Blade Master
Water fell down a short drop into a large pond. Fish swam lazily in the waters. The gardens were peaceful as students filed in. Noble men and women, here to study beneath the famed Blade Master.
This rite of passage, widely celebrated for all people of high birth. Their coming of age required a sword dance. They needed the Blade Master. The students gathered around the pool, dressed in their white dueling pads.
The day wore on, then on. Noon approached and there was no sigh of the Blade Master. The children of the great and powerful waited, dipping their feet in the water.
Then, suddenly bushes were parted and a wild looking man in red velvet. A branch poked from his hair. His eyes burned red. The smell of whiskey followed him as a cloud. “Ah. Students. Good.”
He walked impressively out onto the waterfall, his boots sinking into the water. His blade hung loose from his belt. “Here stands the flower of our city. The best of people.” His head swiveled with large movements to see them all. “Your future husbands are here. Your future wives. Look around. Some of you are already betrothed.”
He drew his sword and lumbered off to his right. The first student shook as the Blade Master advanced on her.
“Draw your sword,” he commanded.
She obeyed. He lunged at her in a slow, drunk motion. She flailed her sword up and parried. The Blade Master stumbled off into the bushes. He slowly collected himself. None of the students rushed to help him. The woman who parried looked around wildly to her peers.
The Blade Master picked himself up. He leveled his blade at her. “Well done. You have passed.” He stumbled towards the next student, who drew their blade. “See I can’t fail any of you because then your fathers would kill me. If all of you pass, then there is no reason to study that culture that made you great.” He lunged and again was parried.
“You pass. It means nothing to you. Not to any of you. How could you care? You care for nothing real.” Each weak parry was defeated by subsequent students. Each success was named successful.
“Soon you will be presented to the world. Little lordlings. Little ladies. None of you could fight a battle. You have grown weak. Soft.” He threw up his hands. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t matter. There is not one of you who could do this properly.”
His students said nothing as they watched him, stunned. They had been looking forward to this day, to becoming adults. This was more than they bargained for. The Blade Master lunged again and stabbed the next student through the heart. The young man slid off his blade and fell into the water. Blood painted the water crimson. The others gasped in horror. The Blade Master looked down, surprised.
He looked to his blade. “That was a man dedicated to the craft,” he said.
Michael Frutig 