It might have worked, but apparently the teams took whatever truce had been called seriously. Amid the angry shouts from the stands and the referee’s whistle, they piled on their respective teammates and pried them apart.
“Too bad, Skeeve,” I said. “I thought you had them there.”
When there was no response, I glanced at him. Brow furrowed slightly now, he was still working.
The player who had been attacked was free of his teammates. Though obviously still mad, he was under control as he bent to pick up his helmet. At his touch, however, the helmet took off through the air like a cannonball and slammed into the rival team member who had supposedly thrown the first punch. Now helmets in this game are equipped with either horns or points, and this one was no exception. The targeted player went down like a marionette with its strings cut, but not before losing a visible splatter of blood.
That did it.
At the sight of this new attack on their teammate, this time when the ball wasn’t even in play, the fallen player’s whole team went wild and headed for the now unhelmeted attacker . . . whose teammates in turn rallied to his defense.
Both benches emptied as the reserves came off the sidelines to join the fray … or started to. Before they had a chance to build up any speed, both sets of reserves were imprisoned by the glowing blue cages of magikal wards, an application I’ll admit I had never thought of. Instead of the fresh teams from the benches, Quigley/ Skeeve took the field.
I hadn’t realized he had moved from my side until I saw him vault the low railing that separated the spectators from access to the playing field. The move was a bit spry for the “old man” guise he was using, but no one else seemed to notice.