The Hawk Eternal

Chapter Six

Deva awoke in the first moments of dawn, as the sun lanced its light through the slats of her window. She yawned and stretched, rolling to her side to watch the dust motes dance in the sunbeams. Kicking aside the down-filled quilt, she opened the shutters and leaned on the stone sill, breathing deeply.

The cool early-morning breeze held the promise of autumn, and already the leaves on the distant trees were dappled with rusty gold. Mountain ash and copper beech glistened and their leaves looked like coins, rich and freshly minted.

Deva was always first to rise. She could hear her brother Agwaine snoring in the next room. Stripping her woolen nightdress from her slender body, she poured water into a clay bowl and washed her face. She was a tall girl, willowy and narrow-hipped. Her features were clean-cut, not beautiful, but her large, grey eyes with traces of tawny gold gave her magnificence. Most of the young men of the Farlain had paid court to her and she rejected them all. The mother of kings! That’s what the old tinker woman had predicted at her birth. And Deva was determined to fulfill her destiny. She would not do that by marrying a Highland boy! Over the door hung a silvered mirror. Wiping the water from her face and neck she walked over to it, looking deep into her own eyes. Grey they were, but not the color of arctic clouds, nor winter seas. They were the soft grey of a rabbit’s pelt, and the glints of gold made them warm and welcoming. She smiled at herself, tilting her head.

She knew she was attractive. She combed her fingers through her corn-gold hair, shaking her head to untangle the knots. Then she remembered the visitors her father Cambil had welcomed the night before.

Asbidag, Lord of the Aenir! She shivered, crossing her arms. The Aenir was a large man with powerful shoulders and a spreading gut. His face was broad, his mouth cruel, and his eyes evil. Deva didn’t like him.

No more did she like the woman he brought with him-Morgase, he called her. Her skin was white as any Ateris statue and she seemed just as cold.

Deva had heard much talk during the last few months about the dangers of the Aenir, and had dismissed it from her mind, believing as she did in the wisdom of her father. Last night she had thought afresh.

Asbidag brought two of his sons to the house. Both were handsome, and had they been Farlain Deva might have considered allowing them to join her at the Whorl Dance. The dark-haired Ongist had smiled at her, but his eyes betrayed his lust and she had lost interest in him. The other, Drada, had merely bowed and kissed her hand. Him she had seen before. His voice was deep, yet soft, and in his eyes she saw only a hint of mockery.

Now he was interesting…

Deva had been looking forward to the Games all summer. As the Games Maiden, elected by the Council, she would preside over the Whorl Dance and be the only woman to choose her dancing companions. No man could refuse the Games Maiden.

In her mind’s eye she could see herself walking the lines of waiting men, stopping momentarily, lifting a hand. She would halt by Gaelen and smile. As he stepped forward, she would walk on and choose Layne.

She giggled. Perhaps she would choose Gaelen…

The thoughts were delicious.

She dressed quickly in a flowing skirt of leaf-green and a russet shirt with billowing sleeves. Then she walked downstairs.

The woman Morgase was in the kitchen, talking to Drada. Their conversation ceased as she entered. “Good morning,” she said as they turned.

They nodded at her and she felt uncomfortable, as if she had blundered in on a secret assignation. Moving past them, she opened the kitchen door and walked into the yard beyond.

The Games fields in the valley below were ablaze with color. Tents of every shade and hue had sprouted overnight like immense flowers. Ropes had been staked, creating tracks and lanes, and enormous trestle tables were ready for the barter of goods. Several cooking pits had been dug in preparation for the barbecue and the barrels of mead were set in the center of the field where the Whorl Stone had been placed on a bulging hill.

Already the clans were gathering. Her eyes scanned the surrounding hillsides. Everywhere was movement. They came from the Pallides, the Haesten, the Loda, the Irelas, the Dunilds, the Clouds-from every clan, large and small.

Today they would muster and pitch their tents. Tomorrow Cambil, the Games Lord, would announce the order of events. And then Deva would start the first race.

Movement to her left caught her eye. She turned and watched as the Druid Lord approached her. “Good morning, Taliesen,” she said, smiling to hide her apprehension. She didn’t like the old man; he made her skin crawl and she had often heard her father speak of his eldritch magic.

“Good morning, Deva. How is the Games Maiden?”

“I am well, my lord. And you?”

“I am as you see me.”

“You never seem to change.”

“All men change. You cannot fight the years. I wondered if you might do me a small service?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. Will you walk with me a way?”

