Bladeraver (pt58) (258 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.87 on 11 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Tactile Ire (View user info) at 2007-05-02 18:36:53 EDT
The election campaign rolled on. The larger parties had begun to notice them now. The faxes and the broadsheets were now sniping at their ideology, naming them fascists and greenies; communists and liberals. Almost any political label that smacked of ancient failure and discredited assumptions was heaped on their heads. The public, initially responsive to their fresh alternative, quickly began to swing against them. People began taking their opinions from the biased press rather than any attempt at objective analysis.
Jeena shook off her frustrations and campaigned tirelessly on. Her personality and drive held the campaign together in the face of growing resistance. She shone; and those around her tried so hard to carry that shine to the other dwellers in the pile.
*********
He returned from another recruitment meeting, tired, worn out with the smiling and smarming he had to do every day. He walked through the enclave and into his room.
He knew immediately that something was amiss. What? He scanned the room, crossed it in two strides and dropped to inspect the floor beneath the bed. There was a small scuff mark in the dust there. He pushed the bed aside and pulled the hidden trapdoor up. From the hole beneath he pulled a small, locked cargo box. He applied the key and lifted the lid revealing a smooth and uninterrupted felt lining.
The relics were gone. The honeysalve. The stingers. They were gone.
He froze in place as his mind tumbled the problem. The match was in a two days, it would be rigged to murder him and he had just lost his ace in the hole.
Puila.
Right now his enemy was trading his pieces for cash. Cash that would be bet on the Mantling to lose. Cash that meant Puila might not need to bet his entire holdings on the fight to raise enough funds for the expedition. But even that failure was secondary to the Mantling now. He was going to die. Without charge and without the relics he would die. He hadn't thought his enemy could get in here. He hadn't thought he was vulnerable. Too long living away from people, he chided himself, too long fighting the inhuman. He'd forgotten what determined men could be capable of. Forgotten how Puila broke open homes to end his enemies.
Puila who came into your home and took what he wanted, and in doing so destroyed your life. Again.
The resonance with that earlier betrayal rocked him down onto his haunches and he sat, blinking, as the old darkness and pain and rage reached out and took hold of him anew. The dark storm of emotion he'd frozen out all those moons ago thundered through him. He could barely see for rage. His hands clawed the floor as his mind spun and crashed.
He could short cut his plans. Go take his revenge now. The quick way. But oh, how he wanted his enemy to suffer. Wanted him to know the pain of losing it all. Needed it, even. For things to be right.
So he would have to see the plan through. He would have to win. Against unknown odds he would have to win. But how?
How?
PuilaandbitchwithhimwhotoremeapartTWICE!
Stop. Leave that. That's for later. C'mon. Control that emotion.
Breathe.
Mu.
Mu.
How the fell am I going to do this?
*
He wandered back to the old neighbourhood. Up and down the dank tunnels, crowded with the warm press of humanity. He shuffled past cramped alcoves and tiny burrowed hovels. He discovered a strange thing. The home he could remember so clearly was gone. It might still be here but he had no memory to guide him to it. He quickly abandoned any hope of finding the site of his earliest memories. That wasn't his intention here. Instead, he hung around tunnel intersections. He idled past shuttered stores. Whenever he spied a young man with strong limbs and a menacing air he would shadow the man for a time. In this manner he was drawn in a roundabout fashion to an area where one mighty trunk was bridged up against its neighbours. The uncertain slope had been floored off and the space sliced into long runs by sagging timber walls.
A warehouse district.
He was accosted by a small boy who handed him a scroll and then ran into one of the buildings. With a cautious air he opened the scroll. It contained a message to 'the stalker of students,' inviting him to follow the boy if he dared. A short sprint brought him through a dilapidated warehouse, down an alley and into the back of another long, low hall. There seven men armed with fighting sticks, man-catchers and ninja-to - short, curved swords - waited. The boy was on the other side of the bravos, eyes wide and drinking.
