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A Matter of Honor: Part III

by Patrick LeClerc
2 minutes, no warnings

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I waited, shivering in the mist while our seconds met and conferred. They didn't seem to debate very vigorously. Terse words and grim nods. I'm sure they quickly agreed that the situation was tragic, but honor demanded it become more so before we could go back to waging war against a common enemy.

I wondered if I should fake a seizure. Twitch, fall down, chew my tongue. I wasn't even above pissing myself.

I felt a nervous grin form at the thought of the hero of the Army of the Alps soiling his trousers to avoid a fight. I bit my lip to hold in a laugh.

Lt DuMond saw my smile and brightened. "That's the man I know. There's the esprit de corps!" he thumped me on the shoulder. "As expected, the duel will proceed until one of you has a wound and cannot continue."

"Que sera, sera," I replied.

DuMond shook his head, looked at me with a grim, manly smile. "Your concern for a brother officer, and your reluctance to see him come to harm does you credit. But better a wound of the flesh than of honor, eh?"

I almost broke up again at the absurdity of the statement. My second fortunately mistook my hysterics for bloodthirstiness.

"You can protest all you like, Jean," he said, "but you cannot conceal your hunger for action. Soon enough, mon ami."

I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly, forcing my muscles to relax, to loosen up. This was a fight. I'd been in plenty. It was a silly fight, with silly rules, against a man I liked and respected, who was on my side, for God's sake, over a real sight I had really made and was willing to apologize for.

Madness. If these were the values of the ruling class, no wonder the world was a constant mess.

I tried to force myself into a fighting mindset. To think in terms of attack and defend. To prepare myself to kill or die, surviving on strength and skill and aggression. I'd been in plenty of fights, and the right mindset is crucial.

But I wasn't really feeling it now.

Part of my reluctance was guilt. Sleeping with a man's finacee and then sticking a sword in him made me feel a bit like Ghenghis Khan or Harald Hadrada. Maybe it would be reversing the order of operations a bit, but practically, it would be the same.

Didn't mean I wanted to let him stick a sword in me either. I heal well, but I don't know if a foot of steel in my vitals was something I could come back from.

It was too late to do much else about it. Mercier and his second were walking toward me.

We met in the middle of the field. The young man's face was set and flushed with anger. Not much chance of me talking my way out of this. At the judge's insistence, he thrust out a hand. I grasped it and shook. A firm, masculine handshake, no hint of the sick fluttering in my stomach.

A voice in the back of my head shouted that now was my chance. Pull him close, drive a knee into his groin and make a run for it.

The though nearly triggered another burst of nervous laughter. I held it to a tight grin, but from the way Lt Mercier's flush darkened, I think he misread it.

Well, it's not like he could get angry enough to kill me twice.

We stepped back from one another. The judge stepped forward and presented a brace of swords. Smallswords, a light blade, small, round guard, not much edge to speak of, and narrow, wicked points. They were identical as far as I could see.

We each took one, with suitable heroic nonchalance, and took our places, awaiting the word to begin.

"En garde!"

Mercier was poised, knees bent, leaning forward, his blade presented aggressively, his weight forward. Bad for a retreat, but I didn't expect him to do much of that.

I assumed a more neutral guard, weight centered, light on the balls of my feet, ready to move forward or back or to either side. I'd have to play defensively, wait for him to overextend. I could read the tendency in every line of his body. All I had to do was stop his attack and–

And what? Skewer him?

Most of us have a reluctance to murder our fellow humans, especially ones we know It takes a conscious effort, a strong emotion, or a damaged psyche to overcome that. I wasn't angry enough to want to stick a sword in the young lieutenant.

"Allez!"

Mercier sprang forward, beat my blade and lunged. I backed and parried, but before I could even think of a counter, he was thrusting again. High then low, feinting and dipping below my defense, driving ever forward.

I scrambled backward, straining to my limits but deflecting everything he threw at me.

