8 Horseplay #2
Lord Gretsky emerged from his side of the arena like a bear from its cave, the sunlight slowly revealing not the golden Urgan uniform I’d hoped for, but a huge painted torso, yellow slitted eyes, and a pair of knotted, curling horns.
His misshapen fangs protruded over scowling lips, and his gigantic black hoversteed thrummed menacingly.
He carried a massive tournament greatsword in his hand, and wore a zeroblade at his waist.
“Shit,” I murmured as my heart raced into overdrive. This was going to hurt.
A liveried demon footman approached, followed by two hordlings holding various tournament weapons. “Greatsword or swordstaff?”
Lord Gretsky was holding a greatsword. Traditional wisdom would have me use a long-handled swordstaff to counter his power with greater reach, but I’d always been better with a sword than a spear, whether mounted or on foot.
“Give me the greatsword,” I said, grasping the mock weapon in both hands.
I gave it a few practice swings and thrusts.
It was not as well balanced as my war blade, but it would do.
I considered my opponent as we moved to the starting positions, facing each other across the round arena floor.
He was big, and I knew from experience that Imperials were faster than they looked.
He would probably rely on his strength and speed to try and bowl me off my steed quickly.
If I could evade him, maybe I could wear him out.
If his sword began to dip, I might be able to swoop in, catch him under the chin, and lay him out on the dirt.
It was a slender hope, but better than nothing.
I looked into Lord Gretsky’s eyes, and my hope faded. There was hatred in those eyes. Raw, cold fury.
The bell rang, and Lord Gretsky sprang forwards, his hoversteed roaring as it accelerated. His steed was quick, quicker than its size would imply, but I was astride Tilly, and we had years of experience fighting as one.
I leaned, and Tilly, knowing exactly what I wanted, rolled away, leaping up and to the right. Gretsky’s tournament blade swished inches below my head, and I put my heels into Tilly’s flanks, sending her darting forwards and out of reach from Gretsky’s backward-swinging Parthian blow.
We skidded around, staying low to the ground. I barely had time to look behind me before we had to dash sideways. Gretsky had followed us, his augmented transhuman body able to withstand turning forces far higher than I could. Shaking him would be hard.
Gretsky stayed high, trying to bear me down to the ground, but Tilly skidded around him, her new tractorgrip generator proving its worth.
Gretsky was a capable rider on a performance steed, and had I not installed the upgrade before the tournament, one of his savage sword blows would have already sent me sprawling.
I could tell my evasive tactics were frustrating my opponent.
His attacks grew more savage. He snarled as he rushed at me, trying to bash me off Tilly’s back.
I changed my tactics and shot straight up, avoiding his cut, but he brought his greatsword in an arcing vertical slash which bashed against Tilly’s cowling.
We spun dizzyingly. I reacted on instinct, pulling Tilly still higher as she tried to stabilize, coming out of the spin sideways and confused.
That blow had not been directed at me. There was no way Gretsky could have unseated me with that vertical cut, and he knew it.
Even if he had hit me, all he would have done was given me a sore leg.
That blow was not a tournament attack. It was a battlefield maneuver.
He’d forgotten he was using a tournament weapon and not a zeroblade and was trying to cut my mount out from under me.
That fucker had tried to kill Tilly.
I knew it was a sham. I knew Tilly was all right. A tournament sword couldn’t possibly harm Tilly through her shields, but that wasn’t the point.
Nobody fucked with my steed.
Gretsky circled below me, taking a moment to regain his breath before renewing the assault.
I tucked the overlong sword handle under my arm like a swordstaff, pointed Tilly’s nose at Gretsky’s chest, and charged.
Gretsky gave a crooked grin of triumph and spurred his steed into an answering charge, rising to meet me.
He brought his sword up over his head, preparing to bring me down beneath its weight.
Discreetly, I pulled my left hand from the controls and placed it on the pommel of my blade. Tilly knew what to do.
Gretsky swung, and Tilly rolled. Inverted, I swept my sword into his cut, arms and back braced for the blow.
His blade met mine with a deafening clang and bounced away, harmlessly deflected, but his blow knocked the tip of my sword directly into his solar plexus.
Tilly’s engines revved, and the combined force of my blow and Tilly’s speed lifted Gretsky out of his saddle and into the air.
My training took over. When you get them out of the saddle, don’t stop until you bring them to the ground, my instructor had said, and I listened.
I completed my roll and dive, pulling up barely in time to avoid plowing into the ground.
Gretsky was not so lucky. I pinned him to the dirt with my sword, dragging him painfully along for several yards.
I only pulled Tilly up and let the demon lord go when the arena’s wall approached.
In a burst of vicious pride, I grinned. He’d been duly punished for trying to hurt my steed.
A horn blew, and the match was over. I looked to the scoreboard to see Gretsky had scored three touches on me during the bout, light grazes which meant nothing with tournament weapons, but could have been debilitating or deadly with real swords.
I’d scored one touch during our melee, but my unseating him wiped his points away.
Bringing him to the ground gave me the match.
The applause this time was enthusiastic.
I raised my blade and rode around the stadium, drinking in the adulation.
Princess Marie clapped so rapidly her limbs blurred.
Archduke Darius gave me a salute and a grin.
I spied Bridgette d’Lyre, who blew me a kiss, and even Prince Aureli looked impressed.
Turning to face the Emperor, I saluted, bringing my sword vertical, then down as I bowed.
The Emperor gave me a small, one-sided smile of pleasure, inclined her head in acknowledgment, and clapped three times, slow and deliberate.
It was only as the applause died that I felt a flicker of shame for what I’d done. This was a tournament, not a battlefield. I could have unmounted Gretsky and still won. I had not needed to humiliate him.