Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

All of Sunday was spent in sword practice, and Von Baden felt his padded body pummeled and pulled by the blows. They practiced with canes, and with the riding whips that many of the students carried. And on Monday, they brought out the swords themselves: long, ugly weapons with blunt points but sharpened edges, the blades some half-inch in width, the hilts a pure white to match the caps of the young men. Von Baden looked, hefted the weapon, and was horrified. Watching these spectacles twice a week was one thing, but to actually fight in one himself, to feel the razor-sharp blows raining down on his face and scalp, that was something else. He knew too well the bandaged faces of the combatants, the lifelong scars and disfigurements that battle brought.

But there was no way out without disgrace.

Pondering it, he even considered informing the authorities. Though the members of the five corps were allowed to keep swords, the dueling itself was strictly forbidden by German law. Unfortunately, Von Baden knew as well as anyone that the law was never enforced. The police would only laugh at his call, and do nothing.

So Tuesday came, and the twenty-odd members of each corps gathered in the upstairs room where the duel would take place. Some sipped wine or played cards while they waited for the evening’s first duel to take place. Von Baden and Macker were scheduled to fight first, and he found himself led to another room to be dressed for battle. His eyes were protected by iron goggles, with leather straps that also served to hold his ears flat against his head. His neck was wound with thick wrappings, and layers of padding covered his arms, body, and legs. At the end, only his goggled face and head were free of the padded black suit.

Several fellows helped him walk to the center of the big room with his sword, while the spectators clustered at the far end. Two helmeted seconds had taken up their positions, swords ready to interrupt the contest if blood was drawn or a weapon broken. An umpire and timekeeper also stood by, along with a gray-haired doctor with a tray of ointment and bandages. The duel would last fifteen minutes, with time out for injuries and the like — in all, usually twenty minutes or more.

Von Baden stood facing Macker, the beads of sweat standing out on his face above the muffling neckpiece. Then, standing near the doorway behind the spectators, the girl Eva suddenly appeared, muffled herself in a coat that did nothing to disguise her appearance. By tradition, the duels were for men only, but he knew it was not the first time a girl had watched them. And he knew that Rudolf Cassan had seen her too. The superior expression with which he had viewed the proceedings thus far seemed to dissolve like a smashed mirror when he spotted her.

He hesitated only an instant, and then some twinge of remaining pride forced him to step forward, between the two would-be combatants. “Get out of that suit, Von Baden,” he snapped. “I will fight Macker myself.”

There came a gasp from the seconds and spectators alike, but already Cassan had taken the sword from Von Baden’s limp fingers. Three young men from the White Corps hurried forward to remove the black padding from one and place it on the other, and through it all Rudolf Cassan stood his ground staring into the face of Gunner Macker — a face now suddenly white with the unexpectedness of this new challenge.

Many of the spectators’ eyes now turned toward Eva, as if weighing the physical attributes that made such a duel a necessity. Von Baden, freed of the encumbering padding, almost expected her to leave now that she was so suddenly the obvious center of attention. But she stood her ground, apparently determined to see the thing through.

Finally, after endless minutes of adjustment, Cassan was ready to fight. The seconds gave the signal, the umpire spoke a word, and instantly both padded young men sprang forward, raining blows on each other with a fury Von Baden had rarely seen before. Each was aiming for the face and head, but both were skilled swordsmen. After thirty seconds of furious clanging, the swords had only met each other. Then, as Macker blocked a particularly deadly swing by Cassan, the White president’s blade broke near its tip, nicking Cassan’s hairline as it sailed off. The seconds immediately raised their own swords to interrupt the contest, and the doctor hurried forward.

“It’s nothing,” Cassan insisted as the wound was touched up. “A scratch. His blade has yet to find my flesh.”

The timekeeper started his counting once more, and Cassan struck back with a new sword, raining blows with renewed fury. This time it was Macker who took the cut, a decided hit from Cassan’s blade that loosened a flap of his cheek. Again the seconds intervened and the doctor stepped forward. Cassan allowed himself a faint smile. He was getting the upper hand, and he was still unmarked by Macker’s sword.