The field of honor was an hour’s ride outside of Adopest, the capital of Adro. The wheat had been harvested and the ground lay bare but for the chaff and trampled stalk. In the distance, a farmer and his wife stood outside their stone-walled hovel and watched as Tamas’s second, and the second of his opponent, paced off the points for the duel. Tamas’s second was a man named Matin. He was only an officer cadet preparing to enter the army at the rank of lieutenant, but it had been the best Tamas could do at such short notice. Few commissioned officers wanted anything to do with him. Tamas checked his pistol for the third time. His powder was dry, the pan primed, and bullet loaded. The seconds had inspected both pistols but Tamas would rather be confident in his weapon and have his opponent think him nervous than suffer a misfire. The ground was paced out, the center marked, and the swords stuck point-first into the ground where the opponents would turn and fire.
