The Silver Sparrow

A Fight of Giants

'Fear can be your best weapon if you know how to use it,' his master Akai izr Imami had said. 'A man who fights without fear is blind, careless, and clumsy. Fear for your life, never your enemy, that is how you win a fight against one.'

All his life, Za'in izr Husari had fought with fear, had done so enough times to like the taste of it. Nothing could get him higher than the feel of those icy talons climbing up his spine. Only fear could light up his senses all at once like being thrown into a pit of vipers. Only fear could get his heart to pump that hard, that fast, as it delivered those sparks of lightning through his veins, making one feel twice as large and thrice the motherfucker to bring down and kill.

It had been this fear that stitched a smile on his face when Aza'ir's blade came down. The impact sent a sharp vibration up his arm as their steels met, the loud, tooth-aching clang of it woke him up like seeing a naked woman after a good long year of celibacy. His body reacted to it like instinct, the pulsating shot of power amidst the screams of muscles tightened to the point of bursting drove the blade back with the strength that surprised him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt it. Peace was the price of having won too many battles, too many duels. At some point, nobody wanted to fight you anymore.

The next blow came from high, aiming for his right shoulder. Za'in turned to meet it just in time with his blade, digging into the ground with his right foot as he pushed back. He took two steps forward and turned again, sinking low to deliver a thrust at the midriff. Missed by a hair when Aza'ir caught on and jumped back. A returning blow coming from the top sent a jolt up his arm as he blocked the attack, numbed the entire limb the same moment Aza'ir's fist landed on the right side of his face. Za'in staggered back, caught himself before losing his balance, took a moment to breathe as he kept himself at a distance.

That blow would have knocked the sword right out of his grip had the man been what he was twenty years ago. That punch, too, would have thrown him on his back by now. The man had gotten old; he was weaker, slower now than what Za'in remembered.

So, unfortunately, am I, thought Za'in izr Husari as he stood, chest heaving as if he'd just run a mile trying religiously to pump air into his lungs. Twenty years ago he would have dodged that punch cleanly, would probably have spun out of range before the sword came down. Like Aza'ir, he had become slower, weaker now with age, perhaps also with peace.

I'm getting too old for this shit, he thought, shaking his head.

Not so old yet, however, to get a kick out of it, he also thought, licking the blood from the cut on his lip, and rediscovering then, that long-forgotten addiction to the scent and taste that used to keep him up at night long after the fight.

Used to keep Zuri up too, all night, over a different need.

He smiled at that memory, spat the blood back out onto the sand and drove himself forward for more.

***

The fucking beast should have been knocked unconscious with a punch that close, Aza'ir swore inwardly as he shook out the pain in his knuckles. He knew he would have been—in Za'in's place—especially at the age he was now. Had, actually, been knocked out before just like that by the prick one Dyal fifteen years ago during hand-to-hand combat. Back then, he could never get close enough to do the same—the man had been too fast, too alert for that. And now that he could, he no longer had the strength for it. It stung even more, standing there, panting in earnest from having delivered those simple blows knowing they hadn't even made a dent. The bitter price of getting old, that.

The next attack came before he'd managed to get his heart to slow. Za'in, fast as a fucking cat even at that age, closed in with a blur and a blade raised high. A flash of memory from the old days struck him then, plastered itself to the man at present as he rushed forward. The distant image of Za'in coming at him with a frontal attack, two-hundred pounds of pure, rock-solid muscles behind a four-foot length of heavy steel slamming down on his sword, breaking his wrist when it landed. The same blow would cripple him now, he concluded, and decided to slip out of the way instead, realizing—much too late—that he had misjudged the situation. Za'in, grinning like an ugly devil at the success of his distraction, switched his stance at the last minute, dropping low to the ground with an anchored hand, used the momentum to kick Aza'ir's legs out from behind, landing him on his back.