Far from Home

Jiutarô withdrew his katana, the traditional longsword of the Samurai, but this time without the usual confident flourish. He grasped the hilt with both hands and with the blade extended over the top of his head towards the head, not the weapon, of his foe in the classic bushido position of readiness. This gesture, of course, was totally lost on the assassin. His opponent immediately attacked with a flurry of circular swings. Jiutarô met each of these with apparent clumsiness and took a number of small steps back. “Jiutarô!” cried Taura in desperation. Encouraged, the grinning foe repeated his attack with greater ferocity behind each stroke. A swing to Jiutarô’s right flank was quickly followed by another to his left. Each was again blocked but without a counter stroke. His foe was now laughing. “You are now just moments away from death. You use the sword like a novice! Hah!” Another set of co-ordinated swings, with deft footwork and an obvious mastery for the blade was resisted by Jiutarô. This time though, Jiutarô was much faster with the blocks, meeting each stroke at the top of its swing and each thrust with fresh air. He turned aside as a perfectly-executed lunge passed him by a hair’s breadth. For the first time, the assassin’s face showed some concern. He toys with me, this strange-looking swordsman. Have I underestimated him? The dark elf took a step back and he recomposed himself. His last attacks had been too unco-ordinated, culminating in what he had hoped would be the killing stroke. The expression on the strange one’s face had not changed. The assassin’s breathing was deeper now because of the brutality of his opening attacks and he now wished he had been more cautious, more disciplined, more controlled. Jiutarô turned his upper body to the right to stand sideways on to his enemy and he raised his katana horizontally at head height, the blade-tip still pointing at his foe’s eyes. Puzzled by this apparent disregard for protecting the lower body, the assassin made a sweeping attack to the Samurai’s hip and belly. But the swing was in the opposite direction to that which a right-handed swordsman would naturally take and therefore lacked proper strength and control he might otherwise have had. Jiutarô countered easily with a block just below his foe’s sword’s guard. He followed it up with a swift kick to the Darkling’s knee. The assassin stepped back sharply. Jiutarô locked his gaze on his opponent. His foe took on a wide stance with the sword held up and to the right. The assassin looked deeply into Jiutarô’s eyes but the samurai exhaled sharply and charged forward. As he perfectly executed each attack, he screamed the name of each one. ‘Shomen Uchi’; ‘Kiri Age’; ‘Migi Kesa Giri’; ‘Hidari Kesa Giri’; many more besides. Years of dedicated, rigid training and experience, and the ancient code of Bushido, the way of the warrior, all but obliterated any creativity that his consciousness might have initiated. His opponent barely managed to deflect or block each successive attack, dancing it seemed in a travesty of the deft footwork of the Samurai. He was almost unaware that he was now fencing defensively. Jiutarô’s attacks, meanwhile, were purely a means to gauge the proficiencies and limitations of his opponent. At this moment he was collecting information of the best way of killing the assassin. In moments he knew he had discovered that weakness, the dropping of the shoulder that opened the assassin to a finish. But the assassin stepped backwards out of danger and delivered an impulsive, audacious attack, his sword circling that Jiutarô barely managed to avoid.