The Lodge & the Tribe

By Angelo Tsanatelis

Thomas knew right from the start the old book was important, but the moment he begins to read, learn and understand the secrets of the old, long lost diary, a world he never thought it existed, emerges from the darkness. A world of hidden societies and creatures beyond his wildest fantasy. A world of lies, secret plans and battles fought, since the dawn of time. Soon he finds himself in a desperate struggle for his own survival, his life a never-ending horror trip with him the reluctant participant.
Because the forbidden words of the long dead Johannes Taub, are so much more than a well of forgotten knowledge gained from a random stroke of luck; for to know of the Lodge or speak of the Tribe isn't just imprudent and unwise, it's deadly.

This is the sequel to the The Living Sword Chronicles Book I: Origins.

2nd Edition

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angelo Tsanatelis
• Release date: Sep 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465887528

Angelo Tsanatelis

Angelo (Aggelos) Tsanatelis was born in Athens, Greece on October 24th 1979. He lived for seven years in Bulgaria, where he studied Law at the University of Sofia. During his studies he traveled in Europe and Africa, undertaking 'daring expeditions that no one ever heard about, visited mysterious locations or simply searched for hidden treasures in the most unlikely of places' as he quoted himself in a interview in 2012. After he finished his studies he worked in the private sector for several years before he realized his childhood dream and became an author. His first novel already many years in the making was Origins, the 1st episode in the Living Sword Chronicles series and it was published in April of 2011. It was followed by the novelette, the Rootless set in the same universe and the sequel to Origins, the Lodge & the Tribe.

Book preview

Chapter One

(The Lodge)

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Part I

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Lahma the 8th era

(Charleroi, Belgium. Tunnel nach Bahnhof Centenaire, present day)

Thomas Vermeulen tried desperately to straighten his disorderly brownish hair using his left-hand fingers, shaking with the other a big rough hand, the man who worked for the Belgian TEC (Transport En Commun), gave him.

Walloon? The technician asked him in French and he shook his head negatively.

Flemish actually, but my mother married again. I grew up in Wallonia, hence the accent. He explained in a breath confidently, as he had done many times in the past.

The burly man gave him a broad smile, which showed off his gold incisor and nodded to follow him inside the tunnel. He did, the ill smell of the dark place, immediately reaching his nostrils. Thomas grimaced and he heard the man speaking to him, without turning his head, a hint of light razz in his voice.

No one uses this part of the system. Except of course kids and the occasional drug addicts. You’ve seen the graffiti.

Thomas didn’t answer him. He concentrated on the traitorous terrain instead, carefully choosing his steps to avoid, God only knew, what filth had years of abandonment stowed in the dark tunnel. Several blackened syringes and used up condoms peppered the ground as they continued their brief travel.

Your director said the wall had collapsed. Has this kind of thing, happened again in the past? He asked, when the technician stopped to show him the large crack, ten meters from the entrance of the tunnel. The crack had created a wide hole, like a badly designed door on one of the tunnel’s walls. Blackness greeted him from the opening.

You’d be surprised.

That common, huh?

Yep.

He looked at the hole again and the man pointed his flashlight towards it, attempting to brighten the darkness.

Is that a second wall? Thomas asked, nearing to see more clearly, careful not to hurt himself from the scattered debris.

Yes. You can see that someone has already tried to bring it down. They did a fairly good job at it.

Can I have a look inside?

A brief silence ensued.

There is no story here Mr. Vermeulen. The man told him finally. The guys from the Ministry of archaeology searched the place earlier in the morning. They didn’t find anything useful. It’s just the remains of an old building.

Maybe I will get lucky.

The man laughed at his words. Thomas cracked a smile himself, but he couldn’t get into it with his heart. He needed a good story and photos of rocks and old debris, inside abandon metro tunnels weren’t going to help him. His mood worsened.

He desperately needed a break.

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Part of the internal wall came down and heavy dust clouds shot out from the narrow opening.

Mark the technician, made him a sign that everything was okay, which didn’t help Thomas a lot, considering that he was the one inside the fucking crumbling place. It was an old cellar, a remnant undoubtedly, of a larger house, demolished or ruined long ago, maybe by the same company that had made the tunnel. He used the large flashlight, with the said company’s logo written with bright yellow letters on its handle, to illuminate the dark, dusty place. He had the foul taste of this old dust on his tongue. A bitter, unpleasant flavor that refused to go away. He cleared his throat a couple of times, but that didn’t help either.

