The Blind Swordsman

[Kayne]

The warrior toyed with the aging blind man by rushing in and retreating, slashing high at the older man's chest then jabbing at his legs. Kayne was wearing the man down. In the process he was ferreting out the swordsman's weaknesses and learning to predict his swings.

After several minutes, Kayne realized that the older man favored his right leg; his left foot edged slightly forward before he swung, his shoulders dropped before he thrust, and the man always glanced with his unblinking, sightless eyes in the general direction where he intended his sword to strike. It was a mere practice session to the younger warrior, who'd come upon the man on the trail along the forest. And it was achingly easy.

Kayne feinted to the right and swept his greatsword in a broad arc to the left. The older fighter barely dropped his blade in time to parry the blow. The young mercenary could have swung faster, darted in and employed wide strokes to lure the old warrior into using his sword to cover his chest so that his belly was exposed. It would have been more honorable to finish him quickly, Kayne thought, and he did believe in honor. One deep thrust into his heart or lungs would do it, only one sharp, brief moment of pain. He usually made quick work of his enemies.

But the man was alone, and Kayne was bored; those two factors changed matters. Drawing out the fight was a way to get some exercise, he rationalized, and he wasn't lacking entirely in chivalry. There was a fairness to this duel.

Kayne's opponent was armed. He hadn't ambushed the man, though he saw him coming down the trail and easily could have lain in wait. He didn't kick or throw objects into the air to strike the unseeing man, as some less savory mercenaries would do. He also didn’t use the landscape to corner or hinder his opponent and he used a solitary blade against the blind swordsman's blade. There was an equality to this duel.

His adversary’s moves were polished, but slow and becoming increasingly more labored and predictable. Kayne effortlessly parried each stroke. He watched the beads of sweat run down the older man's face and smiled sadistically as his opponent's chest heaved with the exertion.

The young mercenary almost backed away at one point, for as the duel wore on he felt an uncommon pang of guilt. The aging master was terribly outmatched; an old, tired mouse fighting a very hungry young cat.

"Fight me!" the older man bellowed. Sweat clung to his upper lip and dripped from his chin. "Stop playing with me and fight! Or did your master not teach you well enough? Hmm? Perhaps you're not playing at all? Perhaps this is the best you can do!"

The taunt powered Kayne's next thrust. The young mercenary's greatsword, taken from the mercenary camp when he retreated in his youth, was a fine blade and keenly balanced with a weighted ornate black pommel. Now the blade bit into the older man's side as a punishment for the verbal jab. The older warrior retaliated, not even bothering to acknowledge the wound, and drove his own blade toward Kayne's abdomen. The young mercenary effortlessly stepped aside and laughed heartily.

"He taught me to fight, old man! And he taught me very well! But did your master teach you how to die?" Kayne rushed his older opponent then, swinging high to his left and then down at the old fighter's chest. The blind man angled his sword, as Kayne had expected, but he brought the blade down quickly, knocking away not only the first blow, but the second killing stroke aimed at his stomach.

The older man was moving swiftly now, stepping toward Kayne and using his thin blade to parry a succession of the younger mercenary's frenzied blows. The old swordsman's sword thrusts were no longer sluggish. He moved like lightning, flashing in and cutting, then flashing higher.

Too late Kayne realized it was the older man who had been toying with him, studying his weaknesses. The young mercenary now put all of his effort into avoiding the weapon master’s dancing blade. Sweat ran down Kayne's face, and for the first time in his life he felt his confidence melt away. He began to truly worry.

He'll tire. He has to tire, Kayne told himself as the contest wore on. He's three times my age, and he can't keep this up, and he’s poxy blind. Watch for an opening. Watch. "No!" Kayne cried out as he felt his opponent’s blade slide between his ribs, felt the warm stickiness of his blood flow out. The young mercenary dropped to his knees as the older man pulled his sword free. Growing disoriented Kayne felt the ground rush up to meet his face as his knees and thighs refused to support his weight. His head slammed against the ground and the wind rushed from his lungs. He tasted blood in his mouth. He was dying. The sightless man rolled him over, stood above him. There was compassion, not hate, in the older man's rheumy unseeing eyes.

