Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel)

by Mercedes Lackey

  :Now that was what I call some play,: Dallen said with satisfaction. But Mags was looking at the poor horses, who were absolutely exhausted. And the Foot, who were the same; they had run all over the field, trying to stay between the Riders and the goal, ready to fall on the ball, pound it out of the air, or use the long poles they had in stands at the side to pull a Rider or Trainee out of the saddle. In a battle, it would be someone with a pole-arm doing that, and the result could be the death of the formerly mounted fighter. There were two minds about the poles, which had padded hooks on the ends. Some of the senior Heralds didn’t want them used in the game. Some, who had seen combat, were adamant about their use. The few rules were still in flux.

  They all huddled up again. “We’ve made them angry too soon,” said Gennie, with a glance over her shoulder at the other team’s huddle. Mags nodded. “They’ll probably try to rush us to keep us off the ball so they can get it first. And we won’t manage the same trick to nip in under their noses. They’re smart; we’ll never be able to play the same trick twice on them.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt they have more than a few tricks up their sleeves,” put in Pip. “Three of ’em are my yearmates. Never forget, my team, that the people on all four teams are the best of the best. The only differences among us are the way our coaches are strategizing the game, and the talents they picked for their teams.”

  “Never forget to play like a team,” Gennie reminded them. “There is a difference between a team and a group of the best, and a team will win every time. Stay loose and keep alert. Don’t go for the ball this time; go for keeping them away from it. Keep on top of it and just don’t let them have it.”

  They lined up for the second quarter. All eyes were on the ball, and sure enough, one of the Trainees on North rushed the ball, coming in with a clever scoop that might have taken it, if the South hadn’t followed Gennie’s orders. It was Companions and Trainees this time; the scrum was nothing but white coats and tails. South didn’t even try to get at the ball; they just moved in right on top of it and kept it in play among the Companions’ legs.

  :Where’s the ball?: Mags asked Dallen.

  :Under Hack’s tail, or at least that’s where North thinks it is.: North kept pushing and pushing at Halleck’s Companion Hack, thinking he had the ball.

  :Well, where is it, really?:

  :By—whoops!: The North had found it at last, and a smart kick from one of their Companions sent it soaring up the pitch toward the South goal.

  But the South Riders had been waiting for that, staying well out of the scrum, and now that the ball was heading their way, they made for it.

  :Don’t snag it! Keep them off the ball!: Mags “shouted” into their minds, as the North Companions, four abreast, rushed the field, trying to block the South Companions from getting to the North Riders.

  But momentum carried them all across the field, and what happened was that all of them converged on the ball at once. One of the North Trainees was swinging down out of his saddle and almost—

  “Not today, thanks!” shouted Jeffers, as his horse shouldered into the Companion, forcing him sideways enough so that the Trainee missed his grab. Pip was right after Jeffers, and made the scoop.

  But the North was determined not to let them near the goal, and so they were rushed up the field and down again. The North brought their Riders into play—and at the change, their Riders had gone for big, heavy horses. They could shove the South all over the field if they chose.

  They looked big enough to eat the whole team and want dessert, in fact.

  :Those Riders are too confident of their horses’ weights!: Gennie said to Mags, who passed it on. :Tell Pip to send the ball at the goal anyhow! We’ll race them and see what we can do!:

  Pip and his Companion got a good smart kick at the ball that sent it skittering away across the field toward the North goal at a time when the North Trainees were scrummed up with the South Trainees. Mags knew it when the ball went flying, a breath before the North team knew, and he and Dallen went careening after it. A North Rider on a big black charger went for the ball at the same time. The black was hot and angry—you could see it in his eyes and in the flag of his tail. They were heading for a collision if neither of them wavered. Dallen was cool, calculating, and as Jeffers came streaking up behind them, Dallen applied his weight to the side of the North horse with science. Mags felt the impact all through him, and if it hadn’t been for the armor on his leg, it would have been bruised from ankle to thigh.

