.

weeks of blue skies and heat that were welcomed with joy and appreciation by the locals but that, to a foreigner, were more of a taunt: here is what the rest of the world gets for much of the year.

      And what lay before him was no grand arena, but a field of short grass and hard earth outside a market town in name and function only compared with the larger and more grandiose – but, if truth be told, more lacking in soul – settlements farther south in these islands; it was in truth a glorified village of no more than a thousand or so residents, although a suggestion to any of the inhabitants that it was anything less than a town would be met with outrage and suggestions of lunacy.

      Heavy rope, dyed bright red, lay on the grass to mark out a circular area, around a hundred and fifty paces across, and along that boundary the roaring and beseeching crowd was gathered, three, sometimes four, deep and jostling each other as much from excitement as from their attempts to gain a better view. In the centre of the area stood a cairn of large rocks, roughly the height of three men and at least ten paces across the base, with a battered wicker basket (apparently a veteran of many such a contest) sitting at the peak.

      The action raged around the cairn. As far as the impassive stranger had been able to determine, the idea was to scale the cairn and place a tightly bound bundle of bright-coloured rags, apparently weighted by rock or metal in its centre, in the basket. Two teams competed to do so: one defending the cairn while the other attempted to break through and scale the rocks. Rules seemed few, and were therefore easily deduced. The team in possession of the rag-bundle, which was around the size of a man’s head, attacked the cairn relentlessly until the defenders managed to wrest the ball from them – at which point the team’s roles were reversed.

      Tactics seemed only slightly more numerous than rules. Either a player, or group of players, would attempt to force a breach in the line of defenders through brute force by becoming a human battering ram, or one player would dodge and weave his way as far forward as possible, usually aided by team-mates who would try to block, often violently, the defenders’ attempts to reach the carrier. If the player with the bundle looked as if he were about to be caught, he would try to hand it over to a colleague to allow the attack to continue. If, however, the player was caught by the defenders, or if the bundle of rags was intercepted or snatched, the fun began. An almighty mêlée would ensue, with players from both sides piling in to try to retrieve the rags in a maelstrom of flailing limbs and frantic dives.

      If the attackers retained possession, the attack would resume immediately if possible or, if they were under pressure, the rag-bundle would be fed back to a deep-lying player to allow them to regroup; the defenders would not venture too far from the cairn for fear of exposing gaps in their tight-knit ranks.

      Were the bundle of rags to be won by the defenders, they would be able to break immediately for the cairn. As soon as such a battle for the rags began, therefore, several attacking players would position themselves between the defenders and the cairn so that, in the event of a turnaround, they would be able to slow down such a break until their colleagues could reinforce them. In positioning themselves in this precautionary way, however, the numbers competing directly for the bundle were then weighted in favour of the defenders, so turnarounds were fairly frequent as a result.

      And, as far as sport went, it was brutal. There appeared to be no limit to the amount of physical violence that could be used to advance one’s cause, save blatant attempts to seriously injure an opponent, such as biting or gouging. Kicking, punching, butting and the pulling of any available limbs seemed perfectly legitimate, and even encouraged.

      And so it had continued, for almost an hour. The pace was fast and relentless, and the silent stranger was forced to admire the fitness of those who could maintain such efforts continuously at that level for so long. It was even more impressive, given their age: the players, numbering fourteen in each team, looked to be aged near enough fifteen years; probably final-year apprentices, he guessed, if their apprenticeship system conformed to the usual set-up.

      A shorter-than-average boy had been hit hard by two much larger opponents, crashing to the ground and only just managing to hang onto the bundle by clutching it to his chest and curling up like a threatened animal until his team-mates could come to his aid.

      A heavy man, in the apron of a baker, cheered beside the stranger and jostled him again in his excitement.

      ‘Apologies, my friend,’ he bellowed, ‘but that’s their weakest link down again. It’s only a matter of time before we win.’

      The stranger looked round. ‘It is nearly over, then?’

      The baker nodded. ‘You haven’t visited before, I guess?’ The town was boosted by travellers of all sorts throughout the spring and summer as traders brought this year’s wares, hunters trailed back and forth from the hills with fresh game and those who preferred to seek a new horizon every day made full use of the better weather; and every year brought most of the same old faces and a smattering of new ones. ‘Yeah, it’s nearly over. The score is tied, and the time’s up. There must be a winner, though, so the game plays on until the next basket is scored.

      ‘All we have to do is get the Head off them and we’ve as good as won.’ The man noticed the stranger’s quizzical frown. ‘The Head: it’s what we call the rags they fight over. They say it was an enemy’s head they used hundreds of years ago when the game started.’ He snorted in amusement. ‘It is slightly more civilised now. That was when it was played between the two villages in the valley. These days we are a prosperous town and they are still a village but still they seem to think they have a chance of beating us. Anyway, having that wee runt on their team is like being a man short for them. The others in the village team have given everything to get it to this stage, but that’s all they’ve got. Next time the runt has the Head, we’ll get it back. He gets knocked down every time.’

      The warrior looked at him coolly. ‘True. But every time, he gets back up.’

      The baker nudged him one more time, unconsciously taking himself one large step closer to an early death. ‘Nah,’ he grinned with relish. ‘The little runt is staying down this time. We are a man up now. It’s all over for this year, mark my words.’

      That warrior turned to him as far as the tightly packed throng would allow. ‘This happens every year, then?’

      The baker looked at him directly for the first time. His eyes moved over the carefully trimmed beard, the clothes and boots that spoke of efficiency as well as expert tailoring, where wear was obvious but tear was minimal, and the obvious quality of the longsword, dagger and boot knife, and his manner became more respectful. Or, at least, as respectful as an oaf such as he could manage. Even the L-shaped scar on the warrior’s cheek failed to diminish the impression of breeding. He nodded.

      ‘Every Midsummer’s Day, for as long as anyone can remember. The game takes place between this town and Twofords, the village further up the valley. Final-year apprentices show what they can do and, for the last decade or so, ours have shown they can do it better. The same again this year, as you can see.’

      ‘Because you’ve got more apprentices to choose from?’

      ‘Because we are better than those hicks from the village, of course. Class shows.’

      The tall stranger nodded towards the game. ‘It is close so far. And not over yet.’

      The baker grinned arrogantly. ‘It’s over. Believe me, my friend, it’s over all right.’

      The warrior’s eyes darkened at the term of address. He returned to his gaze to the small figure lying alone as the action moved around to the other side of the cairn. There was something about the boy that nagged at him. Something to do with the fact that… He smiled. ‘He always gets up.’

      The baker looked at him. ‘What was that?’

      The warrior smiled. A cold smile, but a smile all the same. ‘Oh, I was just thinking that you are right. One way or another, it will all be over soon.’

      Despite the noise saturating the air, Brann began to feel strangely detached as the action moved around to the other side of the cairn. The nature of the