Four miles through the most treacherous terrain you could imagine. The first mile was through a narrow rocky path, surrounded on all sides by thorny underbrush, and the rain was pouring down hard, slicking the route, making the mounts a little more hesitant to follow commands, and a little more likely to turn on their rider.

“C’mon girl, you can do it!” I yelled at my mount. There were only six of the eight riders left; one having been taken out just after the race’s start, the second being dislodged from his mount less than a minute ago due to a misstep near the underbrush. I was currently in third position, most of the remaining pack behind me. The downpour was treacherous to both my mount and I. Her fur was matted flat, difficult to hold onto, and her footing unsure. My clothing was soaked through, easily adding twenty pounds to its weight, my shield and flail that much more difficult to lift. The shield had an obvious purpose. I chose the flail for it’s reach. This one was a four foot pole with a six inch chain attached. At the other end of that length of chain sat a one foot iron rod, covered in four inch reverse hook spikes. It was efficient for tearing riders off of their mounts, or were I a dirtier player, slowing down the mount itself.

Taking out the mount was frowned upon between most riders. There was an inherent respect for the mount; the care and training it took to rear such a beast, the respect given to its role in this sacred race. Pounding the snot out of each other was one thing, but respect the mount. There were, occasionally, those who would play dirty, but they quickly found themselves facing “early retirement” as most honourable racers would sacrifice positioning in a race to maim or kill a known dirty rider. Still, it happened.

“C’mon girl, we’re almost through the first mile. Stay strong.” She didn’t really need my coaxing. We had slowed pace to her comfort level. I learned long ago that your mount is very aware of its own limitations; it doesn’t need you telling it to give more. Fatiguing your animal, or pushing past its ability to perform, inevitably leads to disaster. My mount was still moving quickly, only having slowed slightly to allow herself better traction in these slippery conditions.

Thankfully, aside from the torrentous rain, the race itself had been uneventful for me thus far. I was riding alone, but the race was still early. The camera drones hadn’t spent much time on me, so I knew I wasn’t in any immediate danger. Generally, the bloodier the show, the more the audience enjoyed it, and the more the drones hovered around you.

I looked ahead to the next mile of the race in the distance, the steep and narrow mountain climb to a snow covered summit. Between the rain, soon to be sleet, snow and hail, and the subzero temperatures, I couldn’t even see the mountain top. Lovely.