by Jo Sparkes
He wasn't sure, however, that he wanted to step onto the Gamesman field either. Conflicting emotions ran through him about pretending to be Trumen. Losing wasn't an issue – he expected that. And he welcomed the challenge. There was far too much in his current situation that he could do nothing about.
But if they managed to win this game, to go on to the final, it wouldn't be a genuine Trumen victory. Somehow that bothered him.
A massive cheer filled the air as Boric strode to the center of the field. The Judge raised his arms. “Team Captains! Approach and draw your lot!”
The eight teams would draw numbers to determine which game they played. Half would play first, half would play second. And the top two finishers of those games would play in the Solstice Championship.
Even in Missea, they knew of the Solstice Championship.
Drail drew seven. It seemed the Hand of Victory would indeed have a chance to advance, for they would face only one of the four Skullan teams. The other three played in the first game, against the Sandflats.
And the leader of the Sandflats, that team that lived by intimidating their rivals, suddenly looked very intimidated.
The teams in the first game took the field, while the crowd's roar continued seemingly without end. The Sandflats were already cowed, and Tryst felt disgust at their attitude. The Great Goose, leader of all constellations, usually served the very meal you requested. To assume defeat before even taking the battlefield was the same as binding one arm uselessly to the side. You gave the enemy a great advantage before even drawing sword.
It was a very hard fought game. The Trumen had already given up, and seemed to cower more than play, but the three Skullan teams were determined to win a place in the Final. The game lasted more than half an hour, but at last two victors stood. Spider-cheek was one of them.
And suddenly Drail was striding to the comet tail. In this game with only one Skullan team, a Trumen team must win through. For a moment Tryst almost wished they would lose. It would solve the concerns racing round in his brain. And then he saw the smirks exchanged between the Skullan.
He wanted the privilege of smearing those smirks across their collective heads.
Ball held high, Drail turned to face the field. Manten and Olver strode out to the center of their quadrant, perfect stances, shining eyes. This team, he realized, would not quit before the Judge called an end to the game.
They took pride in being there. And he found his pride in standing with them.
“COMET.”
The ball hurled towards him, as did a Skullan. This was the team that liked to spread out and harass the others. But the man charging him seemed slow, and Tryst couldn't resist pretending fear, seeming to cringe, and then easily ducking past him to charge the tail.
Now the cone was undefended, but Tryst was not good at scoring. Seeing no teammates near, he threw the ball.
It bounced off the edge, came straight back at him. He heard the stampeding footsteps as he caught it, and dove sideways into a somersault.
The Skullan flew past, furious. Tryst wasn't sure if the fury was from missing him, or from another ball that went into the tail. Coming to his feet, he scanned the field to see Drail pumping a victory fist in the air. And turning to him.
Tryst hurled the ball his way – and it followed its brother into the cone.
“CEASE.”
Pandemonium broke out as the Hand of Victory retired. Whether they won or lost now was up to the stars, but they had scored both first and second ball. He noted that the Dockmen team was nodding, and the Gray Warriors were actually smiling.
When the game resumed, the angry Skullans wasted no more time, but ran over two Trumen to score. And score again.
When the balls were plucked from the tail, it seemed the Skullans had won. They'd sunk the five ball, while Drail had but sunk the one. But thanks to the double scoring by the Skullan, no other team had placed.
The Hand of Victory would play three Skullan teams in the final game.
It was a scant quarter of an hour later, but it felt an eternity.
Drail took the field at the signal from the judge and the shouts from the stands. So many faces, so many throats screaming in anticipation. Excitement.
He belonged here. The Hand of Victory belonged on this field today.
He remembered a day with his grandsire, when he was so little that he could rest his head on the old man's knee. He'd just played comet with his sire and grandsire, and was happily weary.
“You belong on the field of champions,” Raston had said. His father had responded, “Don't we all?”, and left the room. To chase women or ale, no doubt.
