Chapter 43 - Mitch Hurrier

Three great families formed the backbone of the Principality of Aspen's rule. Of those, the Hurrier family embodied its martial might. Every child born a Hurrier, boy or girl, learned the martial arts. Their talent was assessed, and only those who showed promise were gathered for further instruction. Talent played favorites, and the goddess of luck's pranks were never predictable. To gather that unfairly distributed talent, the Hurriers drew from the main family and its branches alike. Mitch Hurrier was one of those recruits. Born to a branch family, he had originally borne a different surname, but he was now a member of the Hurrier family. Mitch Hurrier's talent had been exceptional from childhood. At fifteen, he could already take on two or three adult soldiers. By the following year, he had far surpassed the average soldier. At eighteen, he proved himself by defeating a swordsman good enough to represent an entire village in single combat. At just twenty-two, he could spar with men renowned throughout a city without giving much ground. The number of people who could match his sword could be counted on one hand, and few of them were his age. Those circumstances had gifted him arrogance. 'Why bother, when a few tries are all it takes?' Why train until his thighs swelled fit to burst? Why swing a sword until his palms split? He had no desire to do either. He was content as he was. He no longer worked as hard as when he had first taken up a sword. Yet talent alone had made him one of the three best fighters in the Gray Hounds. For Mitch, this was a first. CLANG! He swept the descending sword upward from below. A moment's lapse let the blade graze his shoulder. Mitch stabbed at his opponent while kicking at his shin. It was a trick he often used on those less skilled than himself. Blocking a kick aimed at the legs was no easy task while distracted by a sword. Even if they blocked it, it would at least create an opening. But his opponent twisted his shoulder aside to avoid the stab and lifted a foot to block the kick, as though familiar with the pattern. He did not even lose his balance. His fundamentals were solid. 'He definitely wasn't this good before.' Mitch recalled their encounter moments earlier. The man had walked straight up to him and casually said: ["Hello. Good to see you. Since we're here, how about a fight to the death?"] He recognized the face. It was definitely that bastard—the enemy soldier who had carried out the night raid. How had he made it this far through the blinding fog? There was no time to dwell on the question. His opponent had struck first, extending his sword in a long thrust. CLANG! As Mitch blocked, he considered the possibility of another diversion. He told the others to guard the rear while he held this bastard off. If the flagpole fell, it would seriously disrupt the operation. Wasn't preventing that the very reason he was here? The Company Commander leading the Gray Hounds was responsible for cutting off the enemy's retreat and overwhelming them. Mitch's role was to guard this place. Having blocked the kick, the enemy soldier dropped his sword toward the crown of Mitch's head. Mitch crossed his blade against it, blocking and deflecting the blow. SHRIIING. The blades crossed, scraping obliquely past each other. At the last moment, both men pushed hard, shoving each other away. A gap of more than five paces opened between them. Before attacking again, Mitch spoke. "Were you hiding your skill?"

"It worked out that way."

"What's your name?"

"Encrid." This was the man he had been longing to meet. He felt he would never be satisfied unless he killed him himself. And now the bastard had come to him. Mitch licked his lips. "All right, Encrid. I'll remember your name."

"You don't have to. If you forget, I'll tell you again."

"Crazy bastard. You're dying here." Mitch raised his sword above his left shoulder. A few exchanges had let him gauge his opponent's skill. Now it was time to show his own true ability. Five blows at most—Mitch believed that would be enough to cut off this Encrid's head. Five sword strokes passed. Mitch's brows drew together in a scowl. This had never happened before. It would have made sense if his opponent were vastly more skilled, but that wasn't the case. The man seemed barely able to keep up. Yet he blocked, endured, and struck back as though he knew every one of Mitch's habits. Mitch increased his speed and mixed in feints. Still, the fight would not end. After a few more exchanges, his opponent increasingly became all he could see. The sword and his opponent. The blade and himself. Himself and the blade. Mitch Hurrier felt as he had when he first took up a sword. That sensation from his first time holding one, when nothing beneath the heavens remained but himself and his sword. If he swung, he felt his opponent would be cut. If he stabbed, the stab would land. If he drew back and struck, the blow would connect. So Mitch did just that. He struck downward, struck in an arc, extended his blade, stabbed, and wheeled it around to strike. And his opponent did the same.

