He whipped his glittering scimitar off his opponent’s nose, catching it midair, then spun twice with the pikes caught under his left arm, skewering two others in their midsections and throwing it back to him.
That’s right. You read that right. Then, with a hoarse, grinding yell he leapt up at the charger bearing down upon him, kicking its lance down and off-point with his left foot, planting the right foot in the charging knight’s HEAD.
He flew off backwards from the impact, but his great helm saved him anything but a minor concussion. Meanwhile, his airborne adversary landed in the suddenly vacant saddle and began sowing minor panic in great, glittering and increasingly gory arcs as his now-runaway steed kept course, trodding pikemen and footmen under indiscriminately. Hurtling darts and arrows caught in the backwards rider’s cape or plinged harmlessly off the ringed mail beneath as he dove to the (his) left and captured a halberd from where it lay, abandoned upon the ground. Still rolling, he vaulted to his feet and swept the field with his iron gaze.
It was going to be another one of those mornings. Not even winded as forces drew back in a thickening circle all around him, he sighed.
He was entirely sincere.
1 comment:
Spellcheck has "trodding" down as a neologism.
Well if that's the case, so be it
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