Julian dropped his lance and quickly signaled for a new one. He wanted to save his only lance for Edward.
Gasping for breath, Gilbert handed him one of the borrowed lances.
Julian’s gauntleted fingers closed around the wooden shaft. It was a little longer than his own lances, but it didn’t matter. He would make it work. Julian spurred Storm forward, charging toward Osmont. His body moved rhythmically with each gait Storm took. His breathing slowed as he concentrated. He brought the lance down, couching it in the crook of his arm, positioning it. Because of the length and unfamiliarity, it wobbled. He tightened his arm over the lance to steady it. He desperately wanted to unhorse Osmont and aimed at his weak point, that vulnerable, unprotected right shoulder.
Julian braced himself in the stirrups, preparing for impact. His arm, wrist, and chest gripped the lance tightly while his legs contracted around Storm. He pushed his torso and lance forward to get more force behind the collision.
The lance wobbled at the last moment and brushed Osmont’s right arm. Julian held on tightly, but the wooden spear cracked and slid aside before he could unhorse Osmont.
Osmont’s lance hit Julian’s shield hard with a loud crack, the power of the blow jarring his left arm.
Julian dropped his lance. The weight of his shield suddenly pulled at his arm, and he glanced down as he galloped past Osmont. The tip of Osmont’s lance had pierced the wood of his shield. Another two inches and it would have struck the chainmail over his chest. The lance dragged through the dust of the field, and he quickly slowed Storm. Then, he reached over the top of his shield, yanking on the lance until it was free. He tossed it aside before Storm tripped over it.
Julian lifted his helm from his head to expel a silent curse. The fresh air cooled his sweat-soaked brow. He glanced at Osmont. One more pass. He had promised Ellie to put Osmont in the dirt. And he planned on keeping the vow. He spurred Storm toward his side of the field.
Gilbert met him. “Are you injured?”
“No,” Julian snapped, reaching for another lance.
Across the field, Osmont’s visor was up, his face red. He pointed a finger at Julian. “This is your last pass!”
Cheers rose from the spectators around the arena. For the first time, Julian heard someone shout, “Sir Julian, knock him on his arse!”
He grinned and murmured, “I shall do exactly that.” He pulled his helmet over his head. The eye slits narrowed his view. He glanced at Gilbert, who was lifting a lance toward him. The roar of the crowd was muted in his helm. Storm pranced anxiously beneath him, but Julian steadied him with a firm hold. The last pass. Determined, he gripped the shield tightly as he took the lance from Gilbert and whirled Storm, charging him forward. He steered Storm down the list before couching his lance.
Last pass, he vowed to himself. His breathing was even, whooshing hollowly in his enclosed helmet in cadence to the pounding of Storm’s hooves. He steadied the lance with a firm arm. He concentrated on hitting Osmont’s open flaw, the right shoulder.
They charged closed. Closer. And then… impact.
With a sudden clash, splinters of Osmont’s lance flew everywhere like blowing leaves in a gust of wind. Pain erupted through Julian’s left arm as his body was thrown backward from the collision. He clenched his legs around Storm, holding tight to his unbroken lance. It happened in slow motion, and he saw the impact in a mere second. His lance struck Osmont in his right shoulder, exactly where Julian had intended, pushing Osmont backward. Osmont’s body twisted and spun around, flinging him from his horse.
Agony pierced Julian’s left arm, where Osmont had hit him with his lance. He reined Storm in and turned in the saddle to see Osmont in a cloud of dust on the ground. Elation rushed through him, warming his body. He immediately lifted his gaze to the stands, searching for Ellie. He met her stare across the field.
The smile lighting her face was the reward he sought.
Osmont pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His squire ran out to aid him. Osmont tugged his helmet off and threw it aside. He spat in the dust.
Julian had won! As one, the spectators erupted in a roar. Julian lifted his arms in victory. Agony shot through his left shoulder like burning lava. He slowly lowered his arms with a soft grunt, gritting his teeth.
“No! No! No!” Osmont stood, stomping his feet like a child.
Julian grinned despite the agony in his arm. He trotted Storm past Osmont, being careful not to move or bump his left arm. He didn’t acknowledge Osmont or anyone else. He didn’t even take his victory lap.
Gilbert met him at the end of the field with a beaming expression. “You did it!”
“I’ll meet you at the camp,” Julian said through clenched teeth of pain.
Gilbert nodded, but his excitement dissolved, to be replaced by concern.
Julian rode from the field without looking back.
Chapter Seventeen
As Elora watched Julian depart the fieldwithout taking a victory lap, she knew something was very wrong. She gasped, a shiver of panic seizing her as the crowd cheered around her.
“He’s good,” someone admitted in admiration.
“Undefeated against all he has stood,” another agreed.
