The Blind Swordsman
Posted: Sun Dec 14, 2014 4:45 pm
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.
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.