There were twelve dances. Roses was one that especially suited shorter sword-dancers like Medli. The dancer lowered their center of gravity and protected themselves with a series of short, sweeping motions resembling the overlapping petals of a rose - thus the name. Dance of Thistles similarly favored shorter fighters, deriving its name from short, stabbing ripostes.
The man facing her in today's duel was a Willow Master. The Dance of Willows was characterized by a gently swaying posture with a higher center of gravity and quick, long-reaching sweeps and thrusts. It favored tall dancers with long arms, and this Master was no exception. The man was easily two heads taller than Medli. Thistle would be of little use here - its short strikes would never touch him. Rose would keep Medli protected, though it would only score a hit if her opponent could be thrown off balance.
A Master. If Medli won today, she would be given the title. She would be permitted to take on students, even start her own school. Some young Masters sought employment as House champions, fighting duels on behalf of the nobility in order to settle personal or legal disputes. Some became captains of House guardsmen, though these had typically served in the Imperial military, first. A very few joined the Guardians. This was Medli's hopeful trajectory. First, though, she would have to chop down this very tall and haughty Willow standing in her way.
He was definitely haughty, too. Blonde, statuesque, square of jaw and tan of skin, the Willow Master wore a silver silk dueling half-cape over his dark red doublet. This was a sensible wool, showing he wasn't incompetent, but the gold embroidery covering it in fanciful dragons was probably worth more than Medli's entire wardrobe. He wore a brown leather partial cuirass over that. Covering just his ribs and breast, the armor would allow him full freedom of movement. Curiously, it was scratched all across one breast, the only part of his wardrobe that wasn't immaculate. In his hand, he held a long, silvery dueling sabre nearly four feet long, his white gloved hand protected by a gold basket hilt. He spun the blade lazily in the air, showing disdain for his grubby opponent.
Medli had to admit that she probably did look pretty grubby. Her black linen trousers and shirt were clean but faded nearly gray and frayed at the hems and uncovered by any armor. She had chopped her dark hair off into a rough bob, disdaining the long curls favored by the women of the Imperial court. Her blade similarly lacked ostentation, but only a fool would call it grubby. Three feet of steel, straight and double-edged, the well-oiled blade tapered to a wicked point, the edges sharpened to a razor sheen. The hilt was protected by a shortened horizontal cross guard and was longer than one would expect of a long-sword of this length. This style of weapon was alternatively called a bastard sword or a hand-and-a-half sword and allowed for switching between a one or two-handed grip, a requirement of a Rose practitioner, but this one was a good foot shorter than normal, a sword surely custom-made for a short fighter like Medli.
A silver bell chimed and Medli began to slowly circle the Willow. Jocson Thir smirked at Medli and rotated on the ball of his left foot, locking his eyes on her face and keeping his still lazily spinning blade between the two of them. He suddenly flicked his blade at her face. She easily deflected the strike and he drew his arm back, never moving his feet. That reach was going to be a problem.
Thir made several more strikes at her groin, her neck, her face again; quick as lightning, the blade snapped out and Medli deflected it each time with the close defensive sweeping of Rose form. Medli's stomach sank as she realized that this man was actually trying to kill her. It wasn't required in a challenge duel like this one. A simple touch and she would lose and be unable to challenge for Master status again for a year and a day. And even then, there was no guarantee that another Master would accept her challenge.
She had feared that she would be ignored this time. She was intriguing - Grand Master Khan hadn't accepted a new student in nearly twenty years. The assembled Masters and Grand Masters were curious to see what it was the old man saw in this mousy seventeen year-old girl. However, she was a commoner, the daughter of a dead soldier and a housekeeper. Most of the Masters at the Royal Temple - nearly all of them, actually - were members of the aristocracy. As tempting as it might be to show up a student of the legendary Siyung Khan, it was probably not worth the shame of a potential defeat at the hands of a commoner. She had been hoping that one of the handful of commoner Dance Masters would take her on, but apparently Master's Khan's shadow loomed large. Her one week window had nearly passed when the challenge was unexpectedly taken up by Jocson Thir, the eldest son of a duke.
Now she saw why. Her mind floating above the dance while her body effortlessly flowed through the Dance of Roses, deflecting the Willow's snapping strikes, she realized that the scratches she had noted on his half-cuirass earlier were actually little Xs carved into the leather. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two...he had apparently killed twenty-three dancers in duels. He was one of those twisted people who took pleasure in killing. Suddenly, his acceptance of her challenge made sense, as did the pattern of his strikes at her vital organs. He could chase his addiction to blood and slap down a dirty commoner all at once.
Unfortunately for the young dukeling, Master Khan's reputation was nothing if not deserved...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Oak form! Now!"
Medli practically leapt out of Thistle, spreading her feet shoulder-width apart and leveling her cherry wood practice sword directly in front of her. She moved through the Dance of Oak's wide sweeps, rotating in a circle, envisioning herself surrounded by enemies. She deflected phantom sword and spear thrusts and chopped down invisible soldiers. She stepped back and raised her sword to a horizontal guard to stop an imaginary axe from above.
"Duelists focus on a single form, seeking to master it to perfection. Fools! Dancing dandies!" Master Khan shouted at her from above. The elderly man wore stained, gray linen trousers and blouse laced up the front, his head and face shaved to a sheen. He was currently walking in his bare feet on a narrow branch of the cherry tree overlooking his little cobblestone courtyard, hands behind his back, looking perfectly at ease.