An old wine rack had eaten up most of the cellar’s space, in two long even rows that were extending from wall to wall. He approached and pulled one of the weathered bottles from a rack. There was no label on it and the glass was cracked in a lot of places, the wine spilt, long ruined. Thomas checked quickly several other bottles; most of them were broken or ruined as well. His mood worsening he rounded the wine rack, checking, using the flashlight, for anything useful. He found nothing, except for a couple of unbroken bottles, which he’d taken with him. He was near the end of the second row of wines, when he realized that part of the room had caved in, who knew when exactly or how. There was no wall left on that side, only a large pile of rumbles, which reached the ceiling and amongst them what appeared to be the shuttered remains of a wooden cabinet.

He stirred through the rumbles, pulling broken pieces of rotten wood and large rocks from it, but he found nothing of value and soon he was tired and the stench of the dark room became too much to bear. He threw a piece of wood, which probably had come from the cabinet, on the filthy pile in front of him with a disappointed sigh and turned to leave.

The wood fell amongst the rocks and debris making a muffled, low sound. Thomas had already taken a couple of steps towards the exit, when he stopped. Something had bothered him. His hands and shoulders protested, calling for an end to the day’s exertions and the unbearable stench almost pushed him out of the tomb-like room.

The sound was strange, almost too low.

Thomas turned back and returned to the far side of the cellar. He pointed the flashlight on the large pile of rubble, but for a moment he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then his eyes located the broken piece of wood he had thrown down earlier. There it was, on top of what appeared to be an archaic, leather-bound book. He reached in and pulled the heavy book out of the rumbles. Two finely ornamented built in locks, were securing its contents from his eyes. He guessed its height to be about thirty centimeters, with its width closer to thirty five. Thomas considered for a moment, whether he should search for the key, but it was an impossible task finding it in the blackness of the cellar and he could already hear the technician calling him from the outside. He had to go.

He’d quickly hidden the old book inside his jacket and used his left hand to support it, a difficult task that made him walk a little funny and feeling tensed and guilty. Turning off the flashlight he went outside the strong darkness inside the tunnel surprising him. Mark grabbed the good bottles he had in his hand mostly as a decoy, eyeing him suspiciously.

Are you alright? You look like shit.

As if he could see him in the blackness surrounding them, he thought amused. He gave him a half-smile, the hard surface of the book, painful at his ribs.

Got a little scared in there, that’s all. He told him, seeing behind him the lights of the workers that were approaching their position. Are you going to close it back? He asked and the gold tooth of the man reappeared, unnerving him a little.

No reason leaving it open. People get funny ideas, when they hear about old cellars and stuff like that, if you get my meaning.

He nodded agreeing to his words, already making a mental list of people that could help him examine the book. It was not a big list.

I am sorry you didn’t find your story. The man from TEC told him.

Thomas shrugged his shoulders and gave him his right hand in a handshake.

I guess, I’ll see you, when I see you. He said and turning started walking as firmly as he could towards the exit of the tunnel, his left hand keeping the old book from falling. The light grew larger as he approached and then it engulfed him.

(Seven hours later, around midnight, city of Mons.)

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The hotel clerk gave him an onceover and then without a change in his expression returned to his study of a photo album, he had opened on his desk. Thomas left his door card on the said desk and walked out of the hotel. He moved quickly away from the old 18th-century building, located in Place de Flandre, no more than fifteen minutes walk from the centre of Mons. Then he crossed Rue des Archers and entered a small bar located on the side of the road. There he found an empty bar table and climbed the nearest stool, ordering a beer from the shave-headed waiter, who had appeared out of nowhere in front of him. The beer came after a short while and he drank from the iced glass, as he waited.

Elias had said on the phone, to meet him in this bar and he had no other choice but to make the thirty-mile travel from Charleroi, with his car. He was dog-tired, in his morning clothes, unshaven and still without even the beginnings of a sellable story. The old book remained a closed riddle. An early estimate dated it, at least two hundred years back, but there was nothing written on the cover or its sides, to give him some specific clue of its contents. With his bad luck, it was probably ruined already from exposure to humidity, a lost cause. He finished his beer and ordered another one, from the ever-present waiter. Elias had chosen that moment to enter the small bar. His grey, thinning hair stood out, on his pale aged face. The professor of the Institute of Language Sciences, at the University of Mons was about sixty, but the years were not kind to his old friend. Elias noticed him and he approached, with a hint of a smile, on his lips.

