Niall grinned. “We don’t wager on those bouts. Johnny always seems to have a little something in reserve. Must be his father’s magic. They say Bran was a superb fighter. Fearless.”

I did not look at Clodagh. If Cathal had chosen to use his father’s magic, he could have defeated any human opponent, even the superbly gifted Johnny.

Kalev and Cathal were of similar build, tall and spare; they appeared well-matched. It was apparent within moments why this bout had been kept until last: it was a cut above anything we had seen. I was surprised at Kalev’s adept touch, his lightning-quick feet, for when I had seen him before he always looked a little awkward, as if he had hardly grown into his height. But of course he would not have been selected for this particular bout unless he had been able to make his opponent work hard, at least for the count of fifty or seventy or whatever it was to be.

“Kalev’s good,” I hissed into Clodagh’s ear as the crowd yelled and stamped its feet in encouragement.

“One of our best.” She was still holding my hand uncomfortably tight.

The two men were pressed together, their weapons locked, their eyes hard. The swords scraped, the sound harsh as the scream of a crow, and the position broke. The combatants circled each other. Kalev was breathing hard. Several men around me were counting on their fingers.

Kalev stepped to the left, feinted to the right, came up behind Cathal, ready to strike. But Cathal was not there; his move had been so swift I had hardly seen it. My eyes met Clodagh’s.

“He’s just very quick,” my sister said. “No tricks; at least, not the kind you’re thinking of.”

She was right. It became plain, as Kalev tried one technique after another and Cathal was always a little too fast for him, that my brother-in-law was simply the better fighter.

The Connacht men were on the edge of their seats, silent amid the raucous throng. Johnny was not shouting. He was not even watching the fight, it seemed to me, but observing the behavior of the visitors, as if he had started assessing their quality before they had even begun their training.

“Eight-and-forty, nine-and-forty,” Niall was muttering. “A pox on it.”

Kalev was still on his feet. His contribution had been far more than mere self-defence. Several good blows had met their targets, but Cathal’s speed—almost, but not quite, uncanny—gave him the advantage. Kalev’s features were intent, his eyes narrowed. If he knew defeat was inevitable, that wasn’t stopping him from putting all he had into the fight.

“Eight-and-fifty, nine-and-fifty . . . ”