Jim Jepps

The feast was done, the music had dropped and many of the people attending the festivities had begun to gather their things and make their goodbyes.

The Queen’s Guards stood to the sides of Chestnut Street, bright in their blue and yellow, either bored and uninterested or chatting to the towns folk.

Servants gathered up plates and musicians had begun to play The Night Is Yet Young, the traditional tune that ends a celebration.

One servant made her way through the people, her hands empty, eyes lowered. In the other direction came a small Queen’s Guard with a cruel face. He pushed his way towards the feast table, perhaps to take a leftover chop or mug of wine.

Just before he reached the food the servant bustled into him, her eyes fixed on the ground, one sharp elbow digging deep into his soft belly. He let out a roar, sending those around them back. He pushed the servant into the table scattering plates as she crunched into it.

“Stupid fleabag of a woman! Look where you’re going.”

Some of the other Queen’s Guards laughed but the crowd was wary. The woman on the other hand straightened her smock and turned to look the guard in the eye. “Perhaps you should think about where you are going… buffoon.”

The crowd gasped and he snarled, taken aback “you dare to insult a Queen’s Guard you wretch? Just look where you’re going!”

She did not look down. “And what do I get for the insult? Are you going to slice me with your sword?”

Out of reflex his hand went to the hilt of his scimitar but he did not draw, “Are you joking? I’ll not kill an unarmed woman.” The Queen’s Guard made to turn away.

Shirrin smiled back, looking around her. Stepping to the feast table she picked up a wooden soup bowl, tipping its cold contents to the floor.

“There,” she said, “now I am armed. It’s a fair fight.”

The gathered crowd laughed, feeling the ice break with the joke, but the Guard snapped back around, his face blushing as if stung. Even his captain was laughing, arms folded, delighted to see how the scene would play out, a little drunk from the celebrations.

Growing redder and redder the guard was spitting with rage, he pulled out his blade and shook it in her face. “Old woman! I should kill you where you stand!”

She did not move but said gently, holding her bowl easily in her fingers, “Careful now. I am armed.” The crowd laughed again, but Shirrin slipped forwards within inches of the guard’s face who flinched away in fear, stepping back. “Unlike poor Ogum. The cadet you killed at the Bamboo School training ground.”

The people fell silent, such was the ice in her words. Even the captain unfolded his arms.

“How do you… who the… I don’t have to listen to,” the Guard raged but his Captain interrupted, “What’s this now Takk?”

Takk turned to his commander, “this woman is mad, I will punish her immediately sir, don’t you worry.”

The Captain shrugged but kept a cool gaze upon his man.

“Go on then Takk.” Shirrin said, passing the bowl from one hand to the other, “chastise me.”

Takk shrieked in a frenzy, lurching forwards, his scimitar pulled back to strike. The crowd gasped in fear, the mood suddenly deadly.

Shirrin seemed to barely move. As the guard fell upon her she brought the bowl up with frightening force, smashing the edge directly into his windpipe. In an instant the man’s blade clattered to the floor as he clutched at his throat, his momentum taking him forwards to the feast table where he sat himself down on the bench gasping and wheezing, his pallor suddenly blue.

As the horrified crowd looked on Shirrin stepped up to Takk, one hand reaching out and pulling his head back by the hair to look directly into his eyes. He struggled to breath in terrified, broken rasps.

“Ogum was a good man. He loved his friends and prayed daily to his gods.” She paused, her eyes still soft and easy. “What were you I wonder?”

With that she released his head and the lifeless body fell backwards across the bench, one hand still at his neck, fingers tucked into his blue and yellow collar.

The crowd stood silent in repulsion. Some eyes fixed on the corpse, some on the old woman, bowl still in hand.

The Captain moved forward for a moment but halted when she flicked him a look, “I… what… Takk?” he said.

Shirrin regarded him with a grey stare. Then she smiled, her whole face brightening. “Here,” she said, “keep the bowl.” And she tossed it at his feet before slipping through the crowd who were too stunned to even think about stopping her.

Shirrin was cleaning the stone plinth where Master Quo would sit to observe his students. It was good discipline. Every stroke of her scrubbing brush was precise and controlled. Cold water hardened the skin; repetition trained the muscles; but it was hard on the knees even with the little mat she took everywhere, and there was little to be gained from an hour inhaling the acrid smell of sea soap.

