by E. E. Knight
"You're innocent of the ways of the trading pits as well as soap, brother. That den of moneychangers and Pharisees takes my meat and my belief in human goodness. I kid, I kid. But if it weren't for the Grogs in Saint Louis I'd be bankrupt. So I hope you're feeling generous. If I have another fugitive in my tribe I'll drive a harder bargain."
Valentine found himself liking the Dispatcher, even if he could be categorized as a Quisling and had a touch of tentpole-revivalist singsong to his words. There was no "step into my office," and as far as he could tell no retinue of subordinates and bodyguards one might expect of a feudal lord. The man carried out his business in the center of his people; any interested eye or curious ear could hear the latest.
A boy brought a spittoon made from an old motorcycle helmet.
Price pointed to Valentine. "I'm looking for a ride to the Ohio for five. We need food for same. Myself, Bee, David here, his friend Ali, and another Grog, an emissary from the Omaha area named Ahn-Kha."
Ahn-Kha didn't claim any titles, though in Valentine's opinion he deserved many. Valentine had to hand it to Price for adding a lot of sizzle to what was probably a very unappetizing steak.
"What does the job pay?"
"Two gold justices. Fort Knox mint."
"Hard currency. Lovely. But it won't pay for the kind of numbers you'd need to get up there safely. There are towers along the Ohio. That could be a dangerous trip, and the Bulletproof have no friends north of Lexington. I'll have to see if I can find you a lead rider willing to hazard a one-worm excursion."
"You seem to have most of them here. That man Zak seems capable."
"He is. I'll speak to him after tomorrow's challenge. He's a bit distracted at the moment. His sister was the lead rider for the leg-worm that started all this."
"Where should we camp?" Price asked.
"Bed down where you like, but keep clear of the campfires around that farm across the fields to the east. That's the Wildcat camp."
"May we use your laundry, sir?" Valentine asked. Everything he owned was long overdue for more than just a streamside rinse.
"Of course, umm, David," the Dispatcher said. "Our soap is yours. Did you hear me, Hoffman?"
As they walked back to collect the others Valentine had one more question for Price.
"I didn't know you could eat legworms. Even in the Ozarks we couldn't stomach it."
"You have to butcher them fast. The meat can be ground into pig feed. But there are other ways. Didn't you ever have a Ribstrip?"
Valentine remembered the preprocessed barbecued meat from his days masquerading as a Coastal Marine and in Solon's shortlived TMCC. Placed in a hard roll with onions and pickle relish, it was a popular sandwich.
"You don't mean—"
"Yeah. You put enough barbecue sauce on you can hide the taste. Ribstrips are ground and pressed legworm."
* * * *
Human instinct is to join a crowd, and Valentine gave in to it the next morning. Everyone in the party save Duvalier came along to watch events.
At breakfast, mixing with the Bulletproofs, he'd learned a good deal about what to expect out of the contest. The challenge was fairly simple, a mixture of lacrosse and one-on-one basketball.
The two sides lined up at either end of an agreed field, roughly a thousand yards apart. At the Bulletproofs side, a line of short construction stakes with red blasting tape stood about ten yards out from the crowd, and the only one at the line was the Dispatcher.
Valentine decided there was probably an interesting story having to do with the rifle range of an experienced marksman behind it, but didn't press the issue. The two contestants each went to the center of the field, carrying only a legworm starting hook. The referee, usually either a medical man or a member of the clergy, would be in the center of the field with a basketball. He or she would toss it high enough in the air to dash out of the way before it came back into crook-swinging distance, and the contest would end when one contestant brought the basketball to his side.
"Why a basketball?" Valentine asked a Bulletproof rider who was also explaining the rules to his young son. Nothing was happening yet. The Dispatcher and some of his riders were meeting their opposite numbers in the Wildcats, presumably negotiating the recompense that would be paid.
"You know the answer, Firk. Tell him," the father suggested.
