Let's go, you ugly bastard, she breathed, and she let the hurricane off the leash. Hooves struck the frozen moor like hammers on an iron anvil. Ruin didn't need to be driven. The moment Basia slacked the heavy leather reins, the beast surged forward.
The acceleration was terrifying. It wasn't the smooth, rolling, elegant gallop of a polished racehorse. It was the violent, piston-like thrust of a predator closing in on a kill. Every muscle in his massive body worked in brutal harmony, tearing up chunks of frost-hardened earth and flinging them backward into the icy air.
Wind tore Basia's battered felt hat away instantly. She didn't blink. Her eyes watered, the biting air slicing across her cheeks like shards of glass, blurring the edges of her vision. She kept her focus locked entirely on the jagged line of gray stone rushing toward them.
The sensory overload was absolute. The sharp smell of crushed winter grass, the hot, metallic tang of the horse's breath blowing back in her face, mingling with the rank, heavy scent of his sweat. The rhythmic, agonizing jolt in her bruised shoulder with every massive, jarring stride. Henry watched from 50 yd behind.
His bay gelding danced in panic, reacting to the sudden explosion of violence. Henry fought to hold his mount steady, his gloved hands totally numb, his lungs frozen. He was watching a suicide. The wall was too high, the approach too uneven.
The takeoff ground was a treacherous slope of hard-packed earth and hidden rabbit holes. One misplaced hoof, one fractional hesitation, and a ton of muscle, bone, and iron would smash into the granite. He knew exactly what that sounded like. The memory of his own bones cracking echoed sickeningly in his ears.
"Don't pull." Henry whispered to the empty air, the ghost of his own failure choking him. The words scraped raw against his throat. "For God's sake, Basia, don't pull." She didn't.