I narrowed my eyes as I stared at the beastial parody of a centaur. The wind at the top of the hill had stilled to a whisper, and I could feel the heat of the day through my armour and the sweat beading on my brow under my helmet, but there was no refreshment coming to me.

“You think I am kin to you?” I demanded. “Not even your own twisted playthings are near enough to me in blood to call me cousin.”

“Are you not a half-breed, manthing?” the Beast said. “I can smell it on you. Two flavours of flesh, two flavours of blood in your veins. The pitiful, weakness of man, and something more. Something buried.”

I raised the visor of my helm and spit off to the side. Castor, my warhorse, was anxious under me, either feeling my frustration or at the presence of the creature or the Wylde. “I bear none of you or your master's taint in me. I carry the blood of the First Dwellers, the descendants of the great Giant clans who tamed the land for the first time.”

“And so you prove your weakness,” the Beast chuckled. “Even memory is lost behind the walls of stick and stone. My master will show you the truth, runtling. Come with me, and I will open a path to Him so that you might understand the truths of this world and its return to root and dirt.”

I slammed my visor down again, locking it in place with a thumb, and nudged Castor to rear up on his hind legs. “You could promise the world in my palm, Beast, and still I would deny you, your so-called master, and every festering monster of the Wylde that threatens to devour us.”

The Beast shrugged, his body shifting like a hound shaking itself awake. He turned his horrible, equine-twisted face to the sky and shouted, “I have made the offer, Hunter. Now I shall sup on the denier’s flesh, and crack his bones for the ancient marrow he claims to hold.”

I urged Castor forward, breaking into a gallop and speeding across the flat hilltop.

The Beast roared again, wordless, pumped his glaive in the air and galloped to meet me. His clawed feet dug hunks of earth out of the ground as we pelted towards each other, and he lowered the point of his glaive at my chest while I lowered my lance.

There are things a Lancer prepares for - the basics, riding and swordplay. And there are more advanced skills, such as battlefield manoeuvres on horse, and duelling. Most prepare for Tournaments as well, where glory and coin can be found in the grand melee, the competitions, and most prominently the joust. The joust, with its rules, was meant to simulate the battlefield charge, knight against knight.

In both circumstances, the stupid shit I was about to do would be frowned upon, and likely get you killed.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Fifteen yards from meeting, each of us galloping at full tilt, I used that extra strength in my veins, that quarter of giant blood I had inherited from my mother, and flicked my lance up to catch it in an overhand grip. I pulled back and threw the iron-tipped, nine-foot pole like it was a javelin.

Now, the feat itself would be useless on a battlefield compared to just making the proper charge. Even with my strength, it was a nine-foot and unbalanced pole. I couldn’t throw it far enough, or with enough power, to compete with the strike of a horse-powered charge. And it might have been a shocking feat for people to tell stories about in a joust, but would likely also get me disqualified in the best case.

Here, on this hill, without any other enemies nearby, was the only time I would ever contemplate doing it outside of the training yard in Bloodbraid.

The lance shot forward and I saw surprise flash across the Beast’s face, mostly in the form of its eyes widening as it needed to make a split decision. We were coming together at speed, and its natural instinct was to stop and duck, which its clawed horse legs started to do - it also knew that would bring death, and it needed to try and get out of the way, which it also started to try and do. This led the six-limbed aberration into a stumble.

My throw wasn’t even on target, the lance slinging wide on the left side, its shaft wobbling in the air and quickly losing its momentum. But my plan had never relied on the lance striking true.

I leapt, planting one foot up on Castor’s saddle to push me forward and sideways, and I tackled the human-like upper half of the Beast, putting the entire weight of my body and my armour behind me. He twisted horribly underneath me, the combination of his parts not meant to bend backwards on themselves, and as we began to fold over towards the ground I got my iron-clad arm around his neck.

We hit the dirt with a crash, and two heavy bodies scrambled to roll and gain purchase. I blessedly held on, my arm still around his neck and pressing my iron vambrace against his windpipe as I threw my knees into what would have been his lower back if he were a normal man. His horse parts kicked and tried to roll, to stand as any horse would, but whatever strange way his spine came together lacked the leverage necessary to fling me over, and so his kicking simply led to thrashing.

I roared, my hands clasped as I pressed my vambrace deeper and deeper, and he choked spittle in a frenzy. He reached back with his clawed hands, the cracked nails scraping against my iron pauldrons, then at my godsteel sallet helm, blocking my view through the visor slit.

I pulled, he struggled and thrashed.

He clubbed me, balling his massive fist and striking the side of my helmet. Once, twice. I tried to shake off the impacts, but they struck like a wooden mallet ringing my bell, and a third blow left splotches in my vision. I was going to lose my grip. My sword was useless, pinned underneath me, and my rondel dagger was off my right hip but out of quick reach.

His fist came around to hit me again, and I raked my vambrace across the Beast’s neck, freeing him. His sudden influx of air, and the loss of force between us, made his blow falter and he began to writhe away. But he was too slow, because I already had a weapon in hand, ripped from his chest. I drove the edge of Black Caleb’s jawbone under the Beast’s own distended jaw, driving it deep and sawing those black teeth as they cracked. Blood gouted, and the Beast loosed a horrible gurgle as it thrashed.

I rolled away, back onto my knees, pulling my sword from its sheath. The Beast rolled as well, staggering to its feet.