“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 the 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.
“Are you confident of beating this Borak, Gaelen?” Cambil asked, knowing now that his own son could not compete at their level.
Gaelen rubbed his eye, choosing his answer carefully. “I saw no point in making a push yesterday; it would only show him the limit of my speed. But, on the other hand, he concealed from me his own reserves. No, I am not confident. But I think I can beat him.”
“What do you think, Agwaine?”
“I can only agree with Gaelen, Father. They are superbly matched. I would not be surprised either way.”
“You have both performed well and been a credit to the Farlain. Though you are adopted, Gaelen, you have the heart of a clansman. I wish you well.”
“Thank you, Hunt Lord.”
“Go home and rest. Do not eat too heavy a breakfast.”
Gaelen left the house and wandered to the pine fence before the yard. Turning, he looked up at Deva’s window hoping to see a light. There was none. Disappointed, he opened the gate and began the short walk through the woods to Caswallon’s house in the valley.
The night was bright, the moon full, and a light breeze whispered in the branches overhead. He thought about the race and its implications. It was true that he was not confident of victory, but he would be surprised if the Aenir beat him. He thought he had detected an edge of fatigue in the blond runner as he came off the mountain on the last circuit of the field. Gaelen hadn’t pressed then, but had watched his opponent carefully. The man’s head had been bobbing during the last two hundred paces, and his arms pumped erratically.
Gaelen had finished all of thirty paces adrift and it would be closer tomorrow. Caswallon had pointed out one encouraging thought; no one had yet tested Borak. Did he have the heart to match his speed?
A dark shadow leaped at Gaelen from the left, another from the right. He ducked and twisted, using his forearm to block a blow from a wooden club. He hammered his fist into the belly of the nearest man, following it with a swift hook to the jaw. The attacker dropped as if poleaxed. As he hurled himself to the right, Gaelen’s shoulder cannoned into the midriff of the second man. The grunting whoosh of his opponent’s breath showed he was badly winded. Scrambling to his feet, Gaelen kicked the fallen man in the face. More men ran from the trees; in the darkness Gaelen could not recognize faces, but they were dressed like clansmen.
He caught an attacker with a right cross to the chin, but then a wooden club thudded against his temple. Gaelen reeled to the left, vainly holding up his arm to protect his head. The club hammered into his thigh and agony lanced him. Another blow to the calf and he collapsed to the ground, struggling to rise as a booted foot crashed into his face. Twice more he felt blows to his right leg, and he passed out.
It was dawn before he was found. Caswallon came across the unconscious body as he made his way to Cambil’s home. The clansman had been worried about Gaelen staying out all night before the race, but had assumed he was sleeping at the house of the Hunt Lord. Carefully he turned Gaelen to his back, checking his heartbeat and breathing. He probed the dried blood on the youth’s temple; the skull was not cracked. With a grunt of effort, he lifted Gaelen to his shoulder and stumbled on toward the house.
Deva was the first to be awakened by Caswallon kicking at the door. She ran downstairs, pulled back the bolts, and let him in. Walking past her, Caswallon eased Gaelen down into a leather chair. Deva brought some water from the kitchen and a towel to bathe Gaelen’s head.
Cambil, bare chested and barely awake, joined them. “What has happened?” he asked, bending over the unconscious youth.
“From the tracks, I’d say five men set on him after he left here last night,” Caswallon told him.
“Why?”
Caswallon glanced at him, green eyes blazing. “Why do you think? I was a fool not to consider it myself.”
“You think the Aenir . . . ?”
“You want further proof?” Caswallon carefully unlaced the thongs of Gaelen’s leggings, pulling them clear. His right leg was mottled blue, the knee swollen and pulpy. He groaned as Caswallon checked the bones for breaks. “Skillfully done, wouldn’t you say?”
“I shall cancel the race,” said Cambil.
“And what reason will you give?” snapped Caswallon. “And what purpose would it serve? We need to win both of today’s events. Canceling one will only give the trophy to the Aenir.”
Agwaine stood at the foot of the stairs watching the exchange. He said nothing, moving past his father and making his way to the yard. From there he gazed out over the Games field and the mountains beyond. Deva joined him, a woolen shawl across her shoulders, her white nightdress billowing in the morning breeze. Curling her arm about his waist, she rested her head on his shoulder.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I was thinking of Father.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Many ways. He’s wrong, I know that now. The Games were ruined from the moment he allowed Drada to honey-talk him into allowing an Aenir t
eam. But they flattered him so.”
“You are disappointed?”
