whispered in his ear. The huge clansman nodded, then stepped into the circle.
Orsa stepped in to join him and the two men shook hands, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. Then they backed away and began to circle, hands extended.
Suddenly Lennox stepped inside and lightly slapped Orsa’s face. Expecting a punch, the Aenir ducked and stepped back. Lennox flicked his hand out again, this time slapping Orsa’s arm. Someone in the crowd began to laugh and others joined in. Lennox dummied a right, then slapped Orsa once more, this time with his left hand. The laughter swelled.
Orsa’s blue eyes glittered strangely and he began to tremble. With a piercing scream he charged his tormentor. No more did he seek merely to throw him from the circle. Now only death would avenge the insult.
Orsa was once again a Baresark!
Lennox met the charge head-on, swivelling to thunder a right hook to Orsa’s bearded chin. The Aenir shrugged off the blow and charged again. This time Lennox hit him with both hands, but a wildly swinging punch from Orsa exploded against his ear. Lennox staggered. A left-hand punch broke Lennox’s nose, blood spattering to his chin. Warding off the attack with a desperate push, the clansman moved back to the edge of the circle. Orsa charged once more, screaming an Aenir battle-cry. At the last moment Lennox dropped to his knees, then surged upright as Orsa loomed over him. The speed of the rush carried Orsa on, flying headlong over his opponent to crash into the crowd beyond the circle.
The fight was over and Lennox had won. But Orsa in his berserk rage knew nothing of tournaments and petty victories. Hurling aside the men who helped him to his feet, he leaped back into the circle where Lennox was standing with arms raised in triumph.
‘Look out!’ shouted Gaelen and a score of others.
Lennox swung round. Orsa’s massive hand encircled the clansman’s throat. Instinctively Lennox tensed the muscles of his neck against the crushing strength of the man’s fingers. His own hands clamped down on Orsa’s throat, blocking his demonic snarling.
The crowd fell silent as the two men strained and swayed in the centre of the circle.
Then the tall red-caped figure of Drada appeared, pushing
through the mass. In his right hand he carried a wooden club which he hammered to the back of his brother’s skull. Orsa’s eyes glazed and his grip loosened. Drada hit him once more and he fell. Lennox stepped back, rubbing his bruised throat.
Orsa staggered to his feet, turning to his brother. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and shrugged. He walked to Lennox, gripping his hand. ‘Good contest,’ he said. ‘You’re strong.’
‘I don’t think any man will ever carry the Whorl Stone as far as you did,’ Lennox told him.
‘Maybe so. Why did you slap me?’ The question was asked so simply and directly that Lennox laughed nervously, unable at first to marshal his thoughts. But Orsa waited patiently, no sign of emotion on his broad face.
‘I did it to make you angry, so you would lose control.’
‘Thought so. Beat myself – that’s not good.’ Still nodding, he walked away. Lennox watched him, puzzled, then the crowd swamped him, slapping his back and leading him on to the Hunt Lord’s platform to receive the congratulations of the Games Lord.
As the crowd moved away, Drada approached Caswallon. ‘It was your advice, was it not, to make my brother baresark?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are proving to be troublesome, Caswallon.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘No sensible man should be glad to make an enemy.’
‘I haven’t made an enemy, Drada. I’ve recognised one. There is a difference.’
The Whorl Dance had begun around a dozen blazing fires, and the eligible maidens of the Farlain chose dancing companions from the waiting ranks of clansmen. There was music from the pipes, harsh and powerful; from the flute, wistful and melodic; and from the harp, enchanting and fey. It was mountain music, and stronger than wine upon the senses of the men and women of the clans.
Deva danced with Layne, the Spear Champion, while Gaelen sat alone, fighting a losing battle against self-pity. His leg ached and he eased it forward under the table, rubbing at the swollen thigh.