Free Ecko Burning by Danie Ware Page A

his half-hidden features. He had drawn the man a hundred times.
    Saravin, too, still loitered at the arena’s edge. As Mael watched, he moved to wish both new contestants a good fight.
    Now, the herald held his arms high, bellowed for silence. The soldiers gave short jeers and calls, but they sat back. When Cylearan appeared, the theatre erupted in cheers that bordered on frenzy.
    Mael held his breath, empty tankard forgotten. He watched Mostak - but the commander stood stock-still.
    A rustle of tension went through the seats. First out onto the sand, Mantine was the oldest of the fighters, a freeman of wagon and manor, who’d been wielding staff and spear for nearly forty returns. The crowd called his name almost derisively, there was a faint “boo” from someone Mael didn’t see, though they were swiftly shushed.
    The soldier Cylearan was younger, though not by much. She was a seasoned Range Patrol veteran, still a very handsome woman, tanned and slim and elegant. There was a languorousness to her that shouted like massive confidence, as if she had the entire soldiery behind her. Half of the youngsters in the audience must have trained under her at some point - the other half wished they had. She’d disdained her Fhaveon shield with its winged device, disdained any kind of parrying weapon; she carried only a long, single blade, which rested almost casually over her shoulder. In the sun it glinted like real metal. Her hair was tied back tight, military fashion, her garments were functional, but she wore them like the finest gowns. As she walked - sauntered - out onto the flat sands, she played her audience like a performer.
    They loved her and she knew it.
    Mostak shifted. Though he was a distance away, it was almost like Mael could feel the commander’s unrest drifting upwards like smoke. Behind him, way down at the base of the hard-walled cliff, the sea shone with the dying of the sun.
    What is really happening here?
    Mael found himself on the edge of his seat, its stone biting into his flesh. Somehow, this event had become pivotal, and he had no idea why.
    Mantine leaned on his quarterstaff. From somewhere behind him, a fruit rind struck his shoulder and rolled into the sand. He didn’t flinch.
    The herald raised his arms, called the rules - contact only, first to three touches. He indicated watchers, five of them, spaced about the semi-circular front of the arena. They bore pennons of various colours that they could lift for a touch.
    “Samiel be your witness!” The herald’s ritual call seemed barbed with irony. “Begin!”
    * * *
     
    From the opening, it was apparent that Mantine was outmatched; Cylearan was playing with him. Mael had not been watching the tourney up until now, and the Gods knew he was no warrior, but he found himself wondering how the rhez Mantine had got even this far. The man was a solid fighter, spinning the staff end over end with a double-handed efficiency that he must have learned defending land or caravan.
    But Cylearan was a vet of twenty returns’ experience. The pirates that Mantine had battered as a hobby, Cylearan had trained to batter professionally. He aimed one end of his heavy staff at her ankle, then spun it backhand to feint at her shoulder, then spun it back again to catch her hip as she ducked into it. The moves were good, they were almost too fast for Mael to follow...
    But they were not too fast for the soldier.
    She sidestepped, ducked as though she was dancing, caught the third blow with the edge of her blunted blade hard enough to split splinters from the wood. It was a fast cross-parry -forceful enough to slam the staff away from her, to leave her with an opening.
    But she didn’t take it. She backed up, indicated with her free hand for Mantine to come at her again.
    Below Mael, the soldiers were absolutely silent, their breath caught.
    Cylearan was grinning. Mael couldn’t see from up here, but he could guess that the expression was similar to the one that