Glancing up she saw Jayme sweeping the flagstones, her eyes glazed over. She’d barely started preparing the square for this afternoon’s sessions and seemed in no hurry to make up for lost time. Shirrin thought about calling out to the younger woman, to remind her to use the activity as an exercise but if they were overheard it might raise eyebrows. Making a mental note to reprimand her it later Shirrin refocused on her task.

The great wooden gates of the training ground burst open with a crack and Ogum burst through, blood spattered across his cotton trousers and torn shirt. He fled to the centre of the square and turned, fear in his eyes, mouth gaping.

“Senior Cadet Ogum!” Jayme called out, but if she had a question it was interrupted by the appearance of three men. Warriors. Dressed in the blue and yellow of the Queen’s Guard, scimitars sheathed at their hips. They did not run, they sauntered.

The smallest of the three grinned and made a great show of looking around the training ground. The balconies, the pillars lining the edges of the square, the master’s chair. He even glanced at the two servants, if only for a moment.

“So. This is the Bamboo School.” His smile turned to a sneer. “It’s not much is it?”

Ogum pointed a shaking hand at the three. “You killed Ku! You killed Sonn!”

Shirrin glided to her feet and calmly picked up the water bucket. Jayme stood at the ready, eyes ablaze and broom held before her like a staff. Shirrin kept her hands low but gestured to her daughter to lower the broom. Keep cool.

The Queen’s Guards strode forward, surrounding Ogum on three sides, hands resting on the pommels of their scimitars.

“What if we did,” the small man asked. “If they were the best Bamboo had to offer then,” he paused, taking another exaggerated look around, then shrugged leaving his thought unfinished.

Ogum was unarmed and bloodied but he was in a rage, his whole body shaking. “It was murder. That counts for something. The law…”

“The Queen’s Law,” the small man interrupted. Ogum lowered his hand, speechless.

The warrior standing behind Ogum drew his weapon. Jayme gasped but only Shirrin noticed the sound, darting her a disapproving look. Shirrin twitched her head, an instruction for her daughter to leave, to fetch Master Quo. Jayme paid no attention, calling out to Ogum to watch himself.

Ogum spun around and took up Number One Fighting Pose, a long stance, hands open but at the ready. The warrior tilted his head to one side and raised his scimitar before him, its blade catching the sunlight, his fine clothes a festive dash of colour that mocked the occasion.

His companions stood motionless.

The warrior launched himself forwards with a shout. Within a second he was within striking range. Ogum twisted his whole body, spinning a wild kick into the man’s sword arm, sending the weapon flying and the warrior into retreat. The scimitar skittered across the flagstones to rest directly at Shirrin’s feet. She ignored her daughter’s hopeful glance and kept both hands tight on her bucket.

Ogum held his ground and made no move to advance on the now disarmed Queen’s Guard who stepped back, clutching his arm. The smallest of the three drew his weapon and coughed. “Try me next.” His voice was almost a whisper but Ogum turned to face him, knowing precisely what it meant.

The man held his scimitar to the side and took a few cautious steps forward, halving the distance between them, taking him just out of reach of the Senior Cadet. Ogum took up Number Seven Fighting Pose, feet closer together, body facing his opponent square on.

The Queen’s Guard looked him up and down. “No. I think not.”

Ogum slowly shifted his stance. Number Four Fighting Pose. Facing side on, fists ready, feet further apart. For a moment his concentration slipped, glancing to the side to see if the others were moving on him. They were not, but his opponent to the front dashed forwards silently, except for the light scuff of his slippers on the flagstones.

Caught off guard Ogum danced out of the way of two slashes, three, four, dodging to the side and back but relentlessly pursued by the armed man. Ogum launched a kick at the Queen’s Guard who stepped aside, slashed at Ogum’s leg, missing, but then sweeping around with a cut that hacked deep into Ogum’s ribs. The Senior Cadet called out in fear, staggering to the side, but the warrior hacked again and again, Ogum now unable to dodge.

The first blow had probably been enough. The third and fourth were the product of simple rage, the duel long over half a second ago. Ogum’s bloody body collapsed onto the stone.