"They learn a dance and call themselves Masters. Phaw! Prancing clowns! The true Master learns every form and moves fluidly from one rhythm to the next. River!"
Medli suddenly dashed forward across the courtyard, her sword a brown blur of slices around her body, like water crashing over rapids.
"The true Master knows that there are not dances. There is simply the Dance and her opponent never knows what step is coming next..."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the huge flagstone courtyard of the Temple of a Thousand Flames at the Royal Court of Emperor Thayla Kholani Idur, blessed be his name, the young commoner girl deflected Willow Master Jocson Thir's forty-fifth strike. His perfect coif of golden hair was now lank with sweat and his leering smirk had turned into a vicious snarl. The girl had not come close to threatening him, but she had also easily deflected every attack he had thrown at her. He snapped his blade at her eye to make her flinch, but instead she ducked down. Suddenly she dashed forward beneath his blade and passed by him. Was that Water form? No one used Water form in a duel.
Jocson fell to his knees, feeling suddenly weak, his vision blurring. Was that his arm laying a few feet away, gold-hilted sword still clutched in a white calf-skin dueling glove? He couldn't feel anything beneath his neck. That wasn't right. His vision dimmed and all went black before his head could hit the stone.
Medli breathed out in a puff of air. She turned around just as Jocson toppled over, bright red blood spilling from the stub of his arm - severed just beneath the shoulder - and from three other cuts across his neck, groin, and back. She walked over and leaned down to wipe her blade clean on his pretty silver cape, then sheathed her sword in the humble leather scabbard secured tightly against her back. Only then did she turn and give a deep bow to the Emperor and seven Grand Masters assembled on the dais above the courtyard. The crowd was respectfully silent as the Grand Masters looked to one another with raised eyebrows. Finally, one of the two female Grand Masters stood up. The elderly woman wore a dark blue knee length gambeson and linen trousers, her short gray hair tied in a male warrior's topknot. She held Medli's gaze for an eternity or more likely a few seconds, then bowed.
"Well-danced, Sword Master Medli."
Now she saw why. Her mind floating above the dance while her body effortlessly flowed through the Dance of Roses, deflecting the Willow's snapping strikes, she realized that the scratches she had noted on his half-cuirass earlier were actually little Xs carved into the leather. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two...he had apparently killed twenty-three dancers in duels. He was one of those twisted people who took pleasure in killing. Suddenly, his acceptance of her challenge made sense, as did the pattern of his strikes at her vital organs. He could chase his addiction to blood and slap down a dirty commoner all at once.
Unfortunately for the young dukeling, Master Khan's reputation was nothing if not deserved...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Oak form! Now!"
Medli practically leapt out of Thistle, spreading her feet shoulder-width apart and leveling her cherry wood practice sword directly in front of her. She moved through the Dance of Oak's wide sweeps, rotating in a circle, envisioning herself surrounded by enemies. She deflected phantom sword and spear thrusts and chopped down invisible soldiers. She stepped back and raised her sword to a horizontal guard to stop an imaginary axe from above.
"Duelists focus on a single form, seeking to master it to perfection. Fools! Dancing dandies!" Master Khan shouted at her from above. The elderly man wore stained, gray linen trousers and blouse laced up the front, his head and face shaved to a sheen. He was currently walking in his bare feet on a narrow branch of the cherry tree overlooking his little cobblestone courtyard, hands behind his back, looking perfectly at ease.
"They learn a dance and call themselves Masters. Phaw! Prancing clowns! The true Master learns every form and moves fluidly from one rhythm to the next. River!"
Medli suddenly dashed forward across the courtyard, her sword a brown blur of slices around her body, like water crashing over rapids.
"The true Master knows that there are not dances. There is simply the Dance and her opponent never knows what step is coming next..."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the huge flagstone courtyard of the Temple of a Thousand Flames at the Royal Court of Emperor Thayla Kholani Idur, blessed be his name, the young commoner girl deflected Willow Master Jocson Thir's forty-fifth strike. His perfect coif of golden hair was now lank with sweat and his leering smirk had turned into a vicious snarl. The girl had not come close to threatening him, but she had also easily deflected every attack he had thrown at her. He snapped his blade at her eye to make her flinch, but instead she ducked down. Suddenly she dashed forward beneath his blade and passed by him. Was that Water form? No one used Water form in a duel.
Jocson fell to his knees, feeling suddenly weak, his vision blurring. Was that his arm laying a few feet away, gold-hilted sword still clutched in a white calf-skin dueling glove? He couldn't feel anything beneath his neck. That wasn't right. His vision dimmed and all went black before his head could hit the stone.
Medli breathed out in a puff of air. She turned around just as Jocson toppled over, bright red blood spilling from the stub of his arm - severed just beneath the shoulder - and from three other cuts across his neck, groin, and back. She walked over and leaned down to wipe her blade clean on his pretty silver cape, then sheathed her sword in the humble leather scabbard secured tightly against her back. Only then did she turn and give a deep bow to the Emperor and seven Grand Masters assembled on the dais above the courtyard. The crowd was respectfully silent as the Grand Masters looked to one another with raised eyebrows. Finally, one of the two female Grand Masters stood up. The elderly woman wore a dark blue knee length gambeson and linen trousers, her short gray hair tied in a male warrior's topknot. She held Medli's gaze for an eternity or more likely a few seconds, then bowed.
"Well-danced, Sword Master Medli."
No comments:
Post a Comment