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 . . .