“Where?” she asked, fear taking the place of apprehension.

“Do not worry. I shall not harm you. Come.”

The old man moved away toward the western woods and Deva followed some paces behind. Once in the trees Taliesen stopped and retrieved a long bundle lying behind a fallen trunk. Unwrapping it, he removed the sword found by Agwaine.

“What are you doing?” asked Deva, stepping back.

“This must be returned to its owner,” he told her.

“I thought the old woman was dead.”

“She is-and she is not.”

Deva felt the color ooze from her face. “You’re not going to conjure her ghost?”

“No, not her ghost.” He smiled gently. “Trust me, little one. Take the sword in your hands.” He offered it to her, hilt forward. She took it; it was heavy but she was strong and held it firmly.

Taliesen closed his eyes and started to whisper sibilantly in a language Deva had never heard. The air about her began to crackle and a strange odor pervaded the wood. She wanted to run, but was frozen in fear.

The druid’s eyes opened and he leaned toward Deva. Walk into the mist,” he said. Deva blinked and stepping back she saw a thick grey mist seeping up from the ground, billowing like smoke some ten paces before her. “There is no danger, girl,” snapped Taliesen.

Deva hesitated. “What is waiting there?”

“You will see. Trust me.” Still she did not move and Taliesen’s patience snapped. “By God, are you a Farlain woman or some Lowland wench afraid of her own shadow?”

Deva steeled herself and walked forward, holding the sword two-handed, the blade pointing the way. The mist closed around her. Ahead she saw flickering lights. Her feet were cold now. She glanced down and saw, to her amazement, that she was walking in water. No, not in. Upon! Momentarily she stopped as a large silver fish swam beneath her. “Go on!” came the voice of Taliesen in her mind.

To her right she heard the sound of a waterfall but it was strangely muted, muffled. Looking straight ahead she walked across the lake pool, and saw a crowd of armed men at the poolside carrying torches. At their center stood a young woman. She was beautiful, though her hair was bright silver, and she wore dark armor.

“Stop now!” came Taliesen’s voice. Deva waited, the sword heavy in her hands. The warrior woman waded out into the pool. The water was thigh-deep as she approached where Deva stood.

“Who are you?” the armored woman asked.

“Say nothing!” ordered Taliesen. “Give her the sword.”

Obediently Deva reversed the blade, offering it to the woman.

For a moment their eyes met, and Deva felt chilled by the power in the other’s gaze. “Can you read the future, spirit?” asked the Queen. Taliesen whispered another order and Deva turned away, walking slowly back across the surface of the pool and reentering the mist.

The old druid waited for her in the sunshine. He was sitting on the grass, his cloak of feathers wrapped around his scrawny shoulders, his face grey with exhaustion.

Deva knelt beside him. “Who was she?” she asked.

“A queen in another time,” he answered. “Tell no one of what passed here today.”

The following day almost four thousand clansmen, women, and children thronged the fields, gathering around the Whorl Hill on which was set the legendary stone of Earis, by which he had pledged to lead the Farlain to safety beyond the Gate. The stone itself was black, but studded with clusters of pearl-white deposits that caught the sunlight and sparkled like tiny gems. Although a man could encompass it with his arms, it weighed more than two hundred pounds.

Around the stone stood the Hunt Lords of the clans, and in their midst Asbidag of the Aenir. The clan lords were clearly uncomfortable.

Maggrig of the Pallides was furious. The Games were a clan affair, yet last night Cambil had sprung upon them his invitation for the Aenir to enter a team. The argument had raged for over an hour.

“Are you mad?” Maggrig had stormed. “Has the addled Farlain mind finally betrayed you?”

“I am the Games Lord this year. They are on Farlain land; it is my decision,” Cambil answered, fighting to control his anger.

“Be that as it may, Cambil,” put in the white-haired Laric, Hunt Lord of the Haesten, “but should any one man be allowed to set a precedent others will be forced to follow?” He was known to be a man rarely aroused to anger. Yet his thin face was flushed now, his fists clenched.

“It is my decision,” Cambil repeated stonily.

Laric bit back his anger. “The Aenir have no friends-only vassals. They have tried to scout all our lands and been turned back. You realize that if they win outright we are obliged to allow them access? The Games Champions can travel and hunt where they will.”

“They will not win,” said Cambil. “They are not clansmen.”

“Calling you a fool serves nothing,” said Laric, “for you have proven that beyond my speculation. What breaks my heart is that one man’s foolishness could bring about the ruin of the clans.” There was a gasp from the assembled Hunt Lords and Cambil sat very still, his face ashen.

