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.
Watching 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.
Cambil called for a halt to allow the contestants to recover their strength before the rope haul, and the crowd broke away to the mead tables and the barbecue pits.
Caswallon and Gaelen made their way to Lennox, along with Agwaine, Cambil, and Layne. “Can you beat him?” asked Cambil.
“Not now, cousin,” snapped Caswallon. “Let him rest.” Cambil’s eyes flashed angrily and he turned away. Agwaine hesitated, then followed his father.
“How do you feel?” asked Caswallon, sitting down.
Lennox grinned and shrugged. “I feel broken. How could any man carry that stone for almost sixty paces? It’s inhuman.”
“I thought the same when you carried it for forty-six.”
“I don’t think I can beat him.”
“You can.”
“You’ve not been watching very closely, cousin.”
“Ah, but I have, Lennox, and that’s how I know. He took a lower grip, and kept his head down. Your head went back. That shortened your steps. You could have matched him; you still can.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Caswallon. I shall do my best. But he is stronger, there’s no doubt of that.”
“I know.”
“But he’s not Farlain,” said Gaelen. “You are.”
