Two fires were burning outside the town near to the Rider camps, tall piles of blazing wood which warmed the sharp autumn night. In a ring round them both, the Ironhope natives and the Riders gathered to watch. 

“What’s that stick, boy?” Muttu said as he approached Klane but there was a wariness behind the amused contempt. He knew there was something here he didn’t quite understand. Yet the heavy axe he carried reassured him. This annoying blacksmith stealer had to die. The games were over and it was time to get serious. His tribe needed the skills the blacksmith could provide and he wasn’t going to settle for second best in the auction. Now Muttu was on his own ground and he didn’t doubt his ability to settle the matter. 

The two men circled warily round the open space between the fires whilst the crowd stepped anxiously out of the way whenever they came close. Klane said nothing and concentrated hard on everything he’d learnt in his training duels with Crinomu. He felt the subtle currents of power running through his ancient weapon and he attuned himself to its needs.

A mist had come up from the sea. The grass was damp and a carpet of autumn leaves made the ground slippery. Klane was looking for a way to best his foe without revealing too much of the power of the klane. He set a wide absorption field in a cone pattern to slow down an axe stroke. It might not be obvious to Muttu what was happening when he chose to attack but the dynamics of the conflict would be affected significantly enough to hope to unbalance him. 

It was Klane who was unbalanced first, though. He backed into a fallen branch on the edge of one of the fires and stumbled to the ground. In seconds Muttu pressed his advantage and moved in for the kill.

Instinctively Klane flung his weapon upwards to intersect the arc of the descending axe and found himself shouting out a guttural roar of defiance. To Muttu, the strange instrument looked like no more than a flimsy twig, but it was his own axe that snapped as the dark energies of the ancient weapon snapped the top of the wooden shaft with a splintering cut of contemptuous ease. 

Klane rolled quickly to the side, so that the still dangerous and sharp metal head, now flying free, missed him and buried itself in the turf. He stumbled to his feet as the surprised Muttu drew a dagger.

There was no doubt about it, Muttu had a disturbing level of fighting skill. It suggested more combat experience than any Rider ought to have if the Vow of Earth still held. But then where had the army that destroyed Kalonia come from? The Vow of Earth could not be trusted anymore and Klane already knew this even if not all Riders yet understood or acknowledged it. 

Muttu switched his silvery dagger from hand to hand, feinting and dodging. He knew now that he was facing no ordinary weapon since it had snapped the handle of his axe like a twig. Klane was wary too. He needed a different tactic. It was time to go on the offensive. 

The klane had a setting that span off focused rotating electromagnetic fields. They could be targeted using a technique he’d practised in Kalonia and he hoped he still remembered. Suddenly Muttu’s dagger turned hot in his hand as it began to act as a heat sink for the churning magnetic fields. He dropped it with a curse and Klane followed up with a rush that put his opponent down. “Yield!” he called in a loud voice. The surprised Rider was stunned into submission and the fight was over.

Verindu and Jythra were quick to step in as soon as Muttu raised his hand in submission. They must have been expecting the fight to end in blood, and Klane had no doubts that Muttu’s murderous axe would have finished the combat in a more fatal manner if things had gone the way of the Southern Pralannian leader. 

“Alderon is the winner!” the Master of the Flame declared loudly, using Klane’s alias. He was grateful for this instant, loud and public declaration, although he did not relish the public attention. There were mixed currents of unease running through the crowd. On the one hand, the majority of local Pallish Riders had enjoyed the humbling of the braggart Muttu, a view which they shared with the Nykwin and the Thranish tribes. On the other hand the dangerous Southern Pralannians were not at all happy and whilst they might be in a minority they had the better forged weapons, and more worryingly they seemed to be losing the taboo against using them. 

By making such a decisive statement, Verindu revealed that he was more than the drunken, good humoured buffoon Klane had taken him for because this was a shrewd crowd controlling assertion. Jythra’s backing was vital too and carried the day. For a nasty few minutes, Klane wondered if a general brawl or something worse would break out, but now the Riders retired to their tents under the hearty direction of the Master of the Flame. 

“Big day tomorrow, lads,” he boomed. “We burn Ironhope down! Now get some rest and we all assemble on the game field in the morning. Nothing starts until I say so and then we’ll all do our duty and make this a Great Burning to be proud of!” 

At last, Klane was able to slip away from the crowds patting him on the back and congratulating him. In the darkness away from the fires, he made his way to the forge.