Metal heels thumped into the horse's flanks.  The mount's bellow sounded across the plain, echoing back dully from the rocks as it was thrown into a gallop, sending the pair thundering across the dry earth.  Linus flattened himself against the saddle, the fluttering standard held low like a jouster's lance.  A tarnished, horseshoe-shaped medallion graven with the name "Mister Hooves" jingled from the mount's tack.  Linus glared at it a moment through the perforations of his helmet.  Poor name.  Lacking purpose.  Would have words with Falkenberg if he still lived.

They drew nearer, pounding across the sands.  The Captain spoke true.  This was their charge.  But his mind circled even as his focus was honed to a narrow point.  [i]Why run?[/i]  'Twas no callow defiance.  A trap?  No.  Unthinkable.  Couldn't have anticipated this meeting.  Perhaps simple fear.  Perhaps some grander gesture.  Perhaps something to do with the curious absence of the boy's companions.  Answers would be had soon, for the distance closed, nearer and nearer.

The King's mount turned sharply, cantering down through a pass Linus couldn't have perceived even had he known it was there, descending into a dry, shallow valley.  Kolbe drew hard on the reins, twisting the mount's head painfully to one side.  Mister Hooves lurched, singing in protest, twisting its body to follow, legs gouging a furrow into the earth and skidding a good three meters before slowing enough to turn, throwing up a glittering wave of sand in their wake.  Reckless.  Stupid.  Couldn't follow now.  Continue, then.  Use the elevation to see how the land lay.  Avoid further surprises.

Kolbe thumped the horse into action once more, slowly building to a gallop along the crest of the ridge.  He leaned hard in the saddle, gripping it tightly as he looked below, tossed up and down by the relentless pace.  There -- a white blur, trailing a billowing cone of dust.  The Captain was in close pursuit, keeping pace with the boy, unwilling to endanger a child of the Royal bloodline but clearly losing patience.  The valley was narrow, but treacherous, serpentine.  Their apostate master could not outpace them, but they could be lost.  It was time to force a resolution.

Linus pulled.  Another primal bellow rang across the empty plain, one that the other two riders were puzzled to find drawing rapidly closer. 

[hr]

The desert in front of Alonso exploded into a heavy fountain of dust and silica as Mister Hooves landed bare meters in front of him, ploughing into the sand and skidding near a forty-degree angle, legs scrambling to control its momentum.  The standard of Areta, stained, torn and ragged at its end, flapped above the cloud, held high in one tarnished, armored fist.