‘I don’t want anyone to see his face again.’
Clan fervour, which had seemed to reach a peak following Agwaine’s unexpected and courageous victory, hit new heights during the long afternoon. No one toured the stalls, nor sat in comfort at the tables sipping mead or wine. The entire crowd thronged the central field where Lennox and Orsa battled for the Whorl Trophy, awarded to the strongest man of the mountains.
That the two men were splendidly matched had been obvious from the culling events, when both had moved comfortably to the final. Both towered over six feet. In physique they were near identical, their huge frames swollen with thick, corded muscle. Deva thought them equally ugly, though the male watchers gazed in frank admiration.
The event had five sections. The first man to win three of them would be the Whorl Champion.
The first saw Orsa win easily. A sphere of lead weighing twenty pounds had to be hurled, one-handed. Orsa’s first throw measured eighteen and a half paces. Lennox managed only thirteen. But the clansman drew level in the next event, straightening a horseshoe.
Watching the contest with Gaelen and Maeg, Caswallon was concerned. ‘The Aenir is more supple, and therefore his speed is greater. That’s why he won the hurling so easily, and it must make him the favourite for the open wrestling.’
The third event involved lifting the Whorl Stone and carrying it along a roped lane. Lennox was first to make the attempt.
The black boulder had been carried to a wooden platform at the head of the lane. Two hundred pounds of slippery stone. Lennox approached it, breathing deeply, and the crowd fell silent, allowing
him to concentrate on the task ahead. The weight was not the problem. Set the boulder on a harness and Lennox could carry it across the Druin range. But held across the chest, every step loosened the grip. A strong man could carry it ten paces; a very strong man might make twenty; but only those with colossal power carried it beyond thirty. The man now known as Oracle had, in his youth, made forty-two paces. Men still spoke of it.
Lennox bent his knees and curled his mighty arms around the stone, tensing the muscles of his shoulders and back. Straightening his legs with a grunt of effort, he slowly turned and began to walk the lane.
At fifteen paces the stone slipped, but he held it more firmly and walked on. At thirty paces the steps became smaller. Gone was the slow, measured stride. His head strained back, the muscles and tendons of his neck stood out like bars of iron.
At forty paces his face was crimson, the veins on his temples writhing, his eyes squeezed shut.
At forty-five paces Lennox stumbled, made one more step, then jumped back as he was forced to release the weight. Three men prised the stone clear, while a fourth marked the spot with a white stake.
Sucking in great gasps of air, Lennox sought out his opponent, reading his face for signs of concern. Orsa ran his hand through his thick yellow hair, sweeping it back from his eyes. He grinned at Lennox, a friendly, open smile. Lennox’s heart sank.
To the stunned amazement of the crowd, Orsa carried the Whorl Stone easily past the stake, releasing it at fifty-seven paces. It was an incredible feat, and even the clansmen applauded it. Men’s eyes switched to Lennox, knowing the blow to his morale would be great. He was sitting on the grass watching his opponent, his face set, features stern.
Cambil called for a halt to allow the contestants to recover their strength before the rope haul, and the crowd broke away to die mead tables and the barbecue pits.
Caswallon and Gaelen made their way to Lennox, along with Agwaine, Cambil and Layne. ‘Can you beat him?’ asked Cambil.
‘Not now, cousin,’ snapped Caswallon. ‘Let him rest.’ Cambil’s eyes flashed angrily and he turned away. Agwaine hesitated, then followed his father.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Caswallon, sitting down. Lennox grinned and shrugged.
‘I feel broken. How could any man carry that stone for almost sixty paces? It’s inhuman.’