Duel at the Drunken Cock

"For many a year have I pondered the grand perplexity of mine own station--doth my mere position in this fragile realm dictate the measure of my worth? Or am I but a jester in fate's court, dancing to the tune of powers unseen?"


I cast mine eyes about the tavern, where tankards clashed in merry discord and the air hung thick with the scent of spiced mead and damp wool. The firelight flickered, painting golden tales upon the timeworn beams, and through the drafty door came the scent of rain, fresh and cold. My companion, a common-born soul of good cheer, sat across from me, his hood heavy with the heavens' weeping. A lone bead of rainwater traced its way down his brow, plopping most unceremoniously into his ale. He regarded it but a moment before his lips betrayed him--first a twitch, then a quirk, and at last, he surrendered, his laughter spilling forth as heartily as the drink from his cup.


"I could scarce contain mine own mirth and was soon swept into his howl of laughter, our voices mingling like a bawdy chorus in some raucous mead hall. With a hearty crash, we clashed our mugs together, frothing ale spilling in reckless abandon, yet nary a care had we for such trifles. In that moment, we were not noble and commoner but brothers long parted, now reunited in revelry.


The old man--verily, he had the grip of a blacksmith!--dragged me into an embrace so fierce it might have snapped a lesser man in twain. Ale splashed between us, soaking our cloaks, yet still, we laughed. 'To the abyss with it!' I cried, drinking deep of the moment. 'Ah,' I mused aloud, 'seldom do I taste the life of the common folk--a simple life, unburdened by courtly pretense and gilded chains. And by the saints, it is sweet indeed.'"


"Ah, the tavern was a merry haven, where warmth and mirth flowed as freely as the ale. Fair maidens wove between the revelers, bearing flagons brimming with both drink and wisdom, whilst bards plucked sweet melodies from their lutes, filling the air with song and cheer. And my own jester--my fool of fools--brought forth laughter as though he were a conjurer of joy itself.


I turned my gaze, searching the crowd for that painted rogue, and lo, there he was--dangling most precariously from a great wooden beam, his form twisting like a wayward pennant in the wind. I watched, spellbound, as he gathered his momentum, then, in one masterful motion, flung himself aloft and landed atop our table with all the poise of a courtly dancer. The bells upon his motley attire rang clear and bright, chiming like tiny silver heralds of mischief. No sooner had he landed than he leapt once more, flitting from table to table like a butterfly upon the breeze. With a theatrical flourish, he seized the hand of a blushing maiden, twirling her as though she were naught but a feather upon the wind. She let forth a cry--not of fear, but of pure delight--as he swept her into his merry waltz, spinning her through the candlelit revelry as though the night itself had become their stage."


"I leaned back into the embrace of my booth, cradling my tankard as though it were an companion, the froth clinging to its rim like the last whispers of a fading dream. A contented sigh escaped me, for truly, I was blessed to call this land mine own.


Mine eyes wandered o'er the gathering of common folk--the oft-forgotten souls whose toils and tribulations go unnoticed by lords in their gilded halls. I beheld mine own countrymen, their bodies scarred and wearied by years of war, yet their spirits unbroken. A mother, her face lined with sorrow yet softened by a long-awaited smile, clasped her child close, as though warding off the ghosts of the past. Brothers and sisters, their garments soaked by the rain, laughed and tumbled through the mud, heedless of the tears that had fallen before the storm.


With a slow turn of my wrist, I gazed into the murky depths of mine ale, where my reflection wavered and twisted like a specter in a scrying glass. I gave the cup a gentle shake, watching the ripples distort my likeness further. And in that moment, I pondered--what had I given, what price had I paid, to deserve a people so hardy, so full of life, so unyielding in the face of fate's cruel hand?"


"I raised mine own tankard high, tilting it back as the hearty ale cascaded past mine lips. Nay, this was no night for sorrow nor solemn musings--this was a night of revelry, of fleeting peace, and I would not squander it. With a grin most merry, I slipped from my booth, seizing my fool by the arm and twirling him into the lively fray. Together we spun, dancing like autumn leaves caught upon the breath of a joyous tempest, whirling to the bards' merry tune. The tavern swayed with laughter, tankards clashed in camaraderie, and for a time, naught else in the world mattered.


But then--silence.


The music stilled, the laughter died in trembling throats, and the clatter of a fallen tankard rang loud as a bell tolling doom. I turned, and there, standing framed in the threshold, was a figure that turned the blood in mine veins to ice.


Count Azeur.


He stood tall, a man forged of steel and sovereignty, clad in the finest imperial plate, each inch of his armor polished to a mirror's gleam. His scabbard, a work of art in its own right, lay heavy with jewels, each stone glimmering like captured stars. Rain dripped from his golden locks, yet he stood unmoved, unwavering--an omen clad in finery. Then, like a dam breaking, his men poured into the tavern, a tide of imperial blue and gold. Banners unfurled, bearing the sigil of my king--my family's colors. The common folk fled to the farthest reaches of the hall as the soldiers surged forth, upending tables, sending tankards crashing to the floor in their wake. And in that breathless moment, with the weight of duty pressing upon my chest, I knew--whatever peace this night had promised was now naught but a memory."


