The following morning, as he rode through the camp on his way to Mahan's tent, Sandor noticed that the Damark were no longer wary of him. While there were no effusive greetings, the children didn't hide, the women didn't shy away and some of the men nodded an acknowledgement as he passed.
In a way, he found that he admired their simple lifestyle. While Mahan was the chief, he lived no differently than his clan. Isamu and Chato had told him that Boar and Weasel were harsh and impatient with the weak or infirm, but Mahan's clan took care of its less fortunate members. True, not all of the clans were as compassionate, but here, no one went hungry or without shelter.
He had finally banished most of his mixed feelings over his impending marriage. Those niggling voices, he realized, were merely the ghosts of 'proper' society that had plagued him socially for most of his life. He was glad to consign them to oblivion. Some part of him was also complaining over the haste and political overtones. But in his deepest thoughts Sandor knew that, whatever anyone else thought, his relationship with Anaya was far more than that. Had they had the opportunity to meet outside the present circumstances, he still would have liked her, and found her admirable.
Argian was outside and ready to ride when he approached Mahan's tent. Achyut, who was honing an axe, looked up and nodded a greeting. A large pile of wood by the tent testified to the Damark's morning labors. The smell of smoking meat was in the air. There was a rustle at the door and Anaya came out, ducking through the tent flap and letting it fall behind her. She smiled at him and he smiled back, utterly at ease.
That by itself was like a miracle. With any other eligible female, he had always felt a certain constraint. Whether it was because of his fears of rejection or worry over unintentionally offending or making a fool of himself he didn't know. All he knew was that it wasn't there with Anaya. Kenet had been absolutely right to invoked tynged, Sandor thought. This woman was unlike any other he knew. He was sure they would face some awkwardness and obstacles from time to time, but she accepted him as he was and she wasn't one to manipulate or hold grudges.
Both knew that she was every bit the rider he was and needed no help. Still, he held Argian's reins while Anaya mounted, not because it was necessary, but because he liked to do these little things for her. It was respect, not condescension and she seemed to understand and accept the difference. The course of their interactions was nothing like it would have been with an Enniskillen woman, but the informal tenor of their relationship suited him just fine.
They rode along the river, following it upstream towards the mountains. It was a pleasant ride, and a pleasant morning. Anaya was full of questions about Ranfurly, continuing the conversation of the previous evening. Circling the camp, they came back through the market. They stopped to get a sweet snack from a vendor then made their way back to her tent.
"What's this?" Sandor pulled up, seeing a crowd gathered. Then he saw that Bakur was speaking with Mahan, gesturing angrily as he spoke. Achyut stood just behind his Chief, his hand on his dagger.
"Trouble," muttered Anaya, stopping Argian beside him. "With Bakur it's always trouble."
"There's one in every village, it seems." He nudged Champ forward, walking the war horse right up behind Bakur. As though he was cued (and perhaps he was) the stallion neighed loudly, causing Bakur to jump in surprise. A titter came from the crowd as the Damark rounded angrily on the Duke.
"I do not understand," said Mahan firmly, drawing Bakur's attention back to him, "what it is you seek to gain by this protest. The War Raven brought us peace, and not only did he give that to the clans, but he gave a fine gift of horses as well—a gift that outmatched any offered for my daughter. You have no standing for a challenge."
"Isamu?" As the argument continued, Sandor slid from Champ's back and turned to his ever-present scout. He really should give the man a bonus for his conscientious service. "What's this about now?"
"Another foolish ploy," scoffed Isamu. "There are no grounds for a challenge, and even if there was, you are not bound by our customs."
"And what does he seek?" said Ranfurly softly, his eyes darkening.
"He claims a right of challenge for Anaya. A knife fight."
"That's ridiculous!" scoffed Anaya, sliding off Argian's back.
"Yes." Isamu nodded. "Everyone knows this for a sham, Raven. None would expect you to take his challenge, even were you Damark." The scout lowered his voice to a mere whisper. "It is said he coats his dagger with eskewun."
"In other words, he cheats," said Sandor whispering as well.
"Sandor?" The King's voice was also pitched very low as he came near.
