Warriors Of Latan

Chapter 18

The first of three periods of the Great Game of nor between the White Trees and the Black Rocks was nearly over. The score was five to three in favor of the White Trees, which meant Winter Owl was losing.

Blade scored three of his team's five goals. He'd scored two by simply hitting the hole from a distance so much greater than usual that none of the Black Rocks were watching him. They only realized he'd scored when the ball sailed into the hole, and all the people with bets on the White Trees cheered.

The people with bets on the Black Rocks groaned, and some of them shook their fists at Blade. Winter Owl himself didn't make a sound or a gesture-he would be the stoic Uchendi warrior to the end, even if an enemy was cutting him open with a dull knife. Sometimes, though, Blade saw him grimace when he didn't think anyone was looking at him.

Friend of Lions had predicted correctly; the Guardian had forbidden the nor players to use their sticks on each other. He hadn't forbidden punches, kicks, or trying to ride the other side down. The two masses of riders repeatedly crashed together, turning the game into something like a barroom brawl.

The White Trees advanced down the field again, with Friend of Lions shrieking war cries as if he were attacking a deadly enemy. He waved his stick like a cavalry sword, then lowered it as the two masses of riders pounded toward each other. Blade stayed out of this scrimmage. He was riding a large, strong ezinti, but it still had a job carrying him fast enough to keep him in the game at all. He wasn't sure if he wanted the Black Rocks to lose this game. He was damned sure he didn't want them to lose it through anything they could blame on him. That would give him a whole team of enemies, not to mention all the people who'd lose their bets.

The period came to an end before the teams got untangled. Blade could have easily scored another goal-the Black Rocks seemed to have forgotten completely that they had a hole to defend. However, he'd been in reach of the ball only a couple of times. It wouldn't be hard to convince his teammates he hadn't even seen it.

As he rode back to the White Trees end of the field, Blade scanned the crowd for the hiba-gan. There he-she-it was, right where it had been when the game started. It was still swathed in a rawhide cloak and hood that covered it from head to foot. When it did move, it moved slowly but steadily; there was nothing in its movements to prove it wasn't human. For now Blade was inclined to give the Holy Wanderer the benefit of the doubt in this matter.

River Over Stones was also stationed in the same place he'd been when the game started-ten feet to the right of the hiba-gan. His hands were crossed reverently on his stomach, and his eyes never left the shrouded figure. Since the hiba-gan came to the village two days ago, River had appointed himself its escort and protector. Since yesterday, it seemed that the hiba-gan had accepted this.

Being such an escort to a Holy Wanderer was a great honor and a sacred task. Many said that it was a sign the Spirits had forgiven River Over Stones for his opposition to Blade. So far no one was saying that it proved he might have been right about Blade after all.

On the other hand, no one said River Over Stones might be forcing himself on the hiba-gan to try and win back some of the honor he'd lost through opposing Blade. Hiba-gans were too much revered, and it was said their Voices were so powerful that deception was impossible. As for anyone even hinting that the hiba-gan might not be what it seemed, and that River Over Stones might be plotting with it-well, Blade didn't expect anyone to want to be burned at the stake for heresy. He didn't much care for the idea himself.

One thing about the hiba-gan had changed since the beginning of the game. It had put down the large leather sack it carried on a strap across its back. The sack now lay beside it on the gravel. Blade wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, or if the sack really did bulge oddly, as if there were something strangely shaped inside it.

Blade took several deep breaths and made his mind as blank as he could. He didn't use all his mental control; that would surely be detected by someone in the crowd and word sent to the Guardian. Blade wasn't sure what he was allowed to do by way of using the Voice, and he certainly didn't want to attract attention now.

With a blank mind he looked quickly back at the sack. No doubt about it. The bulge was in a different part of the sackas if what was inside the bag had moved.

The sun was hot, but for a moment Blade felt cold. His mental control very nearly deserted him. Whatever was in the sack was alive. He'd never heard of a hiba-gan carrying a live animal in a sack with it. Why was the hiba-gan doing something unknown on its visit to the Uchendi, just after Blade came to them and right before the war with the Rutari…?

