The wrestling ring had been marked out—a chalked circle four meters in diameter. Unlike most of their tests, this one was open to the public and had attracted a crowd of spectators. Skandians enjoyed physical contests and wrestling was a favorite. Hal was sure there would be bets being laid. He saw Thorn sitting off to one side and waved to him. The ragged figure rose and sauntered across.
“Hear you had fun with the obstacle course,” Thorn said.
Hal shook his head and forced a smile. The failure at the pit still rankled. But he guessed it was funny to an outsider.
“We didn’t do so well,” he said.
Thorn indicated the chalked circle. “Maybe you’ll do better today. Is Stig wrestling for you?”
“Who else?” Hal replied. Stig was by far their best contestant in this sort of event.
Thorn nodded. “Make sure he keeps his temper and he should do all right,” he said. “Good luck.”
He shambled away and sat on an old tree stump. Hal noticed that the other spectators tended to stay clear of him. He smiled ruefully. He’d experienced that himself after the episode with the pit.
Sigurd took a position beside the chalked ring. As he had done before, he drew the first two contestants from the battered old helmet.
“Wolves and Herons!” he announced. “Five minutes!”
The Herons moved in a group to the circle and crowded round Stig, who took a seat on a low stool, breathing deeply. He had stripped his shirt off and was dressed only in short breeches that reached to the knees. Stefan stood behind him, kneading the muscles of his shoulders and neck to loosen them.
Hal glanced at Jesper.
“Go see who’s fighting for the Wolves,” he said. The other boy nodded and darted away. Hal crouched on one knee before Stig, speaking in a low, urgent voice.
“Remember, take your time,” he said. “Don’t let him rush you into a mistake. And above all—”
“I know, I know,” Stig said irritably. “Don’t lose my temper, right?”
Hal put the irritability down to nervous tension. He pretended not to notice it.
“You’ll be fine,” he said soothingly. He looked up as Jesper returned, pushing through the circle of boys around Stig.
“It’s Bjorn,” he said. One of the Herons groaned. Bjorn was big and powerful. And he was fast.
“Come on,” said Hal, “we knew it would be him. He’s good. But I think you’re better, Stig. Just remember—”
“I know! I heard you the first five times! Don’t lose my temper!” Stig’s face was red and Hal’s heart sank.
You already have, he thought. But he said nothing.
“Thirty seconds!” Sigurd called.
Stig rose from the stool, shaking free of Stefan’s massage, and stalked to the edge of the circle. On the far side, Bjorn took his place. Hal assessed him carefully. In spite of his assurance to Stig, he knew it was going to be a close thing. Bjorn was a little heavier. But Stig might be faster. And he was better balanced. That was important in these matches. The rules were simple. If a contestant could throw or force his opponent out of the ring, he won. If a wrestler could pin his opponent helplessly for a period of five seconds, that was another win.
Finally, there were certain holds that were dangerous or extremely painful. If a wrestler managed to catch his opponent in one of them, the judges would intervene if necessary and declare him the winner.
There was no two out of three. It was a straightforward contest. If you won once, you won.
“Ready, Wolves?” Sigurd asked.
“Ready.” Bjorn was casual and confident.
“Ready, Herons?”
“Ready.” Stig’s voice was thick with tension. Hal frowned. Not the best way to start a match, he thought.
“Judges?” That was Sigurd again and Hal had to smile as he saw Gort, who was the referee for the bout, reach into his pocket to make sure his whistle was there. As he did so, he glared quickly in the directions of the Herons.
“Ready,” Gort called, and the other two instructors, who would be watching for foul play, repeated his call.
“Then … BEGIN!”
Sigurd’s command rang across the Common Green, echoing faintly from the houses facing the field, and the fight was on.
chapter
twenty-nine
T
he two contestants moved forward and began circling each other. Each one was studying the other’s stance and fighting posture, looking for some possible weakness that could be exploited. Bjorn was relaxed and moved easily. Hal could tell that Stig was tense, moving a little stiffly, every muscle ready to respond to an attack.
