by Jo Sparkes
“My brother’s jest!” it growled when able to speak. “He has outdone me again!”
Adeena stepped forward, sputtering indignantly. Undoubtedly she resented the joke at her expense. “We have traveled a difficult path for this…jest. Yute herself guided our steps…at the very least they deserve a sit down with Qwall!”
Tryst saw the change in atmosphere, the amusement vanishing at her speech. The large Terrin laugh-purred again, but his black eyes bored into hers.
“At least allow me to speak with your Leader,” she demanded.
“As you will,” the Terrin said. “What would you tell me?”
So the champion gamesman was also the Leader. History taught that such men were not rulers at all. They were conquerors.
The smaller Terrin beside Qwall spoke - not to them, but to his leader. “The game.”
Qwall nodded, eyes on Adeena. “Approach the Gathering if you will. We shall not escort you.”
Tryst saw from her face that was not an option.
The Terrin turned back towards the field.
“May we watch?” Drail called.
Qwall’s head spun back, so far as to look grotesque. “If you wish,” the Terrin rumbled. “See how the game is truly played.”
Tryst saw Jason’s reaction, his hand lifting to stop the desert man, hesitating. There seemed little to be gained by playing spectator. But truly, there was even less to gain by leaving.
So they strode across the hot plain.
The seated Terrin shuffled aside, leaving room and to spare. Though the gesture was likely meaningless, Drail smiled his thanks. No point in being rude.
Sitting among the creatures made him acutely aware of the size difference. Not just height, but sheer bulk. He must be insane.
Jason caught his eye and nodded approval. The Defense Master thought he’d done this to prolong the contact, maybe change their mind. He hadn’t, of course.
Striding across the field, Qwall and his teammates loomed large. The sun behind them cast long shadows, making them seem like myths from some childhood tale. The smaller Terrin ran out, waving a red-colored waterskin. Qwall took it, squirting a shot down his throat - if throat it was - before passing it on. Drail noted the other teams performed the same ritual, each from a waterskin matching the color of their armband.
A Terrin version of Birr Elixir, he decided. Some potion to enhance their play.
The four teams took their place on the field. The large paws lifted, stabbing at the air before them, seeming to catch…something. An insect? Then they yanked back, closed fist to chest in a vaguely familiar gesture. Adeena’s gesture, he realized.
Drail never took his eyes off the game.
The beasts’ bulk slowed their movements, but less than he’d expect. Unlike Skullan, Terrin took wild shots at the comet tail early and often. He caught Old Merle’s frown - his mentor had ripped men apart for such sloppy play. The occasional risk was worth it; too many rash throws doomed a team. That should give the Hand of Victory an advantage.
Which wouldn’t be near enough to offset the Terrin mass and strength.
“You are mad,” Old Merle murmured.
Drail nodded; he must be mad indeed.
Qwall ended the game with an insane shot, springing sideways as he hurled the ball without proper aim. The comet bounced off one of the tusks in the ring, deflected straight into the sky.
Players froze; spectators held their breath.
And then the sphere fell back to earth, hitting the rim, shooting skyward again. And dropping into the hole.
Whoops of glee punctuated the palm-slapping of the turf. Cries of “QWALL!” and “YUTE!” filled the air. Terrin or not, some things remained the same.
“That was pure luck,” Drail said aloud.
“Yes,” Adeena told him, her eyes shining. “He bathes in Yute’s approval!”
The game finished fast, due to reckless throws and more reckless attempts to block. Drail wondered about their endurance - being so large they might lack it, even favor short games because of it.
It would be interesting to see how long Terrin lasted in a Skullan game.
Qwall stood ring center, fist raised to accept his due. Yute had smiled on him yet again.
Grinning at his people, he slowly turned until the skins rotated into view. Their eyes, so flattened against their naked faces, gawking in genuine awe.
That display had shocked the little band. They’d witnessed just how superior the Terrin race stood measured against their puny bodies. How mighty, how sharp. How favored by the gods.
