The last period of the game was only minutes old when Blade suddenly found himself with the ball in the cup of his stick. Some weird twist of fate or puff of wind had landed it there. Blade couldn't just dump it out, so he got rid of it the only way he could-with a shot at the goal. It was a long shot even for Blade, and it would have been simply foolish for anyone else to try.
So nobody was surprised when the ball bounced off the base of the cone and rolled back onto the field. One of the Black Rocks picked it up and pounded down the field behind his teammates as if the Devil was at the heels of his mount.
Blade had to stay in the scrimmage. If he pulled out and the man scored with the ball he himself had virtually given to the other team, he was going to be noticed. So Blade stayed in close and even used knees and elbows against some of the Black Rocks. He'd worked out how to use unarmed-combat techniques from horseback, although not how to pull his punches. At least none of the Uchendi would recognize Home Dimension martial arts!
Blade dismounted one man and disabled another's mount. Then the Black Rock rider took his shot at the goal and missed. Blade joined the cheering, then saw the Guardian signaling from the sidelines. A break was called, while Blade rode over and submitted to a tongue-lashing from the shaman.
«Have you less honor or sense of shame than I thought, Blade?» the older man growled. «Are you so eager to win that you will risk killing a warrior of the Uchendi?»
And much more in the same vein. Blade thought afterward that one of the hardest things he did that day was listen to the Guardian with a completely straight face. It was also one of the most important. The Guardian could read faces as well as minds to learn what other men were thinking.
Finally the Guardian ran out of things to say, dismissed Blade, and turned back to Kyarta and Eye of Crystal. As Blade urged his mount back on to the field, Crystal winked at him. That made him feel better.
Friend of Lions greeted him as he rejoined the team. «That was bad luck, your long shot missing,» he said. He sounded more disappointed than angry.
Blade shrugged. «It was. But at least they did us no great harm with it. A long arm and a clear opening do not make me Superman, after all.»
«Who is Superman?»
«A legendary hero of the English. He has the strength of many men, he flies, and can see through walls.»
Friend of Lions seemed impressed. «I wonder-could he have been one of the Idol Makers?»
«We have no legends of visitors by that name,» said Blade cautiously. «More than that I could not say.»
«More than that it might not be wise to say,» said Friend. «Here on the nor field the Spirits are always listening. If they wish to avenge an insult they do not find it hard. «
Then the whistles and drums began to sound, calling the teams back to their positions for the rest of the game. Both teams were now tired riders on tired mounts. No one could have detected this from the way the Black Rocks came on, though. Winter Owl was far ahead, taking all sorts of chances he would probably not have risked if sticks had been lawful weapons today.
«Curse these child's rules!» growled Friend of Lions at the sight. «If I could shove my stick a hand's breadth up his arse he'd not be sitting so easy!» He clearly wanted to say more, but that would have been too close to disputing the Guardian's judgment.
By now the day had turned blazing hot, and two dozen ezintis were churning up the field until a fog of dust hung over it. It was getting hard to see one's own teammates, and nearly impossible to find the ball unless it hit you between the eyes. And if that happens, you won't be able to use your knowledge of the huba-gan, thought Blade. Half a pound of bronze moving at the speed of a cricket ball would crack a man's skull like a hammer.
Everyone was riding cautiously. Exhausted mounts and poor visibility increased the danger of being spilled and trampled. Blade didn't have to worry about standing out in the crowd any more. Nobody more than thirty feet away would have recognized him, let alone told what he was doing. He was coated with dust from head to foot, to the roots of his hair and even under his loinguard. His mouth was filled with dust, and mud dripped from his limbs where sweat had flowed through the dust.
A Black Rock scored; the game was tied again. Blade hoped all of the White Trees were even more exhausted than he was. If they scored again, it was going to take a lot of luck for either him or the Black Rocks to save the game. He wasn't sure if the best thing for him now wouldn't be his mount dropping dead.
It was the first time in his life that Blade had thought playing the game out to the end would not be a good thing. Most of the time it was the wisest course of action. You always should be able to outlast an opponent, if nothing else. But not nor. Not when Winter Owl's goodwill might mean the difference between victory and something far worse.
Winter Owl found himself in the open, with the ball and a long clear shot. He let fly, and the ball hit home.
Eight to seven, in favor of the Black Rocks. Some of the Black Rocks supporters were cheering again. They had a right to, Blade realized. The game had about five minutes more to run, and if the Black Rocks simply played it cautiously they would have their victory. Then Richard Blade would have a good-tempered Winter Owl ready to listen to him.
Half blinded by dust, sweat, and heat, men on both sides were now riding their mounts over the boundaries of the field and being ruled out of the game. The Black Rocks were down to seven riders, the White Trees to six. Blade hoped the next rider would be from the White Trees. That would settle matters.
A Black Rock charged at him out of the murk. Blade raised his stick. The other mount flinched aside, nearly went down, then headed off at an angle. The rider cursed. Blade saw now the bedraggled feathers of the ball trailing from the cup of his stick. He dug his heels into his mount's flank and followed the Black Rock.
Better keep an eye on him, to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid like giving the White Trees a chance to score, Blade told himself. Just don't get caught in a position where what you can do will make the difference between winning and losing.
Suddenly the runaway ezinti was coming up on the boundary of the field. The rider had to get rid of the ball and did so, to the nearest rider-Blade. Perhaps he hadn't recognized Blade as a White Tree, or was too exhausted to think that a rider following him might not be a friend.
As he realized this ugly truth, a drum started to boom, loud enough to be heard all over the field. When that drum sounded thirty times, the game would be over. There was no tie in the game of nor; if the score was even at the end of three periods there would be a fourth. Blade wanted to avoid that. If he could just keep from scoring until those thirty beats passed…
He couldn't drop the ball. All at once there wasn't enough dust around him to hide him from his teammates.
They would see him plainly. His mount seemed to have found new strength. It was pawing at the ground, ready to run instead of collapse. Blade cursed it.
If only he had some really useful form of telepathy! Telekinesis, for example-the ability to control physical objects with the mind. He could shoot the ball and make it miss, or snap his stick before the ball left the cup, or-But he didn't have telekinesis, and someone would surely detect it if he did and used it. Using telepathy among telepaths was like shouting secrets in a crowded theater.