The boy shook his head and shrank against his father. Valentine turned away to save the boy embarrassment and looked out across the dew-spangled field, recently hayed. Opportunistic spiders had woven their webs on the stalks, creating tiny pieces of art like cut glass in the lingering summer sunshine. Some operational farms still existed in this part of Kentucky. Valentine wondered how they ran off grazing legworms.
"It's about the size of a worm egg," the father explained. "That, and basketballs are easy finds."
"No other rules?" Valentine asked.
"I see where you're going. You can't bring anything but the crook. You're stripped down to your skivvies to make sure. Not even shoes."
"Does one ever try to just brain the other and then walk back to the home side with the ball?"
"You get that sometimes, but both sides hate a plain old brawl. Slugging's no way to pump up your mojo, or your tribe's."
A stir of excitement broke out in the crowd when a wandering wild, or unreined, legworm dug a feeding tray toward the challenge field. A pair of legworms with riders hustled out at full speed for a legworm, about the rate of a trotting horse. By judicious use of the mount's bulk, the furrow was redirected.
By the time that ended the two parties had returned from the center of the challenge field. The Dispatcher looked downcast.
Valentine edged closer to the center of the line of people, but many others had the same idea.
He couldn't hear through the babble. "What's up?" people called.
Word passed quickly in ever-expanding circles. "The Wildcat challenger is a Grog! Some kind of import!"
"Ringer!"
"Damn them."
"Take a knee, everyone!" someone bellowed.
Everyone but the Dispatcher sat down. He looked around, nodded to a few, and spoke out to the squash field of foxtailed heads.
"Yes, you heard right. They've got a big Grog they're using in the challenge. Biggest one I've ever seen—even standing on all fours he's bigger than me."
Valentine judged the Dispatcher at about six-three. Ahn-Kha's size. Could there be another Golden One wandering the Cumberland Plateau?
"I saw a man challenge a Grog when I was eight," a well-muscled, shirtless man said, presumably the contestant, as everyone else had jackets or knits against the cool of the morning—warming fast as the sun rose.
"I remember that one," the Dispatcher said. "Fontrain died from his injuries. There's bad blood for this one. According to their Dispatcher, Tikka killed a man when she got taken into custody. Could be they're looking for payback.
"We're going to forfeit," he continued. "It's a hell of a ransom, but I'm not risking Tuck's head over a challenge."
"Might be a bluff," the shirtless man, presumably Tuck, said. "They're trying to get you to fold up by showing you a big, mean Grog. I'll go out there. It's my skull."
"And end up like Fontrain?" the Dispatcher said. "No."
"That means a feud," a craggy-faced woman sitting cross-legged next to Valentine said to everyone and no one. "Oh Lord, lord."
Valentine stood up. "Sir, I'll take a whack at this Grog."
Hundreds of heads turned in his direction. The Dispatcher straightened.
"You ever even held a legworm crook, son?"
"I've played grounders with Grogs," Valentine said, which wasn't quite true. He'd whacked a ball around with a cross between a hockey stick and a cricket bat a few times as Ahn-Kha taught him the fundamentals of the Grog game, and ended up bruised at all compass points.
Consternation broke out in the crowd; much of it sounded approving. "What do we have to lose?" "Leastways if he gets his
head bashed in, it's no feud."
"Can we trust you, um, David?" the Dispatcher asked.
"I don't see how you can lose. You're ready to forfeit. Worst thing that could happen is that you pay the ransom anyway and get your riders back."
"Let David do it," the woman next to him called. "Let him take that Goliath."
The crowd liked the sound of that.
"Okay, boy, strip down and grab your crook."
"I've got one request, Dispatcher."
McDonald R. Dalian's eyes narrowed. "What's that?"
"Can I borrow a pair of underwear? Mine aren't fit for public display."
The crowd laughed.
* * * *
Valentine stood behind a blanket held up by Ahn-Kha as he stripped.
Zak held out a white pair of shorts. "They look a little odd but they're the best thing for riding. They're military issue up in Indiana for their bike troops. Everything stays tucked up real tight."
"Thank you."
As he tried on the shorts Ahn-Kha spoke. "My David, let me try my luck at this."
