Kendal opened his eyes slowly, testing his limbs for breaks. He could not remember the last time he had felt so thoroughly exhausted. Still in the forest, lying on a bed of leaves that had been torn from the trees during their initial encounter, he had little memory of a great deal of what had followed. One thing was certain, Scathach was only bested when she wanted to be. The aftermath of his "victory" had been nearly as violent as a Pictish invasion. There were bruises on his arms and chest that had not been there when he arrived on Skye. Ah, but he felt more alive than he had in years! The Celt in him had awakened once more.

The sun had begun its downward voyage and the temptation to remain in the forest was nearly irresistible. But no, he could not linger here. A vague memory came to him of the tall warrior woman standing near a tree ... THE tree ... adjusting her disheveled clothing and reminding him there was still a feast to be enjoyed. The third challenge could be announced at any time. So, he arose, dressed quickly, and made his way to the Great Hall.

Before he could even see the castle, the perfume of roasting venison filled the air and the raucous sound of laughter lightened his heart. Sure as the sun was setting, the entire company was already at table. When he stepped into the hall, his suspicions were confirmed. He was the last to arrive. Finding an open bench among the crush of people wasn't easy, but at last he discovered a small gap between two of Scathach's younger pupils and was able to elbow his way into a seat. His companions, so they informed him, were twin brothers from Cymru. Anyon and Siarl, they announced, and they had arrived shortly before Kendal and the other warriors.

"Welcome, friend! Please sit with us," Siarl laughed. He leaned toward Kendal, eyes dancing with mischief, and muttered, "The company here's been far too swrth for our taste."

"Indeed?" Kendal replied. He was unfamiliar with their language, but took Siarl's meaning easily enough. "But the men of Cymru have music in their blood and poetry in their souls...or so I've heard."

"Aye, and you've heard right, my friend," Anyon agreed, slapping Kendal on the back so hard he could feel it in his teeth. "My brother was speaking of our table companion, there." He nodded toward a hulking bear of a man who sat across from them brooding into his mead. "He's not said three words since we sat down. I hear he's not one for speaking, but let's his sword and fists do all his talking. But tell me, now, I think I hear a touch of the Caledonian in your voice."

When Kendal affirmed that he was, indeed, Caledonian, the brothers began to regale him with tales of their homeland. "You must visit us there someday. There's no other place like it on the earth." Siarl declared, and the two of them proceeded to freely share the history of their homeland, their lineage, their romantic entanglements, and their poetry, requiring Kendal to say little during the rest of the meal. Wine flowed like the Dee and there was no shortage of meat and laughter. Until, that is, the young serving maid squeezed between Kendal and Anyon to refill their cups with mead.

"What's your name, lovely?" Siarl asked, trying to get her to look at him. The girl blushed and ducked her head, but did not answer his question. When Anyon attempted to steal a kiss, as he'd been boasting he would do before the night was out, Kendal put his hand around the girl's waist, pulling her away from Anyon's lips and onto his lap. Siarl roared with laughter at his brother's startled expression, but the levity didn't last. The heavy pitcher the girl was wielding proved too awkward for the moment and crashed to the table, splattering everyone around with mead and twisting her delicate finger in its handle.

At the girl's startled cry, Kendal took her hand in his to examine the damaged digit. "My foolish clumsiness has caused you pain. I'm—"

What he might have said afterward was drowned out by the angry wail of the warrior seated on the other side of the table. Kendal looked up to find the massive Celt standing on the bench in front of him. The man's hands rested on his hip, where the hilt of a sword might be, were he wearing one, and his chest was puffed out to nearly twice its normal proportions. "You clumsy oaf!" he shouted. "Do you not see what you've done? How dare you dishonor the mistress of the keep? You've been offered the hospitality of the Shadow One, and you repay it by injuring her daughter and nary of word of remorse?"

The braggadocian displays of "manhood" to which the entire company had been subjected since landing on this "fair isle" were beginning to grate on Kendal's nerves, and before he realized what he was doing, his temper flared. He lifted the girl and sat her down at his place on the bench before whirling angrily on the Celt. "If you had stopped your bellowing and held your tongue, I might have done so ere you insulted me," he retorted. He stood and fixed his eyes firmly on the obnoxious pig that had called his honor into question. "Who is it that dares to offer me correction, before he's been taught his own manners?"

"The name is Cochar Cruibne, Scathlach's champion and your better. You do not frighten me, Caledonian. Draw your sword, take up your spear. I'll cleave you in twain before the soup gets cold. Choose your weapon!"

The name should have been familiar, but Kendal's Celtic temper had, itself, been stoked to a white heat and so it glanced off his conscious mind as a dart off a shield. "Very well, I accept your challenge," he agreed, causing a blizzard of activity to flurry around them. Men and serving maids alike began moving tables and benches out of the way. Soon a large circle had been cleared in the middle of the hall and Kendal was almost certain he could hear the sound of coins clinking. Mead, combat, and wagers...such triple threats were common among his people. "Who shall strike the first blow?"

Cochar scrutinized him with a sneer. "I would not have it said I had slain you without giving you fair return. And since you shall die at my first blow, I offer you the opening strike."

