The crowd expected the fight to be finished now. Chain Shada did not.
Gorain rushed in, believing his opponent to be weakened and groggy. He was met by a juddering left and a right cross that pitched him from his feet, slamming him head first into the boards. There was silence from the Varlish crowd – but this was more than made up by the thunderous sound erupting from the clan area. Chain noted that the fighter did not acknowledge the crowd. He was standing quietly, taking deep, even breaths, allowing his body to recuperate. Not so Gorain, who angrily pushed himself to his feet. There was blood on his mouth and he stalked to the side of the circle, calling for water. An attendant handed him a cup. He swished the liquid round his mouth, then spat it out.
Chain knew what Gorain was feeling. Twelve years ago Chain had met a man who just would not submit. He absorbed every blow and kept coming back. Such a man became a living question that wormed its way into the soul of a fighter, shrinking his courage, eating away at his self-belief. The fight had been a watershed experience for the young Chain. It had lasted for forty-four periods before, weary almost to the point of surrender, he had unleashed one last murderous combination. His opponent had gone down hard and not been able to rise to match the sands. Only Chain ever knew how close he had come to quitting. Now Gorain was facing the same maggot in the soul. Chain watched his former protege intently. Gorain reached up and pulled clear the eye patch, hurling it out of the circle. The horn sounded, and he once more moved in. For the next three periods he pounded the clansman, raining in blows from every side, seeking to overpower his opponent with sheer strength. But Gorain was tired now, and many of the punches lacked penetration. He too was taking punishment. Grymauch had begun to work the body, slamming big punches to Gorain’s midsection. All three periods ended with the highlander dropping to one knee. In the last Gorain threw a low blow after the clansman touched the boards. The surprise punch slammed into Grymauch’s good eye, hurling him to his back.
Chair! couldn’t believe it. In full view of the adjudicators Gorain had broken the rules of valorous combat. No punch to be thrown after a period was ended. Even the Varlish crowd were silent, awaiting the disqualification. It did not come. Shame gripped Chain Shada then, deep and lingering. Everywhere there was silence. Grymauch rolled to his knees, shaking his head to clear it. Even by the lantern light Chain could see the man’s eye was swelling badly. Pretty soon he would be totally blind. Chain rose from his seat and walked down to where the adjudicators were standing. He spun the first.
‘You are a disgrace,’ he said. The Keeper of the Sands was about to raise his arm. Chain grabbed it. ‘Not yet,’ he said, lifting the sand glass and turning it once more. ‘You will at least give him another minute after such a cowardly attack.’
One of the adjudicators spoke: ‘The blow was struck before the clansman touched the boards.’
‘Be silent!’ hissed Chain Shada. ‘There is not a man or woman here who did not see the truth. You make me disgusted to be Varlish.’
Inside the circle Jaim Grymauch had rolled to his knees. His eye was almost closed, his body a sea of pain. It surprised him that he had not heard the horn, but, truth to tell, he was glad he had not. Wearily he pushed himself to his feet and looked out past the crowd at the distant, moonlit mountains of Caer Druagh. All his life he had been cursed by the yoke of the Varlish. Now, here in his own mountains, he had a chance to defeat his enemy and stand triumphant before the spirits of his ancestors.
Rigante ancestors.
‘I am Rigante,’ he whispered. He looked across at Gorain. ‘Come feel my hammer, little man,’ he said.
The horn sounded. Gorain advanced. Jaim Grymauch, his eye closing, leapt to meet him. Gorain’s first blow smashed into Grymauch’s face. Blood sprayed from a new cut under his right eye. A cold fury began in Grymauch then, feeding his exhausted muscles. He slammed a hard left into Gorain’s jaw, following it with a right uppercut to the belly, and a left cross that half spun the Varlish. Hardly able to see he followed in with lefts and rights. The Varlish tried to cover up, dropping his head and shielding his face with his fists. Jaim stepped back and sent another right upper-cut between the fists. It pulped Gorain’s nose, snapping him upright – and into a murderous left hook that hurled him across the boards and out into the clan crowd. Attendants ducked under the rope sections separating Varlish from clan. They tried to lift Gorain, but the man was unconscious.