Chapter 1
Test Your Might
Like usual, the bar had its share of lowlifes, scum, and naïve travelers. When the swinging saloon doors opened for the umpteenth time that afternoon, all who saw him assumed him a traveler from a distant land: he wore a wide straw hat, covering his face in shadow. His clothing had seen plenty of use: brown and worn, concealed beneath an equally ratty cloak. A small scar between the corner of his mouth and his chin, the only facial detail visible, told little about the bearer. A sheathed katana rode over his shoulder, the handle wrapped in red. He sat down at an empty stool, ignoring his surroundings, and flagged down the bartender.
The swarthy, balding barkeep put his elbow on the wooden bar top. "What'll you be havin', Mac?"
"Mizu… Water." He did not raise his head or remove his hat.
The bartender was about to hand him his drink when a large shadow came over them. "Uh, Mac, you might want to pick another seat."
The man turned and came face-to-abdomen with a huge, dirty, biker. Looking up, he saw an unshaven face covered with two weeks' worth of a dirty red beard and moustache, and a brown bandanna did its best to cover a mat of tangled, dirty red hair.
Of course, he could barely see his head, as he had puffed out his wide chest, trying to intimidate the little man off his preferred seat. The biker tensed his muscles, his huge arms growing and bulging as he flexed. With one hand, he grabbed the offending sitter and lifted him to his feet, bending down to get right in his concealed face. "Nobadeh," he told him, his breath strong enough to peel paint, "an' Ah mean NOBADEH, be sittin' on mah stool!"
"Remove your hand," the concealed one replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Whut? Are you tellin' ME whut ta do?" he spat down at him. "Nobadeh, an' Ah mean NOBADEH, tells Gorg whut ta do!"
The patrons had seen this too many times. With practiced precision, everyone ducked, jumped, and otherwise hid from the oncoming chaos.
"Put me down."
Surprisingly, Gorg did so, and pushed him backward in a show of strength. "Ah'm gunna crush you like a bug!"
"I will not fight you."
Gorg cracked his knuckles and grinned, showing off a missing tooth. "Then yer gunna DAH!"
The bartender called to the back. "Burry, we've got another one!"
Gorg howled and threw a haymaker blow that had broken countless jaws in the past. It looked to him like he would crush another head today.
His foe moved fluidly to the side, stepping alongside the punch and catching his wrist. In one motion, he flipped Gorg forward and dropped him on his back.
Gorg pushed himself back to his feet, and he reached into his belt and took out a large knife. "Now yer gunna DAH!" He swung it threateningly and then attacked.
The mysterious man hopped forward and planted a kick in the middle of Gorg's torso. It hurled him backward against the bar, and he released the knife. His foe grabbed it out of the air, pushed Gorg down into the bar, raised the knife, and stabbed it down.
The bartender stood in shock. Gorg whimpered, fixing his eyes on the blade of the knife, embedded in the bar top right next to his left ear.
"Never bother anybody again," the man whispered to him.
Gorg pushed himself up and pulled the knife out of the bar top with a shaking hand. "Ah-Ah'll-Ah'll getchu fuh dis!" he threatened as he made a beeline for the doors. "Nobadeh, an' Ah mean NOBADEH, beats Bobroy Gorg and lives!"
"Boku o matsu nozomu." (I will wait) The swordsman returned to his seat, set his sword down on the countertop, and raised the tankard to his lips. Slowly, the bar patrons began to stand up and crawl out from behind their cover, surprised that Gorg had lost.
"I've seen lots of bar brawls," the bartender said, a shake in his voice, "but never in my life have I seen something like that! And, for the record, you are the first person who has ever beaten Gorg in a fair fight!"
The man took another pull of his water and asked, "So?"
"Why'd you say something like that, boy? Gorg is huge, ugly, and gets really ticked off when people sit there! I've had…" He stopped in mid-sentence, turned to the open door in the back, and yelled, "Burry! How many guys've been beaten up by Gorg?"
"Forty-four!" an accented voice replied from the back.
