Gambit of the Gods

by Ashley, Angela

  When Darkstar is between her and the enforcer, she tries again, deliberately letting her netstick fly close to Darkstar’s head and grazing her neck. Trying to protect my horse, I fail to protect my net from her swift follow-up sweep, and the ball flies out. We both go for it but she snaps it up a second before I can and throws a beautiful overhand pass downfield to Akayla, who in turn passes it over the line to Aloris. Aloris dodges Krisyl easily and tosses the ball through the goal just before the bell sounds to signal the end of the scoring period. They have five goals to our two. The crowd cheers us off the field, and the grooms take our mounts.

  Before our alternates can lead their horses onto the field, I intercept them.

  “They played dirty, swinging for our horses’ heads when the enforcers couldn’t see and bumping off hard. Watch out.” They nod grimly.

  By Midway, we’ve fallen behind 7 goals to 12. Forced to play defensively to protect our horses, we’ve been too reactive and jumpy to play well. Everyone in the stands crowds down to the field to tap in divots and place wagers for the second half. I pull the enforcers aside and explain what has been happening, but they haven’t seen any evidence of what I describe and are unsympathetic.

  By the beginning of the seventh scoring period, we’re behind 17 goals to 21. We managed to close the gap somewhat, but our horses are head-shy and nervous, though our opponents have been careful not to draw blood. Anger threatens to overwhelm me. Once again I fight it back with an effort, knowing Sweetpea will only sense my agitation and react to it. She’s been less sensitive to our opponents’ dirty tricks than Darkstar, so I’m glad to be closing out the match with her.

  The clouds have begun to gather over the arena in preparation for the summer storm I sensed earlier, and the wind picks up, tugging at me insistently like a spoiled child. It gives me an idea. If they can cheat, so can I.

  Before we go back onto the field, I pull Karyl and Krisyl aside.

  “We need to get at least three goals this time. They think they have us and our horses cowed, so they won’t expect us to dose them with their own medicine. Go after them the way they have us. I have something special planned that should put us over the top.”

  They look at me curiously, but there’s no time to explain and I can’t even if I wanted to.

  Glancing up at the sky, I reach within for the ability to touch the wind. I call, and it answers, buffeting us with a sudden gust as we mount up. I keep it under control as we line up at the ‘T’, then let it free as the ball flies through the air, guiding it slightly to Karyl. She snaps it up as Sweetpea and I gallop for the scoring area, looking behind me both to watch for her pass and to send the wind skittering between Karyl’s horse and Akayla’s, turning her netstick away.

  The pass comes and as soon as I trap it, Adaleyn is on me, but the wind blows between us too, holding me safe within its arms, causing her horse to stumble while we dash past for the score. The sudden squall has the Ladies in the stands keeping a hand on their hats. It carries the sound of their acclaim and the deep notes of the drums away in snatches.

  Aloris glares at me when we line up for the throw-in and I can feel her animosity, but I just grin and turn away, letting wind-fingers blow the wisps of hair not secured in her pony-tail into her eyes. She brushes them away the second before the enforcer throws the ball over us, making her slow to react. Akayla snaps up the ball, but the wind buffets her horse at that moment, nearly unseating her, and the ball pops out. I’m there to retrieve it. We dash away with Krisyl at my side as a buffer until we cross the scoring line.

  Adaleyn intercepts me and we dance for a while, twisting and turning, little updrafts of air pushing her netstick away. At last I see my opening, and Sweetpea dives past her. The ball flies through the goal posts. I pat Sweetpea on the back, standing in my stirrups and tipping my helmet to accept the approval of the crowd. My teammates and I touch nets, all smiles. The score is 19 to 21.

  Lining up once more, I feel unbridled rage beside me. It unsettles me. This time, the ball flies straight to Adaleyn, who passes it to Aloris as they both thunder across the scoring line. Krisyl is there to meet her, and well-timed gusts of wind keep Aloris from bumping her off especially viciously, but soon Aloris sends the ball through the goal posts. The score now is 19 to 22.

  On the next throw-in, Adaleyn retrieves the ball and sends it over to Aloris, but a stray gust of wind makes her miss; Krisyl, behind her, catches it instead. Pivoting, Krisyl dodges both Akayla and Adaleyn, working her way downfield, and passes the ball over the scoring line to me.

