44 #2
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 my chest, 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.
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 a pendulum 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.
The final horn wailed across the meadow. In a flash of motion, we plowed toward one another.
Matching her velocity, I clenched the lance, maneuvering it at the same angle. Our momentum synced. A dynamic energy streaked through me, an unprecedented, unconditional connection.
Memories cycled through my head. Her laugh. Her smile. Her kiss. She had told many falsehoods, but none of those moments had been fake.
We charged as allies instead of enemies. Our lances blew together, grinding them down, splinters bursting into the eventide.
A draw.
As we thundered past one another, my armor brushed hers, a shiver rushing over my skin. Wheeling our mounts, we accepted our replacements and bolted toward each other once more. Now that we had perfected this exhibition, she and I made the ending count.
A genuine strike that destroyed each weapon and ensured a combined win.
I increased my speed, the equine’s hooves ramming into the earth. Aspen did the same, so that I imagined those snarky lips curling.
At the midsection, we struck. Our weapons pared into one another, wood shearing through wood. The noise split my eardrums, and timber showered around us.
My horse slowed partway down the lane, then scooted around on my command. In unison, Aspen turned her mount. Our gazes dropped to the weapons, each demolished to stumps.
Yet I peered closer. Not a draw.
One weapon had splintered shorter than the other.
Aspen belted out a genuine gasp, and her head swung upright. Magnificent woman. She had planned to break even with me, but none of us ever knew the extent of our strength until it was tested.
Roars blared from the crowd. Yet the applause faded as I cantered to the center, meeting Aspen there. At the same moment, we ripped off the helmets, welts and gashes bisecting her flesh.
I must look similar because her fingers reached out to caress a place on my jaw that flared with pain and leaked fluid. Not that I gave a fuck. With a hiss, I snatched her elbow and yanked Aspen against me.
Over the divider, I hauled this exceptional woman forward. Her breasts smacked my torso, the triumphant sight of her fueling my pulse.
My brave temptress. My reckless inspiration.
I would lose to her any day. Over and over again.
Stunned, Aspen gripped my biceps, my muscles pebbling in response. Our panting outtakes mingled, and those hot pupils sought my own.
Amid the stimulus, I lowered my head. My lips skimmed her own and declared my greatest truth.
“I love you,” I whispered against her mouth.
Shock blew through Aspen’s features. “Say it again.”
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you.”
Slanting my head, I crushed my mouth to hers, kissing Aspen in the midst of a dueling field. She grinned against me, her lips yielding beneath mine, the slick tip of her tongue writhing with my own in an arduous rhythm. Overcome, I pried her open, losing my breath.
Long ago, she fell first.
But I had fallen deeper and harder.