It didn't add up. Or rather, it added up to something that had to be investigated. Openly if possible, secretly if not. Openly would be safer for Blade. That meant getting Winter Owl on his side. Doing anything against the hiba-gan would mean bending the law. If Winter Owl opposed that, nothing could be done-at least not to the hiba-gan.

Winning over Winter Owl meant one thing: The White Trees were going to have to lose this game of nor.

The two teams rode back onto the field for the second period. Blade stayed back toward the White Trees' rear, as if his ezinti were tiring. If he was careful, that would be the truth before anyone could get suspicious. Once the scrimmage began, most riders were too busy looking for the ball and for opposing players to worry about Blade.

Winter Owl must have given the Black Rocks a pep talk. They charged down on their opponents so hard that a few riders pulled up to save their mounts. This gave Winter Owl a clear shot at the White Trees' goal. He took it. The ball whipped past Blade like a bullet and plunked into the hole.

One of the White Trees rode up to Blade, grumbling, «You were the closest, Blade. Couldn't you have stopped that one?»

«Nonsense,» said Friend of Lions. «The ball was in the hole before Blade could have been in its path.»

«Yes,» said Blade. «If I had arms fifteen feet long I might have stopped it.» He shrugged. «Nobody ever said the Black Rocks were going to be easy. Or at least I never did. «

They rode back into the scrimmage. This time the two teams were evenly matched, until suddenly the tangle spewed out a Black Rock with the ball in his cup. Blade recognized him. He was one of the younger players and so far hadn't done a thing to make himself look dangerous.

Now, though, he had a clear path to the goal. Blade dug his heels into his ezinti. He was the best-placed White Tree to stop the young ballcarrier. If he didn't move, someone might become suspicious.

Luck was with Blade. His ezinti now really was tiring under his weight. He didn't have to rein it in more than twice. He was still a good ten feet behind the young rider when the other man flipped the ball toward the White Trees' hole. At that distance a drunken one-eyed man could have made the goal.

Blade rode back, listening to the cheers of the Black Rocks' supporters and the groans of the people with money on the White Trees. He didn't hear anyone mention his name. After all, he'd been the only one of the White Trees who even tried to stop the goal. The fact that his ezinti wasn't fast enough was hardly his fault.

Fault or no fault, however, the game was now tied at five to five. Winter Owl was no longer being the stoic warrior. He was grinning so widely that Blade began thinking maybe he had a chance of getting him on his side.

Now it was the White Trees' turn to get a brief pep talk from their captain. Friend of Lions made such a rousing speech that it had everyone cheering, including Blade. He wasn't entirely faking, either. Damn it, these people deserved to win! They'd put blood, sweat, and tears into both training and playing.

And if he was wrong about the hiba-gan… Blade was pretty sure he wasn't, though. And if he was right about the Holy Wanderer being up to tricks-well, there were more important things at stake for the Uchendi than who won today's game. Blade was gritting his teeth as he rode back into the game.

The pep talk worked so well that the White Trees promptly scored a goal without Blade's getting within twenty feet of the ball. Then Friend of Lions scored a second, and the Black Rocks came back and scored one of their own, both teams crippling several ezintis, which left them short-handed…

That made the score seven to six in favor of the White Trees. The crowd was silent now. Half were too hoarse and breathless to cheer, the other half too excited, too aware they were seeing an extraordinary game.

Blade would have been happier if they'd gone on cheering. In this silence, there could be a thousand eyes ready to fix themselves on the man who had the ball, watching for something to praise or criticize. Throwing the game under these conditions was going to be trickier than he'd expected.

The scrimmage that left both teams short-handed also made them cautious for the rest of the second period. There were no more goals or casualties on either side. Although he never had the ball, Blade rode around vigorously, to make sure his ezinti stayed tired.

The last period of the game was only minutes old when Blade suddenly found himself with the ball in the cup of his stick. Some weird twist of fate or puff of wind had landed it there. Blade couldn't just dump it out, so he got rid of it the only way he could-with a shot at the goal. It was a long shot even for Blade, and it would have been simply foolish for anyone else to try.

So nobody was surprised when the ball bounced off the base of the cone and rolled back onto the field. One of the Black Rocks picked it up and pounded down the field behind his teammates as if the Devil was at the heels of his mount.

