The man rushed at me, taking up a sword stance similar to the one I had seen him use during practice with his scimitar held at a slight upward angle near the middle of his body. Judging that the sword's lower position meant he would be going for lower strikes, I responded by preparing to block on my right side, which was where I deemed him most likely to strike first. Sure enough, the man threw out a forceful horizontal chop which I managed to deflect upwards and carry over my body using my own sword. Metal scraped on metal loudly, and as I tried to throw his weapon into the ground using its own force the man drew it back, reversing the strike's direction rapidly and making for my left side. I barely managed to move out of the way in time to avoid the majority of the strike, which still cut into my abdomen and drew some blood before healing up.
“Had en-” the man tried to taunt, but I was immediately on him with an overhead swing coming from my right. Taken by surprise and unable to get out of the way in time, the man braced one hand around the top of his sword and kept one on the handle. He intercepted my chop with the flat of his blade, distributing the force as evenly as he could. Luckily for me, the slight diagonal direction meant that my sword naturally wanted to twist and flatten against his. I simply allowed it to turn around thirty degrees and threw its momentum towards the scimitar's handguard, using my opponent's blade as a guide. The man reacted in time, pulling his guarded hand down and throwing my strike off before I could destabilize him.
Now my sword was on the outside, and the man's was on the inside. I was already jumping back again when another horizontal slash came for me, cutting across my chest and nicking bone. The man's face began to contort into a grin, with him most likely expecting me to move backwards again from being struck. Instead, the instant his blade had passed my torso, I stepped inward and bashed him with my body, knocking him back and making him stumble. Before he could get his balance back I struck with the pommel of my blade against his ribs, cracking at least one of them audibly.
The man stumbled back further, groaning in pain, and I moved in with another overhead chop. His eyes wide in shock, the man barely managed to block my sword using the same bracing technique he used before. However, I was expecting his reaction and used the recoil of my sword to raise it up for another downward strike while stepping in closer again. The second strike brought the man to his knees, and I reared back for a third with every intent to follow through until I drew blood. Seeing the look in my eyes the man roared and pushed forwards, doing some kind of rough spear tackle against my hips while holding his blade in front of his head so that it bit into me.
Unfortunately for him, the man was not nearly as strong as me, nor did he weigh enough to have a hope of budging me when my stance was as sturdy as it was. I brought the pommel down again, this time on the small of his back, and heard bone crack. The man cried out and collapsed onto the ground, flailing his sword wildly in my direction in a panic. I took a few more nicks to the abdomen as I stepped back, then swung my sword at such an angle to impact his with maximum force. The scimitar flew from his hands and clattered onto the ground two meters away. I stabbed towards the man's skull, only remembering at the last moment that I was supposed to be sparring and pulling to the side to avoid a fatal blow.
The man's cheek was torn, as was his ear, and my sword stuck out from the ground beside him. He looked up at me, full of fear, and I exhaled a breath I had been holding for some reason. “I give,” the man stuttered out, eyes flashing between me and the sword as his wound put itself back together. I took a moment to look down at myself and saw that the front of my body was spattered with my own blood, with a great gush of it having come out after the spear tackle and stained my undergarment. Good thing I have extras now, I thought with a reflexive grunt of amusement. I withdrew my blade and wiped it with my hand, then lowered it to my side as the man stumbled over to where his sword lay on the ground.
“Tpaan,” the man swore as he examined the blade. Even from where I was standing I could see that it had been bent by my last strike, and one side had several deep cuts on it. I probably damaged my own blade too, I thought, I should see if I can find a whetstone to at least fix the edge. I have no idea why they make their swords so sharp when all it does is make the edge brittle.
“Is that going to be a problem?” I asked. From the man's earlier attitude I expected that he would snap at me or demand that I find a way to repay him, but instead he winced and kept his eyes away from me.
“No,” he muttered, “it's my own fault.” I saw some kind of emotion in him, perhaps disappointment, but I couldn't easily identify it for some reason. The man placed his sword against the ground and began to bend it to straighten it out, then sighed after examining it further. Defeated, he sat on the ground and put his sword down, heaving sighs in between groans and grunts. “I knew you could use sehpztaazmoydh when we started,” he finally said, “I just wasn't thinking. You did use it, right? For the last hit especially.”
I thought about my answer for a split second before replying. If I say yes, I'm not sure what that could mean, I reasoned, I'm still not really sure what sehpztaazmoydh really means, beyond that it must be some kind of ability like the fire lighting skill, but for combat. However, both the village leaders and several other people are under the impression that I can use this skill, so denying it might raise more questions. Questions can lead to answers though, and I need more intel on all of this.
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“No,” I replied, “rather, I'm not sure what that word really means.” The man looked at me for a moment, a mixture of curiosity and surprise on his face.
“There's no way you're so strong without sehpztaazmoydh,” he said. So it's some kind of strength-enhancing ability? I wondered, Now I really need to know what he's talking about.
“I don't really understand what you mean,” I said as I tried my best to sound confused, “I only recently learned how to speak your language.”
