Fire Cat cleared his souls of all but the moment, calming himself, setting the stone into the cup of his hand, his index and little fingers pressing in from the sides where his two middle fingers conformed to the stone’s rounded rim.
Feet placed as Crazy Frog insisted, he bent forward, his concentration on the court. This was the game point. He and Lightning Thrower were tied. Nineteen to nineteen.
A tense silence filled the crowd lining either side of the court. Only the occasional whisper broke the tense anticipation.
A small fortune was bet on this game. That fact brought a smile to Fire Cat’s lips as he loosened his shoulders and took a final breath.
“Wave it all farewell, Wounded Dog.” Lightning Thrower rapped his lance with hard knuckles in an effort to distract him.
Fire Cat charged forward, driving with each step. Timing. Everything was timing. Crazy Frog had started him at a walk. Built to a run, watching Fire Cat the entire time. Correcting his balance, explaining how to hone his movements. Everything hinged on the release.
Now the court was forgotten, Fire Cat’s attention on the distance. On a peaked roof that rose dead center in line with the middle of the court: his target.
This, too, was new. Uncle had taught him to look at the court, to pick a place on the flat clay where his lance and stone would meet. Crazy Frog had insisted that the very best players looked beyond to a post, or something on the skyline, and aimed for that.
Fire Cat’s arm went back in balance with his stride, a slight bend at the waist. Whipping his arm forward, he felt that faint contact with the clay; then his fingers were imparting a final spin as he released.
Straightening, he concentrated on a smooth stride, shifting the lance between breaths like Crazy Frog had instructed. He didn’t even look at the penalty line. Crazy Frog had taught him to know his pace. Twisting his entire body, he put all of his strength into the throw, fingers imparting a spin to the javelin. Dead on, he watched it sail up into the air, directly in line with the distant rooftop.
Beside him, Lightning Thrower shouted in delight as he launched his spear.
Side by side they ran in pursuit of the flying lances and rolling stone.
Fire Cat hadn’t heard the crowd, not until this moment. Some realization in the back of his head knew they’d been screaming, whistling, and stamping from the moment he’d launched.
“Fly!” he bellowed at his lance, willing it to hold course, knowing that in the end, it was now a matter of luck.
Even as he watched, Makes Three’s beautiful black stone slowed and veered to the right before toppling on its side. An instant later both his and Lightning Thrower’s lances thudded into the clay, not a finger’s width between them.
Pounding his way down the court he stared in disbelief. Both lances were an arm’s length shy of the stone, each impact dimpling the clay. But which was closer?
The old referee toddled forward with his measuring cord; the crowd on the sidelines raised a deafening roar of anticipation.
Fire Cat’s heart hammered at his chest, driven by more than his exertion as the cord was laid out. The measuring knots marked the distance from the edge of the stone to each lance.
Crouching there with Lightning Thrower, he saw with his own eyes, a sick feeling welling within him.
“Lightning Thrower by a half a knot!” the old man cried.
A great shout rose from the audience; clapping hands and piercing whistles mixed with cries of exultation and bellows of disbelief.
Fire Cat took a deep breath, retrieving his stone and lance.
He glanced sideways, seeing Crazy Frog on his platform, a curious smile on the man’s normally expressionless face.
“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Lightning Thrower told him.
“What? That I lost?”
“No, that you’d ever be this good. Not after what I saw that first day you were here. No wonder Crazy Frog invited you to his house that night.” Lightning Thrower paused. “It almost worked, you know. Coming in, acting like a mediocre player to mask your skills. Clever.”
Fire Cat stared at him in disbelief. “You think I threw those first games?”
“If you made any mistake it was seeming to get better by the day before this match. If I hadn’t taken you seriously, you might have won, and I’d be a much poorer man.”
Fire Cat, frustration like a festering stone in his breast, walked on wooden legs through the crowd, barely aware of the nods and smiles men gave him as he passed. He stopped below Crazy Frog’s elevated stand, calling up, “I hope I didn’t lose you much.”
Crazy Frog, his face bland, stared down. “Actually, I bet on Lightning Thrower. By three. You just rolled a very good game, Wounded Dog. A couple of bobbles, but no more than Lighting Thrower made.”
“Then why didn’t I win?”
“Had the stone veered left there at the end, you would have.” He smiled wistfully. “Fire Cat, once you roll the stone and cast the lance, the rest is out of your hands. That’s the moment that Power takes over and has its will.”
“Can I beat the Natchez?”
Crazy Frog shrugged. “I’ve never seen him play.”
It was only when Fire Cat turned away that he saw the dog. It had to be Seven Skull Shield’s. No other dog alive was that ugly. The beast was limping around the edge of the crowd, left front foot held up. Obviously its wounds had been tended to, but as Fire Cat looked around, he could see no sign of Seven Skull Shield.
The dog, however, fixed on Fire Cat, one eye almost swollen shut as it stared at him. As Fire Cat stepped closer, the beast turned, hobbling away, only to look back as if irritated that Fire Cat had stopped short.
“Where’s Seven Skull Shield? What happened to you?”
If the dog looked this bad, did it mean the thief had come to grief as well?
“Was it Horn Lance? Some of his people?”
The dog whined, lungs heaving with emphasis.
“If he’s in trouble, I don’t have time to go looking for him. I’ve got to practice my game.”
The dog barked, tone full of impatience.
“I don’t care. I don’t even like the thief. I think he’s a crude—”
The dog barked again, aggressively this time.
“Go on.” Fire Cat waved at the dog. “I’m not going with you. I have more to do here. I’ve got to practice.”
He heard the dog’s whine over the roar of the crowd as two more players took their positions on the court.
Fire Cat turned his back on the beast, muttering, “It’s not my fault if the thief’s in trouble. If he’s gone and gotten himself killed, it’s good riddance.”
He couldn’t leave. Not yet. He couldn’t face the Natchez until he was winning again. But how long would that take, if ever?
As he looked back, the dog’s eyes seemed to be filled with disgust. It turned away—barely avoiding a kick from a dirt farmer—and hobbled off looking forlorn.