Footwork is the root from which all movement grows, the foundation upon which victory is built. A blade may strike swift as lightning, but without the balance of earth beneath, it becomes like a leaf in the wind-unbalanced and without true powr.
To step poorly is to invite disaster. Each movement must be precise, every shift of weight deliberate. Like the flowing river, the feet must be fluid yet grounded, able to yield and strike as one. In battle, it is not enough to strike; one must know where to stand, where to step.
To master footwork is to master the art of balance and the first step along the path martial. For when the feet are sure, the mind is calm, and the heart is steady. In this harmony, the warrior becomes as the mountain, immovable when rooted, as the wind when in motion.
- The Fivefold Path by Master Huanjien Lan of the Land of Streams 143 A.C.
After finishing a fine meat soup, a servant gently dabbed Vasileios’ mouth and chin with a silk handkerchief—an item that could likely feed her family for a week. Once her task was complete, she bowed respectfully and faded into the background.
The Festival fan rubbed his hands in expectation. It was finally time for the next phase of the competition.
Rather than waiting weeks or months for injuries to heal, those who qualified for subsequent stages were provided with the very best in Alchemics, and if needed, the much prized Temple healing. Some participants made the pilgrimage to Al-Lazar and fought in the Festival solely for the chance to receive the expensive healing offered by the Council for making it to the later rounds of the competition.
It added a certain bleak desperation to some of the more entertaining bouts. Not to mention, a great number of veterans from many of the endemic wars that plagued the continent.
Vasileios observed the two new combatants alight on the fighting stage as he took another puff from his water pipe, savoring the subtle blend. The fighters could not have been more disparate in appearance. One was a massive Northman, his blonde beard cascading down to his breast. The giant looked like he could crush the stone that he walked upon. The other was near bald, his pate resembling that of a tonsured monk and whipcord thin. The smaller, thinner man had a friendly, yet rogueish smile.
To the average man, the weight difference between the two combatants would seem so great that no amount of speed, agility, or skill could bridge the gap. But Vasileios knew better—he had witnessed near-miraculous contests before. Perhaps he would witness another today. The Quassian leaned forward, glad to be close enough to experience the Festival in all its glory. Glad that he had a wife who could pay for such a seat.
“So, big man. You're back, eh?” the thin man began, his tone teasing. “Finished off whatever it was you had to do, wherever it was that you buggered off to, Kidu my boy? What brings you back to this part of the world?”
The blonde man’s face darkened like a storm cloud. “Little man, you speak too much. I have my reasons for returning. I’ve won back my honor, my En, and reclaimed my place among my people. It is Enkidu now!” he rumbled in a gravelly voice.
“Whatever you say, mate! Looks like it’s going to be you and me today,” the balding man returned unphased.
“Long have I waited to silence your yappings, warm-lander Elwin,” declared the man called Enkidu with a savage smile, the ice blue of eyes flashing fire.
“Will you be alright without your long, sharp stick?” Elwin taunted.
Filled with the braggadocio and confidence of youth, the massive man responded, “I need no weapon to deal with you. I’ll handle you like a child fresh out of the tents!”
Wonderful! Drama to spice things up, Vasileios thought gleefully. Fated rivals, perhaps former companions even, made to fight against one another for the glory of the contest. Excellent stuff!
The arbitrator of the bout moved to the center of the fighting stage, the afternoon sun beating down on him mercilessly. His formal ceremonial clothes, thick and ornate with layers of embroidered fabric, were more suited to a cool temple chamber than this stifling heat.
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In a sympathetic response, Vasileios felt the judge’s discomfort as if it were almost his own. Uncomfortable, he signaled to one of his servants to fan him harder with a click of his fingers.
The judge’s hand, steady but slick with perspiration, tightened around the hilt of an ornate ceremonial sword.
With a deep breath, he raised the sword high, the polished blade catching the light and glinting like a beacon. Then, with a swift, practiced motion, he cut through the air, the movement sharp and precise despite the weight of the robes that dragged at his limbs.
The signal was given. The bout had now begun.
The air between the two men crackled with tension as they began to circle one another, sizing each. It was the giant Enkidu who made the first move, lunging forward with a speed that belied his size, his massive arms outstretched to grapple the smaller man. Elwin darted to the side, narrowly avoiding the crushing embrace. He retaliated with a lightning-fast jab to Enkidu's side, aiming for the ribs.
