Path of the Eclipse (26 page)

As the other fighter deliberately drew his weapon, he taunted Saint-Germain. “My katana will make ribbons of your entrails.” The steel blade glowed in the light, the sun winking jewellike on the edge.

Saint-Germain knew that his blade was perhaps two hand-spans longer than this fighter’s weapon, but he was cautious. He had heard tales of the swords made on Honshu, so keen that they could slice a man from neck to hip without slowing the speed of their descent. Several of the alchemists he had known in Lo-Yang vowed they had seen such demonstrations, and he had very nearly believed them. Now that he saw this weapon, he understood how the reports might be true, for the slight moiré pattern that glinted on the steel could only indicate a fine layering, a complex laminate tempered many times with salt and leather and blood.

“No man passes me!” the warrior announced, assuming a posture as deliberate as a dancer’s. “I am Saito Masashige, grandson of Taira Kiyomori, the hero of Gion and Dan-noura; great grandson of the scourge of the pirates, Taira Tadamori. My father distinguished himself at the Battle of Uji and his valor gained him much favor and recognition. I was honored by my ruling lord and sent as a pledge of mutual respect to the great Warlord Mon Chio-Shing at the behest of the Emperor of the Middle of the World, and have been decorated by that August Hand at the Imperial City in K’ai-Feng. It is a privilege to meet death at my hands.” The words were ritualistic and obviously required a reply.

With a sardonic smile, Saint-Germain said, “I am Francs Ragoczy, Count of Saint-Germain, son of a King, initiate priest, alchemist, magician. In the Empire of the Middle of the World, I am called Shih Ghieh-Man, and was not given the name lightly. The history of my blood is long indeed, and I will not recount it, for it goes back three thousand years. It is fitting that my opponent is so great a hero, for I do not wish to sully my hands with lesser men.” He held the long sword in one hand, a considerable feat.

Saito Masashige gave a growling laugh, not unlike the sound of a cat hissing. He held his sword at the ready. “Son of a King, you call yourself, foreigner, and yet you hang back.”

Saint-Germain moved two steps nearer, but not far enough to stand on the gravel of the road. It would be folly to try to fight on such unstable footing. “If you are a great hero, then come to me, Saito Masashige.” Now that he knew he would fight, he had to control the reckless anticipation that wakened in him. It was so tempting to throw himself into the battle, to take needless risks for the exhilaration of it, and the possible true death that waited in the katana’s lethal touch. The fury and despair that had smoldered in him sought the oblivion of destruction.

The other man grimaced as he stepped to the side of the gravel. Now he was somewhat closer to Saint-Germain, though there was still too great a distance between them for any real combat.

Too late, Saint-Germain realized that he was being maneuvered so that he would have to fight with the sun in his eyes. A few more paces and Masashige would be with his back to the sun. “If that is your game…” Saint-Germain said quietly, then took a few short steps, then leaped over the gravel to land on the same side of the trail as Saito Masashige stood. It took him a moment to recover, and in that time, the other man had reached up to the knives in his headband and flicked one at his opponent. The sting in his shoulder told Saint-Germain what had happened more than what he had seen, and at once he knew that if he allowed himself to be distracted, even to look at the little weapon lodged just below his collarbone, that the katana would flash down, cutting effortlessly through bone and muscle, bringing with it the death that had eluded him for so long.

“Ha!” Masashige cried out, his katana snapping as it turned in his hand to allow for a backhanded slice.

Saint-Germain was already out of range, moving his longer, heavier, less wieldy sword from his right to his left hand. Few men were capable of swinging the weapon with both hands, let alone one, and Saint-Germain saw Masashige hesitate for the flicker of an eyelid before moving toward him, the sword rushing like an extension of his arm toward his adversary.

The rashness which had threatened to overcome him now faded as Saint-Germain jumped back and brought his long sword around in a horizontal arc. He was fully aware that when the point of the blade was at the farthest extent of its swing that he would be vulnerable to attack, and would not be able to bring the sword down quickly enough to stop the katana from sliding through him. He let the weight of his weapon pull him around so that the momentum was not interrupted, lunging forward as he came out of the turn.

