The Huntsman (23 page)

CHAPTER
37                        Crossed Swords

Exuberance
and joy filled the city’s streets. Colors—rich, deep, vibrant—greeted the eye
everywhere. India’s colors—saffron, green, red, yellow, purple—dominated.
Elephants trumpeted, horses neighed, camels bellowed. Dancers, singers,
acrobats, performers, and splendidly uniformed soldiers marched alongside. Music
enchanted the ear and nothing occurred without a smile or laughter. From the
world over, people came to witness the city of Mysore gripped in the throes and
ecstasy of the country’s grandest festival, Dasara. On its ninth night, the
ten-day celebration wound its way toward India’s most renowned and spectacular
example of royal architecture, the Mysore Palace, historic home to Maharajahs.

For
over four centuries the event commemorated truth’s victory over evil when the
goddess Chamundeshwari slew a buffalo-headed demon. She had done so with a
sword and as the evening’s shadows deepened anticipation grew. Tonight’s
ceremony centered on the Mysore Palace’s royal sword, presented as the symbol
and embodiment of Dharma.

“Your
discipline is admirable, Mr. Koh.” Nicholas nodded toward the woman strolling
alongside. A brief smile acknowledged the compliment. She had caught him off
guard once already and he had vowed not to let it happen again. Despite the
annoyance he turned back to relish the anonymity her invitation had provided.
He could not remember the last time he walked among the public, open and free,
without security or advisors.

Nisha
Saha’s waist-length ebony hair bundled tight behind her head only enhanced her
regal and statuesque poise. Sharp, angular features would befit a Nemes
headdress worn by the queens of ancient Egypt. She did not walk so much as
glided, her limbs and body a coordinated whole, perfectly balanced. Underneath
arched eyebrows black, bottomless eyes darted and penetrated, absorbed and
comprehended. They blazed with curiosity, the hallmark of intelligence.

A
small girl stared at their approach, overcame her shyness, and offered Nisha
the ice cream cone that had already smeared her tiny mouth. “Oh you dear, sweet
child.” Nisha retrieved a tissue from her bag, bent to dab her clean, and gave
her face and hair a parting caress. “No thank you, my little darling.” Nicholas
wondered what the beaming mother and awestruck father might say if they knew
those same hands had twelve hours earlier assassinated two men.

Jithu
Ong had introduced her six hours ago at the rented estate in
Hyderabad. She had arrived to collect her fee for removing
the two Chandrapur incompetents who had stupidly killed the only solid lead
they had to Janesh McKenzie. She had made such an impression he wanted her to
stay for dinner.

“I’m sorry but I have a helicopter waiting to take me to Mysore.
The festival there is extraordinary.”

“But the festival won’t end until tomorrow.” he urged. “Stay. I am
confident you will find the chef here equally extraordinary.”

“Later this evening I will be at an event known only to 813
invitees throughout the world.” She forestalled his question but her eyes
twinkled. “I can’t tell you but you can attend as my guest if you’d like.”
Despite feeling
chagrined his expression had so easily revealed his thoughts, Nicholas welcomed
the spontaneous opportunity to be rid of routine.

Already
impressed with this charismatic woman, it deepened when it became clear she
would pilot the waiting helicopter. Inside the small four-seater, its
lightweight composite construction muffled rotor noise as it lifted without
effort. She turned with an unsettling grin. “At night it allows me to evade
radar and land almost anywhere.”

With
darkness about to fall, Nisha glanced at her watch. “We can begin making our
way to the tournament now. It’s not far, perhaps a half kilometer.”

“Tournament?”

“Yes,
the Asi Tournament. Asi is the proper name for the first sword created by
Brahma. Tonight we will see swordsmen display their fighting skills followed by
a bout to determine the world’s best swordsman.”

“Swords?
What kind of swords?”

“Cutlasses,
rapiers, sabers, scimitars, and medieval longswords. We may even see a Japanese
katana or bokken fighter.” Nicholas did not hide his disappointment.

