than the lust of twenty of them. If they meant to move fast away from this place they might have her, stripped and shivering on the slushy turf, one after the other as long as she could hold out. The thought was too terrible. It might be better to die beneath the claws and fangs of the great wolves who haunted the distant misty hills.
"Will you enter the Holy Ring, Girich?” Aengus asked.
There was a moment of silence and then Girich spoke. "There's evil within the great stones, Cousin. Have the Novantae come out here beyond the stones. I will fight him here.”
Calgaich looked back at the woman. "I will have to go beyond the stones, Cairenn.”
"They will kill you, fian! There are too many of them.”
He shook his head. "You don't know these people. They are a poor people in most things except honor. The word of a chief is law. Besides, is it not better for them to have one man killed than many?”
“You are only one man, Calgaich.”
He smiled confidently. "Do you think they can buy my life for the price of one man? Before they send Calgaich mac Lellan West-Over-Seas by the Warrior's Road they will pay my blood debt beforehand.”
She knew well enough how it was with him and all his mad breed. Honor to him was as food and drink. It was a madness that was bred into the Celtic bone and flesh along with the warrior training that started with their tattooing at the age of two years.
"Come out here,” Aengus called and added, as if in answer to Cairenn, "You will fight only one man, Calgaich.” He laughed. "You'll find him quite enough even for you, fian."
"How shall we fight each other, Pict?”
"Your name means the Swordsman,” Girich replied from behind one of the ring stones. "You've earned it well, Novantae. I am Girich the Good Striker. Leave the great laigen with the woman.” He laughed. "Soon enough she shall have a better man than you to present with that fine war spear.”
Calgaich returned to Cairenn and handed the heavy spear to her. He looked down into her eyes and then impulsively passed his hand alongside her face. He smiled a little as though to encourage her.
"Leave me your dirk, Calgaich,” she pleaded.
He smiled again. "To fight with, eh, little one?”
She shook her head. "They will not take me alive.”
She thrust the dirk down inside one of her leg wrappings and let the cloak drape over it.
Calgaich walked between two of the ring stones to the open area at the foot of the hill-slope. The Picts ringed the trampled turf, leaning on their broad-bladed spears, wrapped in their tartan cloaks and greasy, red-dyed sheepskins. They waited for the musical clashing of the sword blades.
Calgaich saw his opponent for the first time. Girich stood at the far side of the open space with his bared sword in his right hand. He held a small, blue-painted shield on his left forearm.
"A shield,” Calgaich requested.
A Pict handed his shield to Calgaich. Calgaich thrust his left forearm through the loops. He walked closer to Girich. A coldness flowed through Calgaich's body. Girich was to be no mean opponent. You will fight only one man, Calgaich, Aengus had promised . You'll find him quite enough even for you, fian.
Girich was half a head shorter than Calgaich but half again as thick through the shoulders. His shoulders were slightly stooped from the thick covering of powerful muscles. His arms were bare to the shoulders and were corded with muscles under the dark-reddish hair that covered his arms. The hands were huge, and almost disproportionate to the arms. Despite the difference in height between Calgaich and Girich, the Pict had much longer arms. Girich’s face seemed to have been roughly carved from some dark native stone. His nose had been broken from a savage blow of the past, so that the nostrils were no more than mere slits, a fact that Calgaich noted for his own advantage. The Pict would have trouble breathing fully in the action of combat. His eyes were a grayish-green but there was a
"Will you enter the Holy Ring, Girich?” Aengus asked.
There was a moment of silence and then Girich spoke. "There's evil within the great stones, Cousin. Have the Novantae come out here beyond the stones. I will fight him here.”
Calgaich looked back at the woman. "I will have to go beyond the stones, Cairenn.”
"They will kill you, fian! There are too many of them.”
He shook his head. "You don't know these people. They are a poor people in most things except honor. The word of a chief is law. Besides, is it not better for them to have one man killed than many?”
“You are only one man, Calgaich.”
He smiled confidently. "Do you think they can buy my life for the price of one man? Before they send Calgaich mac Lellan West-Over-Seas by the Warrior's Road they will pay my blood debt beforehand.”
She knew well enough how it was with him and all his mad breed. Honor to him was as food and drink. It was a madness that was bred into the Celtic bone and flesh along with the warrior training that started with their tattooing at the age of two years.
"Come out here,” Aengus called and added, as if in answer to Cairenn, "You will fight only one man, Calgaich.” He laughed. "You'll find him quite enough even for you, fian."
"How shall we fight each other, Pict?”
"Your name means the Swordsman,” Girich replied from behind one of the ring stones. "You've earned it well, Novantae. I am Girich the Good Striker. Leave the great laigen with the woman.” He laughed. "Soon enough she shall have a better man than you to present with that fine war spear.”
Calgaich returned to Cairenn and handed the heavy spear to her. He looked down into her eyes and then impulsively passed his hand alongside her face. He smiled a little as though to encourage her.
"Leave me your dirk, Calgaich,” she pleaded.
He smiled again. "To fight with, eh, little one?”
She shook her head. "They will not take me alive.”
She thrust the dirk down inside one of her leg wrappings and let the cloak drape over it.
Calgaich walked between two of the ring stones to the open area at the foot of the hill-slope. The Picts ringed the trampled turf, leaning on their broad-bladed spears, wrapped in their tartan cloaks and greasy, red-dyed sheepskins. They waited for the musical clashing of the sword blades.
Calgaich saw his opponent for the first time. Girich stood at the far side of the open space with his bared sword in his right hand. He held a small, blue-painted shield on his left forearm.
"A shield,” Calgaich requested.
A Pict handed his shield to Calgaich. Calgaich thrust his left forearm through the loops. He walked closer to Girich. A coldness flowed through Calgaich's body. Girich was to be no mean opponent. You will fight only one man, Calgaich, Aengus had promised . You'll find him quite enough even for you, fian.
Girich was half a head shorter than Calgaich but half again as thick through the shoulders. His shoulders were slightly stooped from the thick covering of powerful muscles. His arms were bare to the shoulders and were corded with muscles under the dark-reddish hair that covered his arms. The hands were huge, and almost disproportionate to the arms. Despite the difference in height between Calgaich and Girich, the Pict had much longer arms. Girich’s face seemed to have been roughly carved from some dark native stone. His nose had been broken from a savage blow of the past, so that the nostrils were no more than mere slits, a fact that Calgaich noted for his own advantage. The Pict would have trouble breathing fully in the action of combat. His eyes were a grayish-green but there was a
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