finding room to run as the play became more spread out. Damon had one good run himself past the cheering scaffold before getting cornered against the perimeter line and losing possession. Pyter Pelyn tried to hook the ball but missed, and two riders from opposing sides and directions came straight at each other, each rider leaning low on one stirrup with hooks ready. With typical Lenay stubbornness, neither gave way, and they collided above the ball with a violent tangle of limbs.
Garys hooked the ball, but was hacked on the arm by Koenyg, and lost it again. A Tyree man took a hard block from Tyrblanc, giving Koenyg time to wheel about, but then Sasha careened across his front, spinning her mount across the ball's rolling path, and somehow using her horse's momentum to lean low and wide and rip the ball away from Koenyg's reach. She continued the spin, reversed the ball, and shot off, dodging one northerner and then another, Koenyg cursing in close pursuit.
Suddenly Jaryd was there, blocking the heir to the Lenay throne with a vigour some men might not have dared. “Go Sasha!” Damon heard him yelling, as he followed in pursuit, and another rider came flying toward Jaryd from the side. It looked like an intercept, even though Jaryd did not have the ball…and Damon saw with a sudden chill through the sweaty heat that the interceptor was Pyter Pelyn.
“Jaryd, to your right!” Damon yelled. Jaryd swung about, raising an arm to block. Pyter's hook caught him about the shoulder and yanked him from the saddle. Jaryd fell with all the graceless horror of a man deliberately unhorsed, slammed hard into the turf and rolled repeatedly. Then he stopped, and did not move.
Damon swore, reined up alongside and dismounted, fearing the worst—many men had died on the lagand field, or become cripples for life. “Jaryd!” He knelt at the lordling's side and listened against his lips…Jaryd was breathing, so that was a start. Then his eyelids fluttered and his legs moved. That was even better. About them, other horses had stopped, the game apparently suspended. Except for one horse, that he could hear galloping hard…yells of warning and anticipation came from the crowd.
Damon looked up to see Sasha tearing directly toward Pyter Pelyn. She'd seen it. That wasn't good. She hit him with a back hook to the face, which sent him reeling from the saddle. That wasn't good either. Then Pyter's noble friends were after her, hooks raised with clear intent. Falcon Guardsmen set off in pursuit and a brawl erupted, horses jostling and men swinging. Three more nobles were quickly unhorsed—the Tyree nobility might have been a dab hand at lagand, but against Falcon Guardsmen they were little match in a fight.
Jaryd struggled to sit upright, wincing in pain. He tried to put weight upon his left arm and bit back a scream. Damon supported his weight, as Koenyg dismounted alongside. Nearby, the fight was breaking up. The adjudicator raised his red flag at Sasha. Sasha threw her hook at him, and would have dragged him physically from his horse had not a Guardsman intervened.
“I think it's broken,” Damon said wearily to Koenyg, feeling gently at Jaryd's arm.
“It's not,” Jaryd said fervently. “I've broken bones before, this isn't as bad.” And nearly screamed again when he tried to move it.
“It's broken, you fool,” Koenyg told him, kneeling alongside. “The way you came off, you're lucky it's not your neck.” Damon could understand Jaryd's reluctance to admit it. Many breaks reset cleanly, with good medicine, splints, binding and sometimes some skilled knifework. But some did not, and men would carry those deformed limbs to their grave.
“That shit pile Pyter,” Jaryd muttered, his face pale with pain. “I'll duel him. Maybe he'll find some honour with a sword in his gut.”
“With that arm?” Koenyg snorted. Some more horses were riding now from the perimeter, no doubt with a healer astride, someone who knew how to move a man with broken bones.
“When I've recovered then,” Jaryd insisted. “I'll kill him, you watch.”
“The road you're travelled,” Koenyg said sharply, “you won't live that long. Take some advice from someone in a position to know, lad. You may not care for your own neck, but if you've any concern for your family, you'll apologise to Master Pyter and never talk to my wild sister again.”
“She's the one coming to my defence,” Jaryd retorted, breathlessly. “You're telling me these…these honourless cowards are my true friends, and those who