  Adaleyn blocks us from approaching the goal, her netstick swinging toward my horse’s neck but blown harmlessly away, and instead my own netstick ‘accidentally’ raps her horse’s nose as we turn and dance away. The enforcer sees, though, blowing her whistle. She gives the ball to Adaleyn and she dashes away with it, bouncing it as she crosses the line and throwing it across the other line to Aloris, who out-maneuvers Krisyl for an easy score. The scoreboard soon reads 19 to 23. The game clock shows four minutes left in the match.

  Lightning flashes, and thunder echoes across the sky. I feel the first drops of rain on my cheeks. Brushing damp hair out of my face, I line up with the others and wait. Aloris doesn’t glance at me, and surprisingly, her feelings are tightly shuttered this time. The ball falls behind us, Karyl and Akayla both missing with their swings, before Krisyl traps it and darts away with the others in swift pursuit. I galloped for the scoring line as soon as I failed to catch it, and Krisyl throws it over the line to me, the other horses turning away with her because they can’t stay in the scoring area. All except for Adaleyn, of course, who fails to rein in her galloping horse in time to avoid clipping us on the shoulder, hard. Sweetpea reels and goes to one knee. I go over her head to the ground.

  The enforcer blows her whistle and rushes over. When Sweetpea stands, she walks with a limp, a pained expression in her eyes. A groom runs over and slowly leads her away to a waiting Elmaya healer. My heart is in my throat as I watch her limp off, but I can’t delay the match by going with her. Another groom leads Raindrop over to me and helps me mount because I’m shaking. When I look over at Aloris, her smug face tells me all I need to know, though Adaleyn has the grace to look away.

  The wind kicks up in response to my outrage, scouring the field and whipping the rain into our faces as if seeking to wash away my frustration. The enforcer throws the ball to me, and the wind flies with me as we gallop upfield, Krisyl and Karyl buffering me on either side until we cross the scoring line. Adaleyn meets me there, but her defense is perfunctory at best and we easily dodge past for the goal.

  The crowd roars, but I barely register the sound because of the blood pounding furiously in my ears. Lightning flashes again, illuminating our faces in sharp relief, followed more quickly this time by a clap of thunder as we canter back to the edge of the field to line up. The score is 20 to 23, with less than two minutes left.

  I see everything now so clearly, my ‘battle-brain’ at a height I’ve never experienced before. My emotions have gone dormant and I’m reacting dispassionately, almost as if I’m not in my own body, but looking down at a girl who looks just like me, brown hair plastered to her head, green shirt clinging and dripping.

  When the ball flies, I pluck it out of the air as easily as plucking an apple from a tree. Raindrop accelerates into a gallop smoothly, her feet flashing beneath us as I ride close to her neck. When Akayla reaches to strike my net from behind, I sense her intent without seeing her and tap the rein to make Raindrop break stride, letting her fly right past us.

  Dodging past Aloris as if she’s standing still, our hooves spraying mud that splatters her, I bounce the ball over the line, catch it, level out and send the ball streaking through the goal posts. The crowd erupts. The bell signaling the end of the scoring period sounds. The score is 21 to 23. It’s up to our teammates now.

  I pull the wind around me like a cloak as we leave the field, holding everyone else off, keeping my fear at what
I will hear next at bay.

  When I enter Sweetpea’s stall, the healer turns from applying a poultice and smiles at me, brushing a strand of grey hair out of her eyes.

  “I believe it’s just a mild strain. She’ll need stall-rest for a Fifth-Day, then daily short walks that you’ll need to slowly increase in length over the next few Fifth-Days. I will attend her over that time to help guide you and make sure she’s healing as expected.”

  I don’t bother to hide the overwhelming relief I feel, letting a tear slide down my cheek. She pats me on the shoulder.

  “You were very lucky. I’ll leave you two alone together for a moment.”

  Sweetpea whickers when I walk over to her and throw my arms around her warm neck. She huffs gently against the back of my shirt; tears squeeze out past my tightly-closed eyes. I brush them away when I finally pull back. Nudging me with her nose, making me giggle, she snorts softly.

  “You want an apple, don’t you?” She nudges me again, impatiently.