"Thunder rumbled beyond the tavern walls, a sullen growl from the heavens themselves, as the merriment soured into an uneasy hush. A heavy mood settled upon the room--all but for my fool, who, ever unbothered by the weight of consequence, continued his mad spinning as though the world itself were naught but a jest. With a swift hand, I caught him by the collar, stilling his dance.'Oh dear,' he chimed, eyes alight with mischief, 'the castle orcs have descended!' A wicked grin stretched across his painted face, as if he alone found delight in this grim affair.


I inhaled deeply, puffing out my chest in a vain attempt to steel myself. Nay, this was not how I had envisioned my night's end. With all the decorum I could muster, I turned to the imposing figure before me.'A fair evening to you, Count Azeur,' I said, my voice a careful mask of pleasantry. 'Why, what a welcome sight to find you gracing such humble halls.'


But ere I could utter another word, he silenced me with the raise of a gloved finger, the leather creaking as it bent.'You are not supposed to be out of your room,' he intoned, his voice rough, grating--like sand dragged across parchment.


'Ah, well,' I mused, draping an arm about the nearest commoner as though we were kin, 'I found myself weary of confinement and thought it only proper to acquaint myself with our good people in their most natural state.'A cheer rose at my words, shattering the heavy quiet. Tankards clashed, voices rallied, and for a moment, defiance burned bright within the tavern's heart.
Yet still, Count Azeur did not move.And so, the night hung poised upon the blade of fate, waiting to see which way it would tip."


"But Azeur frowned, his expression carved from stone, and with a heavy clank of his boots upon the wooden floor, his men moved as one--a wall of steel and discipline, closing every path of escape. Their shields locked in unison, swords drawn with a hiss like vipers roused from slumber.


'Your uncle, the King, has ordered your return,' Azeur declared, his voice carrying the weight of duty, unyielding as iron. Then, with a slow, deliberate breath, he added, 'By any means.'
A hush fell over the tavern. The air grew thick, stifling. The common folk shrank back, pressing close to one another, their faces etched with worry, their revelry stolen in the blink of an eye.I turned my gaze upon Azeur, stepping forth until I stood before him. He loomed above me, a wall of plate and command, yet I did not waver.'Have you no honor, sir?' I asked, my voice steady despite the heavy weight settling in my chest. 'These are our people. Would you have them witness such cruelty?'Azeur did not answer. He merely watched, unmoved, unreadable.


At last, I let out a slow sigh, the fight slipping from my shoulders. 'Very well. I shall go.'
No sooner had the words left my lips than Azeur seized my wrist in a swift, practiced motion. His leather-clad grip tightened, vice-like, unyielding. His men sheave their swords and Without another word, he pulled me forward, away from the warmth of the hearth, away from the laughter that had once filled the air--away from the fleeting freedom I had stolen for myself."


"But then--we halted.


A hand, brazen and unbidden, had seized the Count's arm. The room stilled, breath caught in every throat, for such audacity was nigh unthinkable. We turned, our eyes drawn as if by sorcery, to the culprit.My fool.


With a devil's own grin stretched across his painted face, he dared to meet the Count's gaze. 'A hand once dared fall upon the prince, many years past,' he mused, his voice laced with a playful malice. 'And those poor lads--why, they never did see their hands again.'


Azeur's expression darkened, his rage swelling like a storm upon the horizon. With a snarl, he wrenched back his arm, his fist recoiling to strike. But my fool was ever the wind--untouchable, ever-dancing, and ever-mocking. He slipped away with a flourish, yanking me with him and ushering me near the huddled common folk.


And then, as if we had not just brushed against death's very grasp, he pranced.


Light on his feet, he twirled through the air, his bells chiming in mirthful defiance. A jester's jig, a mockery wrapped in melody, as he hummed a tune both nonsensical and maddeningly carefree.
Azeur seethed, his voice a growl of fury. 'How dare you lay hands upon the King's men, fool!' Spittle struck the ground as he bellowed, his wrath near-boiling over.But my fool cared not. Nay, he spun in place, arms wide, a tempest of mischief given flesh. 'If you are the King's man, then what a fool he must be, for he employs fools aplenty! At least I shan't be out of a job!'


Laughter rippled through the room--hesitant at first, then growing bold. The common folk chuckled, even some of the guards dared a smirk. But the mirth died swift as autumn leaves in frost, for Azeur's gaze burned through it like an all-consuming flame.And then--his sword. Steel hissed free of its scabbard, the polished blade gleaming cruelly in the firelight. Without a word, Azeur lunged, his blade aimed true--straight for my fool."
"Like a phantom of mirth, my fool frolicked about, weaving through Azeur's onslaught with the grace of a devil unchained. Each strike came swift and sharp, the Count's blade slicing through the air, yet finding no purchase upon its intended mark. Instead, his steel met only wood and ruin--tankards sent flying, tables split asunder.


From the stairway, the barkeep watched, his face a tapestry of barely restrained fury as his beloved tavern fell victim to this unscripted duel.