"Isamu sent Chato to fetch you?" said Sandor with the merest hint of a smile.
"Of course," replied Kenet. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking I've had enough of this carrion picker," Ranfurly said softly.
"Raven?" Anaya had listened with growing concern. "Bakur is a troublemaker, but he is also very good in a knife fight. There's no need for you to accept."
"I'm afraid you're wrong, Anaya," said Sandor. "There is every need." He turned then to Isamu, taking the scout a few steps away to confer.
"Please," said Anaya, turning to Kenet. "You are his friend, but also his King. Bakur is dangerous in a fight, and merciless. He hates Raven, and will be pleased to hurt him. Stop this."
"I understand your concern," said Kenet softly. "I'm also gratified that you're interested in my Duke's welfare. But in this I must defer to Sandor's judgement. I've known him all of my life, and there is nothing he does that he hasn't considered carefully." He smiled then, his brown eyes warm. "Besides, Ranfurly is no stranger to knife fights, and the Paska douse you with cold water first, in the dead of winter."
Anaya mentally shook herself. Of course Raven knew what he was about. The man was a warrior, after all. Yet, she was all too aware of Bakur's reputation, and his vindictiveness. Bakur continued to argue, while Mahan continued to deny his demands. The crowd was growing restive, and Anaya suddenly realized what Bakur was trying to do, and that Raven had figured it out immediately.
The sly schemer sought to establish a schism with her father and by extension with the peace treaty. If the challenge was refused, he would twist circumstances to poison the peace. If it was accepted, he would gain stature by defeating the War Raven, and gain her as well. That he might lose was not part of Bakur's arrogant calculations.
Continuing to ignore the Chief's calm responses, Bakur again launched into an insistent diatribe, demanding his right to challenge. When he paused, Mahan, instead of answering him again, looked beyond Bakur's shoulder to where Ranfurly now stood silently waiting.
"Do you have words to speak in this matter," said the chief, "since it concerns you, War Raven?"
"I do," said the Duke, evenly. "Your daughter is a woman of great worth, and any man who is not a complete fool would certainly covet her wisdom, warmth and spirit. Jealousy is a nagging thorn in the foot." A scattering of titters greeted this sally, and Bakur flushed with anger at the insult. Jealousy, Isamu had told Sandor, was considered a woman's emotion, not suitable for a warrior. Ignoring the angry man, he focused on Mahan. "You have honored me and my King. You have shown yourself to be a man of wisdom. While I am not bound by your customs, I hold them, and you, in great respect." Finally he turned to Bakur. "I will meet your challenge," he said evenly, "under your customs ..." Now Sandor smiled, but those who were observant saw no warmth or humor in the gesture. "... and mine. Will you agree to this?"
Bakur hesitated only a moment before he nodded, once. His eager anticipation for the battle was evident in his expression, as was his arrogant assumption of his superiority.
"Good." Ranfurly turned to Mahan. "By my custom, the challenged chooses the weapons. While I will accept knives as the weapon of choice, I ask that you provide the daggers from the new ones presented to you. In this way our knives are equal and neither of us has the advantage of a familiar weapon."
"E'nese pevae," said Mahan, smiling broadly. The War Raven was clever, to eliminate Bakur's prepared blade. It was a pleasure to see some of the troublemaker's confidence slip away from his countenance. Turning, the chief asked Achyut to fetch the box holding the new Enniskillen daggers.
Sandor turned again to Isamu, who was swiftly explaining the setup of the contest. The combatants were allowed to wear only breeches and footwear. A roughly circular space was traced out on the ground to form the fighting area. Wood soaked with oil was place on the boundary and set on fire. Warriors around the circle observed the fight and watched for either man to break the boundary. There was often betting on the outcome.
For the fight itself there were no rules besides staying in the circle. To step out or be forced out of the area was counted as a loss. Being thrown out was not, as long as you got up and re-entered the circle swiftly. Between the fire and the knife, it wasn't unusual for such fights to have dire consequences—There was often serious injury to both, or even the death of the loser.