“Yes, I suppose I am. Do not misunderstand me, Deva. I love Father dearly, and I would give anything for him to be respected as he desires to be. But, like all men, he has limits, he makes mistakes.”
“Gaelen’s waking up.”
“Yes, but he won’t run today.”
“No, but you will, brother.”
“Yes,” he answered, sighing. “Yes, I will.”
The field was packed, the stalls deserted as three thousand clansmen thronged the start of the Mountain Race. The fifteen runners, dressed only in kilted loincloths and moccasins, were separated from the crowd by a lane of corded ropes staking the first two hundred paces, before the long climb into the timberline.
Agwaine eased his way through the athletes to stand beside the tall Borak. The man looked to neither right nor left, his eyes fixed ahead, ears tuned for the command to run.
As Games Lord it was Cambil’s duty to start the race. Beside him stood Asbidag and Morgase, Maggrig, Laric, and the other Hunt Lords of minor clans.
Cambil lifted his arm. “Ready yourselves,” he shouted. The crowd fell silent, the runners tensing for the race. “Race!” yelled Cambil and the athletes tore away, jostling for position in the narrow roped lane.
Agwaine settled in behind Borak, and was pulled to the front of the pack as the lean Aenir surged ahead. Gaelen, walking with the aid of a staff, watched, feeling sick with disappointment. Beside him, Lennox and Layne were cheering their cousin.
The runners neared the base of the mountain, Agwaine and the Aenir some twenty paces ahead of the pack. Borak shortened his step, leaning forward into the hill, his long legs pounding rhythmically against the packed clay. A thin film of sweat shone on his body and his white-gold hair glistened in the sunlight. Agwaine, his gaze pinned on his opponent’s back, was breathing easily, knowing the testing time would come before the third mile. It was at this point that he had been broken in the semifinal, the Aenir increasing his pace and burning off his opponents. He had learned in that moment the strength-sapping power of despair.
The crowd below watched them climb and Asbidag leaned over to Cambil. “Your son runs well,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“But where is the boy with the white flash in his hair?”
Cambil met his gaze. “He was injured last night in a brawl.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Asbidag smoothly. “Some trouble between the clans, perhaps?”
“Yes, perhaps,” answered Cambil.
The runners reached the two-mile mark and swung along the top of the slope, past a towering cliff of chalk, and into the trees on the long curve toward home. Agwaine could no longer hear the following runners, only his heart hammering in his chest and the rasping of his breath. But still he kept within three paces of the man before him.
Just before the three-mile mark Borak increased the length of his stride, forging a ten-pace lead before Agwaine responded.
Caswallon had pulled the young Farlain aside earlier that day, after Gaelen’s wounds had been tended. “I know we don’t see eye-to-eye on many things, cousin,” Caswallon had told him. “But force yourself to believe what I am going to tell you. You know that I won the Mountain Race three years ago. The way I did it was to destroy the field just after halfway—the same method the Aenir used in the semifinal. So I know how his mind works. He has no finish sprint, his one gamble is to kill off his opponents. When he breaks away, it will hurt him. His legs, just like yours, will burn and his lungs will be on fire. Keep that in mind. Each pain you feel, he feels. Stay with him.”
Agwaine didn’t know how the Aenir felt at this moment, but as he fought to haul back the distance between them the pain in his legs increased and his breathing grew hot and ragged. But step by step he gained, until at last he was nestled in behind the warrior.
Twice more Borak fought to dislodge the dogged clansman. Twice more Agwaine closed the gap.
Up ahead, hidden behind a screen of bushes, knelt an Aenir warrior. In his hand was a leather sling, in the pouch of which hung a round black stone. He glimpsed the runners and readied himself. He could see the shorter clansman was close to Borak, and he cursed. Difficult enough to fell a running man, without having the risk of striking his comrade. Still, Borak knew he was here. He would pull ahead.
The runners were nearer now and the Aenir lifted his sling . . .
“Are you lost, my bonny?”
The warrior swung around, dropping the sling hurriedly.
“No. I was watching the race.”
“You picked a good position,” said Caswallon, smiling.
“Yes.”
“Shall we walk back together and observe the finish?”
“I’ll walk alone,” snapped the Aenir, glancing away down the trail in time to see the runners leave the woods on the last stretch of slope before the final circuit.
“As you please,” said Caswallon.
Borak was worried now. He could hear the cursed clansman behind him and within moments he would be clear of the trees. What in Vatan’s name was Snorri waiting for?
