Mist's Edge (The Broken Lands #2) - T.A. White Page 0,93
the end.
The two looked at each other, their expressions saying they didn’t understand why she was so aghast. They looked back at her and nodded.
“Why?” she asked with wide eyes. “That is the action of a crazy person.”
She looked back at Fallon. What kind of madman would do this? What kind of madman would do this after making a bet? Why had she agreed to the bet?
Her palms started sweating and her stomach roiled. If he died, it would be because of that stupid bet. She leaned her head against the wooden fence the Trateri had erected to keep the audience from swarming the field.
“Shea, what’s wrong?” Clark asked.
“She just realized exactly what Fallon volunteered himself for.” Eamon’s voice came from overhead.
“There’s nothing to be worried about, Shea,” Clark assured her. “He’s competed in this event many times and always walked away with only minor injuries.”
That did not make her feel more comfortable.
“Give it up, boy. You’re not going to talk sense into her. This is something you only understand with time and when you have a stake in the outcome,” Eamon told him. He clapped Shea on the back. “Steady on, lass. You wouldn’t want any of these layabouts seeing you flinch, would you?”
Shea raised her head. No one was looking at her now, but if she kept it up long enough, she would soon draw attention. Daere would have her head if gossip spread that the Warlord’s Telroi cowered during these tournaments.
As soon as she looked, she wished she could duck and hide again. Fallon was up. He waited until she looked his way before raising a fist in salute. She dawned a cool expression and gave him a regal nod.
His opponent said something that had Fallon’s face darkening. They split apart and took their spots on either side of the field. Fallon picked the side that faced Shea.
He sat still as the call was given. His opponent exploded into movement, his horse racing furiously down the field as Fallon waited, arms crossed over his chest and a stony expression on his face.
“What’s he doing?” Clark asked. “He needs to build up momentum or his opponent will barrel right into him.”
A pair of forearms landed on the fence next to Shea. Trenton watched the action with an intent expression. “Watch carefully.”
Shea did.
Fallon waited until his opponent reached a third of the way down the field. He dropped his arms. Between one second and the next his mount lunged into a full-fledged gallop, its hooves churning up the dirt as it strained for every ounce of speed. In an almost lazy movement, Fallon leaned over, hooked his opponent’s foot, and yanked—sending the other man crashing to the ground.
The crowd roared, their sound drowning out the small prayer that Shea offered up.
Fallon’s reined his horse to a stop next to his opponent who had gain his feet and stood looking around with disbelief. Blood ran from a cut on his forehead. Fallon leaned over, touching the wound with two fingers as he said something to his opponent. He didn’t wait for a response as he touched his heels to the horse’s sides and sent it trotting toward Shea and her companions. Clark bounced up and down, nearly giddy with delight.
Fallon’s eyes were somber, though they held a small piece of wickedness as he rode up to Shea. She tilted her head to look up at him. The crowd had fallen silent, just the two of them staring at each other.
Fallon leaned forward and smeared his hand down her cheek and neck. His teeth flashed white and he let out a war holler as he gave his horse a signal that had it rearing onto its hind legs before it hit the ground running.
The crowd roared, the sound deafening under the forest’s canopy. It took a moment before Shea realized they were chanting “Hawkvale” over and over again, the words almost indistinguishable in the din.
She touched her cheek. Her fingers came away with red.
“Is that blood?”
Eamon understood her despite the noise. He nodded.
“It’s considered an honor to be anointed with the blood of his enemy.”
“This is just a competition, right?”
Eamon shrugged. “To a Trateri, every opponent is an enemy.”
Shea gaped up at him. She had blood on her. There was actual blood on her skin that her Warlord had put there, and Eamon was talking to her about enemies and honor.
“You people are a little crazy,” she said. “I mean, gone ‘round the bend-not coming back-crazy.”