“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 team. 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.”
