Free Champion of Mars by Guy Haley Page B

watch others die and consider their own fate, never far away, upon the sand. Yoechakenon does not care. He is the greatest champion Mars has ever known. He stares over the killing ground as if he would make himself lord of the place by force of will as much as by force of arms.
    This cannot wait.
    “Yoechakenon,” I say. “I am sorry...”
    “Please!” He holds a hand up. I balk at this show of anger at me. I resent him. I am infuriated that he does not appreciate that I suffer too, by choice, for him. The feeling passes. I tell myself part of his anger is guilt, an emotion he does not deal with easily, and so I keep my resentment locked deep inside a place he cannot see.
    “I am sorry, Yoechakenon.” My mind reaches out to his, soothing him in a way words cannot. “Forgive me. Faithful whispers tell me that men from the Twin Emperor come. They wish to speak with you.”
    “The Emperor wishes to see me? He has lost his wits.”
    “The Emperor’s men will be here soon. Their heartsigns echo through the Second World, and their passage brings the fences down.”
    Yoechakenon leans onto the sill of the window, and drops his gaze from the arena to the floor of the cell. His anger pushes against the malignant presence of the Door-ward. He can do little to bar the Door-ward; its detestable, oily presence swims round the top of his skull, mocking us as it mocks all who languish in the arena.
    “We will soon learn what he wants, then.” Yoechakenon stares out again. The afternoon is too hot for entertainment, and the seats are empty. The sand has been raked flat, the blood washed away. On days like this, after the crowds have gone, Yoechakenon can hear the guns on the Tertis plateau above the canyons, distant summer thunder. Day by day, the guns grow closer. They give him some satisfaction.
    Two men, clad in the armour of the palace scarabs, come to the cell door. They carry energy pikes. Yoechakenon watches through my spirit eyes. He sees the scarabs as I see them, as layered energy. My whispers dart about them, bringing me armour schematics, vital signs, Second World presence, active lesser spirits, details of their spirit companions. The men’s companions attempt to do the same, but I am far older and stronger than the spirits bonded to these men, and Yoechakenon remains dark to them.
    The hand of the lead man breaks the bars of light blocking the entrance, shutting down the door.
    “Lord.” The man bows and steps into the cell. He is older than his companion by a score of years, and speaks respectfully. “We have been ordered to bring you before His Most Glorious Majesty, the Twin Emperor Kalinilak-Kunuk.” The older soldier is expectant, a man who awaits an order from a trusted superior. His companion is different. His body language is looser, less respectful. He is certain of his own martial skill in the face of Mars’ greatest champion.
    He is a fool.
    Their armours’ domed backs make them seem hunched. Globular joints form awkward junctions at the scarabs’ elbows and shoulders. Wide helmets, two broad saucers one atop the other, enclose their heads, adding to the impression of inhumanity. Lights wink in the darkness between the saucers. Sensor bunches set between artificial eyes and ears dart out to taste the air.
    The men’s faces are an unhealthy green behind narrow visors. Beads of sweat stand on their brows, their eyes unpleasantly moist. They seem a perfunctory afterthought from the suits’ designer, an unfinished component of meat lost in a mass of flawless machinery.
    Memories of his own armour are pushed into Yoechakenon’s mind by the Door-ward. Screams, the flash of a terrified woman’s face, blood underfoot, and all around, fire hot enough to melt steel.
    He fights the memories down. The young man stares warily at the champion, his eyes hard. His arrogance rankles the champion, and he stares back.
    “My companion informed me of your approach,” Yoechakenon says. He examines the veteran. He