It had taken this for you, to make the small trip Thomas. He told him in French, ordering a glass of wine, as he sat on a stool directly across him.

Thomas didn’t answer at once, his thoughts roaming for a while in the past and his college years. Elias was his professor in two of his classes and they had become good friends over the years, but the profession he had chosen sent him away from Mons and had limited his visits. After a while he had stopped coming to the small city, preferring the more opportunities Charleroi had given him, along with the money of course. Thomas felt bad for that, but he was on borrowed time and money, so clearing his throat, he pulled out of his coat the old book and placed it on the table with both hands.

It is important Elias. He said I desperately need something to come out of this.

The older man glanced at the leather bound, still locked book and then returned his gaze on him.

You owe money, is that it? You know you can come to me for anything Thomas. I earn more than I can spend and I am not getting any younger.

Thomas tasted his beer and grimaced.

I can take care of myself. He said a little annoyed but it was mostly guilt for his own choices the last couple of years What about it? he asked meaning the book pushing his bad thoughts away.

It is just an old book. You know, as well as I, that people back then used to pay extra attention to everything they had. Especially their manuscripts, that doesn’t mean that this is a special book or something.

Can you open it?

Elias sighed sipping his red wine.

I can. He stared in his clear blue eyes for a moment and then he added. That doesn’t mean we will find something of importance inside. There is nothing engraved on the leather cover, no church signs or glyphs. The way I see it, it could be an inventory or a merchant book. Where did you find it?

Let’s just say, it was misplaced, for a lot of years.

Elias finished his wine and the waiter appeared next to him, a plastic smile on his face, an incredibly unpleasant smile.

I will pay. The professor said politely. And then we are going to my place.

.

The old lock crackled and then opened like the first one. Elias had used his impressive collection of lock-picking tools on them. A couple of different hook pins and a long double-ended one did the trick.

I thought you gave up locksport. Thomas said and the old man snickered at his words.

I did. But you know what they say…

It is like riding a bicycle.

Yep. Well here you are. He said lifting slowly, the heavy leather cover, opening the old book on his first page.

Thomas couldn’t see, standing just behind him, so he went around Elias’s office desk, his eyes glued on the book.

Well? He asked him.

It’s paper. White paper.

What does it say?

Nothing.

This time Thomas lost his patience.

Why are you so damned impressed by it then?

The professor stared him silently and for a moment he was back in class, all those years ago. Of course, he thought. Elias shook his head knowingly.

It is linen paper. Thomas told him, a touch of excitement on his voice. White linen paper.

Yes it is Thomas. You remember how difficult it was for the people back then to find white rags and turn them into paper. Now to make a book this size from it… well.

It cost a fortune.

Someone with great wealth made this book Thomas. The professor said turning the first page of the sturdy, sewn on cords book. And his name was Johannes Taub. He added, a strange tone in his voice.

Thomas showed his surprise clearly.

How can you possibly know his name? He asked him impressed.

The old man moved the open book closer. He pointed to something written on the rough page.

It says it right here. He answered and then a little surprised, as if just realizing something plain, something he should have noticed from the beginning, he supplemented. That is his diary.

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Thomas rubbed his forehead with his left hand, in an effort to beat the stubborn headache he had for the last hour. The digital clock, on the opposite wall showed, ten after seven, in the morning. He hadn’t slept for twenty four hours straight. He closed the screen of his laptop and walked slowly to his kitchen. He had returned from Mons, earlier that morning and he had spent the following hours researching on the Internet, the genealogy of a rather common German surname. He had found several interesting stories, but nothing to identify the man who’d written the book. Sighing he poured himself a cup of yesterday’s coffee. He’d forgotten the machine on all-day and the black liquid was lukewarm and hopefully as strong as poison. He drank a large gulp and almost puked it out, his eyes watering from the foul taste.

Strong as poison alright.

Fuck it he cursed, talking to himself, deciding there was only one road left to take. But first he had to make fresh coffee and get a couple of fine toasted breads topped with strawberry jam from the local bakery.

Then he should start reading the diary.

There.

It was a simple plan.

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Johannes Taub

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The year of the Christian Lord 1784 AD,

Wallonia, Bergen.

