HENRY LION OLDIE THE WAY OF THE SWORD -- Here's a man standing at the crossway between life and death. How should he behave himself? -- Obviate your duality and let only your sword stand against the sky. From the talks of Kusunoki Masasighe with his teacher BOOK I. KABIR Part 1. The sword of the man. Chapter 1. 1. We met the Kharzian near the corner tower Al-Koutuna in a dirty narrow lane of Jaffar-lo quarter -- there the streets are numerous and tangled like the threads of a worn sword-knot. Its Carrier stood in our way, with his crooked legs wide apart and his head bowed to the shoulder. The skull-cap on his head was incredibly small. It was embroidered skilfully with minute glass beads. The Carrier hands weren't hidden and he held nothing in them -- the ordinary hands of a good Carrier, smooth and calm. Coming nearer I felt him through and at first I've found no traces of a Brilliant equal to me -- there was nothing at his shoulder, nor at the belt under the folds of his cloak nor... Suddenly the Carrier threw something into the cool evening air, something like a big white butterfly made of lace. It began to fall slowly while the Carrier's other hand touched the belt I haven't yet seen. The buckle clicked loudly, and the released blade sang unfolding into a steel strip. It was a Brilliant and it greeted me with ritual whistle. The stranger's blade licked slightly the fine cloth of the falling shawl and divided the butterfly into two lesser ones; and I bowed apporovingly and remembered that since ancient times the natives of the torrid Kharza (one and a half day of caravan march from Kabir) have been renowned for their ancestor, the Ore Snake. And I felt uncomfortable in my dress -- the everyday leather scabbard fastened with seven rings of old bronze. I slid out, glad to feel the Kabirean dusk, and I did it in time: the Carrier of the Kharzean has already bent his legs and stood firmly as if having roots in the ground. I made my Carrier pull his hand up and to the left, otherwise the stranger Brilliant could have easily cut the top of my Carrier's turban and according to the Law of Debate it would mean that I were defeated. It was probably a new-comer in the capital, for it reckoned to end the Debate after the first stroke. I admit that the Kharzean was more flexible than me (everyone knows they are especially flexible) but as to the swiftness of our movements I could contend with it -- and this time no to its benefit. -- Very well, the Straight,-- tinkled the guest from Kharza vibrating after our collision, and I felt that he called me by an impersonal name with pleasure.-- And what if we... But he spent his time in vain. I threw the talkative Kharzean aside and then pushed slightly my Carrier's palm. His obedient body reacted at once, he bent one knee and I pierced the Kharzean Carrier's cloak close to his shoulder and right elbow. I touched the alien flesh and felt its burning heat. Both times I leaned closely to the Carrier's body: at first flatwise an then with my edge; but the soft and sensitive skin remained intact. For it is unreasonable to spoil the other's Carrier because it's very difficult to train them decently for serving us, the Brilliants. However the self-confident Kharzean could have chosen a better Carrier for himself... I was already leaving the lane when I remembered with regret that I had to present myself to the Brilliant of Kharza after our Debate. One must always be polite be you busy or irritated. I'm the Straight Sword of the family of Maylanese Brilliants. My name is Dan Ghien and I'm also called the Unicorn. My Carrier is Chan Unkor. But it is not so important. 2. Having returned home I went to the upper hall, caught the wall hook with one of my scabbard rings and leaned against my favourite Mekhlian carpet. I forgot to change my dress. My thoughts were focused at the strange meeting near the Al-Coutuna Tower. I dismissed my Carrier with a gentle mental push and he left the hall checking on his way the grid hanging over the fireplace. I had to stay alone for a while. I haven't left Kabir for a very long time, and I was rather well- known here; there was no need to make any tests and nobody would dare to draw the Unicorn into a crazy Debate in such an off-hand, casual way. Such things bring fun when you're young, when your body is quivering with excessive energy, and the thirst for adventures obscures the senses of a young Brilliant. Oh, youth, why are you so fond of arguing and prooving? Almost always you do it at a wrong time, in a wrong place and before indifferent witnesses... At my age -- and I've already changed in sequence five Carriers (I preferred the helpful and skilful house of Unkor fosaken in the sands of Upper Whay, the outskirts of Maylane) -- so, at my age it suffises to have six or seven traditional tournaments a year plus the more or less regular Debates with the familiar Brilliants. With one of them -- called Wolf's Broom -- I met more often than with others. It was