  The blow was tremendous.

  Dallen sat down and slid on his tail as Mags hung on for dear life. But when Mags looked around, the black was down and on his side, with all his breath knocked out of him, and his Rider was picking himself up out of the dirt. Neither were hurt more than bruises, but both were out of the game for a little, at least.

  :Ha!: said Dallen, and scrambled to his feet, following after Jeffers, who had nipped the ball up right under the nose of the North Foot.

  But the North Foot were ready for him and he couldn’t get the ball in to save his life, nor could he get the chance to rush them and steal the flag.

  Time was called, and that was the end of that quarter.

  “They’ll bring out fast horses for their Riders next,” said Gennie in the huddle. “What have we got?”

  “We’ve got nothing fast,” Jeffers told her. “Just sound.”

  “They’ll probably make a goal on us, then,” Gennie replied. “It will be up to us to make that goal back, right after, when they least expect it. Or make a try for the flag.”

  “I dunno,” said Mags, who had been up and down the line of the North’s Foot several times in the melee. “I don’ see ’em givin’ us an openin’ t’ try.”

  “Then we play what we can get,” Gennie said firmly. “Remember that fast horses won’t like football, and maybe we can tie them up again. If we can’t, well, we’ll do what we can.”

  Off they all went to the line, and the horses that the North Riders were on looked very fast indeed. And the Riders did not want football, they wanted a game, and they had the speed to get it.

  They plunged down on the ball like falcons on a pigeon; the Trainees hung back and let them, and they got the ball too, arriving a good stride or two before the South did.

  The South tied up the Rider with the ball, but he gave a great heave and sent it flying toward one of the North Trainees.

  On the chance that might happen, Gennie had pulled back and put herself between him and them and as she saw the ball hurtling toward her, far too fast to catch safely, she copied the move earlier in the game. She stood in her stirrups, got the paddle in both hands and thwacked at the ball in passing. Not aiming, just deflecting.

  So the ball met her paddle and sped off her paddle at an angle, with the speed of her hit and the Northern Rider’s tremendous throw, and went screaming off to the sidelines.

  :Paddle’s broke, I’m out!: Gennie called, and went careening to their side to get a new one.

  The entire Northern field went after the ball. Mags caught movement out of the corner of his eye and alerted.

  :Hack, Halleck, the flag!: he warned, for those two were the closest, and he and Dallen made a straight run for their own goal. :Foot!: he projected, as hard as he could. :The flag! They’re usin’ our trick!:

  Sure enough, the North had “stolen” the South’s “secret move,” which was to send one of the Foot sneaking under cover across the field to steal the flag when no one was watching it. And if they hadn’t trained themselves for that, they might not have noticed until it was too late.

  The Northern Foot had the flag in his hands as Hack nearly ran him down, Halleck snatching it away as they passed.

  Their own Foot chased him back to the safety of his own lines, furious that they had been distracted enough to let him get that close. They shouldn’t have. They’d known this could happen and had planned for it to be them that did it.

  :Cool down,: Mags advised to them all. :Ain�
�t no thing. We caught ’er in time. ’Ware goal!:

  Halleck rammed the pole of the flag back in place and rejoined the game just as Gennie pounded back from the sidelines toward the Rider with the ball with a grim look on her face.

  Just how grim she was, was clear by the fact that the North was dangerously close to the South goal, taking advantage of the distraction of their Foot’s attempt on the flag. She went at the Rider with the ball full-out, shouldered into his Companion, and bringing her fist up between his hands, bunted the ball right out of them. It popped up high in the air and fell back among the hooves, and there it stayed, for the South was not going to let them get it back again.

  :Football! Football!: Mags “shouted,” and football they got. The fast horses of the Riders got hot and lathered as the South’s Companions kept the ball among their feet, not daring to kick it away lest it be intercepted.

