Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [4]
To be sure, Greyhorse wasn’t the most athletic individual and never had been. When the other kids had chosen sides to play parisses squares, he had invariably been the last to be picked.
But he was big. And strong. Gerda seemed to know how to tap the power he possessed but had never made use of.
“Kave’ragh!” he bellowed, trying his best to duplicate his teacher’s effort.
She spoiled his attack with an open-handed blow to the side of his wrist. It sent his fist wide of her face, where it couldn’t do any harm. But at least he didn’t stumble, as he had in their first few sessions. Maintaining his balance, he pulled back and reloaded.
“Kave’ragh!” he snapped again, determined to get past Gerda’s defenses.
This time she hit the inside of his wrist and redirected the force of his attack upward, leaving the right side of his body woefully unguarded. Before he could move to cover the deficiency, Gerda drove her knuckles into his ribs.
Hard.
The pain made him recoil and cry out. Seeing this, Gerda shot him a look of disdain.
“Next time,” she told him, “you’ll do better.”
He would too. And not because she had nearly cracked a rib with her counterattack. He would do better because he bitterly hated the idea of disappointing her.
The first time they had fought, in one of the Stargazer’s corridors, he had surprised her by getting in a lucky punch, and she had gazed at him with admiration in her eyes. It was to resurrect that moment that he endured this kind of punishment.
He didn’t do it in order to become an expert in Klingon martial arts—he had no aspirations in that regard. He came to the gym three times a week and suffered contusions and bone bruises for one reason only: to force Gerda to see him as an equal. To see him as a warrior.
And eventually, if he was very diligent and very fortunate, to see him as a lover.
With this in mind, Greyhorse again assumed the basic position. Knees bent, he reminded himself. One hand forward, one hand back. Knuckles extended, so.
More important, he focused his mind. He saw himself driving his fist into his opponent’s face, once, twice, and again, so quickly that his blows couldn’t be parried. And he ignored the fact that it was Gerda’s face he was pounding.
“Kave’ragh!” growled the doctor, a man who had never growled at anything in his life.
This time Greyhorse’s attack was more effective. Gerda was unable to knock it off-line. In fact, it was only by moving her head at the last moment that she avoided injury.
He was grateful that she had. He didn’t want to hurt her. He only wanted to prove to her that he could.
It was an irony he found difficult to accept—that he could only hope to win Gerda’s love by demonstrating an ability to maim her. But then, the woman had been raised in a culture that made aggression a virtue. She had, to say the least, an unusual point of view.
Again, Greyhorse roared, “Kave’ragh!” and moved to strike her. Again, Gerda was unable to deflect his blow. And again, she managed to dodge anyway.
Getting closer, he told himself. She knew it, too. He could see it in her gaze, hard and implacable, demanding everything of him and giving away nothing.
Not even hope.
Yet Gerda knew how much he wanted her. She had to. He had blurted it out that day in the corridor.
She hadn’t acknowledged it since, of course, and Greyhorse hadn’t brought it up again. All they did was show up at their appointed time in the gym, teacher and pupil, master and enslaved.
“Kave’ragh!” he cried out.
Then he put everything into one last punch—too much, as it turned out, because he leaned too far forward and Gerda took painful advantage of the fact.
She didn’t just elude Greyhorse’s attack. She side-kicked him in the belly, knocking the wind out of him and doubling him over. Then she hit him in the back of his head with the point of her elbow, driving him to his knees.
Stunned, gasping for breath and dripping sweat, he remained on all fours for what seemed like a long