Yara struck before the crowd had finished becoming quiet.
The start bell had sounded. That was all the permission either fighter needed.
Her iron-headed staff came across the yard at shoulder height, fast and level, its short reach extended by the spring demand driving her first step. Iven turned his plated left forearm into its path and moved toward her right side, where Kesh’s slow correction had taught his body to look.
Iron rang against plate.
The staff’s butt came around toward his ribs.
He checked it with the spanner held close to his hip, felt the real weight behind it and gave ground rather than pretending the first collision belonged to him. Yara followed in two short steps, keeping the longer weapon between them.
The boundary lay six paces behind him.
He knew because he had walked it before the crowd arrived.
