Chapter 22

“Here you are,” Clint said to Emma as he handed her a wrapped cloth. He’d just returned from within our wagon, after having rummaged about through the chests Emma had brought along. Her belongings, I knew. All she had left, now that the town she’d lived in, run, and called her own, was no more.

“Thank you,” she smiled as she unwrapped it. Mr. Grayson had moved towards the center of the wagon train, to prepare the stage for the duel. That is, he and his men were busy drawing a circle in the ground, within which the two would duel. I’d only ever heard of duels to first blood, but never seen one. Hell, any ‘duel’ I’d ever seen was usually one person gunning another down before the count to ten even happened. Honor was, well, it wasn’t that common a commodity. After all, honor was worthless if you were dead.

“Not to poke at a potential rattler’s nest,” I said, still seated, still sipping on my stew. The warmth of our cook fire was calming to my aching body, as was the warm, rich meal. Save for the pounding headache, intensified by Emma and whatever it was she was up to, I was about as comfortable as I could be, given it felt like my body was tearing itself apart from the inside. “But are you absolutely sure this is a good idea?”

In response, Emma simply smiled at me, as she revealed what had been wrapped within the cloth. A gleaming, silver weapon with a long, thin blade, the length of a man’s arm or perhaps a tad more. It was an elegant weapon, a stark contrast to the calvary saber that Mr. Grayson wore at his side. While the saber had a thick, slightly curved blade, with a single sharp edge, the blade Emma had was double edged, slender, and straight as an arrow.

“When it comes to people like Mr. Grayson,” she said matter of factly, as she took hold of the weapon. In her hand, I saw that the pommel of the weapon was adorned with a small, blue gem, “you eventually have to show them the stick, if you want them to respect you.” She flicked her wrist this way and that, making the weapon dance in the air. Elegant, and deadly. Just like Emma.

“What happened to keeping a low profile?” I asked. Honestly, what Emma did was up to her. I wasn’t her keeper. But these past ten days had been filled with more excitement than I’d planned. On top of that, and the pain I was dealing with, my frustration had been growing. If not for all of the unexpected… activities, I would already have a copper core by now and wouldn’t have been suffering like I currently was. Mr. Grayson was to blame for some of that, sure, but Emma’s constant poking of the man, hadn’t helped. In contrast, it had exasperated things to the point we had currently reached.

For a moment, a look of guilt crossed Emma’s face. She looked at me, somewhat sheepish, as if to apologize. “It wasn’t my intention for things to get this far.” She said after a moment, genuine sincerity in her voice, “but people like Mr. Grayson, remind me too much of my uncle. And I cannot sit idly by while such filth walks all over everyone else, acting like the ground they’re on needs to be worshipped.” A fire had filled her eyes that was uncommon for the woman with the water affinity. She was normally so cool and collected, still like the waters of a damned lake. However, it appeared Mr. Grayson had broken that dam, and now, he was set to face the water’s wrath.

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“What would you have done, had he not agreed to a duel on your terms?” I pressed. I had yet to see her actually fire a pistol. Sure, she had a shotgun, and apparently a rapier, which I assumed was what that blade was, but I wasn’t sure she had the skills to be a proper gunslinger. “What if he’d wanted the more common sort of duel?”

“He’s not the type to do such a thing.” Emma said calmly. “He’s too proud. Too…vile. This situation is one he thinks he is orchestrating. He’s been working hard to attempt to rile us up. Mark my words, he’s taken note of your increasingly debilitated state, and he views Clint as an old man. He wanted to rile me up, to see if he could force a duel. I’m certain he figured Clint would be forced to step in, and that he could beat Clint therefore, and leave me defenseless, and at his whims. By initiating it myself, and declaring it publicly, his options became even more…enticing. Now he gets to attempt to put an uppity woman like myself in her place, in front of the whole caravan.” She spit, extremely unladylike, into the fire. The blaze in her eyes intensified. Her past, anything that reminded her of her uncle, unleashed a completely different side of Emma.

“And you think you can take him in a duel with swords?” I pressed. Sure, the weapon she had was beautiful and finely made. But the make of a weapon didn’t make the person using it any better. And far as I knew, sword fighting was pretty much a lost art. Even the military hardly ever used them. Officers were the ones who often carried them, from what I understood, or some of the enlisted marines, who’s officers had handed off their calvary sabers to their men in favor of a lighter blade. Regardless, the sabers weren’t really sword fighting weapons. My understanding of them was they were mostly used from horseback, to slice and chop at people around them.

“I appreciate your concern,” Emma said to me, her lips pursed in a thin line, “but I can assure you, in this manner, your concern is extremely misplaced. A family such as mine,” her tone was bitter, “ensured that every member of the family, no matter their strength, size, or mana type, was able to defend themselves in a variety of ways.” Another few flicks of her wrist, and she seemed satisfied. Behind her, I noticed a crowd was gathering near the bonfire in the middle of the caravan. Standing between the fire, and us, was Mr. Grayson, the man’s face unreadable, covered in shadows as it was. Yet in his hand, drawn from its sheath, gleaming in the light, was his soul-silver saber. As fine a weapon, if not more, than the blade Emma held.

“It’s not that I doubt you,” I lied, “it’s that I don’t trust Mr. Grayson to fight fair.” That, at least, was true. While I was having a hard time believing any of this was a good idea, or that Emma could handle this duel, even with Clint assuring me she could, I was less trusting of Mr. Grayson. The man was a snake. He was vile. He was nasty. Just like Emma said, he was exactly the kind of man that I imagined her uncle, Bloody Bill, was like. And as such, even with everyone around witnessing their duel, I didn’t believe for a second he would fight fair.

Emma laughed, and it was laughter devoid of amusement. It was a cold, cruel sound. She nodded to Clint, who stood and began walking with her towards the bonfire, before she spoke. “That man doesn’t view me as a big enough threat, to fight dirty.” She said, “and by the time he realizes his mistake,” the fire light danced across her face, stretching the shadows around her skin, into an almost demonic visage, “it’ll be too late for him to do anything.”

Even with the fire, the stew, and the warm air of the night, I couldn’t help but shiver.