by Rafael
With darkness about to fall, Nisha glanced at her watch. “We can begin making our way to the tournament now. It’s not far, perhaps a half kilometer.”
“Tournament?”
“Yes, the Asi Tournament. Asi is the proper name for the first sword created by Brahma. Tonight we will see swordsmen display their fighting skills followed by a bout to determine the world’s best swordsman.”
“Swords? What kind of swords?”
“Cutlasses, rapiers, sabers, scimitars, and medieval longswords. We may even see a Japanese katana or bokken fighter.” Nicholas did not hide his disappointment.
“We’re going to see a sword fight?”
“Yes, Mr. Koh. The final bout is to the death.”
The emotionless statement silenced Nicholas, filled him with a disquiet he found puzzling. He himself had left a trail of bodies, some by his own hand others by his word. Even the first one had not caused him to lose sleep. He had simply eliminated a rival who would have done the same to him. Others might call it murder but that required the killing of innocents. No one he had killed could be considered innocent. Still, a low-level unease chilled him. He had never killed someone whom he’d given an equal opportunity to kill him. Did that make him a coward? Or smart? Where did one draw the line?
They arrived at a performing arts theater where a sign posted inside the shuttered entrance declared “Closed for Private Affair”. Around the corner casually dressed men and women sauntered through a side entrance.
“Everyone inside will be a member or guest. We provide our own security, service staff, and medical personnel. Our doctors come prepared for emergency surgery. Their skills have permitted a fortunate few to survive what might otherwise be a death blow.”
“Are their services often called upon?” She shook her head.
“The fighters are masters. Death does not linger.”
“Do survivors continue fighting?”
“Some. Three that I know of. One went on to become champion three years running before retiring.”
“Is that a euphemism?”
“Retiring? No, Mr. Koh. We are not savages. A champion may choose to not defend his title at any time without prejudice or scorn.”
“What do you call yourselves?”
“Technically we do not exist, Mr. Koh. But among ourselves we simply make reference to the “Society”.
“How long have you been organized?”
“Four masters at a Wurzburg, Germany teaching school formed the society to keep secret their sword fighting techniques. Five hundred years later we still honor that ambition.”
The two arrived at the entrance where just inside three tuxedoed men stood. They brightened at her approach, their smiles broad, sincere. The middle one reached out with both hands to grasp hers in a warm shake. He spoke with a lilting, unmistakable French accent. “Madame Saha. How grand to see you again. We are never happiest than when you are amongst us.” The other two gave slight bows before they also expressed delight at her arrival.
“Permit me to introduce Mr. Nicholas Koh, President and CEO of Singapore Worldwide Capital.” In tandem the three acknowledged with slight head bows.
“Welcome to our event, Mr. Koh.” the greeter expressed. “We place ourselves at your disposal. Do not hesitate to ask for whatever may please you.”
Nisha and Nicholas continued inside as more arrivals filled the foyer. Several hundred milled about the expansive lobby where elegant buffet tables displayed an international smattering of hors d'oeuvres and finger food. Four bars spaced throughout served both alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. Though English predominated, Nicholas overheard low, whispered conversations in every major language and some he’d never heard.
He recognized a few American movie stars accompanied by studio heads. A noticeable number represented the Middle East, India, and Europe’s royal families. He even found himself shaking hands with some fellow industrialists belonging to the same trade associations. The majority however formed a faceless amalgam that defined crowds the world over. Still, if not greeting Nisha warmly, everyone nodded and smiled at her passing.
“Who are these people?”
“We come from all walks of life, Mr. Koh but a certain degree of success is presumed. The annual membership fee is $1 million. Beyond that we share a common passion for a centuries-old martial skill raised to an art form by masters.”
“How does one become a member?”
“Only by an existing one sponsoring you.” He refused to give in and allowed the silence to grow but again the woman’s intuitive ability proved uncanny. She smiled.
“Perhaps in time, Mr. Koh. I only met you this morning.” He changed the subject.
