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probably they had been silly back home. Probably it would be easier for him to
use simple or compound Erendra names for punches, kicks, blocks, and strikes.
But the traditions seemed to have worked back home;
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0-%20The%20Sword%20And%20The%20Chain.txt there was no sense in violating
custom without a com-pelling reason.
"Sanchin dachi,"
he said, swinging his right foot past and slightly in front of his left and
planting his feet a shoulder width apart, toes canted slightly in.
Sanchin dachi was the best practicing stance for strikes and punches, as well
as snap-kicks. Not necessarily the best fighting stance Karl had always
favored zenkutsu-dachi, a split-legged, forward-leaning stance but a natural
one that could be assumed without triggering a violent response.
"We'll start with a few seiken."
"Chudan-tsuki, sensei?"
Chak asked, as he took his position at the end of the line, next to Tennetty.
"Fine. Start with your right hand." As always, he began by demonstrating.
Seiken chudan-tsuki, a punch to the midsection, began with the nonpunching
hand extended outward as though it had just been used to block, the punching
hand pulled back, the fist inverted, resting at his side, just under the
pectorals.
He moved slowly, pulling his left hand back as he brought his right hand out,
turning his wrist so that the back of his hand faced upward, tensing his
entire body just at the moment that the blow would have made contact, had
there been a real opponent.
"And now the left." He demonstrated, then dropped his hands. "Now ... on my
count, seiken chudan-tsuki;
groups of four." He moved closer to them.
"One
keep it slow, now; follow the pace.
Two
better, better.
Three. Four.
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Speed it up a bit, now. One, two, three, four. Full speed, just as if it were
for real. One-two-
three-four. Keep going."
Chak was doing it properly, as usual; his stance easy, he punched smoothly,
his arms moving like greased pistons.
Karl passed behind the little man and moved to help Tennetty. "No, keep your
wrist straight," he said, ad-
128 THE SWORD AND
THE CHAIN
justing her hand. "Mmm . . . better. A bit more tensing of the belly when you
strike.
Don't rise to the balls of your feet. Flat-footed blows have much more power."
He moved on to Fialt.
Fialt was still throwing the shoulder of his striking arm forward. Standing in
front of him, Karl reached out and grasped his shoulders. "Try it now. Ignore
me." With Karl's much longer reach, Fialt's punch wouldn't land. Fialt punched
the air in front of him, pushing his shoulder forward against Karl's hand. "No
good," Karl said. "You've got to keep the shoulder steady. Chak?" "Not the
knives, again?" The little man frowned. "Knives, again. Tennetty, Aeia, keep
it up." Chak walked over to the tree where his clothes and
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beltknives, tossing them hilt-first to Karl. Karl caught them, then rested the
knifepoints gently against Fialt's shoulders. "Now try it." Fialt scowled, and
punched timidly. "That was better. At least your shoulders didn't move. But,"
Karl said, increasing the pressure of the knives against Fialt's shoulders,
"you didn't have any force behind the blow. Wouldn't have squashed a bug. Do
it right, now."
Still a timid punch.
"Do it better or I swear I'll stick you," he said, just as his karate teacher
had once said to him. Karl wondered for a moment if Mr. Katsuwahara had been
lying, and dismissed the notion as blasphemous.
This time, Fialt struck properly, his shoulders rock-steady, his body tensing
at the moment of impact.
"Nice." Karl nodded, handing the knives back to Chak. He turned toward Aeia,
and
Fialt struck, a perfectly executed seiken chudan-tsuki that landed just below
Karl's solar plexus, knocking him back.
Blindly, Karl brought his right arm around to block Fialt's second blow, then
swung his right leg into a fast but gentle roundhouse kick that bowled Fialt
over.
Baron Furnael
129
"Very pretty," a voice called from the balcony overlook-ing the courtyard.
Karl glanced up. A man stood, looking down at them, his hands spread on the
balcony rail.
"Chak. Handle it." Karl jerked his thumb in the direction of the voice as he
stooped to help Fialt up.
"Nicely done, Fialt."
Fialt's grizzled face broke into a smile. "I did it right?"
"Very. You hit me legally, and hit me hard. If you'd really been aiming
here," Karl tapped himself on the solar plexus "you would've had me." He
clapped a hand on Fialt's shoulder. "Keep it up and we'll make a warrior of
you yet."
"Just a man who can protect himself and his own. That's all I ask." Fialt
nodded grimly. "That's all."
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"I said, very pretty, sir."
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"And who are you?" Karl turned.
"Zherr, Baron Furnael, sir." He bowed. "May I join you?"
At Karl's nod, Furnael walked back into the building, reappearing just a few
moments later at the door into the garden, two armsmen and an old man in gray
wizard's robes at his side.
Baron Furnael was a tall man in his early fifties, perhaps an inch or so over
six feet. Despite his age, he seemed to be in good shape: His thick wrists
were heavily muscled, his leggings bulged with well-
developed calves and thighs, only a small potbelly puffed out the front of his
leather tunic.
Furnael's face was deeply lined, and stubble-free enough to suggest that he
shaved himself both carefully and frequently, or else had someone else shave
him. On his upper lip, a pencil-thin mustache was heavily streaked with gray,
although his short-cropped hair was as black as a raven.
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