'You don't look so tough,' said a voice. Chain glanced to his right and saw a burly highlander, wearing a ragged kilt and a long cloak. The man was holding a jug, and was swaying slightly.
'Looks can be deceiving,' said Chain mildly. Two stewards moved in swiftly, grabbing the man. Chain realized they had been following him. 'Let him go. Now!' he said. 'We were having a conversation.'
'Sir, we are instructed—'
'Leave him, and go about your business. I do not need an escort.' The men stood for a moment, then released the highlander. 'Now, I thank you for your concern, boys, but leave me be.'
The two stewards seemed uncertain, but they left and returned to the Varlish field.
The drunken highlander swore at Chain. 'Always need back-up, don't you?'
'Certainly seems that way,' Chain told him. The fighter moved on. Another bout was under way in one of the mud circles. He paused to watch. A huge, one-eyed man was fighting. His opponent was younger, with good shoulders and a long reach. The two circled for a few moments, then the young man moved in swiftly, feinting with a left, then throwing a right. It was a good move. The one-eyed man swayed away and delivered a chopping left that exploded against the younger man's jaw. The lad's legs gave way and he pitched to the ground.
'Grymauch! Grymauch!' chanted the crowd. The one-eyed man raised his arms and bowed to them. Then he saw Chain.
'Would you like a little lesson, Varlish!' he called.
'Perhaps later. That was a good blow.'
'The . . . Pannone . . . Hammer,' said the man. Chain noted the hesitation. So did the crowd, and they laughed.
'You need to look to your comrade,' said Chain. 'I fear he is drowning in the mud.'
The fighter glanced down, then dropped to his knees, rolling the unconscious man to his back. It was true. His mouth and nostrils were caked with mud. The one-eyed man wiped it away, and the stricken fighter suddenly gasped for breath.
Chain walked on, stopping by a stall selling trinkets. They were cheap, mostly of copper or bronze, but one or two shone with silver. As he was looking at the jewellery a man came alongside him. He saw that it was Mulgrave.
'Are you enjoying yourself, sir?' asked the white-haired young officer.
'I like to see the sun shine. Are you escorting me now?'
'It would be ... unfortunate to suffer an incident on a feast day. There is a good deal of strong drink available everywhere and a riot could ensue if a drunken highlander were to attack the Varlish champion.'
'Let us walk awhile,' said Chain.
'It will be my pleasure - especially if we walk back to the Varlish fields.'
'As you say, captain.' The two men crossed the field and went through the entry channel. They paused by a small wood at the northern tip of the Varlish field. 'What is going on here?'
'In what way?'
'This absurd need to crush the highlanders' spirit.'
Mulgrave sighed. 'You are asking the wrong man to justify it. However, I will try to explain it. It is - you will hear - a historical problem. You are from the far south. You have no idea of the festering hatreds in these mountains. Old men still remember the rebellions, the clans sweeping down upon townsfolk and farmers, the savagery and the bloodshed. The clans do not forget the days -not so distant - when soldiers raided their settlements, killing their wives and children. The fear among our own people is that, if pride is allowed to seep back into clan mentality, they will rise again. That is why the Moidart is angry about the tournament. Is Gorain going to win it?'
'He should,' said Chain.
'He'd better,' said Mulgrave. 'The Moidart does not suffer disappointment lightly.'
'I would guess that.'
The sun shone brightly for much of the afternoon. Gaise Macon, riding the palomino, won the first of the equestrian events, the Twelve Jumps. His victory was received with great acclaim from the citizens, though Gaise himself seemed less than ecstatic. Captain Mulgrave won the sabre event, lopping eleven 'heads'. Gaise finished fourth in this contest, and seemed far more pleased than with his own victory.
As they groomed their mounts Mulgrave asked him about it. The young man put aside his brush. 'I won because the last rider's horse baulked at the water jump.'
'I saw.'
'Did you also see that the rider intended him to baulk?'
'I did,' agreed Mulgrave.
'So, it was not a win at all. That rider allowed the Moidart's son to claim the crown.'
'I am glad you spotted it,' said Mulgrave. 'Many men would not have. It was done skilfully and I doubt many in the crowd noticed. However, there were some fine riders today, and second place -which you won fairly - is a matter for pride.'