But my fool was undeterred. Nay, he was a creature of movement, a wisp of mischief incarnate, flitting about as a hummingbird in the midday sun. With light-footed glee, he danced 'round the Count, slipping past his guard, nudging him with playful shoves, all the while wearing a grin most wicked.


And then, as though this were naught but a grand performance, my fool turned to the gathered onlookers and bowed--a showman's flourish, deep and theatrical. It was a bow so perfectly timed that, as Azeur's sword came whistling toward him once more, the fool merely dipped beneath the arc of the blade and waltzed away untouched, as though fate itself favored his folly.


With a flick of his wrist, he seized a passing soldier's sword, plucking it from its scabbard as easily as one might steal a pie from a windowsill. With his stolen steel, he twirled to the far end of the tavern, his bells still jingling, his laughter still ringing, ever the uncatchable specter of mirthful defiance."


"The two men stood locked in a silent battle before the first blow was even struck, their eyes narrowed, measuring, calculating.


Azeur, ever the disciplined warrior, steadied himself, his boots planting firm against the tavern's battered floor. With a practiced breath, he raised his blade before his face, the stance fluid yet unshakable.


'Posta Longa,' I murmured under my breath. I had seen those stances before, sketched in the yellowed pages of the castle armorer's book. The Long Guard--an art of war designed for piercing the foe, a perfect posture for delivering a single, decisive thrust. My fool, by contrast, was a mockery of form. He flitted between guards, shifting from stance to stance with the exaggerated flair of a mummer, a jester's parody of a swordsman. 'Cut it, FOOL!' Azeur spat, his voice laced with venom. 'You're as foolish as your brat prince!' A jest meant to wound. A careless insult tossed into the fray.And then--something strange happened. For the first time since the night began, my fool froze.


The ever-present mischief drained from his face, his wicked grin vanishing like candlelight snuffed by the wind. In its place, something else flickered--something raw, something simmering. A heat unlike any before, burning not with laughter, but with fury.
His movements shifted. No longer did he prance, no longer did he twirl. Every gesture now bore an eerie precision, his body coiled tight like a wolf before the pounce. He raised his stolen blade with one hand, angling the tip downward, the pose strange yet deliberate.And then--he leaned forward.


Slowly, deliberately. Like a man placing his neck upon the executioner's block, daring the axe to fall."


"Never had I seen such an unorthodox guard--if it could even be called such. My fool stood with his body exposed, wide open, as if inviting the strike, as if he held no regard for his own life. There was no defense, no structure, nothing but sheer madness.


Azeur did not hesitate. He charged, swift as a warhorse loosed upon the battlefield, his plated form thundering forward with terrifying speed. For a man clad in steel, he moved with the force of an avalanche, his blade a spearpoint aimed straight for my fool's head.




I held my breath as death neared its mark.Then--steel rang.


With naught but the tip of his stolen sword, my fool met the strike, redirecting it in a movement so light, so effortless, that it seemed mere child's play. The Count's momentum was his undoing--his sword, now unbound from its course, drove straight into the wooden post behind him, piercing through with a groan of splintering timber.Azeur wrenched around, fury twisting his face--but my fool was already upon him.


With his bells jingling like a hymn of chaos, he raised his arm, slashing in erratic, unpredictable strokes. Left, right, high, low--his blade was a wisp of silver weaving through the air, striking from angles no trained soldier would dare. The Count reeled beneath the assault, forced to parry blow after blow, the dance of war now played to the jester's tune."


"I stood in breathless silence, awaiting the inevitable spray of crimson to paint the tavern floor, for the Count to crumble into so much butchered meat. The onlookers, too, held their tongues, the room thick with the hush of death's anticipation.'Is... is he dead?' a voice among the common folk finally dared to ask.'No,' my fool answered, almost bored, as he carelessly tossed his borrowed blade back to one of the stunned soldiers.Azeur's eyes fluttered open. Hesitant hands ran over his own body, patting his chest, his arms, his stomach--searching, expecting to find the telltale warmth of his own lifeblood seeping from an unseen wound.And yet, there was none.


Instead, with an echoing clatter, his armor collapsed around him, the leather straps that held it fast severed in precise, masterful strokes. Piece by piece, the once-imposing plate tumbled to the floor, leaving him bare but for his crimson tunic.A tunic which, much to the delight of the jeering crowd, darkened at the waist as a telltale stream trickled down his leg.
I wasted no time. Swiftly, I swept an arm around my fool's shoulders, drawing him close as I guided him toward the exit, weaving through the now-roaring throng.


'I do believe,' I murmured, half-amused, half-bewildered, 'that it is high time we made our departure.'


And with that, we slipped past the still-stunned soldiers and into the night, the jingle of my fool's bells trailing behind us like the lingering laughter of some mischievous spirit." We burst into the night, the tavern's raucous laughter and jeers still ringing behind us like the fading notes of a jester's tune. With hurried steps, we made for our steeds, the crisp night air biting against our flushed skin. The moment our boots met stirrups, we were off--thundering down the muddied road, past the weather-worn sign of The Drunken Cock, its painted rooster swaying in the wind as if bidding us a tipsy farewell.


The night swallowed us whole, the moon our only witness, our laughter carried away by the howling wind.