He turned, peering over the heads of the other fairgoers. At six and a half feet, he towered above nearly everyone. After a moment, he started shoving through the mob.
Tika hurried to keep pace. "What is it?" she asked. "I can't see a thing-"
He gave no answer, leading the way to a shouting knot of people, crowded about a table on a crude, wooden dais. As the crowd parted to let him pass, Tika saw what had caught his attention. A doubtful frown appeared on her face.
Atop the dais, two muscular, sweating men sat across from each other at the table. One was a young, beefy farmboy; the other was Japeth, a woodcutter and frequent patron of the Inn. Their right elbows were on the table, their hands clenched together. The arm-wrestlers grimaced and grunted, muscles bunching in their arms and necks as they pitted strength against strength.
"Well, this is exciting," Tika said dryly.
Caramon shushed her, his eyes on the contest. Japeth had a slight advantage, his quivering arm slowly pushing the farm-boy's over. The onlookers roared with approval, and Japeth started to grin.
Then the farmboy smiled too. The crowd fell still as, with a burst of new strength, he pushed back. In a heartbeat they were deadlocked again; in another, Japeth was faltering. He held out a few moments longer, but in the end it wasn't enough. Still grinning, the farmboy pushed him all the way over, slamming his arm against the tabletop. Japeth slumped as a short, bald man came forward.
"Uwen wins!" shouted the bald man, raising the farmboy's hand. "That's three in a row, lad. Want to try for a fourth?"
The boy nodded, grinning, as Japeth's friends led the woodcutter away.
"All right, then!" The bald man turned to the crowd. "Who's next?"
Tika slumped. She didn't need to glance at Caramon to see the look on his face. He'd mope the rest of the day if she didn't let him wrestle. With a small shrug, she let go of his arm and shoved him forward.
"Right here!" she called.
Caramon stared across the table at the farmboy-Uwen, his name was. The lad was blond and sunburned, with a face so guileless it was almost comical. He looked fairly intimidated. He knew who his opponent was, though his father had been a boy when Caramon was fighting in the War of the Lance. The contest's judge checked their hands, making sure their grip was good-Caramon was left-handed, but had offered the boy his right-and stepped back.
"Remember the rules," the judge declared. "Keep your other arm at your side, and if your elbow comes off the table-or your arse off your seat-you're out." He turned to shout at the crowd. "Next round! Uwen Gondil against the challenger, Caramon Majere. Bets, please."
Caramon offered Uwen a friendly grin. The boy bit his lip.
"Go," said the judge.
Caramon moved quickly, pushing with all his might. Uwen's arm dropped halfway to the tabletop before he recovered-then, muscles bunching, he shoved back. To both men's surprise, he slowly pushed Caramon's arm back upright. They ground their teeth and groaned with effort. Before long, Uwen pulled even. Then he pushed even harder, gaining the upper hand.
Caramon couldn't believe it. He'd wrestled stronger men than this: trained warriors, gladiators, even half-ogres. He'd defeated them all, too. But this apple-cheeked lad-he couldn't have seen more than eighteen summers-was beating him!
The onlookers shrieked furiously, most of them as amazed as Caramon. Tika's voice carried above them all. "Rip his arm off!" she hollered. "Make him cry for his mother!"
Caramon found the strength to shove harder, stopping Uwen and forcing him back an inch, then another, until they were even again. They stayed that way for a long moment, trembling, then Caramon shut his eyes and gave another push.
Uwen faltered, his strength suddenly flagging. Startled, Caramon seized the opportunity. Uwen never had the chance to recover: Within seconds his hand hit the table, and he grabbed his arm with a pained grimace. The crowd cheered, thrusting their fists in the air.
Caramon didn't rejoice, however. As the judge came forward, his eyes met Uwen's, and he knew the boy had thrown the match. Sorry, Uwen's gaze said. I thought you'd be able to win without my help.
Before Caramon could say anything, though, Tika climbed onto the dais and threw her arms around his neck. When she let him go again, Uwen was already gone.
The crowd was chanting Caramon's name. The judge grabbed his hand and raised it, proclaiming him the winner. Feeling no satisfaction at all, Caramon rose. "Come on," he told Tika. "Let's go."
"No!" the judge said, grabbing Caramon's elbow. "Don't leave! You're the champion."
Caramon looked to Tika for help, but she shook her head. "You wanted to do this," she said.
Scowling, Caramon looked out over the clamoring crowd. "All right, who's next?"
The cheering stopped. The onlookers fell silent, none willing to speak a word, lest it be misinterpreted as a challenge. No one was eager to take Uwen's place. The crowd began to thin, moving on to other parts of the fair.
"Hey!" the judge snapped. "Don't walk away! Somebody has to have the guts to-"
"I'll do it!" called a loud voice.
The onlookers froze, turning. Caramon followed their gaze, and saw the man who'd spoken. He was hard to miss.
He stood at the back of the crowd, towering head-and-shoulders above the tallest of the townsfolk. He looked like a barbarian: bare-chested, his skin a ruddy brown, and sporting a shock of long, ash-blond hair, with a short beard to match. His jaw was strong, his eyes dark. About his neck was a bronze tore, and matching bracers graced his wrists. A large ring hung from his right ear.
He smiled broadly as the villagers gawked. His teeth were huge and white. "I am Trephas," he said, tossing his head proudly. "I will wrestle thee, Hero of the Lance."
He strode forward, and the crowd parted, murmuring in awe. When the foremost onlookers stepped aside, Caramon and Tika caught their breaths in amazement.
The man wasn't a man at all. His sturdy human torso ended at the waist; below, where his legs should have been, was the body of a chestnut horse, with white fetlocks and a proud, ash-blond tail.
Trephas was a centaur.
As Caramon gaped, he heard the crowd's startled muttering begin to grow angry. While there'd been little trouble with the centaurs of Darken Wood in the past, things had changed in the past few years. More than once, their kind had waylaid folk on the Haven Road. Several people had disappeared, and stories had started about how the lost travelers had been murdered by the horsefolk. The tales grew steadily grimmer over time: They ate the flesh of their enemies, some said. They stole maidens and took them into Darken Wood to ravish. They coupled with horses, who died giving birth to twisted, misshapen foals.
The crowd was glaring at Trephas, but they hung back, seeing the broad-bladed spear looped through his war harness. From the way he carried himself, it was clear he could use the weapon well.
Either Trephas didn't notice the crowd's hostility, or he didn't care. He strode to the dais and bowed, a courtly gesture that didn't match his uncouth appearance.
"May I join thy game?" he asked. His accent was as formal and archaic as his demeanor.
The judge regarded the ornery crowd, then turned back to Trephas. "It'll be difficult," he ventured. "You can't get up on this platform so easy, built like you are."
"True," the centaur agreed. "But there's no need. I'm the right height where I stand, if thou wilt move thy table to the edge of the dais."
"Hmmm," the judge said. He frowned at the table, then shrugged. "All right, I've no problem with it-if our champion doesn't mind."
Caramon eyed the centaur: as tall as a small ogre, and nearly as broad, Trephas looked like he could have flattened Uwen the farmboy. But Caramon knew he couldn't refuse. The townsfolk wouldn't allow it, and he didn't want things to get any uglier.