Pagan Siege (Tribes of Britain Book 5), Sam Taw [beautiful books to read .TXT] 📗

men’s doubts in my nephew’s ability to lead. He couldn’t expect Ren to bail him out of all his leadership issues and still gain the respect of our tribe’s people.

Tallack relaxed in his bear head chair, chatting to Endelyn and Senara while Ren arranged the fighting bouts as fairly as he could. I watched him gather up a series of small stones from the sandy ground and show them to the men. From what I could see, he was assigning each rock to half of the warriors. I assumed that they were all distinctive in size or shape or the sorting process would return to chaos once again. One of the homesteader women fetched a bag in which the stones were placed.

Ren shook the rocks inside the cloth and held the bag out to each of the men who did not have a stone assigned to them. As the pebbles were drawn, the pairings for the bouts were fixed. Most drawings received a little chorus of cheers, until they could see that the youngest and as it happened, smallest of the competitors was left to pick Kitto. The cheers faltered. It was hardly a fair fight, but then, the lad was foolish to stand against so many others with more experience.

While the men prepared themselves, guzzling water and stripping off to their essentials in the heat of the afternoon, Ren marked out a circle in the sand with a big stick. Only one bout could occur at a time in the limited space. For those from the homestead settlements, this was a new and exciting spectacle, worthy of a ring-side seat. For those of us who are long in the tooth, it meant a tedious afternoon of stinking sweat, grunting men and the application of too many cattle gut stitches and plantain paste.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Tallack was so adamant that he should fight the victor. Everyone knew that he would have to face Kitto in the ring at some point, and that would spell disaster. If the seasoned warrior allowed Tallack to live, we would be banished at best, or slaughtered as a warning to others at worst.

The drummers and pipers sat on the scorched grass on one side of the training ground, whipping the crowds up into fevered anticipation. Kitto graciously asked Ren to remain on the side line as referee, should there be a need to intervene. This was not meant to lessen the numbers of our best men by way of murder, only to demonstrate strength and agility.

When the first bout began, I slipped away to my hut in search of my medicine kit and a long cool drink. The ale supplies in camp were at an all-time low and I had no thirst for warm milk. I had to make do with water like everyone else. Before leaving my house, I took a long look at the few possessions I had left to me. With my knives taken by the Belgae on that ill-fated trip and my tin all gone, I had nothing left of value.

If the worst happened, there was only my bedding furs to offer to the gods for my passage into the Underworld. I am no warrior maiden, nor a great leader of men. There would be no seat next to my forefathers in the Summerlands on my passing.

Would Cernonnus take his vengeance out on me for my kin slaughtering the white hart? I swallowed back my tears. My life had been long and full. There was little point in fleeing. Kitto would’ve me run down in no time at all.

I dragged my weary limbs back to the fights to find that the first was already over. Both warriors appeared to be evenly matched in size and strength but one of them, a young man who I knew relatively well, had out matched the other in mere moments. Senara’s account of the bout told me that she greatly admired this untested warrior who used his quick mind over brute force to win the bout. The Head Hunters were keen to take the man’s arm and praise his fortitude. His opponent sat dejected but unharmed outside the circle, cradling his head in his hands.

“Remind me of that lad’s name, Senara.” I rasped, leaning over closer to where she sat.

“They call him Skentel.”

I screwed my face up at her, confused. “What’s his given name?” His parents wouldn’t have chosen that for his proper name. It had to have been a nickname of sorts, referring to his quick-wit and intelligence.

She shrugged. “That’s all I know of him. You’ll have to ask someone who knows him better.”

Well, that should have been me, only my memory had clouded. The men were so fond of bestowing nicknames on people. From the way he was received by both the Head Hunters and the Sea Warriors, I’d say he enjoyed a great deal of respect for one so young. He took his fill of water from the jugs at the far end of the training ground and rested alongside Kitto. I watched their interactions closely. Would Kitto see this young fellow as a potential threat, or recognise his value as a worthy ally?

Skentel nodded and smiled to the warrior as he lowered himself down on the cracked earth. Without altering his dour expression, Kitto returned the nod and glanced away. Before I could inquire further about the pair, the second bout was underway. The crowd roared once again, sending the dogs yapping and snapping into the ring, much to the amusement of all. After a brief hiatus, giving Ren time to shoo the mutts away, the bout began in earnest.

Armed only with hazel poles, the two men moved about the circle, baring their teeth and goading the other into striking first. A lunge was countered by a swift side-step, a swipe with the stick in return had them both ducking. It was quite some time before the crowd lost patience with their dance. Calls