The lower terrace was eighty meters long, cut flat from the grey mountain rock.
At the far southern end stood three straw men, each as tall as a warrior.
They were bound tight with wild grass and green hemp around solid teak posts, their chests painted with round red circles.
Vidhar stood at the northern chalk line.
The live iron felt completely different from the practice tools.
The three-and-a-half-kilo Parashu (battle-axe) sat snug against his right hip in its oiled leather loop, the razor steel edge pointing back.
The black Sharnga (composite horn bow) was strung, its forty-kilogram limbs curved in a tight, gleaming arc in his left hand.
On his back, twenty heavy black arrows sat ready in the quiver.
Bhagavan Parashurama stood ten paces to the side, his arms crossed over his chest.
“In a real fight, distance is an illusion,” the Teacher said, his voice hard as the stone under their feet.
“You loose a shaft at seventy meters.
The foe’s line does not wait for you to admire your aim.
If his vanguard charges, he closes that gap in four seconds.
If you drop your bow to draw your axe, you lose a weapon.
If you fumble the haft, your skull is split.”
He pointed to the straw targets.
“One arrow into the chest of the center target.
Sprint seventy meters.
Do not drop the bow.
Draw the iron from your belt on the run, shift your grip, and take the heads off the left and right posts before you stop.
If the cut is shallow, or the bow falls from your left hand, you start again.”
On the terrace wall, Kakbhushundi fluttered down, landing on a stone post.
“Mind your shins, boy,” the crow croaked dryly into Vidhar’s thoughts.
“Running with live steel at your hip is a good way to bleed out before you reach the straw.
If that axe bounces in the loop, say farewell to your kneecap.”
Vidhar tuned the crow out.
He widened his stance, his bare toes gripping the flagstones.
He pulled an icy breath below his navel.
The blessing of Prana-Vayu (the vital breath of nature) filled his blood, cooling the heat in his chest and sharpening his vision until the red paint on the distant straw posts looked three hand-widths wide.
“Loose!” the Teacher barked.
Vidhar moved instantly.
His right hand flashed to his shoulder, plucking a black ironwood arrow from the quiver.
He laid the shaft across the bow’s grip, snapped the tail onto the braided silk bowstring, and hauled forty kilos of horn straight to the corner of his jaw.
The resistance was savage, but his back muscles locked like an iron gate.
He didn’t hold the draw for half a second.
TWANG!
The bowstring whipped forward with a sound like a cracking whip.
The heavy shaft cut through the morning air in a low, black streak.
Seventy meters away, the arrow slammed dead-center into the chest of the middle straw man with a wet, heavy thud, the steel point punching clean through the teak post and protruding a foot out the back.
Vidhar did not watch it strike.
Before the sound of the hit reached his ears, his bare feet exploded off the chalk line.
He sprinted down the terrace, his strides long and violent.
The horn bow remained clamped in his left hand, held tight against his forearm so the limbs would not catch the wind or strike his ribs.
At his right hip, the heavy axe tried to bounce with every stride.
Vidhar kept his core braced.
He reached down with his right hand, his thumb slipping inside the leather loop to steady the haft against his leg as he ran.
Forty meters.
Thirty meters.
His boots were gone, but his toughened soles did not slip on the grit.
Through Kala-Drishti (seer’s sight), he measured the distance to the two remaining targets.
Ten meters out, his right fingers wrapped tight around the deerskin grip.
He drew the axe.
The three-and-a-half-kilo steel head cleared the loop with a smooth hiss of oiled leather.
Vidhar did not stop his run.
He angled his body slightly to the left, planting his right foot hard to change his line of charge.
The left target was five meters away.
Vidhar kept the horn bow tucked tightly under his left armpit, his left forearm bracing the weapon against his ribs.
His right arm snapped back, hips twisting with the sprint.
He drove the cut.
WHUFF-CRACK!
The razor edge of the steel axe caught the left target at the neck.
The seasoned straw offered no resistance; the blade tore through the hemp binding, bit through the two-inch teak core, and threw the severed straw head spinning twenty feet into the air.
The momentum pulled Vidhar forward, but he didn’t stumble.
He dropped his center of gravity two inches, skidding his left heel across the flagstones to spin his torso around.
The right target was now three meters behind his right shoulder.
He shifted his hands.
His left hand shoved the horn bow forward like a shield, using the black stave to clear the flying straw from his eyes.
His right elbow snapped around in a short, brutal backhand sweep, driving the three-cornered spike on the back of the axe head straight into the neck of the third post.
The steel spike shattered the teak timber.
The right straw head broke off with a violent snap, tumbling into the gravel behind the post.
Vidhar slid to a halt three paces beyond the targets, his bare feet kicking up a shower of grey dust.
He stayed low in a wide combat stance.
His left hand gripped the center of the black horn bow, held level across his chest.
His right hand held the axe, the razor steel head resting ready by his hip, coated with broken straw and bits of splintered wood.
His breath was deep, steady, and quiet.
Silence fell over the terrace.
The only sound was the rustle of loose straw drifting across the stones.
Kakbhushundi flew down from the wall, circling the headless posts before perching on the severed head resting in the dirt.
He pecked at a piece of hemp rope, then looked across the stone at Vidhar.
“Well, the straw is dead,” the crow croaked mentally, his tone dry and grudging.
“The bow didn’t drop, and his legs are still attached to his hips.
An acceptable butcher’s work for an accountant.”
Vidhar didn’t move until heavy footsteps approached.
Bhagavan Parashurama walked past the splintered targets.
He stopped beside the first post, looking at the clean, diagonal cut where the steel blade had sliced through the teak wood, then checked the shattered post where the rear spike had struck.
He turned to face his student.
“Your left elbow flared on the turn,” the Teacher said, his voice flat.
“If that right target had held a spear, his point would have caught you under the arm before your spike landed.”
Vidhar lowered the axe and brought his feet together, bowing his head.
“I will keep the bow tighter to my chest, Gurudev.”
Bhagavan Parashurama stepped forward and laid a heavy palm on the shoulder of the black horn bow.
“You cleared seventy meters, loosed true, drew the iron, and cut without losing your footing,” the Teacher said.
The stern lines around his eyes softened by a fraction.
“Your hands now remember what the mind wills.
The tools are no longer separate from your bones.”
He looked toward the high cliffs above the gorge.
“The basic transitions are complete.
But a straw man does not cut back, and an open terrace is not a battlefield.
Tomorrow, we go to the Vana Durga (the wild forest of the crags).
You will face moving wood and falling rock, and you will learn how to fight when the world itself is trying to kill you.”
Vidhar felt a cold thrill run down his spine.
He slid the heavy steel axe back into its leather loop with a single, clean motion.
“Yes, Gurudev,” Vidhar said.