Esprit de la Mort

So there I was, in a narrow back alley, brick buildings crowding me, silver saber in hand, duelling with an elf lord while elf-things of various shapes and sizes hung from the fire escapes cheering him on. He could outfence me the way I could outfence an ottoman. I was still alive only because we were fencing to first blood, and Lord Alberich wanted that first blood to also be my last blood.

He let me get close a few times, just enough to let me think I might get lucky, but then he was done playing. He feinted, kicked me to the ground, and trapped my sword under his boot. Sword at my throat, he paused, probably seeking the esprit de la mort.

That was long enough. I threw a bag in his face and shouted, "Eat cold iron!" He parried, of course, and the metallic dust burst into his face. He screamed. The crowd hushed, and I yanked my sword out from under him and cut his arm.

Using iron in an elf duel is against every law, punishable by death. Lying isn't. Which is why I actually threw aluminum filings. I doubted Alberich would thank me later.