'Just don't go too soon, that's all,' Will cautioned him. Again, Tug tossed his head disdainfully.
They walked slowly back into the oasis. Unlike Hassan, Will had no need to familiarise himself with his mount's little peculiarities. He and Tug knew each other's ways back to front and inside out. A curious crowd of Bedullin watched them as they entered the camp. It was early morning and the race was set for late that same afternoon, when the full heat of day had passed.
He knew that there had been a lot of betting on the race. It was impossible not to hear conversations in the camp, even though he tried to appear aloof to such matters. He also knew that most of the betting wasn't about the actual outcome of the race. It was about the margin by which Sandstorm would win. The Bedullin were familiar with the beautifully formed Arridi stallion that Hassan would be riding. It seemed that none of them gave the shaggy little barrel-shaped horse from the north any chance of winning.
Even though Will had the utmost faith in Tug, faced with such universal disbelief, he found it hard to keep his spirits up. Yet he had to believe they could win – that they would win. The prospect of losing was just too awful to contemplate. He had been too impulsive, he thought, to risk losing Tug in such a way. Yet time and again throughout the day, when he racked his brains to think of what else he could have done, he came up with no answer. If he were to get Tug back, he would have to risk losing him.
The thought tortured him through the long, heavy hours of the middle of the day. Then, as the sun began to slant down, and the shadows of the palms stretched out further and further, it was time.
His face was grim and set as he led Tug through the oasis to the start line. Hassan was waiting, mounted on the beautiful palomino, by the line that had been gouged in the sand. Like Will, who had discarded his cloak for the race, he wore shirt, trousers and boots, and a kheffiyeh. The headgear would protect the riders' faces from flying sand and dust during the race. He nodded a greeting as Will and Tug moved towards the starting line. Will nodded back. He didn't speak. He couldn't bring himself to wish Hassan good luck. He didn't want Hassan to have anything but bad luck. If Hassan managed to fall off Sandstorm in the first fifty metres and break a leg, Will wouldn't mind in the slightest. Yet looking at the Bedullin youth's easy seat on the horse, as Sandstorm moved nervously, prancing slightly, ears pricked with eagerness for the coming contest, it didn't seem likely. Hassan seemed glued to the saddle, an integral part of the horse.
Will put his foot in the stirrup and swung up astride Tug.
'This is it, boy,' he whispered. The horse tossed his head. Will drew one end of the kheffiyeh across his face, and twisted the other end over it to hold it in place. Now only his eyes showed, through a narrow slit. The rest of his face was covered. Beside him, Hassan did the same.
Sandstorm pawed the ground eagerly, kicking up small clouds of dust. Beside him, Tug stood stolidly, all four feet planted firmly. The difference between the two horses was all too obvious: one prancing, eager and light-footed, his coat groomed till he gleamed; the other solid, barrel-chested and shaggy. More money changed hands as last-minute bets were made.
'Riders, are you ready?' Umar stepped forward as he called them.
Hassan waved one arm. 'Ready, Aseikh!' he called. The Bedullin cheered and he waved to the watching crowd.
'Ready,' Will said. His voice was muffled behind the kheffiyeh and he had to force the word out through a throat constricted by anxiety. There was no cheer this time. As far as he knew, nobody had bet on him – only the distance by which he'd lose.
And that was hardly something they were going to cheer about.
'Move to the line. But remember, if you cross it before the start signal, you will have to turn and go back to cross it again.'
Hassan edged Sandstorm forward, crabbing him sideways. This was a tricky moment for him. With the horse prancing and excited, he had to hold back a metre or two from the line to make sure he didn't cross prematurely. Will nudged Tug and the little horse moved quietly to the line.
'Hold there, boy,' Will said quietly. Tug's ears twitched in response and he stopped, his forehooves only centimetres from the line. One of the Bedullin, who had been assigned the task of monitoring the start line, crouched and peered closely at the horse's hooves, then straightened as he realised Tug wasn't infringing. But he kept his eyes riveted on the line and Tug's feet. Seeing it, Will touched Tug with one toe.
'Back up, boy,' he said. He wasn't willing to take the risk that the judge might be overeager to penalise him. Tug obediently retreated one pace. A few of the Bedullin frowned thoughtfully. The horse was well trained. Was there more they should know about?
'There will be no interference between the riders. If either of you interferes with the other, he will automatically lose.'
The two riders, now intent on the course that stretched out before them through the desert, nodded their acknowledgement. There were marshals stationed along the course to make sure neither of them cheated.
'Ride straight to the marker, round it and ride back again. The start line is also the finish line,' Umar said. Neither rider nodded this time. They knew the course. Both had been over it during the day.
'The starting signal will be a blast on Tarlq's horn. The minute you hear it, you may start.'
Tariq, an elder of the tribe, stepped forward with a large brass horn. He brandished it so they could both see it. Earlier in the day, Will had been made familiar with the note of the horn.
'In your hands, Tariq, and in God's will,' Umar intoned. It was the official notice that the next sound to be heard would be the starter's horn. An expectant silence fell over the crowd. Somewhere, a child started to ask a question. Umar looked round angrily and the mother quickly silenced her offspring. Umar gestured to Tariq and the older man raised the large, bell-mouthed horn to his lips.
Will watched him intensely. He saw the Bedullin's chest swell as he took a deep breath. Beside him and slightly behind him, he knew, Hassan would be watching like a hawk.
He tightened his grip on the reins, forced himself to relax his legs around Tug's body. He didn't want to send any inadvertent signal to the horse before it was time.
Now!
The horn brayed its metallic baritone note and he squeezed Tug with his knees. Dimly, he heard Hassan's yelled Yaaah! as he urged Sandstorm forward. The crowd roared with one huge voice. Then the sound cut off in shock.
Tug shot away from his stiff-legged stance like an arrow, going from stock-still to full gallop in the space of a few metres. Sandstorm, excited and prancing, was left behind, curvetting and tossing his head for the first few paces. Then Hassan clapped his heels into the palomino's sides and he stretched out in a gallop after Tug.
The crowd, silenced momentarily by Tug's incredible acceleration from a standing start, began yelling again, screaming for Hassan and Sandstorm to run him down.
Even Will, who was aware of Tug's phenomenal ability to accelerate, was a little surprised at the lead they had established already. He knew that Sandstorm would overhaul them before long. Once he was in stride, the Arridi was definitely faster than Tug over a kilometre or two. But now he hoped the shock of being left behind at the start would force Hassan to overstretch his mount, using up some of the precious energy reserves that would become so important in the last few kilometres.
Behind him, vaguely, he could hear the yelling tribesmen. Closer to, he heard the rolling thunder of Sandstorm's hooves on the rocky ground. Tug's ears were up and his legs were churning, throwing a plume of sand and dust into the air behind them.