“You seem to be the center of attention.” Nisha sipped her martini but made no response. With the tables turned, Nicholas pressed.
“Do you hold an important position?” She sighed.
“Six years ago my husband died in the arena. He was a great champion and smiled at me as I held his head in my lap. The residual affection you see is a mark of how much everyone admired him.” Nicholas lowered his eyes, chastened.
“My condolences, Madam Saha. Judging by the affection, he must have also been a great man.”
A stir rippled through the crowd as interior doors opened along a wall’s length and people filed through. Like the amphitheaters of Greek and Roman antiquity, the seating descended to form a semi-circle around a stage where a red, non-slip, foam rubber material covered its wooden slats. Muffled conversations rose to a buzz. Tension and excitement filled the air while the 2nd movement of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5 piped in the background.
Below a young woman excused herself past descending invitees, her fixed gaze making it clear she intended to intercept them. “Ana!” Nisha exclaimed.
“Allo, Nisha. Wie geht es dir?” The two embraced and in typical fashion air kissed before exchanging remarks on how good each looked.
“Ana, may I present to you Mr. Nicholas Koh of Singapore Worldwide Transport. Mr. Koh, this is Princess Ana von Holtzern.”
“Guten Abend, Herr Koh.”
“A very good evening to you, Princess.”
“Come, Nisha. I was elated to learn you’d be sitting with us.”
The event staff had reserved the first five center rows for the medical personnel and equipment along with the left and right wings for the fighters’ attendants. An empty sixth row formed a boundary between the participants and the viewers. Ana’s group sat seventh row center and everyone made room for Nicholas and Nisha as introductions ensued. Before the two girls finished catching up, the music faded, the lights dimmed and a spotlight illuminated the stage. From offstage the tuxedoed greeter stepped onto it.
“Bonsoir Mesdames, bonsoir Messieurs. Guten abend meine Damen und Herren. Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the 437th Asi Tournament of Martial Skill.” Nicholas turned to Nisha on his right as the greeter announced details and rules.
“Is there a prize awarded?”
“$20 million dollars. But the satisfaction of knowing among your peers you are the world’s best swordsman is a greater prize.”
“What happens to the loser?”
“Beyond a quiet burial at sea, nothing. We want to provide no incentive for someone who might desire suicide by sword.”
“Is there not a constant security threat?”
“Not at all, Mr. Koh. Beyond the careful screening any potential member undergoes, it is hard for me to imagine someone might betray an organization they pay $1 million annually to. Besides, without records or rolls, it is difficult to prove or corroborate. Especially without a body. Who would believe such a thing?” She turned to fix Nicholas with a cold, mirthless smile. “Nonetheless, in the most extreme cases, the society would have me pay a visit to the traitor.”
Overhead theater lights lowered to just above darkness placing the arena in greater contrast. From the wings two fighters emerged each clad in heavy denim-like clothing with composite armor plating on
their torsos and limbs. A full helmet with meshed facing prevented penetration while not obscuring vision. One fighter wore black-colored gear, the other red.
The two marched smartly to the corners where their teams checked equipment and repeated instructions. Medical personnel flashed pen lights in their eyes while asking rapid-fire questions before declaring them lucid and alert. The umpire examined both swords for any sign of tampering or alteration before placing a tape measure along each.
“How long are those swords?” Nicholas asked.
“There is no official standard for the longsword, the one most associated with medieval knights. But for this tournament it must be 48.5in total length with a blade of 37.75in. The final bout however has no length rules beyond that it must be a sword. That match will be interesting. It will pit a one-handed weapon against a two-handed one, the lighter rapier against the heavier longsword, the Italian school emphasizing speed and flair against German technique and position.
But be forewarned, Mr. Koh. The bouts end after two minutes and thirty seconds. You will not see the prolonged clank and clang so beloved by Hollywood. Short, quick clashes will test the fighter’s ability to recognize and react. It will be thrust and parry, deflect and evade, move and counter-move. Through the centuries, masters have crafted the art to four primary guard stances and five strikes. Woe to the swordsman who has not perfected them to unconscious reflex.”
