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easily even as Wide Mouth dashed passed him. Dian was first to the ball. He put his head down and pumped his arms, running flat out.
    Sláine didn't push himself any harder than he had to.
    The winner wasn't the one who possessed the ball the longest - it was the one who drove it over the finish line. It was as simple as that. It didn't matter if he didn't touch the ball right up until the foot of Lugh's Spike, just as long as he was the one carrying it over the goal.
    His thighs burned as they ploughed through the stubble of the wheat fields. He had to time his final charge just right. The Spike loomed imperiously, less than a quarter of a mile away. He hurdled a fallen log. Pain lanced through his leg as he came down on the hard-packed earth. He ran through it, forcing himself on. With the Spike less than one hundred paces away Sláine gave one final burst, putting everything he had into catching his friend. Even so, he never would have caught him without the intervention of a jag of rock protruding from the dirt floor. Dian's leading foot came down on the splintered stone, turning his ankle viciously. He skidded through and tripped over his own legs as they tangled up around themselves. Dian's mistake came when he threw a hand out to stave off his fall - instinctively, he let the ball go.
    Sláine surged forwards and punted the ball with his foot, setting his eyes on the goal, sixty paces away.
    He had timed his surge to perfection.
    Sláine kicked the ball forwards twice more, chasing it desperately, his focus solely on the pig's bladder as it bounced away in front of him. Forty paces. He ran, chest heaving, head rolling from side to side as he plunged on for the finish. Thirty paces.
    He scooped up the ball.
    Twenty.
    His heart felt as if it was about to burst in his chest.
    Ten, nine, eight.
    He threw his head back giving every last ounce of his strength to driving himself over the line.
    He knew that he had won. He threw his head back, savouring the triumph.
    And his legs were cut out from under him by a scything tackle from Wide Mouth, two-footed, hammering in just below the knee. The challenge snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Sláine went down running, six paces from the line. He tried to haul himself forwards. He couldn't move. The agony was incredible. For one sickening moment he thought his leg was broken. No matter how desperately he willed the rogue limb to move it didn't. He had no control over it.
    He rolled over onto his back only to see Wide Mouth's ruined face leering down at him. The pain was excruciating and made so much worse by the humiliation of Cullen wrestling the ball from his grasp. He was helpless to do anything but watch as Wide Mouth walked the last few steps to victory and slammed the ball down in triumph.
     
    Sláine was forced to lean on Fionn's shoulder as they walked into the town square for the Choosing.
    His leg wasn't broken. Indeed the only casualty of the game was his pride.
    Together the pair moved awkwardly over to join the line of boys and girls. Sláine looked up and down the line at the faces of his friends. Their lives would be shaped for better or worse over the next hour.
    Murias came out in force to witness the Choosing. The candidates' parents lined the square, anxiously waiting their children's fate. The Choosing reflected on them almost as much as it did on the youngsters. They would, after all, take immense pride in welcoming a new warrior of the Red Branch into their family. Other trades, although less coveted, were no less important to the survival of the tribe. For the want of a nail the kingdom was lost, that was the adage. There was sense to it. An army needed food as much as it needed steel. It needed fur and wool, and leather and grain. It marched on its stomach and on its feet. What good was an army that hadn't eaten? An army that's feet were blistered and chaffed raw by poor boots?
    One by one the masters came into the square and walked the line,