Maggrig rose. “I am tempted to take the Pallides home, away from this stupidity, yet I cannot,” he said, “for without them the Aenir would have a greater chance of victory. I suspect it is the same for every lord here. But I tell you this, Cambil. Until now I have had scant respect for you. From today even that is a thing of the past. It matters not a whit to me if the Farlain are run by a fool; that hurts only the Farlain. But when you put the Pallides at risk I cannot forgive you.”

Color drained from Cambil’s face. “How dare you! You think I care what some potbellied out-clan thinks of me? Take your ragbag carles home. With or without the Aenir your Pallides would win nothing, only humiliation.”

“Hark, the Aenir lapdog can still bark,” snapped Maggrig.

“Enough of this!” stormed Laric, as Maggrig and Cambil moved toward each other. “Listen to me. I have no love for the Farlain, nor for the Pallides. But we are clansmen and no man will violate the spirit of the Games. There will be no violence among the Hunt Lords. The thing has been done and long will it be argued over. But it is done. Now let us consider the order of events, or we’ll be here all night.”

Later, as Maggrig and Laric walked back to their tents in the moonlight, the taller Haesten lord was deep in thought. Maggrig also kept silent. Laric-the oldest Hunt Lord in Druin, approaching sixty years of age-was also by far the wisest. Maggrig liked him, though he’d swallow live coals rather than tell him so.

They reached Laric’s tent first and the older man turned to Maggrig, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Cambil is a fool. He cannot see that which should be clear to every clansman. The Aenir are tomorrow’s enemy. My land borders yours, Maggrig, and we have had many disputes ere now, but if the Aenir cross Pallides land I shall bring my clansmen to your aid.”

Maggrig smiled. It was a nice ploy, but the fact remained that for the Aenir to cross Pallides borders they must march through either Farlain land or Haesten-and the Haesten were less powerful than the Farlain. Laric was asking for an ally.

“Between us we have perhaps two thousand fighting men,” said Maggrig. “Do you think they could stop an Aenir army?”

“Perhaps.”

“Agreed, then. We will be allies. I would expect, of course, to be War Lord.”

“Of course,” said Laric. “Good night.”

The following morning Maggrig stood alongside Asbidag, biting back his anger. The two men could have been brothers. Both had striking red beards flecked with silver, both were powerfully built. Deva watched them with anxiety. They were so similar-until you looked into their eyes. There was no evil in Maggrig. Deva looked away.

Cambil’s opening speech of welcome was short, and he quickly outlined the order of the Games. The first event would be the mountain run, five miles on a twisting circuit through woods and valleys. Three hundred men were entered and the Hunt Lords had decided on six qualifying races. The first five in each race would contest two semifinals, and fifteen of the fastest, strongest clansmen would run the final on the last day.

Other qualifying events were outlined and then it was left to Deva, in a flowing dress of white linen garlanded with flowers, to signal the start of the first race. The named athletes, Gaelen and Agwaine among them, jostled for position as Deva’s arm swept up, hovered momentarily, then flashed down and the race began.

Caswallon watched the start, saw Gaelen running smoothly in the center of the pack, and knowing the youth would qualify easily, he strolled to the market stalls on the edge of the field.

The stalls were doing brisk business in brooches, daggers, trinkets and tools, cloth, furs, blankets and shoes, meats, cheeses, fruit and vegetables. Caswallon eased through the massed crowds seeking a necklace for Maeg. Finding nothing to his taste, he bought a jug of mead and an oatmeal loaf. There were still one or two empty tables at the edge of the field and he chose a place away from the crowd where he would be alone with his thoughts. Since his talk with Maeg he had been less obsessed with the Aenir threat, but now, as was his way, he thought the problem through, examining every angle.

Morgase and Drada were sitting less than thirty paces away, but hidden by the crowd Caswallon did not see them. Morgase was bored, and her eyes flickered over the mass of people, seeking something of even passing interest. She saw the tall man walking to the empty table and her gaze lingered, her eyes widening in alarm. He wore a leaf-green cloak and a tunic of polished brown leather, while across his chest hung a baidric bearing two slim daggers. By his side was a long hunting knife. His trews were green laced with leather thongs. Morgase stared intently at the face. The short trident beard confused her, but the eyes were the same deep green she remembered so well.

And with such hatred…

She stood and walked over to where he sat. “Good morning,” she said, her throat tight, her anger barely controlled.

