As if realizing what she implied, Aspen composed herself. Locking her jaw, she marched to the opposite end of the track, where her assigned horse waited.
I watched her impart something to the animal that eased its tension. After that, her face disappeared under the helmet.
As I slipped on my own headpiece, visibility narrowed. The visor reduced this field to a horizontal bar, while other sensory perceptions heightened.
Hooves uprooted bits of turf. Dust swam in the torchlight.
Mud suctioned to my boots as I patted down my steed, whispered until the creature nickered, then hoisted myself off the ground. Feigning less experience, I pretended to slip on the stirrup instead of leaping onto the equine without needing such assistance.
In addition to a borrowed shield, a lance filled my palm. Smooth. Cold. Deadly. Across the lane, Aspen straddled her horse like a conqueror, the image spellbinding.
The combatants lined up. Three pairings at a time. Males and females with various degrees of bulk, all built for hard work from sunrise to sunset.
A custom shield was a tempting prize. They would fight vigorously.
Never would I insult Aspen’s competence by pulling back. But I would disguise my skill from the crowd.
“Clean strikes only!” the female herald announced. “No points for a glancing blow. Disqualification for hitting your opponent if they’ve surrendered. Highest scores for an unhorsing. Double splinters yield the second tier of points. Two broken lances is a draw. May Autumn keep you safe!”
Stillness descended. My breathing amplified inside the helmet like an echo chamber. The rider across my lane had been blessed with the physique of Jeryn, his monolithic height exceeding mine by a fraction. He possessed a strong spine, poising himself astride a restless horse, the equine’s snout pumping cold air.
Despite her long limbs, Aspen’s opponent had at least six inches and a summit’s worth of muscle on her. Yet she patted her horse and elevated her head. Only the faint tremble of one wrist balancing a lance betrayed her.
I willed Aspen to look my way. Through the slot, my gaze flew across the track and fastened to her own.
Her wrist steadied its grip on the weapon. Despite the terror, my lips slanted beneath the visor. Bold, beautiful woman.
Another horn blew. And we charged.
My heels dug into the horse. Vaulting into motion, the animal launched, firing down the lane. The wind sliced through my chest plate, clumps of dirt exploded into the air, and shrieks resounded.
In my periphery, Aspen flew like a slingshot. Distance and acceleration reduced her to a blot, too quick to monitor.
The point of my adversary’s lance aimed toward my helmet. Except as Poet once testified, the most dangerous part of walking a tightrope wasn’t the onset, nor the midpoint. Rather, the greatest risk came at the end, when you reached the last inches of that rope. That was the moment confidence overruled vigilance.
This rule applied to combat as well. Laziness did not occur at the start of an attack. It happened at the final instant, when the fighter grew overly sure of themself.
While pounding toward the center, I gauged where the next few seconds would lead, then delayed my move. The opposition’s grasp on their lance strayed from my helmet to mychest, their objective shifting while in the throes of assurance. Impulsively, they would try at the last moment for an unseating instead of a high score. An anticipated move, made by an ambitious but shortsighted rider.
One second before reaching the center, I flung the shield across my torso, angling the facade so as to make head-on contact difficult. My other arm jabbed, the lance spearing toward the player’s pectorals. We slammed into one another, the tip of their lance glancing my shield, the blow rattling my vertebrae nonetheless.
Wood ripped. Filaments scattered.
My lance exploded, splitting nearly to the vamplate. The rider bowled over his horse, his armor dented and his lance intact as he soared past me.
The crowd shouted while I swiveled toward Aspen’s lane. She galloped ahead, her body upright, the lance broken as well. Behind her, the man she’d crossed weapons with clutched his bicep where a fragment of wood impaled the flesh.
Relief coursed through my blood. Then it corroded into wrath as the competitors scanned Aspen through upturned visors, their combative gleams unmistakable. They gazed at her like a viable target, her prowess upping the ante.
The next sets passed in a montage. Fountains of spurting blood. Shattered joints and lances. Every blast radiated through my bones, every beat of the horse’s hooves congested my ears, and every fearful vision regarding Aspen shook me to the core.
Losing riders fell like pins. One man yowled in pain as the fragment of a lance skewered his hand.
Sweat oozed down my ribs. A swift glimpse of Aspen clutching the side of her helmet threw me into a frenzy. Another glancing strike without a shatter won her rival no points. The weapon had cuffed Aspen’s jaw, twisting her head so violently, I moved to leap off my horse mid-race.
But then Aspen straightened, cupping her mandible once to make sure it was still attached to her face. The headpiece concealed her features. Though from the way she clenched the weapon’s handle, this woman was more pissed off than anything.
The foliage motifs must be afflicting her. How she managed this battle in lieu of that, I could not fathom. By some force, she fought through the pain, barreling forward like a missile.