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The 8th era started in 750 AD. There shall be only one more, as it is said. This is the XXXIV cycle, of the Lodge of the Cognitive, the keepers of the old words, the soldiers of the lost fatherland. There will be only five cycles above the 34th, as it is said. This is to be a cycle of pain and trial for the Lodge.

I write these words, sound of mind; with full knowledge that it is forbidden by the Order, for I cannot spend the remainder of my tenure, obeying a creature that is as afar from our nature -our cause, as the demons we call the Walkers, are from us. The 8th Rule weights heavily on my heart, pains my soul and murders my sleep.

For I know the Rules by heart.

‘Over the plain Members are the Magisters, higher than those stands the Archmagister. He answers to the Keeper of the Archives. (He) then reports to the central Lodge. Lifelong is the position of the Keeper and (he) cannot be removed. But above him the Lodge stands. As it stands above all and everything...’

But I must speak now of the affairs that came to my knowledge. Leave something behind, a single truth, in a world of lies. For this is not our time. Our time ended, in 970 AD. The Archives were altered, a covenant was made, and that shaped our reality.

The chain was broken, a hole opened in our world, but I am too old to speak of those events, so I shall write today about something that started four years ago...

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Part II

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Lahma the 8th era

(June 22 1780 AD, Paris, Kingdom of France)

The closed carriage stopped fifty meters from the Pont Neuf, the bridge that connected Paris with the Il de la Cite and the great Cathedral of Notre Dame. Its driver patted with his whip the roof of the carriage and in a low voice informed his passenger that they had reached their destination. A man wearing a fine silk brocade frock coat exited the carriage and without a word, he started walking towards the bridge. The heels of his leather shoes were making a distinct sound on the paved road, which the driver could still hear long after his passenger had disappeared into the dark night.

The well-dressed man reached the guarded entrance of the bridge and the French soldier upon noticing him, pointed his musket with the fixed spiked bayonet to his chest.

Stop right there! State your business. He yelled at him.

I’m Abel Poisson, Baron de Monfaucon. Came his reply and the soldier lowered his weapon, nodding to an approaching sergeant that everything was okay.

There are expecting you seigneur. The sergeant told him and pointed to the bridge extending behind them. If you wish me, I will escort you; it is dark at this hour.

That won’t be necessary, I know my way.

Of course my lord.

After the brief exchange Abel Poisson left the men and started walking towards the bridge. It was not a short walk, but he needed the time to think because soon he had to decide; and he was far from convinced.

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They were waiting for him in a room prepared for them, in a building facing the Place Dauphine. A large mahogany table dominated the high ceiling room and several chandeliers were brightening the place. Three people were present, besides him. He recognized Gaston-Robert, Marquis de Segur and Johannes Taub, the old Archmagister of the Lodge, but he didn’t know the third person in the room. A young man, with strikingly platinum-blond hair and blue eyes, wearing the burgundy colored robes of a bishop.

The Marquis greeted him warmly, as he sat on a fine chair with a long back.

Baron, it is a pleasure to see you again.

Thank you, Gaston. Gentlemen. Both men nodded with their heads.

There was a flagon on the table, in front of him and he used it to pour wine in a large silver chalice. He tasted the red wine, it was exceptional. The Marquis had probably brought it with him; his vineyards were renown to all of France.

What are your thoughts Baron? The aged Archmagister asked him.

It is an unusual request. He said playing for time. He hadn’t decided yet on a course of action.

You know that this is not a request per se, right?

Of course.

Johannes stared him for a long moment. Then he read from a scroll made of fine vellum, he had opened in front of him.

…thus we agree henceforth, to aid in the purge of the members of the aforementioned faction, with extreme prejudice, doing whatever the Lodge deems necessary. He stopped reading and lifted his eyes. Will you put your seal on the decision, seigneur Poisson? He asked him, the mockery was obvious in his tone.

His face had turned red and his voice showed his anger.

You want a carte blanche monsieur. Who will decide who will live or die, in this purge of yours?

Abel, they have strong evidence against them. The Marquis intervened to ease the tension.

He gave him a scowl, before answering.

Strong case? I’ve known Pedro Laffite, for fifteen years. His name is on the damn list Gaston. For the love of God, he has a wife—

And no children. Johannes chipped in.

Since when that is a crime? What does this even mean? I have no children, am I to be considered an enemy?