'Why did he do it, Mulgrave?'
'You do not really need to ask that, sir. Your father is not a forgiving man, and the rider was one of his officers. I expect that he feared retribution.'
'A sad state of affairs,' muttered Gaise. 'But understandable, I suppose. Have you seen Gorain yet?'
'I have. Most accomplished. A fine example of Varlish manhood.'
'Who is he fighting next?' asked Gaise.
'I understand it is a blacksmith from the Finance's region. Last year's champion. I believe his name is Badraig.'
'Yes, I saw him last year. Big man, very powerful. What about the other semi-final?'
'I do not know the result, sir. They were fighting while we were competing in the sabres. A one-eyed man was taking part.'
By late afternoon Kaelin had still not found Chara Ward, and he was growing irritated. There were thousands of people in the fields now, and trying to hunt down one girl was like seeking out a single leaf in an autumn forest. At one stage he had even lost touch with Banny, finding him by accident as he sought out the latrine area.
Kaelin watched Jaim Grymauch win his semi-final in a fight that lasted only a few minutes, congratulated his uncle, then once more sought out Chara. Had he had any sense he would have shouted out a meeting place to her as she vanished into the Varlish area. He and Banny wandered through the various stalls close to the fighting circles, then angled out towards the cattle markets. 'Why would she be there?' asked Banny. 'Her family are not herders.'
'She won't be, but it's higher ground,' Kaelin told him. 'We'll be able to see better.'
As they walked they heard a sudden roar from the Varlish field. Kaelin glanced back. From here he could see the small figures in the wooden circle. One man was down. Attendants were gathering round him. Banny, whose eyes were not strong, asked: 'Is it the Varlish?' Kaelin shook his head. Gorain was standing, hands on hips. Then he pulled a towel from his belt and wiped his face. Moments later another roar went up. 'What are they cheering for now?' asked Banny. 'The fight is over.'
'I don't know, Banny. I'm not there, am I?'
'Sorry, Kaelin. Hey, there's Tay. Maybe he knows where Chara went.'
Kaelin saw the stocky figure of Taybard Jaekel making his way up the hill. Crowds were swirling around below, groups of people gathering and speaking in an animated fashion. They saw Taybard stop and listen, then the young Varlish began to climb once more. Kaelin did not want to have to talk to him. He was still nonplussed over their recent fight, and had no wish to find himself in another disagreement. And yet he needed to know. With a soft curse he moved to intercept the youth. Taybard glanced up as he saw him. He neither scowled nor smiled, but stood still, his eyes wary.
'Have you seen Chara?' asked Kaelin.
'No. Bindoe said he wanted to talk to her, and told me to go away. I lost them in the crowd then.'
'Why is everyone gathering below?' asked Banny.
'Gorain killed Badraig. Broke his neck.'
'That's what the Varlish swine were cheering,' hissed Kaelin.
'Aye,' said Taybard Jaekel sadly. 'That's what the swine were cheering. Makes you sick, doesn't it?' With that he walked away.
'Your uncle fights him next,' said Banny.
Kaelin was staring after Taybard Jaekel. The youth was heading o
ut through the gates, towards Old Hills and home.
'What did you say?'
'Grymauch fights him next.'
'Aye.' Kaelin was less worried than he had been. Grymauch had fought four times, and not one bout had lasted long. He had a swelling on the cheekbone under his empty left socket and a few bruises on his upper body, but he had emerged triumphant. Kaelin could no longer imagine any man thrashing him. He glanced again at the forlorn figure of Taybard Jaekel. On impulse Kaelin ran after him, calling out as he ran. Taybard stopped and waited.
'If you want a fight I'm not in the mood,' he said as Kaelin paused before him.
'I don't want a fight, Tay. But the feast is only an hour away. It would be a shame to miss it. Why don't you come with Banny and me?'
'You want a Varlish at your feast?'
'Whisht, man, you're an Old Hills neighbour. We'll watch Grymauch whip the southerner, and then eat till our bellies swell.'
