Hagen and I entered the basement under the manor together.
A large square chamber, it held a big, slightly elevated sparring arena in one corner. A gym with various machines and free weights took up space in another. The rest was fitted with various combat implements - training dummies, mats, and bags. Scattered around the edges of the room was various weaponry, blunted and live, and some shelves with clothes.
On the far side of the entrance was Alfred, my latest in a long line of training instructors and by far the most skilled – and the nicest. Not that that was saying much. Over the years I'd been beaten to the ground emotionally and physically more times than I could count - and I'm pretty sure two or three of my previous combat instructors had been masochists. Imagine having someone kick your ass and get more excited the more you fight back. Traumatising doesn't begin to cover it.
I wasn't a combat prodigy. All my life I'd had to put in the work, the hard way, to have a chance at eventually beating whoever my dad decided would instruct me next. It was a hard grind, but I'd improved over the years and today I'd consider myself passable.
Hagen remained at the door and I walked to the sparring arena. “Hey Alfred, I need a spar,” I instructed without preamble, as I started dressing down to put on some grey training fatigues. He looked at me and raised his eyebrows questioningly at my tone but put aside the blade and moved towards the middle of the arena.
Usually, I’d be very respectful towards my instructors. Over the years I'd gotten many a cuff around the ears because my tone had been disrespectful. Something unfamiliar in my demeanour must have shined through, because he didn’t comment on my lack of tact.
I finished putting on the fatigues. “Don’t ask.” He just smiled genially, and I moved to stand opposite him. Honestly, it probably looked kind of comical.
No longer equipped with the physique I had when I was eleven, I was now six foot four, and over the years I’d developed a brawler’s physique with a focus on a mix between strength and speed. Alfred stood at five foot nothing, slender and lean with whipcord muscle specializing in fast strikes and faster dodges. He wasn’t much to look at, but anyone who underestimated him did so to their detriment.
“Sure, little one. We’ll go through the motions one last time,” he replied, “I’ve heard you’re leaving soon.” He always called me little one. I think it was some form of irony I was too young to know about. Or maybe he was just referring to my age.
The hell? Am I the last one to hear about this? My anger flared.
“One thing though,” he interrupted my chain of thought, “no blunted weapons or gloves today. Bare fists and sharpened steel only.”
Surprised at his exclamation I didn’t get a chance to acknowledge it before he started to bow. I quickly bowed back saying, “thank you for the instruction.” I could still be courteous.
“Hands and feet,” he commanded.
Hands and feet meant kicks, punches and superficial grabs and throws only. I took a ready stance and brought my fists up in a guard, turning forty-five degrees to the side and parted my feet to about shoulder width.
“Begin.”
I exploded forwards and covered the twenty feet between us in three or four seconds. My anger was boiling below the surface, looking for an outlet. Arriving in front of Alfred I threw a fast right-hand jab, followed by a left-handed haymaker while I took a half step forward.
He blocked both punches as expected, and I used the momentum from the haymaker to lift my right foot and twist in a clockwise roundhouse kick. The kick connected with his open palm on the right side of his face, and he closed his fist, pulling at me to try and force me off balance.
I flowed into the motion and used his perceived leverage to jump with my left leg and rotate counterclockwise with my entire body, its momentum making it possible to aim a kick at his stomach.
He let go at the last possible moment and jumped back, as I touched the ground with both hands, flipping upright to stand at the ready. Our exchange had taken only a handful of seconds, and he gave me a frowned look in the reprieve.
“Anger can be a powerful motivator, little one,” he rebuked, “but don’t let it consume your common sense and force you into a predictive attack pattern.”
I nodded. I knew that, of course. Right now, I just didn’t care.
My father and I's previous conversation was at the forefront of my mind. I recalled how he'd changed when mom died, going from bad to worse. He was never cruel to me himself, but his overbearing demeanor may was well have been physical. With his penchant for finding new and torturous trainers for me, I held him liable by proxy.
My anger stoked once again, we reengaged and it became a flurry of blows and kicks, blocks, and dodges, borrowing techniques from multiple different styles. My powerful middle kick was blocked by his sharp Muay Thai move set, where he counter initiated with an elbow sweep meant for my temple, that was guided aside and sidestepped by a Krav Maga technique. I tried to grab his face below the chin – which in turn was broken by the fluid close combat movements of Wing Chun.
You get the picture.
I fought aggressively and, in the end, capitalized on a counter where he thought I kicked low at his knee but feinted, instead bringing my knee up to hit him in the right side of his abdomen. His breath leaving him explosively, he came to a halt and rubbed the impact point for a second. I was feeling as out of breath as I’d just made him.
“Good,” he nodded appreciatively. “Short break then ground, but I won’t continue the spar unless you slip into the tranquil mind.”
In case you’re not aware, prolonged fighting is extremely hard. Your adrenaline is pumping, and your mind will try to make you overthink your exchanges and at the same time disrupt your breathing. It makes your body lose oxygen, depriving your muscles of the fuel they need to perform.
To prevent this, I’d been taught a combat meditation technique by my father when I turned thirteen, the tranquil mind. More or less the only thing he ever taught me himself. When I successfully submersed myself in it, I could still do normal things, but everything outside of combat became muted.
Pain and fatigue diminished into the background – to an extent – while my sight, reflexes and hearing were sharpened. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to learn.
My father told me that the base of the technique is the same for everyone, but that we visualise it differently.
