Canen turned back towards the way from which he had come, finding the time to calm his lungs before his pursuers caught up with him.
The men had followed him tenaciously from the nearby Eastern Brisshal. Their stiff clothing and the swords worn at their waist restricted them to an awkward shuffling run, but it was only a matter of time before they reached him and the martial artist was now tired of running.
So, calmly, Osiris studied them as they belligerently shouldered past other travellers on the path out of the city. The largest of the men led the way, barrelling towards his target with scant regard for his surroundings, bellowing a furious challenge at the top of his voice. His hand already gripped the hilt of his longer sword, and the two others followed meekly in their superior's wake. They were concentrating on keeping pace; one stumbled tall and thin, pale with his exertions, whilst the other limped slightly on his right foot.
Canen wondered for a brief moment what kind of trouble he found himself in this time, and then he pushed the stray thought to one side and focused on the inevitably looming confrontation.
The large man spat from between heavy heaves for air, his words slurred by a regional accent and just a hint of alcohol. "Hand the gold over!"
The samurai's hand remained primed on the hilt of his long katana, his feet set apart just so in a stance ready to strike. He was a warrior itching for blood. Canen knew that he had to choose his words with great care.
"I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken. I have no gold."
The contrast between the two could not have been more pronounced. The samurai was heavy-set and bandy-legged, and Osiris was muscular and lithe. The samurai was of middle age, his complexion ruddy from sake and sun; the martial artist was only just entering manhood, and as pale as one of the dying blossoms that floated about his head, the product of too many hours at study.
"Do it!" the former bellowed angrily, clearly in no mood for reason. His followers settled uneasily into fighting stances, edging around to flank the wanderer on either side. "Or you will pay with your head!" He inched closer, his straw sandals scraping on the stony path. His beady black eyes focused hard, and his hand remained attached to the hilt of his sword.
Canen's eyes narrowed ever so slightly in turn. He heard the whisper of metal on wood as the other men drew steel, slim crescent blades flashing in the morning sun. But the he kept most of his attention on the leader to his fore, and the katana that remained as yet sheathed beneath a layer of malevolent black. He recognised the stance. He saw the specific set of the feet and poise of the torso.
"Please, re-think this." Canen sighed, reluctantly drawing his weapon. He revealed it to be a short, retractable metal staff barely half as intimidating as the samurai's katana. Little more than a striking weapon, it paled in comparison with his opponent's blade; a child's plaything, a mere toy. One final step forward, he settled into his Kwan Ma stance; a fluid form to suit lightning quick polearm combat. He could almost smell the alcohol on the samurai's breath. He could certainly see the grin of triumph on the man's face, certain of imminent victory.
The sword leapt from its scabbard like quicksilver, slashing in a crescent arc towards Canen's face, but it was too late. Years of accumulated practice and martial training birthed a masterstroke of blows, a flurry enacted by the bo-staff. The first parried the death-stroke away, and the second crashed cleanly into the warrior's hand, disarming him. The third was a clean strike to the torso, felling the brute in an instant.
The man gaped in surprise at the unexpected, confusion writ clearly upon his features. His eyes darted about in panic: the tip of his sword as it quivered in the ground, the glimmer of metal that shone from Canen's staff, and the calm on the man's face as he settled to the his toes after a short backwards leap.
"You," he growled, "You'll pay…for this."
The martial artist didn't reply, The soft whimpering of the injured man echoed on the hilltop, his bruised hands grasping listlessly at his fallen hilt, preceded his and his men's escape. Back towards the castle town in the distance, back through the avenue and the earthy paddies to either side.
Canen sighed gently as he replaced the staff into his robes. Then, calmly he slowly sank to the ground at the base of the nearest tree.
The men had followed him tenaciously from the nearby Eastern Brisshal. Their stiff clothing and the swords worn at their waist restricted them to an awkward shuffling run, but it was only a matter of time before they reached him and the martial artist was now tired of running.
So, calmly, Osiris studied them as they belligerently shouldered past other travellers on the path out of the city. The largest of the men led the way, barrelling towards his target with scant regard for his surroundings, bellowing a furious challenge at the top of his voice. His hand already gripped the hilt of his longer sword, and the two others followed meekly in their superior's wake. They were concentrating on keeping pace; one stumbled tall and thin, pale with his exertions, whilst the other limped slightly on his right foot.
Canen wondered for a brief moment what kind of trouble he found himself in this time, and then he pushed the stray thought to one side and focused on the inevitably looming confrontation.
The large man spat from between heavy heaves for air, his words slurred by a regional accent and just a hint of alcohol. "Hand the gold over!"
The samurai's hand remained primed on the hilt of his long katana, his feet set apart just so in a stance ready to strike. He was a warrior itching for blood. Canen knew that he had to choose his words with great care.
"I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken. I have no gold."
The contrast between the two could not have been more pronounced. The samurai was heavy-set and bandy-legged, and Osiris was muscular and lithe. The samurai was of middle age, his complexion ruddy from sake and sun; the martial artist was only just entering manhood, and as pale as one of the dying blossoms that floated about his head, the product of too many hours at study.
"Do it!" the former bellowed angrily, clearly in no mood for reason. His followers settled uneasily into fighting stances, edging around to flank the wanderer on either side. "Or you will pay with your head!" He inched closer, his straw sandals scraping on the stony path. His beady black eyes focused hard, and his hand remained attached to the hilt of his sword.
Canen's eyes narrowed ever so slightly in turn. He heard the whisper of metal on wood as the other men drew steel, slim crescent blades flashing in the morning sun. But the he kept most of his attention on the leader to his fore, and the katana that remained as yet sheathed beneath a layer of malevolent black. He recognised the stance. He saw the specific set of the feet and poise of the torso.
"Please, re-think this." Canen sighed, reluctantly drawing his weapon. He revealed it to be a short, retractable metal staff barely half as intimidating as the samurai's katana. Little more than a striking weapon, it paled in comparison with his opponent's blade; a child's plaything, a mere toy. One final step forward, he settled into his Kwan Ma stance; a fluid form to suit lightning quick polearm combat. He could almost smell the alcohol on the samurai's breath. He could certainly see the grin of triumph on the man's face, certain of imminent victory.
The sword leapt from its scabbard like quicksilver, slashing in a crescent arc towards Canen's face, but it was too late. Years of accumulated practice and martial training birthed a masterstroke of blows, a flurry enacted by the bo-staff. The first parried the death-stroke away, and the second crashed cleanly into the warrior's hand, disarming him. The third was a clean strike to the torso, felling the brute in an instant.
The man gaped in surprise at the unexpected, confusion writ clearly upon his features. His eyes darted about in panic: the tip of his sword as it quivered in the ground, the glimmer of metal that shone from Canen's staff, and the calm on the man's face as he settled to the his toes after a short backwards leap.
"You," he growled, "You'll pay…for this."
The martial artist didn't reply, The soft whimpering of the injured man echoed on the hilltop, his bruised hands grasping listlessly at his fallen hilt, preceded his and his men's escape. Back towards the castle town in the distance, back through the avenue and the earthy paddies to either side.
Canen sighed gently as he replaced the staff into his robes. Then, calmly he slowly sank to the ground at the base of the nearest tree.
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