The swords crossed. Their steel rang like bells in the night. The duelists danced to the music of the swords, their writhing limbs honed, all muscle—they flew above the cobblestones as though winged.
The one with the crimson scarf bound round his neck—dark red, as dark as blood—he sent his point, again and again, at the heart of his grey bearded opponent. Again and again, the ringing of steel, a parry answered, and the point flew naked into the cold, night air.
The repost comes, and the swords clash. The hilts clang against each other. The duelists steaming breath falls upon the mirrored edge of their blades like clouds.
“Give up this foolish jest,” the grey bearded one cries.
No answer comes with words from the red faced, red scarfed, young man. Nothing but a snarl can he enunciate.
The duelists part, springing backward, their tips pointing to each other from across the street.
Then comes a new song, not played on steel but on lips, a drunkard’s diddy. Loud and off key, the blushing, fat man comes laboring up the road. The fencers do not dare take their eyes from each other, but neither moves as the stranger interrupts their mortal struggle.
The drunkard wanders between them and halts.
“Well say!” he bursts with a laugh, his bloodshot eyes going back and forth between the two. “Count Ca-ca-Count—Count!” He bows to the man behind the grey beard. With a side eye glance, he smiles at the young man who wears the crimson scarf. “And living justice? I think. Did you murder his father?” he asks the Count.
“Off with you!”
The drunk turns toward the other duelist, squinting at him. With a sudden ejaculation of laughter, he cries:
“Heindelburg’s son!” He squints again. “Or is it not? How many fathers have you killed?” asks the drunkard. “I suppose it’s hard to keep track of whose boy’s coming after you now, isn’t it?” With a belch, the drunkard staggers out of the way, finding some empty crates to be his chair.
“I suppose you’ll kill this one too,” he adds mournfully. “He looks too young to be very skilled yet. Though, you look too old to be very good still.”
The drunkard laughed.
Again, the duelists edged toward each other. The swords again began their song.
The drunkards coarse voice adds, “It’s how he started, you know. Avenging his father.” The rhythm of the swords slow. “Won a duel with an aged duelist. Kept winning duels. Now he’s an aged duelist himself. I suppose he’ll be proud to pass the title on to you.”
The swords had all but stopped.
“Hold a moment,” the young man finally speaks.
The sword points lower, and the man with the crimson scarf about his neck turns toward the drunk spectator.
“I am the son of a man, but what are you? I think your father’s the devil. What right have you to sit and mock a noble thing? Have you no blood in you that you do not know that blood longs to be shed? For a righteous cause I will fight.”
“Today, tonight, tomorrow—if you live till then—it may seem so,” the drunkard giggles. “But not forevermore. What do you win?” he asks. “Will your father walk this earth again? Perhaps, he will smile at you from his grave, but then again, all skulls grin; they smile as I smile.”
“Do not speak with him,” the Count said. “He is a fool.”
At the word fool, the young man stared daggers at his opponent.
“Fool? You’ve called this duel foolish, a jest. Here is the jester; here is the fool. Do you still question my right to combat? You people will let me live, but you will not let me die. I am ignored and left in life an orphan in a cruel word. I choose to face death, my own or yours, and you call it foolish. The drunk at least knows he’s a fool, but you don’t even know the meaning of the word. To you, it’s just a means, an expression of your own distaste. Your words have no power outside your sword. My words are true, and weather I die, they will remain.”
He lifted his sword, and the grey bearded Count lifted his.
Their dance continued into the night with the fool’s laughter mixing into the rhythm of the steel.
Tale Told 