, near as ripped as his clothes were.
He lay there, for a moment, gathering whatever strength was left. There was a thick length of timber lying on the ground behind the bench.
He grabbed hold of the end of it. It was loose. He dragged it towards him. It felt good in his hand. Heavy.
He sucked in air, summoning one more effort. He moved his arms and legs a little, testing them.
Nothing broken - except his nose maybe, but that was hardly the first time.
He heard footsteps coming up behind. Slow footsteps, taking their time.
He put himself up, slowly, trying to look as though he was in a daze.
Then he let go a roar and spun round, swinging the timber over his head. It broke in half across the masked man's shoulder with a mighty crack, half of it flying off the turf and clattering away.
The man gave a muffled wail and sank down, eyes screwed shut, one hand clutching at his neck, the other hanging useless, stick dropping from fingers.
Logen hefted the short piece of wood left in his hands and clubbed him across the face with it.
It snapped his head back and drove him into the turf, mask half torn off, blood bubbling out from beneath.
Logen's head exploded with light and he tottered and sagged down on to his knees.
Someone had hit him in the back of the head. Hit him hard. He swayed there for a moment trying to stop himself from falling on his face, then things suddenly came back into focus.
The red-haired woman was standing over him, raising her stick high.
Logen shoved himself up, flailed into her, fumbled with her arm, half pulling at her, half leaning on her, ears ringing, the world swinging madly.
They staggered around, tugging on the stick like two drunkards wrestling over a bottle, back and forth in the circle of grass.
He felt her punching him in the side with her other hand. Hard punches, right in the ribs.
'Aargh,' he growled, but his head was clearing now, and she was half his weight.
He twisted the arm with the stick around behind her back. She punched him again, a knock on the side of his face that brought the stars back for an instant, but then he got hold of her other wrist and pinned that arm as well.
He bent her backwards over his knee.
She kicked and twisted, eyes screwed up to furious slits, but Logen had her fast.
He freed his right hand from the tangle of limbs, brought his fist up high and mashed it into her stomach.
She have a breathy wheeze and went limp, eyes bulging. He flung her away and she crawled a foot or two, pulled her mask down and started coughing puke onto the grass.
- The Blade Itself, Part II, The Bloody-Nine