Ecko Burning (9 page)

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 silently or across distance - or both, he thought -but he’d never learned it. He had no idea what the old sod was trying to tell him. For that moment, they were caught on each other, on an edge of desperation - then another blue flash caught the attention of both of them and the moment was broken.

Two.

Mantine had a graze on his cheekbone. Even from here, Mael could see that it oozed darkness. There was a scuffle at the arena’s edge, but Mantine shook his head at the apothecary and went back to stand at the centre.

Mantine seemed angry, controlling it. He was a fat old man and he was being made a fool of. Perhaps he’d realised that something was wrong.

The cheering was gathering, clapping and calling. Cylearan almost danced with it, the halo of hair around her face shone with the death of the sun.

Watching her, Phylos had folded his arms across his massive chest. He stood like a blood-statue, tightly controlled. He needed her to win, Mael could see it. But why?

What was this woman that her victory should be so critical? Was she supposed to also beat Saravin, win Phylos’s blade and ribbon? Was
she
destined for Rhan’s seat on the Council?

No, something about that wasn’t right. Cylearan was a warrior; she’d have no place on the petty politicking of the Council of Nine and she had too much experience to be a yeswoman. So, why...?

Down in the sand, the combatants circled each other again.

The crowd was shouting now,
“Cy-Lear-An! Cy-Lear-An!”

The sunlight from the woman’s hair was dazzling. As the sun itself dipped lower, down and down towards its death, Mael found the light was blinding him.

Something, some echo, something he was trying to remember...

Mantine had lost his confidence, his steps faltered and his blows were hesitant, unsure. He shook his head, once, twice, as though the cut on his cheekbone had dazed him. Cylearan had this now, even more than before; the fight was hers and she knew it.

And so did Phylos.

He stood immobile, huge in stature. Beside him, Selana seemed on her tiptoes, captivated by the fight below and trembling in anticipation of the outcome.

Mostak had not moved.

Saravin watched Cylearan as if he was trying to learn her flaws.

So many players - but what was the prize?

The Angel. Ask for Fletcher Wyll.

Mael knew now that he was going to be at that meeting.

Cylearan’s blade was swift and merciless - somehow casual in its relentlessness. Mantine spun the staff as if he were in danger of his very life, retreating from the onslaught.

As if he was sure of his chosen warrior’s victory, Phylos stepped back and was gone.

As he vanished, Mostak looked up - raised his chin, bristling like a silent promise.

In the arena, the blue flag rose.

Three.

Mantine was on his knees, but the crowd were on their feet.

* * *

It was almost dark when the herald returned.

In the corner of the arena, Saravin had slumped to his seat. The sky was darkening, vast and rich; Calarinde, the yellow moon was rising, brilliant in the pink-striped dusk - she swelled to gibbous, seeming closer than she’d ever been. Rocklights made the chilled stone glow with a warmth that the mercenary did not feel. His blade was as heavy and as cold as his belly, as his arse-cheeks on the stone.

He stood up, began to stretch his shoulders.

Around him, above him, the crowd was almost all soldiers, eager for the veteran Cylearan to cut him down as swiftly and smartly as she had cut down Mantine - as she had cut her way through to the very last bout. The woman was good - and she had the entire soldiery behind her. They’d gasped with every stroke of her blade.

Saravin had her age, her experience - Cylearan didn’t frighten him, but she did make him wary. He had studied her closely and knew he couldn’t afford a mistake.

He stretched his back.

He
had
to win this.

He wasn’t even sure why.

As Cylearan walked out onto the sand, the herald could barely make himself heard over the noise. They bayed for her, they loved her and they wanted her.

Like an afterthought, Saravin heard his own name and he walked out to face his opponent, but the rising tiers around him offered little welcome - the audience was almost all soldiers. He could see a scattering of the city’s people, no more, and Mael, tucked up there in the corner - Gods bless him for staying.

The herald held his arms for silence, then had to bellow several times.

And then there they were. Eyes on eyes and flesh prickling with tension.

I have to win this.

Close up, tan commander Cylearan was slightly younger than he’d thought, a scatter of lines in her tanned skin. She was sharp-eyed, eager and smirking, challenging him, wordless and secure. For a moment, Saravin had a huge and unprofessional urge to put her over his knee.

She flickered an eyebrow at him as though she could see his very thoughts.

Then the herald called upon Samiel.

Cylearan moved like a dream, swift and sure. The hair prickled down Saravin’s back.

And the crowd began to roar.

Saravin’s world shrank: he forgot Fhaveon; he forgot the sand under his feet, the sky over his head. Enclosed by sensation, by rocklight and stone and the eagerness of the layers of people, he was acutely aware of the hot rise of combat-tension, that sharp-edged, bright and terrible focus that marked a real warrior.

