Tree-boughs and dangling lichen caught and clung as his gelding raced on; Kir ignored it all, focused on the half-weedy trail and the goal ahead --
Not far now, not far now, not far now -- the words became a mantra in his head, one that he dared not gasp aloud --
Was that a balehound howl behind them? A silver horn?
Ahead lay the last bridge and then, the landfort -- if it stood, if it survived --
No. He'd deliver the Grey's missive.
He would.