When Liam brought him the lance, Reynold took it smoothly, just as he'd done a thousand times before. He settled it under his arm, carefully feeling the pull of the lance on his wrist, elbow, and shoulder as he brought the weapon into position.
There was something that few people watching a pair of knights tilting at each other rarely understood. A lance was not a sword. A sword was an extension of the hand, and it went where the hand went. A lance was twelve feet of shaped ash wood with all its weight out past the grip, and the hand that gripped the lance didn't move it so much as it permitted it to move.
