I’m challenged by a passing traveler at the exact center (a post informs me) of the unnamed pontoon bridge east out of Blockadetown, Center Kingdom—100 meters of slippery cedarwooden floats stretching over the yellowing waters of the Serpentwine River behind me, 100 more at my challenger’s back, too.
The tiger Puck, my steed, that strong swimmer, decides to watch our duel from the drink. The silty, furious current bothers him little.
This traveler wears the chapeau and slippers of the eastern cavern people, rock-colored, surely lined inside with cave ape hair. Holds identical tantōs in each hand: orange blades, priceless cave metal.
‘You an assassin?’ I ask him.
‘Definitely.’
‘And you followed me?’
‘Not quite. River’s the size of a sea, couldn’t track you from across it. Truthfully, my clients said you’d be here—with tremendous accuracy!—but also: I see a sword like yours, I want to fight. You know?’
I did. My sword, the beidhänder Blue Sharp—which too happens to be my name—does that to folks. Men, typically.
We start at trying to cut each other. (Puck shoots a smooth tube of water out his mouth playfully, fountain-like.)
Normally, little blades like this guys’ I’d get by in a swing or two and cut. But the traveler is quick—can tell he’s been educated (or’s educated himself) for at least as long as I. (Puck floats on his back now, light-silver belly up at the sun.) Traveler knicks my cheek with right-hand tantō—I cut into his knee with my Blue Sharp. I say, ‘I’m good to stop if you are.’
‘Let’s keep going,’ this assassin replies. He cuts into my side, hits my vestigial sacks. I slice off the tip of his nose.
‘I see no use in cutting you,’ I say.
‘The use is that you find out if you can do it or not. And if you don’t see the utility there, you should kill probably yourself?’
‘Sheesh! Also, who are you?’ I ask.
He says nothing, obviously.
I add, ‘And why are you doing this?’
‘I’m not allowed to say,’ he says.
‘Give me a hint.’ (Ping, ping!) (That’s our swords.)
‘No. They’ll dock my fee.’
‘How will they know?’
He cuts off my left big toe with both his tantōs, scissor-like. ‘Well…they won’t,’ he says, ‘but I’ll know.’
‘And also, who are they?’ I get the reticent brute’s eye.
‘Shit!—but anyway, who dislikes you? See if you can figure it yourself.’ But I can’t. A lot of people do not like me.
And so, at the dead center of this pontoon bridge over this certain, silty stretch of the Serpentwine, our awkward match continues on for more than an hour, I figure by the light. We both lose plenty blood. (Puck hunts for fishes, occupying himself, spitting out spines and scales like they’re blow darts. Good for him.)
‘I do not wish to end you,’ I say at some point.
‘Speak for yourself! Prepare to be cut.’
Another grueling hour, plus the coming of the night. ‘How about we call it,’ I again suggest.
‘No. Fight,’ my assassin replies.
