the challenge from him just over nine hours ago.
My father wanted to discuss strategy with me. I flatly refused. As a gentleman, I’ve been skilled with the use of a rapier since I was a boy of around seven years of age. I curl and uncurl my fingers around the hilt of my weapon, which is covered with a sweeping steel guard. My eyes never leave my opponent’s in the thick moments before our duel is set to begin.
I’ve mentally reviewed my plan several times, absolutely certain of the strikes I will take against the man. And now, a peaceful calm washes over me as I await the word from the impartial announcer that we are to begin. Many of the duels that occur in the South are fought until one man is too wounded to be able to continue. As the one who called the offense against my enemy, I vehemently insisted that this duel be fought à loutrance, or to the death, to be absolutely certain that only one of us walks away this morning.
The person chosen to start the duel is unknown to either of us. I surmise that he was brought here especially for the grim task of giving us leave to attack. I glance down at my white sleeves one last time to ascertain that they are cuffed properly so as not to cause obstruction. I flick my right wrist and my sleek Spanish rapier cuts through the dense air with the crisp sound of a whip. I plant my booted feet into position and wait.
The stranger’s voice is strong but laced with nervous energy as he calls out, “Gentleman, are you both ready to engage?”
After we both respond, the man’s voice again rings out clearly across the vast, shadowed lawn, “Very well. Begin the duel!”
Body language interpretation is just as crucial as skill. I allow my opponent to close the distance toward me. I’ve already perceived that my adversary is an experienced swordsman, not only from the way he holds his fine weapon but also from his slow, measured movements. We are both measuring each other up for potential weaknesses.
Suddenly his pace quickens and he lunges for me. I shift to my right, missing his blade by at least two feet as he turns to stalk me once again. Because I’m right-handed and quite tall, I already know where I want to land my blow. I’m aiming for his superior vena cava, just to the side of his heart. If I sever that artery then it will be a quick finish.
My eyes track him with the intensity of a starving panther’s as we circle each other. Again, he lunges and just narrowly misses my left shoulder. Before he can reposition, I make my move. Thrusting with precision I go in for the killing blow, but he manages to jump back slightly as I enter his space. My blade misses and sinks swiftly into his lower left side, about ten inches south of my intended target. He shouts out in anger-laced pain.
I grit my teeth, furious with myself. From what I’ve learned in my studies of anatomy, my opponent might suffer some internal bleeding, but could well survive the wound. No, the fight is far from over.
I reposition and watch his free hand come across his body to tightly clutch against the large red bloodstain that is welling up on his light dress shirt. He’s furious. Even through the lamp-lit mist, I can make it out in his features. Excellent. Strong emotions lead to mistakes, possibly fatal ones.
Without warning I race straight in for the kill. I’m determined to land that blow, regardless of the outcome to my person. He raises his sword to deflect mine, but I knock it aside and thrust quick and hard. My blade sinks into the man, just south of his collarbone. Screams ring out around us in the morning air as he goes to his knees before me. His rapier is still clutched in his hand but the tip is lowered toward the foggy ground. I clutch his right shoulder and shove my blade in deeper as I tell him quietly, “Now you know that no one disrespects those I love.”
As I begin to step back, pulling my sword out of the dying man, a strange burning sensation opens up on my left leg. Before
My father wanted to discuss strategy with me. I flatly refused. As a gentleman, I’ve been skilled with the use of a rapier since I was a boy of around seven years of age. I curl and uncurl my fingers around the hilt of my weapon, which is covered with a sweeping steel guard. My eyes never leave my opponent’s in the thick moments before our duel is set to begin.
I’ve mentally reviewed my plan several times, absolutely certain of the strikes I will take against the man. And now, a peaceful calm washes over me as I await the word from the impartial announcer that we are to begin. Many of the duels that occur in the South are fought until one man is too wounded to be able to continue. As the one who called the offense against my enemy, I vehemently insisted that this duel be fought à loutrance, or to the death, to be absolutely certain that only one of us walks away this morning.
The person chosen to start the duel is unknown to either of us. I surmise that he was brought here especially for the grim task of giving us leave to attack. I glance down at my white sleeves one last time to ascertain that they are cuffed properly so as not to cause obstruction. I flick my right wrist and my sleek Spanish rapier cuts through the dense air with the crisp sound of a whip. I plant my booted feet into position and wait.
The stranger’s voice is strong but laced with nervous energy as he calls out, “Gentleman, are you both ready to engage?”
After we both respond, the man’s voice again rings out clearly across the vast, shadowed lawn, “Very well. Begin the duel!”
Body language interpretation is just as crucial as skill. I allow my opponent to close the distance toward me. I’ve already perceived that my adversary is an experienced swordsman, not only from the way he holds his fine weapon but also from his slow, measured movements. We are both measuring each other up for potential weaknesses.
Suddenly his pace quickens and he lunges for me. I shift to my right, missing his blade by at least two feet as he turns to stalk me once again. Because I’m right-handed and quite tall, I already know where I want to land my blow. I’m aiming for his superior vena cava, just to the side of his heart. If I sever that artery then it will be a quick finish.
My eyes track him with the intensity of a starving panther’s as we circle each other. Again, he lunges and just narrowly misses my left shoulder. Before he can reposition, I make my move. Thrusting with precision I go in for the killing blow, but he manages to jump back slightly as I enter his space. My blade misses and sinks swiftly into his lower left side, about ten inches south of my intended target. He shouts out in anger-laced pain.
I grit my teeth, furious with myself. From what I’ve learned in my studies of anatomy, my opponent might suffer some internal bleeding, but could well survive the wound. No, the fight is far from over.
I reposition and watch his free hand come across his body to tightly clutch against the large red bloodstain that is welling up on his light dress shirt. He’s furious. Even through the lamp-lit mist, I can make it out in his features. Excellent. Strong emotions lead to mistakes, possibly fatal ones.
Without warning I race straight in for the kill. I’m determined to land that blow, regardless of the outcome to my person. He raises his sword to deflect mine, but I knock it aside and thrust quick and hard. My blade sinks into the man, just south of his collarbone. Screams ring out around us in the morning air as he goes to his knees before me. His rapier is still clutched in his hand but the tip is lowered toward the foggy ground. I clutch his right shoulder and shove my blade in deeper as I tell him quietly, “Now you know that no one disrespects those I love.”
As I begin to step back, pulling my sword out of the dying man, a strange burning sensation opens up on my left leg. Before
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