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The Rider: Not All Those Who Wander  by Branwyn

He urged his mount to go faster, faster, although the creature was near collapse. Lather flew from its mouth, and its flanks heaved with every harsh breath. But it faithfully kept going despite its fatigue, sensing the great need of its rider.

Hooves pounded the earth and sent sod flying, stirring up a cloud of dust and dirt that trailed in its wake. Overhead, gray clouds scudded along the sky, threatening heavy rains, but so far they had been fortunate and the downpour had not yet materialized.

The rider peered ahead along the equine neck, squinting against the rushing wind that whipped through his hair and tugged at his cloak. The colors were fading from the lands around him as the clouds thickened and the storm approached. Far, far ahead, dark mountains shimmered on the horizon.

His mount stumbled, caught itself, tripped again, and the rider's breath stuck in his throat for an endless moment before the animal regained its balance and continued its mad gallop. The poor beast ran on its last legs. How much further, until he reached his destination? How much longer before he could deliver the dire news he carried? He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, back at the way he had come. Time was running out.





        

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