by David Gemmel
Now he was interesting…
Deva had been looking forward to the Games all summer. As the Games Maiden, elected by the Council, she would preside over the Whorl Dance and be the only woman to choose her dancing companions. No man could refuse the Games Maiden.
In her mind’s eye she could see herself walking the lines of waiting men, stopping momentarily, lifting a hand. She would halt by Gaelen and smile. As he stepped forward, she would walk on and choose Layne.
She giggled. Perhaps she would choose Gaelen…
The thoughts were delicious.
She dressed quickly in a flowing skirt of leaf-green and a russet shirt with billowing sleeves. Then she walked downstairs.
The woman Morgase was in the kitchen, talking to Drada. Their conversation ceased as she entered. “Good morning,” she said as they turned.
They nodded at her and she felt uncomfortable, as if she had blundered in on a secret assignation. Moving past them, she opened the kitchen door and walked into the yard beyond.
The Games fields in the valley below were ablaze with color. Tents of every shade and hue had sprouted overnight like immense flowers. Ropes had been staked, creating tracks and lanes, and enormous trestle tables were ready for the barter of goods. Several cooking pits had been dug in preparation for the barbecue and the barrels of mead were set in the center of the field where the Whorl Stone had been placed on a bulging hill.
Already the clans were gathering. Her eyes scanned the surrounding hillsides. Everywhere was movement. They came from the Pallides, the Haesten, the Loda, the Irelas, the Dunilds, the Clouds-from every clan, large and small.
Today they would muster and pitch their tents. Tomorrow Cambil, the Games Lord, would announce the order of events. And then Deva would start the first race.
Movement to her left caught her eye. She turned and watched as the Druid Lord approached her. “Good morning, Taliesen,” she said, smiling to hide her apprehension. She didn’t like the old man; he made her skin crawl and she had often heard her father speak of his eldritch magic.
“Good morning, Deva. How is the Games Maiden?”
“I am well, my lord. And you?”
“I am as you see me.”
“You never seem to change.”
“All men change. You cannot fight the years. I wondered if you might do me a small service?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. Will you walk with me a way?”
“Where?” she asked, fear taking the place of apprehension.
“Do not worry. I shall not harm you. Come.”
The old man moved away toward the western woods and Deva followed some paces behind. Once in the trees Taliesen stopped and retrieved a long bundle lying behind a fallen trunk. Unwrapping it, he removed the sword found by Agwaine.
“What are you doing?” asked Deva, stepping back.
“This must be returned to its owner,” he told her.
“I thought the old woman was dead.”
“She is-and she is not.”
Deva felt the color ooze from her face. “You’re not going to conjure her ghost?”
“No, not her ghost.” He smiled gently. “Trust me, little one. Take the sword in your hands.” He offered it to her, hilt forward. She took it; it was heavy but she was strong and held it firmly.
Taliesen closed his eyes and started to whisper sibilantly in a language Deva had never heard. The air about her began to crackle and a strange odor pervaded the wood. She wanted to run, but was frozen in fear.
The druid’s eyes opened and he leaned toward Deva. Walk into the mist,” he said. Deva blinked and stepping back she saw a thick grey mist seeping up from the ground, billowing like smoke some ten paces before her. “There is no danger, girl,” snapped Taliesen.
Deva hesitated. “What is waiting there?”
“You will see. Trust me.” Still she did not move and Taliesen’s patience snapped. “By God, are you a Farlain woman or some Lowland wench afraid of her own shadow?”
Deva steeled herself and walked forward, holding the sword two-handed, the blade pointing the way. The mist closed around her. Ahead she saw flickering lights. Her feet were cold now. She glanced down and saw, to her amazement, that she was walking in water. No, not in. Upon! Momentarily she stopped as a large silver fish swam beneath her. “Go on!” came the voice of Taliesen in her mind.
To her right she heard the sound of a waterfall but it was strangely muted, muffled. Looking straight ahead she walked across the lake pool, and saw a crowd of armed men at the poolside carrying torches. At their center stood a young woman. She was beautiful, though her hair was bright silver, and she wore dark armor.
