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.