* * *

Encrid summoned his state of concentration and traded blows with Mitch while maintaining it. Thanks to his countless repetitions of today, his opponent's habits were plain as day. He blocked the foot, then the sword. Then, in an instant, the enemy's sword changed. It was fiercer and sharper than before. It stabbed and curved, the blade turning as it cut. CLANG! CLANG! CLATTER! Their blades collided with all their strength, throwing sparks. Several blows grazed Encrid's shoulder and cut his side. The wounds were shallow, but drops of blood scattered through the air. At least three moments passed when his life hung in the balance. In those moments, Encrid's absorption deepened too. Deeper. He deliberately drove himself further into that self-forgetting state. Forget his surroundings. Enter a world where only he and his sword remained. Concentrate on a Single Point took full effect. All he could see was Mitch Hurrier's sword. All Mitch Hurrier could see was Encrid's. They fought like madmen, each staking his life. The attacks they exchanged were enough to make even the onlookers dizzy. SWISH, SWISH. Each failed to cut the other's throat, leaving both bleeding from the neck. Still concentrating, Mitch unleashed his killing sequence. He drew his left foot back and moved his right forward, creating a new distance rather than the familiar one. Then he let his sword point hang behind his backside. "Hup."

He took a short breath, tensing his muscles. Righteous Sword and Flowing Sword. Both were primarily styles for receiving attacks. As a surprise reversal, Mitch had learned a sweeping strike: the Wheel Cut, which traced a large circle from below. By changing his stance and concealing the blade behind his body, he hid the attack's starting point and made the strike impossible to block. The adjustment of his feet and the distance beforehand had also been solely for this one Wheel Cut. As his opponent prepared the Wheel Cut, Encrid experienced a deep state of self-forgetting. Swordsmanship was not the only thing that experience gave him. 'I can see it.' Though his eyes could not see it, his opponent's movement unfolded exactly in his mind. In Concentrate on a Single Point, his hearing had become frighteningly acute. The sound of a foot lifting. Even the sound of his opponent steadying his breathing as he drew his sword back. Every sound reaching Encrid's ears became information, combining into an image in his mind. He had died to the Wheel Cut alone more than ten times. Having fallen victim countless times to the technique his opponent was now unleashing, Encrid pictured it with utter clarity. He sensed the hidden sword as clearly as if he could see it, and he could hear his opponent's breathing. All of it combined to reveal the timing of the Wheel Cut. WHOOSH. The sound of a blade cleaving the air pierced his ears. The blade surged upward in a curve. Lost in that self-forgetting state, Encrid brought his sword down reflexively, on precisely the path needed to block the Wheel Cut. CLANG! The rising sword met the descending one. Both men struck with such force that Encrid's sword cracked with a sharp snap. The moment the blades met, surprise at having his strike blocked half broke Mitch's concentration. Not Encrid's. Encrid's sword, cracked halfway through, slid along his opponent's blade. SHRIIING! The blades gave off a strange noise as they scraped together. Mitch reflexively heaved his sword upward. Normally, it would have risen, but Encrid forced it down. Pressing down from above naturally held the advantage over lifting from below. And Encrid, who trained day after day, had greater muscular strength. In a contest of brute force, Mitch was no match for him. Keeping pressure on the blade, Encrid extended his left foot forward and applied more strength, shoving the sword down with a sharp snap. CLANG! Mitch's sword sprang downward. Encrid stepped out with his left foot and twisted his waist. The sword in his hands became a point shooting forward. Its tip sank into Mitch's chest with a dull thud. Mitch was wearing armor, but the force behind the sword was tremendous. His chest was pierced. The blade did not pass all the way through, however. Encrid drew it straight back, and the bloodied steel slipped free. "Whew. Hah."

With his sword withdrawn, Encrid panted for breath. He had given everything in that brief instant. His arms and legs were shaking. Blood welled from Mitch's chest. He staggered back several paces like a drunk before bracing his legs to stop. His eyes seemed about to lose focus, but he forced them wide open again. "I should have gone for a counter."

Blood continued to pour from Mitch's chest as he spoke. There was a great deal of it, enough to soak his clothes in moments. "If I'd blocked and deflected to create an opening, I'd have had the advantage. You admit that, don't you?"

"Isn't the result what decides who wins?"

Encrid answered his question with another. "You're not wrong. It just feels so unfair. Or does it? No, I shouldn't have stopped training. In the end, it was pure strength that beat me." Mitch's eyes grew dim. He would die even if left alone. The blood was flowing faster now. Encrid raised his sword and advanced two paces. "Stop him!"

Just as Encrid was about to stab, someone shouted and charged him. At a heavy whoosh, he raised his sword diagonally to shield half his upper body. CLANG! A heavy impact struck his sword. Encrid retreated two paces and looked at his opponent: a mustached man who had planted himself in front of Mitch. "Protect Mitch!"

The man shouted. Encrid looked around. Three or four more soldiers appeared and likewise placed themselves in front of Mitch. Then they sprinkled powdered medicine over his chest as he lay unconscious. The bleeding soon stopped. "You bastard. Who do you think you are, coming here alone!"

