“Can you get into this pose?”
Thorn nodded.
Kent pointed to his right. “Better sit over on that side. About six feet away.”
Thorn kneeled, placing his own sword to his left on the mat.
“My grandfather knew all the Japanese terminology,” Kent said, “but what it boils down to is essentially a very few actions you perform with the sword — everything else is built on those.”
He bowed, touching his head to the mat, his palms down forming a triangle with his thumbs and forefingers on the surface. He came back upright, picked the sword up with his left hand, and turned it so the edge-curve faced outward. He pressed against the guard with his thumb.
“You loosen the blade in the sheath, like so.”
Thorn leaned forward a little to see better.
“The first move is the draw—”
Kent pulled the sword’s blade free in a single, fluid motion, whipped it outward to his left in a flat arc toward his right. At the same time, he came up on his right foot, his left knee still on the ground. As the sword passed in front of him, he circled the blade, twisting it from a horizontal slash from left to right into an overhead curve that came down straight in front of his body. During this, he set the sheath down, and brought his left hand to the sword’s handle, well behind his right hand. The final part of the motion was much like a man with an axe splitting a log:
“The cut.”
He opened his right hand, maintaining his grip with the left, and made his right hand into a fist. He hammered once lightly on the back ridge of the blade just ahead of the guard with the little-finger side of his right fist.
“The shaking of blood.”
He opened his right fist, caught the handle in a reverse grip, let go with his left hand, swung the blade so that the point angled to his left, arced downward and then up, almost 270 degrees, to point at the back wall. Meanwhile, he used his left hand to catch the mouth of the scabbard, thumb on one side, forefinger on the other, as if about to pinch. He moved the sword backward, touched the sheath’s mouth with the back edge of the blade, six inches above the guard. He drew the blade forward, right arm passing across his belly, sliding the spine along the sheath’s opening. His thumb and forefinger looked as if they were wiping the steel. When the point reached the mouth, he moved his right hand forward, angled and inserted the tip into the sheath, then slid the blade slowly home. He used his forefinger to snug the weapon into place.
He did not look at the sword when he did any of this.
“And the re-sheath,” he said.
Thorn grinned. Right out of Seven Samurai.
He put the sword back down, bowed again, then looked at Thorn.
“That’s basically it. Four moves — pull it, cut, knock the blood off, and put it away. You can do it standing, squatting, kneeling, or even lying on your side. There are a bunch of ways to cut, various angles and targets, other ways to sling the blood and re-sheath, and you can use the point to stick somebody, but that’s pretty much the core of iai. There are ‘ways’—do, or fighting versions, jutsus. Schools are a lot more formal — you wear gi and hakama, get into the rituals, tie your sleeves up, start with the sword in your sash, but my grandfather taught me that the heart of the art was: draw, cut, shake, and re-sheath. Kind of the Eastern version of the cowboy fast draw. The iai gets the blade into play; after that, it is kendo.”
“Fascinating,” Thorn said.
“The idea is to cultivate a sense of awareness of everything, zanshin, they call it. You don’t think, you just do. After ten or twenty thousand draws, according to my grandfather, you can just get to a place where you just… manifest the sword. It just is there.”
“Not much like western fencing,” Thorn said.
“The Japanese have a different mind-set,” Kent said. “Kill or be killed — or both, it didn’t much matter to the warriors. ‘The way of the samurai is found in death.’ If you were going to die, you wanted to be sure to take your enemy with you if you could, but dying yourself was of little consequence. Your life belonged to your lord, and he could do whatever he wanted with it. Everybody knew that. It makes for a different kind of match.”
“I can see that.”
“Want to try it?”
“Very much.”
“Okay. Here’s how you bow…”
Jay Gridley rode the dragon. He was seated atop the hundred-foot-long beast, just behind his ears, and whatever fear he had felt about going into VR was waaay gone. He was back and he was in control — well, at least here in VR, anyhow.
Though the setting was Europe, his dragon had a definite Chinese look to him, much more interesting than the standard European model. In China, dragons weren’t just animals, they were wise, clever, could assume the shape of a man, and were often very sneaky. Sometimes that was what you needed from a dragon. But they could do brute force as well, when you needed that.
Jay watched as enemies fled, left, right, and center. Now and then, a bowman would loose an arrow, but his steed would blast the incoming missile with a whuff! of flame — said fire usually consuming not only the arrow, but the man who’d fired it, roasting him into a crispy critter on the spot.
It was not Jay’s most peaceful construct, but it suited his mood. The arrows were queries, the archers firewalls, and the dragon Jay’s best rascal-and-enter program. Against the fortified and nearly blast-proof walls of a first-class firewall, even the dragon’s fiery breath would be useless, but here in the corporate realm, not everybody subscribed to the idea that such things were necessary. Some had what they thought was top-of-the-line software or hardware protecting their systems, but had been suckered. Some had what had been the best, but which had not been kept updated, and was no longer sufficient against the sharpest cutting-edge stuff. Jay’s dragon was reborn regularly — he had access to the best, and he incorporated it into the eggs that hatched as needed.
Ahead, the French castle lay, surrounded by a moat, the drawbridge up.
The dragon stopped on the edge of the water.
“What say?” Jay said. “Can we do this?”
“We can,” the dragon said. His voice was deep, almost a metallic rumble, a giant iron plate dragged across a sidewalk.
The dragon took a slow, full breath and blasted the moat with a terrific gout of fire. The flow of it went on and on — thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes.
The water began to bubble as it boiled. Giant green and scaled monsters, looking like crosses between alligators and sharks, floated to the surface, cooked, still thrashing in their death-throes.
“Cook ’em, Dan’l,” Jay said.
A few moments later, the dragon dipped his taloned toe into the water, decided it was cool enough, then stepped into the moat.
The water came up only to his hips — the castle’s defenders had not reckoned on such an assault. They reached the door, and the dragon thrust his fore-claws into the wood, the sound of it like a pile driver working. With a mighty effort, the dragon flexed his shoulder and ripped the thick door apart as if it were balsa. Splinters flew everywhere as the door shattered and fell away.
The dragon stalked through the opening.
Jay slid down the dragon’s neck and side. “Thanks, I’ll take it from here. If the King’s Army shows up, give me a yell.”
The dragon nodded. He blew a smoke ring the size of a tractor tire. The ring floated gently into the morning air.