Chapter 4
The minute Legolas' back had disappeared, Estel grabbed his saddle and began tacking up. Leading the Black out the back way, he mounted and made his way through dense brush and up a small gorge. He had to come down the steep hill that cupped the start of the race course, hide in the trees there, and join the race after it had started. The Black would be handicapped by a late start, but it could not be helped. If he tried to join the line-up they would just stop the proceedings until he had been removed, forcibly if necessary.
The race was to circle the bowl of the tiny valley within the larger one of Imladris, and then head out for the cross-country portion. After ten miles, the course would bring them back to the bowl and the finish under the tape. There were many turns and in some places the trail was too narrow for more than one horse to run, so there would be much fighting for position in the more open parts of the course.
Estel stopped halfway down the hill and looked through the trees. There was a large crowd gathered in the middle of the field. There were colorful pennants flying with the blazons of all the houses of the elves.
The heralds blew their horns and the horses came, fretting and plunging, to line up beneath the tape that marked the start of the race. The starter tried to give everyone a fair start, but some horses were rearing and some were running backwards. A well-trained few stood quivering (Asfaloth was one of those – it would not do for Glorfindel's horse to jump about). Finally, the starter shouted, "GO!" and the twenty or so entries thundered away.
Meanwhile, the excitement of the other horses had affected the Black and Estel was having the devil of a time holding him. He blew repeatedly through his nostrils and the scarlet ribbons tossed like a wave on the sea. His forefeet came up off the ground over and over again, and Estel whispered desperately, "Shhhh, steady, shhh now, not yet, not yet." He wrapped the reins around his hands, jammed his feet deeper into the stirrups and began to wonder if he were crazy after all. "Steady – steady – GO!" The Black shot forward, all feet off the ground in a first great leaping stride. Estel nearly flew off over the back, but caught himself and then leaned far forward as he had practiced. They burst through the brush on the edge of the wood and tore down the track into the dust behind the main bunch. Estel could not hear anything but his blood roaring in his ears and the Black's drumming hooves. This was just as well for there was currently more profanity coming from the Lord of Imladris than any had heard since he commanded Gil-Galad's armies.
Estel tried hard to control the pace; he did not want the Black to have nothing left for the finish, but his arms were nearly being pulled from the sockets. They left the bowl and started up the trail. And Lo! They were catching up on the last horse in the pack—a very slow one with no chance at all. The elf looked over to see who challenged him, saw Estel, and promptly fell off over the side of his horse. The last thing Estel saw was his mouth open in a huge 'O' before they had left him in the dust. Now Estel had a choice. For the next section he could take one of two tracks: a steep hill with large logs to jump on its side or a much longer section that was nearly flat with no jumping. He grabbed a fistful of mane and headed the Black up the hill. Others were jumping ahead of him, the riders jerking backward because of their long stirrups and high pommels. Estel leaned forward and the Black flew the logs, gaining ground with each fluid bound. He passed four horses on the hill and Estel no longer looked to see who he passed, instead he focused on the trail ahead with fierce purpose.
Over the crown of the hill they went, then swooping down the long slope on the other side. There were more jumps here, and the other racers were slowing, afraid to jump downhill at speed. Estel was unaware of the danger and they passed three more horses. At the last log the Black pecked the landing badly and nearly tipped Estel over his right shoulder. The boy slipped partway down his horse's side, gripping the saddle for dear life, and trying to reach the mane that tossed just out of reach. Brush whipped and tore at him and slashed a gash in his back. He gave a great heave, grabbed the mane, and pulled himself back up. He ordered his reins and tried to get his foot back in the off stirrup, but a sharp turn was coming. He gripped with his thighs with all his might, shifted his weight, and pulled the right rein. The agile Black made the turn at speed, wrapping his body around the marker tree while larger, more ungainly horses ran wide and overshot the turn. As they straightened to enter the woods again, Estel saw that he was probably in the middle of the racers, as he had needed to be. "Just keep on, you beauty, you flame, and we will show them all!"
The track now ran straight and smooth, but narrow, and the boy knew he could not get past anyone here. He steadied his horse, and gave them both a breather. There was a sorrel ahead of him and Estel let the Black get close enough to be in a good position to make a move when they had the chance. He yelped in surprise as the sorrel seemed to drop out of sight in front of him. With only a few seconds warning, he braced himself for a big drop fence. The other horse was in a heap at the bottom with his rider, but the Black soared out and down, clearing both. The landing was bone-jarring and blood spurted from Estel's mouth as his teeth met in his tongue.
Estel realized that he had now passed all of the 'also-rans' and had only those with a real chance to win ahead of him. The path stretched straight and smooth and he began to rock his body with his horse's stride, for the first time asking for more speed. The Black responded by pinning his ears and stretching his fine black nose ahead.
They traveled at least two miles this way before the trail made a gentle, wide turn, and then sloped down to the river. Two horses were rearing and shying, refusing to enter the water. The Black snorted and began to slow, eyes white and rolling. Estel shortened his reins and put his horse on the bit. "Do not fear; you are my brave, my own, and you know I will ask nothing that will hurt you. Go on now, and show these others what courage is." The Black flicked his ears back and forth, listening to the one he had Chosen.
