Little Chicken watched him work it out and grinned.
The mitts and shoes would be worn to prevent fingers and toes falling off, and soon earmuffs appeared as well. But there would be no other garments except the usual loincloths.
A strong stud makes a strong foal—Rap had heard that at least once a day from old Honinin for years. Darad had said the goblins weeded out their weaklings, and obviously they bred their men to be resistant to cold.
“Very cold day, Flat Nose. Bad wind.”
The feasting ended; the villagers and their guests came streaming out into the fading twilight and the bad wind. It was a very bad wind, swirling the snow around the compound and streaming the smoke from the chimneys. The cold was so intense that the snow creaked underfoot. Even the goblins did not like it, and the children had been wrapped in furs as well as their usual buckskins. The spectators huddled together, more in bunches than in an even circle, waiting to view the contest. They stamped their feet and grumbled, and their breath was whipped away in quick white clouds.
In the center of the circle lay a tree trunk, and the sight of it gave Rap the last clue he needed as he was led forward, swathed in a thick fur cape. Even with that, he was shivering. The wind stung his bare ankles with gritty snow and bit his face. It was hard to breathe in such cold; his eyes watered, his nose streamed, and the mucus froze on his stubble. He cringed at the knowledge that he was surely going to be stripped of the cape very shortly and he wondered whether the resulting torture of the wind could be very much less than what Little Chicken would do to him afterward.
Yes, it could. His best strategy was to hang on as long as possible and hope to freeze to death.
“Just hold your end up,” Darad had said.
Little Chicken marched to one end of the tree trunk; Rap was directed to the other-the thicker, heavier end, of course. Four men advanced to lift the log, and Rap wondered whether he would be able to support the load at all, even without the cold to worry about. He looked down the horrible length of it-rough bark and nasty stubs of branches sticking out at intervals. The men stooped and heaved, and up it came, caked still with snow on its underside.
Then his cape was snatched away and the sudden impact of the air on his skin was worse than being plunged into ice water. He gasped with the pain of it and saw Little Chicken enjoying his reaction. At once he was pushed forward, under the end of the tree trunk, and the men lowered it. Sharp, hard bark bit into his shoulder, the weight almost buckled his knees, and he scrabbled for a grip with his fur mitts.
Little Chicken took hold of a convenient stub of branch. There was no such handhold at Rap’s end, so he had less leverage to work with—High Raven had missed no bets at all. The goblin gripped firmly and stepped back, pulling.
Rap had not been prepared to do anything but take the weight. The sudden jerk almost pulled the log off his shoulder. He stumbled forward and started to fold under that monstrous load, then straightened up with a huge effort, ripping skin from his shoulder in the process. Little Chicken grinned happily and pushed; Rap staggered backward, and again almost fell. The spectators cheered and shouted ribald comments.
Obviously anything went in this game, but after those two playful attempts Little Chicken gave up his efforts to dislodge Rap’s grip—he would spoil the fun if he succeeded. He spread his feet, steadied the log with one hand, and put the other on his hip in a show of bravado. Then he just stood and smiled, waiting for the cold to do its work.
The spectators were silent now, hunching their shoulders against the wind, stamping their feet in the snow, waiting also. Small children fretted. Dogs sniffed curiously around the visitors’ ankles. Wraiths of snow circled across the compound and the chimney smoke hurried away.
They would not have to wait long. Rap could feel the life draining out of him. It could only be a few minutes before his body temperature fell to the point at which he would faint. Or else he would simply drop the log, for his muscles were leaping in uncontrollable spasms, his legs trembling violently; he could hardly stop his knees from buckling. His teeth were rattling, his skin turning white. Soon he would be as pale as a jotunn. He tried a quick heave on the log and it was immovable. Little Chicken did not even have to raise his spare hand to steady it, nor move his feet. His grin was growing wider and wider as he watched Rap weaken. Another couple of minutes ought to do it.
Rap recalled his vision of the old woman warning him not to harm Little Chicken, and thought that ought to be funny, somehow.
What use was a word of power here? What use stubbornness?
What use was Rap going to be to Inos, who would be robbed of her throne because he had failed in his attempt to warn her? Why did his talent have to be farsight, instead of physical strength or stamina, or Andor’s irresistible guile? Only farsight and a knack for horses . . .
Or dogs! Rap uttered a silent scream. He felt Fleabag’s equally silent bristle of alarm from somewhere in the crowd. Either the light was fading much faster than usual or Rap was on the point of fainting, for dark waves were surging across the compound.
Little Chicken had raised his free hand back to the log, so he was probably about to try another push, or a pull, and that would be the end—Rap was barely able to keep upright standing still. The slightest jerk would fell him.
Fleabag! Help!
Just for devilment, Little Chicken gave the trunk a quick twist. The bark scraped on Rap’s shoulder. He was too numb to feel much pain, but also too numb to react properly, and the log almost rolled off. He recovered and sent a desperate appeal to Fleabag, a picture, directions . . .
The waves of blackness were coming faster, making rushing sounds like water on the shingle at Krasnegar. The compound rose and fell, flickering now. The end was very close. Little Chicken could tell. He began rocking the log to and fro gently, amusing both himself and the audience by watching how Rap tilted to and fro beneath it, his legs locked, his eyes barely open, his breath coming in short gasps. The swings began to grow larger, to and fro . . . Which way would Rap fall?
Fleabag!
A dog as large as a full-grown timber wolf came racing across the compound at full wolf speed, heading for Rap. As it passed Little Chicken it veered unexpectedly, careering into the backs of his knees. Dog and boy and log collapsed in a heap. Rap staggered wildly, but he had managed to hold up his end of the tree for an instant longer than Little Chicken had. The other end had fallen first. Then he toppled into the fur robe that was thrown around him. Waiting hands snatched him up and rushed him to the lodge for treatment. Fleabag slunk away, looking confused. The spectators burst into noisy debate as they streamed off in search of warmth.
Little Chicken was left where he was, prostrate on the snow, beating one fist against the log in fury and weeping bitter tears that froze before they reached his chin.
3
Barely conscious, Rap was carried into the communal cabin, and there blacked out completely from the shock of sudden warmth. But the women were experienced in dealing with cases of severe exposure and they had their remedies ready. In a few minutes he became aware of their attentions, and of a large audience, also.
Not all the torture of the goblins’ testing was reserved for the loser. Repeatedly he recovered consciousness and fainted again from the agonies as his limbs and body thawed, as he was compelled to move when he wanted to die, as hot fluids were forced down a tube into his stomach. He was massaged and rubbed and pummeled. Yet he hung on stubbornly to the thought that he was enduring this in public, and goblins admired courage. More important, he thought that Little Chicken would be watching. So he choked back the screams, to sweat and shudder through his ordeal in jaw-clenched silence.
The faintness passed in time, but he was left dazed and confused by shock and by the potions that had been forced into him. He was vaguely aware of voices asking what man-name he would take and he heard his own sniggering reply that Flat Nose was fine. He barely registered that they spent a long time working on his face.