‘What did you say?’
‘Grymauch fights him next.’
‘Aye.’ Kaelin was less worried than he had been. Grymauch had fought four times, and not one bout had lasted long. He had a swelling on the cheekbone under his empty left socket and a few bruises on his upper body, but he had emerged triumphant. Kaelin could no longer imagine any man thrashing him. He glanced again at the forlorn figure of Taybard Jaekel. On impulse Kaelin ran after him, calling out as he ran. Taybard stopped and waited.
‘If you want a fight I’m not in the mood,’ he said as Kaelin paused before him.
‘I don’t want a fight, Tay. But the feast is only an hour away. It would be a shame to miss it. Why don’t you come with Banny and me?’
‘You want a Varlish at your feast?’
‘Whisht, man, you’re an Old Hills neighbour. We’ll watch Grymauch whip the southerner, and then eat till our bellies swell.’
Taybard stood silently, his mind racing. He wanted to apologize to Kaelin for the fight. He wanted to say how sorry he was that men cheered when a highlander died in the circle. He wanted to tell him about the Wyrd, and about his jealousy concerning Chara. He looked into Kaelin’s dark eyes.
‘Aye, I could eat,’ he said.
And the three youths walked back to the clan fields.
CHAPTER SIX
THE VARLISH SEATING TIERS AROUND THE FIGHTING CIRCLE WERE FULL, and hundreds more townsfolk crowded around the base as the two fighters made their way to the boards. On the other side of the circle clan men and women were packed so closely together that there was little room for movement.
The sun had gone down, and tall lanterns had been set around the circle, casting flickering shadows over the two large men who were about to fight. Gorain, bare-chested and wearing tight-fitting grey leggings and knee-length riding boots, waved to the Varlish crowd, cocking his fist and laughing. He was unmarked – only the last of his bouts had stretched beyond a few periods. He was perhaps an inch shorter than his opponent, but his breadth of shoulder was enormous, and the lantern light glinted on his finely sculpted muscles. On the other side of the circle Jaim Grymauch seemed ponderous, and massively ugly. He too sported huge shoulders and arms, but there was nothing of the beauty of Gorain. Stripped to the waist he looked more like a bear than a man, clumsy and slow.
Sitting on the highest tier Gaise Macon could feel the fear emanating from the clan crowd. It was as if they were about to witness an execution, rather than a contest. Gorain began to move through a series of stretches, cartwheeling his arms and swaying from side to side. The one-eyed clansman watched him. The Keeper of the Sands took his place beside the circle, and the two white-cloaked adjudicators held a short conference before one climbed into the circle. The crowd fell silent now. The adjudicator, facing the Varlish tiers, bowed. This contest,’ he called out, ‘will be of unlimited duration, ending only when one of the contestants can no longer climb to his feet before the sands run out. Each period will end when either contestant drops his knee to the board, and will resume when the keeper orders the horn to be blown. No blow shall be struck after a contestant has indicated the end of a period. Under the rules of valorous combat any contestant who grapples, gouges, bites or kicks will forfeit the prize.’
Gaise listened as the adjudicator named the contestants. The roar for Gorain shook the tiers, and the fighter responded by raising both arms and bowing. The clans cheered the one-eyed fighter, but the sound was muted.
Gorain walked to the side of the circle and called out to one of the attendants. The man brought him a strip of black cloth which he tied around his head, obscuring the sight in his left eye.
‘A noble act,’ said Gaise to Mulgrave.
‘Indeed, sir, unless it is meant as mockery.’
The bright moon emerged from behind a cloud, and a chill wind blew across the circle, guttering one of the lanterns. An attendant relit it with a taper. Gaise looked around and saw Chain Shada sitting some twenty feet to his right. He was leaning forward, his chin resting on his fist. He too wore the fighting leggings. A blanket was draped over his bare shoulders.