Caswallon looked up. Before him was a woman dressed in black, a sleek-fitting gown that hid nothing of her slender figure. Her dark hair was braided and curled like a crown on her head and pinned with gold. He rose. “Good morning, lady.” He gestured for her to be seated and asked if he could bring her refreshments. Then she saw Drada approaching, carrying two goblets of wine.

“How are you, Caswallon?” asked Drada.

“Well. Will you introduce me to the lady?”

“You do not know me then?” asked Morgase, surprised.

“I have been known to be forgetful, lady, but not insane. Such beauty as yours is unforgettable.”

She seemed confused, uncertain. “You are very like someone I once knew. Uncannily like.”

“I hope he was a friend,” said Caswallon.

“He was not.”

“Then allow me to make up for it,” he said, smiling. Will you join me?”

“No, I must go. But please, since you two know each other, why don’t you finish your drinks together?”

The men watched her walk away. “A strange woman,” said Drada.

“Who is she?”

“Morgase, my father’s consort. Beautiful but humorless.”

“She thought she knew me.”

“Yes. Are you taking part in the Games?”

“I am.”

“In what event?” asked Drada.

“Short sword.”

“I thought you were a runner?”

“I was. You are well informed. And you?”

“No, I’m afraid I excel at very little.”

“You seem to excel in the field of selection,” said Caswallon. “Rarely have I seen men train as hard.”

Drada smiled. “The Aenir like to win.”

“I wonder why?”

“What does that mean? No man likes to lose.”

“True. But no clansman trains for the Games; they are an extension of his life and his natural skills. If he loses, he shrugs. It is not the end of the world for him.”

“Perhaps that is why you are clansmen, living a quiet life in these beautiful mountains, while the Aenir conquer the continent.”

“Yes, that is what I was thinking,” said Caswallon.

“Was it your idea to have us escorted here?”

“I was afraid you might get lost.”

“That was kind of you.”

“I am a kind man,” said Caswallon. “I shall also see that you are escorted back.”

“Cambil assured us that would not be necessary. Or is he not the Hunt Lord?”

“Indeed he is, but we are a free people and the Hunt Lord is not omnipotent.”

“You take a great deal on yourself, Caswallon. Why can we not be friends? As you have seen, the Aenir have respected your borders. We trade. We are neighbors.”

“It is not necessary for you and me to play these games, Drada. I know what is in your heart. Like all killers, you fear that a greater killer will stalk you as you stalk others. You cannot exist with a free people on your borders. You must always be at war with someone. And one day, if you ever achieve your ambition, and the Aenir rule from sea to sea in every direction, even then it will not end. You will turn on yourselves like rabid wolves. Today you strike fear into men’s hearts. But tomorrow? Then you will be thought of as a boil on the neck of history.”

The words were spoken without heat. Drada sipped his wine, then he looked up to meet Caswallon’s gaze. “I can see why you think as you do, but you are wrong. All new civilizations begin with bloodshed and horror, but as the years pass they settle down to prosper, to wax and to grow fat. Then, as they reach their splendid peak, a new enemy slips over the horizon and the bloodshed begins anew.”

“The Farlain will be your undoing,” said Caswallon. “You are like the man poised to stamp on the worm beneath his feet-too far above it to see it is a viper.”

“Even so, when the man stamps the viper dies,” said Drada.

“And the man with it.”

Drada shrugged. “All men die at some time.”

“Indeed they do, my bonny. But some die harder than others.”

For ten days the Games progressed and the fear of the Hunt Lords grew. The Aenir competed ferociously, bringing new edge to the competitions. Gone was any semblance of friendly rivalry-the foreigners battled as if their lives depended on the result.

By the evening before the last day an overall Aenir victory had moved from possibility to probability. Only the athletes of the Farlain could overhaul them. The Aenir had won all but two of the short sprint finals, had defeated Gwalchmai in the archery tourney, but lost to Layne in the spear. Caswallon had beaten the Aenir challenger in the short sword, but lost the final to Intosh, the Pallides swordsman. Gaelen and Agwaine had fought their way to the final five-mile race planned for the morrow, though Agwaine had only reached it when a Haesten runner twisted his ankle hurdling a fallen tree. His disappointment in qualifying in such a manner was deepened by the fact that the Aenir athlete, the white-haired Borak, had beaten Gaelen into second place in their semifinal.

