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Old 04-24-2006, 06:32 PM   #267
Firefoot
Illusionary Holbytla
 
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Join Date: Dec 2003
Posts: 7,646
Firefoot has been trapped in the Barrow!
For the barest instant, Léof had a flash of imagination that he was not racing, and that there were no stakes, but that he and Æthel galloped full out through the fields of the West Emnet, purely for the joy of doing so – in much happier times. “For the simple joy of doing so” was not the sort of phrase that had much bearing on his life in recent years. But the recollection flashed away and was replaced with the view of reality, the exulting thudding of hoofbeats mixing with the exhilaration and inherent danger of the race.

They rounded the first turn for the last time, the horses’ long strides eating up the backstretch. It was just before they entered the final turn that Léof made his move; he did not care to make the turn far on the outside as he was. He loosened the reins, urged Æthel on. For him, she willingly dug deeply, flying along faster than Léof would have thought possible given their already fast pace. He felt as much as saw the grey horse accelerating behind and beside him. They entered the top of the stretch; Léof could feel Æthel starting to tire. “Just a little more,” he urged. “We’re almost there.” The wind whipped the words out of his mouth. She plunged doggedly on; he glanced back to see the grey horse tiring as well. Then he noticed something else entirely: the black horse starting to charge up on his outside. The finish line loomed, so close, yet so far; Æthel was tiring while that horse was picking up speed. Very suddenly, Léof realized how very much he wanted to win. He had not expected anything going into the race, but he was so close, now.

“Go, girl, come on, Æthel baby!” The black horse reached her flank, now its neck was even with Léof’s leg. The next moments seemed to pass in slow motion; even the wind buffering his face seemed to die for a moment. Æthel’s legs extended, and with a last effort, they crossed the finish line. In first. Within a couple of strides after that, the black horse had passed them, but not before the finish. Just before complete disbelief and joy could fill him, a sobering thought crossed his mind: the black horse should have won. The jockey had waited entirely too long to let the horse go; the horse still had plenty energy left, so why had he not been given free rein before or during the final turn?

These thoughts were quickly replaced by a wholly other sensation: throbbing pain in his foot. Sitting in his saddle, he kicked free of the stirrups to let the foot dangle uselessly, guiding Æthel with the insides of his legs.

Then concerns for himself subsided in favor of concern for Æthel; she was breathing hard, and her neck was darkened in sweat. He patted her fondly. “You gave it all you had out there, girl. It’s a nice hot mash for you tonight, and plenty of rest.” And plenty of rest for you, too, he told himself. The rush of exhilaration following the stress of getting here in the first place was leaving, draining him. He collected his purse money – easily enough to pay back for the money he had spent that day – and hardly remembered doing so. He felt a touch of dizziness and, after leaving the track, dismounted before he fell out of the saddle. He leaned against a post, absently rubbing Æthel’s nose as he gathered his energies for the trek back up to the hall.
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