“We’re
going to see a sword fight?”

“Yes,
Mr. Koh. The final bout is to the death.”

The
emotionless statement silenced Nicholas, filled him with a disquiet he found
puzzling. He himself had left a trail of bodies, some by his own hand others by
his word. Even the first one had not caused him to lose sleep. He had simply
eliminated a rival who would have done the same to him. Others might call it
murder but that required the killing of innocents. No one he had killed could
be considered innocent. Still, a low-level unease chilled him. He had never
killed someone whom he’d given an equal opportunity to kill him. Did that make
him a coward? Or smart? Where did one draw the line?

They
arrived at a performing arts theater where a sign posted inside the shuttered
entrance declared “Closed for Private Affair”. Around the corner casually
dressed men and women sauntered through a side entrance.

“Everyone
inside will be a member or guest. We provide our own security, service staff,
and medical personnel. Our doctors come prepared for emergency surgery. Their
skills have permitted a fortunate few to survive what might otherwise be a
death blow.”

“Are
their services often called upon?” She shook her head.

“The
fighters are masters. Death does not linger.”

“Do
survivors continue fighting?”

“Some.
Three that I know of. One went on to become champion three years running before
retiring.”

“Is
that a euphemism?”

“Retiring?
No, Mr. Koh. We are not savages. A champion may choose to not defend his title
at any time without prejudice or scorn.”

“What
do you call yourselves?”

“Technically
we do not exist, Mr. Koh. But among ourselves we simply make reference to the
“Society”.

“How
long have you been organized?”

“Four
masters at a Wurzburg, Germany teaching school formed the society to keep
secret their sword fighting techniques. Five hundred years later we still honor
that ambition.”

The
two arrived at the entrance where just inside three tuxedoed men stood. They
brightened at her approach, their smiles broad, sincere. The middle one reached
out with both hands to grasp hers in a warm shake. He spoke with a lilting,
unmistakable French accent. “Madame Saha. How grand to see you again. We are
never happiest than when you are amongst us.” The other two gave slight bows before
they also expressed delight at her arrival.

“Permit
me to introduce Mr. Nicholas Koh, President and CEO of Singapore Worldwide
Capital.” In tandem the three acknowledged with slight head bows.

“Welcome
to our event, Mr. Koh.” the greeter expressed. “We place ourselves at your
disposal. Do not hesitate to ask for whatever may please you.”

Nisha
and Nicholas continued inside as more arrivals filled the foyer. Several
hundred milled about the expansive lobby where elegant buffet tables displayed
an international smattering of hors d'oeuvres and finger food. Four bars spaced
throughout served both alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. Though English
predominated, Nicholas overheard low, whispered conversations in every major
language and some he’d never heard.

He
recognized a few American movie stars accompanied by studio heads. A noticeable
number represented the Middle East, India, and Europe’s royal families. He even
found himself shaking hands with some fellow industrialists belonging to the
same trade associations. The majority however formed a faceless amalgam that
defined crowds the world over. Still, if not greeting Nisha warmly, everyone
nodded and smiled at her passing.

“Who
are these people?”

“We
come from all walks of life, Mr. Koh but a certain degree of success is
presumed. The annual membership fee is $1 million. Beyond that we share a
common passion for a centuries-old martial skill raised to an art form by
masters.”

“How
does one become a member?”

“Only
by an existing one sponsoring you.” He refused to give in and allowed the
silence to grow but again the woman’s intuitive ability proved uncanny. She
smiled.

“Perhaps
in time, Mr. Koh. I only met you this morning.” He changed the subject.

“You
seem to be the center of attention.” Nisha sipped her martini but made no
response. With the tables turned, Nicholas pressed.

“Do
you hold an important position?” She sighed.

“Six
years ago my husband died in the arena. He was a great champion and smiled at
me as I held his head in my lap. The residual affection you see is a mark of
how much everyone admired him.” Nicholas lowered his eyes, chastened.