Stripping off his shirt, Sandor handed it over to Isamu. After a moment's consideration, he sat and began to remove his boots as well. While bare feet might be problematic with the fire, he needed to be as sure-footed as possible. He handed his boots to the scout, and was considering his options when Anaya came hurrying over. Isamu was smiling as he moved away to allow Raven and his woman privacy.
"Is something amiss?" he asked.
"No," she replied, dropping to her knees in front of him. There were several small scars on his torso, with one large, prominent scar in the middle of his chest just under his collarbones. She wondered at the elegant and intricate whorl of lines tattooed on the upper left just above his nipple, but now was not the time to ask about it. "Your King said you would fight barefoot for better footing," she said, setting a pair of moccasins in his lap. "These will protect your feet from the fire, without making you clumsy." She took one and put it on his foot, checking the fit and adjusting it properly.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome," she said distractedly. "Bakur has won many fights, and he enjoys hurting his opponents. He can use the knife equally well with either hand, and will often feint or slash, then switch hands and stab." She took the other moccasin, put it on and began to adjust it as well. "He will stab at your face, then slash down when you pull back, trying to cut you open. If he can get your knife, he will use both against you. His biggest failing is his temper. The angrier he gets, the less he uses his brain." She looked up at him as she finished. "He wants very badly to kill you, Raven."
"He won't," Sandor replied quietly, his voice pitched for her ears alone. "He may mark me, but he won't kill me. Neither will I kill him, unless I have no other choice."
"It might be better if you did." Anaya's voice was just as soft. "He will not thank you for defeating him then adding to his shame by sparing his life."
"Even so, there's been enough death already." He reached out and stroked her cheek with his fingertips. "Moreover, I would prefer not to begin our life together over spilled blood, nor hear a funeral dirge on the day of our marriage."
"You will be careful." It was more a statement than an order, but her tone made him smile.
"I will be very careful."
"And you will win."
"I will win." He took her hand and kissed it. "At your command, my Lady."
"And you say you're no good with grand gestures," said Kenet with a grin as he came up to them. "Mahan has the daggers. All is in readiness."
"Good." Sandor stood. "I would be done with this."
"You will be careful," said Kenet, suddenly serious. It was clearly an order.
"When have you known me not to be your Majesty?"
"Never," Kenet allowed. "Don't start now."
"Never fear. You'll dance at my wedding." He looked then at Anaya, raising a brow. "There is dancing, isn't there?"
Anaya nodded, and had to smile. He was so complex, this man, and so selfless. His compassionate heart and agile mind were constantly seeking how best to serve those around him, while asking nothing for himself. This little foray into wit in an attempt to ease his friend's worry—and likely hers as well—was typical. She held her smile as he turned to make his way to the fighting circle, determined not to burden him further with her fears.
Bakur had already taken a dagger and waited impatiently, his arrogance seeming to have returned full force. Sandor stepped up to Mahan and took the remaining knife, hefting it and getting the feel of it in his hand. All four of the Damark scouts had joined the warriors around the circle. Sandor knew that they were watching for any cronies of Bakur's that might try something underhanded.
There was no swagger to Ranfurly's stride as he walked to the arena—he might have been talking a stroll. The moment he stepped inside the boundary, however, his manner changed, going from casual to warrior in a flash. A momentary expression of unease crossed Bakur's face. The two men circled, taking each other's measure.
"Bakur's not so confident in his decision now," said Anaya softly.
"Good," replied Kenet. "He should be cautious. Sandor learned to wield a dagger from my Paska Uncle, and there are few better than he."
"The mark on his chest. It's Paska, isn't it?"
"It is."
"It has a meaning?"
"It does. Ask Sandor and he'll tell you it means 'reliable', which is correct in a sense. But the full meaning of the Paska symbol is more truly 'faithful' or even better 'steadfast.' The cael saw him perfectly."
"Cael?" Her eyes followed Sandor, inwardly agreeing with the Paska sentiment. "Is that like our hopai?"
"Yes, exactly," said Kenet, also watching his friend. "A learned, wise and spiritual person—in this case a caelmáthair of venerable age and great insight."
"A woman, then," Anaya replied, recognizing the feminine form of the Paska title. It was no surprise, she thought, that a woman had seen into Raven's heart. "Ah, ja, be careful," she muttered as Bakur struck out, missing only because Sandor twisted away at the last moment.
