The bully boys were impressed, all right. Even the chucklehead frowned and nodded with grudging admiration. He opened his fist and slapped Bishop on the cheek-not hard-just a sort of token slap of condescending appreciation.
Bishop smiled deep into the chucklehead's stupid eyes and kicked him hard in the shin.
The chucklehead went down, screaming, rocking on his back, and clutching his leg in his two hands. Bishop sneered down at him. He could hear that bright metallic singing inside him like a sword blade whistling through the air.
Or wait a minute-maybe it wasn't inside him. Maybe it was coming from somewhere to his left, along with another noise-a noise that sounded something like hwa hwoo hwee hwa.
He looked in that direction and, sure enough, there was the Fu Manchu guy rushing at him, going hwa hwoo hwee and so on-and also wielding that goddamned Chinese broadsword Bishop had noticed on the wall.
Well, this was a surprise. Not exactly the kind of confrontation he'd been looking for. In fact, the sight of that sword stunned Bishop so much, it slowed his reaction time. Meanwhile, the Fu Manchu guy came in low and fast. Gripping the broadsword's handle in one hand, he made the wide, curved silver blade spin and twirl through blurring crisscrosses and figure eights. " Hwa! Hwoo! Hwee! " he remarked again. And all the while, the black-and-red scarf flying from the sword's pommel flapped and spiraled, adding to Bishop's distraction.
The approach took barely a second. Then, as Bishop stood more or less stupefied, the Fu Manchu guy brought the big sword around in a vicious arc and hit him with it alongside the head.
He struck with the flat of the blade-this wasn't a killing situation yet. And at the last moment, Bishop did manage to twist his body, headfirst, to absorb some of the force of the blow. All the same, the thing smacked into him with brain-rattling force. He saw white sparkles and felt himself falling helplessly through the air, his leather jacket flying out of his hand as he went down. The next instant he hit the hardwood floor with a jolt that made his bones ache. But he took the shock on his shoulder and kept rolling, kept rolling, and was on his feet again in a defensive stance before he could even think about it.
Now he found himself facing his attacker in a crouch, his arms up in front of him. Which wasn't going to help him much unless he happened to want his arms lopped off and mounted on a plaque. Which he didn't. And the Fu Manchu guy was still coming after him- Hwa! Hwee! Hwo! -a steady, unstoppable onslaught with the silver broadsword in his right hand singing through the air in dazzling patterns and the distracting scarf flashing now black, now scarlet, as it whipped and fluttered unnervingly out of sync with the rhythms of the blade.
Bishop's face was stinging like ants were on it. His left eye was pouring tears, and his brain was still slow and numb from the blow of the sword. Around him the bully boys were clapping and whooping. And where the evil chucklehead had gotten to, he hadn't the foggiest fucking idea.
But there was no time to think about any of that. The swordsman was on him. The blade was arcing up again, preparing for a second attack that could come at him high or low. All Bishop could manage to do was circle away. Keep the distance between them. Keep moving, circling, circling, staving off the moment when the Fu Manchu guy would strike again.
" Hwa! Hwee! Hwoo! " the swordsman shouted, circling opposite Bishop.
The other bully boys gathered around the two of them, shouting encouragement, clapping, moving as they moved. They loved this stuff. As the blade snaked out in a lashing circle under Bishop's nose, Bishop dodged back and felt one of the thugs put hands on him to shove him toward his opponent. The Fu Manchu guy saw this happen and instantly moved in for another strike.
That turned out to be a break for Bishop. He pivoted, grabbed the gi of the thug who'd pushed him, spun him around in front of him. Blocked by his fellow bully boy, the Fu Manchu guy froze, mid-hwa! Bishop shoved the thug-a dim-witted redhead-straight into his attacker. It only slowed him for a second. The Fu Manchu guy caught the dimwit redhead's arm and hurled him aside.
But by then Bishop had dashed away. The redhead had left a gap in the circle of bully boys. Bishop slipped through it and rushed for the wall. He grabbed the first samurai sword he could get his hands on and yanked it free of its mount. What he planned to do with it he wasn't sure, but it was better than his bare hands-it had to be. He swept it quickly from its sheath and tossed the sheath away. The blade gleamed bright, a shorter one- katana, that was the word! Well-balanced and with a full tang, set deep and solidly into the handle.
None of which was any comfort. All he could remember from his casual study of samurai swordplay was some Zen bullshit about having No Mind and being One with the Blade. He figured he'd have No Mind in a big hurry if this crazy Asian fucker hit him in the head with his fucking broadsword again. And as for being One with the Blade-that was exactly what he was trying to avoid.
But he seized the handle of the katana with both hands as he recalled you were supposed to. He held it up in front of him, pointing the blade at the Asian's eyes just as he would've done in a knife fight-that made it hard for his opponent to judge the distance of the point and also distracted him from the feints and movements of his body.
As Bishop began to circle again, it came back to him what a natural weapon the samurai sword was, a comfortable extension of the hands and arms. A desperate little hope flared in him. The Fu Manchu guy was so busy putting on a show for his pals, so busy hwa-hwo-hweeing and swinging the sword in fancy eights and arcs, that if Bishop could stay focused, he might just have a chance to get in on him quick and drop him.
He circled away cautiously, the samurai sword held out before him. The Fu Manchu guy came charging in, the broadsword dancing in the air. The bully boys catcalled. They caught the uncertainty in Bishop's stance and motions. They urged Fu to finish him off.
"Slice him, slice and dice him!"
"Cut him bad, baby!"
"Make meat out of him!"
Bishop forced the grinning, crowing thug faces into the soft blur of his outer attention. He watched the Fu Manchu guy, saw his eyes flare. The broadsword seemed to spiral out of flashing heights and sweep toward his shoulder, edge first. Bishop twisted his wrists, and his katana went horizontal. With a metallic shock, the two blades met. Bishop parried the broadsword, turning his body out of its deflected path. In the same movement, he brought the katana around and swung it low at Fu Man's kneecap. He hoped to hit just hard enough to slice the tendon. But the strike was met by the sweeping block of the broadsword. Another metallic sting and Bishop was pushed back. Fu Manchu stepped in with a direct thrust-a genuine thrust that would've opened Bishop's belly. Bishop was startled by its deadliness. The fight had turned serious, and only a hurried, almost panicked recovery-an inversion of the wrists that turned the katana nearly straight down-fended off the broadsword's point and gave him the chance to step back and away.
Both men were in their stances again, both were circling. There was a little less hwa-hwa crap coming out of Fu Man now. He was breathing hard, and the arcs of the broadsword were slower and less ornate. That didn't mean he was easing up, though. Bishop could see the anger contorting his mouth. He knew that last reckless thrust had been powered by raw temper. And he knew the next attack would have the same mortal rage behind it, maybe worse. Even the shouts and jokes of the bully boys had dropped a key, had become guttural and murderous.
This had gone too far. Bishop knew he had to end it quick or he'd go home with his head in his hands. The shock of the first onslaught had worn off. That weird killer cool of his was coming back. Even with his pulse pounding, even with his eyes fastened on the swinging broadsword, a feeling that could only be described as mirth was pumping out of the center of him, coursing through his veins. This was it. This was the finish of it, one way or the other.