But his grandsire remained, stroking his hair in a familiar, comforting manner. “Some men yearn to play. Some men deserve an occasional victory, a lucky shot before wives and friends. Some men want the chance to travel and play on far away fields.
“You, Drail, have more than that. You have that rare ability bestowed by the stars. The strength of the Cave Bear, the wiliness of the Desert Crane. The steadfastness of the Ancient Oak. And that loyalty earned among true friends.”
Standing now inside the scoring ring, Drail selected a ball and turned to face his true friends. Manten, Olver, and yes, Tryst. He knew Kayle was not sorry to be on the sidelines. For whatever reason, the stars chose Tryst to stand in his place for this night. For this game.
“You're a champion, Drail.” He heard his grandsire's voice as clear as he had on that long ago day. And he knew it for truth. He was no better than any other man. But each man had his strengths, and Drail's came from a line of champions. There was no purpose, Raston had said, in denying your strengths from modesty or foolish fears.
He thrust the ball high overhead, and the roar of the spectators was deafening.
He'd already won, he realized. He was playing in the championship.
“COMET.”
He launched the ball toward Olver, who snatched it from the air and immediately raced toward the tail. No waiting, they had all decided. Score fast, score twice, and rest. That was Raston's creed.
Skullan seemed to prefer playing until the dirt faded from the ball, revealing which one held the high numbers. Tryst had said this had to do with a lack of faith in the stars – the Skullan did not like to leave anything to chance. It also made them vulnerable, for they unconsciously expected the same strategy from the Trumen.
Spider-cheek was sprinting towards him, ball in hand. Drail remembered how he loved to slam opponents with a comet shot. Drail leapt to avoid him – but Spider-cheek anticipated the leap, waiting until Drail was committed before spiking him. Drail curled and struck the ground.
The shot had been aimed for his head, and if connected would have rendered him as ineffective as Kayle. But although he hadn't been able to avoid it entirely, he'd managed to curl away, taking the strike on his shoulder.
Hitting the ground, he felt a surge of anger, of strength, and rolled upright before Spider-cheek had passed out of range. He took aim – and realized the foolishness of it.
He launched instead for the tail. A true shot, he felt in his gut, but it never had the chance to score. Another Skullan easily blocked it, whirled, and threw it to his teammates.
In his place Drail would have scored. They were indeed waiting to see which ball was which.
Then one of the Skullan hurled a ball at Tryst, who ducked. The ball bounced on the tip of the cone, rising gentle into the air, and then sinking into the tail. First score, and the Skullan looked unhappy.
Because it's done, Drail realized. Whether the ball was a five or a zero, that team was done. They could not change their score. If they had any sense, they would fight to sink another ball, just to reduce their opponent’s chances.
A young Skullan on a different team sunk a ball quickly, as if fearing this situation. His leader cuffed him angrily for doing so.
And then Tryst came racing up from behind him. “Shoot!” he cried, tossing him a ball. Briefly Drail hesitated, wanting to
wait, to see the numbers. But seeing the look on Tryst's face –
Drail sunk the ball.
And grinned. For in the last instant before it left his hands, he had seen two circles beneath the dirt. Placed such that the ball had to have three more circles. With the point for third place, they had scored six points. Against Skullan.
Manten sped off to snag the fourth ball, but was confounded when Spider-cheek himself sunk it. The game was over.
The cheering died quickly as the judge plucked the balls one-by-one from the cone, wiping each clean. Drail had indeed sunk the five, for a total of six points. But the one and zero point were the second and fourth place balls.
Leaving the three ball for first place. Spider-cheek had also scored a total of six points.
A tie meant a death game.
“Death game?” Marra asked fearfully.
Old Merle laughed. “You call it Tie Game. It's exactly the same – these two teams play until all four balls are sunk. Then everything is tallied, and the highest score wins.”
