Chilled Soup: Practice Unending

Talaban watched the portal intently; half of him was convinced Elaryl would not be returning on the second night. The other half worried that she would return looking tortured and on the brink of exhaustion. He did not usually care this much about trainees but this was a delicate exercise. Each day that passed would find more and more of her technique supplanted and replaced by movements and body balance integral to his form of fighting. This was the critical stage. Many fell out here when they could not adapt to the change from their traditional schooling. Mindset played as much a part as aptitude.

The arms-man watched as Elaryl walked into the mausoleum, her sure, smooth steps surprising him somewhat. Tal still remembered dragging himself in on the second night, cursing every single muscle in his body, many in positions he had not even known existed.

Motioning to the trainee, he led her through the rear and into a moonlit clearing. A cool breeze wafted, stirring the chilly night air as the session began. If Talaban was teaching, then his student would learn everything, not just what she deigned to learn. Moving slowly but deliberately, the wiry arms-man stretched, feeling the pull on the muscles of his slender frame. Motion fed warmth into scar-emblazoned tissue, soothing the reminders of a hundred lessons. Beside him, Elaryl followed obediently.

Flowing through the stretches, time stood still for the former thief, as he slipped into the callisthenic positions he had learnt as a child so many years ago. All one hundred and twenty seven positions flowed in an ingrained routine as he showed Elaryl each and every posture, explaining which muscle each kept in a toned and prime state. Properly stretched, they returned to the innermost hall where, once again, they went through the routine of corrections.

As each day passed, the arms-man spent less and less time on basic forms and corrections. Instead, he sparred with Elaryl, demonstrating the variants of each form modified for his style of fighting. Arc of the Moon, Cutting the Clouds, the Leopard’s Caress, Soft Rain at Sunset, Wind and Rain, the list went on and on as he taught all she could absorb. The trainee was a fast and able learner once she put her mind to the task, often not needing to see something more than twice before catching it.

Slowly but surely, old habits were modified or broken down completely. Tal chipped away at one of the core ideals of most instructors, textbook perfect forms.

“Use the move Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose first, followed by Graceful Phoenix, then Golden Geese Crossing the Sky followed with the Swallow Takes Flight…” Talaban continued, rattling off a sequence of about twenty forms.

Elaryl gave a quizzical look. She knew all twenty forms well; most of them were basic training material but the order in which they were listed… the positions and stances of those moves did not seem to connect at all, one sword or two.

Still, she gave it a try, performing Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose with her main arm, the sword surging forward in a thrust, tip pointed up. Then she stopped, stuck. To transit into Graceful Phoenix, the blade had to be retracted into a guard position and the foot positioning entirely altered.

“Open your mind, step away from convention. Floating clouds and moving water. When you finished Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose with your sword tip pointed up, why not just follow the flow and slash it downwards? Though there’s no such position in either move, why not adapt the flow and make it more convenient for yourself?”

Tal demonstrated, his right katana sliding forward easily, the tip of the blade slicing through air while the left katana trailed, guarding his open side. Pulling his weapon back slightly, it slid neatly into a slash then, with a half pirouette, transformed naturally into Graceful Phoenix. Before the form was completely finished, the left blade snaked out, Golden Geese Crossing the Sky effortlessly executed with a deft switch of balance. Steel swished overhead and then, with a hook and jab, transformed cleanly into Swallow Takes Flight. The transformations and connections were smooth and flawless, performed in less time than any average swordsman could have gotten two forms off.

Conversation flowed as they sparred, from the idle and mundane to the deadly serious. It shifted from philosophies and styles to the essence of being a Gaidin and back to recipes for soups and cakes.

Trepidation. In the pitch darkness, the arms-man smiled. It was an ironic smile. He was just coming to realize exactly how much he hated the feeling. Wind brushed against his face, running soothing fingers across craggy features and ruffling blond hair. Talaban waited patiently, suppressing his own nervousness. He could feel the weight of expectation. They were watching.

