“Somewhat,” replied the man in black.
“Good, then,” said Yama, “for I dislike having to kill a man who does not know what he is about. I feel obligated to point out to you, however, that when you stand before the Highest for judgment, you will be accounted a suicide.”
The other smiled faintly.
“Any time that you are ready, deathgod, I will facilitate the passage of your spirit from out its fleshy envelope.”
“One more item only, then,” said Yama, “and I shall put a quick end to conversation. Give me a name to tell the priests, so that they shall know for whom they offer the rites.”
“I renounced my final name but a short while back,” answered the other. “For this reason, Kali’s consort must take his death of one who is nameless.”
“Rild, you are a fool,” said Yama, and drew his blade.
The man in black drew his.
“And it is fitting that you go unnamed to your doom. You betrayed your goddess.”
“Life is full of betrayals,” replied the other, before he struck, “By opposing you now and in this manner, I also betray the teachings of my new master. But I must follow the dictates of my heart. Neither my old name nor my new do therefore fit me, nor are they deserved—so call me by no name!”
Then his blade was fire, leaping everywhere, clicking, blazing.
Yama fell back before this onslaught, giving ground foot by foot, moving only his wrist as he parried the blows that fell about him.
Then, after he had retreated ten paces, he stood his ground and would not be moved. His parries widened slightly, but his ripostes became more sudden now, and were interspersed with feints and unexpected attacks.
They swaggered blades till their perspiration fell upon the ground in showers; and then Yama began to press the attack, slowly, forcing his opponent into a retreat. Step by step, he recovered the ten paces he had given.
When they stood again upon the ground where the first blow had been struck, Yama acknowledged, over the clashing of steel, “Well have you learned your lessons, Rild! Better even than I had thought! Congratulations!”
As he spoke, his opponent wove his blade through an elaborate double feint and scored a light touch that cut his shoulder, drawing blood that immediately merged with the color of his garment.
At this, Yama sprang forward, beating down the other’s guard, and delivered a blow to the side of his neck that might have decapitated him.
The man in black raised his guard, shaking his head, parried another attack and thrust forward, to be parried again himself.
“So, the death bath collars your throat,” said Yama. “I’ll seek entrance elsewhere, then,” and his blade sang a faster song, as he tried for a low-line thrust.
Yama unleashed the full fury of that blade, backed by the centuries and the masters of many ages. Yet, the other met his attacks, parrying wider and wider, retreating faster and faster now, but still managing to hold him off as he backed away, counterthrusting as he went.
He retreated until his back was to the stream. Then Yama slowed and made comment:
“Half a century ago,” he stated, “when you were my pupil for a brief time, I said to myself, ‘This one has within him the makings of a master.’ Nor was I wrong, Rild. You are perhaps the greatest swordsman raised up in all the ages I can remember. I can almost forgive apostasy when I witness your skill. It is indeed a pity. . .”
He feinted then a chest cut, and at the last instant moved around the parry so that he lay the edge of his weapon high upon the other’s wrist.
Leaping backward, parrying wildly and cutting at Yama’s head, the man in black came into a position at the head of the log that lay above the crevice that led down to the stream.
“Your hand, too, Rild! Indeed, the goddess is lavish with her protection. Try this!”
The steel screeched as he caught it in a bind, nicking the other’s bicep as he passed about the blade.
“Aha! There’s a place she missed!” he cried. “Let’s try for another!”