  Compliments were exchanged among the Riders and Trainees. Horses kicked and bit, and Companions put their heads down and would not be moved. And finally, time was called and it was the end of the third quarter.

  “This will be the worst,” Gennie said, pulling off her helmet and mopping at her face and neck. “They’ve got fresh horses for the Riders, and we don’t. They want two goals; they need one.” She looked hard at Mags, at all of them. “Now’s for it, if you see it. Take chances. We won’t have another quarter to make up what we lose.”

  Mags nodded. They all did. They knew what that meant. So did Dallen, who tossed up his head to show he was still in the game.

  “Football, my lads. Football. They have fresh horses. They’ll drive us in toward our goal. They’ll try to get close enough to score. But we can win this one just the same if we keep our heads.”

  They all nodded. Then it was into the saddle and onto the line, and the first thing the fresh Riders did was get the ball right under Halleck’s nose. But he was atop them, and copying Gennie’s move in reverse, drove his fist down on the ball, knocking it among the hooves again.

  The Northern Trainees had learned by watching, and now it was their Companions who were playing as much football as the South. The time for compliments and kicks was over; both sides scrummed grimly over the ball, hocks were kicked and dust rose above the melee and the Northern Foot came up to join the fray.

  This was new! They had left their poles behind!

  The Foot circled the outside of the scrum, dancing back and forth, watching, watching. Mags could scarcely believe it, but it looked as if they intended to dash right in there and snatch the ball up from among the flying hooves if they got a chance!

  And then it hit him. He glanced at the Northern goal.

  There was only a single Foot there to guard it.

  Dallen didn’t need prompting; he responded the instant Mags’ eyes took in that fact. This was what he lived for, a straight, hard run across rotten ground, as fast as he could put hoof to turf. Mags was halfway to the goal before the lone Foot realized he was coming. The man leapt to intercept them, but instead of taking one of the ramps, Dallen gathered himself like a rabbit and made an enormous jump that got his forehooves on the top of the base. He scrambled for a desperate moment with his rear, as Mags threw his weight over Dallen’s neck, saved himself, and pivoted. Mags snatched at the flag, just as a roar from the other end of the ground told him that the North had scored.

  Run!

  They had the flag—but they had to keep it—

  And now the entire field had realized what he had done and were heading toward him.

  He hunched down over Dallen’s neck. Dallen leapt off the top of the goal-structure, aiming not for their own goal, but the side of the field where the very worst of the ground was, the boulders and hillocks and a hundred treacherous things. He scrambled among them like a rabbit, jigging and dancing from side to side, as fifteen Riders and Trainees avalanched toward them at a speed that was insane.

  One of the Riders, on a beast built like a greyhound, came up on them first, but Dallen feinted to the fence and the horse shied from it. The horses didn’t like the fence—they didn’t like the shouting people climbing on it, and they didn’t like the fence itself. The North horses could not come at his right hand side, and so the North Companions moved to get in ahead of him and stop him.

  The South Riders and Companions weren’t going to give them a chance, not if they could help it. And this was bad ground, very bad, and Dallen couldn’t move in a straight line across it. The entire scrum piled onto him, threatening to trap him.

  :Turn them into the fence!: Mags cried, and they did, crowding the horses, whose nerves stretched and snapped, and crowding their fellow Companions, while Mags and Dallen ran, slid between them, still heading for their goal.

  And that was when Mags saw it. The ball in the Rider’s hand, forgotten.

  :Pip! The ball!: he yelled, as Dallen gave a leap and a wiggle and nipped under a Northern Companion’s bridle.

  And then they were clear.

  Dallen got a surge of energy from somewhere and put on a burst of speed, as behind him and from the crowd, Mags heard a roar.

  He ignored it. They had their job—

  A Northern Foot popped up out of nowhere right in their path. The man made a vicious swing at Mags with his hook. Mags and Dallen both ducked, and the hook grazed the back of his helmet and his head—and Dallen hopped up like a rabbit to prevent his feet from being pulled out from under him by the return sweep of the hook.