Blade had to stay in the scrimmage. If he pulled out and the man scored with the ball he himself had virtually given to the other team, he was going to be noticed. So Blade stayed in close and even used knees and elbows against some of the Black Rocks. He'd worked out how to use unarmed-combat techniques from horseback, although not how to pull his punches. At least none of the Uchendi would recognize Home Dimension martial arts!

Blade dismounted one man and disabled another's mount. Then the Black Rock rider took his shot at the goal and missed. Blade joined the cheering, then saw the Guardian signaling from the sidelines. A break was called, while Blade rode over and submitted to a tongue-lashing from the shaman.

«Have you less honor or sense of shame than I thought, Blade?» the older man growled. «Are you so eager to win that you will risk killing a warrior of the Uchendi?»

And much more in the same vein. Blade thought afterward that one of the hardest things he did that day was listen to the Guardian with a completely straight face. It was also one of the most important. The Guardian could read faces as well as minds to learn what other men were thinking.

Finally the Guardian ran out of things to say, dismissed Blade, and turned back to Kyarta and Eye of Crystal. As Blade urged his mount back on to the field, Crystal winked at him. That made him feel better.

Friend of Lions greeted him as he rejoined the team. «That was bad luck, your long shot missing,» he said. He sounded more disappointed than angry.

Blade shrugged. «It was. But at least they did us no great harm with it. A long arm and a clear opening do not make me Superman, after all.»

«Who is Superman?»

«A legendary hero of the English. He has the strength of many men, he flies, and can see through walls.»

Friend of Lions seemed impressed. «I wonder-could he have been one of the Idol Makers?»

«We have no legends of visitors by that name,» said Blade cautiously. «More than that I could not say.»

«More than that it might not be wise to say,» said Friend. «Here on the nor field the Spirits are always listening. If they wish to avenge an insult they do not find it hard. «

Then the whistles and drums began to sound, calling the teams back to their positions for the rest of the game. Both teams were now tired riders on tired mounts. No one could have detected this from the way the Black Rocks came on, though. Winter Owl was far ahead, taking all sorts of chances he would probably not have risked if sticks had been lawful weapons today.

«Curse these child's rules!» growled Friend of Lions at the sight. «If I could shove my stick a hand's breadth up his arse he'd not be sitting so easy!» He clearly wanted to say more, but that would have been too close to disputing the Guardian's judgment.

By now the day had turned blazing hot, and two dozen ezintis were churning up the field until a fog of dust hung over it. It was getting hard to see one's own teammates, and nearly impossible to find the ball unless it hit you between the eyes. And if that happens, you won't be able to use your knowledge of the huba-gan, thought Blade. Half a pound of bronze moving at the speed of a cricket ball would crack a man's skull like a hammer.

Everyone was riding cautiously. Exhausted mounts and poor visibility increased the danger of being spilled and trampled. Blade didn't have to worry about standing out in the crowd any more. Nobody more than thirty feet away would have recognized him, let alone told what he was doing. He was coated with dust from head to foot, to the roots of his hair and even under his loinguard. His mouth was filled with dust, and mud dripped from his limbs where sweat had flowed through the dust.

A Black Rock scored; the game was tied again. Blade hoped all of the White Trees were even more exhausted than he was. If they scored again, it was going to take a lot of luck for either him or the Black Rocks to save the game. He wasn't sure if the best thing for him now wouldn't be his mount dropping dead.

It was the first time in his life that Blade had thought playing the game out to the end would not be a good thing. Most of the time it was the wisest course of action. You always should be able to outlast an opponent, if nothing else. But not nor. Not when Winter Owl's goodwill might mean the difference between victory and something far worse.

Winter Owl found himself in the open, with the ball and a long clear shot. He let fly, and the ball hit home.

Eight to seven, in favor of the Black Rocks. Some of the Black Rocks supporters were cheering again. They had a right to, Blade realized. The game had about five minutes more to run, and if the Black Rocks simply played it cautiously they would have their victory. Then Richard Blade would have a good-tempered Winter Owl ready to listen to him.

Half blinded by dust, sweat, and heat, men on both sides were now riding their mounts over the boundaries of the field and being ruled out of the game. The Black Rocks were down to seven riders, the White Trees to six. Blade hoped the next rider would be from the White Trees. That would settle matters.