a pike branched like the deer's horns or a ruffled tail of a steppe wolf. It dwelt in the Loow-Raskhar Street but a week ago it went with its Carrier somewhere to the mountains. Frankly speaking I missed the Broom a little and hoped that it'll return at least for the second half of the tournament in prospect. I liked to slide between its notched sprouts. It was... yes, it was delightful. Much better than the habits of my rival-friend, Gwenil the Lowlesean: it was unceremonious like all its two-hand kin and always strived during the Debate to come down on you with all its mass, and you had to spring and to fly aside; then Gwenil went away sprawling insolently at the shoulder of its mighty Carrier of a white-haired Northern breed and irradiating offencive contempt with its naked blade. I moved uneasily remembering the injuries of old. But soon I relaxed: they were old injuries. At the last tournament held in the open court of Buraya Castle I managed to catch Gwenil when it concentrated attention at its best stroke and I touched with my edge the Adam's apple on the strong neck of its Carrier. And the espadon self-confident as it was knew very well what my touch is worth. -- You're perfecting yourself, One-Horned,-- Gwenil whistled disappointedly, and for the first time it didn't hurry to rest upon its Carrier's shoulder.-- Take care not to lose your sharpness because of your pride! I saluted the Lowlesean giant and since then I liked to recollect Buraya Castle and my triumph. But still I was pondering about the strange Kharzean: where did it come from? By Thunder Blade, was that meeting casual or intentional? Was it a young bully who had recently arrived to Kabir or an experienced Brilliant wanting to test its strength face-to-face with me without any spectators? The firewood burned out. The door opened and the Lesser Brilliants of my house entered the hall in a file swaying at their Carriers' belts, all in similar scabbards, violet with silver embroidery. -- Hail to you, the Supreme Dan! -- tinkled shortly the Lesser ones while their Carriers were crowding about the fireplace, moving the armchairs, laying the table and dusting the perfectly clean window- glasses. I nodded them from my place at the carpet. Some of the Lessers have been long known to me from their birth, they belonged for ages to the suite of the Maylanese Straight swords Dan Ghiens. Some of them were somewhat curved but with both their sides sharpened, and their hilts were adorned with beautiful ornaments. They possessed Carriers who were in personal service of the Carrier Chan. All others were just short and wide daggers with plebeian manners. Their duty was to control a variety of petty but important things. For example, they used to shut the windows to keep the air in the rooms dry and warm (or, more exactly, they controlled the corresponding movements of their Carriers), or to put at the table the jugs full of thick red fluid. They call it <>. Similar fluid folws in the veins of the Carriers and then it is called <>. When the blood was spilled it meant that a Carrier was spoiled. It was an unforgivable blunder for a Brilliant. But the spilling of wine was necessary from time to time, although it could cause the Carriers to lose self-control and to become drunken. A Brilliant would never take a drunken Carrier to a tournament or even an ordinary Debate. However it wasn't forbidden. It was good that it wasn't forbidden. I'll return later to the question of drinking and I'll explain why do I, the Unicorn of Maylane, prefer the House of Unkors from Whay to all other Houses of Carriers. But this is altogether another story. [.....................................................................] 4. The humming noise of the spectators became distant, the figures of people standing by became dim -- and we were left alone, face to face. No-Datchi and I. The final Debates of the tournaments aren't the place for lazy meditations or self-analysis. There's no time for it. In these short moments you feel especially sharply your own existance and you're ready to exclaim proudly before the whole world: <> Indeed the ancients were quite right saying that in such moments one should obviate duality and let only the sword stand against the sky. Against the sky where there's only one more solitary shining beam: No-Datchi, and it cuts all threads of unnecessary reflections in my mind. Oh, my rival wasn't now the polite and self-confident Brilliant that Gwenil has recently presented to me. Now it was attentive and cautious, its Carrier, bare-footed, held the hilt tightly with both hands over his head as if No-Datchi was going to pierce a cloud. In this position it stood still, the two-hand sword that I liked more and more; it stood still as a spire over a motionless tower of its Carrier. In Kabir such introductions to the Debate were rare, but I had grown up not in Kabir! And I knew perfectly well that the position of No-Datchi meant a challenge that one might meet or