Free Highest Stakes by Emery Lee Page B

repercussion from the booming thunderclap of the cannon, the captain had underestimated both the resolve of Trooper Devington and the sensibility of his sturdy gelding.
      As ranks of troopers struggled to control their wide-eyed mounts, Devington's skewbald remained the least ruffled of the herd. Startling slightly, he recovered and responded readily to Devington's cue, and they galloped down the field toward their intended targets.
      The captain was astonished. Even Hawke had reared unexpectedly, nearly unhorsing him. He had regained control only to see the trio well on their way down the field. Wheeling Hawke into eager pursuit, the lean hot-blood hastily gained lengths on the smaller, stockier horse. The pair drove hard down the field, and Ol' Jack approached the first target. Within slashing distance, Robert cued his mount, and Prescott struck in concert, skillfully cutting down the first of the straw-stuffed soldiers of the Gen d'Armes.
      The thunder of hoof beats was closer upon them, and Captain Drake and Hawke came up alongside. Robert, leaning forward in his saddle, coaxed Ol' Jack, and the gelding, straining under the heavy burden, nonetheless surged with a grunt of renewed effort, fighting to keep pace with the leggy Hawke.
      As the next target came into sight, Captain Drake pushed easily ahead, squeezed into position, and sliced through the rope. On release, the dummy swung back to strike the other pair of riders. Robert ducked, but Prescott was hit hard in the face, thrown off balance and onto the ground.
      Devington cursed, recalling his own success and his very fate were entwined with Prescott's. Pulling his horse into a hard halt on its haunches, they executed a half-pirouette, and without missing a beat, Robert swept down from his saddle to hoist his companion back up. He spurred the horse again, and Ol' Jack gave his all in response, but they had lost valuable time. The captain had nearly finished the course by the time the trio were headed back down the field.
      They had failed. He burned with the injustice yet vowed to endure to the bitter end.
      "Ah, Troopers Devington and Prescott, you join me at last! Better late than never, I suppose," Drake chided. "Prepare your weapon, Prescott," the captain commanded, maneuvering his horse to face them and drawing his saber.
      Facing the captain, Prescott blanched, now realizing the grave error in his boast. Although somewhat experienced with the art of parry, lunge, and thrust with a small sword, he had never actually "pinked" an opponent, but moreover, his practiced technique of lunge and thrust was not developed for mounted combat.
      Bile rose in his throat, and his saber suddenly felt heavy, awkward, and unwieldy in his sweating hand. He shivered with apprehension. This weapon, the slightly curved cavalry saber, was designed for slashing one's enemy to pieces. And to manage from the back of a galloping beast was another matter altogether.
      "We ride in hard and strike hard, Prescott, like a joust. We need to unhorse him, take him down rather than engage hand to hand. We can prevail only with speed and steadfastness. You'll never best him otherwise. He has the advantage," Devington counseled.
      "You just keep this nag moving, Devington, and I'll devise my own strategy," Prescott retorted hotly.
      "My patience has nigh worn thin, gentlemen." The captain spoke authoritatively and without his customary mocking humor. "Prepare to charge or be struck down where you stand."
      The gelding jigged under the tension of his riders. "Are you ready?" Robert asked tersely.
      "Control your bloody beast!" Prescott fumed.
      Ignoring the remark, Devington saluted the captain to signify their readiness, then spun and trotted off some distance to prepare for the charge.
      The subaltern signaled, and both men spurred their mounts into action, hurtling at a headlong gallop toward one another. The captain held his sword in tierce, blade