The steppe rider hit the packed earth chest-first, and the crowd reacted at once. The shouts and voices mixed together through the barracks thunderously.
The rider pushed himself up carefully. One foot, then the other. He made certain his balance was under him before he trusted it. When he finally stood straight, his posture remained solid. Only slower.
"Eight horses, Tegash." a man called from the eastern side of the ring. "You owe me eight horses. I told you all afternoon Einar would put him into the ground once he got the grip."
"Tomorrow," the man beside him answered.
"Today or never."
"Tomorrow. I said tomorrow."
From the northern side, one of the norsemen tried his Mongolian. The back half of the sentence collapsed under his accent.
"Einar throw like... like when big thing falls and keeps falling. Every time."
He demonstrated with both hands, forcing them downward in stages to explain what the words could not.