Snatching the fivespot ball from the moss at his feet, Qwall strode toward them, wanting to demonstrate how little the hard-fought game had dented his stamina. Let them gawk and go home. Qwin’s joke be damned.
Surprisingly, the skins rose to stand before him. Surely they were afraid. Surely they had to clamp down on the muscles in their funny legs to keep from fleeing in fear.
And even as he grinned at the amusing image, one of the skins held out its scrawny limb.
“Well played,” it said. “May we challenge you next?”
Qwall’s gaze jerked to the female guide. There had to be a different meaning here. These stupid skins couldn’t actually want to challenge him. But the guide’s wide eyes were directed not at him in hasty rebuttal, but at the one who spoke.
And in the resounding stillness - the world itself seemed to hush - it dawned on him that all his people had heard this challenge. By fall of night every villager would talk of the courage, the sheer audacity of these puny skins.
By Yute’s own luck, he dare not refuse.
In the silence that followed, Drail caught the frozen reactions surrounding him. The open mouths on Olver and Manten and Adeena; Old Merle’s shaking head. Startled respect from Jason, who still believed Drail’s only concern was helping the Skullan mission.
“Daft fool…” Old Merle hissed.
The Terrin, every last one of them, stood stock still. Drail doubted they’d move if he suddenly hurled lightning bolts at their feet.
It was Tryst who broke the spell, stepping up to pluck the ball out of the Terrin’s grip. The Prince tested its weight, its shape.
And grinned. “Shall we play just us - your team and ours?”
Drail found the Terrin very difficult to read. The creature ought to laugh in amusement, or snarl furiously, determined to crush their impudence. Even a mild calm would fit.
But the impression he got was a sort of cold…fear.
In twenty blinks of the sun Drail stood by the tusk-ringed cone.
Jason’s glare seared him still. Jason had argued vehemently, wanting himself and not Tryst to play. Drail had argued back, insisting Tryst had the experience, not the Defense Master. Fortunately the Prince himself had simply strode onto the field.
The small Terrin with the white armband popped up, holding two waterskins. Something flashed in Qwall’s eyes, but he nodded before taking his swallow.
The second waterskin was offered to Drail.
He sniffed it, detecting a faint odor. If only Marra were here, she could tell him what it was. But even if their host’s intent was good, how would the potion affect non-terrin?
He refused.
New balls, fully coated with comet dust, were set carefully around them. The Terrin selected one, Drail took another, and then picked a third at Qwall’s gesture before the leader took the last. If nothing else, the creatures seemed scrupulously fair.
The Terrin trotted towards his team; Drail did the same.
Olver and Manten still looked stunned, though Tryst stood ready.
“It’s just fun,” Drail punched Manten’s shoulder. “Nothing hinges on our victory. Just…play.”
The judge barked something that might have been comet, and the Terrin all snatched at the air and struck their chests before moving - each looking as uncertain as his own men.
“They’ll try to sink balls and end this fast. Block them!” Drail warned before racing to th
e center.
A blink of the sun later he heard the others running, feet muffled against the moss field.
“They’ll kill us,” Olver cried.
“Block the balls - not the Terrin,” Tryst shouted.
The Prince had the right of it. For some reason the Terrin shied from the physical aspects of the game, intending to shoot and be done. It would be interesting to see what they did when that failed.
He hoped.
Drail’s feet pounded the turf, finding the odd grass added a tiny spring to his stride. Either the Terrin were slower, or hesitated to see what the skins would do, for he reached the cone well ahead of Qwall’s shot and leapt to stop it.
The ball bounced off his fist.
Manten caught it on the run, racing away from both cone and Terrin. “Shoot!” Drail shouted as he sped across the moss, for he saw the creature suddenly spring to life, speeding toward him. Either to position for better shots - or to knock him out of his defending position. If the latter, he hoped he’d survive.