"…Almost four dozen guys get hurt because of him!" He extended his hand in friendly greeting.
"Name's Domm Perinyone."
The man did not return the gesture. He lowered his head and stared down into the mug in front of him.
"There's going to be some tournament held by King LahHroide for…" Domm again turned to the back door. "Burry! What was the tournament's prize again?"
The voice replied, "Fifty grand and a spot on the King's personal guard!"
"Thanks!" Domm said. He turned back to the patron. "I forgot he lost one of them a month ago during an assassination attempt. Sign-up's at the castle; you can sign up until midnight the night before. Expect to see a lot of YahKath there."
He took another drink. "I don't need it; I have nothing to prove."
"You should! You can say you're the man who beat Gorg!"
"What?" he asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
"Gorg's got himself a pretty nasty reputation all over YahKii," Domm said. "I think everyone on the Islands knows who he is!"
The shadowed traveler finished the water and put a small coin on the countertop. Without a further word, he slung his sword over his shoulder and left.
While he walked, his hat obscuring his face, he thought. He thought often on his travels; it helped him focus and concentrate.
The YahKahn Royal Guard only accepts the best of the best. With my skill, I could easily sweep it.
Besides, the prize money couldn't hurt. There doesn't seem to be a market in this area for my specialties.
He decided he could take the time to enter this tournament. He could use the exercise it would give him.
Fast as the wind, as lethal as a falcon's talons, the shrouded one, Falkyn, would enter the world after a long absence.
With the sun setting, Falkyn made it to the castle. In front of the outer wall, they had set up a registration booth and a punching machine to get the top thirty-two scores.
Falkyn watched from the slow-moving line as dozens of burly men took shots at the padded target. He listened carefully to the numbers that the attendants announced after each punch.
"One twenty! One hundred! Ninety-four! One-oh-five!"
When Falkyn approached the booth, he wrote his name in the registration book, below a long list of many of the top names in the combat sport world.
The woman at the booth looked at his entry, and then told him, "We need your full name; you can't use an alias."
"That is my name. I do not have any other name."
"Do you have valid picture ID?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Well, hit the machine while I work this out."
Falkyn approached the punching machine and set his sword down. He opened his cloak and readied himself to strike. He closed his eyes and held his hands together, taking in a deep, cleansing breath.
"Hey! Sometime today!" an impatient fighter shouted.
He didn't let that break his concentration. He concentrated, putting all his strength into one fist and one blow. Raising his fist, he pointed it at the center of the target, pulled back, and let out a yell as he drove his punch into the target.
The attendant looked stunned as he read the number. "Two hundred! Only Kalmur Sozata hits that hard!"
Satisfied that he had done well, Falkyn picked up his sword and started to leave. Another attendant stopped him before he got too far away. "Come with me. We need to take a picture, for identification purposes."
He led him to a gray screen and asked him to remove his hat. Falkyn reluctantly untied it and held it below the camera's view as the light flashed and it printed out an identification card.
"You'll need this to get in tomorrow," the cameraman said as he handed the card to Falkyn. He examined the card, with his picture, name, and punching score.
I am not photogenic, he noticed.
On the way to a local inn, he overheard a woman's voice say, "Go away! I told you: it's over between us!"
"C'mon!" a man's voice said. "You're just playing hard to get, babe! I know you want me…"
Falkyn followed the sound to find a tall, but not muscular man looming over a brunette woman who looked very young and very distressed. He didn't know what to do, so he continued by, but kept an ear out.
"Go away, or I'll scream!"
When Falkyn heard that, he stopped and stepped back toward them. He remained just out of sight, and observed from inside the shadows.
The man stepped closer and looked down on her, trying to make her feel small. "Listen, you're going to come with me."
She told him, in no uncertain terms, "No," and then she slapped him.
Falkyn could sense what would happen next, so he came out of the shadows and approached the situation.
When she saw the stranger appear, she looked to him and cried, "Help, please!"
Her boyfriend saw him, too, and he pushed her away as he approached him. "Hey, freak," he said, "just turn around and walk away."
