The Knife's Edge

Chapter Twenty

A FIRE LIT WITHIN

Gray’s pulse beat in time with the flickering flames. The fire raged before his closed lids, pushing back the shadows in the quiet glade.

Cross-legged on the ground, the leaf sat in his mind’s eye, but it was not what he sought. A swirling ball of air flashed. He reached for it, but it retreated, racing away. This time he didn’t let it go. Eyes clenched, he followed it, pushing into his consciousness. The ball of air was just beyond his reach. He reached out. Pain shot through his limbs as he ran into a wall. His concentration wavered, but he held on, bashing against the wall. At last, it shattered. His eyes opened, returning to the real world. His heart raced as he took in his surroundings.

Before him, the fire still burned. Shadows danced in the trees, as if waiting to move into his small camp. But everything seemed different. His world was crisper, sharper.

Slowly, he stood, confused but calm. He was soaked in sweat. It rolled down his limbs as he reached for his sword that stuck upright. He gripped the handle. It had never felt more right.

He inhaled deeply. With two breaths, he gained control of his breathing, something he had never done before, but somehow knew he could. Still, his heart beat wildly. There was nothing but his body and the sword.

Heron Rises on One Leg, a voice whispered, and the sword parried an unseen blow. Without slowing, he twisted the blade, disarming the shadow opponent, and striking. Crane’s Beak. Before the strike was finished, his left leg circled, raising a fan of dirt as he swept the opponent’s legs. Ten Moon. He switched his grip stabbing behind. His muscles flexed in the last moment, power resonating through the flashing blade as the sword snapped to a halt. Setting Sun. With a cry, he spun, pivoting in a full-circle and cutting down a charge of unseen foes. Still, he was moving. Wind Dances in the Reeds. With the momentum of the spin, he dove into a fluid roll, cutting left and right at the enemy’s legs. Tempest’s Fury. Gray unleashed a cry as he pounded his feet against the ground, and sprung backwards. He flipped, head over heels. His back arched as he landed on his feet, and drove the sword down with all his might, and slammed it into the ground.

His breath challenged the fire’s crackle. Again, he stilled it in a matter of seconds.

His limbs shook, but inside he was calm. He eyed his camp and saw his pack showered in dirt, and the ground torn up.

His hand trembled, but not in fear. “My memory is coming back.”

Unwinding his bandaged arm, he saw only smooth skin. The wound had healed. Cautiously, he reached into his mind. The swirling ball of air came forth and his world expanded. Suddenly, he smelled a rabbit as it raced down a game trail. No. He felt it. He reached out and his mind shifted.

He sniffed the air, wet nose twitching as he smelled for danger. Nothing. He continued, moving through the grass, searching for tender stalks. He hopped closer, nibbling at a leaf, eyes flitting all the while. Suddenly, he froze. His muscles stiffened, fur ruffling from a sudden wind. His heart hammered faster. DANGER. The sensation flooded him. He leapt, pounding through the brush. SAFETY. AHEAD. The words were short and simple. Feelings, not whole, concrete thoughts. His heart beat harder and he saw the tangle of brush, taking a final leap and—

Gray gasped loudly, breaking from his trance and staggering backwards. He reached for his sword, looking up and behind him. He clutched his racing heart. His heart. “What was that? It’s as if I was dying...”

There was a fluttering sound and he turned. Perched upon a branch, was a hawk. Its head swiveled and he followed its gaze. Upon the stone, beside the fire, was the carcass of a rabbit and his hunger surged. “Is that for me?” the hawk tilted its head. “All I’ve had to eat is dried meat and cheese, you have no idea how hungry I am.” A few minutes over the flame and... He reached out a hand and touched the rabbit’s soft fur, when a flash of pain ran through him. He leapt back as if stung. His hand appeared unscathed, and yet it felt as if he had just put it to the flames.

“I had its sight, smell, and feelings ripped from me as you caught it,” he said. “I must still feel its pain.” He shook his head, turning. “It’s all yours. I’m not as hungry as I thought. Go on.” The hawk seemed to understand and swooped in, tearing up the small animal.

He turned his head, unable to watch, and then sat down on a nearby rock, staring into the flames. He wished Mura were here. He glanced sidelong at the hawk as it ate. “I suppose you don’t know what’s happening do you?” The hawk finished its meal and was now cleaning itself, watching him. He marveled, wondering why the bird still stayed. “Perhaps you’re lost like me,” he mused, and then paused. “You need a name. How about Maris? He’s one of the Ronin. My favorite, aside from Kail of course. He was quick and sharp too, not to mention the most unpredictable of the bunch. Sounds like you, right?”

The bird ruffled its brown and gold-tinged feathers.

“No? Well, how about Motri? I had... something named that once when I was younger, I think,” he said with a half-hearted smile. The bird squawked, louder this time and unexpectedly flew closer, alighting upon the pommel of his sword. Gray’s smile deepened. He took it for agreement. “Good, then it’s settled! Motri it is.”

Motri squawked again. He laughed when suddenly the bird gave a fierce cry, and flapped its wings. “What is it?” Motri continued to flap his wings, and then took off in a flash of feathers. “What did I say?” he whispered, and then looked up and froze.

A figure stood in the darkness. In its hand a black blade gleamed.

Gray’s own sword stood upright, paces in front of him. Two steps, he calculated, heart pounding. His vision flickered up to the figure. It hadn’t moved. It looked like just another shadow, but it was surely there. I can reach it, he thought, eyes rooted on his sword. He looked straight into the dark outline and lunged. A flurry of wind rushed over him. The figure stood, an arm’s length away, spanning the gap in the blink of an eye. The man towered, shrouded in a frayed cloak, face hidden by a dark cowl. Fear roiled through Gray.

“Let go,” the man ordered in a deep rasp.

Gray shivered, but held onto the sword. “Who are you?”

“I won’t ask again. Let go.”

“No. Not until you tell me who you are.” The man gripped his wrist. Gray pulled at the sword and a tremor of pain shot through him. He cried, falling to his knees. Something beckoned inside his mind. The swirling ball of air. He let it come. Tempest’s Fury, it whispered, filling him with power and confidence. He rose.

“Stay down,” the man seethed.

Gray’s body was smashed to the earth by an invisible force, his breath forced from his lungs. He tried to rise, but his whole body felt coated in stone. He saw wisps of wind. They layered his body, flowing over his limbs. “What is this?” he cursed.

Calmly, the cloaked man reached for Gray’s sword and gasped. The man’s arm shook as he pulled the blade from the ground. “You’re a child playing with something you don’t understand. Something you can’t even begin to understand.” The man ran two fingers along the blade’s surface. Gray watched in wonder as the sword changed. Darkness flowed over the blade. The cloaked man knelt before his face and the blade’s point flashed before his eyes. “Master the sword. Do not let it master you.”

“Who are you?” Gray whispered.

The man stood silently, and within his hood, Gray glimpsed a flicker of color. Scarlet red eyes. With a gust of wind, white clouds swirled and the man vanished, and Gray’s bonds fell. Shaken, he rose to his feet and eyed the woods. He wiped his cheek, feeling a thin line of blood.

She’s coming, the wind hissed. Gray twisted as leaves crunched in the near distance.