It’s hard to explain, but in my mind, I always found myself in the ruins of a beautiful city. The sun was shining, and nature had reclaimed its rightful place, growing wildly among the buildings. In the exact centre of a large square, was a mirror. Whenever I stepped up to it, I’d see a blurry outline of myself that got sharper gradually.
When I could see myself clearly, the technique would click into place – tall, with black hair, blue eyes, and sharp features. If I tried to go anywhere but in front of the mirror, the technique would break. Starting out pristine, the mirror had become worn and dirty over the years, but I had no idea if that signified anything.
After years of practice, I’d whittled it down to take thirty seconds. At first it was weeks of failed attempts, until my first eventual success, that took me four hours of meditation.
I opened my eyes. My breathing was steady, my anger and negative emotions pushed in the back of my mind. I’d let the technique guide my movements on rote and thousands of hours of practice.
“Good. Ground,” I heard him say when he noticed I was done, his voice distorted, sounding as if he was standing far away.
Ground meant grappling with strikes allowed.
I approached low with both of my hands up, palms out and probed his counters trying to grab hold of his clothes. After a brief exchange of rebuffed hands, we stepped close. Going back and forth with attempted grabs I managed to slip under his guard and lift him off his feet, my shoulder against his stomach. I followed him down. He locked his legs around my waist and sent elbow blows raining down on my skull.
He got a good hit in around my temple, and I was slightly disoriented for a second. Sitting up as best as I could – his legs still wrapped around me – I pushed off his body and primed a punch at his face. As I moved to strike, he grabbed my arm and I swear he slithered around like a snake.
In a split second he had let go of my torso with his legs, only to use my leverage against me and put me on my back in an armlock. “Yield, little one,” he managed in a breathy voice.
His legs were positioned on either side of my right arm, and he put pressure on it, threatening to break it at the elbow. Resisting and contemplating a counter I did the only thing I could think of in the moment. I put in more strength.
Flexing my right elbow as much as I could I braced against his pressure and moved to stand. My plan was simple, I was going to smash him into the ground as many times as it took for him to let go.
It was tedious to stand up from such a position, but I finally managed to get my feet under me and get up awkwardly. He was still holding on as I leveraged my body to lift him from the floor. As soon as he saw what I was up to, he let go. There were a couple of more pinches and some ground fighting, but ultimately, we ended in a stalemate.
This seemed to satisfy him. “Good. Short break then long steel,” he commanded.
Still in the tranquil mind, I just nodded. Accepting the water he handed me; I waited the mandatory sixty seconds. The break ended and I handed him back the drinking bottle, receiving a longsword in return.
Long steel today was longsword, halberd, glaive, and spear.
We went even for two out of four, with me losing our bout with the longsword and winning as I managed to pin him with the butt of my spear, it being my personal favourite.
I could feel my body start to get sluggish, even through my trance.
“Good,” Alfred didn’t sound winded at all. “Short break then short steel. Last bouts.”
We repeated the previous pattern and tied with short swords. I lost with the kukri, so I’m not going to elaborate on that, and we ended our session with knives.
Sporting a combat knife in my right hand, I could feel the sweat pouring off my body and grime getting into God knows where, as my regular sensations we slowly making themselves known. I tried to pull on the technique even more, but it resisted me. The technique was failing, my mental fortitude unable to keep it going continually. That’d never happened before. The old coot was really giving it everything he had.
Fighting with knives is the closest you will get to a bladed fistfight – at least with conventional blades. Because of the short reach of the weapons, I had to get up close with my opponent and complement combat moves with my offhand and possibly my feet.
As I moved to engage, tranquil mind vanished, and I immediately felt all my sensations return, the soreness and pain from our encounters almost flooring me. I could still fight, but in my current state I was extremely disadvantaged.
Recognizing that I needed to end this encounter fast I decided to try something unconventional. I stabbed at his chest. He moved to slap my knife to the side and counterattack with an arching slash, but my stab was a feint, and before my elbow had even been halfway extended, I dropped to the ground and swept his legs.
Landing on his back with an almost inaudible “oompf”, I kicked at his knife hand and disarmed him, struggling to put my left knee to his right jugular with my knife pointing at his left eye.
He smiled at me from his subjugated position.
“Very good, little one. Never let them know what you’re thinking.” His expression was honest and proud. Exhaustion getting the better of me, I eased the pressure and collapsed to the floor. He stood and after a minute helped me up in turn.
“Honestly with how you’ve been filling out lately, the physical limitations you’ve had as a child and teenager are finally gone,” he observed, “despite your size, you’re still fast, which is good. People will not expect it. Your technique in unarmed combat’s been good for a long time, but now your body has caught up. With weapons there are points to improve on, but you’ll be able to hold your own exceedingly well, in my estimation.”
“Thank you, teacher,” I gasped, bent over and out of breath.
“No, thank you, little one,” he sounded amused, “it’s nice to see that even an old hand like me can be surprised. Thank you for the spar. Now go take a shower. I won’t elaborate on your flaws today. I believe you have places to be.”
We separated, faced each other, and bowed. An unexpected feeling of melancholy came over me as I stood there. My head still bowed, eyes closed, I took a deep breath and steadied myself. “Thank you for your guidance, teacher,” I said in a loud voice as I righted myself.
He just smiled at me and went back to oiling his blade.
Turning around on wobbly legs I went up to Hagen who’d magically acquired a towel somewhere. That man was worth his weight in gold.
As I wiped down my face I smiled at him, my mood improved. There was still something simmering below the surface, but as when I was engrossed in the tranquil mind, it was faint. “Thanks Hagen. Let me just nab a quick shower, then we can go prepare.”
