A Duel

Laying down against the grave, an old short man with a beard that was overgrown on one side, runs his fingers through a name inscribed on the grave, dust falling from it. Singing softly to himself: “...The wind picked up the screaming from the men falling down, into the valley below, from ice-covered mountains; all the way up above. But the strong were warm, With a sworn black rage burning, An endless fire…”.

Looking at the city with its thick night light, shadows dance down to the ground and the wind sings in the air. In the distance, over there to the east, walls lay barren and stale. A wrought harbor is now silent in these snow-months. And a huge tower looming melted into a hill. Houses glow with light and laughter; gold leaf rim crowns on the top of the house-halls. He sees a young woman approach, she must be visiting the grave of her friend, he thought. She was a tall woman, dressed in pure black trousers and a thick leather jacket; with a see-through black shawl. Her thin arms, that must have been muscular once, were wrapped around her shawl pulling the shawl off her shoulders. She heard the trail of his song. Turning and walking up to the old man she asked him, “what is that song? I have heard it before.”

“Story of an old hero, once I thought of myself like him,” his eyes wandered around, then looking at himself, and then he changed the subject, “do you talk to an old man to distract yourself.”

“Possibly,” she said sulkily, “my name is Harpful.” Reaching out a long thin hand, nails black with bruises. Barking a laugh the old man said, “a woman with that name with your glum face is ironic.” He did take her hand however but Harpful quickly pulled away.

“Shut up old man.” She was ready to leave, and really, she was already turning away.

“Well wait,” the old man said standing up from the grave, “I'm sorry, I don't really talk to people, so let me tell you a story. It will help.” His head was down and he was brushing his hand against his dirty jacket. She didn't understand why, the shirt was already brown and stained like a napkin.

“You know…you could be right.”

His head rose with a smile, “But first let's get away from here,” he said, “ too many memories to seep into my mind.” He was shifting on the ground, trying to pick himself up.

“Tell me the story of the poem,” said Harpful.

“No I have a better one, a personal one, besides you can find that one in any library I could show you…”

“No its fine”

“…Where to begin, how about after…” trailing off.

“After what?”

“That,” he said, “would tell too much, instead I’ll take you to what led to the siege of this town.” While he spoke he was also swaying over to the melted that loomed about the mist.

“Before you begin, can you tell me your name?”

“Gilmore,” reaching out to shake Harpful’s hand.

“That one!” She greedily shook his hand again. Seeming to feel a slight amount of power pool into him, like mist in a bowl of water, and it felt like water when she touched his hand.

Pulling his hand back and pointing to Harpful Gilmore said, “Don't ever do that again.” Gilmore softly spoke, “I will tell you the truth of what I did, why I’m no hero.” he put his fist into his pocket pausing for a sneer, sniffing, and then muttering about history illiterate fools. However, starting to smile, quipping, “it feels like a confession should I take you to the church? There is something I want to see and it will help you understand my tale.” Grabbing a cloak that was laying on the ground,and wrapped it around himself.

Traveling silently they left the graveyard; turning left away from the bay and towards the ‘New Districts.’ The winding streets and short gilded buildings, that still shone in the moonlight, gave way to grids and taller buildings. In the center of each grid were gardens, flowers with blue and white petals and long yellow stigma, and stands that clumped together; even in the dark they begged for customers.

The streets were silent, any passers by would recognize the cloak that Gilmore wore, and Harpful could feel their eyes dodging away. Her hand, reaching down at her belt, trying to feel for a sword. Then his face flashed in her mind till he was washed away with tears, choking she pulled herself together before her quiet friend would notice.

Reaching the Church, it was a clearing around a group of looming houses; which came to a sudden stop and curled outward like a gate to the clearing. Harpful felt the heavy booms of Gilmore’s steps upon the gray broken-stone. The night was at its darkest, even with the full moon it was hard to see. Struggling to top the steps that led up into the church, the gray haired man hunching and weak with age; now peering up at the stone doors (Harpful could only tell it was a door by the seam in the middle) in front of him. They were huge, inlaid with carvings of elegant male figures, their backs turned and naked caring cloths of gold pulled into an image of an “X” stretching through the muscles of a bird past their breaking point, closer to the ground were two arm sized holes into the door. Reaching his hands into the holes and gripping a hidden bar he was pulling with all his might, moving an inch and then suddenly a clang came from within, gliding open with ease.