Facing the onslaught, Drail heard rather than saw a ball sink into the cone. The slish-sound, the spectator reaction. He didn’t know which team had scored - and for the instant he didn’t care as two hoary giants hurtled toward him.
Drail shifted his weight, balancing evenly on the balls of his feet. Ready. He watched their odd gait, the peculiar bobbing motion of their bodies. Nearing him, one reached out.
And swatted him like a bug.
Face-planting in moss, he just glimpsed the comet arcing overhead before hearing the hollow click as it struck a tusk.
Rolling, he watched the Terrin snag the ricochet, hold it aloft with one palm. And hurl it with that same swatting gesture.
The tell-tale slish followed.
For an instant time itself froze. If the first ball had also been the Terrin’s, the game was over.
When Drail saw Tryst running, he knew it had not.
Manten slung the last ball. The Prince caught it, ducked an outstretched Terrin arm, and shot. At that distance, it would be a miraculous shot.
It wasn’t - the ball arced too soon. The Terrin hovering over him relaxed, preparing to catch it. A fatal mistake as Drail sprang to his feet and jumped.
He meant to grab the nearby tusk to launch himself, belatedly recalling Adeena’s warning not to touch it. So he grabbed the Terrin’s hairy shoulder instead, vaulting up to Tryst’s shot.
And directing it home.
The Terrin crowd erupted, pounding turf, gibbering excitedly. Whether thrilled or furious Drail couldn’t guess. Qwall sprinted up, raised his arm and slammed the last ball into the cone. The two of them stood there, facing each other, panting hard.
It took forever for the judge to extract the balls, clear the dust. And lay them out.
The Hand of Victory had sunk the first ball, which proved to be the three spot, and the third ball, which was the no spot. Their total was seven points. Thus the Terrin had sunk the five and the one, and with two points for the second ball sunk, had won the day.
When the third ball was cleaned, and the winner clear, Qwall shot a fist into the sky. “YUTE FAVORS THE TERRIN!”
The villagers took up the cry, pounding the moss with their fists.
Drail and the others made their way back to the sideline.
“Excellent,” Old Merle slapped his back. “But for luck you were victorious.”
“Luck favors the Terrin,” Adeena told him with a warm smile.
The celebration that night was crammed with food, drink, and dancing. An odd line formed of Terrin stamping feet and swinging arms. Other Terrin crouched low to pound the ground with the same rhythm. Soon the creatures stamped a path through the village, one giant leading the others on a random trek. Cries of “Yute favors Qwall!” and “Murgar beware!” occasionally rose above the revelry.
Qwall stayed in his honored place, drinking from a waterskin marked with squiggly lines. Probably Terrin ale.
“You played well,” Qwall toasted the Hand of Victory with the drink.
“So did you,” Drail grinned.
Qwall nodded, squeezing the last of the waterskin contents down his throat. Wiping his mouth, he slapped him on the back. “I will take you.”
“Take me?” Drail asked. Beside him, Jason and Tryst froze.
“You are a worthy shaka, Skin Man. I will take you to the Gathering.”
It was only two days travel.
Tryst honestly felt it was twice as long. He prodded the guide to ask the Terrin how much farther, but she seemed reluctant to do so.
His arm tired of holding a ‘goss stick’ before his face. The Terrin used sticks to clear the path of webbing, a welcome innovation. When he saw Adeena with a long, forked twig before her, he had to smother his grin.
That proved, however, the only amusement on the trek.
Qwall led them through the string jungle without a night’s sleep, which Jason noted grimly. That hinted at a stamina far beyond their own. The Defense Master fell into conversation with Drail over this, and later confessed to Tryst that Drail had insight he’d not previously credited.
Because, Tryst knew, the Trumen’s observations were made solely from a gamesman perspective. Drail’s eye sought the strengths and weaknesses of a comet opponent; assessing a foe for the battlefield never occurred to him.
Perhaps the difference wasn’t that great.