The Marquis, knowing his preferences, laughed at his words, but he was not amused.

There is of course another problem. He said and the Archmagister, turned his attention on him. "I have never even seen a Walker in my life. Have any of you? I am not sure that they exist at all. Who is going to certify for something as exotic, not to use another word, as this?"

Johannes mouth became a thin line as if he was pondering inside, whether to disclose more information. Abel was watching the old man’s inner struggle thinking that he was too many years in that position. He had some of his wine quietly waiting for the Archmagister to speak; but his time will come eventually, his mind told him, time forgets no one.

But it was the man in the deep burgundy robes, the man with the strange platinum hair and the exotic blue eyes that’d spoken eventually. His voice was rich, youthful as much as ancient, in a disturbing way; a voice that held knowledge, sure and commanding, but colored and sensual at the same time. He felt himself getting aroused by the stranger.

Nesafer had seen one, as it is said, in his scripts. His name was Marius; they called him the Historian, because he knew of the old days. Since then, the Lodge used its recourses to find out more about these creatures, but it was not an easy task, for they are excellent, at hiding among people.

What if, we are wrong, what if, we make a mistake and kill an innocent? The Marquis asked.

Such a death or ever more, is no big of a matter. The white haired man said indifferently. A chill run down Abel’s spine.

There are children, whole families, on the list. This doesn’t make sense. He noticed coldly, but the strange man turned to him, a half smile on his handsome face. His lips were full, almost feminine and Abel thought that he would love to taste that mouth. His tongue moved at the vivid picture, swimming in rich red wine.

"There are many, even in this room, which believe the depraved things you are allowed to do with your children, are even worse than death itself, Baron. These are monsters, abominations. Pity them not."

Abel had almost drown on his wine. His face had turned red for the second time that evening. He opened his mouth to answer, but a svelte Marquis intervened, in an attempt to save them from a confrontation.

You talk of the past monsieur. How can we find someone to aid us at the present?

You all got your signet rings I suppose. He lifted his right hand and showed them the gold ring he wore on his fourth finger. The ancient symbol of valknut was engraved on it. It had the shape of Triquetra, consisting of three interlocked triangles, which represented the three Realms. Each of them had a ring like that, their names written on the inside. We will force one of them to help us. Perhaps even give it a ring, make it one of us.

Absurd! The Baron exploded. Bringing one of them into the Lodge…

Where will we find one, which will agree to such a foul plan, a plan against its own kind? Gaston asked his eyes darting between the strange man and the hot-blooded Baron.

The fair-haired man threw on the large table, a scroll he had in his hands. The Marquis grabbed it and rolled it open. He read from the parchment, but after a while he stopped and he looked at his interlocutor perplexed.

I recognize some of the names. These were Knights, years maybe centuries ago. What are you trying to say to us?

Do not bother yourself with the rest of the names. They were Templar Knights, long dead by now, as you’ve correctly guessed. I want you to focus your attention on the name that is fourth, before last…yes that one.

There is no name written here for this knight, monsieur.

Yes.

He had their attention now.

"Marius spoke of a member of their Tribe, which had appeared at an unknown time. An accursed demon, even by their standards. They were calling him ‘Los sin Casa’. It means the one without origins, the Rootless. I believe that is the Knight in the list you are holding, the one without a name. I have been following the traces this creature has left behind him, for many... years and even though I’ve lost him a couple of times, I am fairly certain, he is in Paris, or he is coming here."

What makes you so certain then, that he is here? The Baron asked him, a hint of razz in voice.

I believe that this one is hunting down their elders. Their enemy, our ally.

You know what they say. Johannes said, speaking after some time.

That is just rumors; I haven’t even seen one of these creatures— the Baron objected but Johannes pressed on, concluding.

Their revered Princess lives in Paris.

Silence fell in the room. It was so quiet all of a sudden; you could hear the men breathing, as if they were having the same thought, over and over again. The platinum haired man, the members of the Lodge knew by the rather excessive title, the Keeper of the Archives, broke that silence. His voice was confident and truthful, his tone devout of unnecessary passion.

I believe this Devil is coming here to kill her. To kill them all. He looked at their faces. And we are going to help him.

.

(A couple of hours later.)