He feinted toward Bjorn and Bjorn stepped back smoothly, then feinted a move in his turn. Stig sprang back like a startled deer and Bjorn laughed.
The skin on the back of Stig’s neck grew red.
“Stay calm, Stig,” Hal muttered to himself. The other Herons crowded around him, intent on the contest. So far, there was no shouting or cheering from either side.
Then Bjorn broke the silence. He straightened from his fighting crouch and waved a hand in front of his face, as if fanning a bad odor away.
“Whew! Is there something dead around here?” he asked the circle of spectators. “Something smells terrible!”
There was a ripple of amusement from the Sharks and Wolves, and from the score of townspeople assembled to watch the bout. Bjorn grinned at them, then appealed, with mock seriousness, to Sigurd.
“Has this boy had a bath since the obstacle course, sir?” he asked.
Stig’s face grew redder with anger. Above all else, he hated to be laughed at.
Sigurd replied curtly, “Get on with it, Bjorn. Cut the chatter and save your breath.”
But Bjorn was unrepentant. He continued to grin as he seemingly ignored his opponent and appealed to the chief instructor. “Hard to take a breath out here, sir. I really must complain. This is unfair tactics.”
Hal could tell that his friend was about to snap. Stig’s temper was being held in control by a thread.
“Stay calm, Stig!” he called warningly. Instantly, Bjorn’s grin switched to him.
“Oh, is his name Stig? I thought it was
Stink,
” he said and more laughter erupted from the spectators.
With a bellow of inarticulate rage, Stig charged.
Which was what Bjorn had been hoping all along. In spite of the fact that he appeared to be talking to Sigurd and then Hal, he had been watching his opponent like a hawk and was ready to meet his wild, undisciplined charge. Hal groaned as Bjorn grabbed Stig’s wildly flailing arms and backed up a few steps, using Stig’s momentum against him.
Then he raised his right foot and placed it in Stig’s belly. At the same time, he fell smoothly back onto the grass, then straightened the leg, adding his left leg to the thrust as he rolled backward onto the grass.
It was a perfectly timed and executed stomach throw. Stig, held momentarily by the arms, sailed high in the air, describing a giant arc above Bjorn. Then, at exactly the right moment, Bjorn released his grip on Stig’s wrists. The Herons’ representative flew for several meters, landing heavily on his back with an ugly thud that drove the air from his lungs.
Before he could recover, Bjorn was on his feet and had seized Stig’s right foot. With all his strength, he swung the prone body of his opponent through an arc, sliding him on the damp, slippery grass and propelling him toward the chalk line, two meters away.
Stig tried to stop the movement but he was winded and helpless. He slid over the chalk line, out of the ring. Gort’s silver whistle blew a piercing blast and the bout was over.
There was an arbitrary rest period of forty minutes before Bjorn was due to fight the Sharks’ representative—Tursgud, of course. Bjorn offered to forgo the rest, saying he wasn’t tired at all after his first bout. Sigurd dismissed the suggestion angrily. As they waited, the Heron team clustered round Stig, trying desperately to raise his spirits. He was sitting dejectedly on the ground, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Hal tried to talk to him but Stig merely shook his head, refusing to acknowledge his friend’s presence.
A hand dropped onto Hal’s shoulder and he turned, finding himself looking into Thorn’s bearded face. Thorn jerked his head to one side, signaling Hal to make room for him, then dropped on one knee in front of Stig.
“Stig,” he said. “Stig. Look at me. Look at me
now
.”
His voice was soft but there was an unmistakable air of command in it. Stig raised his eyes to meet Thorn’s steady gaze.
“You can beat Tursgud,” Thorn said.
Stig’s eyes showed his disbelief. His rapid defeat at Bjorn’s hands had shattered his confidence. The contest had barely begun before it was over.
