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Caelan shoved him back, at the same time punching him in the throat.
Lachland coughed and charged forward, which Caelan expected, he deftly moved sideways punching the back of his opponent’s nape.
The momentum too much, Lachland lost his balance and fell to all fours. Now he was furious. He scrambled to stand, planted his feet and held up both fists. “Fight fair, coward.”
Obviously the man outweighed him by a couple stone, so Caelan had to use cunning to best him. When Lachland swung, he punched him in the ribs. Unfortunately, Lachland landed a couple punches, sending him reeling. At the next punch, Caelan bent to avoid the hit and sunk his right fist into Lachland’s stomach.
“Enough!” Torac, one of the leaders had arrived. It distracted Lachland enough that Caelan could tackle him to the ground.
“Whore’s son!” Lachland growled.
“Do not speak of yer mother thusly,” Caelan replied.
Warriors hurried over to pulled them apart. Caelan glared at Lachland while wiping blood from his bottom lip. “Whatever ye are trying to prove, ye are still who ye are.”
Lachland’s eyes narrowed, and he turned away.
Chapter Two
THREE MONTHS LATER
The ax flew handle over blade, the progress too fast to see until it was impaled onto the target several feet away. Just shy of the center, enough to lose a competition.
Lachland cursed under his breath. His aim was off that morning, every throw worse than the last.
On the sidelines, several villagers stood watching. A pair of women doing everything in their power to distract him and the other men who practiced.
He’d not paid them much attention, not interested in anything they had to offer. Instead, he was distracted by the sharp pain on his lower left side. This was the wrong time for any kind of ailment. Rotating side to side helped relieve some of the pressure and he let out a long breath.
“Tense? Ye should have gone with us last night,” a guard called Tate shouted as he threw his ax. The damn thing landed almost perfectly in the center. Tate grinned. “Can nae be tense when tossing the ax. The ax knows.”
“Yer face knows ye are an annoyance when my fist hits it.” Lachland stalked to the target to pick up his axes.
“Ye are usually the best. We can nae lose tomorrow,” Tate said holding his ax while waiting for Lachland to get out of the way.
“We will win,” Lachland replied. “Even if I have to take two women to bed tonight.”
Those who overheard chuckled.
The competition field was set up near the guard camp, which was on the outskirts of Taernsby, near the southern shore. It was a short walk to the guard quarters.
One last throw and Lachland would quit. The first ax flew and hit the target almost dead center. He lifted the second and as he threw it, pain cut down his left side, from under his arm to his waist. The searing pain so deep, he fell to his knees.
Tate hurried over. “What happened?”
“I pulled something,” Lachland grunted. He accepted the other warrior’s hand and stood, stifling the need to groan loudly at his side protesting the movement.
“Best go see Alpena,” another warrior suggested, his expression taut. “We need ye tomorrow.”
While sparring a few days earlier, he’d taken a hit to the side with a wayward battle ax. The hit had sent him flying sideways from the impact. Now, the entire area was bruised, ugly colors of purple and blue with yellowing edges. Since, his side throbbed non-stop, hard pain when he turned.
Hobbling through the front door, Lachland looked around for the cook, who was quite adept at healing. “Alpena!”
“What happened?” Alpena, the cook asked, her shrewd gaze taking him in when he stretched out on his cot. “Tis not like ye to be lying about.”
“My side hurts,” Lachland grumbled. “The left side.”
The cook hurried over, gave him a sharp look. “I told ye to rest before the competition. Men are all like young lads, do nae listen.” She made a tsking sound. “Take yer tunic off. Roll onto yer right side.”