As the combatants continued to size each other up, a few of the onlookers made offers for bets to Sinasta, who, after a nod from Isamu, took them readily. Their confidence in their leader was high, despite Bakur's reputation. They knew their master like none of these warriors did.
Ranfurly had the other man's measure now. He waited for the slash, caught it on his blade, turned it aside and made his own slash in return. Bakur jumped back, but not quite fast enough. It was a shallow, superficial cut, but the Enniskillen warrior had drawn first blood. Bakur scowled and pressed his attack.
Sandor's expression never changed from one of fierce concentration. While he was aware of the scowl, he was watching the man's hands, not his face, looking for the minute tells that would announce the strike before it actually came, giving him the forewarning to counter and strike in return. For many minutes it remained a stalemate, with neither man gaining any advantage.
Once again Bakur slashed. Sandor countered as before, but the Damark changed his direction, attempting to stab, as Anaya had said he would. Forewarned, Sandor spun aside and kicked out, clipping Bakur's leg, causing him to stumble. Before the warrior could right himself Sandor closed and, instead of using the knife, he punched him squarely in the jaw. Bakur went down, rolling away as he hit, and came back swiftly to his feet, his expression ablaze with ire. The onlookers were suddenly excited.
For a time the two circled, trading slashes and stabs. There were several close calls, but neither blade met flesh. Backing away from a flurry of slashes, Sandor's foot slipped and he fell. Anaya gasped, but the Duke rolled swiftly back to his feet before Bakur could close.
Inevitably Bakur tried his trick again, but he discovered it worked no better this time. Again Sandor caught his adversary off guard and off balance and a swift punch set Bakur to the ground. When the Damark rose to his feet, seething, the calculated smirk on Ranfurly's face sent him into a mighty rage.
Furious to the point of carelessness, the Damark closed the gap between them, slashing wildly. Sandor's Paska training stood him in good stead—his concentration never broke as he parried and blocked Bakur's savage blows, all the while watching for his opening. Each missed blow made the Damark all the more frantic, and it seemed that the sheer number and frequency of strikes must eventually wear the Enniskillen warrior down by attrition.
Anaya noticed that the scouts and Kenet were unmoved and unimpressed by Bakur's display. By this, she surmised that Raven had provoked his adversary deliberately, as part of his strategy. It was, to her mind, a dangerous tactic. If things went wrong, it could be very bad. As she watched her husband-to-be, though, she could see the intense focus and calculation and she realized that this was why his fellows were unconcerned. The War Raven was utterly in control. All it would take would be one mistake on Bakur's part, and the fight would be over. It wasn't long in coming.
Lost in his anger, Bakur over-committed himself, stepping in on his dominant foot, and leaving himself no room to counter. Instead of spinning away, Sandor took a cut in his right shoulder, and used Bakur's momentum to swing the Damark over his leg and onto the ground. The warrior's breath was slammed out with a audible whoosh as he hit flat on his back, hard, and lay gasping like a fish out of water.
Silence fell. Sandor pinned the warrior's hand holding the knife with his foot, removing the blade from Bakur's stiff fingers. Leaning down, he placed the tip of his own dagger over the Damark man's heart, pressing just hard enough to penetrate the skin and draw blood.
"There are already too many dead in the clans," said Ranfurly, his voice carrying through the crowd. "There are too many widows and mothers who mourn their sons. Your mother will not be one of them, bereft and childless in her old age. I grant her your life." Stepping away, he turned his back on his adversary and walked over to Mahan, presenting both daggers to him.
"E'nese pevae," said Mahan, taking the knives, and fighting not to smile. "The challenge has been met and answered. Tomorrow, my daughter will wed the Warrior proven to be most worthy of her."
Sandor bowed to the Chief, then turned to find himself face to face with his soon to be wife. His King stood by, beaming, and his scouts were collecting their winnings. Bakur was nowhere in evidence.
"Come," said Anaya, taking his hand. "That cut must be seen to."
Bemused, Sandor allowed her to tow him off to Mahan's tent, passing more than a few smiling Damark women.