‘I thought the same when you carried it for forty-six.’
‘I don’t think I can beat him.’
‘You can.’
‘You’ve not been watching very closely, cousin.’
‘Ah, but I have, Lennox, and that’s how I know. He took a lower grip, and kept his head down. Your head went back. That shortened your steps. You could have matched him; you still can.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me, Caswallon. I shall do my best. But he is stronger, there’s no doubt of that.’
‘I know.’
‘But he’s not Farlain,’ said Gaelen. ‘You are.”
Lennox grinned. ‘So speaks our limping cousin, who allowed a mere five Aenir to remove him from the race.’
Gaelen chuckled. ‘I meant it, though. I don’t think he can beat you, Lennox. I don’t think there’s a man alive to beat you. You’ll see.’
‘That’s a comforting thought, Gaelen. And I thank you for it.’ Lennox grunted as he stretched his back.
‘Roll on your stomach,’ commanded Layne. ‘I’ll knead that muscle for you.’
Caswallon helped Gaelen to his feet, for his leg stiffened as he sat. ‘Let’s get some food. How do you feel?’
‘I ache. Damn, Caswallon, I wish I’d run in that race.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to do something for the clan. Be someone.’
‘You are someone. And we all know you would have won. But it was better for Agwaine to do it.’
Why?’
‘Because Agwaine needed to do it. Today he learned something about himself. In some ways he’s like his father, full of doubts. Today he lost a lot of them.’
That may be good for Agwaine, but it doesn’t help me.’
‘How true,’ said Caswallon, ruffling Gaelen’s hair. ‘But there is always next year.’
That afternoon began with the rope haul, a supreme test of a man’s strength and stamina. The contestant looped a rope around his body and braced himself. On the other end three men sought to tug him from his feet. After ten heartbeats a fourth man could be added to the team, ten beats later another man, and so on.
This time Orsa went first. The men trying to dislodge him were Farlain clansmen. Bracing his foot against a deeply-embedded rock, he held the first three men with ease, taunting them and exhorting them to pull harder. By the time six men were pulling against him he had run out of jeers, saving his breath for the task in hand. The seventh man proved too much for him and he fell forward, hitting the ground hard. He was up in an instant, grinning, and complaining that the rock beneath his foot had slipped.
Lennox stepped up to the mark, a blanket rolled across his shoulders to prevent rope burn. Swiftly he coiled the rope, hooking it over his shoulder and back. Then he checked the stone; it was firm. He braced himself and three Aenir warriors took up the slack.
A fourth man was sent forward, then a fifth. Lennox wasted no energy taunting them; he closed his mind to his opponents. He was a rock set in the mountain, immovable. A tree, deeply-rooted and strong. His eyes closed, his concentration intense, he felt the building of power against him and absorbed it.
At last the pressure grew too great and he gave way, opening his eyes to count his opponents.
Nine men!
Dropping the rope, he turned to Orsa. The Aenir warrior met his gaze and nodded slowly. He was not smiling now as he walked forward to stand before the dark-haired clansman. Blue eyes met grey. Orsa was in his late twenties, a seasoned warrior who had never been beaten and never would be. His confidence was born of knowledge, experience and the pain borne by others. Lennox was nearing eighteen, untried in war and combat, but he had faced the Beast and stood his ground.
Now he faced the Aenir and his gaze remained cool and steady. Orsa nodded once and turned away.
With two events each, the Whorl Championship would be decided in the open wrestling, a cultured euphemism for a fight where the only rule was that there were no rules. It was held in a rope circle six paces in diameter, and the first to be thrown from the ring was the loser. As they prepared, Caswallon approached Lennox and