Caswallon had pulled the young Farlain aside earlier that day, after Gaelen’s wounds had been tended. ‘I know we don’t see eye to eye on many things, cousin,’ Caswalion had told him. ‘But force yourself to believe what I am going to tell you. You know that I won the Mountain Race three years ago. The way I did it was to destroy the field just after half-way – the same method the Aenir used in the semi-final. So I know how his mind works. He has no finish sprint, his one gamble is to kill off his opponents. When he breaks away, it will hurt him. His legs, just like yours, will burn and his lungs will be on fire. Keep that in mind. Each pain you feel, he feels. Stay with him.’
Agwaine didn’t know how the Aenir felt at this moment, but as he fought to haul back the distance between them the pain in his legs increased and his breathing grew hot and ragged. But step by step he gained, until at last he was nestled in behind the warrior.
Twice more Borak fought to dislodge the dogged clansman. Twice more Agwaine closed the gap.
Up ahead, hidden behind a screen of bushes, knelt an Aenir warrior. In his hand was a leather sling, in the pouch of which hung a round black stone. He glimpsed the runners and readied himself. He could see the shorter clansman was close to Borak, and he cursed.
Difficult enough to fell a running man, without having the risk of striking his comrade. Still, Borak knew he was here. He would pull ahead.
The runners were nearer now and the Aenir lifted his sling …
‘Are you lost, my bonny?’
The warrior swung round, dropping the sling hurriedly.
‘No. I was watching the race.’
‘You picked a good position,’ said Caswallon, smiling.
‘Yes.’
‘Shall we walk back together and observe the finish?’
‘I’ll walk alone,’ snapped the Aenir, glancing away down the trail in time to see the runners leave the woods on the last stretch of slope before the final circuit.
‘As you please,’ said Caswallon.
Borak was worried now. He could hear the cursed clansman behind him and within moments he would be clear of the trees. What in Vatan’s name was Snorri waiting for?
Just before they came in sight of the crowds below, Borak chopped his pace. As Agwaine drew abreast of him, Borak’s elbow flashed back, the point smashing Agwame’s lips and snapping his head back. At that moment Borak sprinted away out of the trees, on to the gentle slope and down to the valley.
Agwaine stumbled, recovered his balance, and set off in pursuit. Anger flooded him, swamping the pain of his tired legs.
In the field below, three thousand voices rose in a howling cheer that echoed through the mountains. Cambil couldn’t believe it. As Games Lord it behoved him to stay neutral, but it was impossible. Surging to his feet he leaped from the platform and joined the crowd, cheering at the top of his voice.
Borak hurtled headlong into the wall of sound, which panicked him for he could no longer hear the man behind him. He knew it was senseless to glance back, for it would cost him speed, but he couldn’t help himself. His head turned and there, just behind him, was Agwaine, blood streaming from his injured mouth. Borak tried to increase his pace – the finishing line was only fifty paces away – but the distance stretched out before him like an eternity. Agwaine drew abreast of him once more – and then was past.
The crowd was delirious. The rope lanes were trampled down and Agwaine swallowed by the mass, only to be hoisted aloft on the shoulders of two Farlain men. Borak stumbled away, head bowed, then stopped and sought out his master.
Asbidag stood silently gazing down from the Hunt Lord’s platform. Borak met his gaze and turned away.
‘There is still Orsa,’ said Drada.
His father nodded, then watched the broken Borak walking away from the tents of the Aenir.
‘I don’t want to see his face again.’
‘I’ll send him south,’ said Drada.