David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“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.