"Finish me!" Kayne spat at him, nearly choking on his own blood. Finish this, he prayed to any of the gods listening. Grant me a quick death. Don't let me linger in front of my enemy.

A quick death didn't come. The blind warrior bent closer and somehow hoisted the much larger warrior over his shoulder and snatched up the young man's blade. The young mercenary felt cold, so terribly cold. It was a summer day, and he'd been sweating from the fight. But, now his limbs felt like lead weights, and he was freezing, the warmth rushing from his body as the blood continued to pour from his wound. Darkness enveloped him, and he continued to pray for the release of death.

[Kayne]

Kayne felt so very cold, and to his amazement, alive. His eyes shot open and he gasped for air. The aged weapon master was facing him and staring with his unseeing eyes as he was hovering over him.

“You wake, at last. I was worried that you might sleep forever, that I might have to bury you.” The words came from the older man, sympathetic and compassionate as if they never fought. He hovered mere inches from him and reached for something beyond the injured warrior’s body. His eyes were a soft blue and shown wisdom accumulated through extended years of living. His hair was long chestnut brown and streaked heavily with gray, pulled neatly away from his face in a ponytail aside from a few strands that lingered around his face.

Kayne attempted to sit up and groaned in pain with the sudden strain. He must have been unconscious for a very long time. The young swordsman tried to take in his surroundings – an austere room with unadorned wooden log walls, obviously the interior of a forest cabin. He lay in a simple bed with a crudely carved table beside it. The room was faintly lit by the sun’s dying rays filtering through the forest canopy and into the room beyond the doorway. At his side a small bowl of water was set next to an unlit candle atop the table. Kayne ran his tongue around the edges of his lips. They weren’t cracked, and he didn’t feel overly thirsty. The blind man must have been forcing him to drink while he was unconscious, but his head pounded and his stomach ached. He was dreadfully hungry.

The coldness was leaving him, though not entirely. He was naked; however he was covered with linen sheets to keep his body temperature from falling. The sheets were jumbled down by his feet and for an instant he felt self-conscious and attempted to reach for them to cover himself, even though the man could not see him. He guessed he must have been resting there for quite some time. His muscles were stiff, and it felt as if he’d lost quite a bit of weight. The hunger continued to gnaw at him.

“Who are you?” Kayne asked. His voice cracked, and his tongue felt a little swollen. He cupped his palm and dipped it in the water, before bringing it to his lips. It was cool and felt refreshing in his throat.

“You may call me Master,” the blind man replied. “As I have defeated you in combat and saved your life, you now belong to me.”

“You kept me alive.” It was a statement. Kayne was certain he was as good as dead following the duel. "Why?"

“I gauged you before our battle.” The weapon master regarded Kayne in silence for a moment, as if studying his expression through his sightless eyes. “I knew you were there. In the end you fell to my blade, but I know there is something inside you that is left untapped. I heard you request death, rather than beg for life. I will not grant you that, however.”

Kayne’s fingers explored his chest, where he’d been impaled by the blade. There was a gruesome scar, but only a few tender spots. His fingers reached up and combed through his hair, which was a little longer than he remembered and much more tangled. He glanced again at the old man, who seemed to sense his gaze.

“I peeled your clothes from you. Healed your wounds,” he said as if answering Kayne’s unvoiced question. "Years of fighting in wars lends its advantages in dealing with injuries."

“I was desperate for gold and I attacked a poxy wretched blind man!” Kayne spat after a fleeting moment of silence, as if he sickened himself speaking those words.

“You know you’ve done wrong and resent it. I can feel it in your tone and sense it in your being. You could have shot me with that crossbow of yours and simply robbed me.” The compassion in the older man’s voice seemed to calm the young mercenary’s temper. “Unlike others I’ve faced, you seem a worthy pupil. As long as you wield that sword of yours for good from now on, I will teach you how to really use it.”