Deadhouse Landing

She drew in a swift blur that cut the air. ‘I warn you – I shall force you to defend yourself! Do not dare to dismiss me. Fight with all you have. Or I shall not relent.’

He still had not drawn his bokken. ‘Shear, please … this is not necessary.’

‘It is necessary to me,’ she answered, and charged.

She came with bokken raised high, her sandalled feet shushing the gravel, and still he made no move. The wooden blade swept down in a savage stroke aimed at his neck only to clack against his blade at the very last instant.

He slid backwards, blade held readied; he was certain that cut would have broken his neck had he not caught it. ‘Shear … please.’

She came on again, unhesitating, holding nothing back in her speed and power. Her assault drove him to yield ground, which he did, circling. Her skill astonished him; so far in his young career he’d faced no better – other than his teacher, of course. She’d obviously trained under the very best, and faced the strongest of opponents.

Yet after all these weeks of studying her technique – which was as close to flawless as he’d seen – it seemed to him that it possessed one weakness: a certain blindness to variety. Clearly she was extraordinarily well taught, yet that teaching had been limited within a single school of thought.

Whereas his training had involved exposure to countless.

And so he decided to defend for a time, letting her expend her first reserves. Though he did not fool himself into thinking she would weaken; her endurance was as formidable as her skill.

So they circled, feet shuffling among the gravel, swords clacking and grating. An onlooker could not have separated the intricacy of entwined feint, counter-feint, attack and riposte.

No prior true crossing of swords had ever lasted so long for Dassem. As veterans will say, most duels last only for one or two passes; superiority – or luck – usually reveals itself quickly.

She and he, however, had had time to become acquainted with one another’s style and potential. This ruled out one of the main reasons behind the speed of most encounters: ignorance of the true ability of one’s opponent. Their rigorous training also ruled out more commonplace explanations – overconfidence, impetuousness, and plain simple panic.

As Shear continued to push him it became clear that he would have to end this convincingly; no false yielding would satisfy her. So he gave veiled retreat while quickly changing angles before turning to the attack. Now she gave ground before him.

In mid-advance he suddenly switched to a new style that he had not yet used with her, a more raw brawling technique of the southern confederacy, and surprised her for an instant. This fraction of a second of advantage was all it bought him, yet it was enough to brush his blade across her forearm. She pulled back, disengaging, and stood openly breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling. She raised her bokken to her mask, acknowledging the touch, then sheathed it savagely through her sash. Both knew that in a bout as even as theirs such a wound – though certainly not fatal – would tip the scales in Dassem’s favour. The match was over.

He sheathed his own bokken. ‘An excellent fight,’ he began, but Shear simply turned and walked away into the moonlight. Frowning, he hurried after her. ‘Please do not be upset. One of us had to win, the other not. You knew this.’

He was surprised to see her wiping at her face beneath her mask. ‘You do not understand.’

‘Will you not explain?’

She grasped her sash tightly. ‘Among my people,’ she began, clearing her throat, ‘I held a certain rank among the most skilled. Now I must abandon that rank.’

‘Because you lost to an outsider?’

‘Because I lost.’

‘Ah.’ He walked silently with her for a time. The night wind was chill and he enjoyed the sensation as it crossed his sweaty face and cooled his sweat-soaked shirt. ‘Do not be hard upon yourself. You should not take this defeat as meaning anything.’

‘Oh? And why is that?’

‘Because I am not like any other.’

Her lips quirked in amusement and she spared him one quick glance. ‘Forgive me, but that sounds vain.’

‘It is true. It was not a fair fight.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because I am already dead.’

She halted amid the tall grass and, surprised, he halted as well. She studied him closely, then shook her head. ‘Now you sound deluded, or insane.’

‘No, it is true.’ He invited her onward. ‘Walk with me and I will tell you a story I have never told anyone else.’

Still she did not move. ‘And what is this tale?’

‘The story of my youth.’

She set a palm to the pommel of her bokken and peered round at the empty shadowed rustling grasslands; it was not yet midnight. Grinding out a breath, she walked on. ‘If you must.’

He caught up, tucked his hands into his sash.

‘I was born on the Dal Hon savanna. I never knew my father. Our village bordered a hilly region of dry caves, sinkholes and gorges. Here we children often went to play our games of brigands, raiders, and champions. And it was here that my journey began.