After this brief rest I picked up my sword again and began the pattern of the five cuts. In solitary practice I continued this training gradually increasing speed until my arm began to slow from fatigue and the nagging of my old wound. I was tired but not fully spent as the commander and his three men drew closer. With changing weather my arm throbbed, and I knew that I must not provoke it with overzealous movement, so I sat and massaged limb and shoulder with Selah’s healing liniment.
In a voice thick with alcohol, the commander addressed me roughly. “You will never be skilled if you only practice alone, allow my men to help you improve.” I saw immediately that this was to be no training session. His men attacked with full speed, full power, and bad intentions. The sounds of battle rang out across the open space. In their defense, they did not all attack at the same time, but took turns, first one, and then the next. I was in heart, glad to cross swords again, and although I was outnumbered, I was not outmatched.
Every attack was met and thwarted efficiently, for my wounded arm had taught me the wisdom of economy. Their movements were large, and as I maintained my distance I could foresee their every motion. The intensity of their blows increased, and I could feel my energy beginning to wane. I knew that danger flowed around me like the torrent of our river’s falls, and I felt my body being pummeled once again by its cold and fierce cascade. I was awake and alive as I sprang now upon each in turn, but fatigue was gaining ground.
I did not know how this would be resolved, and felt as one who leaves his body. From a height I saw our clash evolving and saw the commander looking for the weakness in my style. He did not need to look far, for my left arm ached now, and The Sword of Five Elements was becoming a heavy burden. Finally the biggest and the freshest of the three moved fast and broke my careful distance. Close enough to smell the sweat of his effort, he slipped from my parry and drove the hilt of his sword heavily into my old wound. I felt the pain like a bolt travel from shoulder to mind, and I heard a cry that I thought must have come from me.
But it had not; it was an order to stop.
The Face Of The Enemy
I was surprised that he had ended the fight, and was surprised as well to see that I was on my knees and that my weapon now sat lifeless within my aching left palm. He shed the hide of the great moon bear and passed it to one of his men. He motioned them back and stepped forward to face me. One look told me all. He was now confident in his assessment of my skills, and he wanted to be the one to finish me. Here in this open field, whether by accident or purpose, my death would not demand harsh retribution.
Slowly he took his position before me, and in hand held a sword of fine monk steel. My chest heaved to draw in air, and the look upon his twisted features was already one of gloating victory. I thought it strange that this man, fully grown, was no more than a playground bully who torments only the smaller and weaker children, and underneath the façade of gilded military might, I saw and knew that he was just a coward. I saw his world through his eyes. I stayed on my knees struggling for breath. I was weak, tired, and in pain. I must have seemed a very easy kill.
I felt no fear, and met the hatred in his eyes with peaceful countenance. All senses woke and time slowed. My hands scooped the wet clay, and the commander watched as I rubbed it evenly between my palms. I heard my raspy breathing settle, and smelled the familiar comfort of the sandy grit. I felt the welcome traction added to my grip. I watched his world change in a heartbeat as he saw me switch my weapon from my weary and wounded left arm into the untouched strength of my powerful right.
Fear is the mind killer, and the commander now wore his openly upon his twisted features. His brash advance became a stutter and a hesitation. Finally he attacked. It was not much more than a confused step forward and a downward cut with his steel monk blade. I met him easily. With ear and arm I felt and heard steel crash against steel. He did not withdraw and pressed forward angrily with slash and thrust. He was skilled, but he was not fully committed to any course of action, and because there was no commitment, he was easy to handle.
The men that are the hardest to subdue are the ones that hold on to nothing. They have no expectation of win or lose, and no expectation of living or dying. In short they are free, and it is this freedom that makes their movements truly dangerous. This man held on to everything. I was perfectly positioned to release him from his burden and more than willing to set him free.
The commander attacked at least five times and I did not respond in kind. I had settled comfortably into the rhythms of breathing and combat, and I was moving backwards at each volley of his vicious blows just to keep my distance. I saw the demeanor of his men, the ones that he had used to soften me for the kill. Their action would influence mine, but I read easily that they wanted no further involvement and that they were well content to let the commander fall into the trap that he had created.
He moved forward quickly but clumsily as he felt the nature of our bladed conversation change. He seemed to glance for help in the direction of the others, but as I suspected no help came his way. He was alone, and he was increasingly frightened by this stark reality. He began to circle as if trying to reach my back, hoping I think to find my weaker side. Again and again he attacked; each time more savagely than before. His assault was not launched from solid ground, its foundation lay somewhere on the shifting sands of panic.
The commander’s sweating grimace could not mask his fear, and I felt the mood of skirmish change once more. It moved past fear to preservation. Few men knew better than me how powerful the instinct of survival is. It is a place of strength beyond body or mind, and within the distance of one step and the time of one heartbeat, the commander had arrived there.
He now attacked with a new fury, pushing off from the brink of madness and destruction. The hammering of steel on steel deafened me momentarily, and in truth, I was caught off guard. Had I kept my distance I could have struck a limb, but I had not, and he pressed this advantage with murderous resolution. I felt my shoulder bitten by the snake of diagonal down-stroke but kept my focus upon the ruined face of my foe.