“Stop now!” came Taliesen’s voice. Deva waited, the sword heavy in her hands. The warrior woman waded out into the pool. The water was thigh-deep as she approached where Deva stood.
“Who are you?” the armored woman asked.
“Say nothing!” ordered Taliesen. “Give her the sword.”
Obediently Deva reversed the blade, offering it to the woman.
For a moment their eyes met, and Deva felt chilled by the power in the other’s gaze. “Can you read the future, spirit?” asked the Queen. Taliesen whispered another order and Deva turned away, walking slowly back across the surface of the pool and reentering the mist.
The old druid waited for her in the sunshine. He was sitting on the grass, his cloak of feathers wrapped around his scrawny shoulders, his face grey with exhaustion.
Deva knelt beside him. “Who was she?” she asked.
“A queen in another time,” he answered. “Tell no one of what passed here today.”
The following day almost four thousand clansmen, women, and children thronged the fields, gathering around the Whorl Hill on which was set the legendary stone of Earis, by which he had pledged to lead the Farlain to safety beyond the Gate. The stone itself was black, but studded with clusters of pearl-white deposits that caught the sunlight and sparkled like tiny gems. Although a man could encompass it with his arms, it weighed more than two hundred pounds.
Around the stone stood the Hunt Lords of the clans, and in their midst Asbidag of the Aenir. The clan lords were clearly uncomfortable.
Maggrig of the Pallides was furious. The Games were a clan affair, yet last night Cambil had sprung upon them his invitation for the Aenir to enter a team. The argument had raged for over an hour.
“Are you mad?” Maggrig had stormed. “Has the addled Farlain mind finally betrayed you?”
“I am the Games Lord this year. They are on Farlain land; it is my decision,” Cambil answered, fighting to control his anger.
“Be that as it may, Cambil,” put in the white-haired Laric, Hunt Lord of the Haesten, “but should any one man be allowed to set a precedent others will be forced to follow?” He was known to be a man rarely aroused to anger. Yet his thin face was flushed now, his fists clenched.
“It is my decision,” Cambil repeated stonily.
Laric bit back his anger. “The Aenir have no friends-only vassals. They have tried to scout all our lands and been turned back. You realize that if they win outright we are obliged to allow them access? The Games Champions can travel and hunt where they will.”
“They will not win,” said Cambil. “They are not clansmen.”
“Calling you a fool serves nothing,” said Laric, “for you have proven that beyond my speculation. What breaks my heart is that one man’s foolishness could bring about the ruin of the clans.” There was a gasp from the assembled Hunt Lords and Cambil sat very still, his face ashen.
Maggrig rose. “I am tempted to take the Pallides home, away from this stupidity, yet I cannot,” he said, “for without them the Aenir would have a greater chance of victory. I suspect it is the same for every lord here. But I tell you this, Cambil. Until now I have had scant respect for you. From today even that is a thing of the past. It matters not a whit to me if the Farlain are run by a fool; that hurts only the Farlain. But when you put the P
allides at risk I cannot forgive you.”
Color drained from Cambil’s face. “How dare you! You think I care what some potbellied out-clan thinks of me? Take your ragbag carles home. With or without the Aenir your Pallides would win nothing, only humiliation.”
“Hark, the Aenir lapdog can still bark,” snapped Maggrig.
“Enough of this!” stormed Laric, as Maggrig and Cambil moved toward each other. “Listen to me. I have no love for the Farlain, nor for the Pallides. But we are clansmen and no man will violate the spirit of the Games. There will be no violence among the Hunt Lords. The thing has been done and long will it be argued over. But it is done. Now let us consider the order of events, or we’ll be here all night.”
Later, as Maggrig and Laric walked back to their tents in the moonlight, the taller Haesten lord was deep in thought. Maggrig also kept silent. Laric-the oldest Hunt Lord in Druin, approaching sixty years of age-was also by far the wisest. Maggrig liked him, though he’d swallow live coals rather than tell him so.