not. I met it. Keeping a distance that made it impossible to strike without stepping ahead, I slid out of my scabbard and slowly shifted the right hand of Carrier Chan down, to the back and then up pointing with my edge the face of the Carrier of No-Datchi. Then I strained myself -- and Chan put forward his empty left hand at the same time lifting his left leg so that his knee became close to his chin. Thus a statue of the dancing bird Fon with stretched wings (the right one being twice longer than the left and glittering in the sun) appeared in front of the stone tower with a steep dome. It is much more difficult and tiresome to stand long on one foot (while No-Datchi's Carrier stood on both) but I was perfectly sure of our success. Not in vain we used to stay so many times at our courtyard with a cup of hot wine put on the uplifted knee of Carrier Chan and it was long ago that he learned not to spill the wine. The spectators on the stands were silent, dumb-stricken with bewilderment; the sun was moving slowly from east to west, our shadows at the ground grew longer, but we were still standing, and only when the spire over the tower waved a little I allowed Chan -- the Bird -- to clasp his wings triumphantly and use his both feet. After that the two-hand lightning came down on me. Escaping from the first collision and putting rather a safe distance between us I understood that No-Datchi will now act only when sure of success. Having lost the competition in immobility and remembering that the straps of sandals were cut, it would afford no disputable, unnecessary movements... Well, I was glad for him. And for myself too. For it meant that the time has come to use the family skills of the Straight Swords Dan Ghiens. The time for the deeds that once made me prefer the House of Unkors of Whay to all other Houses of Carriers. No-Datchi's Carrier jumped forward impetuously and No-Datchi itself sprang up, halted for a moment trying to realize what's going on. Carrier Chan was laughing. He was laughing joyfully and sincerely and then stretched his left hand in front of him groping the air as if seeking something invisible for everybody except himself. And he found that thing. No-Datchi didn't move, his tip quivering with cautious impatience. The fingers of Carrier Chan tattooed at the invisible shelf and clenched forming a ring -- as if he had taken a cup. ...No-Datchi's Carrier shuffled his feet impatiently crushing the grass, but No-Datchi didn't change its position. I sank to the ground looking as limp as I could. My edge almost touched a pebble lying on the ground. ...And No-Datchi couldn't contain itself any longer and made a stroke. It struck inevitably like an attacking cobra, it was sure of success and stopped close to the head of Carrier Chan who was still laughing. It was the highest grade of Mastery of Control for a two-hand sword. More exactly, it stopped at the point where Chan's head has just been. For Carrier Chan has brought the invisible cup to his lips just at the moment when the stroke fell, and he bent back drinking the invisible liquor. So his head shifted by one fourth of No-Datchi's length. And it suffised. At the same time Chan waved awkwardly his right hand trying to keep his balance. And I happened to be in that hand -- oh, quite casually! And my blade set without effort against the armpit of No-Datchi's Carrier. During the Debate of the Brilliants, especially at the final of a tournament referees are not needed. So No-Datchi understood everything that it had to understand. And having understood it made another stroke for the full length of its blade reducing the distance to a irreparable point and still keeping at the height of my Carrier's head. It even seemed to me that this time No- Datchi might have not managed to stop in time -- although, of course, I could only imagine such a thing. But the contents of the imaginary cup rushed to the head of Carrier Chan faster than the two-hand sword angry with its failure. And Carrier Chan fell to his knees. The drunken Carriers can hardly stand on their feet -- that's why he did it. And as to me, I tickled carelessly the belly of No-Datchi's Carrier and then sank down, tired, at the Carrier Chan's shoulder. The stunned No-Datchi led his Carrier back to ponder over the situation, but Carrier Chan cried hoarsely in protest and followed him turning a somersault. He wanted to continue the game. And the curved lightning of No-Datchi struck from sky to ground once more -- and again on vain. Carrier Chan pretended to be unable to finish the somersault properly, and fell clumsily so that No-Datchi plunged to the ground about a half of its length to the left. By the way I stung the bare heel of No-Datchi's Carrier -- and stopped suddenly, possessed with a strange guess. No-Datchi plunged to the ground. But it couldn't have done it! It couldn't! For it supposed Carrier Chan to be then at that point... And it ought to stop over the ground, over the body, and not in it! Oh, one shouldn't meditate during a Debate. Shouldn't... -- Excuse me,-- whistled No-Datchi falling down abruptly. It missed my hilt just by a bit.