“That much is obvious,” the man scoffed, “your accent is very strong.” I have an accent? I thought briefly. “Sehpztaazmoydh is using taazmoydh to... help you move,” he explained roughly, “I don't know how it works. Nobody in the village can do it. I hear it is quite difficult.”
“What does taazmoydh actually mean?” I asked. As the man thought about my question I sat down across from him, putting my blade on the ground in front of me. A brief glance at it revealed some obvious denting around the middle of the edge, and I winced internally.
“I heard you can't use svihytaazmoydh,” the man commented. In reply, I gestured with my hand and charred a small section of dirt near my foot. It’s convenient that the gesture can manifest the effect anywhere in range, I thought. “Oh, well, okay,” the man stuttered. “When you do that, you know how it works right?”
“Not really,” I replied, “I just sort of do it. At first, I pictured it in my mind, but now it happens automatically.” The man nodded and took a few seconds to think about what I said.
“In our country, the Luwahriy believe that taazmoydh is the same as speaking to the spirits around us,” the man said.
“The Luwahriy?” I interjected. The man's face froze for an instant as if he was annoyed, but then he was calm again.
“Our people,” the man explained, gesturing to himself. “Our country is Uwriy, but our people are the Luwahriy. We come from another continent originally, far to the east.” Their ethnic group, I thought, perhaps more. Superculture? I remember learning about these but it's been so long.
“So there are other people who do not believe this,” I prompted.
“I guess,” the man replied with a huff, “my grandfather told me that there is a group of people who believe taazmoydh is pure will that changes the world. One of our merchants also once said that taazmoydh is a gift given to those favored by Rehv, whatever that means.” So they have no idea what this is or how it actually works, I concluded. In my mind, the linguistic part of my brain scrambled to find a translation for the word, eventually resting on one English word: magic. Special, apparently supernatural power, I thought, I don't believe I've ever spoken this word aloud except in allegory. Surely whatever is actually producing this ability is complex enough to be nearly unexplainable.
“I see,” I mumbled. Some of the words that the villagers used were making more sense in context. Svihytaazmoydh, using this translation, literally meant “flame magic”. Sehpztaazmoydh was something akin to “movement magic”, or maybe “strength magic”. I didn’t know what sehpz meant, and I couldn’t figure out its etymology.
“Do, uh, your people believe something different?” the man asked after a few seconds of silence. On chance, I looked at the man's left middle finger and noticed that he was missing his fingertip. Unlike other wounds, the skin was tight and bunched around the center shaft of the previous knuckle. So they can't grow back body parts fully? I wondered. The man saw me staring and laughed awkwardly. “You didn't cut it off if that's what you're wondering,” he chuckled.
“Well that's fortunate for me,” I said, “what happened to it?”
“I lost it last week while practicing with Vowteyz,” the man grinned. “I'm not even sure how he only got my finger, but he did. Took it right off at the root.”
“By the root you mean-” I began.
“It'll be back fully in a few more days,” the man said. “Don't worry, I won't use it as an excuse for losing. If I was going to do that I'd have blamed this instead.” The man showed me his left hand and I could see that the tip of his left thumb was smaller than it should have been for his hand size. So they do grow back, I thought, well at least I wouldn't have crippled myself if I had to tear my foot off. Still, around a week to regrow a finger means that a foot would take much longer.
“Had I known, I might not have sparred so hard,” I lied. The man didn't believe me any more than I did, judging by his reaction. The man sighed again and looked at his sword. If they can re-grow limbs as well as repair them, that must mean that whatever is healing them can alter their cells directly, I thought, it would have to be switching various genes on and off-
“So you didn't use magic?” the man asked as my mind was occupied with digesting the new information.
“No,” I replied reflexively, then immediately regretted it. I had been so distracted thinking about the healing ability that I had made a huge mistake, giving away evidence that, under the right circumstances, could prove that I may have lied by omission when dealing with the elders. Sloppy, I chastised myself, when did I start getting so sloppy?
“Are they all as strong as you?” he asked. I looked up and saw him studying me.
“Who?” I asked back. The man looked up at me as if my question was too obvious.
“The forest men,” he clarified, “there are stories from when we first settled Uwriy, but it's been a long time since then. You might be the first forest man anyone has seen in decades.” So were they animals or were they another subspecies of human who these humans wiped out? I wondered.
“I'm not sure actually,” I said vaguely, “but I would ask if you would keep the strength I displayed today to yourself if possible.” The man stared at me as if he was trying to determine if I was lying.
“Why?” he asked.
“Are you hungry?” I asked him, realizing what I needed to do. I can't kill him, I thought, but maybe I can bribe him somehow. Food has universal value, and if it's not enough, I can find something else.
“Yes,” the man replied nervously, “why do you ask?”
“As an apology for damaging your weapon, I can offer you some food,” I said, loosening my face to appear more friendly. “My cabin is near the edge of town to the west. Come by later today.” I stood up and walked away, not giving the man a chance to opt out.