Just before they came in sight of the crowds below, Borak chopped his pace. As Agwaine drew abreast of him, Borak’s elbow flashed back, the point smashing Agwaine’s lips and snapping his head back. At that moment Borak sprinted away out of the trees, on to the gentle slope and down to the valley.
Agwaine stumbled, recovered his balance, and set off in pursuit. Anger flooded him, swamping the pain of his tired legs.
In the field below, three thousand voices rose in a howling cheer that echoed through the mountains. Cambil couldn’t believe it. As Games Lord it behooved him to stay neutral, but it was impossible. Surging to his feet he leaped from the platform and joined the crowd, cheering at the top of his voice.
Borak hurtled headlong into the wall of sound, which panicked him for he could no longer hear the man behind him. He knew it was senseless to glance back, for it would cost him speed, but he couldn’t help himself. His head turned and there, just behind him, was Agwaine, blood streaming from his injured mouth. Borak tried to increase his pace—the finishing line was only fifty paces away—but the distance stretched out before him like an eternity. Agwaine drew abreast of him once more—and then was past.
The crowd was delirious. The rope lanes were trampled down and Agwaine swallowed by the mass, only to be hoisted aloft on the shoulders of two Farlain men. Borak stumbled away, head bowed, then stopped and sought out his master.
Asbidag stood silently gazing down from the Hunt Lord’s platform. Borak met his gaze and turned away.
“There is still Orsa,” said Drada.
His father nodded, then watched the broken Borak walking away from the tents of the Aenir.
“I don’t want to see his face again.”
“I’ll send him south,” said Drada.
“I don’t want anyone to see his face again.”
Clan fervor, which had seemed to reach a peak following Agwaine’s unexpected and courageous victory, hit new heights during the long afternoon. No one toured the stalls, nor sat in comfort at the tables sipping mead or wine. The entire crowd thronged the central field where Lennox and Orsa battled for the Whorl Trophy, awarded to the strongest man of the mountains.
That the two men were splendidly matched had been obvious from the culling events, when both had moved comfortably to the final. Both towered over six feet. In physique they were near identical, their huge frames swollen with thick, corded muscle. Deva thought them equally ugly, though the male watchers gazed in frank admiration.
The event had five sections. The first man to win three of them would be the Whorl Champion.
The first saw Orsa win easily. A sphere of lead weighing twenty pounds had to be hurled, one-handed. Orsa’s first throw measured eighteen and a half paces. Lennox managed only thirteen. But the clansman drew level in the next event, straightening a horseshoe.
Wa
tching the contest with Gaelen and Maeg, Caswallon was concerned. “The Aenir is more supple, and therefore his speed is greater. That’s why he won the hurling so easily, and it must make him the favorite for the open wrestling.”
The third event involved lifting the Whorl Stone and carrying it along a roped lane. Lennox was first to make the attempt.
The black boulder had been carried to a wooden platform at the head of the lane. Two hundred pounds of slippery stone. Lennox approached it, breathing deeply, and the crowd fell silent, allowing him to concentrate on the task ahead. The weight was not the problem. Set the boulder on a harness and Lennox could carry it across the Druin range. But held across the chest, every step loosened the grip. A strong man could carry it ten paces; a very strong man might make twenty; but only those with colossal power carried it beyond thirty. The man now known as Oracle had, in his youth, made forty-two paces. Men still spoke of it.
Lennox bent his knees and curled his mighty arms around the stone, tensing the muscles of his shoulders and back. Straightening his legs with a grunt of effort, he slowly turned and began to walk the lane.
At fifteen paces the stone slipped, but he held it more firmly and walked on. At thirty paces the steps became smaller. Gone was the slow, measured stride. His head strained back, the muscles and tendons of his neck stood out like bars of iron.
At forty paces his face was crimson, the veins on his temples writhing, his eyes squeezed shut.
At forty-five paces Lennox stumbled, made one more step, then jumped back as he was forced to release the weight. Three men prized the stone clear, while a fourth marked the spot with a white stake.
Sucking in great gasps of air, Lennox sought out his opponent, reading his face for signs of concern. Orsa ran his hand through his thick yellow hair, sweeping it back from his eyes. He grinned at Lennox, a friendly, open smile. Lennox’s heart sank.
To the stunned amazement of the crowd, Orsa carried the Whorl Stone easily past the stake, releasing it at fifty-seven paces. It was an incredible feat, and even the clansmen applauded it. Men’s eyes switched to Lennox, knowing the blow to his morale would be great. He was sitting on the grass watching his opponent, his face set, features stern.
The Hawk Eternal Page 18
