Lennox grinned. “So speaks our limping cousin, who allowed a mere five Aenir to remove him from the race.”
Gaelen chuckled. “I meant it, though. I don’t think he can beat you, Lennox. I don’t think there’s a man alive to beat you. You’ll see.”
“That’s a comforting thought, Gaelen. And I thank you for it.” Lennox grunted as he stretched his back.
“Roll on your stomach,” commanded Layne. “I’ll knead that muscle for you.”
Caswallon helped Gaelen to his feet, for his leg stiffened as he sat. “Let’s get some food. How do you feel?”
“I ache. Damn, Caswallon, I wish I’d run in that race.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to do something for the clan. Be someone.”
“You are someone. And we all know you would have won. But it was better for Agwaine to do it.”
“Why?”
“Because Agwaine needed to do it. Today he learned something about himself. In some ways he’s like his father, full of doubts. Today he lost a lot of them.”
“That may be good for Agwaine, but it doesn’t help me.”
“How true,” said Caswallon, ruffling Gaelen’s hair. “But there is always next year.”
That afternoon began with the rope haul, a supreme test of a man’s strength and stamina. The contestant looped a rope around his body and braced himself. On the other end three men sought to tug him from his feet. After ten heartbeats a fourth man could be added to the team, ten beats later another man, and so on.
This time Orsa went first. The men trying to dislodge him were Farlain clansmen. Bracing his foot against a deeply embedded rock, he held the first three men with ease, taunting them and exhorting them to pull harder. By the time six men were pulling against him he had run out of jeers, saving his breath for the task in hand. The seventh man proved too much for him and he fell forward, hitting the ground hard. He was up in an instant, grinning and complaining that the rock beneath his foot had slipped.
Lennox stepped up to the mark, a blanket rolled across his shoulders to prevent rope burn. Swiftly he coiled the rope, hooking it over his shoulder and back. Then he checked the stone; it was firm. He braced himself and three Aenir warriors took up the slack.
A fourth man was sent forward, then a fifth. Lennox wasted no energy taunting them; he closed his mind to his opponents. He was a rock set in the mountain, immovable. A tree, deeply rooted and strong. His eyes closed, his concentration intense, he felt the building of power against him and absorbed it.
At last the pressure grew too great and he gave way, opening his eyes to count his opponents.
Nine men!
Dropping the rope, he turned to Orsa. The Aenir warrior met his gaze and nodded slowly. He was not smiling now as he walked forward to stand before the dark-haired clansman. Blue eyes met grey. Orsa was in his late twenties, a seasoned warrior who had never been beaten and never would be. His confidence was born of knowledge, experience, and the pain borne by others. Lennox was nearing eighteen, untried in war and combat, but he had faced the beast and stood his ground.
Now he faced the Aenir and his gaze remained cool and steady. Orsa nodded once and turned away.
With two events each, the Whorl Championship would be decided in the open wrestling, a cultured euphemism for a fight where the only rule was that there were no rules. It was held in a rope circle six paces in diameter, and the first to be thrown from the ring was the loser. As they prepared, Caswallon approached Lennox and whispered in his ear. The huge clansman nodded, then stepped into the circle.
Orsa stepped in to join him and the two men shook hands, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. Then they backed away and began to circle, hands extended.
Suddenly Lennox stepped inside and lightly slapped Orsa’s face. Expecting a punch, the Aenir ducked and stepped back. Lennox flicked his hand out again, this time slapping Orsa’s arm. Someone in the crowd began to laugh and others joined in. Lennox dummied a right, then slapped Orsa once more, this time with his left hand. The laughter swelled.
Orsa’s blue eyes glittered strangely and he began to tremble. With a piercing scream he charged his tormentor. No more did he seek merely to throw him from the circle. Now only death would avenge the insult.
Orsa was once again a baresark!
Lennox met the charge head-on, swiveling to thunder a right hook to Orsa’s bearded chin. The Aenir shrugged off the blow and charged again. This time Lennox hit him with both hands, but a wildly swinging punch from Orsa exploded against his ear. Lennox staggered. A left-hand punch broke Lennox’s nose, blood spattering to his chin. Warding off the attack with a desperate push, the clansman moved back to the edge of the circle. Orsa charged once more, screaming an Aenir battle cry. At the last moment Lennox dropped to his knees, then surged upright as Orsa loomed over him. The speed of the rush carried Orsa on, flying headlong over his opponent to crash into the crowd beyond the circle.
The fight was over and Lennox had won. But Orsa in his berserk rage knew nothing of tournaments and petty victories. Hurling aside the men who helped him to his feet, he leaped back into the circle where Lennox was standing with arms raised in triumph.
“Look out!” shouted Gaelen and a score of others.
Lennox swung around. Orsa’s massive hand encircled the clansman’s throat. Instinctively Lennox tensed the muscles of his neck against the crushing strength of the man’s fingers. His own hands clamped down on Orsa’s throat, blocking his demonic snarling.
The crowd fell silent as the two men strained and swayed in the center of the circle.
Then the tall, red-caped figure of Drada appeared, pushing through the mass. In his right hand he carried a wooden club that he hammered to the back of his brother’s skull. Orsa’s eyes glazed and his grip loosened. Drada hit him once more and he fell. Lennox stepped back, rubbing his bruised throat.
Orsa staggered to his feet, turning to his brother. “Sorry,” he said, and shrugged. He walked to Lennox, gripping his hand. “Good contest,” he said. “You’re strong.”
“I don’t think any man will ever carry the Whorl Stone as far as you did,” Lennox told him.
“Maybe so. Why did you slap me?” The question was asked so simply and directly that Lennox laughed nervously, unable at first to marshal his thoughts. But Orsa waited patiently, no sign of emotion on his broad face.
“I did it to make you angry, so you would lose control.”
“Thought so. Beat myself-that’s not good.” Still nodding, he walked away. Lennox watched him, puzzled, then the crowd swamped him, slapping his back and leading him onto the Hunt Lord’s platform to receive the congratulations of the Games Lord.
As the crowd moved away, Drada approached Caswallon. “It was your advice, was it not, to make my brother baresark?”
“Yes.”
“You are proving to be troublesome, Caswallon.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“No sensible man should be glad to make an enemy.”
“I haven’t made an enemy, Drada. I’ve recognized one. There is a difference.”
The Whorl Dance had begun around a dozen blazing fires, and the eligible maidens of the Farlain chose dancing companions from the waiting ranks of clansmen. There was music from the pipes, harsh and powerful; from the flute, wistful and melodic; and from the harp, enchanting and fey. It was mountain music, and stronger than wine upon the senses of the men and women of the clans.
Deva danced with Layne, the Spear Champion, while Gaelen sat alone, fighting a losing battle against self- pity. His leg ached and he eased it forward under the table, rubbing at the swollen thigh.
Gwalchmai found him there just before midnight. The young archer was dressed in his finest clothes, a cloak of soft brown leather over a green embroidered tunic. “No one should be alone on Whorl Night,” said Gwal, easing in to sit opposite his comrade.
“I was just waiting for a girl with a swollen left leg, then we could hobble away together,” said Gaelen, pouring more mead wine into his goblet.
