The Knife's Edge (7 page)

“Sa Hira…” Kail whispered. A smirk creased his lips when the old man spoke. Kail extended his hand, curling his fingers into a cup. He focused on the hermit’s mouth. With a scooping gesture, as if carving out a handful of air, he caught the breath before the hermit’s lips and grappled it towards him. Words took shape as if whispered in his ear.

“No, my boy. Standing as surely as a wolf in the brush is just lounging. A Renmai Stance. I never thought I would see it.”

“So he’s more than just a hermit,” Kail mused. Suddenly, a call echoed through the woods, barely audible. It was far too muted for the two below, especially under the water’s roar, but he heard. His eyes shifted and muscles tightened like steel ropes. A hand was on his plain leather scabbard. They’re close.

Kail knelt. With one hand he stripped away layers of moss at his feet, and put his palm to the ground. The dirt was soft and wet. He waited until the cry resounded again, and this time, he chased it, smacking his palm to the ground. Upon impact, his senses rushed into the ground and he was toppling over the ledge, tumbling down the face of the falls, flowing with the racing torrent. He escaped the sucking rush of water and flew into the woods. He weaved through the trees with his second sight. Shadows rushed towards him, while others shrieked, shirking away as if his presence was poison.

The cry ricocheted and he followed it. But the sound was dying quickly. He could almost see it like a thin wisp in the air, receding into the woods. Kail flew faster, pushing harder to catch it. Finally, the sound stopped. He was still charging forward, rushing to catch it when he saw the trap. He knew he was caught, unable to slow his headlong dash, and a huge blade from around the last tree rushed towards his face. Its gleaming edge pierced the tip of his ethereal form. There was nothing he could do. Without a second thought, he severed the cord between his two selves.

He rushed back into his stationary body, eyes snapping wide as if ice water had drenched his skin. Immediately, he vomited to one side, and wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. A mounting feeling of insanity, of his mind shredding into two parts, rose to the surface. Forcefully, he shoved it down. Snapping the thread between forms was dangerous, at best, and even he didn’t know the full extent of it. He felt something, and glanced down at his muscled forearm to see a tremor ripple beneath his flesh.

Calmly, Kail stood. The boy will die first, he thought emotionless, withdrawing into himself as he turned. His cloak snapped and whipped with purpose.

A Rising Wind

T
HE SILENCE BROKE WITH THE SCREECH
of a hawk.

Gray leapt and crashed against Mura’s staff with a thwack. He inched closer to the hermit’s face, seeing an opening. Suddenly, Mura’s weight shifted. With an agile twist his sword sluiced off, and Mura’s staff halted, parting his hair with the force of its descent. “If you want to ever master that sword of yours, you’ll have to master your emotions.”

Gray attacked again, trying everything he knew, seeking the hermit’s openings. Mura slid to the right and his right, shoulder opened up. Gray twisted, striking horizontally, but pulling the strike in the last moment before Mura’s parry. The yen tip dashed for the hermit’s torso, but collided with the staff, sweeping his strike aside.

“Too predictable! You want my midsection? Then attack my head!” Mura yelled.

He raised his sword striking for Mura’s head, repeatedly hammering all three angles. He gave the hermit no time to counterattack as he advanced, driving him back with each grueling step. The cascade grew louder, deafening in his ears as he rained blows upon the hermit. Mura slipped his staff to block his side once more, but Gray lunged inward, thrusting with a cry. He pulled the blow and swung upwards, aiming for the most unpredictable target he could imagine—his yen blade flashed fast as lightning, and he imagined himself a corded bundle of energy as it arced upwards scraping the hermit’s leg until—thwack.

He landed heavily, mossy stone softening his fall. Only when he opened his eyes did he realize what happened. His chest throbbed. He looked up. The hermit’s staff was extended rod-straight, still in the strike. Slowly, the hermit let the staff fall.

“A mind has many parts. Never focus to the exclusion of all else that you become blind. If you attack offensively, always expect an opening.” Gray rubbed his chest, trying to catch his breath. “Are you all right?”

Gray was surprised at the compassion in the man’s voice. He rose to his feet. “I am, but no matter what I do, I just can’t hit you.”

