After cleaving apart my next lance on the rider’s shield, I turned to find Aspen tumbling off the horse and hitting the dirt. My pulse stalled. Terror seized my jugular. The roar barely climbed up my throat, my lance seconds from harpooning her rival and pinning the motherfucker to the nearest post, all three decades of my life flashing before my eyes.
The crowd hushed. Nicu’s features blanched. His green eyes widened in horror, and his cry diced through the air.
I jolted, about to hurl myself off the steed, when Aspen’s prone form twitched. Then she peeled herself off the ground.
The masses shrieked, chanting for her to “Stand! Stand! Stand!”
Bruised and battered, Aspen wobbled to her feet. Locating Nicu, she stumbled into a mock curtsy that had the village clamoring with glee and my liege grinning from ear to ear.
I stared, gawking as she rounded my way. And offered me a cheeky salute.
A growl hit the roof of my mouth. Someday, this vixen would give me a heart attack.
Aspen sketched an exaggerated bow to the spectators while her competitor growled in umbrage. They should have won that unseating. However, swinging the lance like apendulum toward Aspen instead of striking clean disqualified them.
Wood shavings rained on us. More crimson spilled. Dark clouds floated through the sky like rafts.
Aspen struck her combatants in places others wouldn’t think to target, her knowledge of weaponry supplying her with a unique perspective. Meanwhile, I fluctuated somewhere between proficient and mediocre, my victories misconstrued for good fortune or brute force rather than tactics and training. So caught up in the excitement, the onlookers failed to notice.
Additional figures either hobbled off the meadow or slumped on a gurney while healers carted them into the medical tent. That left a handful of riders.
The following round pitted me against Aspen’s next potential threat, who leered in her direction. Rancor stung my flesh like a fleet of wasps. More than the prize, their hostile aura made it clear they wished for a glorified end at my lady’s physical expense.
Speeding across the lane, I resisted gutting them like a hog. Instead, I rammed my lance into their weapon with such ferocity, my point whittled to a fucking toothpick. The force lobbed them off the stallion, their body toppling like a sack of grain, the premeditated angle dropping them in a disjointed heap. The rider screeched in agony, their bones breaking easier than twigs.
By the time the revelers finished gasping, I’d circled my horse. Finally, my gaze collided with hers.
Through the open slit of her helmet, astonishment and reproach glinted in Aspen’s eyes. To everyone, the maneuver had been the unvarnished consequence of a well-placed blow. To this woman, I’d been intentionally ruthless on that rider. While still in compliance with the rules, this hardly demonstrated sportsmanship.
Yes, she was right. No, I did not regret a thing.
She could have dealt with that beast of an opponent. However, he would have left the field not only with his balls impaled upon the tip of her lance, but also with a lasting grudge. Be it before or after, he would have endeavored to spill her blood.
Unacceptable. I would not apologize for making sure he stayed down. If she would fight anyone to the end, it would be me.
I lifted my own visor. Something in my expression washed the disapproval from hers, those features softening, the visual knitting around my chest.
Despite every lie, she still owned me.
As the last two players, we faced one another across the track. Our horses trotted in place, their hooves stomping craters into the soil.
Either way, the prize would be ours. The problem was, it needed to look authentic.
Her gaze tacked to mine. A performance for the crowd, then. But fuck, the rules made it plain. The strike must be clean, direct, hard.
Also, to yield at this juncture would smack of bias. As if we had rigged the game to finish this way.
Beyond the helmet’s opening, Aspen’s eyes darted to a spot on my lance. Furtively, I trailed her attention to the staff. If we timed it correctly, and if we both hit the same area, it might work.
Battles involved feigned displays to throw off the enemy, and soldiers drilled themselves for this. Her knowledge of weapons, combined with my proficiency, could achieve otherwise insurmountable obstacles.
It came out as naturally as a gale rustling the leaves.“I trust you,”I mouthed.
It should not be true. Yet it was.
Right here and now, I trusted this woman.
Her irises shone with humility. We lowered the flaps of our helmets.