They reached Laric’s tent first and the older man turned to Maggrig, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Cambil is a fool. He cannot see that which should be clear to every clansman. The Aenir are tomorrow’s enemy. My land borders yours, Maggrig, and we have had many disputes ere now, but if the Aenir cross Pallides land I shall bring my clansmen to your aid.”
Maggrig smiled. It was a nice ploy, but the fact remained that for the Aenir to cross Pallides borders they must march through either Farlain land or Haesten-and the Haesten were less powerful than the Farlain. Laric was asking for an ally.
“Between us we have perhaps two thousand fighting men,” said Maggrig. “Do you think they could stop an Aenir army?”
“Perhaps.”
“Agreed, then. We will be allies. I would expect, of course, to be War Lord.”
“Of course,” said Laric. “Good night.”
***
The following morning Maggrig stood alongside Asbidag, biting back his anger. The two men could have been brothers. Both had striking red beards flecked with silver, both were powerfully built. Deva watched them with anxiety. They were so similar-until you looked into their eyes. There was no evil in Maggrig. Deva looked away.
Cambil’s opening speech of welcome was short, and he quickly outlined the order of the Games. The first event would be the mountain run, five miles on a twisting circuit through woods and valleys. Three hundred men were entered and the Hunt Lords had decided on six qualifying races. The first five in each race would contest two semifinals, and fifteen of the fastest, strongest clansmen would run the final on the last day.
Other qualifying events were outlined and then it was left to Deva, in a flowing dress of white linen garlanded with flowers, to signal the start of the first race. The named athletes, Gaelen and Agwaine among them, jostled for position as Deva’s arm swept up, hovered momentarily, then flashed down and the race began.
Caswallon watched the start, saw Gaelen running smoothly in the center of the pack, and knowing the youth would qualify easily, he strolled to the market stalls on the edge of the field.
The stalls were doing brisk business in brooches, daggers, trinkets and tools, cloth, furs, blankets and shoes, meats, cheeses, fruit and vegetables. Caswallon eased through the massed crowds seeking a necklace for Maeg. Finding nothing to his taste, he bought a jug of mead and an oatmeal loaf. There were still one or two empty tables at the edge of the field and he chose a place away from the crowd where he would be alone with his thoughts. Since his talk with Maeg he had been less obsessed with the Aenir threat, but now, as was his way, he thought the problem through, examining every angle.
Morgase and Drada were sitting less than thirty paces away, but hidden by the crowd Caswallon did not see them. Morgase was bored, and her eyes flickered over the mass of people, seeking something of even passing interest. She saw the tall man walking to the empty table and her gaze lingered, her eyes widening in alarm. He wore a leaf-green cloak and a tunic of polished brown leather, while across his chest hung a baidric bearing two slim daggers. By his side was a long hunting knife. His trews were green laced with leather thongs. Morgase stared intently at the face. The short trident beard confused her, but the eyes were the same deep green she remembered so well.
And with such hatred…
She stood and walked over to where he sat. “Good morning,” she said, her throat tight, her anger barely controlled.
Caswallon looked up. Before him was a woman dressed in black, a sleek-fitting gown that hid nothing of her slender figure. Her dark hair was braided and curled like a crown on her head and pinned with gold. He rose. “Good morning, lady.” He gestured for her to be seated and asked if he could bring her refreshments. Then she saw Drada approaching, carrying two goblets of wine.
“How are you, Caswallon?” asked Drada.
“Well. Will you introduce me to the lady?”
“You do not know me then?” asked Morgase, surprised.
“I have been known to be forgetful, lady, but not insane. Such beauty as yours is unforgettable.”
She seemed confused, uncertain. “You are very like someone I once knew. Uncannily like.”
“I hope he was a friend,” said Caswallon.
“He was not.”
“Then allow me to make up for it,” he said, smiling. Will you join me?”
“No, I must go. But please, since you two know each other, why don’t you finish your drinks together?”
