The axe whistled past the Chieftain's ribs---again---and met only air.
The man before me moved without effort, each dodge smooth enough to feel premeditated. Every time I thought I saw an opening, it dissolved into empty space.
I pivoted, drove the haft up through a rising diagonal, but the blade only grazed the air before his chest. He had already leaned back, weight balanced lightly on his heels, like he had simply shifted to a more comfortable stance.
Yet, all this while, the hint of surprise tugged at his otherwise unreadable face. For what reason, I couldn't tell.
I pressed on. My footing changed. My muscles found rhythm. The second swing came fast---a vertical chop through his midline---then another, a feint to the right, a slash to the left. Still, the man slipped past each one with ease.
Sweat began to run down my temple. My pulse deepened, but my breathing remained steady. I backed off for a moment, adjusting my stance.
Let's up the ante.
I opened the gates a little.
