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 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?”