Rather than do what he said, Falkyn came closer. "Leave her alone," he told him.
"You're dead, buddy!" The tall man threw a punch, hoping to knock some sense into him. Falkyn grabbed the incoming fist in his right palm and flipped him onto the filthy ground.
"What are you?" he asked as he got up.
"Falkyn," he replied. He brought out his sword and wrapped his fingers around the handle.
"Sayonara," he told him, pulling a small length of his blade free with a hiss of metal on leather.
"You're going to be dead soon!" the man threatened as he slowly backed away, and then turned and fled.
"Is that your name, Falkyn?" the woman asked. "Thanks. I'm Li'na."
Falkyn put the sword over his shoulder and lowered his hat. As he prepared to leave, Li'na said, "Wait. Where are you going?"
Falkyn brushed her off, without saying a word. She followed him as he walked away, ignoring her inquiries, and when he turned the corner, she caught up, only to find no trace of him. He had vanished, seemingly into thin air.
She looked around, completely bewildered. "Huh? How'd he do that?"
The next day saw the tournament at the Castle of King LahHroide. Spectators from all around packed the grandstands of the stadium. The noise deafened, but the King's voice cut through the chatter, thanks to the state-of-the-art sound system.
"Thirty-two of the bravest souls have come here to test their mettle in one-on-one combat! The grand prize for the winner, the greatest warrior to grace these islands, is to become the newest member of my royal guard! I wish all of the fighters… good luck!"
Falkyn sat in one of the back rooms of the arena, tightening the braid on the handle of his sword as he awaited his first match. A guard entered the room and announced, "Falkyn, you have a fan here. She said it was very important to talk to you."
Falkyn did not expect anything like this; he always did his best to stay out of sight. He pondered this event, when into the room entered the brunette he had encountered not a day earlier. "Li'na," he acknowledged her, taking his eyes off the handle of his blade long enough only to give a passing glance.
She sat down next to him. "I figured you'd be here, so I asked at the registration booth yesterday. Sure enough, you were registered."
He said nothing as he twisted the wrapping around the handle, giving it half-turns to form an intricate diamond-shaped pattern.
"You don't talk much, do you?"
Falkyn laid the re-tied sword at his side and folded his hands.
"I guess not."
Li'na opened her mouth to speak again when the guard called Falkyn to the arena for the qualifying round.
The gong rang, and Falkyn sized up his opponent. The fighter came in, faked low, and jabbed high. Falkyn brought up an arm to parry, and in a blur of motion, drove a palm strike into his chest. He stumbled back, and Falkyn spun around and raised a high spinning kick. Falkyn's foot crossed his foe's face, sending his mouth guard and a trail of saliva flying through the air. He fell to the mat, and the official dropped to his side and raised a hand, indicating that he couldn't continue.
In his next match, Falkyn's foe stepped and kicked almost as soon as the match started. Falkyn caught the kick and swept his other leg out from under him, following him down and striking with a stiff jab to the sternum as he fell.
After the official ended the match, an announcer came on. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new record: three-point-seven seconds! That beats the previous record set by Kalmur Sozata by two full seconds!"
The audience's fervor persisted throughout the arena, even to the very top rows. One man, in particular, watched with keen eyes.
It's him. He looked over his shoulder to the lip of the open-air stadium. His accomplice had his position, so he got up from his seat and moved toward that location.
"Come on!" his opponent shouted as he bobbed left and right, motioning for him to attack. "Come on!"
Falkyn waited, studying his movements, and figured out a plan of attack. He inched forward, keeping his eyes on his opponent's hands and feet, and he made his next move when he saw a kick coming in: he weaved beneath the strike and hit him in the back of the knee. When he went down, Falkyn pulled him back by the hair and drove an elbow into his chest.
Are these the "greatest warriors to grace these Islands?" Falkyn felt ashamed to match fist and spirit with these fools.
He arrived in time to see his accomplice pulling back the string of his heavy crossbow and loading a barbed quarrel. "It's almost time," he told him. "Take your position and get ready."
