So, kid, you want to fight this old devil to see if I still have skills? You sure? Well I'm slowed with age, but sure I'll humor you. But remember, you did challenge me, not the other way around. Still, you did ask politely, so I won't be - too - rough. -- Anon Guest
After he turned one hundred and seven, Kosh routinely wore his hakama because it was easier to don. His ageing hands were tired of buckles and his old back was complaining about bending to do them up. And the wider pants were more amenable for temperature control. And, because he'd retired from teaching at the Dojo, he wore it with his more normal shirt and red doublet. That, and the woven hat Delia made for him, did nothing to stop the occasional blowhard.
The first warning of one was their egotistical coo of, "So this is the Thrice-Sworn King, death knell of Olikent slavery? A withered old man who needs a cane?"
Kosh sighed and rolled his glowing eyes. "You think I was this old, seventy of years ago?" He sized them up. Young buck with a shiny new sword and a great deal of ego. Not yet at his full growth nor all of his facial hair. Bad stance, bad posture and, from the smell of him, bad hygiene as well. Someone wanting to look big by taking down someone with the biggest reputation.
The problem with being the best was, there was always someone wanting to take a shortcut to the top.
His retort had left the kid flat-footed and flummoxed, but only for a moment. He puffed up his toastrack chest and proclaimed, "I could beat you with but one hand, old man. You cane against my sword!"
Anyone nearby to watch were not laying bets. They saw something like this regularly. So used to it that they didn't bother taking notes about the conflict.
"I'll make it fair," said Kosh. "Your sword against my bare hands," he laid his kerchief on the cobbles, stood on it, "and I won't set foot off my kerchief." He handed his dragon-headed cane to the nearest bloodthirsty child eager to be part of the scene in progress.
Darling Delia, busy with a herb vendor across the way, glanced over her shoulder at him and gave him a long-suffering and exasperated look. He winked at her. She rolled her eyes and went back to shopping.
Desperate to impress lad lunged with his blade, thinking Kosh was adequately distracted.
Kosh simply bent out of the way of the lunge, then threw him by his outstretched arm into a convenient pile of hay. He turned to face the lad, not one toe of his sandalled feet leaving the kerchief. "Do you surrender, or are we going for three rounds?"
He charged, bellowing as he shed straw in his wake. Kosh flipped him in a surprised somersault, and sent him running further down the street with a swat on his rump to count coup.
Some watching from the windows applauded. He bowed like a professional mummer. Still not stepping off his kerchief.
"Die, villain!"
This time, Kosh knocked the sword out of his grip, and threw him back into the hay. He examined the blade like a connoisseur. That D'varuv maker's mark was a fake. "The metal's worthy, but the maker isn't real," he said. "If you paid full price for this, you got fleeced."
The curses that came out of his mouth. There was mixed company about! Kosh silenced him with a specific breath and recovered his kerchief while the boy shouted himself out. Delia supplied the restraining vines that ceased any further attempts at violence.
Kosh placed the sword nearby. When he calmed down, someone would set the lad free. The kid returned Kosh's cane to him with malevolent laughter. To the would-be braggart, he said. "Accept the truth. You got beaten by a withered old man who needs a cane."
"Stop playing with them, darling," she chided. "I swear, it's that sort of thing that attracts them. We go through this nonsense every other week."
[Photo by Jonathan Kemper on Unsplash]
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