The mustached man glared. He looked furious. His eyes flicked toward Mitch. Was that fellow someone important? Encrid steadied his breathing and studied his opponent. From the heaving of his shoulders, the man appeared short of breath. Yet his stance had no openings. The mustached man had just returned from checking the flagpole. He had expected Mitch to win; Encrid hadn't looked particularly skilled. Instead, the result was the exact opposite. Encrid did not let beating Mitch excite him. There was still work to do. This was a battlefield, and the battle was still underway. He was not here for some romantic duel or sparring match. He knew exactly what he had to do. "I hear the bigger a spell's medium is, the worse it is. Is that true?"

Encrid spoke as he watched two soldiers carry Mitch Hurrier away between them. The mustached man blocking his path narrowed his eyes. "You know something, don't you?"

Plenty. Encrid dug his toe into the ground, then kicked upward in one swift motion. Dirt and short weeds burst up to cover the mustached man's face. Hastily throwing up a hand to block them, the man shouted. "Get him! Don't let him near the flagpole!"

The instant Encrid judged his opponent's eyes were covered, he ran. WHIZZ! WHIZZ! Quarrels flew at him from behind. He swerved sharply left, but one struck the back of his right shoulder. 'This much is fine.' Encrid sprinted straight toward the flagpole. Enemy soldiers blocking his path raised short spears and other weapons. Charging like a rhinoceros, breath snorting through his nose, Encrid stamped his foot hard five paces short of them and veered right. The quarrels fired at Encrid from behind flew toward the soldiers holding short spears. "Aah! My eye!"

One unlucky soldier took a quarrel in the eye. More than three others were hit in the arms or torso. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

An officer among the crossbowmen shouted. Though Encrid was not in a state of self-forgetting, he maintained a partial state of concentration. Concentrate on a Single Point overlapped with his sense for the blade. Listening, he mapped the enemy's positions and the situation in his mind. Then he wheeled around and leaped among the crossbowmen, sword in hand. "Huh!"

Encrid brought his blade down on a startled soldier's crown, splitting his skull with a thud. He had cut the blow short, and the recoil lifted his sword. From there, he swung it in a circle around himself. WHOOSH! The startled enemy soldiers drew back. "Gray Hounds! After him!"

The mustached man pursuing him called out. Having plunged among the crossbowmen, Encrid now ran out the other side. THUNK! On his way out, he stabbed one soldier through the throat. Then he scooped up a fallen quarrel and threw it sideways. It whizzed away, only to strike an enemy soldier's armor and drop uselessly to the ground. The soldier drew a shortsword in place of his crossbow and charged. But the throwing knife Encrid had hurled immediately after the quarrel lodged in his forehead. He had let his guard down after stopping the quarrel. "Hah!"

Exhaling in short bursts, Encrid darted in and out of the enemy ranks as though he owned the place. He wanted two things now. First, to destroy the flagpole. Second, for his own commander to please stop being an idiot and cover his back. "You son of a bitch!"

The mustached man snorted. He looked beside himself with rage. After darting this way and that, Encrid had finally reached the vicinity of the flagpole. He hurled every throwing knife in his hand. WHIZZ-WHIZZ-WHIZZ! Five knives flew through the air. All five struck the fluttering flag. But the flag was made of thick cloth and did not pierce easily. The enemy soldiers started in alarm when Encrid threw the knives. "Oh, fuck!"

More enemy soldiers erupted in anger. "Stop him! I said stop him!"

The shout came from directly beneath the flagpole, from someone Encrid took to be the shaman. As everyone turned in alarm to see whether the knives would pierce the flag, Encrid rolled along the ground. It was a sudden forward roll, despite there being no incoming quarrels or arrows, no threat at all. No one paid it any mind. The pause in his running let the mustached soldier close the gap. Got you, you bastard. Just as the mustached soldier felt certain of it, Encrid was rising with a fallen short spear in his hand. "Stop him!"

"No!"

The mustached man shouted. So did the shaman. Encrid answered with action. Planting his left foot, he threw the short spear with the spring of his entire body. It shot through the air with a crack and struck the flag. RIP! The flag tore. A hole opened in it. Damage ruined a spell's medium. There was no need to topple the flagpole after all. Tearing the flag would do. He did not have to make it all the way over there. Seeing the fog clear around him, Encrid let out a deep breath, almost a sigh of relief. "You crazy bastard. You think you're getting out of here alive?"

At the sight, fury blazed in the mustached man's eyes. Encrid raised his sword along his body's centerline, settling into a defensive stance, and nodded.

"Maybe?" The odds were fifty-fifty. Half a chance of living, half a chance of dying. Terrifying odds for an ordinary person. But not for Encrid. If he failed, he could simply try again.