Free Kingmaker by Rob Preece

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    "You may attack first,” the swordsmaster said.
    As if attacking would give her an advantage. In fact, her attack would tell him about her technique, close the distance between the two of them, and let him take advantage of his years of training recruits.
    She simply smiled. Her blade was slightly heavier than his, and he was stronger than she, but she'd trained in holding her stance for hours at a time and swinging thousands of cuts each day. She wasn't in any hurry.
    "I'd think a princess like you would want to give the men a show."
    He put an emphasis on the word princess. As if he doubted her claim. She wasn't sure she believed it either so she wasn't much offended. Besides, whatever her parents had been, she'd been raised in a democracy. She didn't have a lot of use for titles and royalty although she, like most of her friends, had occasionally lusted over the cute British princes.
    Instead of talking, she shifted her stance. With the katana, as with all martial arts, offense and defense are closely linked. A good defensive stance is one that you can attack from. An effective offense is one that allows you to control your opponent and defends you from his counter.
    She moved slowly, brushing her katana against his shortsword but putting no muscle into it, letting the weight of her sword rest on his arm.
    He flicked her blade away.
    She let his energy give her sword speed, not fighting it, but directing it into a cut.
    He batted that away as well, this time keeping contact with her sword and twisting as he extended her reach.
    It would have been a nice disarm, but her father had taught her that technique. She relaxed through it, then flipped her wrist to free her sword and bring the edge back into play.
    He parried, then backed away, a wolfish grin on his face. “Okay, you know something about the sword."
    And so did he. Against most opponents she'd faced, her counter would have landed. He was so strong that he moved his heavy shortsword like a fencing foil, using his fingers rather than his entire wrist and arm to change its orientation.
    "Let's put on a show, then,” she suggested.
    He glared at her. She didn't need magic to follow his thoughts. And they flowed quickly. He needed to figure her angle before he could respond. Finally he smiled. “You want to show them that you're not just a figurehead, right princess?"
    "Right now I'm worth more to the bishop as a dead saint than as a living soldier. I'd like to change that."
    "We can use good soldiers so I'll play along. If you try anything, though, first blood is going to be bloody. And it won't be mine."
    She could get to like this guy. “Agreed. I'm Ellie."
    "Dafed."
    She launched a series of attacks.
    To most of the viewers, they would appear genuine. To less well-trained soldiers, they would have been fatal. To Dafed or another serious martial artist, they were just slow enough to be easy. Opportunities to show off his skill or demonstrate techniques that he might only really use in an emergency.
    He parried and riposted each, but he also dropped into the slightly exaggerated style of the teacher rather than the killer she knew him to be. Giving her the same chances, letting her make moves that she wouldn't make in a real fight because they were a little too complicated, a little too cute. In a real fight, the rule is to kill and keep moving.
    After a few minutes, the sounds of conversation vanished and Ellie could feel the concentration of several thousand soldiers. The energy of their concentration filled her with strength. It was exciting, intoxicating and more than a little humbling.
    She and Dafed sparred, trained rather, for a good ten minutes before Dafed took a step back, wiped his forehead, which, Ellie noticed, wasn't sweating, and smiled.
    "That was fun. Now, though, we go to work."
    She didn't think she could beat him. Mark had been right about his skill. Although she had the advantage of generations of Samurai warrior tradition, Dafed had