Vasileo winced, knowing that such a blow would have all but incapacitated him. However, Enkidu only grunted, but the strike was more of an annoyance than anything else. He pivoted, his massive hand swiping like a lion’s paw toward Elwin's head, but the agile man ducked low and rolled to safety. Before Enkidu could make a follow-up strike, Elwin was on him again, striking at the inside of his knee with a sharp and viciously delivered kick.
This time, Enkidu winced visibly in pain, the strike landing true. The bigger man buckled, and it was like watching a hill in miniature stumble. But Enkidu rather than retreating, instead pressed forward, favoring his good leg, trying once more to grab the slippery man. Elwin was quick, but the Northman had the greater reach and was just as fast. With a bellow, he managed to catch the smaller man by the arm. In an instant, he yanked Elwin off his feet, lifting him high into the air like a ragdoll.
Elwin struggled, but Enkidu’s grip was like iron. With a bestial grin, the big man slammed Elwin onto the stone floor of the stage, the impact seemingly reverberating through the arena. The crowd roared their approval at this display of overwhelming strength.
Vasileios half-rose to his feet but had to stop himself from standing up in excitement, the vague look of disapproval from his serving staff dissuading him. Of course, he reminded himself with a small cough, he was cut from a different sort of cloth now and represented his wife’s House.
But, the smaller man was not yet finished. Not finished by a mile. Even as he was pinned, he struck upward, jabbing his fingers into the tender flesh just below Enkidu’s jaw, where the neck met the collarbone.
The Northman snarled in pain, loosening his grip just enough for Elwin to wriggle free. The thin man rolled away, gasping for breath but still grinning, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Enkidu, undeterred, charged again, hobbling only slightly. He aimed a massive fist at his opponent, aiming to end the fight with a single, titanic blow.
However, Elwin was more than fast and skillful enough to avoid such a telegraphed and obvious blow. He darted beneath the tree trunk of an arm, his fists and feet a blur as he struck at Enkidu’s ribs, his temples, and the vulnerable joints. But every hit, no matter how precise, was, more often than not, absorbed by the giant’s sheer mass or softened by his rolling motions. Enkidu’s pale skin reddened where the blows landed under the lithe man’s relentless assault.
The battle became a dance—Elwin striking with a surgeon’s precision, and Enkidu responding with his overwhelming force. As if entering the last refrain. The pair rushed at each other, lightning-quick.
There was an exchange, almost too fast for Vasileios to fully comprehend. He vaguely saw Elwin strike at the big man’s lower back, perhaps a kidney shot, causing the mountain of a man to double over in pain. A calculated second blow to the back of his neck knocked him out cold.
A wild roar erupted from the crowd as the thin man, Elwin, staggered about, his chest heaving with the effort of victory. He raised his hands weakly above his head, accepting the throng's adulation. But then, as if the cruel gods themselves had snatched away the moment, silence fell—a sudden, deafening void—as Elwin crumpled to the ground, his body finally succumbing to the toll of his previous injuries.
The hush that followed was profound, a blanket of shock that smothered every voice in the arena. Vasileios, seated comfortably in his place of privilege, felt his breath catch in his throat. He raised a hand subconsciously to his mouth. By the harsh and unforgiving rules of the Festival, there was no victor in this bout. To claim victory, one must leave the fighting stage under their own power, and neither man had done so.
Officials and servants, clad in the muted colors of their station, rushed to the fallen combatants. Their movements were brisk, and efficient, as they lifted the limp bodies from the cold stone floor, struggling immensely with Enkidu’s bulk. The contrast between their practiced professional calm and the earlier ferocity of the fighters was stark.
For Vasileios, the spectacle had been a rare delight. To witness two foreigners, so disparate in size and style, clash with such obvious skill had been a rare and entertaining treat. Yet now, as the arena remained eerily quiet, he felt the weight of the crowd's unspoken sentiment: a collective sense of loss that neither warrior would progress. The Festival, in its brutal fairness, had claimed another bout without awarding a victor, leaving only the bitter taste of what might have been.
But, there was always next year and Vasileios knew that both of the fighters would receive much-deserved healing. The Quassian made a mental note of both their names.
He hoped with all of his greedy heart that the next bout would be equally as entertaining.