-- I'm sorry indeed... And I felt that the fingers holding me are going to die. No. They're already dying. Carrier Chan fell to the grass reddened with blood; his right hand was cut away, and a mute question was beating in his sober eyes. -- But you... You can't be a Lustreless? -- it was all I could whisper losing my consciousness and feeling the mortal grip of the dying fingers. -- Excuse me... -- Be quick, No! Don't be sluggish! -- said a strangely familiar creaking voice beside me, and I managed to notice three quite identical Brilliants, short and resembling a trident without shaft; the three of them were placed at the belt of a meagre clumsy Carrier. They called No- Datchi, they urged it, they didn't give me time to finish my phrase, to think, to see the cause... Why? But then they all disappeared: the two-hand No-Datchi, the trident daggers with similar voices, the sun, dim and not like a... Because darkness came and engulfed them. POSTSCRIPTUM And the spectators didn't understand at first what's happened. When the cheerful Chan Unkor, the heir of Maylanese Vans, begins as usually to pretend to be drunken and the light straight sword in his hand is scurrying faster than the needle of the best Kabir embroideress -- the spectators watched him with hearts full of delight. And who could follow the impredictable movements of the smiling Chan, who could understand the veritable cause or believe the impossible? And those who could follow, those who managed to understand, who were ready to believe -- alas, they were far from there and the crowd that rushed at last to the tournament field overflew and scattered them. The crowd is terrible because you are drawned in it, you get dissolved and you can't cut your way, you're late even if you can see more than the others and the smarting rage is boiling in your heart like the strong flame of a forging furnace! Somewhere in the very midst of the human whirlwind a giant espadon whistled deafeningly over the heads wielded by the mighty hand of Falgrim the Whitehaired, Lord of Lowlese, and the stentoriam roar of the Northerner almost covered the chorus of the crowd. -- Let me go! Let me come to him! Do let me at once! And it was not clear whom the violent Falgrim wanted to see: the unexpected victim or the guilty butcher who'd already run away. And from the eastern grounds gallopped an unsaddled horse; on its back, just like a boy-shepherd, bowed to the horses's neck Emir of Kabir, Daud-abu-Salim himself, and the curved yathagan at his side was beating pitilessly the horses's croup driving it, urging it on... The white tunuc of Diomedes of Kimaena was sliding between the pressed bodies of the gapers and the sickle-like blade-makhaira followed the swarthy and lissom Diomedes using the smallest gaps, pushing the crowded people apart and helping the Kimaenean to make one more step forwadrd... or at least half a step, on and on... At the upper row of western stands near the main entrance stood a girl in a black riding attire trying to understand what's going on. At her side a long pike with multiple notched sprouts at its shaft stood inclined to the tournament field that resembled now a boiling cauldron or a crater of an awakened volcanoe... The noble lady Ak-Ninchi of the House of Chibetay and the Wolf's Broom have managed to come back from the Lower Khakass Mountains when the tournament was already coming to its end, and the scene that opened before them didn't explain anything to them. But only two men were the first to come to Chan Unkor who was bleeding profusely with his hereditary sword and a piece of his own flesh at his side. The one was Kos un-Tanyah, the strict and severe butler of the Unkors with a narrow estoque anxiously swaying at his baldric, and the other was one of the attendants of Emir Daud either a man of motley or a councellor or both at a time. Everybody called him Droudle Muzdry. The butler Kos un-Tanyah was hurriedly tying the mutilated Chan's arm at the elbow with a cord torn from somebody's scabbard, and the squatty jester-councellor Droudle tried to penetrate the raging crowd but he couldn't see anything and full of helpless pesperation had to drop his small razor-sharp yathagan. And this time nobody felt like laughing at him. But in a while the mad ocean of the crowd began to calm down, to divide into separate personal drops and coming to themselves people realized that it was late. Late to justify oneselves, late to seek for the guilty and to punish the malefactors; for everybody there was guilty in a measure and there was nobody to be punished. The Kabireans came too late. -- Let me go to him... Let me go...-- whispered Falgrim Whitehaired, and the giant espadon at his hand drooped mournfully. Never will Gwenil pardon itself for the fight that he failed to win. Translated from Russian by Alina Nemirova.