Kendal bowed his head in acknowledgement. "A h-uile là sona dhuibh 's gun là idir dona dhuib.* Ye've not many left."

Since Kendal had the first blow, it was left to Cochar to choose the weapons. Instantly, he selected darts and shields and the combat commenced. Until the candles were guttering and the fires had to be stoked with new logs, they slashed at one another with the sharp-edged shields and hurled razor tipped darts. It seemed, though, that no matter how accurately they threw, the two were evenly matched at the parry and not a single dart hit its mark. When the servants began to clear the dishes and restock the barrels of mead, the two exchanged their darts for swords and engaged the battle once more. By the time the cock crowed, they had exchanged weapons three times and both men were bloodied and bruised, but neither would give up the fight.

Kendal, however, had regained his senses, at least, and understood now where he had heard the name of his opponent. Cochar Cruibne was, indeed, Scathach's champion and was said to be invincible. Terrific! Finally lose your temper and pick a fight, and look who you end up battling. Was there any tenet of warfare he hadn't broken this time? Still, everyone has a weakness. He had but to find it, although he had seen no sign of any deficiency in his opponent's technique so far. Still, it must be there and he had to find it soon for he was exhausted and scarcely able to hold a sword, while Cochar seemed to have only just begun to enjoy the combat.

Kendal raised his sword a fraction too late to parry Cochar's latest blow entirely, and the other man laughed as the tip sliced thru the sleeve of his shirt, leaving him with a long gash on his bicep. "Tired?" Cochar sneered. Something about the word caught Kendal's attention. Aside from that initial burst of anger that had begun this combat, he had scarcely heard four words together escape Cochar's lips. Kendal began to wonder how adept his opponent was with his tongue.

"A solid, well-placed blow, my lord," Kendal replied. "I salute the facility with which you wield your sword."

Cochar's eyes narrowed, and his next thrust came like lightning. With only millimeters to spare, Kendal managed to avoid another wound in his side, but his tattered shirt could boast of yet one more rip. "Brilliantly done, I must confess. I'm shocked to find you have such finesse. But it seems to be about that time...the next choice of weapons, I believe, is mine."

Cochar stopped his assault and stood for nearly ten full seconds without moving. Eventually, however, he grew impatient. "Then...choose!" he growled.

"But I have," Kendal replied. When Cochar merely stood blinking at him, he leaned toward his opponent slightly. "Your turn," Kendal prompted in a low whisper that nevertheless carried to the back of the Hall. Cochar blanched and his face turned a sickly gray.

"But..." Cochar stammered.

"I choose words, but this you know," Kendal said. "I chose the weapon; you strike the first blow."

Cochar swallowed and looked to Scathach, who merely shrugged. There seemed to be nothing in the rules against it. Besides, she appeared to be fascinated by the turn the battle had taken. "You will—" Cochar began, then stopped himself. "In this circle ... you will...die. Before the sun..." he glanced around the company quickly, licking his lips as he tried to think. "...falls from the sky!" He added triumphantly.

Kendal studied the floor at Cochar's feet and shrugged. "Hunh." The sound came as a simple acceptance of Cochar's threat.

"This circle has neither beginning nor end,
But each must face his death, my friend.
When it may come, we cannot know,
But yours draws nigh, if on you go."

Cochar stabbed his sword into the nearest tabletop and leaned against it, thinking for a moment. "My death will not be at your hand...I think it shall be something grand."

Kendal shook his head. "No, Cochar, I think not," he said softly.

"You would be seen as the Hound of War,
But I can describe you as you are.
Your hair, though long as a lion's mane,
Looks more to me like a rat's domain.

"Your eyes flash not with Passion's fire.
No woman views you with desire,
'though your lips might cause a bird to squirm,
As they lie on your face like two fat worms.

"Your arms, unlike the mighty oaks,
Are soft and fragile as raw egg yolks.
Your waist, it seems, begins to spread.
Perhaps you can learn to cook our bread.

"Your chest grows smaller by the day.
I think the claiomh, you should put away,
Before your puny legs do buckle,
And the company here begins to chuckle.

"And all the pleasure derived from hence,
Shall come to them at your expense.
When they look upon your bony knees,
The jests and gibes will not appease

"The pleasure they shall take from you.
And as a warrior you'll be thru.
You'll hide in shame and sad disgrace
With blisters boiling on your face.

"You have one trait we might applaud,
Your feet are as large as a puppy's paws.
But other parts, I describe with dread.
You'll not soon visit Scathach's bed."

"STOP!!!!" Cochar bellowed, sinking to his knees. "No more!! I had rather face a thousand warriors on the plain of battle than hear one more of your gibes!!"

At his first word, the Hall had become an ocean of sound, drowning the rest of his plea. Anyon and Siarl were on the table, gleefully shouting, "Finish it! Finish it!"

"NO!!!" Cochar begged. "I...concede the victory. I cannot match you with words."

Kendal looked to Scathach for a decision. A soft smiled danced upon her lips, but it was several long moments before she bent her head in a graceful gesture of respect.

---

* May all your days be happy ones.