Uncertain of himself the Mantling took an easy stance and waited. One of the young men spoke, voice easy with the confidence of numbers. "We know you Spikehand. There is no bladerave here. What are you up to?"
The Mantling paused, weighing out words with the care of a cheminer mixing reagents. "I was told of a school. A place that trains men. A place that has helped unmake bladeravers in the past."
The men glanced at each other. Their spokesman lowered his head. "You cannot find that place with your eyes. Your feet may not walk there."
The Mantling considered these words. They sounded like a refusal and yet the phrasing was precise. A rote-learned thing. "Will you be my eyes and feet then?" he ventured.
"That's close enough to the old forms for me," came the reply. "Take him."
The Mantling dropped his hands and stood straight as the men lowered their weapons and surged forwards. They grabbed him ungently. A bag was thrust over his head and he was hauled from his feet. His body trembled with reaction. The similarity to his treatment by the mants all those moons ago battered at his defences.
He still fought for calm several minutes later when he was dropped to the ground. With relief - trying not to show undue haste - he pulled the bag from his head. Here was another warehouse. This one had been converted to a dojo. Pads, wooden blocking poles, light balsa targets and racks of practice weapons lined the edges of a large, lightly padded clothweave mat. The light from overhead alcofuel lamps fell in pools on various parts of the room. In one such circle of light sat a powerfully built man. He looked to be some fifty moons old. His close-cropped hair was more grey than black. He was cross-legged on the floor and he showed no awareness of his guest. Mantling approached the seated figure as the older man looked up. "You sought this dojo?" The old man's voice was smooth and deeply pitched. Suddenly unsure of himself, the Mantling nodded. When this elicited no response he spoke.
"I have studied under a former pupil. I seek further training." Feeling this to be inadequate he added in a low voice, "I need your help to meet my obligations to my father."
The seated man nodded slowly. "A test then," he said, sweeping his arm in a gesture that encompassed the dojo before him.
The Mantling turned regarding the various pieces of apparatus. What did this man on the mat require? A display of blade skills? He looked at the weapons racks. A display of agility? Speed? Strength? He looked over the mats and pads and wooden blocking poles. A show of kata? He mentally reviewed the old forms Ramoon had drilled into him. Thinking about his teacher brought old advice on balance to the forefront of his mind. This man on the mat knew he was a bladeraver. His physical prowess was not in question. He turned his back on the well-appointed dojo, knelt before the grey-haired man and cleared his mind. Slowly his meditative state soothed his doubts as he sat and concentrated on the act of concentration.
A great menacing pressure loomed over his shoulder. Panting and flinching the Mantling rolled to the floor, spinning around to find himself still alone with the motionless old man. With confused chagrin he knelt again and concentrated.
The black calm beckoned. His being yearned for the long peace, the warm suffusion of loss that called to his tired and maimed spirit. From deep within himself came the knowledge that this was death and, unbidden, the sun-dappled glade was there. His father's voice cracked across him.
"Survive this."
And he was turning, fighting, struggling, seizing breath and awareness as light returned and he discovered himself pitched forward on the mat before the old man. As he righted himself he knew he had failed in some way but was unsure how, or what the ramifications might be.
As he adopted the kneeling position for a third time the old man looked up and spoke with a kindly air. "That is enough, son of the Lyon. Come. We will take tea."
Shaken, the Mantling followed the older man back into the gloom.
*
They were kneeling facing each other again. This time in a small alcove in the back of the great hall. The older man was brewing an infusion of herbs as he spoke - his steady voice filling the space between them. "I knew your father when he first came to us, nearly ruined with the poison of his trade and struggling to find himself. You have his look and his spirit. Like you he was torn apart by pain. But something tells me your need here is more urgent, if not so pressing."
The Mantling nodded. "I am to face an unknown foe on the sandfloor. I know only three things. That the odds will be deliberately stacked against me. That I cannot use their poisons. And that I must win."
The old man set down his teacup. "I am sorry we have not been able to help you. If you manage to survive the bout please feel free to come and train with us." The dismissal was so unexpected the Mantling felt himself floundering. Lost for words, he actually stammered. "But...but...but..."