Lennox, in an awesome display of sheer power, had strolled comfortably to the final of the strength event, but here he was to face the fearsome might of the giant Orsa, himself unbeaten. The Aenir had won grudging respect from the clansmen, but all the same the Games had been spoiled.

Cambil remained withdrawn throughout the tournament, knowing in his heart the scale of his error. The unthinkable was on the verge of reality. The Aenir were two events from victory. He had summoned Gaelen and Agwaine to him and the trio sat before the broad empty hearth of Cambil’s home.

“Are you confident of beating this Borak, Gaelen?” Cambil asked, knowing now that his own son could not compete at their level.

Gaelen rubbed his eye, choosing his answer carefully. “I saw no point in making a push yesterday; it would only show him the limit of my speed. But, on the other hand, he concealed from me his own reserves. No, I am not confident. But I think I can beat him.”

“What do you think, Agwaine?”

“I can only agree with Gaelen, Father. They are superbly matched. I would not be surprised either way.”

“You have both performed well and been a credit to the Farlain. Though you are adopted, Gaelen, you have the heart of a clansman. I wish you well.”

“Thank you, Hunt Lord.”

“Go home and rest. Do not eat too heavy a breakfast.”

Gaelen left the house and wandered to the pine fence before the yard. Turning, he looked up at Deva’s window hoping to see a light. There was none. Disappointed, he opened the gate and began the short walk through the woods to Caswallon’s house in the valley.

The night was bright, the moon full, and a light breeze whispered in the branches overhead. He thought about the race and its implications. It was true that he was not confident of victory, but he would be surprised if the Aenir beat him. He thought he had detected an edge of fatigue in the blond runner as he came off the mountain on the last circuit of the field. Gaelen hadn’t pressed then, but had watched his opponent carefully. The man’s head had been bobbing during the last two hundred paces, and his arms pumped erratically.

Gaelen had finished all of thirty paces adrift and it would be closer tomorrow. Caswallon had pointed out one encouraging thought; no one had yet tested Borak. Did he have the heart to match his speed?

A dark shadow leaped at Gaelen from the left, another from the right. He ducked and twisted, using his forearm to block a blow from a wooden club. He hammered his fist into the belly of the nearest man, following it with a swift hook to the jaw. The attacker dropped as if poleaxed. As he hurled himself to the right, Gaelen’s shoulder cannoned into the midriff of the second man. The grunting whoosh of his opponent’s breath showed he was badly winded. Scrambling to his feet, Gaelen kicked the fallen man in the face. More men ran from the trees; in the darkness Gaelen could not recognize faces, but they were dressed like clansmen.

He caught an attacker with a right cross to the chin, but then a wooden club thudded against his temple. Gaelen reeled to the left, vainly holding up his arm to protect his head. The club hammered into his thigh and agony lanced him. Another blow to the calf and he collapsed to the ground, struggling to rise as a booted foot crashed into his face. Twice more he felt blows to his right leg, and he passed out.

It was dawn before he was found. Caswallon came across the unconscious body as he made his way to Cambil’s home. The clansman had been worried about Gaelen staying out all night before the race, but had assumed he was sleeping at the house of the Hunt Lord. Carefully he turned Gaelen to his back, checking his heartbeat and breathing. He probed the dried blood on the youth’s temple; the skull was not cracked. With a grunt of effort, he lifted Gaelen to his shoulder and stumbled on toward the house.

Deva was the first to be awakened by Caswallon kicking at the door. She ran downstairs, pulled back the bolts, and let him in. Walking past her, Caswallon eased Gaelen down into a leather chair. Deva brought some water from the kitchen and a towel to bathe Gaelen’s head.

Cambil, bare chested and barely awake, joined them. “What has happened?” he asked, bending over the unconscious youth.

“From the tracks, I’d say five men set on him after he left here last night,” Caswallon told him.

“Why?”

Caswallon glanced at him, green eyes blazing. “Why do you think? I was a fool not to consider it myself.”

“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. “Skillfully 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. Canceling 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 there he gazed out over the Games field and the mountains beyond. Deva joined him, a woolen 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 semifinal, 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 toward 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.

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,” Caswallon 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 halfway-the same method the Aenir used in the semifinal. 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 around, 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 Agwaine’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 behooved 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.

“I don’t want anyone to see his face again.”

Clan fervor, 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 favorite 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 prized 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 the 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.”

“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 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, swiveling 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 around. 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 center 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 that 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 onto 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 recognized 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.