Jayme dropped her broom, eyes flooding with tears, her hands coming to her mouth in a soundless wail. Her gaze was transfixed upon Ogum’s lifeless corpse. The three Queen’s Guards were very pleased with themselves. The first attacker came over to Shirrin and picked up his scimitar from her feet, not even giving her a glance.

Shirrin did not watch Ogum, her daughter, or the three Queen’s Guards. Her gaze was centred on the woman in black who, unnoticed until now, was standing silently in the gateway’s shadow, studying the scene as it unfolded.

Jayme ran to Ogum’s body, calling out his name, placing her hands upon him, kneeling on the stone, her skirts dipping in the blood. The guards joked with one another as they left, the woman in black side stepping to allowing the small man and then his companions to pass. None of them acknowledged her presence.

Shirrin’s gaze met the woman in black’s and they stood regarding one another. Shirrin with her bucket, the stranger in her shadows. For a long moment they stood there, each studying the other, Shirrin uneasy, so accustomed to the invisibility of being a servant. Her skin prickled with the chill of being seen by this half hidden presence.

Jayme sobbed. Shirrin broke the moment and looked to her daughter. The next instant  the woman in black was gone.

I had an idea for a story but to write it would require a number of fight scenes. Now, for that small handful of people who have read a few things by me you’ll know I very rarely write fight scenes and those I do tend to be less fights and more a couple of punches and the odd reckless insult before we all move on.

I guess I don’t normally write that kind of stuff.

I also worry that many action scenes are suited more to screen than to text – and modern novels have a habit of emulating the screen rather than playing to the strengths of novels and short stories. I’d rather not add to that problem if I can help it.

Anyway, I thought I should probably try to write a proper fight, for practice, just to see if I can do it. It’s not too long and is a first draft but showing it to people makes it “real” and helps me take it a little more seriously.

P.S. Don’t get distracted the first person narration, it’s just a writing exercise.

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He was stronger than me; He was faster than me; and he was the best part of a foot taller to boot. He did, however, lack finesse. 

Lunging, hacking and harrying. Driving me back step by step across the courtyard he had good reason to feel he was dominating our match. His rage was wild. He reeked of distress, unaccustomed with the idea of killing a man who had no intention of being killed easily.
The clash clash clash of blade on blade rang out as I parried and dodged and batted away every furious attack.

I’d had no space to counter even once, and every time I was forced to block one of his thunderous slashes it rang a bell in me from wrist to shoulder. But it came at a cost to him. Even as he pressed me I could taste his exertions, lunge, sweep, lunge, he flung himself into the fray. His feet stamping on the flagstones, mine walking back.

For all his power and speed he’d not raised a sweat on me. Even as I gave ground, step by calculated step, there was not a single blow that truly gave me a moment’s worry, and I think on some level he knew it. 

As I backed myself between the pillars at the edge of the courtyard his blade snatched against the stone sending up a spray of sparks. I ducked back, ready.

He took two long steps forward, thinking I was about to be pinned against the wall, with no further room to retreat. His sword was raised above his head for some killing blow.

It was not to be. 

I gave an easy step to the side, plunging the tip of my sword deep into his unprotected sternum, his charge skewering him all the deeper. My sword wedged in his body with a groan. He gurgled and twisted, stumbling towards the wall.

The blade was wrenched free from my hand but I didn’t give it much thought, stepping away back into the courtyard, as his legs buckled beneath him. His fingers clawed at the bricks for support.

It was done.

He gave the hilt of my sword a forlorn tug, but it had pierced right through him, even tearing through the back of that damned silk shirt he’d been so proud of. What a waste.

One moment he’d been driving back an outmatched opponent, the next he was spilling out into the dust.

He slumped face first against the wall, kneeling in the dirt like an observant pilgrim at some holy site. There he remained, propped, motionless, staring into nothing, the only sound the drip drip drip of his life running its course.

I soaked up the stillness. 

Such was the fate of all brave men. Full of urgency one moment only to blink out of existence the next. How absurd it must have seemed to him then, to be dying. Still, if it was a bad joke it was not to last too long.

I tipped the body over with the tip of my boot and retrieved my weapon, noticing a certain numbness in my arm. He truly was a beast, I’ll say that for him, if nothing else.