"Do you need this thing explained to you young one?" the grey-haired man's voice was kind and patient. Awkward with confusion, suspecting he was condescended to, the Mantling mutely nodded. "There are two ways a man can train himself and his mind to achieve the speed and focus of a true warrior. Two methods to find the peace of the internal void where the mind masters the body. When you knelt before me out there what did you first feel?"
"A great menacing presence. A barely restrained violence," said the Mantling.
"This is the power you project. I merely mirrored this back at you. Like a young Musashi, you are strong and merciless like a great storm. Your strength is in motion and action. The very antithesis of the internal peace that comes from being in balance. You are a great destroyer and slayer - but to gain the peace of a truly focused warrior would take you moons of unlearning what you currently know. Many hours of study and meditation. Hours you do not have."
"And the second way to achieve this calm?" asked the Mantling, unsure of how to take what the older man was telling him.
"The second way is the acceptance of death. The way of the Zen. To become one with nothingness and so find an end to pain and hope and fear. To find the enlightenment at the heart of all life by forgetting your troubled self. This is the way most open to your spirit but when I guided you towards this path you came upon an ingrained block. There is something within you that will never accept the gentling of that good night."
The Mantling nodded, "My father's geas," he breathed. "I must survive."
"And so, we here at your master's old school cannot help you in what you now face." The old man's compassion cut the Mantling like a knife. He lurched up and staggered away. He went back into the great dojo where he found his escort waiting. The old man was at his shoulder, calling to the young bravos. "This man is a friend of the school. He may come and go as he pleases. Show him the path to the passway."
The Mantling followed his guides, barely noticing the route they walked. His thoughts were roiling. To withdraw from the fight now would mean having to abandon this city and all the plans he had. To fight as he was would be suicide. To take the drug was to surrender rational control - a wild throw of the dice that left his fate far too open to the vagaries of chance. He must find a way to win this thing. Mind burning he walked the mouldy tunnels of this poor district, searching for a solution, his worry apparent in every aimless step.
User Reviews
Submitted by Snare (user info) at 2007-05-03 18:51:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by genericIntent (user info) at 2007-05-03 18:04:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm going to admit this story has bothered me most of today. I like the plot twist making Hunter face greater danger, but having Hunter store the relics in such an obvious location and not expect treachery from Puila do not fit with his character. You broke my suspension of disbelief and the rest of the story fell flat. Perhaps if the betrayal came from someone closer who would have unrestricted access to Hunter's living quarters, then it would have worked better for me.
If this is some misdirection aimed at us readers, then it is still weaker than your previous successes.
Regardless, I'm enjoying this series. I do hope you try to publish.
____________________________________________________________________
You're right. The story would work better if I push Flens further out into Puila's influence and have her steal the goods. Which is kind of what I tried to hint at, but this point obviously needs a re-write.
Submitted by genericIntent (user info) at 2007-05-03 18:04:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm going to admit this story has bothered me most of today. I like the plot twist making Hunter face greater danger, but having Hunter store the relics in such an obvious location and not expect treachery from Puila do not fit with his character. You broke my suspension of disbelief and the rest of the story fell flat. Perhaps if the betrayal came from someone closer who would have unrestricted access to Hunter's living quarters, then it would have worked better for me.
If this is some misdirection aimed at us readers, then it is still weaker than your previous successes.
Regardless, I'm enjoying this series. I do hope you try to publish.
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2007-05-03 12:54:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by genericIntent (user info) at 2007-05-03 10:31:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by zwerg (user info) at 2007-05-03 10:29:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by messmind (user info) at 2007-05-03 06:35:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-05-02 22:51:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2007-05-02 20:18:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I thought that the explanations from the dojo master were well described. Always a pleasure to read your work.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-05-02 18:46:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
light at the end of the tunnel?
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-05-02 18:46:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You get another one, because I LIKED this.
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-05-02 18:40:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2