Johannes considered retiring for the remainder of the night. It was an idea that held a strong appeal to him. Just lay down and let the gentle evening sounds of the river Seine, lull him into a silent sleep. He longed for his house in Wallonia, but alas his duty had brought him here, not that he could really complain. Paris was the greatest city in the world, so much to do here, so many pleasures, and so many different treats for a man, to indulge himself with.

He heard motion coming from a small balcony overlooking the old square and he approached curious to whom could roam awake, in that ungodly hour.

I thought you went to sleep. A soft voice startled him from the darkness.

He sighed heavily, calming his old heart.

I was just about ready to do so, when I heard you… what in the name of our great Magister, are you doing out here? He asked him, following his voice outside. The cold of the night somewhat revived him and he breathed a couple of times deeply, tasting the damp air.

I was thinking about the past. Came his answer. He had crossed his hands on his chest and had pinned his stare at a point across from them. He turned his gaze to that point also but he could barely make out one, of the two towers of the Notre Dame Cathedral, it was still dark, the middle of the night. I remember Heraclius of Caesarea pleading his case there, trying his best to convince the King to start the Third Crusade. The Keeper of the Archives continued and Johannes listened to him in silent awe although he was familiar with the story The Cathedral was still unfinished then, it was in 1185 AD and the King was not convinced. The archbishop cursed him along with the House of Capet that day, some say. But that was not exactly how the story had unfolded.

Isn’t it? Johannes thought, but he decided not to speak. He let the Keeper, finish.

We turn to the past sometimes, in order to navigate into our future. You will discover with ease that people behave thus, all the time. Do you know what else people tend to do a lot, Johannes?

You mean except reminiscing, of their pasts? Dream maybe or love.

The platinum-blond haired man shook his head negatively.

They lie.

Johannes stared for one more time towards the Cathedral, trying to discern some of the features of the large tower, with no success. A couple of minutes passed in sharing silence. Finally intrigued, he asked him.

Why did you need the Baron’s seal on that scroll? It’s not, that we can’t act, without them knowing it.

I wanted someone significant enough, to be on that decision. I wanted to shorten our involvement, hide our traces. It is time to think about the future Johannes. We can’t have so much knowledge walking around free.

Knowledge?

They know things. Secrets… He stopped and gathered his long robes around him. He turned, as if to leave the balcony.

Master? Johannes asked.

You can keep a secret, only for so much time unfortunately. But of course, you can make that time, seem like forever.

He said, before leaving him alone in the dying night.

.

Part III

Lahma the 8th era

(March 21, 1783 AD, Paris, an open field, near vile L’eveque )

The small crowd was becoming restless.

A young man wearing an expensive looking suit, its jacket and breeches in black-Navy color silk, with a striking copper silk taffeta waistcoat, turned his head for a moment and examined, as if trying to memorize their faces, the said crowd. He saw pity in their eyes, because his opponent was a renowned marksman with the duel pistol and excitement, because that was to be the peak of their day. He returned his gaze on the man he had insulted the previous night. The man was standing at almost six feet, easily the tallest one from that small crowd that had gathered around them, wearing black breeches and a red velvet waistcoat. He noticed his black wig with the braided back ponytail, which seemed a little big for his head and grimaced lightly, he never liked wigs, and preferred instead natural hair. He almost anticipated the coming remark.

You should worry more about his gun.

His grimace became a grin.

The gun was an Italian-made, flintlock dueling pistol, big and lethally accurate. The man holding it, lifted the finely ornamented gun and aimed it at him. He followed his example, the English Dragoon pistol, he held in his right hand, feeling as light as a feather. The nobleman that oversaw the exchange started counting in his Parisian accent, which made his words, seem to his ears like notes.

Huit…

The man cocked his pistol.

Neuf…

He did the same.

Dix… Tirer!

Both guns fired at the same time.

.

Pasqual Nimis, aged twenty three, usually avoided these public displays of courage. He was a man of arts, a painter and violence was not in his blood. But his patroness Madame Anne de Moreau wanted him to keep an eye on that rogue stranger and he had done so for the past two months. It seemed though that his job, was soon coming to an abrupt end. The man was about to get himself killed over a petty dispute in a bar.

They both fired their weapons simultaneously. The flints sparked and lead shot from the gun barrels. The man wearing the red waistcoat collapsed on the ground, his head a bloody mess. People immediately run to him concerned, but he stopped paying attention to them, his eyes searching instead for his opponent. For a moment he couldn’t spot him inside the small gathering crowd, but then he saw