Masashige was startled by this maneuver, but made sufficient recovery to take one cut at Saint-Germain’s back as he spun with his long sword. He was not close enough to reach his target, and did not have time to move closer before the long sword was whistling toward him, driving him back as Saint-Germain attacked.

Steel rang on steel, once, twice, and then both men stepped back, the points of their weapons slightly lowered as each regarded the other.

Saint-Germain saw now that the negligent way with which Masashige held the hilt of his katana was deceptive. That loose right hand, above the small guard—for the katana had no quillons—was part of the man’s formidable skill. He had seen other men with that curious ease with their weapons, and knew that inevitably those were the most formidable fighters. The left hand, behind the right, was firmer on the hilt and the marked sinews in his arm gave mute testimony to his strength.

“We cannot fight here!” Saito Masashige called out, a little short of breath. “There, the ground is firm underfoot.”

“Yes.” Saint-Germain looked where the other man pointed, though he knew he risked being struck with another of the little knives. “It is no honor to kill a man because he lost his footing, is it?” he asked kindly, but his face was hard.

“You are not like most of them,” Masashige said, as if it were an explanation.

“No.”

The area Saito Masashige had indicated was fairly near the fortress walls, a wide expanse of hard, dry earth. The flat space was oblong, and for an instant Saint-Germain was painfully reminded of the Roman circus. This was much smaller, and there were fewer spectators, but it had the same deadly feel of that long-vanished place.

Nothing was said, but both men selected a position that would not force the other to look into the sun. This was no longer a simple challenge, but a contest of both skill and honor. The men watching on the battlements were silent; Tzoa Lem and Rogerio were silent.

“Ready!” Saint-Germain said, lifting his point once again.

Saito Masashige brought his sword up at the same time, grunting his assent. There was a difference in their movements now. They were quick, crisp, cleaner, more dangerous.

Yet neither did more than stand for some little time, sword ready, watching the other. Once Saito Masashige shifted his weight as if nervous, but Saint-Germain was not deceived. He kept his position, and his sword did not waver. He would not be lured by such an opening. His dark eyes were as enigmatic as they were intense and did not leave the hands of his adversary.

The exchange, when it came, happened swiftly. At one moment both men stood apart, waiting, still, and in the next instant there was a rushing, a shining arc as Saito Masashige’s katana was deflected by the circle of Saint-Germain’s long sword that began above his head and swept downward, shielding his body. The scrape of the swords was the only sound on the hillside. Then the men separated again, each taking up his anticipatory stance.

Saito Masashige planted his feet as if determined to force Saint-Germain to come to him. The long curve of his sword glistened from the sweat that had run down his arms and over his hands. His right foot, somewhat advanced of the left, seemed hardly to touch the ground.

Outwardly, Saint-Germain was as serenely alert as Masashige, but his mind was filled with alarm. He had felt a shudder pass through the long sword as it struck the katana, and he knew that had the blow been direct, the fine Damascus steel would have shattered. He could sweep the other man’s sword aside, but could not risk a direct blow from that weapon. How long would it take Masashige to understand the full extent of his power? One more exchange, two at the most, and his opponent would make Saint-Germain’s blade his target. The pressure of the francisca under his belt was comforting, though he dared not depend on the little throwing ax.

He was so preoccupied with this problem that he missed the slight tremor of Masashige’s hands before he made a sudden leap forward, his sword sliding downward, snapping as it turned to move upward, the bow of the blade pressing toward Saint-Germain’s side, exposed now as he brought his long sword up.

Again the blades met and sparks danced where they struck. Both men confined the engagement to one move—attack, parry—and then they were far apart, Saito Masashige less than an arm’s length from the walls of the fortress, Saint-Germain almost standing on the low-growing scrub that lined the trail.

Now that he had a moment, Saint-Germain was tempted to pull the knife from his shoulder, though he did not. The blade was painful but there had been little bleeding. Once it was removed, there would be nothing to stop the blood. By force of will he eased the tension in his neck and jaw and back; tightness would slow him down, and against a weapon that was faster, he could not afford the most minute delay. He moved cautiously, his sword ready, to a place slightly nearer Masashige. His left hand, holding the long sword, did not waver, but he knew that with the little knife sunk in his shoulder, his right hand would be weakened. He paced forward another three steps.

