Almost an hour after the silver sacrificial dishes had been cleared away, these warriors looked forward to tonight’s most anticipated part of Lug Ddu and GrutArd’s night of celebrated worship and it took the form of the death-duel of Sicrhad. All these men eagerly waited for it to begin, as there was always much coin wagered on the outcome. A priest was atop the Dun’s tallest watch-tower looking up to the sky and huddled around the brazier from the deadly cold. When GrutArd’s star appeared in its eternal place in the infinite firmament above, this freezing Druid scampered gratefully down the long spiral staircase and hurried along the cold stone passageways to the great hall.
All had been prepared and the two chosen warriors took their positions on the cold flags of this hall and a great space had been cleared for the event. Both combatants lay on their backs with their feet toward each other, and with a ten-reed space left between them on the floor. Centrally placed in this space on the flagstones between them was a double-headed war axe of the Gadwyr and the first to spring up and get to it, would undoubtedly have the advantage. These two young and muscular men waited on their backs for the signal, tense and on the trembling point of exploding into action.
The moments dragged themselves along and the tap-tapping of the priest’s sandals could be heard coming down the long stone passageway now and the tension rose noticeably in the great hall, as the moment had arrived. This woollen-wrapped and shivering Druid entered through the priest’s door and nodded to Ardauc Ynfyd standing behind GrutArd’s monstrous altar, who picked up the long bulbous stick and turned to the great bronze gong behind him. Every soul in this great hall tensed, their eyes glued to the two men on their backs awaiting this call to combat.
All here knew the axe-dual was a choice and it always had been. Go for the man, or go for the clear advantage of the weapon? This ancient and imperative question of victory and survival had been pondered and played-out in this unforgiving citadel four times a year and at each of the holy festivals for as long as anyone could remember. Many wagers were taken among the tense and excited benches of the Gadwyr tonight and the atmosphere in this huge great hall was fraught with anticipation.
Glannach and Guoremor had both trained among these Gadwyr for ten years, looking now like no other seventeen-year olds in all Prydein. These huge and fantastically fit teenagers were this night facing their Sicrhad and they had been preparing themselves for weeks for this deadly rite of ‘confirmation’. Only half-tattooed at this stage, one would perish and one would be entered onto the sacred lists and become an honoured and assured Gadwyr warrior. The victor would then receive the balance of the total-body, deeply sacred tattoos of honour and both men wanted them so badly they trembled on their heels and the tips of their shoulder blades like set bear-traps, in anticipation of the gong.
Ardauc Ynfyd struck the huge gong behind him and the duel began to this haunting, vibrating tone. Both men exploded from the ground, spinning in a flash onto hands and feet and then turning around quickly, before sprinting toward each other and all the Gadwyr drew breath as the gambit was upon them. Glannach went for the weapon as he was noted for his excellence with a battle-axe, ready to swat his opponent’s hand from it at the last second, but Guoremor had his own plan and as both furious men reached the centre they were almost sprinting at each other. Guoremor faked a grab for the axe but went for Glannach’s throat like a snake and with an almighty crash, the two men collided with each other. Glannach’s fingers closed around the shaft of the axe but his opponent had his muscular arm around his neck in a flash and rolled with him, tightening his grip and dragging him away. The axe slipped from Glannach’s grasping fingertips and clattered the cold stone flags of DunTarwddu, forcing many spectators at the back to stand, as both men were suddenly rolling about and wrestling for their lives.
Guoremor would not relinquish his fearsome grip around his opponent’s neck and using his great strength, he forced his free hand around the back of Glannach’s head, gripped his opposing forearm and then locked-in the triangular strangle-hold. Glannach kicked and bucked under him, thrashing around in an attempt to break Guoremor’s arm-bar, but the champion wrestler was in his element and threw his powerful legs around the man’s waist to control him. Using the powerful leverage of his other arm, he began to compress his young but bulging muscles and close the triangle around Glannach’s throat. The struggle was immense as both warriors fought and struggled against each other with all they had, but all the watching Gadwyr knew Guoremor had a deadly advantage and half of their number’s heads dropped. The other half of the observing Gadwyr looked entirely cheerful and a little smug, as it was obvious to all that GrutArd had decided against the axe this night, and where the winnings would go.
In a few more furious moments on the hard floor in front of them, Glannach’s struggling began to abate but Guoremor clung on for dear life, as he wasn’t going to give up now. His opponent’s purple face began to bloat and his tongue protrude from the bared teeth, but still Guoremor squeezed with all his might and with a loud ‘Pop’ the man’s neck snapped and he slumped in Guoremor’s arms.
As the great hall erupted with loud cheering and the banging of big wooden beer logs on the rough tables, a flushed and panting Guoremor released his ferocious grip on his defeated combrogi and rolled away, gasping for breath on his back and with his chest pumping like a set of forge bellows. Wooden mugs flew across the hall and the beer suds splashed everywhere as pandemonium ensued in DunTarwddu and even the rafters were shaking. Gŵyr Brith Fawr stepped up and grabbed Guoremor’s outstretched forearm and restored him to tumultuous applause, whereupon a gold coin was pressed into his sweaty palm and he was instructed to sit with the men.
The rows of untested young men to one side of this boisterous hall looked-on in envy, as Guoremor took his seat of honour among the men, and the Gadwyr crashed the tables with their beer-logs in welcome to the newest of their young warriors. Some of the candidates who would be fighting this duel on the next holy festival looked on with different emotions, as the limp body of the defeated Glannach was dragged out, with his swollen purple head bouncing off the stones at a strange angle. Imbolc was only three months hence and it didn’t seem that far away to some of these pale young men.
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