The men watched her walk away. “A strange woman,” said Drada.
“Who is she?”
“Morgase, my father’s consort. Beautiful but humorless.”
“She thought she knew me.”
“Yes. Are you taking part in the Games?”
“I am.”
“In what event?” asked Drada.
“Short sword.”
“I thought you were a runner?”
“I was. You are well informed. And you?”
“No, I’m afraid I excel at very little.”
“You seem to excel in the field of selection,” said Caswallon. “Rarely have I seen men train as hard.”
Drada smiled. “The Aenir like to win.”
“I wonder why?”
“What does that mean? No man likes to lose.”
“True. But no clansman trains for the Games; they are an extension of his life and his natural skills. If he loses, he shrugs. It is not the end of the world for him.”
“Perhaps that is why you are clansmen, living a quiet life in these beautiful mountains, while the Aenir conquer the continent.”
“Yes, that is what I was thinking,” said Caswallon.
“Was it your idea to have us escorted here?”
“I was afraid you might get lost.”
“That was kind of you.”
“I am a kind man,” said Caswallon. “I shall also see that you are escorted back.”
“Cambil assured us that would not be necessary. Or is he not the Hunt Lord?”
“Indeed he is, but we are a free people and the Hunt Lord is not omnipotent.”
“You take a great deal on yourself, Caswallon. Why can we not be friends? As you have seen, the Aenir have respected your borders. We trade. We are neighbors.”
“It is not necessary for you and me to play these games, Drada. I know what is in your heart. Like all killers, you fear that a greater killer will stalk you as you stalk others. You cannot exist with a free people on your borders. You must always be at war with someone. And one day, if you ever achieve your ambition, and the Aenir rule from sea to sea in every direction, even then it will not end. You will turn on yourselves like rabid wolves. Today you strike fear into men’s hearts. But tomorrow? Then you will be thought of as a boil on the neck of history.”
The words were spoken without heat. Drada sipped his wine, then he looked up to meet Caswallon’s gaze. “I can see why you think as you do, but you are wrong. All new civilizations begin with bloodshed and horror, but as th
e years pass they settle down to prosper, to wax and to grow fat. Then, as they reach their splendid peak, a new enemy slips over the horizon and the bloodshed begins anew.”
“The Farlain will be your undoing,” said Caswallon. “You are like the man poised to stamp on the worm beneath his feet-too far above it to see it is a viper.”
“Even so, when the man stamps the viper dies,” said Drada.
“And the man with it.”
Drada shrugged. “All men die at some time.”
“Indeed they do, my bonny. But some die harder than others.”
For ten days the Games progressed and the fear of the Hunt Lords grew. The Aenir competed ferociously, bringing new edge to the competitions. Gone was any semblance of friendly rivalry-the foreigners battled as if their lives depended on the result.
By the evening before the last day an overall Aenir victory had moved from possibility to probability. Only the athletes of the Farlain could overhaul them. The Aenir had won all but two of the short sprint finals, had defeated Gwalchmai in the archery tourney, but lost to Layne in the spear. Caswallon had beaten the Aenir challenger in the short sword, but lost the final to Intosh, the Pallides swordsman. Gaelen and Agwaine had fought their way to the final five-mile race planned for the morrow, though Agwaine had only reached it when a Haesten runner twisted his ankle hurdling a fallen tree. His disappointment in qualifying in such a manner was deepened by the fact that the Aenir athlete, the white-haired Borak, had beaten Gaelen into second place in their semifinal.
Lennox, in an awesome display of sheer power, had strolled comfortably to the final of the strength event, but here he was to face the fearsome might of the giant Orsa, himself unbeaten. The Aenir had won grudging respect from the clansmen, but all the same the Games had been spoiled.
Cambil remained withdrawn throughout the tournament, knowing in his heart the scale of his error. The unthinkable was on the verge of reality. The Aenir were two events from victory. He had summoned Gaelen and Agwaine to him and the trio sat before the broad empty hearth of Cambil’s home.