Taybard stood silently, his mind racing. He wanted to apologize to Kaelin for the fight. He wanted to say how sorry he was that men cheered when a highlander died in the circle. He wanted to tell him about the Wyrd, and about his jealousy concerning Chara. He looked into Kaelin's dark eyes.
'Aye, I could eat,' he said.
And the three youths walked back to the clan fields.
CHAPTER SIX
THE VARLISH SEATING TIERS AROUND THE FIGHTING CIRCLE WERE FULL, and hundreds more townsfolk crowded around the base as the two fighters made their way to the boards. On the other side of the circle clan men and women were packed so closely together that there was little room for movement.
The sun had gone down, and tall lanterns had been set around the circle, casting flickering shadows over the two large men who were about to fight. Gorain, bare-chested and wearing tight-fitting grey leggings and knee-length riding boots, waved to the Varlish crowd, cocking his fist and laughing. He was unmarked - only the last of his bouts had stretched beyond a few periods. He was perhaps an inch shorter than his opponent, but his breadth of shoulder was enormous, and the lantern light glinted on his finely sculpted muscles. On the other side of the circle Jaim Grymauch seemed ponderous, and massively ugly. He too sported huge shoulders and arms, but there was nothing of the beauty of Gorain. Stripped to the waist he looked more like a bear than a man, clumsy and slow.
Sitting on the highest tier Gaise Macon could feel the fear emanating from the clan crowd. It was as if they were about to witness an execution, rather than a contest. Gorain began to move through a series of stretches, cartwheeling his arms and swaying from side to side. The one-eyed clansman watched him. The Keeper of the Sands took his place beside the circle, and the two white-cloaked adjudicators held a short conference before one climbed into the circle. The crowd fell silent now. The adjudicator, facing the Varlish tiers, bowed. This contest,' he called out, 'will be of unlimited duration, ending only when one of the contestants can no longer climb to his feet before the sands run out. Each period will end when either contestant drops his knee to the board, and will resume when the keeper orders the horn to be blown. No blow shall be struck after a contestant has indicated the end of a period. Under the rules of valorous combat any contestant who grapples, gouges, bites or kicks will forfeit the prize.'
Gaise listened as the adjudicator named the contestants. The roar for Gorain shook the tiers, and the fighter responded by raising both arms and bowing. The clans cheered the one-eyed fighter, but the sound was muted.
Gorain walked to the side of the circle and called out to one of the attendants. The man brought him a strip of black cloth which he tied around his head, obscuring the sight in his left eye.
'A noble act,' said Gaise to Mulgrave.
'Indeed, sir, unless it is meant as mockery.'
The bright moon emerged from behind a cloud, and a chill wind blew across the circle, guttering one of the lanterns. An attendant relit it with a taper. Gaise looked around and saw Chain Shada sitting some twenty feet to his right. He was leaning forward, his chin resting on his fist. He too wore the fighting leggings. A blanket was draped over his bare shoulders.
The adjudicator climbed down from the circle, and the Keeper of the Sands raised his arm. A single horn blast sounded.
Gorain moved swiftly across the circle. Grymauch advanced to meet him. Gorain feinted with a left, then sent a right hand whipping towards Grymauch's blind side. The clansman stepped inside the blow, hammering a right uppercut to Gorain's belly which almost lifted the Varlish from his feet. Air whooshed from Gorain's lungs. Grymauch followed it with a left cross that cracked against Gorain's cheek. The Varlish managed to roll with the blow. Regaining balance he blocked a right and sent a straight left slamming into Grymauch's mouth, snapping back his head. The clansman was forced back. Gorain bore in, punches thudding into Grymauch's belly. Grymauch suddenly side-stepped to the right while snapping out a left hand that took Gorain high on the right cheek. The Varlish, off balance, stumbled and almost fell. Grymauch followed in. Gorain ducked his head and counterattacked. Three punches to the belly and a left uppercut to the face. Now Grymauch stumbled. Gorain threw a big left, but the covering of his left eye made him misjudge the depth and the blow sailed harmlessly past Grymauch's jaw. The clansman attacked again. Gorain hit him four times without reply, big meaty blows that rocked the highlander. The Varlish crowd were cheering themselves hoarse now. Gorain hammered a punch to Grymauch's bearded chin that half spun him. Gorain rushed in, hitting him twice more, but missing with a flurry of punches as Grymauch swayed and rolled. An overhand right cannoned into the blind left side of Grymauch's face. Blood splayed from a gash to his cheek. A huge roar greeted the blow, and, for a moment, Gaise thought the clansman was about to fall. Instead he leapt forward, slamming a bone-jarring left into Gorain's face. As Gorain fell back Grymauch dropped to one knee, ending the period. The Varlish crowd booed and shouted.