He had found the place of my old wound, and I felt my blood flow once again from my shoulder. Had I buckled I would be dead, instead I slid my sharpened blade down along his sword. This I did in reflex, hoping only to intercept the force of the potential backstroke and prevent a killing blow. Luck was with me, however, for my sword slid further and sliced the meat along the forearm. The pain flew up his arm and froze the working of his frenzy. For an instant, all time stopped, and in this place the beast of my distant past was once again set free.
I harnessed not the power of survival but of bloodlust. I had thought it tamed by the training of monk and maiden, but now it sprang through me and through my Five Elements more fiercely than ever before. I remembered the cave that held the corpses of my people and the Viken raiders that had left them there to turn to bone.
My attack was smooth and precise, faster than the commander could follow with eyes or sword, and I struck with all my being. Like the child with the lossough, I slipped the wooden short sword of my world from my waist, and it descended like a bird of prey. I was surprised as I watched without thought, for I did not strike to kill my enemy, I struck only to bring the conflict to its end. The sound of wood on steel resounded in the afternoon heat. I stood still now, eyes riveted on a visibly shaken commander, who held only the handle of his shattered weapon in his grip, and I released him.
I tucked the shortened oar into its place upon my waist and sheathed my weapon across my back. The four stood back as I moved past them. The commander’s pain and terror had morphed once more to spewing malice, and the look from his men was of barely hidden disrespect. I left at an even pace to join my family within the palace, as I breathed in the fresh air of the open training fields. I was grateful that the bite was not too deep but would be thankful for Selah’s skill with needle and with silk.
As I walked back toward palace safety, I felt the sun upon my wounde
d shoulder and saw my blood drip once more onto thirsty sands.
A Dark Visitation
I lay quietly in my room within the palace grounds. Selah slept serenely at my side breathing deeply and gently like a child. The rooms of the sleeping quarters were large and opulent by my standards, but simple compared to most others within these imperial walls. The passing of the months prior had been fruitful. We had moved steadily forward in the work of stemming the plague, and my feelings for Selah had continued to deepen.
My thoughts froze and my breathing ceased. I reached quickly and quietly for the comfort of the wooden handle and listened to the lightest of footsteps approaching our room. They seemed to linger outside our doorway; they backed off, approached, and hovered in the hallway once again. I waited and watched the bolt to see if it would begin to gently slide, but it did not. Instead a gentle knock, and even in this sound I heard the echoes of indecision. My Five Elements was beside me now hidden by the cover of fur and blanket. I felt Selah stir as I answered the muffled wooden thud, “Enter.”
The page entered apologetic and unsure, and glanced from Selah, whose eyes now struggled open. His darted around unsure of any target before finally settling on the floor before him. I said nothing, preferring instead to give the gentle boy a chance to find his comfort and his tongue. Finally and with some difficulty he began to speak the purpose of his visit. He was a good lad that was clear, far less clear were the words that he delivered. He meandered and stammered, backed off and backed up, regrouped and pushed forward, until at last, embarrassed and unsure he stood open mouthed and refreshingly silent.
“What do you want,” I said trying not to push or intimidate. “Arkthar,” he said, “I want… that is could you… I mean would you—teach me how to kill.” This request seemed out of place from one so fresh and young, something vile and tainted pouring from the mouth of innocence. I knew without explanation the target of his intention, and I saw the look of disbelief on Selah’s gentle features and watched it turn to angry shock as I gave my answer. “I can and I will.”
“But, you could study the blade from now until old age and you would not acquire the skill you need for your purpose. You will need an assassin’s heart and a mind that has no conscience.” The youth nodded, and I was sure he had pondered this dark possibility many times. He looked at me with hope renewed, alive again if even for just the moment.
I rose bare chested from beneath my coverings, and the young page paled either from the sight of sword already in hand or the scars of war etched across my arm, chest, and torso. I saw that it was the newest one upon my shoulder, still pulled shut by worm thread that held his attention. He shrank back quickly as I drew myself to full height. Wide eyed he had the look of one who was already rethinking his course of action, but he gathered courage and stood his ground.
I began quietly, “To achieve what you want, you must wait. For you, killing must be a crime of opportunity. When chance presents itself, it must be seized with all your heart. Any less and you will fail.” The boy looked sheepishly in my direction, and while his eyes were weak, Selah’s burned into me with a fire that I had never before seen in her. I continued evenly, “You have seen enough of war to know the working of death upon the body, sometimes it is slow, but for your needs it must come fast,” and I reached with finger to push upon his soft neck and drew down lower to show the entrance to the heart.
The boy was pallid and unnerved as I drove home his final lesson like a blade, “Patience and control are the skills you need to cultivate. It must be done away from this place, away from the eyes of all others. Be strong and your chance will come, and when it does you must be stronger. At that time you must think nothing and feel nothing, for only then you will gain your freedom. This I tell you as one slave to another.”
