Down they both went, the Companion sliding over sideways with a squeal of pain, the rider just—falling. Not jumping free, not even trying. And Alberich knew as soon as they started to fall that they were both hurt.

Blessed Sunlord…

So did Shanda, who was refereeing; she gave a blast to her whistle as the two hit the slushy ground, and the scrum instantly stopped.

What have we done?

The rider groaned, and tried to rise as Alberich leaped off Kantor’s back and ran for him. The Companion got to his feet, with a lurch and a scramble, whining under his breath with pain, but when he stood, it was on only three legs.

:Not broken,: Kantor relayed instantly, :but it’s a bad sprain.:

Alberich unfastened Harrow’s helm strap and lifted the helmet from Harrow’s head. “Look at me,” he commanded, and it didn’t take a genius to see from the unequal size of the boy’s pupils that he’d been concussed. And it didn’t take a genius to see why either; the padding had come loose and slid down the back of the helm to bunch up against the neck protector.

Shanda was on the case already; she and her Companion were dragging up the two-horse stretcher they kept at the side of the field. Alberich didn’t have to give them a single order.

They worked as if they had rehearsed for this disaster; half of them lifted Harrow straight up off the ground without moving his back or neck, and placed him on the stretcher. Within a moment, they were heading toward Healer’s Collegium with Harrow held securely by the straps around the stretcher.

Meanwhile the other half of the Trainees left behind were buckling Harrow’s Companion onto the saddles of two more Companions so they could take some of his weight and he wouldn’t have to put that injured leg to the ground. In another moment they, too, were on their way to the Healers, picking their way through the uneven snow.

Alberich was left to pick up the helm and stare numbly after them. He felt sick, but what could he do? There were injuries like this even in normal practice, much less the risky stuff he was asking them to do now. And if he didn’t push them—if they didn’t push themselves—if it came to a real fight, they might not live through it. He wasn’t going to apologize—

But what were they thinking?

“Find us a substitute, Weaponsmaster,” called Brion over his shoulder as the second lot limped toward the Collegium with Harrow’s Companion. “We’re not good enough yet, and this just proves it. Get us a substitute, or get us just a referee and you substitute, and we’ll pick this up tomorrow.”