“Charge!”
Both horses launched forward.
Everything happened too fast and too slow at the same time.
Charlie's blood went cold.
Her gaze snapped to Ben.
He was already moving.
Ben vaulted the barrier—one hand on the rail as his legs cleared it in a single fluid motion that screamed Ranger training and immediate danger.
The herald turned, confused.
But Ben was already sprinting across the sand toward Rowan's end of the list, and Charlie's brain finally caught up to what her instincts had already screamed. On the edge of her awareness, she heard Viv asking what was wrong.
Rowan was committed. No way to stop a destrier at full gallop. The gray thundered down the list, Rowan's lance leveledat Geoffrey's grand guard, his body leaning forward in the saddle for maximum impact.
Ben was still running, still shouting something Charlie couldn't hear over the crowd's roar.
Charlie grabbed the railing of the Queen's box. “Rowan!”
Her voice cut through the noise—combat training, projection, the ability to be heard over gunfire and explosions and chaos.
Rowan's head jerked slightly. He'd heard her.
Ten feet from impact, Rowan dropped his lance. The weapon tumbled into the sand as both hands grabbed for the horse's mane, for anything solid, for purchase.
The crowd gasped, confused. This wasn't part of the show, was it?
Charlie watched the saddle suddenly coming loose, tilting, Rowan's weight shifting wrong, his hands fisted in the gray's mane but momentum carrying him forward and down as Rowan's saddle slid completely sideways. He was falling, going under the horse, about to be crushed beneath half a ton of panicked horse?—
Ben hit them both at full sprint.
He didn't try to stop the horse. That would have been insane. Instead, he grabbed Rowan's armor—those careful hands that had buckled every strap, that had checked every fitting, now pulled Rowan away.
Ben's momentum combined with his grip yanked Rowan sideways out of the falling saddle. They went down together in a tangle of limbs and armor and sand, Ben taking the impact on his shoulder and rolling them both away from the horse's hooves.
The gray gelding, suddenly rider-less and terrified, veered away from the list. The saddle had fallen completely off and lay in the sand. The herald was frantically waving the abort flag.Geoffrey hauled back on his reins, his horse rearing as handlers rushed in from the sides to Rowan’s panicked gray. Viv was screaming.
“Viv, Maddie, stay here!” Charlie was moving before she knew it—over the railing, dropping the six feet to the arena floor, landing in a crouch and coming up running. She reached Ben and Rowan in seconds. Both men were on the ground, Ben still gripping Rowan's armor. In her ear, Shane was calling for paramedics.
“Don't move,” Charlie ordered, dropping to her knees beside them. “Rowan, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” Rowan's voice was muffled by the helmet. His chest was heaving. “Yeah, I'm—I'm okay.”
“Ben?” Charlie's hands were already checking him for injuries, professional training overriding everything else. “You hurt?”
“Shoulder.” Ben grimaced but pushed himself to sitting. “I'm good.”
“The hell you are,” Rowan said.
The crowd was on its feet now, a roar of confusion and concern. People were shouting. Phones were out, recording everything.
Viv appeared at Charlie's side, her queen's composure shattered. “Rowan!” She dropped to her knees in the sand.
“I'm okay.” Rowan fumbled with his helmet, got it off. His face was pale, sweating, but his eyes were clear. “I'm okay, love. Ben got me.”