Fading music presaged the umpire positioning himself center-arena. Held before them with both hands, sword points down, the fighters approached and bowed. With an open hand, the umpire pointed to one. “Ready, black?” The fighter flipped his sword up, saluted and took his stance. “Ready, red?” The swordsman followed suit. “Fight.”
The two circled clockwise and counterclockwise with careful, deliberate steps intended to maintain stability and balance. Shifting in and out of guards they presented one another with ever changing fronts. Face riveted, Nisha leaned toward Nicholas. “Each stance favors certain thrusts, strikes, or cuts. Likewise, each stance has a counterpoint favoring certain blocks and parries. A moment’s hesitation or confusion will create an opening a master can exploit.”
Red powered a forward thrust. Black twisted his torso sideways then stepped in with a thrust of his own. Clang, clang, clang. Strike, block, move. Strike, block, move. Flashing metal gleamed between them like two dancers engaged in a balletic pas de deux. Blades locked, strength against strength, they grappled and strained not to release with a vulnerable opening.
Gaining leverage, Red heaved hard enough for a grunt to echo throughout. Black stumbled two steps before momentum toppled him backward. Red sensed his opening. So did the audience. A collective ooh filled the theater. Everyone leaned forward. Red’s sword arced downward intent on slicing across his opponent’s torso. Left arm stiffened to arrest his fall, Black used it to swivel low beneath the blow, spin around behind it, and emerge with a crouched thrust that stopped midway beneath Red’s third and fourth rib. Had it continued, the blade would have severed major organs.
A roar burst from the crowd as they thundered applause and shouted huzzahs. The fighters removed their helmets to embrace with genuine warmth and smiles. They faced the audience, delivered synchronized salutes, and exited the arena to sustained ovation. The noise died down but not the excited murmurs as everyone marveled at the skill and athleticism displayed. Inside his jacket pocket Nicholas’ communicator began to vibrate. Jithu Ong’s face filled the display. Koh lowered his voice.
“I can’t talk much, go ahead.” Bloodless and detached, Jithu did.
“The Maldives operation failed. Four are in CIA custody, the rest are dead. The subcontractor who sent them is certain they’ll talk and expose him. He’s demanding compensation or he’ll talk too.”
“What about McKenzie?”
“He hijacked a boat then wrecked on a reef. Witnesses speculate he drowned but I won’t make that assumption.”
“And the scientists?”
“We traced them to an empty factory space in Chandrapur. I’ve got good people tracking their present whereabouts.”
“Contact the subcontractor. Tell him you wish to arrange compensation. It must be final.”
“I understand, Mr. Koh.” Nicholas disconnected.
He paid no attention to the greeter announcing the next bout which featured a classic fencing duel. An emotional boiler had reignited causing his neck, his ears, his face to burn red. He longed for a life that proceeded on an even keel—calm, predictable, without drama or theater. A life that did not bounce from one anxiety to the next without respite or reprieve. Jealous of a day filled with festive revelry and joyful diversion, it had turned vindictive and again smeared him with worry and fret.
Theater lights glinted off dancing epées as the fencers’ speed made the blades whistle. Though he could have anything in the world anytime he wanted it, nothing permitted him to reduce its problems to a single focal point. No level of concentration framed it within mindless reflex. On and on it came—relentless, unforgiving. Only death permitted release.
From deep within an accusatory voice rose. You lead a Godless life, Nicholas Koh. How dare you ask for peace? He stared hard at the floor. The faces of spiritual, community, societal leaders frowned at him, all asking the same question. Nicholas looked up at the announcer blaring something about the next bout.
His parents had raised him Christian but he hadn’t remained one. For him, the finger-wagging by all the hypocrites had lessened with each revelation of abuse, theft, influence-peddling and graft acceptance. But an insight became the tipping point. He found the concept of a divine being with a pathological need to be worshipped the height of absurdity. It reduced their God to a petty despot demanding his subjects offer fealty on bended knee.