Saito Masashige was poised for a renewed rush, but did not expect Saint-Germain to alter his tactics and sprint toward him, the long, heavy sword aimed squarely at his chest. At the last instant his katana sliced sideways and the long sword nicked the armor covering his hips before Saint-Germain could swing it toward Masashige’s head.

Now that he felt the tidelike rhythm of this fight, Saint-Germain was able to move with it, his well-knit body graceful in its power, his sword arm relentless. Five times he and Masashige sped together, their swords flickering over one another like flames, then separated.

On the sixth pass, Masashige faltered, so very slightly, in the speed of the turn of his katana, and Saint-Germain pressed the advantage. His only chance, he knew, was to tire the other man, to outlast him, since he could not match him for quickness. Until this battle, he had thought his Byzantine long sword a superior weapon, but he realized now that it was clumsy and slow. Dangerous as he knew the katana to be, he could only admire it, and the unparalleled skill of the fighter who used it.

Two more swift engagements came rapidly and for the first time Masashige was forced to retreat. Saint-Germain did not make the mistake of extending himself too far when his own position was perilous. He whirled his sword over his head once as he stepped back, and saw that Masashige had darted a swift, apprehensive glance at the knife lodged below his collarbone. Under other circumstances Saint-Germain would have been grimly amused by this, but this combat was far too stark to allow this.

Saint-Germain was ten or eleven paces away from Saito Masashige when he saw the other man lift his hand, and suddenly there was a sharp pain in his thigh. A second knife had been thrown. This time he could not ignore it. He reached down and tugged at the knife, and that was when Masashige ran at him, sword lifting for the ultimate blow.

The Byzantine blade took the full impact of the katana’s downward sweep with the sound of breaking walls. Saint-Germain had just swung it aside when the Damascus steel made a sound not unlike a sob, then broke, leaving him holding a stump of a weapon.

Saito Masashige flicked the katana, confident that it would end the battle, but Saint-Germain was out of range. Though there were two knives in him now, though he must surely be in pain, he appeared to have lost none of his strength. For the first time superstitious fear gave voice to the questions that puzzled him. The foreigner in black had announced he was a magician, and his name implied mastery and skill of imposing potency. He approached the man carefully, his sword held up.

Saint-Germain moved with uncanny swiftness. Wherever Masashige struck with his katana, Saint-Germain eluded him. Three more knives were thrown and two found their mark, one high in his left arm, the other grazing his calf as he sprang from the hard-packed earth where they fought, to a boulder standing beside the road. As he gained his footing on the rough stone, he reached for the francisca in his belt, tugging the ax free. It shone as the sun winked on the wedge-shaped blade as Saint-Germain began to swing it.

Masashige was striding nearer, katana rising before him.

The francisca made a disquieting purr as Saint-Germain gave it one test swing. He vaulted onto a rocky outcrop, out of range of the katana.

“What cowardice is this?” Saito Masashige yelled at him, voice cracking with fatigue.

Saint-Germain braced himself, certain that if he remained on the tumbled boulders, he would be picked off with those little knives that served Masashige in place of a coronet. The francisca moaned as he swung it again. “Don’t force me to kill you.” It was strange to say that, and to know that it was true: he did not want to kill this man. There had been too much of killing, too much of the numbness that denied grief. His compelling eyes were without anger.

For a reply, Masashige threw another knife, giving a sharp, pleased shout as it left a furrow along Saint-Germain’s brow.

Saint-Germain was already giving the francisca its final swing when the ram’s horn sounded again. He did not allow it to distract him, but felt momentarily disappointed that so fine a fighter as this Saito Masashige should use such a ploy. He was ready to throw the ax when he heard Rogerio’s shout.

“Master! The gate!”

At this, both Saint-Germain and Masashige turned. The huge gates of the Chui-Cho fortress were swinging open.