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they intercede, block his blow. This time the force of the sword is too much to parry, and one of her knives clatters to the ground. She retreats, stepping from one foot to the next, like ballet, her remaining knife describing tight patterns, guarding the vulnerable areas on her body against attack. The warrior is disregarding her, dodging her, intent on the old man, who is slithering on the ground away from them, calling for her to help, and the master is pulling his cell phone out of the pocket on his apron, fumbling to call the police, even as he thinks, You fool, the police wouldn't get involved with something like this, and he must call his wife, because then she could send the troops -- Before he can punch in the number the warrior is upon him, the sword jabbing as quick and delicate as a pin prick, the phone clattering to  |
the ground in sections, and then the handle of the sword thuds against the man's stomach, doubling him over in pain. The warrior whirls on the old man. She is in his way again, doubts surging through her mind, she cannot forget about that forest, the swordsman always dies, the inside of her mouth sticky with fear. Her remaining knife cuts a straight line like a boat glides across the surface of a lake, and blood clouds the warrior's vision as the blade slices through the bridge of his nose, leaving a permanent scar. Even through the mist of red he moves by instinct, like a starving animal, already knowing where she is supposed to be, where she will move next, and so he slashes downward as a feint, and as expected, she moves to her left -- but how did he know she would do that? Too late, even as he asks himself the question his muscles move on their own accord and his sword  |
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