His opponent ducked under the rope and entered the ring. The crowd remained silent, breathlessly awaiting the commencement of the fight. Andreas stood ready, his wooden sword held loosely in both hands, waiting to see what would happen next. Waiting to see how much patience the other man could muster.
His opponent snapped into motion with a flourish of explosive movement, the stave whistling through the air as the smaller man whirled and leaped. Despite the strangeness, there was something familiar in it that pulled at Andreas’s memory, reminding him of the flourishes he had seen in his training days as a squire. His opponent was out of measure, and his flourishes were more ornamental than aggressive, a range of motion that was good for fitness, for driving away fear. They were hardly fitting for fully adult men, fighting in earnest. Andreas felt his impression of the man changing, his assumptions about this man’s skill bleeding away. The kicks were head height, exposing all sorts of targets, and surely, what was the point of kicking a man when you had a weapon in hand?
Andreas relaxed into his guard. In his hands, the weight of the wooden sword was a comforting reminder of the years of training drills, both at Petraathen and Tyrshammar. This shouldn’t take too—
Without warning, a foot slammed into his center, past his unmoving weapon, and drove his stomach against his spine. He went down; as he fell, his body instinctively reacted, transforming the fall into a backward roll. Months and years of practicing falls just like this one had built muscle memory that reacted automatically. He cursed himself for failing to see the blow coming and cast forth a silent prayer of thanks to the Virgin for both the padded weight of his gambeson and the years of breathing training. It was because of both of those that he could go without air for a short time while his lungs recovered from the kick. Dimly, he was aware of his opponent’s staff pounding the ground where he would have been had he not managed to turn his fall into a roll.
He was wrong. This fighter was good.
*
The Frank raised his blade in a salute, and while Kim did not know the exact meaning of the gesture, it was clearly a respectful response to his own acknowledgment of the Frank’s prowess. They had exchanged all the pleasantries necessary, and Kim held out his hand for his weapon. His escorts had insisted on carrying it for him, and he had had to hide his amusement that they thought him so helpless without his staff. While it was a fine piece of hardwood, it was just a stick, and he could have entered the fighting ground with no weapon at all, especially given the Frank’s wooden sword. But since they had brought it, and they expected him to use it, it seemed prudent to keep up appearances. Staff in hand, Kim ducked under the rope and entered the ring.
He appraised his opponent for a moment, eyeing the man’s restful guard. It was the same stance the Frank had taken with the club wielder. Having seen that fight, Kim knew the lack of aggressiveness in the stance was meant to lull him into making the first move. If that was the Frank’s opening gambit, then Kim could respond in kind. He too could lull his opponent into thinking he wasn’t ready to attack.
He began walking forward, his staff held in his right hand, parallel with the ground. Drawing closer, he swept it into circling arcs, his hand gripping it at the center. The spin moved left, right, then left again before his right hand moved as far left as it would go. Then his left flew into motion, and he took a two-handed grip at half-staff.
Moving forward and leading with the butt, he executed three rapid stabs with the end at shoulder level, then three kicks from low, to middle, to high with his left leg, never once letting his foot touch the ground. As his left leg kicked, his right arm drew the staff back, keeping the butt focused upon his opponent. He planted his left leg and launched his right into a rounding kick as high as he could, his hips rotating with a powerful snap that launched him into a spinning leap, his right leg flowing into a crescent kick from outside to inside. Right foot and staff butt met the ground in the same motion. The Frank had slid into a low guard, and his gaze was guarded, as if he were struggling to hide his reaction to Kim’s opening flourish. Was he disappointed that I did not attack him outright?
Kim stalked forward, the stave whipping across his body but ending always with either point or butt aimed squarely at the Frank. His movements were a variation of his previous actions, and while the Frank watched him intently, he could see the big man was not taking in the subtle differences in the motion of his body. Closer, closer.
He reached a distance a mere length of the staff from his opponent. His stance shifted, the right leg now forward, and the point of his staff swept through the dirt, then whipped upward to face level as he skipped forward with a one-step side kick to his opponent’s middle, deeper than the earlier three, with the full force of his turning hips and left heel driving it in. He made contact with the Frank, folding him in half and knocking him to the ground.
Kim was surprised that the kick had landed, and more so that the Frank had managed to take the blow without crumpling completely. His astonishment slowed his response, and the following jab of his staff struck the ground, missing the Frank as he turned the backward fall into a roll. The larger man was surprisingly fast, and though he’d been taken off guard by the blow to his middle, the speed with which he recovered was a measure of his skill. Kim had seen men gasp for breath like fish out of water after receiving such a hit.
But the Frank was already moving again, and Kim tightened his grip on the staff.
*