The horse hesitated but a moment, then strode boldly into the river and splashed across in the shallows there. They were nearly 3/4 of the way, and had only to canter home to accomplish their goal. But racing takes hold of one, and Estel's blood was nearly as wild as that of his horse. He looked ahead and saw a dappled grey: not Asfaloth, but a good horse.
"Run!" he whispered and the Black flattened out in an incredible ground-covering stride. As they slowly came up alongside, the Grey pinned his ears and snapped at the Black's neck. Estel shouted and the rider looked over and he also nearly fell off in shock. That imbalance allowed the Black to pull ahead and they swept into another narrow section of trail with the Black in the lead. They came up upon another tiring horse that would not yield the trail. Estel used the fact that they had to slow up to rest his horse and plan for the next turn. It was another tree and the trail widened just for the space around it before the trail narrowed back down again as it took off at a sharp angle. Estel had a strategy, but it was dangerous. As they approached the tree, the horse ahead swung wide from tiredness, and Estel squeezed the Black hard with his heels. "Now!" he shrieked as he pulled his horse tight into the tree. The rear hooves dug deep and the Black slid on his fetlocks, spun around, cleared the tree, then shot forward down the trail, ahead of the rival. The rough bark ripped through Estel's leggings and tore a chunk from his knee, but he kept his seat.
"Oh, you wonder! There never was a horse like you!" Estel sang as he patted the sweating neck. On this next part of the trail they passed two more horses, one being led by a limping rider, and one barely cantering. Estel noticed that the Black no longer leaned hard on the bit and he began to fear that his horse, too, was beginning to tire. For now, though, the horse still wanted to run, so on they went. The last part of the trail was the only road in Imladris; it would lead them back to the little bowl where the festival was held. As they turned onto it, Estel saw one horse ahead of him. Were there more farther on? He could not tell. Perhaps it would be best to slow a little and follow this one in; they had more than proved their point. Estel's arms and legs were on fire, and it was getting hard to breathe. His knee hurt so badly it was hard to keep his weight properly balanced. He had never ridden so fast in his life, nor so far at speed.
Then the rider before him rode into a patch of sunlight and his hair, streaming behind him, shone like molten gold. Glorfindel! Well! Maybe he was not quite ready to canter sedately in after all! "Little one, what do you say? Shall we challenge the mighty Asfaloth?" The Black shook his head and struck out with one forefoot without breaking stride. "Then let us see what we will see!" Estel leaned forward, resting both fisted hands on either side of his horse's neck, close to the crest. He began to push rhythmically with the extension of the Black's head: forward, back, forward, back. The Black flattened out still more and the wind and the mane stung Estel's eyes and tears ran down his cheeks. He rocked in time with each outflung foreleg, being careful to stay exactly in rhythm. The slightest shift in weight or movement could throw his horse off, as fully extended as he was.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, they began to overhaul the famous grey. When they were close enough that Glorfindel could hear challenging hoof beats, he turned to see who would try to take his crown (for Asfaloth was unbeaten). He sat back, dumbfounded, and Asfaloth slowed. The Eldar's eyes widened and narrowed, promising a doom that would make Sauron flinch. But before he could flay the boy and nail his hide to the stable door, he would have to try to save his life.
Glorfindel wrenched Asfaloth into the Black's path, but soon realized the pair was traveling too fast to stop them safely that way. He straightened on the track and urged his grey into a gallop again. He let the little horse draw alongside and matched Asfaloth's pace to the Black's. He shouted, "Pull up! Are you mad? PULL UP!" He then reached out and down, to grab the Black's bridle. Estel, instead of risking his horse in his extended stride by trying to swerve, used one hand to grab the silken sleeve and pull hard towards him. The unexpected move unbalanced the old warrior—not much, he was too skilled—but enough that Asfaloth fell a little behind.
Estel's own eyes narrowed in anger. His vision was beginning to blur and his body had been screaming for some time now. Every breath was flame in his throat and lungs, and the reins were slippery with his blood. But he would not yield himself or his horse. He would not be brought into the bowl on a leading rein, in shame. The blood of kings stirred in him.
He spoke softly, not shouting, not spurring, "Go on now, my Black, run! Run, shining one. Run for us, that we may not be parted by such as he." The ears flicked, but the Black no longer ran with joy. His own lungs burned and his heart beat as though it would burst in his chest. His stride was still fluid, but the pain was building. But his ancestors were called "Drinkers of the Wind" and their fortitude was renowned in their desert home. Of the two, the horse and the man-child, who could say who had the greater heart and courage? They were well-matched indeed.
As the four hurtled into the bowl, Asfaloth pulled up again with the Black. Glorfindel looked ahead and saw the tape barely a quarter-mile away. He decided it would be safer to let the black horse finish than to try to pluck off the boy who was lying like a cocklebur on his horse's neck. Side by side they thundered, Glorfindel staying close in order to try a desperate grab if the boy fell. He stared with wonder at the bloodied lips whispering, whispering. Estel, with supreme effort, slowly turned his head and grinned fiercely at Glorfindel. He lost consciousness as they swept beneath the tape.
Both tired horses dropped almost at once to a walk, then stood, blowing hard. The crowd, usually roaring for the final stretch run, was silent until it gave a collected gasp when the small rider tumbled from the small horse and lay in a small heap.
End Chapter 4