The Faith: Book I of the Uprising Trilogy

by Michael Seeley

  Chapter IV

  The setting sun dropped once more towards the horizon, surrendering her heat. Our carriage clipped up dirt and gravel as its wheels cascaded down the worn path. Sitting through the bouncing ride, I pulled the watch-chain from my waistcoat and sighed. We were late, and it was not proper for a duel. Given our age, we were sure to be looked down upon already by Fuchs, at least two decades older than us.

  "Logan," I snapped. "Why those pistols anyway?" His lengthy selection of new dueling pistols had been the cause of our tardiness. Since he already possessed a fine pair of the weapons, and had brought them along for the Tour, I couldn't see why he needed new ones.

  "It's my life at stake, not yours."

  "I know that, but timing is everything. We're late, and we'll look like fools." I sighed, exasperated. Crossing my arms, I looked past him out the carriage window.

  "You just act like a proper second, and we'll be fine."

  "Don't condescend to me," I growled.

  "Fine, you irritable devil."

  We rode the rest of the way in silence. Neither of us were prepared for the charged emotions we'd come to experience since Versailles. This wasn't our first disagreement since the damned affair began.

  The carriage gave a wide jerk as it halted, and Logan threw open the door. Leaping out, I followed as well.

  We were indeed late, and they were waiting for us. Fuchs, his nose bandaged, the burly second I had met, and a doctor all stood in the windy field. As one, they raised their pocket-watches. Fuchs rolled his eyes.

  "Unavoidable, gentlemen. My apologies," I clipped off as I shook the hands of the second and the doctor. Fuchs and Logan had each retreated to their own empty patch in the tall grass.

  The doctor pulled me close. He shared their accents. "Boy, Otto Fuchs never misses. Does your friend have his affairs in order?"

  I jerked away from him. "Sir, unless you wish to face me on this field, you will speak to me as an equal. We're prepared. Let's get on with it." The German bowed and set his medical kit on the grass. He walked to a space between the two combatants and withdrew a grimy handkerchief from his pocket.

  I had walked over to Logan by then. He turned at the sound, and we clasped arms in solidarity. "Shoot straight; kill the cur."

  "Remember your word," he mouthed.

  "Good luck then."

  I retreated from my friend and took up a cautious position next to our carriage. The other second stood by me, his arms crossed across his chest. The wind flicked his hair about, and had the moment not been so somber, his ridiculous attempts to quell the movement would have been laughable.

  The doctor beckoned Fuchs and Logan forward. I couldn't hear the little man's words, but I knew the meaning. He would drop the handkerchief on the count of three and then each man could fire at his own will. The duel would continue until someone was hit, even if multiple shots were needed. I clamped my hands together behind my back to quit their twitching. The anticipation was agonizing. The duelists separated and stopped about twenty paces apart.

  Then, the doctor shouted the count. "One." I shut my eyes.

  "Two." My breath rushed out of me like a wind.

  "Three." I jerked my eyes open as the little cloth dropped. A shot cracked the air, and my eye snapped towards Logan as a cloud of smoke obscured him.

  Frantically, I swiveled my gaze to Fuchs. He was standing, unwounded, a cocksure grin on his face. He deliberately, slowly raised his pistol and steadied it. Logan, for his part, threw out his chest, defying the shot about to come.

  Whether by divine intervention or simple happenstance, a great gust of wind swept the ground as Fuchs pulled his trigger. Logan whipped his head about and I could see terror on his face. Blood began dripping from his clipped ear.

  The seconds approached their counterparts. The doctor was attending my friend as I walked up. Logan was crouching amid the grass, and the doctor stood above him. As the little man dapped at the blood with another cloth, Logan jerked away from his touch. "Another pistol," he shouted, blood flinging from his ear with the movement.

  As he twitched about, I prepared another weapon and passed it to Logan. I leaned close, whispering into his undamaged ear. "Wait this time. Even if he shoots first. Once the cloth drops, you'll be less excitable after a moment if you wait." I rubbed his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. His veins bulged, and he was breathing heavily.

  Leaving him to his rage, I retreated to the carriage.

  "One." I kept my gaze steady on Logan, ignoring the countdown and Fuchs.

  The cloth dropped. A report filled the air. Logan was again hidden amid a cloud. "Damn it!" I hissed. My eyes swept across the field towards Fuchs.

  At first, I couldn't find him; the man was gone. I processed it as the doctor sprinted towards his fallen companion. Fuchs' second lumbered forward as well, and I checked my urge to follow. It wouldn't have been proper. Instead, I hurried over to Logan.

  "You lucky, lovable fool!"

  "Don't get ahead of yourself," he replied sagely.

  His smoking weapon lay limp in his hand, and as I took it from him, the veins in his palm shuddered. Leaving him, I returned to the carriage. Rifling through my pack inside, I found what I was looking for and returned to my shaken friend.

  I thrust the brandy into his palm and forced him to drink. As the first drops trickled down his throat, he shrank into himself. Then, as his hands wiped away the excess from his lips, he drew up to his full height.

  The grass parted behind us, and we wheeled about. The doctor waited, his jaw clenched. "He's dead," the man said simply. Together, Logan and I bowed. As Fuchs' second approached, we returned another bow.

  Without another word, we all departed for the separate carriages.