“You can, and you will. But remember,” he advised, “a castle is meant to defend and attack.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If a castle only defends, what then? If it never attacks and its people only watch, and stand arrogantly behind its high walls?”

“It will fall.”

Mura jabbed his temple with a thick finger. “Ah, now you’re using your head! You see, even in defense there is offense, and the same is true of the reverse. Always imagine that if you fight with only one part of yourself, or only one way, you will always lose. The greatest fighters use all parts, like the High Generals of the Lieon.”

“And yet they still lost,” he replied.

“A valid point,” Mura said, “Let it be said though, there was no real victory. But that’s a history lesson for another time. Focus now. Mind, body, defense, offense, softness, hardness. All of these and more must be considered, and always in union.” Gray attacked again. He swung from above then below, moving slowly at first, but building pace, flowing smoothly from striking to blocking. “Good!” Mura barked. “You’re getting it!” he said, parrying a strike.

A smile grew on his face as he weaved the thrust into an undercut, and the ease of the movement sparked something. Fisher in the Shallows to Dipping Moon—a snaking thrust to an upward strike from which its power is derived from the bending, and swift upward lift of the legs, said a distant, familiar voice. He stumbled as the knowledge and images flooded his mind, and when he regained his senses he saw Mura’s blow racing towards his head. Instinctively, Gray ducked and rolled beneath it, and the world came into spinning focus as he reached the ledge, the fall teetering in his vision, the spray and rocks beneath racing forward.

Mura grabbed Gray’s shoulder and flung him back, and the together they landed heavily on the solid stone. “Let’s not do that again,” Mura said. “What just happened? Your past?”

“I’m not sure. I saw images of moves. I think… I’m starting to remember,” he said, his fist clenching on the rough, green lichen.

“Good!” exclaimed Mura. “Then show me what you learned!”

The hermit jumped to his feet, lashing out, and Gray leapt over the staff and retaliated, giving into his mind and the sword. Mura retreated. Gray’s Lopping the Branch grazed the hermit’s brow. Stepping back, Mura breathed hard and Gray hid a smile. “Do you need a rest?” he yelled over the sound of the falls.

The hermit dove towards Gray. “Parry!” he shouted, striking down and Gray swung his sword to his shoulder, covering his flank. “Strike!” And he struck. He flowed through Mura’s commands. “Parry, strike, evade!” And at the last strike, Gray blocked. Mura held the block for a moment, and then with a twist of his wrists, he flicked the blade like an adder’s bite.

Gray rebounded, feet scraping along the mossy stone. There was no extra strength in Mura’s block and yet, he was pushed backward by that simple added twist. “Teach me that,” he said.

“Teach you what?”

“What you just did. What was that?”

Mura shrugged. “A little trick.”

“That was more than a little trick,” Gray replied. “You gained power from nothing.”

“Not nothing,” the hermit said, “There is power to be found and added in every move, and not always in the might of ones arms, but often in the hidden movements. First you must loosen your whole body, it must be like a cord that snaps tight at the last moment. Imagine yourself like a bolt of lightning, quiet and deadly, and only upon impact do you shatter stone and splinter wood.” Gray did as he instructed. With each strike he began to understand what Mura meant—the added flick became audible, adding a whoosh to the tip of his yen bundle.

“You’ve got it,” he proclaimed with a broad sweep of his arms.

With a flash of his yen sword, Gray struck Mura’s open flank, this time adding the snap to his sword. Mura threw up his staff and the two weapons collided. But with Gray’s added power the hermit toppled backwards, falling into a nearby bush.

“Caught you behind your castle wall did I?” Gray asked as he extended a hand.

Mura wiped an astonished look from his face and grumbled, “Aye, aye, well done lad.” He took his hand and rose, brushing dry twigs and leaves from his pants. “Seems you’ve learned enough for today, and besides, the weather appears to be taking a turn for the worse.” He eyed the ominous black clouds that gathered in the distance.