Fate had played a larger role in his life than any God. What else explained an obscure, unconnected scientist offering him the single greatest discovery in history? And then losing it through a conniving woman, whose name he no longer remembered, to a man who twenty years earlier had been a child paramour? Fate, not God, had him in its grip. It tested him. Sought to weaken him with doubt. Resolve would win the day—or death’s release.
“Did you lose interest, Mr. Koh?”
“No, no. Life’s problems have this unwanted ability to dilute life’s pleasures.” He turned to face Nisha. “I have an assignment for you, Madam Saha.”
“Bonsoir Mesdames, bonsoir Messieurs. Guten abend meine Damen und Herren. Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the evening’s featured match. In the red corner, fighting under the banner of the Cremona, Italy School of Martial Swords and champion of the Eastern Swordsmen Alliance, I present to you, dear members of our Society, Giscard Malveaux.”
A roar burst from the crowd and as one they rose to provide loud and sustained applause. Not the wild whooping and hollering so beloved at sports events, although a few supportive shouts did rise above the din, but an ovation that conveyed deep respect. From stage left a man emerged nude from the waist up wearing black tights and flexible rubber-soled flats. His chiseled, lithe but muscular frame belonged to a superbly conditioned athlete. Thick, wavy, brown hair spilled over his ears and framed piercing blue eyes that did not dart or flick.
“And in the black corner, from the Wurzburg, Germany School of Martial Swordsmanship and champion of the North Europe League of Medieval Combat, I present to you, dear members of our Society, Dieter Gerhardt.”
The still-standing theater erupted in thunderous applause. Cries of love and support rained down and washed over the arena. The crowd favorite emerged from stage right clad in identical dress to his opponent. Dark hair cropped short and unshaven face offset clear, crystalline grey eyes that sparkled and shone. A sharp jaw line and chiseled cheeks defined Teutonic beauty. The adulation intensified. He marched toward a spot that placed the greeter between him and the Frenchman. The two bowed to the audience then marched to their respective corners while the greeter waited for the applause to dim.
; Silence enveloped the theater, a contrast so stark it formed its own presence. Coughs, clinks, creaks pinged the still air. Muffled whispers vented coiled tension. Fascinated, Nicholas inched closer to the seat’s edge. One fighter had no future. His life span measured less than an hour. He sought their eyes for some glimmer, some hint what might be occupying their thoughts.
With calm detachment both inspected their weapons while listening to their coaches’ instructions. Neither fret nor worry creased their expressions. As if death’s ardor had soothed their souls.
The greeter’s call pierced the hush. “Fighters to the arena.” The Frenchman nodded to his team and strode into the spotlight. Dieter paused to look each team member in the eye. None spoke. He lingered over his coach. A slight smile escaped. He whirled and marched out.
The greeter stood with outstretched arms, an open hand pointed to each fighter. He motioned with a short, upward thrust. The fighters snapped their swords to the vertical then a downward diagonal in salute. “Ready Black? Ready Red? Fight!”
Giscard rushed forward with a determined onslaught. The deepened silence echoed the clash and clang of swords. On and on he came, pressing the attack. Quick cuts, sharp stabs, arcing blows punctuated an offense made possible by a lighter blade that required only a one-handed grip. Careful, deliberate steps not to entangle his feet marked Black’s retreat. Deft, efficient parries blocked Red’s thrusts. Nisha leaned closer.
“Black employs an Alber or Fool’s Guard. Its open appearance invites fool’s to rush in but provides a near impenetrable defense. Red gambles his superior speed will force a mistake. Conditioning will become a factor. Red expends energy. Black conserves his.”
The fighters became a balletic duo locked in a death dance. Each turn, twist, bob, and weave mirrored the other. Move, countermove, move countermove blurred with withering speed. Beautifully executed sequences blocked strikes anticipated three steps before. Oohs and aahs belched from the crowd as the combatants flowed in and out of the guards that presaged another flurry. Swords flashed and glinted, dotting the arena with brilliant points of light.