'Canny,' said Mulgrave. 'He needs time to clear his head from that big right.'
'They seem evenly matched,' commented Gaise.
'In raw talent, perhaps,' said Mulgrave. 'But Gorain has more learned skill. He is also younger.'
'You think he will win?'
'He should, sir. He has the skill and the strength. The question is, does he have the heart?'
This was a question occupying the mind of Chain Shada as he watched the first period. Gorain had been foolish to don the eye patch. The clansman was well used to being single sighted, whereas many of Gorain's punches were missing their mark, and others were landing off target. Gorain had taken the man too lightly. That first uppercut had winded him badly, sapping his strength. Gorain had also made another mistake, which could prove costly. Unused to being at the centre of attention he had gloried in it, and not taken rests between bouts. Instead he had moved among the crowd, bathing in the adulation. He had also, as Chain had witnessed, been drinking.
In normal circumstances, having already severed his connections with Gorain, Chain would have been unconcerned by his stupidity. Not so now. They were linked in a political game which left a filthy taste in Chain's mouth. Both fighters were tired and if the fight were to end now Chain knew he could beat them both - probably at the same time. Which was exactly the point that caused the foul taste. Chain Shada was a fighting champion. He fought the best -at their best. Here - if events turned bad - he would merely be an executioner.
The second period followed the pattern of the first, Gorain landing more blows, but the highlander absorbing them and putting in two or three powerful strength-sapping counters. Gorain came back strongly at the end, with combination rights and lefts that rocked the clansman, pitching him to the boards on his back. Gorain walked to the edge of the circle and raised his arms once more to the Varlish, who yelled and bayed in their joy.
Chain Shada watched the clansman. The man rolled to his knees and sat back quietly, gathering his strength. There was blood on his face, streaming from a cut to his cheek, and another to his mouth. He did not rise, but sat watching
the Keeper of the Sands. As the keeper raised his hand, so too did the highlander rise.
The crowd expected the fight to be finished now. Chain Shada did not.
Gorain rushed in, believing his opponent to be weakened and groggy. He was met by a juddering left and a right cross that pitched him from his feet, slamming him head first into the boards. There was silence from the Varlish crowd - but this was more than made up by the thunderous sound erupting from the clan area. Chain noted that the fighter did not acknowledge the crowd. He was standing quietly, taking deep, even breaths, allowing his body to recuperate. Not so Gorain, who angrily pushed himself to his feet. There was blood on his mouth and he stalked to the side of the circle, calling for water. An attendant handed him a cup. He swished the liquid round his mouth, then spat it out.
Chain knew what Gorain was feeling. Twelve years ago Chain had met a man who just would not submit. He absorbed every blow and kept coming back. Such a man became a living question that wormed its way into the soul of a fighter, shrinking his courage, eating away at his self-belief. The fight had been a watershed experience for the young Chain. It had lasted for forty-four periods before, weary almost to the point of surrender, he had unleashed one last murderous combination. His opponent had gone down hard and not been able to rise to match the sands. Only Chain ever knew how close he had come to quitting. Now Gorain was facing the same maggot in the soul. Chain watched his former protege intently. Gorain reached up and pulled clear the eye patch, hurling it out of the circle. The horn sounded, and he once more moved in. For the next three periods he pounded the clansman, raining in blows from every side, seeking to overpower his opponent with sheer strength. But Gorain was tired now, and many of the punches lacked penetration. He too was taking punishment. Grymauch had begun to work the body, slamming big punches to Gorain's midsection. All three periods ended with the highlander dropping to one knee. In the last Gorain threw a low blow after the clansman touched the boards. The surprise punch slammed into Grymauch's good eye, hurling him to his back.