‘Are you confident of beating this Borak, Gaelen?’ Cambil asked, knowing now that his own son could not compete at their level.
Gaelen rubbed his eye, choosing his answer carefully. ‘I saw no point in making a push yesterday; it would only show him the limit of my speed. But, on the other hand, he concealed from me his own reserves. No, I am not confident. But I think I can beat him.’
‘What do you think, Agwaine?’
‘I can only agree with Gaelen, Father. They are superbly matched. I would not be surprised either way.’
‘You have both performed well and been a credit to the Farlain. Though you are adopted, Gaelen, you have the heart of a clansman. I wish you well.’
‘Thank you, Hunt Lord.’
‘Go home and rest. Do not eat too heavy a breakfast.’
Gaelen left the house and wandered to the pine fence before the yard. Turning, he looked up at Deva’s window hoping to see a light. There was none. Disappointed, he opened the gate and began the short walk through the woods to Caswallon’s house in the valley.
The night was bright, the moon full, and a light breeze whispered in the branches overhead. He thought about the race and its implications. It was true that he was not confident of victory, but he would be surprised if the Aenir beat him. He thought he had detected an edge of fatigue in the blond runner as he came off the mountain on the last circuit of the field. Gaelen hadn’t pressed then, but had watched his opponent carefully. The man’s head had been bobbing during the last two hundred paces, and his arms pumped erratically.
Gaelen had finished all of thirty paces adrift and it would be closer tomorrow. Caswallon had pointed out one encouraging thought; no one had yet tested Borak. Did he have the heart to match his speed?
A dark shadow leapt at Gaelen from the left, another from the right. He ducked and twisted, using his forearm to block a blow from a wooden club. He hammered his fist into the belly of the nearest man, following it with a swift hook to the jaw. The attacker dropped as if poleaxed. As he hurled himself to the right, Gaelen’s shoulder cannoned into the midriff of the second man. The grunting whoosh of his opponent’s breath showed he was badly winded. Scrambling to his feet, Gaelen kicked the fallen man in the face. More men ran from the trees; in the darkness Gaelen could not recognise faces, but they were dressed like clansmen.
He caught an attacker with a right cross to the chin, but then a wooden club thudded against his temple. Gaelen reeled to the left, vainly holding up his arm to protect his head. The club hammered into his thigh and agony lanced him. Another blow to the calf and he collapsed to the ground, struggling to rise as a booted foot crashed into his face. Twice more he felt blows to his right leg, and he passed out.
It was dawn before he was found. Caswallon came across the unconscious body as he made his way to Cambil’s home. The clansman had been worried about Gaelen staying out all night before the race, but had assumed he was sleeping at the house of the Hunt Lord. Carefully he turned Gaelen to his back, checking his heartbeat and breathing. He probed the dried blood on the youth’s temple; the skull was not cracked. With a grunt of effort, he lifted Gaelen to his shoulder and stumbled on towards the house.
Deva was the first to be awakened by Caswallon kicking at the door. She ran downstairs, pulled back the bolts and let him in. Walking past her, Caswallon eased Gaelen down into a leather chair. Deva brought some water from the kitchen and a towel to bathe Gaelen’s head.
Cambil, bare-chested and barely awake, joined them. ‘What has happened?’ he asked, bending over the unconscious youth.
‘From the tracks, I’d say five men set on him after he left here last night,’ Caswallon told him.
‘Why?’
Caswallon glanced at him, green eyes blazing. ‘Why do you think? I was a fool not to consider it myself.’