“My
condolences, Madam Saha. Judging by the affection, he must have also been a
great man.”

A
stir rippled through the crowd as interior doors opened along a wall’s length
and people filed through. Like the amphitheaters of Greek and Roman antiquity,
the seating descended to form a semi-circle around a stage where a red,
non-slip, foam rubber material covered its wooden slats. Muffled conversations
rose to a buzz. Tension and excitement filled the air while the 2
^nd
movement of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5 piped in the background.

Below
a young woman excused herself past descending invitees, her fixed gaze making
it clear she intended to intercept them. “Ana!” Nisha exclaimed.

“Allo,
Nisha. Wie geht es dir?” The two embraced and in typical fashion air kissed
before exchanging remarks on how good each looked.

“Ana,
may I present to you Mr. Nicholas Koh of Singapore Worldwide Transport. Mr.
Koh, this is Princess Ana von Holtzern.”

“Guten
Abend, Herr Koh.”

“A
very good evening to you, Princess.”

“Come,
Nisha. I was elated to learn you’d be sitting with us.”

The
event staff had reserved the first five center rows for the medical personnel
and equipment along with the left and right wings for the fighters’ attendants.
An empty sixth row formed a boundary between the participants and the viewers.
Ana’s group sat seventh row center and everyone made room for Nicholas and
Nisha as introductions ensued. Before the two girls finished catching up, the
music faded, the lights dimmed and a spotlight illuminated the stage. From
offstage the tuxedoed greeter stepped onto it.

“Bonsoir
Mesdames, bonsoir Messieurs. Guten abend meine Damen und Herren. Welcome ladies
and gentlemen to the 437
^th
Asi Tournament of Martial Skill.”
Nicholas turned to Nisha on his right as the greeter announced details and
rules.

“Is
there a prize awarded?”

“$20
million dollars. But the satisfaction of knowing among your peers you are the
world’s best swordsman is a greater prize.”

“What
happens to the loser?”

“Beyond
a quiet burial at sea, nothing. We want to provide no incentive for someone who
might desire suicide by sword.”

“Is
there not a constant security threat?”

“Not
at all, Mr. Koh. Beyond the careful screening any potential member undergoes,
it is hard for me to imagine someone might betray an organization they pay $1
million annually to. Besides, without records or rolls, it is difficult to
prove or corroborate. Especially without a body. Who would believe such a
thing?” She turned to fix Nicholas with a cold, mirthless smile. “Nonetheless,
in the most extreme cases, the society would have me pay a visit to the
traitor.”

Overhead
theater lights lowered to just above darkness placing the arena in greater
contrast. From the wings two fighters emerged each clad in heavy denim-like
clothing with composite armor plating on their torsos and limbs. A full helmet
with meshed facing prevented penetration while not obscuring vision. One
fighter wore black-colored gear, the other red.

The
two marched smartly to the corners where their teams checked equipment and
repeated instructions. Medical personnel flashed pen lights in their eyes while
asking rapid-fire questions before declaring them lucid and alert. The umpire
examined both swords for any sign of tampering or alteration before placing a
tape measure along each.

“How
long are those swords?” Nicholas asked.

“There
is no official standard for the longsword, the one most associated with
medieval knights. But for this tournament it must be 48.5in total length with a
blade of 37.75in. The final bout however has no length rules beyond that it
must be a sword. That match will be interesting. It will pit a one-handed
weapon against a two-handed one, the lighter rapier against the heavier
longsword, the Italian school emphasizing speed and flair against German
technique and position.

But
be forewarned, Mr. Koh. The bouts end after two minutes and thirty seconds. You
will not see the prolonged clank and clang so beloved by Hollywood. Short,
quick clashes will test the fighter’s ability to recognize and react. It will
be thrust and parry, deflect and evade, move and counter-move. Through the
centuries, masters have crafted the art to four primary guard stances and five
strikes. Woe to the swordsman who has not perfected them to unconscious
reflex.”