There were horses like none others among the herds of the Rohirrim, the foals of the Mearas. They were intellingent beasts, fleeter of hoof and stronger of wind than any other horses in all of Middle-earth and no animal except the great Eagles of the Misty Mountains could travel faster than these mighty steeds.
Telefax was such a horse, though still young and ungainly, not yet come into the full growth that would flesh out his awkward bones. Even so, the great horse easily escaped the makeshift paddock and evaded every warg that he did not slay with his flashing hooves.
He found his way northwest and came upon a road and was soon lost to the pursuing wolves who could not hope to match the speed of Telefax in the open country away from the confining trees of the forest.
Now the horse reached his real stride and riderless ran as far and as fast as his great legs could take him and the leagues passed behind him like the wind. He ran not from fear of wolves, but as if guided to be where he needed to go to find help for his master and friend, Kalohern. The young rider thought his steed slain, and sat numbly back at the camp, ignoring the foolery of the coward, Guthrin, and the constrained wrath of Dwarin the dwarf.
But Telefax knew his master needed help that only he could bring. Now it is a strange thing, but the horse somehow knew, by that special grace that is given to truly noble beasts, that help lay upon the road he now galloped.
He ran until the night became day, and as the sun climbed her courses, the mighty steed found the Rangers of Tharbad and they looked in wonder at the great horse.
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