Ariel by Steven R. Boyett

gleamed in the morning sun: throwing knives, trench knives, push-blades, two boot-knives. In his right hand was a black-handled and wickedly curved machete. In his left a chain was coiled around his palm with about three feet dangling free. I looked nervously at Malachi, but his face registered nothing. He'd told me once during training that a good length of chain, wielded by a man who knew what he was doing, was a sword's natural enemy. "It can be thrown hard against the blade," he'd said. "It wraps around and makes the edge useless. A good tug and you're thrown off balance—and balance is everything to a swordsman. If you try to slash and hit the chain, same thing—it binds the blade."
    We stopped about five yards from them. The one with the compound bow reached out, pulled out an arrow, and fitted it, but kept the bow pointed down.
    Emilio and the one with the broadsword stepped forward until they were eight feet from us. "We want the horse," said Emilio.
    "She's not a horse," I said. I hadn't meant to say anything but it came out before I could stop it.
    Emilio laughed. His eyes flicked to my sword. "You didn't have that when you came here." He glanced at Malachi, who regarded him with absolutely no expression. "I suppose now you think you're pretty bad with it."
    I tried to follow Malachi's example and said nothing.
    He raised the chain, letting it swing back and forth like a pendulum. "Come on," he said to me. "Just you and me. You win and nobody bothers your pretty horse. You lose, she's mine."
    "No," said Malachi. "If you want somebody, you come for me."
    "Since when did you become a Boy Scout?" asked the broadsword carrier.
    Malachi's face remained impassive.
    "Okay," breathed Emilio, and suddenly he grinned. His teeth were even and white. "You and me, samurai ." He laughed at the word.
    "All right." Malachi separated himself from us, never taking his eyes from Emilio's. The two squared off. Emilio crouched forward, waving the chain from side to side. The machete weaved in slow circles, waiting. Malachi flowed into his stance. His feet were wide apart. He stood with knees bent, up on the balls of his bare feet and leaning forward slightly, bent at the waist. He'd pushed down on the sheath of his sword so that the handle pointed down, the tip up. His right hand gripped the twined handle firmly, just beneath the guard. His eyes were leveled at Emilio's chest, but they looked through him, as if he saw something there that I didn't, something hypnotizing.
    Emilio twitched the chain, trying to draw Malachi into movement. Malachi remained still. His eyes narrowed; he was judging distance. Suddenly he moved, and if I hadn't spent long hours learning from him I would have missed it completely. As it was I only saw the blur. He drew his sword and slashed horizontally. It split Emilio's nose. Maintaining the sword's momentum, he turned his right wrist so the sword arced up, brought his left hand up to grab the bottom of the handle, and sliced straight down. The movement brought the sword vertically through Emilio's nose, quartering it.
    The whole thing took less than half a second. Emilio hadn't had time to move.
    Emilio put his hands to his face and screamed. Bright red blood flowed from between his fingers, down his forearms.
    I had to piece together what happened after that. Emilio, blood still streaming freely, sank to his knees. The broadsword wielder drew and headed for Malachi, who leaned back, holding Kaishaku-nin so that the sword's tip almost touched the ground, edge upward.
    Ten yards away, the one with the bow lifted it, took aim at me, and let fly. The arrow sped at me, though of course I couldn't see it, and then Ariel was in front of me, head snapping down and, just as quickly, up. The arrow broke in two.
    The man looked after his shot in disbelief. He drew another hunting arrow. I brought the Aero-mag to my lips and blew. The shot was hurried, though, and the dart hit him wide of my mark. He dropped his bow