Free Ecko Burning by Danie Ware Page B

Saravin wore sometimes - that tight, combat-grin of real, physical elation. Her hair was drifting free of its tail and wisps framed her face. Maybe she was laughing.
    Mostak watched the performance from the arena’s edge, his tension palpable. Saravin, too, stood watching.
    Mantine came forwards again. The sand under his feet was dark and solid. Again, the staff did the left-right-left. This time, Cylearan’s real metal blade met it three times out of three, each impact sending it bouncing back to pivot again. With each parry, her footing was flawless.
    But this time, Mantine didn’t stop; he drove her back, the staff hammering alternate upswings, his grip reversing faster than Mael could see. Cylearan met every one by pure instinct; her gaze didn’t leave his. It became a rhythm, and, unable to bear the rising tension, the crowd broke into scattered cries and cheering.
    Slam, slam, slam.
    There were no rules about overstepping the edge of the arena, tripping people up, or hitting them when they were down. A touch was a touch. Your blow should be pulled, minor injuries were inevitable but cost points, a major one could cost you the contest. The staff moved in a blur of fire-hardened wood.
    Then, suddenly, Mantine changed tactic.
    Cylearan was on her back foot, at the very edge of the arena. The soldiers in the seats behind her had scrabbled out of the way. Half of her attention was turned behind so she didn’t fall backwards over the rising stone. And Mantine changed the angle of his blow. Rather than left-right, he came back in again with the left-hand end of the staff, straight at her right ear.
    A tight breath of shock came from the audience entire.
    She caught it with a circular parry, pushing her blade outwards and downwards, turning the staff away from her. Then, swift as a thought, she cut clean back inwards, with a noise that could almost have been a laugh.
    Mael didn’t see the actual touch. He saw the flag though, a flash of blue fabric, saw Mantine step back and raise the staff to indicate that he’d lost the point.
    One.
    Below where the scribe sat, there was a rumble of low, rhythmic cheering, a rumble that spread and grew in volume. There were also scattered hisses - the soldiers expressing their displeasure at Mantine’s tactics?
    Cylearan’s smile was like the sun. As they headed back to the arena’s centre, her walk was buoyant, energetic. Mael glanced at Mostak - the commander was talking to an aide. After a moment, the young man nodded and slipped upwards through the seat tiers, hugging their very outer edge.
    As the combatants circled again, Mael watched the aide go, wondering what his errand could be.
    And he saw a flash of blood-scarlet.
    Phylos.
    Right at the back, in the corner, at the very top of the seating - almost directly opposite where Mael himself was sitting. With him was Selana, new Lord Foundersdaughter, young and blonde and completely overwhelmed by the force of his presence. The aide saw them, hesitated for a moment, then cut sideways across the crowd before vanishing over the top of the seating.
    Mostak was intent on the arena and had not looked up.
    Saravin however...
    What was this game - move and counter-move?
    In the damp sand, Cylearan was playing, her free hand spayed wide and her blade-tip darting forwards more like an arrow than a sword. Her slashing attacks had allowed the staff to spin sideways and parry; a thrust was a harder thing for Mantine to block, and now he was on his back foot, retreating before a jabbing onslaught of almost-sharp, sun-sheened metal.
    Mael tore his eyes away, back to Saravin.
    For a moment, his gaze crossed that of his old friend and they both paused, watching each other over the heads of the crowd. For a moment, Saravin seemed to be trying to tell him something - his fingers moved with subtle gestures - but Mael had no idea what he meant. Out in the Varchinde, the Range Patrols had some kind of sign language that they used to communicate