The Knife's Edge

Chapter Eleven

A RISING WIND

The 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.