Drada smiled. ‘The Aenir like to win.’
‘I wonder why?”
‘What does that mean? No man likes to lose.’
True. But no clansman trains for the Games; they are an extension of his life and his natural skills. If he loses, he shrugs. It is not the end of the world for him.’
‘Perhaps that is why you are clansmen, living a quiet life in these beautiful mountains, while the Aenir conquer the continent.’
‘Yes, that is what I was thinking,’ said Caswallon.
“Was it your idea to have us escorted here?’
‘I was afraid you might get lost.’
‘That was kind of you.’
‘I am a kind man,’ said Caswallon. ‘I shall also see that you are escorted back.’
‘Cambil assured us that would not be necessary. Or is he not the Hunt Lord?’
‘Indeed he is, but we are a free people and the Hunt Lord is not omnipotent.’
‘You take a great deal on yourself, Caswallon. Why can we not be friends? As you have seen, the Aenir have respected your borders. We trade. We are neighbours.’
‘It is not necessary for you and me to play these games, Drada. I know what is in your heart. Like all killers, you fear that a greater killer will stalk you as you stalk others. You cannot exist with a free people on your borders. You must always be at war with someone. And one day, if you ever achieve your ambition, and the Aenir rule from sea to sea in every direction, even then it will not end. You will turn on yourselves like rabid wolves. Today you strike fear into men’s hearts. But tomorrow? Then you will be thought of as a boil on the neck of history.’
The words were spoken without heat. Drada sipped his wine, then he looked up to meet Caswallon’s gaze. ‘I can see why you think as you do, but you are wrong. All new civilisations begin with bloodshed and horror, but as the years pass they settle down to prosper, to wax and to grow fat. Then, as they reach their splendid peak, a new enemy slips over the horizon and the bloodshed begins anew.’
‘The Farlain will be your undoing,’ said Caswallon. ‘You are like the man poised to stamp on the worm beneath his feet – too far above it to see it is a viper.’
‘Even so, when the man stamps the viper dies,’ said Drada.
‘And the man with it.’
Drada shrugged. ‘All men die at some time.’
‘Indeed they do, my bonny. But some die harder than others.’
For ten days the Games progressed and the fear of the Hunt Lords grew. The Aenir competed ferociously, bring new edge to the competitions. Gone was any semblance of friendly rivalry – the foreigners battled as if their lives depended on the result.
By the evening before the last day an overall Aenir victory had moved from possibility to probability. Only the athletes of the Farlain could overhaul them. The Aenir had won all but two of the short sprint finals, had defeated Gwalchmai in the archery tourney, but lost to Layne in the spear. Caswallon had beaten the Aenir challenger in the short sword, but lost the final to Intosh, the Pallides swordsman. Gaelen and Agwaine had fought their way to the final five-mile race planned for the morrow, though Agwaine had only reached it when a Haesten runner twisted his ankle hurdling a fallen tree. His disappointment in qualifying in such a manner was deepened by the fact that the Aenir athlete, the white-haired Borak, had beaten Gaelen into second place in their semi-final.
Lennox, in an awesome display of sheer power, had strolled comfortably to the final of the strength event, but here he was to face the fearsome might of the giant Orsa, himself unbeaten. The Aenir had won grudging respect from the clansmen, but all the same the Games had been spoiled.
Cambil remained withdrawn throughout the tournament, knowing in his heart the scale of his error. The unthinkable was on the verge of reality. The Aenir were two events from victory. He had summoned Gaelen and Agwaine to him and the trio sat before the broad empty hearth of Cambil’s home.