  “That’s a good sign,” the healer says, coming up behind me. “Horses lose their appetite, sometimes for days, when they’ve been badly injured. Go ahead, give her one,” she adds, nodding to the apple I’d taken from the bag hanging outside the stall door. When I do, Sweetpea’s noisy, happy crunching makes us both laugh. As if in answer, the crowd cheers outside, muted by the stable walls. I turn toward the sound, feeling torn.

  “Go ahead and go. You don’t want to miss the final scoring period,” she urges, seeing my expression. “I’ll stay with her until you get back, I promise.”

  I hesitate, feeling guilty, but Sweetpea seems content, and I feel a responsibility as team leader to see the match through to the end. Besides, I’m not going to let Aloris and her team win if there’s anything I can still do about it.

  The rain is falling in earnest now. I climb the fence surrounding the field so I can sit atop it. Normally I would watch the final moments of the match with Karyl and Krisyl, but not this time. I don’t want to be distracted by their chatter. I need to focus.

  Closing my eyes, I call the wind once more. It answers my call, whistling down over the arena walls and sweeping onto the field. Klara has the ball, I see, and is driving toward the goal with the other team’s #3, Aslyn, a horse-length behind her. Klara’s horse stumbles slightly as the ball leaves Klara’s net and arcs toward the uprights; I quickly give it a nudge with a tiny puff of air to make it fly through just inside the near-side pole. Glancing at the game-clock, I’m relieved to see three minutes remaining. The score is Kestrels 23, Arrowtails 23.

  I cling to the fencepost rising beside me, suddenly feeling dizzy. I’ve never channeled this much of the wind before, or for this long at one time—is it draining my energy?

  The ball sails over the waiting horses and riders, landing closest to the Arrowtails’ #2, Avella. She snatches it up and throws it before Kenly and Kelsea can surround her. Their #1, Amalie, catches it smoothly, pivoting to race downfield with Kelsea matching her stride for stride and Kenly at their heels.

  Amalie bounces the ball at the scoring line but fails to recapture it, allowing Kenly to retrieve it. Kenly whirls and sprints away, gauging the distance between her and Klara, who waits just over her scoring line with Aslyn. Avella angles in and tries to dislodge the ball, but an errant gust of wind buffets her, almost ripping her netstick out of her hand. Kenly passes the ball to Klara over the line and peels off. Klara dances with Aslyn, ducking and dodging away, trying to find an opening, but is met at every turn. The clock ticks down, seconds away from the end of the match.

  With the last of my strength, I send the wind to eddy around Aslyn’s horse’s front legs to slow her. It gives Klara just enough of an edge to sneak past and hurl the ball through the goal posts right as the bell sounds the end of the match. The audience celebrates as gleeful winners and downcast losers exchange strings of coins. Karyl and Krisyl run onto the field to hug our teammates.

  I catch sight of a sudden flurry of movement behind them, at the north arena gates. I kicked an anthill once, and the ants swarming angrily out of their home in a dark tide is what it looks like at the gate, only on a much, much larger scale. I can see their red, glowing eyes and the white, stark flash of their skulls, the strange, almost spider-like way they scuttle on their too-long arms and legs. I feel the same sick feeling of horror I felt the first time I saw them, and shiver.

  Turning, I see them flooding through the south gate as well. Both groups drive a large band of slaves before them, many of them bloodied as though they’d tried to fight. I don’t see Jaereth or Kisto among them, though the crowd of slaves is too thick to see everyone clearly. Karyl and the others huddle into a tight group in the middle of the field, watching them come, their horses trembling and showing the whites of their eyes in panic.

  Terrified cries from the grandstands draw my eyes upward. The creatures block all the exits there as well, their ghastly jaws grinning as if enjoying the screams.

  Chapter 35: Little Squirrel

  At last, the water ahead of us smoothes out and we leave the rapids behind us. Taking a deep breath, I push my wet hair out of my eyes, attempting to calm my racing heart. I’m drenched and exhausted. Ever since I climbed into this canoe, I’ve been fighting the urge to Change and fly away. Only the thought of what will happen to Artan and Shy Mouse if I do has kept me in this rocking, flimsy barrier between me and my greatest fear. I’m grateful to Mah’ue for syphoning away my terror. But he couldn’t remove the memory of almost drowning when I fell into the pond as a little girl, or the horrifying feeling of gasping for air and dragging in water instead. I’m not afraid to die, but not like that.

