“Who comes to this place?” the old man asked in a voice that seemed to have grown considerably stronger since the last time Fremur had heard him speak.
“A bridegroom, seeking his bride,” said Drojan. He whispered something to Odrig, but the thane did not respond, looking out across the gathered clansfolk as if searching for something or someone.
“And has the bride-price been paid?” asked Burtan.
“Seven fine horses,” Drojan said. “Damn fine horses, isn’t that right?”
Again, Odrig seemed not to be paying attention, but he nodded.
The old shaman began to chant in a tongue that none of the other clansfolk understood, a tongue that some said had been given to the first clansmen when the First Spirit had made them. As he did, Kulva was led from the tent by the women, out under the canopy. They were singing, a counterpoint to the shaman’s chant, with words that women had sung at grassland weddings since the sun was young.
May you have a son in front of you
May you have a daughter beside you,
May your hand be dipped in oil
May your hand be dipped in flour
May you hold your tongue
May you not blame your husband’s mother,
May you respect your clan elders
May you yield to younger ones in time
May you be modest and keep your wagon clean.
As the shaman finished, a breeze came up, the first one Fremur had felt all day, making the canopy and the walls of the tent flutter. Guests turned to each other with smiles at this sign of the spirits’ favor, and even Fremur felt himself relax a little as the shaman sprinkled more salt and ash in a circle around the canopy.
Drojan pushed himself in beside Kulva, jostling one of her older female relatives as he passed and earning a look that would have curled the hair of anyone less oblivious. “Is it not time yet to get to the binding, old man?” the groom asked loudly. “The day is hot, and I am waiting for my beer . . . and my bed.”
A few of the guests laughed, although enough looked on with flat expressions that it was clear Drojan was not the most beloved member of Clan Kragni. But before the irritated shaman could answer him, another voice spoke up.
“You do not need a bed, Drojan the Foul—you need a sty!”
Even as Drojan peered out into the surrounding crowd of guests in reddening fury, Fremur’s heart sank from behind his ribs down into his gut, then lay there heavy as an ancestor stone. He knew the voice. It was Unver’s, and worse, Unver sounded very drunk.
The tall man stepped out of the throng, the wedding guests parting before him. Unver’s garments were muddy and ragged, as if he had slept several days out of doors; but, as if in some horrible jest, he wore over them the long, spotlessly clean vest of a suitor, covered with bright stitchery of birds and flowers. Fremur was relieved to see that at least Unver’s long, curved sword still hung in its scabbard on his belt.
“What do you want?” Drojan cried, sounding genuinely surprised in his drunkenness. “You have no place here, halfbreed. Go away. This is my wedding day.”
Odrig laughed loudly. “There! You heard the bridegroom. You are not wanted at this feast, no matter how hungry you are.”
“I am hungry for what is mine,” Unver said, peering out from underneath an oily tangle of black hair. “It is you, Odrig, who must answer.”
Odrig put on a look of mock-astonishment. “Me? You blame me? For what?”
“You did not call the vitmaers—did not proclaim the betrothal to the clans,” said Unver in a deep, cold voice, although he stumbled a little in his words. “That is against our law!”
“Against our law?” Odrig laughed again. “You, outsider, would tell me about our law? Begone, before I make an example of you.”
“I too have the horses! I have seven horses for Kulva’s bride-price.”
“Offal!” shouted Drojan, and lurched forward to grab Unver by the collar. Unver dealt him a blow to the head that sent Drojan stumbling and reeling. The groom tripped and fell to the ground, muddying his garments. A few watchers laughed, and Fremur saw that the crowd was not entirely against Unver.
“You have seven horses?” said Odrig, watching Drojan struggling to regain his feet. “That is amusing, since your stepfather Zhakar also had seven fine horses which he traded to me only yesterday for several cows and my second-best wagon. He is quite a wealthy man now, your stepfather!”
For a moment Unver only stood, for the first time seeming to realize that something was happening here beyond a drunken argument. “Those . . . no, those horses are mine. He had no right . . .”
“Take it up with the old man, not me,” Odrig began, but even as he spoke Fremur saw that Drojan had regained his feet, eyes and face both red with rage. He stumbled toward Unver with a long dagger in his hand. Fremur opened his mouth to call a warning, but someone else spoke first.
“Unver!” cried Kulva. “‘Ware!”
The sound of her voice startled him, but he turned in time to catch Drojan’s arm, then twisted it so hard the bridegroom cried out in pain as Unver threw him to the ground. Drojan was shorter but powerfully muscled, and not such a coward that he would only strike from behind; within a moment he climbed back onto his feet and lunged toward his enemy once more. Unver still had not drawn his own sword or dagger, and this time Drojan almost managed to drive the blade into his guts before he could stop him. They wrestled, first on their feet like two shambling bears, the knife pressing against the birds stitched on Unver’s breast, then their feet went out from under them and they rolled together on the ground.
“No! Stop them!” Kulva tried to run forward, but Odrig caught her and yanked her back, knocking her tall headdress askew. She hung helpless in his powerful grip, her feet barely touching the ground.
“Let them settle it, woman,” growled Odrig. “Let your husband finish with your lover. If Drojan is willing to take you spoiled, then vengeance is his right.”
At first it seemed vengeance might be swift in coming: on the ground, Unver’s greater height was no advantage, and Drojan had the knife. Also, Fremur could almost believe that Unver was not fighting as hard as he could, as if somehow death were merely one more way the day might end for him. Then Drojan found a momentary opening and tried to stab at Unver’s face, swiping the blade along his cheek and jaw, opening a terrible cut that immediately began sheeting blood down the tall man’s face and neck.
A strange sound arose then, a low rumble that for a panicky moment Fremur thought might be the gods themselves shaking the ground in rage at this sacrilegious display. Then he realized it was no tremor, but Unver growling deep in his chest as he fought with bare hands to keep Drojan’s knife away from his body.
As the crowd leaned forward to watch, some shouting, many more in silent fear, Unver wrapped one hand around the wrist of Drojan’s knife-hand, then put his other hand under the bridegroom’s chin and pushed until Drojan’s head tipped back at a painful angle. Unver then brought a knee up and threw the other man over onto his side. Mud and torn grass were flung in all directions as they struggled together, then a strained, gurgling cry rose from the confused tangle of limbs. A moment later both men fell back and lay still.
Before anyone dared to move closer, Unver slid himself out of his enemy’s grasp. Drojan did not move, but lay face down as his lifeblood pooled beneath him, painting the bright grass. But it was not Drojan for whom the bride cried out.
“Unver!” she cried. “Oh, Unver, why . . . ?”
“Dead on . . . his own . . . cursed blade.” Unver sat up, his once spotless vest now smeared and spattered with blood, his face a red mask, then slowly got to his feet, tottering a little and struggling for breath. “You saw,” he said to the wide-eyed onlookers. “I fought only to defend myself.”
Odrig had gone as pale as the frost that dusted the long grass in winter. He grabbed his sister around the waist and lifted her off her feet, holding her against his chest as easily as if she were a child, though she struggled to get free. “You!” he shouted at Unver, his voice hoarse with fury. “Do you think you can come onto the thane’s land, into my own paddock, kill my friend and bondsman, and be suffered to live?”
“Give me Kulva.” Unver’s outstretched arms were wet with blood to the elbows. “I seek no other quarrel. We will go away. The Crane Clan will not see us again.”
“The Crane Clan will not see you because you will be buried beneath the pen where the pigs shit,” said Odrig. “Do you think I would give my sister to you even if you had paid the bride-price? You, a castoff of the Stallion Clan, the whelp of a coward and a whore? My father was a fool to take you in.”