“Did you ever feel this way, Rahien?” the thought intruded on the peaceful silence. No answer was forthcoming from his mentor, the armour standing silent in the night. Still, he waited. The girl would be on time. It was the eleventh day. She had to be.

Reality intruded. The steady clip-clop of a horse’s hooves sounded clearly in the silence of the night as it moved through the forest, ever closer. Talaban smoothed his hands across the black silk garments he always wore. It was almost time. He inhaled deeply, a slow and measured breath, taking in the smells of the night. A slight clink and the crunch of leaves told him that the trainee had dismounted.

The arms-man waited. He knew she would be curious why the mausoleum was unlit today, especially on a moonless night. He could see her from where he was, watch the curiosity play across her face. Shadow was grazing outside, an indication of his presence. Talaban kept perfectly still, waiting. She would come in eventually.

Five minutes passed, the time ticking slowly. Tal leaned against one of the columns, waiting. The chill of the cold marble seemed to seep through the silk shirt, cooling his back. Finally, Elaryl moved forward. She had given up waiting. Gingerly she stepped forward, trying to peer into the inky darkness.

Talaban waited, holding still as the trainee inched further and further into the mausoleum, each step bringing her closer and closer to the arms-man. This would be her first test. Here, in the darkness, she would have no choice but to rely on instinct, for what use was conscious thought when one could see nothing? It was a test of how much she had actually absorbed. How she moved, how she fought, how she thought, everything would be laid bare for Talaban to see. All that needed further work would be revealed tonight.

Fighting with two blades was a game of speed, instinct and skill. It was rare that either hand ever possessed enough power to fight the way a traditional single-wielder would. Lack of bodily balance and awareness would betray any flaws in the technique, allowing brute force to push through.

Elaryl moved pass him, the girl inching her way forward, unused to the darkness. She moved pass without realizing his presence. Talaban waited till she had taken another ten or twelve steps before detaching himself from the pillar. Moving up behind her, the arms-man drew, deliberately causing his blades to snick in warning. Unfolding the Fan met his first attack. The stance was a little off-centre but it sufficed to push his blades away. Talaban pushed the attack, pressuring a little, denying her the time for thought, forcing the trainee to learn to give in to instinct.

River Undercuts the Bank met Wind and Rain, Tower of Morning turned aside Boar rushes Down the Mountain. Figures danced in the darkness as steel met steel in a rapid, ringing staccato. Talaban moved constantly, keeping Elaryl on the defensive, testing her. The trainee was good, her balance and poise showing her ease with the new style of fighting. She seemed to have shed any inhibitions from the teachings of her original instructors.

It was time for the final test. Spinning to the side, Talaban feinted, turning Elaryl’s blow with a simple deflection while he changed his attack vector. The arms-man attacked, Lion on the Hill flowed into Arc of the Moon before making its way into Tower of Morning. Each time, Elaryl’s perfect parries lanced out as the former thief lapsed into what would be a familiar training routine, a standard attack sequence. Creeper Embraces the Oak, the Falling Leaf, Lightning of Three Prongs. Another textbook sequence. Deliberately he used forms that every trainee would be familiar with, lulling her.

Watered Silk met the Falling Leaf square on, Elaryl already anticipating the attack. Tal struck. The woosh of the trainee’s blade was audible as she thrust, the textbook counter to Lightning of Three Prongs. But Tal was already gone, spinning into her blind side, breaking the expected sequence. Elaryl stumbled slightly, the lack of resistance causing her to overextend. Ducking the wavering blade and stepping into the guard of the overbalanced trainee, a katana swung in, ready to cut deep and draw blood.

Talaban breathed hard, the adrenaline pumping through his body, exertion making itself felt as he became aware of the trembling trainee pressed against his entire frame, one of her weapons trapped between them. The flat of his left blade sitting square on her throat, immobilizing Elaryl while his other blade kept her’s wide.

A moment passed, then another and yet another before Talaban recovered first. He released the trainee, spinning her out of his reach. “Good, but we have more work to do yet.”