Chapter 2
Anya Delemond
Infirmary was a loose term. Storage room was far more apt.
But it was all they had. It was the most spacious, quiet portion of the lower deck.
With a few bunks lining the walls, tables and chairs, and a chest full of herbs and tinctures, they had a halfway decent triage setup.
Many of the Centarians turned around or feigned sleep when they saw her assisting Ornella Lune-Stonefoot in the infirmary.
Those who didn’t likely didn’t know Anya’s royal identity yet.
After yet another pair of glaring red eyes turned from her, she relegated herself to crushing herbs and cutting roots for tonics and teas.
At least the children didn’t seem to mind her presence.
It was the adults who regarded her with ire, and rightfully so.
The time to prove herself an ally to them and gain their trust in a personable manner was waning.
“Duel on deck! Duel on deck!” Ornella’s son, Damien Stonefoot, shouted through the halls.
Anya looked out the porthole. It was nearly dusk.
The deck feast would start soon. It was a Lupus Star tradition to dance and eat on the upper deck the last night of a voyage as a thank you to the Mother Moon for guiding them safely to shore.
A duel on deck was a form of entertainment—and in this case, a smart distraction to offer the Centarians.
Their lives were about to change in many good ways, but it still must be a terrifying step.
Clamors of excited feet went up the stairs. Blackbird finished cleaning a boy’s scraped knee and sent him on his way. The boy followed the crowds out of the belly of the ship.
“Well, Blackbird, should I throw my hat in the ring?” Anya quipped, standing and stretching generously. It had been a while since she’d sparred, but perhaps it would show she was not the stuck-up Princess many of them seemed to think, even if she lost. Revelry was revelry, after all.
“Ooh! Yes!” Blackbird clapped her hands together. “Let’s fetch your cutlass and scabbard!”
“My bow and quiver too!” She picked up her skirts ever so slightly and hurried behind Blackbird, following her to their cabin.
Who wouldn’t enjoy an archery contest? Perhaps Lord Bryson would even be foolish enough to compete. It would be a delicious end to the voyage.
They retrieved Anya’s weapons and ascended the rickety stairs to the upper deck.
The tinny schink of steel on steel carried over the crystal waters, unhampered by the furled topgallant sails.
Sir Oshfeldt was giving hearty chase to a young Lycanian sailor, who was blocking hits with a broadsword and jumping from crate to crate in an attempt to catch the knight off guard with his agility.
“Too late for one more?” Anya swung her cutlass in an arc.
“The more the merrier!” Sir Oshfeldt answered with a smile, his long, low tail of silver hair swinging back and forth as he lazily parried the sailor’s attacks.
The sailor seemed stronger than the knight, but Sir Oshfeldt was angling his blade to his advantage.
He swiped at the sailor’s feet, who stumbled off a barrel onto his back.
Sir Oshfeldt levied the blade to the sailor’s chest with a victorious grin.
“I yield!” The sailor raised his hands in surrender. Sir Oshfeldt helped him to his feet and patted him on the back. The gathering crowd clapped and hooted.
“I need a rest.” The knight swiped a hand across his forehead. “Now, who will challenge Princess Anya?” he yelled, riling up the sailors and Centarians.
Anya was pretty sure the Centarians were cheering because they wanted to see her experience a tail-tucking defeat. If that was what they wanted, she would give them one hell of a show along the way.
“A rare opportunity,” Lord Bryson said, slipping between the crowd. Anya bristled at his tone. It was positively dripping with nerve. He stepped into the clearing and brandished his rapier in an X. “I would relish the chance, if Her Highness does not object.”
Great. Now she was faced with two options: anger the Centarians by defeating their hero, or stab her own pride in the back. It wasn’t really a debate. She knew what she had to do.
“And why would I object, fine knight?” She tossed the hilt of her cutlass from her left hand to her right. “You think me too fair a maiden to duel?”
“I simply wish to save your lovely dress from my ogre-stained blade.” The crowd oo’d at the taunt. He was smart with words. He was currying favor with the Centarians with his jest and likely expected her to fume and solidify their opinion of her as a haughty Princess.
Two can play at this game.
“I am as nimble with a needle as I am with a blade,” Anya countered, stepping closer to him. A smile spread on his face, wider with each step she took. Those fangs were more distracting than anything he could say.
“I will only object,” she leaned forward and whispered, “if you go easy on me.”
He whispered back, “I wouldn’t dream of it, Anya.”
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.