  And then they were past—

  And then they were pounding up the top of the ramp and Mags stabbed down with the pole of the flag, planting it next to their own, just as a roar came up from the other end of the field—matched by the roar from the spectators at this end when they saw him safely in and the flag in capture.

  And the trumpets blatted, marking the game over!

  “One goal up and the flag in capture!” crowed Pip, for the hundredth time. “Oh! That was a game!”

  They were playing it over, move for move, at the celebratory dinner. Tonight there was no time limit on how long they could all occupy the dining hall, and even the cooks kept turning up with more to drink and tasty snacks to hear about the game. Mags and Pip, who made the final goal, were the great heroes of the hour. Now that the game was over, everyone was friends again, and although they were all too young to be allowed to drink very much, they did toast each other again and again in the small beer, cider, and weak wine they were permitted.

  “My eye,” said Halleck with satisfaction. “This is something like. I wish my family was here.”

  “Well now, this was just the first game, so don’t go thinking we’ll let you get away with this when we meet up again,” said the Captain of the North with a laugh. “And East and West were watching, so those clever tricks you used won’t work a second time.”

  “Nothing ever does, my lad,” Halleck countered, waggling his eyebrows. “You just be on your mettle, for we’ll have new tricks for you the second time around.”

  Mags kept very quiet, and off to one side, but he was full of silent contentment again.

  Tomorrow, something else might crop up to make his life a misery again. But for now . . .

  For now, life was good.

  11

  “I’M glad you had time for this today,” Amily said happily, as she passed Mags another random pile of Heralds’ reports. “I didn’t think you would, what with Kirball practice and all.” The little nook in the library felt as warm and welcoming as his own room now. And today was even better, since he and Amily were alone up here.

  “Well, yer Pa’s left me alone fer a bit, so thet gives me some time,” Mags replied, though his brow furrowed with worry. “I dunno though, I’m a bit afeared I mighta got too . . . watched. What wi’ the game an’ findin’ them foreigners. Mebbe I ain’t no use t’ him now, an’ thet’s why he ain’t got nothing’ fer me t’ do.” The prospect made him unhappy, for reasons he couldn’t quite define. Maybe because he had gotten used to being needed and wanted,
doing things that were important, even if only Nikolas knew that he was doing so.

  “Only until the East and West game, and only until people forget about the foreigners,” Amily replied giving him a pat on the back of his hand. “It will be fine. Father is patient. In fact, he’s probably figuring out ways to use this to his advantage—perhaps to get you to play up that you are very physical, rather than intelligent. People who are good at fighting or games are rarely expected to be clever; if you play into that, people will underestimate you. And he knows that eventually you and Pip won’t be the only star Kirball players. People will all have their favorites; it’s the way that games work out.” At his quizzical expression, she elaborated. “People will pick a team to support with their enthusiasm, and they will have favorite players on the team itself. If you stay quiet and uninteresting, they will turn their attention to someone who is outgoing and very vocal. Someone who relishes the attention, but not in a bad way. Didn’t you know that?”

  He shook his head. “Never seen no games like this afore,” he replied, more that a bit surprised at her words.

  “Oh.” Amily was a little taken aback. “I keep forgetting that you didn’t—” She stopped before finishing her sentence.

  “Thet I didn’ hev a normal kinda growin’ up,” he finished for her. “Well, thet’s good. Cause I kinda won’t fit in th’ way yer Pa wants me to if people are noticin’ thet alla time. If you ferget, it means I’m getting’ better at that fittin’ in stuff.” He smiled shyly at her and was rewarded by another pat on his hand.

  She eyed him carefully. “So you have no idea what Gennie really means when she talks about ‘giving the other team football’ do you?”

  He shook his head. “Well, I jest thought it was keepin’ th’ ball ’mongst the Companions’ feet. Kinda explains itself. Tha’s not it?”