Woodwind drives his horse away from pursuing Azgaril cavalry, desperate to preserve his own life.

    Driven like an antelope fleeing from a lioness, the strong flanks of Woodwind's war horse stretched and retracted in a furious rhythm. Shadow's mane rippled in the skin-numbing wind created by his tireless stride, the labored, rushing sound of his breathing punctuated by the drum-riff clatter of swift hooves and scattering stones that sprayed upon the frozen ground.

    Woodwind glanced over his right shoulder, praying that the Azgaril soldiers would try to cross the shallow river. He maintained his westerly course in the hope that their pursuit would draw them across the stream, not only because fording the river would slow them down, but also because he intended to flee north and he hoped they would have to traverse the water twice.

    Initially, he'd been about a hundred and fifty yards south of the river and about seventy yards downstream from the enemy position. Intuitively estimating the minimum interval Shadow would need to flee in order to move beyond musket range, Woodwind aimed for a point about two-hundred and eighty yards distant. But he soon realized that this would put him on a collision course, the last seventy percent of which the enemy would be able to shoot at him.

    Woodwind knew the Azgaril muskets were accurate to about eighty yards. Picturing the problem in his mind and letting the math work itself out subconsciously, he figured he needed to go westward about eleven hundred yards in order to outrun their ponies and effectively avoid enemy fire. This was nearly two-thirds of a mile--an interval sure to tax Shadow's sprinting ability to its limits, and for the last hundred and eighty yards, he'd be at the fringe of enemy range anyway.

    The only alternative was to cross the river at a steeper angle, thereby covering less ground and leaving himself exposed to musket rounds for a longer period of time. The Azgaril were certain to hold no quarter for anyone who had, in their view, slain three soldiers in an unprovoked attack. Any option that allowed capture seemed even more foolish than what he'd done already.

    So he pushed Shadow onward, crouching as low as possible behind the undulating head of his sprinting horse, riding in tandem with the powerful, rhythmic stretch and contraction of sweating, equine muscle.

Victim of Success