Alright, I wondered, making a hasty stop-thrust to buy myself some breathing room, if I wasn't angry enough, did I have enough fear to jab a point into his body? Or enough desire to live, I asked as I parried in carte, missed as he disengaged beneath my blade, and threw my body backward and frantically whipped my weapon around in a circular parry in sixte that sent his point past my right eye but only just.

I backed away yet again. Mercier followed, making another feint and lunge. I was getting to know his cues, getting to where I could plan, could try to work out a counter.

Unless I stumbled.

Inevitable, I guess. Back up enough and you're bound to trip over something. Probably a lesson in that. But standing still and taking a blade in the chest wasn't really a good option either.

As I scrambled to keep my feet, I saw his point coming in, and made a desperate parry that I knew was too late.

By chance or the beneficial effect of stark terror, I managed to lurch to my left and deflect his point to my right, away from my heart.

It was an imperfect defense, so instead of the center of my chest, I felt the steel slide through my right arm.

There's a horrible, queasy feeling as your body becomes aware of a piece of metal inside it. The pain is bad, especially when the point scrapes across the bone on the way through, but it's not the worst pain you're likely to feel in a lifetime. No, it's the odd, alien sensation of the cold, hard metal remaining inside, displacing the tissue of your muscle. It feels about the same size as a fence post, and you think the cold of the steel is sucking the heat from your body. Your stomach drops and the vertigo rises and your mouth tastes of the promise of emptying your gut.

At least that's what it felt like to me. I also felt the horror of being wounded in combat, knowing you're disabled while your enemy is still before you, dreading the next blow.

My sword fell from my hand as the muscle in my arm cramped around Lieutenant Mercier's blade. I grabbed his weapon with my left hand, keeping it still. Instinct told me to keep him from using it, but it had the advantage of preventing the blade from moving in the wound.

I saw disappointment on his face and felt a flush of relief. My hand opened and he jerked his weapon free.

This wasn't a battle. Wounded and unarmed was terrible on a battlefield, but here it was perfect. The rules and customs I'd found so silly would restrain my opponent. Finishing a man off when he's down in battle is just good sense. In a duel it's simply not the done thing. I sank to my knees, but whether that was relief or just bloodloss I wasn't sure. It certainly was a lively bleeder. I watched in a kind of fascination as the lifegiving fluid ran crimson from the dark hold in my arm, trickling down to my hand and dripping from my fingers. The whole limb was tingling now, and the awful ache was less now that the foreign body was gone.

I felt hands on my shoulders and I lay back into DuMond's grip. The surgeon cut the sleeve of my shirt away and pressed a bandage over the wound, wrapping it tightly. He lifted the limb above my head and pressed it between his hands.

"I don't think it severed your artery," he said. "So I'm going to try to stop the bleeding without using a tourniquet. If it doesn't slow soon, I'll have to, so be prepared."

I nodded muzzily.

"Move your fingers. Good. I'd like to save this arm,"

"I wouldn't mind," I replied.

"That's the spirit," said DuMond. "Hold on, mon ami. It's juts a scratch. Even this horse doctor will be able to treat it."

The surgeon ignored him, tying another linen bandage around my arm. "Keep it elevated. Don't take this off until tomorrow. I'll come by and check it, change the dressing. It looks like we might be able to control the bleeding. If you don't get fever in it, you might be able to use a sword again."

"Joy," I said. "I'll try to do a more thorough job next time."

He turned away. "He can't continue. This affair is over. I urge you to accept it." he said to somebody I couldn't see.

Oh. Right. Mercier.

I guess he would have an interest. He was upset with me for something. Ah, I'd just bled all over his sword.

I felt myself lifted to my feet, my arms over the shoulders of Lt DuMond and another man. I was able to put one foot in front of the other fairly well so long as I didn't have to hold my weight up.

Through the haze, I felt a dizzy sense of relief. I had found a way out of this situation without having to kill young Mercier. And without him killing me, either. I'd heal. I was always good a that.

I'd probably get another chance to die for the Republic. That wasn't a very welcome thought, but it would be weeks before any chance of that.

No, for now, the greatest danger would be if Mercier's finacee decided to send her wishes for my recovery.