Page 4 of Spar of Hearts

He took a sudden step away. “Let us begin!” he called, assuming an offensive pose with his rapier.

Anya stepped back and threw her cloak off. Blackbird chased it across the deck before the winds took it out to sea. The biting breeze was a refreshing sensation and would goad Anya to move fast and warm up. She gripped her cutlass with both hands, opting for an equally offensive position that also blocked her view of Lord Bryson’s toothy grin.

Sir Oshfeldt raised his hands to signal the start.

“Ready!”

“Set!”

“Fight!”

Lord Bryson’s eyes lit up the moment their swords met. His rapier was a weak weapon against her cutlass, but his footwork made up for it. She never had a chance to truly bring a bearing blow down. He practically danced around her, parrying every jab with smooth swings. She despised the amount of effort it took to keep up with him. He seemed a hulking brute, but he moved like a young squire. Every time their blades clashed, the fading sunlight glinted off their weapons and his fangs.

Her lips began to sting from the frigid, dry air. She kept her eyes trained on Lord Bryson as she swiped her tongue over them. The next moment, she was shocked to catch the edge of his sleeve with the tip of her cutlass. He looked even more stunned, pausing to risk a glance at his arm.

“I said to not go easy on me!” she growled.

She tried to overwhelm him with a strong overhead slash, but he recovered from his momentary lapse and met her attack, riveting their blades in an X.

“I assure you, I am not,” the Lord said with a hush. His effortless words only served to frustrate her more. Was he even giving it his all? She supposed it didn’t matter. This fight had to end in his victory. She lightened her press against his blade, feigning exhaustion. He seized the moment and shoved his weight against her cutlass, sending her tumbling to the deck in a heap. He pointed the rapier at her chest…and winked. The pack of mostly Lycanian deckhands booed the lord but were quickly drowned out by the Centarians and Lord Bryson’s cheering knights.

Of all the Divine-forsaken…the nerve of this man! He thinks he won without even trying! Anya shook her frustration away and focused back on the task at hand. This was how it was meant to end. He hadn’t truly bested her. She glanced at the smiling faces of the Centarians. Seeing their hero best the visage of their oppression had invigorated their spirits.

This was worth it.

“I yield.” She raised her clawed hands. “A fine match. Thank you.”

Lord Bryson sheathed his rapier and extended a hand to her. She didn’t dare to refute his sportsmanlike offering in front of all these folk. She placed her palm in his and allowed him to hoist her to her feet. Just as she went to loosen her hand from his, he pulled her flush against him. “A very fine match,” he whispered in her ear. “I should like to spar with you again soon. Perhaps in private.”

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and rage. She was the Commander of this mission, but he still saw fit to say and do such lecherous things in front of her crew! She’d bitten overconfident suitors for much less, and not in a good way. The only thing holding her back was the presence of the people who had placed their hope in him.

“You are much too close, My Lord.” She shoved her hands against his chest, putting distance between them. “And I do not fancy a rematch.”

Roderick looked confused for a split second, then refocused on the smiling crowd.

“Next challenger?”

Roderick Bryson

The duel was thrilling. Roderick couldn’t stop smiling to himself. Anya had seized the opportunity to jest with him in front of the crowd perfectly. It was important for the Centarians to see her cut loose once in a while, and she was doing a fine job. He could see more and more of them warming up to her every day. She had no chance of besting him in a duel, of course, but she did put up a good effort.

He glanced at his shirt sleeve. She’d nearly brought him to his knees when she licked her lips. He’d fantasized about kissing them. Seeing them so close, so soft and slick, and in the heat of a duel no less, had nearly been his downfall.

He entertained himself with more challengers as the late afternoon gave way to evening, even sparring with Sir Oshfeldt for a spell. But none of those duels were as heart racing as the one with the Princess. Anya and Lady Rowan watched the subsequent matches with mild interest from a pair of crates under the main mast. He relished having Anya’s golden eyes on him. Tonight was definitely the night to tell her as much.

“I tire of watching your blades go back and forth!” Anya called, standing and strolling to the center. Her dress blew against her form as the night winds picked up. “Have we archers among us?”

A few Centarians, knights, and deckhands raised their hands and murmured to each other.

“A silver piece to the best shot!” Anya danced a coin across her fingers, then tossed it to Lady Rowan, who scrambled to catch it. Anya smiled and pulled the bow and quiver from her back and held them up. “Bow and arrows provided.”

Roderick raised a brow. This was diplomacy of the highest order. The Centarians buzzed among each other. A silver piece would be an excellent head start in their now-foreign land.

Dame Fletcher stepped forward, but Roderick put his arm in front of her. “Let’s keep this to deckhands and guests only.” The knight nodded with understanding. This was the morale boost his people needed.

“Allow me to demonstrate. A long bow is different than your average hunting bow.” Anya scratched an X into the top of a barrel and set it against the mast atop a crate. She walked to the very end of the main deck. Her back was a single pace from the door to the captain’s quarters. The crowd parted as she drew an arrow from her quiver.

Roderick watched her pull the bowstring taut and send a shot flying dead center in the X. Everyone, including the Centarians, cheered and hooted. Before he could blink, she pulled another arrow back and split the rod of the first shot right down the middle.