Gwalchmai found him there just before midnight. The young archer was dressed in his finest clothes, a cloak of soft brown leather over a green embroidered tunic. “No one should be alone on Whorl Night,” said Gwal, easing in to sit opposite his comrade.

“I was just waiting for a girl with a swollen left leg, then we could hobble away together,” said Gaelen, pouring more mead wine into his goblet.

“I have two legs, but have not found a partner,” said Gwal, helping himself to Gaelen’s wine.

“Come now, Gwal, there must be five hundred maidens here.”

“They are not what I want,” said Gwalchmai sadly. Gaelen glanced at his friend. Gwal’s hair was flame-red in the firelight, his face no longer boyish but lean and handsome.

“So what do you want… a princess?”

Gwalchmai shrugged. “That is hard to answer, Gaelen. But I know I shall never wed.”

Gaelen said nothing. He had known for some time, as had Layne and Lennox, that Gwalchmai had no interest in the young maidens of the Farlain. The boys did not understand it, but only Gaelen suspected the truth. In Ateris he had seen many who shared Gwalchmai’s secret longings. “You know what I am, don’t you?” said Gwalchmai, suddenly.

“I know,” Gaelen told him. “You are Gwalchmai, one of the Beast Slayers. You are a clansman, and I am proud to have you for my friend.”

“Then you don’t think…?”

“I have told you what I think, cousin,” said Gaelen, reaching forward to grip Gwalchmai’s shoulder.

“True enough. Thank you, my friend.” Gwalchmai sighed-and changed the subject. “Where is Caswallon?”

“Escorting the Aenir back to Aesgard.”

“I am not sorry to see them go,” said Gwal.

“No. Did you hear about Borak?”

“The runner? What about him?”

“He was found this evening hanging from a tree on the west hill.”

“He killed himself?”

“It seems so,” said Gaelen.

“They’re a strange people, these Aenir. I hope they don’t come back next year.”

“I think they will, but not for the Games,” said Gaelen.

“You’re not another of those war bores?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What could they gain? There are no riches in Druin.”

“War is a prize in itself for the Aenir. They live for it.”

Gwalchmai leaned forward on his elbows, shaking his head. “What a night! First I lose in the archery, then I get maudlin, and now I’m sitting with a man who prophesies war and death.”

Gaelen chuckled. “You were unlucky in the tourney. The wind died as the Aenir took his mark, and it gave him an edge.”

“A thousand blessings on you for noticing,” said Gwal, grinning. “Have you ever been drunk?”

“No.”

“Well, it seems the only enjoyment left to us.”

“I agree. Fetch another jug.”

Within an hour their raucous songs had attracted a small following. Lennox and Agwaine joined them, bringing fresh supplies, then Layne arrived with Deva.

The drink ran out just before dawn and the party moved to sit beside a dying fire. The songs faded away, the laughter eased, and the talk switched to the Games and the possible aftermath. Deva fell asleep against Layne; he settled her to the ground, covering her with his cloak.

Gaelen watched him gently tuck the garment around her and his heart ached. He looked away, trying to focus on the conversation once more. But he could not. His gaze swept up over the mountains, along the reddening skyline. Caswallon had told him his theory of the Aenir plan to demoralize the clans. The scale of their error was enormous. By the end they achieved only the opposite. Men of every clan had cheered Agwaine and Lennox against a common enemy; they had united the clans in a way no one had in a hundred years.

He heard someone mention his name and dragged his mind back to the present.

“I’m sorry you missed the race,” said Agwaine.

“Don’t be. You were magnificent.”

“Caswallon advised me.”

“It was obviously good advice.”

“Yes. I’m sorry he and my father are not friends.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“How do you feel now… about Caswallon, I mean?”

“I am grateful. But I am my father’s son.”

“I understand.”

“I hope that you do, cousin.” Their eyes met and Agwaine held out his hand. Gaelen took it.

“Now this is good to see,” said Lennox, leaning forward to lay his hand upon theirs. Layne and Gwalchmai followed suit.

“We are all Farlain,” said Layne solemnly. “Brothers of the spirit. Let it long remain so.”

“The Five Beast Slayers,” said Agwaine, grinning. “It is fitting we should be friends.”

Deva opened her eyes and saw the five young men sitting silently together. The sun cleared the mountains, bathing them in golden light. She blinked and sat up. Just for a moment she seemed to see a sixth figure standing beyond them-tall, she was, and beautiful, silver-haired and strong. By her side hung a mighty sword and upon her head was a crown of gold. Deva shivered and blinked again. The Queen was gone.