The Duel

“As the challenged party, you may select the weapons.”

I stared at the man in the stupid tail-coat, wondering if he was as moronic as his costume would suggest. It was 2013, not 1813, and I was probably more familiar with the protocols for duelling than he was. In his arms, he had a case of pistols, flint-locks at that, and a case containing two antique swords that had probably never seen blood in the couple of hundred years since they were forged.

“Pistols?” I asked. “Seriously?”

“Very good sir...”

Evidently sarcasm does not work on the brain-dead. The man’s eyes were glazed like a drug-addicts, so maybe he really couldn’t tell, but his movements seemed precise enough for the task at hand.

While the valet worked to charge the pistols, pouring powder from a tiny horn and ramming home a couple of lead bullets which had evidently been polished specifically for the occasion, I watched my opponent shrugging off the velvet dressing-gown that he had selected to wear this morning.

I failed to suppress a mirthless laugh as I saw that he was dressed in riding boots, what seemed to be white leggings and a linen poet’s shirt worn under a silk waistcoat. At least he was consistent with his ridiculous Regency theme.

“Are we really going to do this?” I asked for the last time.

All I recieved for my trouble was another glare, so I shrugged off my thick coat and pulled on the pair of leather gloves I had brought with me just in case the lunatic had been serious. Unlike my opponent, I wore a pair of trainers, blue jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt. Hardly ideal duelling clothes, but I thought he’d been joking and had only turned up to be on the safe side.

“Please take your weapons and stand back-to-back. At my word, you shall both walk ten paces forward in time with my count, turn and discharge your pistols. Are you both clear?”

“No,” I said. “I kind of missed the point of this stupid ritual...”

“You impugned my honour, sir!”

My opponent spoke at last. It was a whiny voice with a public-school accent, explaining why I had bothered to impugn whatever honour he had. I have always hated people like him.

Seeing that he was serious, I threw up my hands in a gesture of reluctant agreement and picked up one of the pistols. It felt light and flimsy in my hand, more dangerous to the shooter than the target, but I’d gone this far and might as well see it to its conclusion.

Back to back, we stood and waited. In time with the slow and monotonous counting of the dandy’s valet or servant or whatever he was, we moved apart.

One...

Two...

Three...

I started to giggle at how ridiculous it all was.

Four...

Five...

Six...

Seven...

Eight...

Nine...

Ten...

I turned and waited with the pistol pointed skywards while my opponent took aim and fired. To his credit, he did actually hit me. A blue shimmer in the air deflected the shot an inch from my right knee. I doubted if it would have been enough to even break the skin, given how little light the shield gave off as it absorbed the impact.

One of the advantages of being a wizard is that we are mostly bulletproof if we’re prepared for it. I have bever tested my warding magic against a high-powered sniper-rifle, but I once watched a hail of gunfire from an AK-47 explode like a miniature fireworks-display.

“Happy?” I asked. “My turn now...”

I didn’t even bother with the trigger, conjuring a spark in the pan like the show-off I was. Blue flame flared and the bullet flew through the air. I was not exaggerating when I said I was familiar with duels; my bullet impacted with his own shield right between his eyes. The lad fell backwards, momentarily blinded by the flash and panicked by the attack to his face.

“Okay, now that we’ve established that we have both studied the art of kinetic defence, can we move on?”

I was hungry. Not expecting to actually duel today, I had skipped breakfast. It technically put me at a slight disadvantage, but it’s all relative anyway.

Undeterred, my opponent returned the pistol to its case and carried the two swords over to me. They were very shiny, I noticed. Without even inspecting either of them, I took a blade and wandered back a few paces. I was not too worried, but a sword could actually pose a threat; swords had stayed in fashion among wizards for a good reason. The reason was simple; in terms of projectiles, you could stop anything short of an anti-matériel rifle with half-decent wards, but a sword wielded by a wizard would cut through them like they were not there.

Feeling the blade in my hands, I extended my power into the blade. A subtle red glow radiated from the steel, the colour chosen on a whim. A dozen feet away, my opponent’s blade took on the more typical blue-green colour of un-modified magic.

“Join me and together we shall rule the galaxy--”

“Oh shut up,” he interrupted. “Why can’t you take anything seriously?”

The boy’s blade glowed brighter as his anger grew. Strong emotions messed with your magic, making it harder to control. It also killed your technique, leading to stupid mistakes and leaving you vulnerable. I suddenly wanted to make him angry. Maybe I wouldn’t like him when he’s angry, but I didn’t much like him now.

“Yes, give in to your anger, let it flow through you...”

With a roar of rage, he rushed toward me. Sparks flew up as I parried his blade and left a shallow cut on his buttock. At once, he turned to attack again, swinging high, and my riposte nicked his left ear.

I confess that I was toying with him, but it was fun.

“Olé!” I called, having fun at the lad’s expense.

All at once, his blade was on me and I allowed him a few lazily-parried attacks before bringing the fight to a close. He was a poor fighter, possibly better than a complete novice, but no match for a man who’d actually used a sword in anger.

There are a number of nerve-clusters in the human body that make excellent targets when you need to shut someone down. The solar-plexus is one that most people know, but a good stab to the kidneys can be devastating too. Sadly, kidney shots are dangerous and require access to the other man’s back; he was neither enough of a pain to be worth killing nor enough of a fool to turn his back, so I aimed for the one just above the knee.

My sword barely drew blood, but I pushed a little extra magic through the wound and watched him fall to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. No fool, I kicked his sword away from him before he could recover his senses and then put my sword to his throat.

“Do you yield?” I asked.

His eyes stared up at me without comprehension.

“Do you yield?” I repeated.

This time, he nodded. He was aware of his situation, not suicidal and no longer blinded by rage. It was always good when I could avoid killing someone.

“Good,” I smiled. “Now... Can you possibly remind me what I did to upset you...?”