his left side and, as the rider on that side tried to snatch it, he swung it back straight into the right-side man's face.
That man flailed and nearly fell, his horse falling back. Jaryd swung into a controlled collision with the other horse, gaining space and ducking a forearm swing, and then Sasha was there to backhand the Banneryd's shoulder with the back of her hook. A last Banneryd rider came in front, looking left and then right over his shoulder to try and block…but Jaryd feinted three, four, five times until the other man went the wrong way, and with an explosive burst of speed, he shot past, reversed the ball to the protected side and galloped across the line between the talleryn posts.
“M'Lady!” he called to Sasha as they cantered three abreast back to the centre circle. “That was a lovely steal! My compliments!”
“Says he who only beat four defenders across the line!” Sasha replied happily. She rode lighter in the saddle than most men, Damon noted, and she moved in the stirrups with almost acrobatic confidence when contesting the ball. Her eyes shone with an enthusiasm that seemed to light her up from head to toe. There were those, like Alythia, who insisted that Sasha's only motivation in being what she was, was to spite her family and peers. Damon had thought something like it himself, once…but seeing her now, he realised that Sasha could no more help being what she was than Alythia could, or Sofy, or Koenyg. This was where she belonged. To deny her that, because it offended Verenthane sensibilities, seemed suddenly ludicrous.
Damon saw Pyter Pelyn ahead and accelerated to intercept him.
“You ride for Tyree,” he told Pyter harshly, coming alongside. “When your fellow rider needs a block to reach the goals, you provide it. Understand?”
“That rabid bitch is no Tyree comrade of mine,” Pyter snarled.
“That rabid bitch is a hundredfold the rider you'll ever be!” Damon snapped. “And better yet, that rabid bitch is my sister. You call her that again, I'll mistake your head for the ball.”
The following round was messier, the Banneryd continuing their formation tactics to better effect. The pack rumbled forward, men wheeling, yelling and hacking, as the northerners relentlessly pushed to the goals. A Tyree rider was unhorsed, but climbed back into the saddle apparently none the worse. Another took a back-side hook to the face and bled from the nose. Jaryd blocked Captain Tyrblanc in a rearing, lashing collision, and Tyrblanc retaliated with a sharp-ended hook to Jaryd's side. Jaryd's quilted tunic seemed to take the blow well, but it was illegal all the same, and Damon spared a moment's respite to glare at the adjudicator cantering nearby on his white horse, a red flag in one hand but not raised.
Things degenerated into a wild melee, men leaning from their saddles, jostling for position, gaining the ball briefly only to have it torn from their hook. One of the Falcon Guardsmen was jostled by Pyter Pelyn, nearly lost his seat, and then did so as a northerner hooked his stirrup. He crashed down and curled up, arms over his head as hooves stamped and thrashed all about. Again the adjudicator saw nothing. Koenyg then won free, with two Banneryd men for battering rams, and completed a weaving run toward the goals, avoiding attempted interceptions with tremendous skill until he flashed between the posts.
The next several rounds were all to the northerners’ advantage as they scored four more times without reply. Many of the side's Tyree nobles engaged willingly enough on their own, but refused to lend assistance to Jaryd, Sasha or even Damon when they received the ball. Horses were changed, as the starting mounts began to gasp and froth. In the midst of one round, the ball flew to pieces as the twining leather snapped, and play paused for a new one to come from the sidelines.
When Jaryd returned to the centre circle following the next Banneryd score, he was fuming mad. “You're all honourless cowards!” he shouted at Pyter and his noble companions. “You wear the green of Tyree as if it were something to wipe your arses on! Fight for your honour, you motherless bastards, or by the gods I'll see your family banners thrown into the shit as carpets for the pigs through the rest of this Rathynal!”
The outburst, Damon observed, was not well received.
The following round was a series of slashing runs by one side and then the other, with the horses