  I check the position of the sun. She’s sinking slowly toward the line of the horizon, her golden gaze dimming behind gathering clouds. Soon the frogs and toads will wake, singing their night songs, and the mosquitoes will rise from their resting places to become their unwitting evening meal. The crickets are already starting up their chorus.

  Soon, for good or ill, our plan will be set into motion. I’ve fought doubt just as much as fear today, but in the end, I know we’re all doomed unless we take action.

  I feel so proud of my heart-brother. Mah’ue told me in detail about how Artan tricked Si’o into revealing himself. I wouldn’t have fared so well in the same situation. Artan comes across as quiet and mild, but he’s a wise young man with a true warrior’s spirit. I’m so grateful that his mind is safe—at least for now.

  Sighing, I reach for my animal friends. The last few are moving to where we want them. They have to move stealthily because Whisker’s dead minions are following their master’s progress on both sides of the river, but their stinking, rotting corpses are easy to detect and avoid, thankfully. However, many of my new friends are nocturnal, unused to leaving their dens before full darkness falls.

  “How long now until we reach the Queensrealm?” I ask Stone Drum, though I’ve already scouted out the distance through Mah’ue’s eyes. We should arrive at true dusk or just thereafter. We want to wait until the shadows cover us and the mating songs of crickets, frogs and toads drown out the stealthy sounds of our allies before we strike.

  “Just after the sun goes down, I think,” he replies. I’m glad that he’s been busy plying the paddle in the water for most of today’s adventure. He means well, but his little, innocent-seeming caresses intended to comfort me and the supposedly accidental brushes of his arm against mine have grown tiresome. It’s becoming more and more difficult for me to fake interest in him and not flinch away when his skinny fingers find mine. I could never find a man like him attractive. He’s intelligent and has a good sense of humor, but the way he cringes around Whisker reveals his cowardice and immaturity.

  I nod in answer and look away, ostensibly searching the river ahead of us for rough patches and finding none. I need to get him to untie my hands, and I think I have a good excuse. At any rate, it’s worth a try.

  “I feel so dizzy,” I complain, slumping against him like I
might faint.

  He stiffens in alarm. Dropping his paddle hastily inside the canoe, he puts his arms around me.

  “Here, drink some water,” he urges, offering the water skin. I reach for it clumsily and then drop it, making sure it slides just out of his reach. I sense his worry and hide a smile.

  “Sorry, these ropes are just so tight,” I whine, my voice breaking. “I’m afraid I’ll fall over when I try to get out of the canoe because I can’t balance properly. Are they really necessary?”

  I lean into him again, my head against his shoulder. I hear him breathe in the scent of my hair and sigh. He glances behind us in Whisker’s direction, but Whisker is too busy rowing to notice us. I hold up my trembling hands, my eyes teary and imploring.

  “Please, can you at least loosen them? No one will know. Please, Stone Drum.”

  I sense the moment when his care and concern for me outweigh his fear of Whisker.

  “All right,” he finally agrees. When he loosens the knot, though, it unties completely. “Here, just wrap it around your wrists so it looks like you’re tied up, okay?”

  I gaze up at him adoringly, with Mah’ue murmuring in amused admiration in my head.

  I think he would do whatever you ask.

  Stone Drum reaches for the water skin. I make sure to take several deep pulls from it before pretending to perk up a little.

  “My thanks,” I whisper, my eyes wide with gratitude. I’m more grateful than he knows.

  The trees here are heavily draped in old man’s beard, a kind of moss that trails in clumps and ropes from dead or dying branches in soft tendrils. It looks like diaphanous, pale greyish-green beards. Stone Drum, seeing my distasteful expression as a wisp of it brushes past my face like the unearthly caress of a ghost, laughs and launches into his ‘teaching tone’. I’m sure he thinks sounds scholarly and wise, but to me, it’s merely droning.

  “The People have used old man’s beard for as long as our oral tradition goes back,” he explains, gathering some. He holds his hand out so I can study it, so I do, pretending interest.