There were voices round him, shouts scattered and brutal, but he had no time for them. As Cylearan began to shift, sideways and watchful, her rocklit shadow swelled about her like an aura, shifting behind and around her wherever she moved. It was strong, some shadow-figment that replicated her motion as her eagerness rose.

It was palpable. He could
see
it.

What?

Saravin had been too long in the open Varchinde, too long alone - all that space did strange things to a man’s mind. But
some
thing was raising the hair upon his arms and shoulders until his skin prickled with it; something was sharpening his mind until his awareness was poised, painfully acute. The cheers sliced through him, the air on his skin was tangible, the shadows almost too sharp. He could feel them.

And - there was something else.

It was almost lost under the mass of the crowd, but it was at the bottom of the steps - something that had come to watch the fight. For a moment, Saravin almost turned, but Cylearan was stalking the ground, her strange, dark energy-shadow giving her a halo of menace.

In his head, Saravin imagined he heard a voice,
“Senphana, Cylearan”,
like a breath of hot wind.

Cylearan advanced like an oncoming storm, close and overheated. Gone was the performer that had beaten Mantine, the cocksure woman who had walked out to meet him - she was suddenly blood and steam, her thought-cloak a daemon of fear. Her eyes had drained of light, humanity, recognition - her focus was only the play of muscle and weapon. As she struck, lightning-fast, then struck again, Saravin had time for a single realisation - that blade was sharp.

Reversing, parrying frantically, he kept it from slicing his skin - ridiculous that something so small should pose such a threat! With such short-range weapons, Cylearan was right in Saravin’s face, forcing him into constant retreat, and making his longer blade suddenly clumsy in his hand. She was a flurry of hands, knife and shield both used offensively with fantastic speed. She rammed the shield rim into Saravin’s teeth. Saravin twisted sideways away from under it, managed a swift attack that was met with contemptuous ease.

The shadow-cloak became an arc of after-images, following Cylearan’s motions, each one burned into the rocklit air. Cylearan had bitten her lip, red trailed down from the corner of her mouth. Somehow, she had become an avatar; she was a flame-limned monster whetted for blood. Amid frantic defence, Saravin was dimly aware that only he could see this.

What was going on?

The not-voice breathed again,
“Senphana, Cylearan.”

Cylearan pressed forwards, her eyes flashing with the heat of the image that rode her. Saravin swung his sword two-handed, blocking every shot by instinct alone, his arms starting to ache with the strain. Tension and fear rose in his body; he was pressed backwards and backwards. He wanted to simply flee, but he could not gain enough of a distance between them to break away without risking injury.

And if one of those strikes hit, it would not be to win a ribbon. It would be to kill.

Cylearan slavered, her energy levels soaring, her image frenzied with bloodlust.

Somewhere above him, the GreatHeart Rakanne glowered with a motherly affection at the stage. The audience bayed like animals.

This is crazed!

Summoning his courage and resolve, Saravin tried to fight back. His sword was blunted, but he could inflict enough injury to slow this daemon-possessed fighter, enough to flee her. He had an advantage in blade-range, but he could not pass the thought-speed shield that defended Cylearan’s body. A line of wet fire opened across his chest as the blade hit; still, he was being forced back.

He stumbled to the edge of the arena and fell backwards into the walkway between the stage and the first tier of seats. He landed, clumsily jarring his spine, and the avatar crouched upon the stage’s edge, blood trailing across her chin.

The audience saw the blood that now stained Saravin’s chest, and a new wave of feeling broke from them - disbelief, panic, anger, eagerness.

“Get away!” Saravin shouted, scrambling backwards on his feet and backside. “She’s crazed, get back!”

The herald moved, surprisingly calm, to take charge of the shrieking crowd. Some surged forwards, eager to see, some tried to back up into the press of their fellows. Saravin tried to scramble to his feet, but in the chaos an unknown foot hooked his wrist, and he fell again. The voice rang in his head:
“Senphana, Cylearan!”

Dropping her shield, Cylearan hurled herself forwards. Saravin rolled sideways - too slow! There was a harsh slash of pain across his belly, another. The daemon was in his face, slavering at him, eager for blood.

But a third figure had shoved its way through the throng of people and now hurled itself bodily into the struggle. Saravin barely recognised the sharp, slight man as Mostak himself, before the commander wrapped his arms around the flame-avatar’s body, and knocked her sprawling. Saravin tried to scrabble upright, but his belly was cut and his legs were shaking.

Lights were exploding behind his eyes.

As Mostak’s tackle rolled the woman over, she laughed outright, a sound of fire and cold and darkness. She laughed like steam.

She said, “You’re finished, all of you.”

There was a terrible, cracking snap.

For one horrified moment, Saravin saw the woman’s energy levels falling, then it was only Cylearan, her neck askew, her eyes rolled back.