A Black Rock charged at him out of the murk. Blade raised his stick. The other mount flinched aside, nearly went down, then headed off at an angle. The rider cursed. Blade saw now the bedraggled feathers of the ball trailing from the cup of his stick. He dug his heels into his mount's flank and followed the Black Rock.

Better keep an eye on him, to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid like giving the White Trees a chance to score, Blade told himself. Just don't get caught in a position where what you can do will make the difference between winning and losing.

Suddenly the runaway ezinti was coming up on the boundary of the field. The rider had to get rid of the ball and did so, to the nearest rider-Blade. Perhaps he hadn't recognized Blade as a White Tree, or was too exhausted to think that a rider following him might not be a friend.

As he realized this ugly truth, a drum started to boom, loud enough to be heard all over the field. When that drum sounded thirty times, the game would be over. There was no tie in the game of nor; if the score was even at the end of three periods there would be a fourth. Blade wanted to avoid that. If he could just keep from scoring until those thirty beats passed…

He couldn't drop the ball. All at once there wasn't enough dust around him to hide him from his teammates.

They would see him plainly. His mount seemed to have found new strength. It was pawing at the ground, ready to run instead of collapse. Blade cursed it.

If only he had some really useful form of telepathy! Telekinesis, for example-the ability to control physical objects with the mind. He could shoot the ball and make it miss, or snap his stick before the ball left the cup, or-But he didn't have telekinesis, and someone would surely detect it if he did and used it. Using telepathy among telepaths was like shouting secrets in a crowded theater.

Blade urged his mount down the field. There wasn't anything to do except his best, and hope it wouldn't be good enough. Twenty beats to go, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen-the goal almost within shooting distance-fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve-

If he shot now he might miss. But he didn't have to shoot now, and everybody would wonder if he did. He had a clear field ahead. He could ride down and practically spit the ball into the cap, and since it was possible he had to do it. Blade rode on.

At eight beats to go he was in shooting range. He dipped his stick, then snapped it upward. The ball soared through the air, losing a feather at it went. Maybe that would change its course enough to make it miss. It rose-and suddenly Blade knew that it was rising higher than it should. He hadn't put that much strength into the stick's movements, hoping the ball would fall short.

Instead the ball rose a good six feet into the air. Nobody except Blade would have noticed anything, but Blade stared as the ball soared over the hole. It struck on the far side of the mound, bounced so high that Blade was afraid for a moment it was going to do the impossible and bounce back in, then rolled down the mound and off into the coarse grass beyond the boundaries of the field.

The roar of the crowd drowned out the last few drumbeats.

The Black Rocks had won the Great Game of nor, eight to seven.

Blade threw down his stick in a good imitation of anger. He was more surprised and suspicious than angry. Something-or someone-had obviously been acting on the ball from outside. Telekinesis? Probably. And whose? Had he managed to become telekinetic by simply wanting to be? Or had someone else-?

For the moment it was an unanswerable question, even if he could give it the attention it deserved. Both teams were riding toward him, their captains riding side by side in the rear. Both sides looked too exhausted to either rejoice at their victory or mourn their defeat. All Blade saw was blank, dust-caked faces like his own.

All except Winter Owl's. The warrior was grinning as he rode up to Blade. «Blade, if you play for the White Trees next year, I think I shall call the game their victory before we play. Why make ourselves tired and dirty when we know what will happen? Better to sit with women on our knees and beer in our bellies.»

«Do not be so sure of that,» Friend of Lions said. He wasn't exactly grinning, but he no longer looked grim. «And besides, does not the beer taste better when one has worked up a proper thirst?»

«There may be something in that,» said Winter Owl. «Let us go find out for certain, and take Blade with us. This day I say there is neither winner nor loser in the Great Game of nor.»

«I thank you,» said Blade. He had to fight not to sway on the back of his mount, and the idea of anything to drink was enticing.

His day's work was done. He had Winter Owl's goodwill, and no one suspected there was anything odd about the outcome of the game. No one, that is, except the person who jiggled the ball in Blade's last shot-if there was such a person.

That question could wait. Eye of Crystal was running across the field toward him, wearing a broad grin and not much else. She laughed and threw her arms around his knee, and he reached down and tousled her hair. She would make a fine woman to have on his knee while he quenched his thirst.