Broken Staff and Dussack

1587-12-10
Road to Bonona

A week south the weather soured and the road pinched to a tunnel of grey branches. Three men slid from the brush with the ease of practice. No words. Only hands out, palms up, steel ready.

I took a fallen limb and set it like a polearm. Hands apart. Back heel rooted. Breath even. The first press came loose and lazy, then fast. I drove a straight thrust down the center and pushed one man back into the ruts.

A heavy cut dropped and snapped the limb in two. No panic. I slid my grip and let the longer piece become a single edge. Merryen’s dussack lesson rose of its own accord. Short arc. Shoulder. Wrist. The back of a reaching hand. Wood whistled. Knuckles split. Nerve thinned.

They tried the rush. I stepped on a slant, gave them space to miss, and turned the answer across the line. Angle over anger. Bone found the flat and thought better of it. Steel went home to sheaths by choice, not honor. The three of them chose profit over pride and bled into the trees.

Silence returned with the wind. I stood among bark and splinters and felt the road teach its rule. A weapon is what structure, timing, and will make of it. Misfortune shapes the form of the answer.

I tucked the broken length through my belt, shouldered the lute, and walked on.