As if choreographed, the First Barn mare and the Second Barn
stallion converged on each other. Eira’s upswept wing hid the other horse, then
revealed him on the downbeat. Nia gripped her mare with her legs and leaned
forward, anticipating impact. She forced her eyes away from Catrin’s
approaching lance, focusing instead on the other rider’s armored torso. The
horses’ wings beat in unison, down at the same time. Now! Nia’s lance struck
somewhere near her opponent’s shoulder and slipped off her armor. Meanwhile,
Catrin’s lance connected with Nia’s left shoulder, great pain accompanying the
sound of the wooden lance thunking against armor. The impact jerked Nia back,
the restraining straps tightening against her legs, straining to hold her in
place as Nia fought against the weight of her armor to regain her balance in
the saddle. Eira’s wingstrokes broke rhythm as the weight on her back shifted.
Panic roared inside Nia’s helmet like the most violent storm, to be replaced by
fury as she regained her balance. Eira resumed the powerful wingstrokes that
kept her aloft, and Nia patted the now-sweaty neck.
Fighting the urge to clap a hand to her injured shoulder, Nia
struggled to maintain her hold on the lance, now dipping and swaying above
Eira’s head as if it had a mind of its own. The mare flattened her ears against
her head, and her neck stretched out straight in front of her. Miraculously,
the powerful wings beat cleanly as the mare swept past the other horse,
feathers brushing his tail.
Nia got the lance stabilized into its upright holding position and
clutched it with her right hand. Left shoulder throbbing, she guided Eira to
the ground in front of First Barn. The mare landed harder than usual, no doubt
due to the extra weight she carried, and jarred Nia’s shoulder. The pain
inflamed her anger. Her left hand, freed of the reins, clasped her amulet. She
hoped serenity would flow into her from the necklace.
Catrin circled in to land at Second Barn as Tristan hurried toward
Nia. “What happened? You were supposed to go three passes!” he shouted up to
her.
He was her barn leader, so tall she had to look up at him from her
five foot height when she was on the ground. Seven years older than her own
seventeen years, Tristan sometimes seemed younger. His blond hair was always
neatly combed, but his dark eyes were charged with emotion. If she ever wanted
to know how Tristan felt about something, she read his eyes instead of
listening to his words. Right now he was angry. Well, so was she.
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| Author Linda Ulleseit. |
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