20 in 5 -- Vol II -- The Duke Battles

Some people really 
can't handle surprises.

“Sire? My pardons, Sire. There’s… ” The burly guard seemed to shrink upon himself.


The Duke shifted upon his horse, the starving beast almost staggering under the massive load. “Out with it, man!”


The guard drew himself up, his face a mask of resolve to do and die. “There’s an old woman out there challenging us to fight…her.”


The Duke’s jaw dropped and he cursed himself inwardly for so blatant a display. He made sure his tone was level. “Lead me to her.” He was gratified to note that the guard was taken aback by such a measured response. In consideration of the steed and its possible future as food, the Duke dismounted and followed the guard, whose steps kept speeding up. At the city wall, the guard allowed the Duke to climb the rough wood ladder first, then followed with alacrity.


“Where is this old woman?” The Duke was proud that his tone was still level.


“I’m righ’ here, ya daft turnip head!” screeched a voice from below and outside the wall. The Duke reacted visibly, but was so stunned by the screech that he forgot to curse inwardly and leaned over the parapet. The old woman was staring up at him, her wizened face a map of wrinkles and bumps, her mouth a near-toothless gash, her sparse gray hair tucked madly into a boiled leather helmet far too large for her tiny head. Upon her withered breast she wore chain mail that was old when the Duke’s grandsire was a boy. The old woman held a sword--a broadsword no less!--that may have weighed about half as much as she did. Ye gods! She even had a shield!


The Duke turned to the guard and cared not a whit that his voice shook. “How long has she been there?”


The guard nodded. “Less than an hour, Sire. She appeared just as ye see her.”


“’Appeared’?”


The guard swallowed hard. “This is not my station. Sire.”


The Duke grunted, but his retort faded with another screech. “Well are ye goin’ ta fight me or do I ha’ to call ye a craven coward?” As he peered over he was stunned, if not appalled to see the old crone waving the heavy sword, or at least trying to, since the blasted thing didn’t seem to rise any higher than her splayed knees. The Duke moaned. He could hear the beginnings of titters amongst the men, discreetly tucked into farther sections of the wall. In another five minutes the whole city would know about the crazy crone at the gate and the Duke would have to do something. He hated having to do something.


“Hey, Duke! Ya deaf?” The Duke grimaced as titters became giggles. He turned to give the guard an order and caught the broad grin, too slowly hidden. He marked the man for dungeon duty as he ordered “Go out there and drag her in here. Now!” The guard hesitated.


“Sire. We dare not open the gates, for the woman may be a decoy.” The Duke’s eyes narrowed and he bit back asking how badly the watch had done its sacred duty.


“Go down by rope and send her away.” With a muttered As ye wish, Sire, the guard went down the ladder, giving the Duke a chance to look at the crone again. Laughter, mocking laughter, bubbled from below and in an instant, the Duke cast a rope over the wall and slid down, proud of still having such skill. At the bottom, he dropped heavily and strode over to the crone.


“Ye’re a wee man, ye are,” said the old woman, whose face was quite upsetting when she smiled. “Before we fight, I must tell ye a secret…” She crooked a bony finger and with a small sigh, the Duke leaned forward.


“Ye left ye’re sword, ya daft turnip head,” said the old woman as she sliced through the Duke’s throat with a slim dagger.


As he fell, the Duke heard the laughter, the very loud open laughter, that echoed around him as he died. 



Announcing January 2012 Edition of "20 in 5"


Please buy the next installment of our monthly ebook "20 in 5." "The Duke Battles" is there along with 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.