“How do you propose I do it?” he said sarcastically. Thorn said nothing for a few seconds, simply held eye contact with the boy. Stig flushed. Then Thorn continued.
“Bjorn didn’t beat you. You beat yourself. You let him goad you into losing your temper—”
“Don’t start that, Thorn! You sound like Hal!
Don’t lose your temper. Stay calm,
” he said, mimicking Hal’s attempts to calm him down.
“Hal’s right,” Thorn said, still speaking softly, still showing no emotion. “D’you think Tursgud isn’t going to try to goad you the same way? And it’ll be easier for him because you hate him. You need to fight smart, Stig. Laugh at him. Make
him
mad instead. Don’t fall for his tricks. You can beat him if you do that, believe me.”
But Stig’s temper got the better of him once more. Deep down, he knew Thorn was right. But his anger made him hear Thorn’s advice as criticism, not support. He lashed out—not physically, but verbally.
“Believe you?” he said scathingly. “Tell me, Thorn, since you seem to know so much, why should I take advice from a one-armed old drunk?”
Thorn recoiled as if Stig had struck him. The blood drained from his face and for a moment Hal thought he was going to hit Stig. Then, abruptly, Thorn stood and walked away, shoving through the shocked members of the Heron team. Outraged, Hal grabbed Stig by the shirt front and dragged him to his feet. The Skandian boy was a head taller than him, but Hal confronted him chest to chest, his eyes blazing with fury.
“Gorlog blast you, Stig! How could you say that?” he demanded. “He’s trying to help us and you say a thing like that?”
Stig looked around at the circle of faces that surrounded him. He saw nothing there but condemnation. He tried to bluster his way out of the situation. The second he had said the words to Thorn, he knew he was in the wrong, that he had caused deep hurt to a man who had only ever shown him friendship. But he couldn’t admit it.
“Well, really, Hal! What does he know about fighting? I know he’s your friend, but why should I take advice from him? Really? You know what he’s like. He’s a broken-down old tramp.”
Hal looked around at the team surrounding them.
“Give us some privacy,” he ordered. “Now.”
There was no mistaking the authority in his voice. The other Herons avoided his gaze and shuffled away. When he judged they were out of earshot, Hal released Stig’s shirt.
“I’ll tell you what he knows about fighting,” he said in a quiet voice. “Who do you think taught me to punch so that I broke Tursgud’s nose? Thorn did. Who do you think told me to keep going forward and not to back off? Thorn did. And do you know how he knows this stuff? Because he was the Maktig—three years in a row.”
Stig’s jaw dropped and he involuntarily looked around to see where Thorn might be.
“Thorn?” he said. “Thorn was the Mak—”
Hal silenced him before he could finish the sentence.
“Shut up! He doesn’t want people to remember. I probably shouldn’t have told you, so for pity’s sake don’t let on to him that I did. But think of this, Stig, you’ve just been given advice by the greatest warrior Skandia has ever known. If you don’t follow it, you’re a fool. And you’re a traitor to our team.”
Stig was shaking his head in anguish. “Hal, I’m sorry. I didn’t know … well, how could I know? It’s almost unbelievable. No, it
is
unbelievable. Thorn was the—”
“I told you to shut up about it!” Hal cut him off and Stig nodded miserably.
“I’ve got to find him and apologize,” he said, but Hal was already shaking his head before he could finish.
“Time for that later. Let him cool off for a while. The best way you can show him you’re sorry is to beat Tursgud. Show Thorn you’ve listened to him. Keep your temper under control and fight smart, the way he said to.”
“How do I do that?” Stig said miserably. “I can’t help it. I always lose my temper when people make fun of me.”
Hal grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently. “Do as Thorn said. Make Tursgud mad! Laugh at
him
when he tries to provoke you.”
“But … how?”
Hal thought desperately for a few moments, then inspiration struck him. “When you start to get mad, take a deep breath, and picture Tursgud the way he looked when the Sharks lost the tug-of-war. Remember how furious he was?”