[Gwathagor]

When Eodwine and Lithor had finished speaking, Crabannan took his time finishing his second plate of breakfast (which he had managed to acquire without Frodides' noticing), and then began to make his way through the crowd towards the tent door. Erbrand brushed by him at the entrance, diving headlong into the crowd with a single-minded and business-liek air about him. He failed even to notice Crabannan, which was all to the latter's liking. Pausing outside the tent, he looked back over the crowd, which was now thinning, just in time to see Erbrand accosting Kara in the far corner of the tent. He hastily looked away, swore under his breath, and strode off to find his horse.

Crabannan had asked Lithor to put him down for the horse-race, among other things. Horse (which is what Crabannan had always called his steed) was not a noble creature. In no way did he resemble his noble Rohan-bred cousins; neither in disposition, nor in appearance. Horse was lazy, moody, obstinate, disproportional of body, shaggy of mane, and possessed a curious coat of mottled grey and brown to boot. Nonetheless, he had saved Crabannan's life more than once, for he possessed a single useful quality: when in danger, Horse could run like a demon. At these times, his master lost all control of him, for the horse became like a thing possessed and wild: eyes wide, nostrils flared, ears back, hooves flying, mane and tail streaming in the wind. To see him being running from a pack of wolves or from a bandit, one might think that he had fallen in the path of the Wild Hunt, and that the diabolical Hounds of the Dark Lord's Huntsmen were after him. Otherwise, his performance depended largely on his mood. He never really obeyed; it would be more accurate to say that he either agreed, and then complied. Whether this would prove the case today in the race was a matter quite beyond Crabannan's control. There was only one way to find out.

Crabannan saddled Horse up - with some effort, for Horse had grown unaccustomed to the saddle over the past month - and rode him about at a gentle pace for a few minutes, though he knew that any amount of effort on his part to prepare Horse for the race would serve little purpose if any. If Horse chose to run, they stood as fair a chance any purebred Rohirric stallion of winning. If he chose not to, there was nothing Crabannan could do make him change his mind. Coming to a stop, Crabannan slid off the saddle, and patted the horse's neck and head.

"Look here; we both know that you can run." He was talking to Horse now, a habit developed during long journeys. "Whether you want to or not is your affair, but I want you to know that your choice will have consequences; either I'm --" Horse whinnied. "No, I'm not going to feed you to the hounds - a meal they'd, at any rate, likely turn down. I was only saying that I'm going to look very stupid if you get into one of your fits of melancholy and refuse to run. See? It's simple enough. If I look foolish, you won't look any better." Horse looked away, bored. "Ah! But you could care less what anyone thinks, I suppose? I wish I could say the same." Crabannan sighed.

His attention was quickly drawn to the sounding of several short horn blasts, warning the riders to make their steeds ready for the race.

"The race is about to begin, and I'm standing about like a witless stable-boy talking to a indolent clod of a horse," he said out loud in frustration, aiming a kick at Horse, which the beast neatly sidestepped, used to such fits of melancholy in his master. The creature excused such outbreaks, attributing them to bad humors and letting them passed unrebuked.

He seized the reins and walked swiftly towards the makeshift track which had been marked out by wooden stakes, brooding all the while.