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

When the fight truly began, the crash of the sticks sent splinters flying until both men held two halves in each hand. Neither of them would let go, lashing out with the jagged ends to catch the other in the face or neck. I could see the bout ending in a lost eye or worse, requiring my skills with a needle and hot blade at any moment.

Thankfully, Ren foresaw the same. He called out to them, forcing them to discard the broken shafts and continue the fight without weapons. For a short while the warriors glared at each other, waiting for a sign that their opponent would comply with the order.

“Do it now, men or forfeit the bout.” Ren yelled, prompting both to drop the sticks immediately. It’s times like this when I admire Ren the most. He has an astounding sense of fair play. If only he were of Chieftain blood. He would’ve made a brilliant leader. The fight continued without interruption; pounding fists, shattered teeth and an arm lock that almost squeezed the life out of the shorter of the two men. When the poor lad’s face was almost purple with lack of air, he tapped his opponent’s arm and conceded to the stronger man.

On it went for the rest of the afternoon until it was time for Kitto to fight with the youngest contender. The crowd stopped their yelling and cheering, hushed at the difference in stature. Kitto spat on the ground and pulled off his tunic, revealing rippling muscles and extensive tattoos across his torso. The summer heat had given him a bronze glow that glistened with a dewy sweat. He had quite a fan group of young maidens, bickering over who of them he preferred the best. Kitto flexed and preened, making a show of stretching his arms out and clicking his bullish neck.

His opponent stood at the far side of the ring, blind terror flickering in his eyes. We could all guess what was passing through the poor lad’s thoughts. He had no way of backing out now, unless he was willing to be teased and belittled for the rest of his days. The lad took off his belt, but kept his tunic on. It was soaked through with nervous sweat in huge stains about his armpits and chest. Ren passed him a hazel pole and patted his back.

Kitto lifted his weapon over his head, reigniting the cheers and whoops. I watched intently, curious as to how this wily brute would handle the young warrior. Would he smash him down in mere moments, toy with him like a bird of prey teaching her young, or let the lad get a few hits in to save face? It was a puzzle playing on all our minds, of that I’m sure. Tallack leaned forward on his seat, concentrating hard on Kitto’s moves.

That kind of swagger only comes when you’ve seen all there is to witness in battle, but did he also have the temperament to handle the men when they were weak and injured or in need of support. A good clansman should be almost a parent to those young green warriors and respectful of the limits of the elderly. Was Kitto a good fit for all those roles?

Ren called the start of the bout and moved closer to the young man. Kitto postured for a short while, examining his hazel pole intently. Every now and then he peeked up at the lad, as though he was waiting for him to act. Sure enough, the poor boy took Kitto’s ruse as a sign that he could attack him while he was off his guard.

The young man hurled himself at the older warrior, taking a great swing at him with his stick. At the very last moment, Kitto blocked the strike with his own staff, pushing him backwards with such force, the lad’s feet lifted off the ground. He toppled backwards and stumbled to keep his balance. Kitto bent his knees and prepared for the next assault. He’d chosen to let the boy tire himself out. All who looked on knew that the older man could kill him in a flash if he so chose. This was his way of girding the admiration of the tribe. His kindness towards the lad would stay in the memories of young and old alike. He was shrewder than I’d predicted.

Time and time again, the young fighter launched his skinny mass at Kitto, sometimes with an upwards thrust of the pole end to his gut, other times with a leap and downward strike, but all were deflected without much effort expended. Kitto was not even panting in the arid heat of the late afternoon. Just when the crowd were growing tired of the same moves, Kitto saw his chance. The young lad altered his grip and the pole slipped to the ground. Before he could stoop to retrieve it, Kitto was on him.

With a single manoeuvre, he grappled the boy’s wrist and twisted it up his spine until he was squealing in agony. A swift kick to the back of the knees had him slumped to the ground. It was all over in an instant.

“Do you submit?” Kitto roared above the clamour. The lad closed his eyes and squirmed. As soon as he nodded, Kitto released him, ruffled his hair and offered his hand to pull the boy to his feet. It was a masterful show. The tribe’s folk lapped it up, chanting his name in unison as he took his victory stroll around the ring.

I couldn’t stop looking at my nephew. His expression was one of deep concern, and rightly so. This man was everything Tallack was not. It would take an act of the Gods to make Kitto fall from favour now. The slaves and womenfolk poured him water and offered him what little meat there was to