Stepping between the thin crack pushing aside the door, it causes him to be tired and breathy. Inviting the tall woman into the church. In the room were two stone-swords that lay in the hands of the statue-maiden before her. The room was small, this place could not hold more than nine people, she thought, strange for such a large outside. Approaching the stone and running his finger along the brim of one of the blades, she thought the red and white robbed maiden and swords were all one stone but picking up one of the blades, seeming to regain some strength as he was strengthening his back.

He spoke, “have you seen battle? I've been in many times and it was always like fire on a mountain top! Never before or after was I so warm and full and happy then in those minutes of blood and gore. And this sword was the one that did it.”

“I dreamt of it,” her deep voice rang, “I wanted to be a knight.”

“And what happened to the dream?”

“It was carried by the man I loved, ‘I will carry the bravery of your heart,’he said. And they died.”

Smiling to himself, he tossed the blade to her. Barely catching it she was surprised by the weight, there was a real sword beneath the stone, like a fossil around the iron, it was surprisingly light for a rock. It was still heavy for a blade. Grabbing The other blade. Gilmore said “Show me that dream,” he said, readying into an offensive stance. One hand twisting around the blade and another forward heady to punch and grab, his sword held back and he was pointing it at her throat. Then shifting down into a middle guard, sword tight and close, and ready for defense.

She found her body ready for a strike, pulling back and ready for a wide sweep, but this sword can kill. I cannot kill this man, he is old I should be able to disarm him. I use this sweep to draw him in. Attacking Gilmore jumped back and danced around the statue. Harpful thrust her blade forward past the hair of the maiden, it nearly struck Gilmore’s shoulder. Dipping down Gilmore thrusted his own fossil-sword between the maiden’s arms and chest. It hit Harpful’s side and knocked her down, he ran past her and down the stairs. Raising to follow him, Harpful took no mind of her wound bleeding, and charged after him. He was at the bottom of the stairs geeing at her.

Jumping at him, he was shocked and he barely fled in time to dodge her attack. Landing Gilmore tried to strike at her, but she knelt down, digging deep, and deflected the crest strike. Smashing the sword against the ground. Now! She thought, and grabbing Gilmore’s sword arm she put her blade to his throat. “I win,” she smiled. Smiling back Gilmore let go of the old man and let the legend rise.

There was leaking of another world, water dripping from Gilmore, like the threatening pebbles of an avalanche. Scrambling back Harpful got to her feet and watched as the water went into the sword, busting alight, and lighting the quiet town. “It's not done yet, she-knight!”

She felt her hair stand, nearly dropping her sword, then Gilmore said, “don’t drop your dream.”

“I won't drop him.” Despite the heat she still ran at him, flaring the fire brighter Gilmore’s sword like the sun , blinding and burning. She still ran, he was bracing himself. One strike, two, three four five, swipe, thrust, and crescent with blow after blow. She felt like glory itself, the idea given form, the fire was her own spirit. Suddenly the fire was gone and the dark was blinding and she shrunk in the cold stark night. Smashing her blade, he broke the rock sending it flying. His sword was to her throat, “you did well,” he said.

She was crying, “get to one knee and hold yourself up,” he said to her shock.

“What?” but she did so. Placing the sword upon her shoulder and then laying it in her hands, dumb founded. This can't be real.

“I have no authority over this anymore but your actions will prove it alone,” Gilmore said, “rise knight of hope, rise as knight Harpful!”

She was stupid or felt like she was, as she rose. Looking at the Blade that Gilmore claimed that it was his own blade; broken on the pavement. He was looking at it well, “that thing,” he said, moving over to it, “I don't love the blood on that blade anymore, the fight yes, but gore and blood no.”

“I want that blade,” she recognized, “that want for blood pushed me into fire.”

“Too many want that. Stories often do that.”

“Will I always be like that?”

“The fact you ask that shows you’ll find a better path than me.” He was looking down at the broken thing, bending down and picking up the sharp remains, he crushed them into dust that flew away in the wind. Harpful still felt a sharp pang run through her but she felt her chest and convicted herself to be calm.

Walking back to her, Gilmore said, “let me heal your wound, it's not deep,” adding, “I made sure of that.” Reaching for a hidden bottle of water, in a clear flask that had a soft glow, he also said, “put that sword away.” Fumbling to stick the thick rock between her belt with a red face, she did not notice the slight sting through her side but she felt much better.

She felt extremely weird with a sword at her side again, she wanted to walk again, to feel the weight and power and responsibility of a weapon. To tame that fire was an action and walking was the start of that. Gilmore was reading that, he said, “Come lets walk and I’ll tell you my story.” He said, placing an arm on her shoulder. Stepping over the broken hilt of Gilmore’s sword and, through the houses like the walls of a mountain pass narrowing the light far away, they moved towards the brightening east.