A GREY MIST BLANKETED THE LANDSCAPE. Dawn was about to break. The only sound was the river lapping against the shoreline and an occasional frog croak. The gloom only allowed the visibility of two lanterns that made their way towards one another.
Four men approached in silence, Roman, Uri, Mikhail, and Mikhail’s Second. Kira and the Countess stood nearby they had brought a doctor. Sunlight flickered above the horizon and the birds had begun their morning song.
The Second spoke to Roman. “It is within the rules if you wish to announce your sincere apology and dispense with the duel.”
“That would be more offensive than taking a bullet.” Roman said. Mikhail grunted.
The Second opened a wooden box, Roman and Uri inspected the green velvet-lined box that held two pistols and ramrods. The pistol handles were made of dark walnut. The lock plate and butt of the gun were of polished brass. Roman could tell it was a 17th century set. French, he thought.
“There will be no deloping or firing in the air.” Mikhail seemed to slur his words and stagger a bit. “If neither man is hit, there will be another challenge until one is wounded or killed. I have a stash of lead balls.” Kira gasped. Mikhail glared her way then continued. “We will set our pace at eight.” Roman knew the shorter the steps the graver the insult.
Uri, as Roman’s Second and witness, checked each pistol then made his selection. He half-cocked the jaw, pushed the frizzen forward, loaded the flint into the flash pan, then placed a sufficient amount of black powder down the barrel. He wrapped the lead ball in a patch and dropped it down the muzzle. Taking the ramrod, he tamped down the powder and ball, primed the flash pan with a small amount of finely ground power, fully cocked the pistol, and handed it to Roman.
“Careful, it may be a hair trigger,” Uri said.
Roman and Mikhail stood back to back with loaded weapons in hand. Mikhail’s Second counted down the steps. “One—two—three…” Roman wasn’t used to the extra weight of a dueling pistol, apprehension crept into his thoughts. “…seven—eight.” Both men turned to face one another, presented their guns, and fired.
The songbirds went silent. Smoke curled up from both guns. Kira had not heard the explosion of the bullets as they left the barrels. She watched Roman’s body jerk, his blood splattered before he crumbled to the ground.
Hello. excellent job. I did not expect this. This is a splendid story. Thanks!
Oh, no. Mikhail better be bloody too.