A Whisper of Wings by Paul Kidd Page B

players from head to toe; Zhukora’s followers were clad in pure jet black - their masks were cruel white skulls that faced the world with a snarl of death. The team were fast and ruthless. Zhukora inspired an insane élan; The “Skull-Wings” played on with shattered limbs and broken wings, screaming home with goals against impossible odds. They attacked with a savagery that ripped lesser teams to shreds.
    Their opponents’ armour glowed with all the colours of a forest spring as each player sought to outshine the others with his costume. Their name seemed to suit them; the “Splendid Orchids Flowering”. The “Orchids” made a confusing contrast to their silent, stark opponents.
    A second, more subtle difference could be drawn between the teams; Zhukora’s followers had the dull grey/brown wings of commoners. Out of all twelve players, only two of them were noble; social rank bore no weight against ability.
    Prakucha dipped and wove within the enemy’s front rank. As captain of the clan’s prime team, he drew enormous status, and the huge crowd of watching tribesmen yelled in approval. The huge hunter flexed his biceps for a pair of squealing girls then blew a kiss towards Zhukora, flipping around to show the girl his tail.
    Zhukora ignored the man in stony silence. Her team flickered with energy like an extension of her own will, yearning for the signal to begin. Daimïru hovered at Zhukora’s tail where she belonged, following her leader in devoted silence. Zhukora looked over to her beloved friend and gave a savage smile, bringing Daimïru a dizzy breath of life.
    The game of jiteng was a sacred ritual. The rules were deceptively simple; hoops were placed on poles at either end of a clearing, and a sparse group of trees provided cover and terrain. The players battled for possession of an irridescant ball, which could be caught and handled only by the player’s catching staves - sticks two tails long tipped with cups of woven wicker. The butt end of each staff ended in a densely padded tip, and any player struck in the head or torso by the staff was disqualified until the next goal had been scored. At the scoring of a goal, the “dead” team members were restored to play. Any players within ten spans of the ball were fair game for an attack. No player could leave the field without forfeiting their right to play.
    The first team to score four goals was declared the winner; an arduous task that sometimes might take an hour to achieve. The rules were simple enough to be easily understood, and therefore widely open to interpretation. Like all things amongst the alpine Kashra, the game’s simple form had become a thing of complex subtlety; each match was treated as a unique piece of art.
    For a thousand years the tribes had set aside the art of war. The age of battles had been deliberately removed from Kashran history; fighting and conflict were utterly unknown. Even the tales of the ancient wars had been forbidden.
    Instead there was the game.
    More than half the clan had come and watch the game. A hush fell across the audience as the umpire shook the ball out to be blessed by Father Wind. He muttered the obligatory prayer and whirled the ball inside his catching staff.
    “Spread wings. Ball high!”
    The umpire hurtled the ball into the air, and the two Rovers crashed together with a roar. The Orchids’ player snatched the ball and hurtled it safely back into his team, where Prakucha arrogantly claimed the prize and bellowed out in joy.
    Zhukora clenched her fist and signalled the attack.
    “Fork formation, Rovers high: Go! Go!”
    The sky exploded into frenzy as Skull-Wings shot off in all directions. The Orchids blinked as a clear path to the goals suddenly opened up before them; they surged forwards in a ragged phalanx, each man desperate to outstrip his fellows in the all-out race towards the prize.
    Players screamed as black shapes thundered down onto them from above. Wings tore and armour cracked as