He himself watched the creatures, noting their widely swinging gait as their large feet climbed over uneven terrain. Their arms tried to counter this by swaying the opposite direction, which proved challenging among the thick trees. Tryst guessed they weren’t used to traveling thus.
But how to use that fact strategically alluded him.
The goss jungle, as Adeena now labeled it, grew thicker before suddenly vanishing altogether. One moment they pushed through a particularly tight mass of leaves, the next they stood at the edge of a vast clearing, dotted with Terrin camps as far as he could see.
What unnerved him, however, was not the sheer number of their enemy but the Black Tower dominating the top of the slope.
“Zaria,” Jason murmured for his ears alone. “Working with Agben? And if so, who leads who?”
Rain stood gazing down at the Gathering field.
It was early, of course. Terrin would not fill the field for another moon, and surely they’d fill it to overflowing. No one would defy an edict from Zaria. Indeed, even as she watched, another band emerged from the goss jungle to set camp a short distance from it.
That was what bothered her. They all hung back on the fringes, far from the Black Tower. Like children sitting in the back of a boring herb class, ready to make good their escape. These Terrin ought to push to be up front, crowding the Tower’s surrounding wall. Fight to be near the center of power.
But then, Rain didn’t really understand Terrin. They were shy when they should stand proud; nervous when they ought to proclaim their superiority. Skeptical when they should accept wise counsel.
Bowag was far too skeptical.
Moving from the window - a horrid thing of black tint that dyed the sun to a rusty brown - she strode across the royal blue carpet. That it was royal blue she knew only from viewing it outside the Tower walls when it was first brought. Lying now on her chamber floor, hindered by the scant light from the brazier and the window, the color was so muted it could have easily been green.
She suppressed a memory of her beautiful Palace chamber, and left to seek Pinter.
Pinter knelt at the Pit.
Carefully he massaged the stones in his hands against his belly fir. His body fell into the Rhythm, swaying with the ebb and flow of Eutykia. The counsel he sought now was necessary to his soul; this must be done in accordance with all of the goddess’s whims.
When he heard the door creak open, he froze.
“You are certain they will obey the Tower?” the skin-woman‘s voice demanded behind him. Always demanding, always devoid of awareness for whatever task he was performing. Th
is one’s eyes were so filled with the vision of herself that she rarely saw anything else.
“Never enter a Tower room unless instructed to do so.”
“You no longer play a king, Pinter.” Rain strode around him, fists on her hips, eyes glaring venom. “You are certain they will come?”
Pinter frowned. When he first played the skin monarch, she had accorded respect. Her awe had faded fast since their flight from Missea. “You have only to gaze upon the field to see them obeying the summons.”
“Slowly, perhaps. Reluctantly. I see no enthusiasm.”
Opening the sacred box, he gently replaced each stone into its soft hole. He would have to seek Yute’s counsel later. “They are summoned at the wrong time - for a Gathering that should not occur for several seasons. Fear and doubt prevail, skin-woman, as well they should.”
“You will address me as Lady!”
“And you have interrupted my ritual again, though warned against this. You plague me with the same questions, repeat the same doubts. I grow weary, Agben. If you insist on riding this high horse of yours, we may well discover which of us is truly more valued in Bowag’s eyes.”
Her glare rippled with fury; her hairless mouth thinned to a straight line. Bowag thought he held a little pet Agben eager to follow him, willing to obey the Tower. Bowag was wrong. This female saw herself superior to all, even males of her own race. This female expected obedience from Terrin as well as Skins - not because she had earned it, but because she thought it her due. And in her ignorance, she misinterpreted the deference Terrin gave to their females.
Females were rare; valuable. Difficult to woo. That made them special - not superior.
“Return to your chamber,” he said aloud. “You will be summoned when it is time.”
The lips thinned even more. For four full blinks of the sun she glared, before finally strutting off. She wanted to question his authority even when there was nothing for her to gain.
And though it was a truly sinful wish, especially for an Upper Priest of Zaria, he would enjoy watching her downfall.