Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

They had taken only a few steps when Treysind stopped suddenly. "Someone's here."

Calistin squinted through the forest. A figure perched casually amidst the trees, working with something in his hands. Calistin prided himself on reading a man by build and movement. Simply by the way the gods put him together, how they arranged each muscle and sinew, he could calculate whether he faced a real opponent. Movement provided additional clues: fluid or choppy, confident or hesitant, graceful or awkward or anything between. But this man or woman was too far away to assess and had not yet made a significant motion. Perhaps it's a soldier come to train, a warrior who fancies himself competent.

Treysind finished the thought unconsciously. "Maybe he's knowin' where this school's at."

Calistin did not reply but strode toward the stranger, muttering to Treysind. "Now remember.You are not to interfere in any battle."

"But, Hero, I's gotta protec'-"

"You don't, and you know it. You played stupid for a long time, but you're not at all. You know I fight better without you, and you're…" Calistin did not have the time or energy to attempt diplomacy, "… worse than useless at it. So stay out of my way, even if I get attacked by an entire army."

"No," Treysind said petulantly, trotting at his side. "I ain't lettin' no ones kill m'hero."

"The only way someone's going to kill me is if you trip me up." Calistin did not wish to return to that stale argument. Once he had talked Treysind into letting him handle the brawlies alone, he had expected the boy to realize that the Renshai worked best without him, at least when it came to battle.

As they drew nearer, Calistin got a better look at the stranger. He sat on the tangle of branches formed by two leaning trees, a lean, grizzled man of average size and spectacular age. His hair remained full, but it had turned a pure, snowy white. His skin seemed pallid, papery, and showing every vein. Wrinkles shrouded blue-gray eyes that had probably once been steely. Nevertheless, he carried two swords, one at each hip, and their split-leather grips looked as well-worn as their owner. He glanced up quizzically as they approached but did not move from his natural seat.

Calistin stopped in front of the stranger and studied him.Treysind pulled up beside the Renshai. The stranger regarded them back but also said nothing.

At length, Treysind broke the silence, speaking the words Calistin should have said as soon as he approached. "Good day, sir."

The man leaped from his seat, more gracefully than Calistin thought possible for his age, and bowed to Treysind. "Good day, young man. I'm pleased one of you knows some manners."

Calistin scowled at the insult, though deserved. He saw no reason to waste time with amenities, especially now that the other two had handled them. "Can you point us to the warrior's school, old man?"

"That depends."

Calistin narrowed his eyes, taking a dislike to the elderly man who stood in the way of his goal. "You either know where it is, or you don't. On what can that depend?"

The stranger did not seem the least put out by Calistin's demeanor, which did not yet rise to the level of threat. "On who you are and what your purpose is there."

Calistin considered refusing to answer, but it seemed pointless. He had nothing to hide, and the old man would not guide them on their way if he refused. "I'm Calistin, and I plan to challenge their best fighters."

"Do you?" The elderly stranger walked a slow circle around Calistin, as if examining livestock for sale. "That seems a waste, Calistin. Why would you wish to humiliate yourself like that?"

"Humiliate?" It took Calistin a moment to realize what the stranger meant. "Old man, I don't intend to lose."

"No one ever does." He made a clicking noise with his tongue, as if finding something wanting in Calistin's appearance. "And yet, no matter how competent the man, there is always someone better: faster, stronger, more clever."

Calistin screwed up his features into the meanest look he could muster. "Look, old man. I don't need a lecture. I just need directions."

"No, no." The stranger continued to circle Calistin. "You don't need to challenge the school. Why, you couldn't even best an old man."

Calistin gritted his teeth. It was getting progressively harder to hold his temper. "You mean… you?"

"I suppose, for example."

Calistin laughed. When neither of the others joined him, Calistin only laughed harder. "Are you challenging me?"

The old man shrugged, as if the Renshai had just invited him for a stroll. "Why not? Aren't you up for it?"

Calistin could scarcely believe what he had heard. "But you're… you're an… old man."

"I'm an old warrior, Calistin. Surely, you realize only the best fighters live long enough to become old."

"Well I…" Calistin had never considered it. The Renshai dove into battle with such gusto, they rarely got old. At the first hint of frailty, most attacked a better warrior, usually himself, as a form of suicide. "… I imagine it's either competence… or cowardice."

The stranger's hand twitched but did not reach for a sword. "Every man who dared call me coward has gone to his grave learning otherwise."

Calistin shook back his hair and limbered his arms. A grin snaked across his lips. A battle was a battle, even against an addled old coot. "So the end point is death, then?"

"Death?"The old man spoke with an odd tone that expressed neither surprise nor concern. "Death seems a waste. Either the school loses a teacher, or an arrogant student of the sword dies way too young." He gave the matter further consideration, scratching at the white stubble on his chin. "Perhaps we can end it when one of our butts touches the ground? The one with the muddy rump loses."

It seemed like a weird and humiliating choice, but Calistin appreciated a challenge. "All… right."

"We can always fight to the death later, if you're still insistent."

Calistin frowned. Though the stranger had said nothing obviously offensive, he could not help feeling patronized. He did his best talking with his sword, however, so he gave no reply. Instead, he stepped out onto the road and gestured for the old man to make the first move.

The stranger obliged with a lightning swiftness that took even Calistin's breath away. He drew, but not fast enough, forced to dodge the first blow and barely parrying the second. He took the third stroke on his blade, only then realizing that the stranger fought with both weapons, one in each hand. He scarcely managed to draw his own second sword in time to weave a web of defense that kept the other man half an instant at bay.

The stranger stepped back. "Had enough?"

"I'm not on my ass yet!" Calistin bore in with the frenzy he usually reserved for Renshai. A lunge and a sweep met air, then a third strike became a parry as he found himself on the defensive again. He riposted with a wicked Renshai maneuver intended to carve muscle from his opponent's leg. Instead, he found his own knee hooked out from under him. He spun for balance and dropped to a crouch, saving his backside and his dignity, then launched himself at the old man again.

The assault became a whirlwind of deadly motion and fury. Swords danced, men leaped, dodged, spun. Silver glimmers flashed through the forest. Then, abruptly and without understanding exactly how, Calistin found himself on the ground, the tip of the old man's blade at his throat. Stunned silent, he froze, glancing up the line of steel to an expert, aging hand, then along the arm to an unsmiling face.

Looking as dazed as if he had taken several blows to the head, Treysind huddled behind a tree. If he had interfered with the combat in any way, Calistin had not noticed him.

The sword withdrew, replaced by a proffered hand.