A whirlwind of activity followed as the goat changed hands over and over, passing high and low, over necks and saddles and under horses' bellies. Twice the body fell to the ground, only to be instantly snatched up again.
It was a scene of pure savagery, and soon the air was heavy with the pungent scents of horse, sweat, blood, and leather. Ross learned that the whips were less for horses than opponents. Hands and faces were slashed to the bone, but in the frenzy of competition, no one noticed. High- heeled boots kept riders in their stirrups when they lunged out to seize the prize, eyes wild and whips clamped between their teeth.
It was not only the players who fought. Their horses were equally aggressive, charging into the fracas with bared teeth, chopping hooves, and neighs of challenge. Riders and horses moved as one, like a race of centaurs in which a single will drove both man and mount. And at the very center of the storm was Dil Assa, the wildest of the wild.
Once the swirling mass of riders surged into the crowd. Howling spectators scattered in all directions, but some were not quick enough, and when the bozkashi action moved away, three bruised and complaining casualties were left behind.
Surrounded by an eye-stinging cloud of yellow dust, the struggling mass of riders slowly moved in the direction of the pole. To Ross it seemed that most of the players and their mounts would exhaust themselves long before the circle of justice was reached. By holding back and husbanding himself and his horse, a player would have a much better chance of becoming the ultimate winner. But strategy meant nothing to the men in front of him; they played for the sheer barbaric joy of it.
The tides of violence whirled around Ross and Rabat, kindling a fire in the blood that called them to surrender to the madness and join that furious tumult. Trained and honed for bozkashi, the white stallion fought to join the fray, but Ross held him back, needing the full force of his arms and knees to keep the raging horse under control.
Even more fiercely than he fought his horse, Ross battled the siren lure of violence. He had intended to participate in a moderate way once he had observed how the game was played, but now he feared joining in. It would be easy, so easy, to drown in that swirling chaos, to lose all balance and restraint.
Though there had been a handful of times in his life when his control had been on the edge of shattering, Ross had never succumbed, for on some deep level he feared what might happen if he did. If he once gave way to madness, would he ever again be free of it? And so he held back, keeping himself and Rabat on the edges of the fray.
The match progressed slowly, every inch fought over with grim determination until the boz was three-quarters of the way to the pole. Then a single rider managed to break clear, the goat slung across his saddlebow.
Dil Assa. In spite of hot pursuit, for a few brief glorious minutes he ran free as the crowd shrieked encouragement. He gave a bellow of triumph as he circled the pole, but in order to reach the goal, he had to return the way he had come—and when he did, his opponents were waiting for him. Once more the match turned into a free-for-all.
Ross had been riding along at the edge of the main group, watching but not taking part, more concerned with his inner struggle for mastery than with who had possession of the increasingly ragged goat. Suddenly Dil Assa appeared before him, eyes wild and face sheened with sweat and blood.
"Coward!" he snarled. "You waste the finest bozkashi horse that ever lived. You are less than a man." Far beyond remembering the promise he had made to the khalifa, he raised his heavy lead-tipped whip and slashed it at Ross's face. "I spit on you, ferengi!"
Reflexively Ross reared the stallion back, taking him out of reach of the whip. Undeterred, Dil Assa drove his mount forward and tried again, striking wildly in his fury.
The results were explosive. Usually Ross glided through life as a calm, detached observer, but proximity to Juliet had dangerously strained his control. As the Turkoman's whip snapped viciously across his back and shoulder, rage shattered the remnants of his restraint.
When Dil Assa lashed out again, Ross reached out with cat quickness and grabbed the thong with his left hand. Ignoring the searing pain, he yanked back with all his strength, jerking the whip from his opponent's hand.
"If you want to lose, Turkoman, so be it!" He hurled the whip to the ground. "Now I play to win!"
He wheeled Rabat sharply and set off in pursuit of the main body of players, which had passed by while Ross and Dil Assa were engaged in their private combat. There had been another breakaway where one man carried the goat halfway to the goal before being overtaken. Now all of the players were involved in a wild general melee.
The stallion trumpeted with joy at being given his head and charged over the barren plain like an avenging angel. Knowing that the boz would be in the center of the crowd of riders, Ross drove straight for it, intending to force his way straight in.