Drail had never played a tie game as an adult, and had only just now realized the term death game meant a tie. He'd never associated those wild, fight-for-your-life stories Raston had told with the tie games boys played in the desert.
Even Raston called them brutal. Every score counts, unlike regular comet. Sinking the five ball first no longer guaranteed a win.
“Just keep scoring,” Old Merle told him. “Each ball gives you a better chance to win – and you can't hurt yourself sinking a low ball.”
Tryst and Manten nodded. Olver wiped the dripping sweat from his brow. “How long does that potion last?”
“Longer than you,” Drail grinned.
Tryst up-ended a water bucket on an astonished Olver. “Cool off,” he told him. “The end game is here.”
“Victory is at Hand,” Old Merle added. It was a joke, but Drail felt it in his bones.
Earnestly he faced his friends. Looking them in the eye, making them feel it. “Only one team stands between us and the Solstice Championship. One team only.
“And we have defeated them before.”
11.
UNTIL THAT MOMENT, Tryst had never fully believed Skullans had lost to Trumen.
Now as they took the field, the crowd falling silent in anticipation, he knew they'd win. He knew it as a soldier knew victory at the dawn of battle. Not with the mind, but with the gut.
This time Drail held two balls – as did Spider-cheek. The balls were thrown, Drail letting both fly while Spider-cheek held one back.
And hurled it at Drail's head as soon as he stepped from the circle. Drail fell like a stone.
Manten and Tryst both raced towards him. And saw his eyes open again, saw him feel the offending ball beside him. He slowly rolled on his back, lifting the ball and tossing it gently.
It scored.
The stands erupted in pandemonium, and Spider-cheek froze. He'd been intent on retrieving the ball, never expecting Drail to be conscious. Never expecting that Trumen accuracy.
Manten slowed, grinning, but Tryst urged him on. “Score!” he hissed. And Manten started running again.
Frantic in his mistake, Spider-cheek gave up all strategy and sank the second ball, though it took him three tries. His teammates held off the Trumen. Tryst himself finally broke free, tossing the ball to Drail.
But Drail turned at the wrong moment, and the ball bounced high. Spider-cheek sunk a third ball as Tryst's came bouncing back to him.
Better to do something than nothing, Tryst thought, and threw the ball himself. It bounced off the tip, angling back towards him. Towards Drail.
Who now caught it and sent it flying again. This time it scored.
“CEASE.”
The judge set Drail in the first spot, and Spider-cheek in the second. He then put another Skullan next to Spider-cheek. And pointed to him. To Tryst.
Hesitating only an instant, Tryst strode up to take his place in the fourth spot.
The judge plucked the last ball in from the tail, and strode to lay it at Tryst's feet. As the judge moved back to the cone, Tryst tried to see past the remaining dirt, to see the spots. He thought he saw one – but with the long shadows from the setting sun he really couldn't be sure.
It seemed to take forever for the judge to march back and forth, place ball after ball. The silence now seemed louder than all the earlier cheering.
At last the judge bent, rubbing the dirt from Drail's first place ball. “THREE,” he announced. Cheers rose and quickly fell – the next two balls had been scored by Spider-cheek's team, and the five ball in either spot would negate Drail's first place spot.
Spider-cheek's first ball was cleaned. “ONE.”
Even chance now, Tryst realized. If Tryst had sunk the zero ball, Spider-cheek won. He found himself watching Drail, his proud stance, his confidence. Was he so certain of victory? Or rightfully proud that win or lose, they'd held their own?
Then he stared as the judge cleaned Spider-cheek's other ball, watching, watching. Even as his eyes told him there were no spots, he didn't breathe until the judge announced it for all.
“ZERO.”
The echoing roar was accompanied by a shower of ale. From the corner of his eye Tryst saw the other teams flood the field, the fans vaulting into the arena dirt to join them. But he didn't take his eyes off the judge until the final ball was wiped clean. Revealing the five spots.
If the judge announced the five, no one ever heard it.
