‘That is better. That is the Caswallon I know.’
‘Indeed it is. I should have spoken to you before, Maeg.’
Caswallon took Gaelen and Gwalchmai with him to observe the strange antics of the Aenir. It seemed that half of Asbidag’s army at Aesgard was at play. The plain before the city was sectioned off by tents, stalls and ropes, creating a running track, an archery field, a series of spear lanes, and a vast circle at the centre of which men wrestled and boxed, or fought with sword and shield. Strength events were also under way.
‘It is like the Games,’ said Gwalchmai. ‘How long have they been doing this?’
Caswallon shrugged. ‘Kareen saw them yesterday.’
‘They have some fine athletes,’ observed Gaelen. ‘Look at that white-haired runner leading the pack. He moves like the wind.’
On the plain below Drada and Ongist were watching the foot races with interest. Ongist had wagered ten pieces of gold on Snorri Wolfson to beat Drada’s favourite, the ash-blond Borak. Snorri was trailing by thirty paces when they reached the last lap.
‘A curse on the man!’ snarled Ongist.
‘He is a sprinter,’ said Drada, grinning. ‘He’s not built for distance.’
‘What about a wager against Orsa?’
Drada shook his head. ‘No one will beat him in the strength events.’ The brothers wandered across the running track to the twelve men contesting the weights. They were drawing lots to decide which man would first attempt the hurling and Drada and Ongist settled on the grass as the draw was decided.
One man approached a cart on which was set a block of marble. It was shaped as a ball and carefully inscribed with the names of Ateris’ greatest poets. Before today it had rested on a velvet-covered stand in the city library.
It weighed over sixty pounds.
The man placed his hand on either side of the sphere, bent his knees and lifted it to his chest. He approached the marker stake, hoisted the sphere above his head and, with a grunt of effort, threw it forward. With a dull thud it buried itself in the ground some five paces ahead. Three officials prised it loose with spears and rolled it back to the marker stake, lifting it for the next thrower.
Drada and Ongist watched with scant interest as the men took their turns until, at last, Orsa stripped himself of his shirt and stood grinning by the stake. He waved to his brothers.
Two officials lifted the sphere into his arms. Even before they were clear Orsa shifted the weight to his right hand, dipped his shoulder and hurled the sphere into the air. It sailed over the other marks by some three paces; as it landed it shattered into a score of pieces.
‘Must have hit a buried rock,’ muttered Ongist.
Orsa ambled across to them. ‘Easy,’ he said, pointing at the ruined marble.
Drada nodded. ‘You are still the strongest, brother.’
‘No need for proof,’ said Orsa. “Waste of time.’
True,’ Drada agreed.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Orsa, wandering away without another word. Drada watched him go, marvelling anew at the sheer size of the man. His upper arms were as large as most men’s thighs.
‘By Vatan, he’s a monster,’ said Ongist.
Drada looked away. In a family of monsters it seemed ironic that Ongist should so describe the only one among them who hated no one.
High on the hillside the three clansmen stood to depart. They had seen enough. ‘I think Maeg is right,’ said Caswallon. Tell me, Gaelen, do you think you could beat that white-haired runner?’
‘I fear we will find out next month,’ said Gaelen. ‘I think I can. But he wasn’t stretched today; he set his own pace. Still, if they do bring a team I hope that giant comes with them. I’d love to see him against Lennox.’
6
DEVA AWOKE IN the first moments of dawn, as the sun lanced its light through the slats of her window. She yawned and stretched, rolling to her side to watch the dust-motes dance in the sunbeams. Kicking aside the down-filled quilt, she opened the shutters and leaned on the stone sill, breathing deeply.