"I'm from Minnesota, old horse. Born with a hockey stick in my hand."
"Then you will be careful out there."
"Since when am I anything but?"
"In what year were you born?" Ahn-Kha asked, ears askew.
"Be careful. If it is a Grey One, when they are on all fours and running they cannot turn their heads, or hear very well behind. He will not see you if you come at him from the side."
Neither would a freight train, Valentine thought. Doesn't mean I can bodychecI{ it off its course.
"Understood," Valentine said.
Price paced back and forth as Bee pulled up and chewed on dandelion roots. Valentine wondered where Duvalier had gone. But then a sporting event, even one as deadly serious as this, probably wasn't of interest to her.
The shorts were snug-fitting, running from his waist to mid thigh. The padded white pouch at the groin made him feel like one of the come-hither boys that strutted on the streets of New Orleans.
"Oh, that's cute," Price said.
"Better than the ones with three weeks of trail."
Ahn-Kha dropped the blanket and walked with Valentine, Price, and Bee to the center of the line of spectators. Valentine walked barefoot, testing the field's soil. Some murmured about the burns on his lower back and legs. The Dispatcher stood at the center of the line with the twelve-foot legworm crook, looking like a warrior out of some medieval tapestry.
"I can still order it called off," the Dispatcher said, the words just loud enough to travel to Valentine.
"I can't resist a challenge," Valentine said.
"Well, you look fit enough, 'cept for the limp. Hope you can run.
"I can run," Valentine said.
He tried the crook, an all-wood version of the one he'd seen Zak use. Its hooked end had a rounded point.
"Using metal isn't considered sporting," the Dispatcher said.
Damn, it's awkward. Like a vaulting pole.
"Any rule on length?" Valentine asked.
"Yes, it can't be over fifteen feet."
"How about, say, seven?"
"You must be joking. A Grog can already outreach you. You'll just be cutting yourself shorter."
"I'd rather swing a handy short crook than an awkward long one.
The crowd broke out in consternation when Ahn-Kha buried his old TMCC utility machete into the haft of the crook where Valentine indicated, and broke it over his knee.
Valentine tried the crook again. Now he could run with it.
Five hundred yards away, in the center of the field, the Grog waited. He looked huge even at this distance.
"Good luck, David," the Dispatcher said.
"Is anyone taking odds?" Valentine asked.
"You don't want to know," Price said.
"All you have to do is get the ball back to our line," the Dispatcher said. Valentine marked the stakes, stretching a hundred yards to either side, with the crowd spread out behind. "How you do it's up to you."
Valentine looked at Ahn-Kha. The Golden One's ears twitched in anxiety, but one of the great limpid eyes winked.
Valentine raised his arm to the crowd and turned to walk into the center of the field, stretching his arms and legs as he went. The legworm ride yesterday had tasked his muscles in a new way, a trace of stiffness which gave him a good deal more cause to doubt. He wondered how the Bulletproof would feel about a valiant try ...
The "referee" wore taped-up glasses and a modest crucifix. He carried a basketball under his arm, and leaned over to speak to the Grog as Valentine approached the halfway point. Valentine noticed a pistol in a holster, with a lanyard running up to the referee's neck.
The Grog rivaled Ahn-Kha in size, almost as tall and a good deal wider of shoulder and longer of arm. Pectoral muscles like Viking roundshields twitched as he shifted his half ton of weight from side to side. The Grog's legworm crook lay before his massive hands as though to establish a line Valentine would never cross.
"You're Tuck?" the referee asked.
"Change of programming," Valentine said. "I'm David."
"David, your Wildcat opponent is Vista. Vista, your Bulletproof opponent is David. Don't touch me or you forfeit. Interference by anyone else also results in a forfeit for the interfering side. This mark"—he indicated a pair of flat river stones—"is the center of the field, agreed to by your respective Dispatchers."
The Grog yawned, displaying a mellon-sized gullet guarded by four-inch yellow incisors, capped with steel points, top and bottom. The great, double-thumbed hand picked up the long crook.