Looking around at last, Gray observed that they had not only backed off the bridge during the fight, but also now stood in the glade before the falls. A stand of trees obscured the view. Glancing back to his companion, he noticed with frustration that only a trace of sweat dotted the hermit’s forehead. Other than that, Mura was breathing no harder than if he had just come back from a walk in the woods. However, the smug smile was off his face, and he thought he could sleep easy at that sight. If I can sleep, as the bruises that covered his body coming into focus. He glanced to Mura who was now examining some strange looking blood-red mushrooms in the path.

“What is it?” Gray asked.

“I’m not sure,” Mura said, scratching his head. “These shouldn’t be here…” The curious red color of the mushrooms tugged at Gray’s curiosity. He approached and a smell like rancid meat hit his nose and he cringed. Pinching his nose with one hand, he reached out with the other to check if they had gills when Mura yelled. “Don’t touch them!” The authority of the order made his hand shoot back.

“Why?”

Mura walked over and knelt down beside him. He stared at the mushrooms before him and scrubbed a hand through his stubble. “I don’t know, but something tells me to be cautious about them.”

“Even more than usual?”

“Aye, I’ve lived here for years, but something feels different… A strange presence,” the hermit muttered, and then stood. “Let’s head back, lad. It’ll be good to get out of this cursed wind,” he grumbled to himself, walking back towards the house, muttering something about a pipe and a fire.

Gray gave one last look at the peculiar red mushrooms. At his side, his fingers burned as if he had touched the strange fungi. Oddly, even his wrist tingled and he pulled back his sleeve to reveal the sinuous tattoo upon his wrist. Turning, he hurried after Mura beneath the shrouded canopy, towards the darkening clouds.

The Harrowing Gale

G
RAY OPENED THE DOOR OF THE
hut and was greeted by the aroma of stew. Throwing off his boots, he rushed to the fireplace. “When did you have time to make this? We’ve been out all day.”

Settling into a chair, Mura picked up his favorite dagger and began to whittle. “You were asleep. It’s been simmering all day, which might I add, is the only proper way to make stew.”

The whole house smelled of spices, onions, and roast chicken. Warmth seeped back into his numb fingers. Outside, the wind howled, and the chimes that hung from the low eaves crashed. “The wind is really picking up.”

Mura grunted. “Las Fael’wyn, the elves call it, or in the common tongue, ‘the harrowing gale’.” He continued his calm strokes, letting the shavings fall into a bowl on the floor.

“Fael’wyn…” Gray said to himself in thought, “Wait, isn’t it ‘wind’? I mean, doesn’t it mean ‘the harrowing wind’?”

Mura looked up in surprise. “How’d you know that?”

“Because you taught me…”

“Did I?” Mura asked. Gray couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Well then, I’m a good teacher. Yes, I remember now. I told you about the basic structure of Elvish.” He chuckled softly. “I might have skipped a few things for practical purposes, but, yes, that is what it means. Wyn is the Elvish word for ‘wind’.”

Gray repeated the term, wondering how many things the elves had named. Grabbing a spoon that hung from the brick fireplace, he stirred the stew. His mouth watered and he eyed a piece of golden brown meat. He snatched it, and then juggled his steaming prize before popping it into his mouth. It singed his tongue and he yelped.

Behind him, Mura chuckled. Gray turned with a glare. “Are you ever going to finish that thing?” he motioned to the piece of wood in the hermit’s hands that vaguely resembled a pipe. Instead of saying anything, Mura calmly put down his tools and disappeared into his room.

Gray heard him rummaging, and then dragging what sounded like a large object across the wooden floor. With a grunt of success he came back out carrying a dark blue trunk with a tarnished lock and gilded with silver oak leaves. He set it down with a heavy thud.

Grabbing the stool from the table he placed it before Gray, and then sat back down. “Sit,” he said. Gray had never seen the ornate chest before, and a thousand questions wrestled in his head. Shadows played on the chest, and the ornate silver looked out of place in the rustic cabin. From his vest pocket Mura extracted a key, and then inserted it into the lock. With a deft twist, and a scratching whine, it unlocked. Mura lifted the heavy lid. He hid the contents and drew out something. Then, he shut the lid with a bang, and relocked the chest.