A plume peaked the helmet's top, scarlet as a cardinal's feathers. Her tapered breastplate sported an image of a blood-red sword, its point aimed high as if to challenge God to a duel. Bits of mesh flashed beneath the plates on her shoulders and elbows and knees, winking crimson. Her boots looked big enough to kick down brick walls, and her hands in their gauntlets—one gripping the horse's reins and the other wielding the mighty sword—would have made lumberjacks feel unmanly. Staring up at the Horseman (Horsewoman? What was the proper gender acknowledgment for a Rider of the Apocalypse?) seated on the massive horse, Lisa swallowed thickly. Dear God, the woman was enormous! It had nothing to do with physical bulk, either, even though she clearly was no lightweight. No, it was the knight's sheer presence. She radiated power like a miniature sun. It took Lisa several seconds to find her voice. When she finally spoke, the word came out as a breathy whisper. "War?" "The Red Rider," the woman agreed.
