Begin!”
Arek moved quickly to his left, his loose-fitting, brown uniform soaking in the warmth of the afternoon sun. His feet barely made a sound as he circled his opponent, who had for her part, remained motionless. Master Kisan’s eyes tracked him like a snake poised to strike, her body slowly twisting at the waist. At some point he knew he should attack, but she was as famous at countering as Arek was at charging in.
He kept circling, knowing she would have to move her rear foot to keep him in view, or twist herself all the way around and reverse her stance. The change would mean losing him visually for a moment. That would be his opening.
When she reversed her stance to bring her other hand up, he leapt into action. His body arrowed in, leading with a kick then two strikes in rapid succession. His opponent blocked the kick and moved in close to jam his punches. At that moment Arek had the distinct impression she’d known what he’d intended.
Then her ridge hand strike came out in a slow and easy to block counter. He unconsciously slowed to match the master’s pace. A sudden blinding strike left his vision swimming and he felt the ground hit his cheek. When had he fallen?
“Hold.”
Master Silbane’s voice sounded like it came from a tunnel, hollow and tired. Arek found himself prostrate. The ache in his forehead and nape of his neck told him he’d been felled by a wrist or knuckle strike to the back of his skull, though with Master Kisan it could just as easily have been a hook kick. He shook away the stars, causing him to wince, then sat up, angry at himself.
“What are you waiting for?” Master Silbane asked. “These are basic techniques. There’s no magic. If there were, I would teach it to you and save myself years of frustration.”
“Yes, Master,” he intoned automatically. No magic moves? Of course, there were. He’d seen all the adepts do more than a normal person could. He silently got up and shook himself off. Then he took his stance and faced Master Kisan again.
She smirked, a glint in her eye betraying her inner laughter, clearly directed at him. Anger boiled up and without a second thought he attacked, jumping in with a snap kick and then a combination of punches and kicks, forcing the master to follow a rhythm of alternating up and down strikes.
Kisan blocked them all easily, spinning past him on the ball of her foot and delivering a back kick to his short ribs. The blow wasn’t hard, but hard enough to make him hold his ribs with one hand while wheezing out his next breath. The master assumed her stance again, waiting.
Arek took a deep breath, clearing the stitch from his side, and with the same breath striving to clear his mind. Then he attacked with a combination of rapid punches. This time, he kept alert, watching her breathing.
Every time she blocked, he could hear her softly exhale, her breath flowing with her moves in perfect harmony. Still, not everything was perfect. Concentrating, Arek shifted his strikes to fall off tempo, like a drummer missing the beat. The sudden asynchrony threw her timing off; her nostrils flared slightly, the sign of an unexpected indrawn breath. That was his moment, and he took it. He doubled up his last attack, throwing two right-hand punches instead of alternating hands.
Her eyes widened and for a moment he thought he’d caught her. It was the merest hesitation but Arek knew it was real. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride.
His hubris was rewarded; she slipped under his second strike. A tight right hook caught him on the point of his chin. When he awoke, he was on his back with Master Silbane looking down at him.
“Did I win?” he asked, his attempt at humor sounding rather when it came out, even to himself.
“It has occurred to me that I could dress you in towels and save time cleaning the ring,” replied his master, without smiling.