His next thought was to clasp Drail's hand in the Trumen gesture of respect, but they were all born aloft on the shoulders of men he did not know, and carried off the field.
The celebrations had gone all through the night.
But in the morning, Marra was summoned to help Manten with his excess drinking, and gave him a rather useful potion. An hour later Tryst asked for the same treatment.
Now she walked the street, head down, nervously glancing out of the corner of her eyes. The scarf that man had given her was wound around her throat.
It took longer than she would have guessed, but he finally tapped her on the shoulder. “Where?”
“He's in the arena healing area.”
“Go there. He'll be taken care of shortly.”
Marra frowned. “But you don't need me.”
“Be there.” Lump told her. And she didn't dare disobey.
The healing room was empty of injured men. Marra had thought several would need attention, but only two besides Kayle had sought it, and those all left as soon as they could.
Now only Tryst remained, lying so still. Marra stood by him almost protectively, watching Lump and a man she had never seen before enter. The stranger strode towards Tryst, but Lump bade him wait.
Fox-boots – Kratchett - entered last. And moved past the others to stare down at the unconscious man.
“I have you again, my prince,” he smiled. Marra shuddered at his tone. “At least you had one last bit of glory. Lump, let's go.”
Lump nodded at the other, who strode to Tryst's side. Marra backed away.
“Thoughtful of you to put him on the bed,” Kratchett told Lump.
Lump shook his head.
“Well, the potion is instantaneous,” Kratchett began slowly. “Little Marra could hardly -”
Drail and Manten came through the curtain; Old Merle, Olver and Kayle through the door. And as Kratchett plucked a dagger from his coat, Tryst himself grabbed his wrist.
Kratchett glared furiously at him, and then transferred that fury to Marra. “You have made a powerful enemy, harlot.”
“So powerful he must threaten little girls?” Tryst swung his legs off the bed, shoving Kratchett aside as he stood. “Use frightened females instead of grown men to do his work?”
Marra was amazed to see Kratchett's dagger in Tryst's hand. She had no idea how he'd disarmed the man.
Kratchett clamped his mouth shut as Tryst looked him over carefully. “I know you,” he said. “Kellan's man.” When Kra
tchett said nothing, Tryst nodded. “Of course. Kellan betrayed me. But not, I think, without help.”
“No one will ever believe you –” Kratchett closed his mouth again.
Tryst spread his arms wide, bowing. “I am but a humble Trumen.”
“A Gamesman,” Drail added. From his tone there was no higher accolade.
“The question,” Tryst never took his eyes from Kratchett. “The question is, what are you?”
Suddenly Lump kicked Kayle's knee and punch Olver's solar plexus, dropping both men. He leapt past Marra, to snatch a broom leaning against the wall, and whirl it into a weapon.
The others reacted instantly. Kratchett yanked free of Tryst and sprinted out the door. Guarding his retreat, Lump then hurled it length-wise at Tryst, and fled.
The third man had stood gaping too long. He spun towards the door, but offered no resistance when Manten stopped him. “I know nothing!” he cried, his terror obvious. “They paid me to do a job is all! Carry a package – that was all!”
“Carry a package to where?”
“Down to the docks. That's all I know, I swear on the Desert Crane herself.”
For the first time in his life, Drail wore his hair in a braid.
Having never done so before, he found plating his hair evenly a challenge. In the end he’d gone to Marra, who had done so without a word. The others had been more verbal. But they had won the Port Leet Solstice, and thus the right to wear a braid according to the Missean rules.
Drail swept them all to the harbor, still conscious of the dangling weight down his back.
On the wharf stood three imposing buildings, surveying the frantic activity. One was the Harbor Master, that controlled the docks. All ships reported to the Harbor Master, to pay their fees and list their cargo.
The second building was the City Merchant Guild. No laws required a ship to talk to the guild, but somehow no profit was earned if one failed to do so.