When he was thirteen years old and fleeing through the woods, his horse Destrier had run Caspian under a branch and knocked him flat onto his back and unconscious.

Sorely is lighter and swifter than Destrier; his hoofbeats thud against the ground cover in joyful cadence. Marian dodges but they have no time and sail over a log in their way.

He laughs with joy, with the rush of the race, with the knowledge that Marian might--and maybe would--beat him.

He's closer now--Sorely's nose is nearly at Marian's waist, but they may never catch up.