The referee held out the basketball. "The object of the contest is to get this ball to your own line. The game begins when the ball hits the ground, and ends when the winner brings it home to his own goal line. I'll fire my pistol in the air to indicate a victory."
Valentine noted the hook on Vista's crop had been chewed to a sharpened point, and hoped that his intestines wouldn't end up draped over the loop at some point.
"Any questions?" the referee finished, stepping to the two stones in the center.
Neither said anything. Vista glared at Valentine. Valentine stared back. The referee held out the ball between them, and when he lowered it for the bounce-toss the Grog was looking away.
"May the best. . . ummm . . . contestant win."
The referee tossed the basketball straight up into the air and backpedaled out from between man and Grog, quickly enough that Valentine felt air move.
Valentine heard a faint sound like a distant waterfall and realized it was cheering, cut with a few whistles. He felt not at all encouraged, and took a few steps back out of clobbering range as Vista raised his crook—No sense getting my head knocked off the second the ball hits.
The damn thing took forever to fall. Was it filled with helium?
The ball struck. Valentine's brain registered that it took a Wildcat bounce, helped along by a quick swing of Vista's crook that Valentine didn't have the length to intercept.
But Vista went for him instead of the ball. The Grog leaped forward, using one of his long arms as a decathlete might use a pole, and upon landing swung his crook for—
The air occupied by Valentine. If Vista didn't want the ball, Valentine would take it. Valentine sprinted after the ball, now rolling at a very shallow angle toward the Bulletproof on its second bounce.
The instinct to just go toe-to-toe with Vista and decide the contest in a brawl surged for a moment. But he'd lose. Valentine looked back to see Vista galloping toward the ball, crook clenched at the midpoint in those wide jaws. Grogs running on all fours looked awkward, but they were damn fast—
Valentine cut an intercepting course.
Vista, you messed up—the Grog's crook had the hook end on Valentine's side. Taking great lungfuls of air, Valentine poured it on. He reached forward with his own hook, Vista's head invisible behind the mountainous shoulders—
—and latched his hook to Vi
sta's. Valentine planted his feet to bring the racing Grog down the way a cowboy would turn a cow's head.
The field smacked Valentine in the face as he landed, yanked off his feet by five times his weight in charging Grog. The crook slipped away like a snake.
By the time he looked up again Vista had retrieved Valentine's crook, and used it to give the ball a whack, sending it farther toward the Wildcat line. Vista left off the contest. Instead of following the ball to a likely victory he advanced on Valentine, long crook in his left hand, held hook out, and Valentine's shorter one looking like a baton in the right. Apparently the Wildcat Dispatcher wanted to teach the Bulletproof a lesson.
You wily gray bastard. You suckered me!
Animal triumph shone in Vista's eyes. Valentine tasted blood from a cut lip. The referee ran across the periphery of Valentine's vision, moving for a better angle on events.
Valentine stood up, swiping the dirt from his knees as he watched Vista advance, and ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth.
Vista raised his twin weapons and bellowed, stamping his feet and banging the crooks together.
Valentine raised his middle finger in return.
The Grog knew what that meant. It charged, wild-eyed.
Valentine ran away.
He felt the long crook tug at his hair and ran harder. Vista couldn't sprint with weapons in his hands, so the Grog paused. Valentine used the precious second to achieve some distance, then settled into his old, pounding Wolf run, pretended his aching left leg didn't exist.
Vista gained on him, slowly, but only by sprinting full tilt. And the Grog couldn't breathe as well with two crooks crammed into its bear-trap-like mouth. Valentine slowed a little, listening to the footfalls behind, but didn't dare look back; a trip and a sprawl would be fatal.
Vista slowed. The Grog's eyes no longer blazed, but were clouded by new doubt, and it came to a halt perhaps a hundred yards from the Bulletproof line.
A shout from somewhere in the line: "Hrut kp-ahhh mreh!"
Valentine glanced back and saw Ahn-Kha, making a sawing motion with one of his mighty arms.
Vista screamed back, words or pure rage, Valentine couldn't tell. Vista dashed off at an angle southward, running an oblique course for the Wildcat line.
