The Exile Read Online Free

than polite ripples of applause from the spectators.
    Sláine stood and walked to his mark.
    Gobhan said something - he wasn't listening. The world had ceased to exist. It all came down to his hand and the spear in it. In a few seconds even that would cease to be.
    He scuffed his foot in the dirt, marking the point he wanted to launch off his lead foot and send the spear flying. He turned away from the run, looked up, feeling the wind on his face. It was slight, a cross-breeze blowing from left to right. It was fast enough to affect the throw if he launched the spear too high. He needed to throw flat and hard. He paced out nine steps - enough to lend the throw some momentum, not enough to tire his legs after the mountain run. He turned. Sláine closed his eyes, visualising the snap and throw before he made it: low, hard, bouncing and skimming across the grass, not stabbing into the earth abruptly. He nodded, rocked back on his heel, and started his short run. He almost missed his mark, forcing him to adjust his balance and throw all of his weight onto his front foot as he loosed the spear. He skidded as his footing betrayed him but it didn't matter, the spear was away. The power was all in the shoulder, the trick to beating the wind lay in keeping the spear-tip flat, that would negate the weapon's natural instinct to launch up into the sky and arc down sharply. He couldn't readjust his balance and ended up flat on his face in the mud. Gobhan's hand went up. The throw was good! It didn't matter that he had fallen; he hadn't crossed the mark. He lay there, watching the spear. It flew low and hard.
    Cullen's laughter rang out harshly.
    Sláine held his breath, silently urging the spear to fly.
    And it did.
    Cullen's laughter choked in his throat as he realised that, despite his fall, Sláine's spear was in danger of matching his own.
    Cheers went up as spectators urged it on, yelling: "Fly! Fly!"
    And it did.
    He held his breath, trying to force it on with the sheer strength of his mind. His lips mouthed the beat of the crowd's invocation: Fly! Fly!
    His eyes widened as he realised how close to perfect the throw was.
    Sláine drew himself slowly to his knees, unable to take his eyes from the spear as it began to waver. He willed it on another precious foot.
    The spear dipped sharply and stabbed into the dirt, quivering.
    The cheers were deafening.
    Sláine pushed himself to his feet.
    He closed his eyes to savour the moment, knowing that he had outdistanced Cullen's spear by more than twenty paces. It wasn't just that the throw was good - it outdistanced even the best throws of the warriors. It was an incredible feat, one, most certainly that would draw the attention of Grudnew and the warriors of the Red Branch. It couldn't have been better. He held out his arms and spun in a slow circle, drinking in the crowd's adulation. He could lose the games now - it didn't matter how good Cullen of the Wide Mouth was, how many events he won. Nothing he could do would come close to matching Sláine's powerful throw, and judging by the look of seething hate on Wide Mouth's face both of them knew it.
    To add insult to injury, Dian came running up and wrapped Sláine in a fierce embrace. Cormac and Fionn joined the bear hug, the four boys dancing and shouting and spinning around in a circle, unable to hide their delight. Núada and Niall bundled into them, sending all six of them sprawling across the floor, laughing and whooping and punching the air.
    When Sláine looked up, King Grudnew was standing over them. "Graceful," the new king said with a wink and held out his hand to help him up.
    "It was incredible," Dian blurted, unable to contain himself.
    "That it was, young man; much like your triumph over the three peaks. The future of the tribe is in such good hands. There are good days ahead, but for now there is a tug-o-war waiting for you lads, is there not?"
    The tug-o-war came down to Cullen and Sláine in the end. As with everything the