Yasmyn handed her the stanch, and she strode to the circle's centre. Markan did likewise. He made a faint bow. Sasha did not, and took a fighting stance. The wood felt slightly heavier than steel, and far more ungainly, but she was used to that. Markan suffered the same disadvantage. He took a similar stance, and his reach, as Sasha had already guessed, was nearly a forearm's length more than hers.
Markan waited, studying her. He knew that without the svaalverd, his disadvantage was great. Perhaps he hoped that her new shirt would slow her a little. But surely he realised that if it did, she would refuse to wear it. Markan had sparred against her before. He was fast and powerful, but he was also clever.
Sasha did not feel impatient. She just waited. And waited. Each moment was of no greater significance than any other. Sashandra Lenayin, long impatient and short of temper, could now wait until nightfall if she must.
Markan exploded into attack, which Sasha angled away with a shift of wrists and feet, and drove forward, smacking him across the middle as she came through. Markan could have crushed her skull with the next blow, but pryal rules were clear, and her stroke was a kill. He accepted with a nod, and they prepared again. There came a roar from the Lenay crowd, in many tongues. The regions had their separate traditions and words for a strike. Markan looked unbothered. Sasha knew she'd have to hit far harder to cause him pain.
Again he waited. This would take a long time, Sasha realised. Chopping down Markan would be like a small man felling a large tree. She would have to hit him many, many times before she won…unless she could get an open head strike, or something equally debilitating. Yet Markan's first attack had been conservative, perhaps aware that the svaalverd would grant her a simple opening in reply, but that that opening would not be painful for him, and could not win her the fight no matter how many times she was presented with it. Svaalverd was a method of counterattack as much as anything, using the momentum of an attacker's strike to unbalance him, and kill him with the second stroke. But with wooden sticks, she could not kill, and so it went on and on. If Markan waited long enough, perhaps her concentration would falter, and Markan needed far fewer openings than she.
Not only strong and fast, she thought again grimly, but clever.
He attacked again. Sasha parried twice and ducked away, finding no opening. Markan pressed, again somewhat predictable and not as powerful as she'd have expected. The easy option presented and she took it, but again the strike was not powerful, partially deflected by Markan as he took it on his arm and stanch together. Again he nodded, and they separated. He was not giving her any power to work with, no momentum. Sasha loved to use her opponent's power against him, and Markan refused to grant her any, despite all his formidable size. And so, deprived of her asset, she had nothing to hit him back with in turn.
That left one option.
She attacked him in a flurry, five rapid swings that he parried in fast retreat, eyes wide with surprise. She saw a three-combination move that could end in a hard blow and flashed into it, yet Markan met her setup stroke with confidence and their stanches each struck hard on the third. It knocked Sasha off her feet with astonishing force, but she rolled on the stones and came up as the crowd roared. Markan windmilled his left arm. That had been by far her hardest strike yet, though not as hard as his. Her ribs ached on her left side, but her mail had saved them from breaking, and she flexed her arms and prowled forward.
Again she attacked before Markan had even settled, but this time he was not surprised, and met her with a crashing blow that shocked her arms, then hammered her midriff even as she tried to force her defence down to meet it. She sank to her knees, unable to inhale. Markan backed off and watched, winded himself. Sasha waited for the breath to come back, aware of pandemonium in the crowd, experienced Lenay warriors knowing only too well the risk that she attempted, and astonished to see her attacks so brazen. Most exchanges she could win five times out of six or better. Now she opened herself to strikes for the chance to do real damage herself. A few more strikes like the last one, and she was finished.
Her breathing returned to normal, though her stomach hurt like hell. It was merely one more sensation, for the battle lust was with her, and single thoughts or feelings meant nothing at all. The dark spirit was with her, and wooden stick or not, it sought blood.
“Just one chance,” her eyes said to Markan as she stared at his centre, absorbing all of him in that look.
She attacked again, inviting the obvious cross-swing in reply, with which she took a huge risk and ducked rather than parried. That put her ahead in the count. He knew it, hurried to catch up on the next swing, and a foot skidded. Just a fraction.
She saw the combination it presented immediately. The high-right overhead forced his balance back right, weight on the off-balance foot. His foot failed the next transition back, and she cut low and took his knee hard enough to buckle it. On one knee, his balance failed completely, his defence weak as her final blow crashed through it and snapped his head back.
Markan hit the ground limp, and did not move. The crowd erupted. Men rushed to check on him. Yasmyn held back, face impassive-it would not do at all for any woman, least of all a sister, to rush to a fallen warrior's aid and sully the moment with softness. Markan stirred, groggily, blood flowing from a badly split cheek. It spoiled his good looks, and made Sasha angrier still.
“Synnich-ahn! Synnich-ahn!” men were yelling. Sasha went to Yasmyn, handed off her stanch, and reclaimed her blade. “Synnich-ahn! Synnich-ahn!”
Sasha walked back to the centre of the circle, and waited for calm. At the stage-side, she spied Damon, watching with arms folded. Beside him was Kessligh. Damon looked displeased. Kessligh merely thoughtful.
She did not think Damon jealous of this support-like most Verenthane nobility, he had never particularly admired this rural, pagan half of Lenayin, nor gone to lengths to seek its affection. But now her actions whipped them to a frenzy. She could see from his face that he wondered how in the world this would serve to elevate him as the natural commander of the Army of Lenayin, and challenger to its king, their brother Koenyg. Well. It was a question.
Sasha held up her arms, and the noise began to fade. Finally, there was silence. Immediately broken, when someone yelled “Queen!” and a roar of approval followed. Sasha was unimpressed.
“I'm not your queen!” she shouted, once the noise had fallen. Angry cries came back at her. She nearly laughed. Lenays would argue with Death himself, and spit in his face, if he did not play by their rules. “But if you will fucking listen, for just one moment, you mob of lunatics, I will claim something far more powerful!”
Silence fell. Sasha glared at them all. “You know me! You know that I am Nasi-Keth. I have defeated one of Lenayin's greatest warriors here tonight only, and I stress only, because I am Nasi-Keth. Nasi-Keth taught me how to fight. This man,” and she pointed to Kessligh, “Kessligh Cronenverdt, taught me how to fight. If you will grant me power by my swordwork, then grant also that the credit is due to him, and his ways, and the Nasi-Keth that he has served all his life.”
“We will accept Nasi-Keth as queen!” came a yell. Growls and shouts of approval.
“Nasi-Keth do not accept the power of one man or woman!” Sasha replied. “You've travelled through the Bacosh. You've seen the wealth of the Saalshen Bacosh, where serrin and Nasi-Keth ideas have been in place for two centuries. These are not places ruled by a king or queen, they are run by councils.”