With a stumble and a sideward second look the page was out the door, and I turned to Selah whose eyes now screamed with rage. “How could you, Arkthar?” she seethed, “He’s just a boy. He knows nothing of killing and hatred; he is still a child, a lamb among the wolves.” She paused between sobbing breaths only long enough to finish with, “He is pure.” I reached out to embrace her but she wanted none of me.
I tried to explain myself, “Selah,” I said firmly, “I have seen many like him die at the hands of others, the soft crushed by the hard.” She would not be consoled even though I used a milder tone, “I gave him only hope and choice, and without those gifts life is hard in its living.” She did not answer, but her eyes darted frantically like a small animal in a hunter’s trap.
Her tears now streamed down like bitter rain, choosing escape she pushed past me, running quickly from the room. Her footsteps faded down the hallway, and as I lay upon the cold, empty bed of my darkened room, I knew that on this night I would sleep alone.
The room was quieter than I had ever remembered, and I wished silently that I had told her that ‘only the free have choice.’
The Sung
I remember vividly the wonder I had felt from distance when I had first seen her outer walls. It had increased steadily as on horseback we drew near. It grew continuously as we passed under and through those mighty gates, through outer and inner city, and finally through the gates of the imperial palace itself. Time within its earthen walls had done nothing to lessen the impact of this place.
This was an age of great philosophy. One people unified by three doctrines. Its modern thinkers reorganized the ancient cannons of a seeker, sage, and nature itself, into what they termed, ‘the Learning of the Way.’ This held much appeal for me, for Buddha, Confucius, and the Tao, spoke directly to my soul of spirit, mind, and body.
Here the arts flourished. Within the Grand Inner I had heard music and watched the dancers. I saw paintings of landscape so beautiful and so real that they appeared alive; vistas created to be walked upon rather than looked at. Portraits of past rulers hung on walls capturing their likeness perfectly, preserving forever their moment in time. Poets and calligraphers spun works with word and brush. Literature was everywhere in the form of printed books. Scholars and philosophers congregated ubiquitously; ever locked in noble debate.
My imagination had been captured by this age of mechanization. In the Grand Inner I had pondered the workings of the ‘cosmic engine.’ Driven by water, this great machine harmonized space and time. This huge clock told the exact hour and related it by celestial globe to the movements of the stars and heavenly bodies. Perched upon its tower it was a moving model of the universe. The sun, the moon, and five planets rotated accurately to provide calendric verifications. By contrast, in the world from which I had come, the earth was still quite flat.
As time passed and the scourge of pox lessened, life returned to this mighty capital. I had always been feared as a life taker, but here my life had changed. For our healing work in the service of this empire, we held a position of respect. I enjoyed my time within the palace walls, but on this late evening my soldier’s heart bid me roam the streets and be free. The guards moved briskly aside as I left the inner grounds.
From an outlying gazebo the plucking of strings and the sweet voice of a courtesan were carried to me upon the stillness of the evening air. I heard the boisterous laughter and rowdy applause of the man come quickly and loudly in appreciation of the performance. I knew him even before I saw him, for his gregarious spirit stood out among a court full of serious mandarins. The famous poet waved me over as he called my name. His voice and manner were warm and eloquent, and his large hand pulled me down beside him.
I suspected that he was a man of great appetites, his girth, the many empty wine cups in front of him, and the admiring looks of the beautifully painted courtesan now confirmed it. Instantly, two beakers of hot cinnamon wine were brought for us, and just as quickly the serving girl receded back into the night, but the sweetness of her perfume lingered long after she had gone. The musician began again, this time she chose a softer melody that allowed for friendly conversation.
I saw the brushes scattered
before him, and the poems written quickly on wine-splashed pages. His easy manner allayed my fears that I was disturbing his work, and laughing he waved a thick hand toward the thinnest sliver of a moon, the empty cups, and the beautiful musician. I understood that inspiration would remain long after I had left, and that his night was only just beginning.
“Arkthar,” he said softly, “I thank you for the gift you bring my people. A man that gives freely is rare in dangerous times.” I was starting to understand something of the careful way words were chosen within the court. Wrapped within his compliment, the word “dangerous” held a subtle warning. I wanted to protest his gratitude, for I did not act alone and was easily the least important member of our troupe, but he would have none of it. With another easy wave of his hand more wine was brought. By the end of my second cup, I was feeling the effects and enjoying his company and the music thoroughly.
Before long the moon had risen to full height, and he would have to move to observe it further. I decided to continue exploring the city around me, and we gulped more wine in a farewell toast. As I stood and turned, the poet said, “Your deeds here will be remembered long after my verses have turned to dust.” I chose my words with as much precision as my vocabulary would allow, and made strong effort in the accuracy of tone, “I strongly disagree.”
His heavy laughter erupted quickly, and then the serious words that too much wine can bring. “Warrior, on this night the manner of a man has touched me more than the beauty of the waxing moon. Please check on my progress when you return from your excursion.”
With that I was on the move again, leaving the poet Li Bia, and the wine and laughter of the rosewood pavilion to the moonlight.
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