"Watch out for Kalmur Sozata," Li'na told him as he rested before the final elimination round. "He's a nine-time martial arts champion, and nobody's ever beaten him."
"Yet." A tiny crackle of energy danced in his eyes. He could already taste his victory.
Falkyn weaved through his next foe's incredible onslaught, slipping away from his fast strikes, and then he closed in for the kill. He ducked beneath a snapping jab and struck at his ribs with two fingertips. Falkyn immobilized him with that blow, and he finished with a knife hand chop to the neck.
As attendants carried away the stunned fighter, Falkyn stretched an arm while he waited to fight the only other competitor left in the tournament.
"The nine-time YahKii National Martial Arts Champion," came the announcement, "Kalmur Sozata!"
The stadium exploded in a standing ovation for their hero. He stepped into the bright lights, clad in a sweat-soaked white combat uniform, his hands protected by padded gauntlets. He put his mouth guard in and entered the circle.
"I've never seen anyone as good as you, Outsider," Kalmur said as he approached.
The gong rang and the battle commenced.
"Wait for it," he told his companion as the larger man took aim with his weapon.
Kalmur hopped forward and drove a powerful kick toward Falkyn's chest. If he hadn't lunged backward, the kick might have crushed him. He brought up his arms to parry Kalmur's snapping fist and quick palm strike.
He saw Kalmur going for another kick, so Falkyn wrapped his foot around Kalmur's ankle, pinning his foot to the ground. At such close range, the two fighters could only trade blows, but Falkyn stepped back before Kalmur could throw a punch.
He raised his hand. "Almost time…"
Kalmur and Falkyn circled, studying each other's movements. Kalmur stepped forward and jabbed, but Falkyn brought up an arm to parry. Falkyn's counterattack met a parry as well, and they continued their game of thrust and counterthrust, each hoping to find a chink in the other's defenses.
He lowered his hand. "Now."
Kalmur pushed off the ground and brought both legs around in a helicopter kick as Falkyn crouched and swept a leg out. As Kalmur touched down, he ducked to avoid Falkyn's jumping spin kick.
The crossbow bolt ripped through the air, passing over the rows of spectators.
Kalmur leaped and kicked again, and Falkyn ducked again, but the bolt struck him in the leg, burying itself in the strong muscle of his calf. He yelped in surprise and pain as he came down, falling and grabbing his wounded leg.
Pandemonium erupted in the stadium, and the shooter hurried to cock the string and load another quarrel.
"No!" his accomplice shouted. "We have to get out of here." He blurred and disappeared, and his ally took flight, leaping off the rim of the stadium and spreading his wings.
Falkyn looked around, but didn't see anything as he quickly scanned the edge of the stadium. Medics came out to attend to Kalmur as the announcer came on the speakers.
"An unforeseen event has just occurred. We ask that you remain calm and seated as security sweeps the stadium. Due to this event, this match has been declared a no contest."
Security surrounded Falkyn as he told them, "I had no part in what just happened."
"A strange fighter shows up right before what would be Sozata's tenth championship, and then Sozata goes down with a crossbow bolt in his leg during the last match?" One of the men sneered. "That sounds fishy to me."
"Maybe I was the target? Either press charges or let me leave."
The security team allowed him to go, but the team leader put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll still keep an eye on you, Outsider."
Falkyn left the city limits as soon as he could. He wanted to get away from the possible surveillance
"Hey! W-Wait up!"
Li'na jogged up to him, out of breath. He never ceased walking, forcing her to keep up with his brisk pace.
"Where're you going in such a rush?"
He didn't respond, and he didn't slow down. Li'na, still winded, did her best to stay with him.
"Come on! Why so quiet?" What is this guy's problem? "Can I go with you? I don't live here, so I've got nothing to worry about. I won't get in the way, and I've been told I'm a good cook."
Persistent woman. He stopped and turned to face her. "If you plan on following me, stay out of my way, unless you want some form of self-defense training."