But there was a reason the armor was so protective. The kendo sword-the shinai-was more than a meter long, made of four slats of bamboo lashed together. A ninth-dan kendoka, like Sata, could kill someone with one thrust of his bamboo sword.
This was not a sport for wimps.
I quit practicing kendo on a regular basis seven years ago, when Sata retired from the peace force. At the time, I was a capable sho-dan-eight dans below Sata. But what I lacked in experience I made up for in speed. All of his chiding aside, I knew Sata respected my skills.
“Where is your armor, sensei?” I asked.
“It isn’t worth the time it will take me to put it on to go against you, Eight Seconds.”
Cocky bastard.
I grabbed a sword and we walked to the middle of the training room. The floor was cool under my bare feet, and already my hands had begun to sweat inside my gloves.
On first glance, kendo rules were simple. The first person to land two strikes wins. The only strikes that counted were to the head, sides, and wrists.
But scoring was complicated by something called ki-ken-tai-itchi. It translated roughly as spirit. Simply tapping your opponent’s target zones wasn’t enough to score. You had to hit them hard, and your leading foot had to slap the floor the same moment contact was made. You also had to scream out, “Ki-ai!” with feeling.
The first time you did it, it felt silly. But in the heat of a match, swords swinging with full force, each man trying to cream the other, the ki-ais came naturally.
Sata faced me on the floor and bowed. I bowed back. Then we raised our shinai, and the whoop-ass began.
For the first match, I lasted longer than eight seconds, but not by much. After circling each other, I managed to block twice before Sata slapped me upside the head, rocking me backward. To show it wasn’t a fluke, he won his second point by hitting me in the exact same spot. The armor protected me from most of the pain, but it still felt like my head was inside a large bell, being rung.
Second match, Sata focused on my sides. I saw this was his intent, and focused my parries at waist level, trying to keep him from scoring. Since I left my head unguarded, I was able to hold him off for longer, and it took him about two minutes to win.
For our third match, Sata went after my kote. The intensity really kicked up. He was swinging at my wrists, and I was doing my damnedest to block his strikes and protect my wrists. After clashing swords sixty or seventy times in rapid succession, my arms felt like they’d turned into lead, and the lactic acid buildup in my muscles made them ache. Each time I struck his shinai with mine, it was like smacking a brick wall with a hyperbaseball bat. But I kept him at bay, kept him from scoring.
“Better,” Sata said, pausing his barrage. “You still have the speed.”
“You’ve gotten faster. And stronger.”
“I’ve also managed to keep my boyish good looks.”
Sata advanced again, creaming me on the side of my head.
Apparently he’d judged me good enough to no longer focus on specific targets. I took a bit of pride in that. But what I really wanted to do was score a point. I wasn’t big into competitive sports. I preferred competing against myself. Beating my last marathon time. Increasing my bench press by five pounds. But when I did face an opponent, I didn’t like to lose.
I was going to lose against Sata, no question about it. But I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
Sata advanced again. I had a headache, and my arms hurt, but I’d become used to moving in the bulky armor. I’d also been reacquainting myself with Sata’s technique. He was strong, and fast, but his attacks followed patterns. Perhaps he was so used to drilling on a training dummy that he’d forgotten what it was like when someone hit back.
I aimed to show him.
It was unlikely Sata would let me get to his head or throat. Not that I wanted to go there anyway; without his armor, I could seriously injure him if I landed a lucky blow. So I focused on his sides and wrists. He was so used to my defense that if I attacked, I might be able to land a strike by surprise.
Sata went for my kote again, and our bamboo swords clacked and bent as we traded blows. But I didn’t back away this time. I blocked his shots, saw him go in for a thrust, and spun away, bringing my shinai around toward his ribs.
He blocked it, but barely. The attempt apparently delighted him.
“Excellent, Talon-kun!”
He launched into another attack. But either his speed wasn’t as great, or I was anticipating his strikes, because I was able to parry him with much less effort. I could guess the look on my face matched his grim countenance-eyebrows furrowed, lips drawn down in a scowl, veins popping out in the forehead. I continued to block his swings, and then saw the surprise in his eyes when I advanced, making him step backward, and finally catching him off guard and slapping him across the forearm with my shinai, yelling, “Ki-ai!” as I did.
Sata’s eyes went wide in surprise. He looked at his arm. The welt had already begun to raise, his pores leaking tiny droplets of blood.
TEN
It must have hurt like a bitch. Sata’s reaction was not what mine would have been.
He let out a belly laugh.
“Terrific! You’ve saved face, and made me pay for my arrogance, Talon. I was wrong to taunt you by not wearing bo?gu. Please forgive an old fool.”
He bowed. I bowed back.
“So you want to put on the armor for the last point?” I asked.
Sata shook his head. “No. You won’t land another strike.”
Like hell I wouldn’t.
I rushed at Sata and began a steady, deliberate offense. I knew it wouldn’t lead to a point, but maybe I could trick him into making a mistake.
My offense lasted all of five blocked strikes, and then I was on the defense again, my hands a blur as I kept him at bay. Once again, Sata’s strength and skill forced me back, my parries so violent I had to fight to keep my balance. Then, incredibly, he went even faster, his shinai twirling like a heliplane propeller, me practically jogging backward to stay out of harm’s way.
My back hit the wall, surprising me, and Sata thrust at my throat. I jerked to the left, and the tip of his shinai hit me in my unpadded chest. I’d never been attacked with a sledgehammer, but I could guess this was what it felt like. As I dropped to my knees I managed to lash out one-handed and catch Sata on his left side, under his raised arms.
Point. Win.
Sata fell onto his knees next to me, wincing as he held his kidney. He’d hit me harder, but I’d had my ribs to protect me.
We stayed there for a moment, breathing heavy, clutching our respective injuries, and then Sata began to laugh. “Excellent match. Go again?”
“Your pride can’t handle losing, old friend?”
“I may not be able to sleep tonight, I’m so distraught over it.”
“I’ll take a rain check. I really need you to help with something.”
“Of course.” Sata stood and offered his hand to help me up. I took it. My right arm was going a little numb, and I wasn’t as steady on my feet as I would have preferred.
“Are you all right? Ribs cracked?”
I lifted off my helmet, then worked off the gloves. “I think they’re okay. But you may have pinched a nerve.”
“Should we go to the hospital?”
I couldn’t tell if Sata was being sincere, or busting my balls. His twinkling eyes betrayed nothing.
“I’ll be fine. Is there someplace we can talk?”
“The study. I’ll meet you there after I’ve changed. Would you like a morphine pill?”
I took a deep breath, wincing at the pain. Morphine sounded pretty good. But I needed a clear head.
“Aspirin would be better.”
He nodded, then walked off. I managed to extricate myself from the remainder of my uniform and get dressed. The buttons on my shirt were nearly impossible. My fingers had that pins-and-needles sensation, like I’d lost circulation to my arm. He’d gotten me good. I may have won the match, but if it had been a real fight, Sata would be bashing my head open right now.