‘You think the Aenir … ?’
‘You want further proof?’ Caswallon carefully unlaced the thongs of Gaelen’s leggings, pulling them clear. His right leg was mottled blue, the knee swollen and pulpy. He groaned as Caswallon checked the bones for breaks. ‘Skilfully done, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I shall cancel the race,’ said Cambil.
‘And what reason will you give?’ snapped Caswallon. ‘And what purpose would it serve? We need to win both of today’s events. Cancelling one will only give the trophy to the Aenir.’
Agwaine stood at the foot of the stairs watching the exchange. He said nothing, moving past his father and making his way to the yard. From here he gazed out over the Games field and the mountains beyond. Deva joined him, a woollen shawl across her shoulders, her white nightdress billowing in the morning breeze. Curling her arm about his waist, she rested her head on his shoulder.
“What are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘I was thinking of Father.’
‘In what way?”
‘Oh, I don’t know. Many ways. He’s wrong, I know that now.
The Games were ruined from the moment he allowed Drada to honey-talk him into allowing an Aenir team. But they flattered him so.”
‘You are disappointed?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. Do not misunderstand me, Deva. I love Father dearly, and I would give anything for him to be respected as he desires to be. But, like all men, he has limits, he makes mistakes.’
‘Gaelen’s waking up.’
‘Yes, but he won’t run today.’
‘No, but you will, brother.”
‘Yes,’ he answered, sighing. ‘Yes, I will.’
The field was packed, the stalls deserted as three thousand clansmen thronged the start of the Mountain Race. The fifteen runners, dressed only in kilted loincloths and moccasins, were separated from the crowd by a lane of corded ropes staking the first two hundred paces, before the long climb into the timberline.
Agwaine eased his way through the athletes to stand beside the tall Borak. The man looked to neither right nor left, his eyes fixed ahead, ears tuned for the command to run.
As Games Lord it was Cambil’s duty to start the race. Beside him stood Asbidag and Morgase, Maggrig, Laric and the other Hunt Lords of minor clans.
Cambil lifted his arm. ‘Ready yourselves,’ he shouted. The crowd fell silent, the runners tensing for the race. ‘Race!’ yelled Cambil and the athletes tore away, jostling for position in the narrow roped lane.
Agwaine settled in behind Borak, and was pulled to the front of the pack as the lean Aenir surged ahead. Gaelen, walking with the aid of a staff, watched, feeling sick with disappointment. Beside him, Lennox and Layne were cheering their cousin.
The runners neared the base of the mountain, Agwaine and the Aenir some twenty paces ahead of the pack. Borak shortened his step, leaning forward into the hill, his long legs pounding rhythmically against the packed clay. A thin film of sweat shone on his body and his white-gold hair glistened in the sunlight. Agwaine, his gaze pinned on his opponent’s back, was breathing easily, knowing the testing time would come before the third mile. It was at this point that he had been broken in the semi-final, the Aenir increasing his
pace and burning off his opponents. He had learned in that moment the strength-sapping power of despair.
The crowd below watched them climb and Asbidag leaned over to Cambil. ‘Your son runs well,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘But where is the boy with the white flash in his hair?’
Cambil met his gaze. ‘He was injured last night in a brawl.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Asbidag smoothly. ‘Some trouble between the clans, perhaps?’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ answered Cambil.
The runners reached the two-mile mark and swung along the top of the slope, past a towering cliff of chalk, and into the trees on the long curve towards home. Agwaine could no longer hear the following runners, only his heart hammering in his chest and the rasping of his breath. But still he kept within three paces of the man before him.
Just before the three-mile mark Borak increased the length of his stride, forging a ten-pace lead before Agwaine responded.