The branch crunched, collapsed under his quick moving pace. Feet carried him on, barely keeping up with his body, keeping him upright. The brush scraped across his face, tearing deep into his cheeks. No maneuvering around the cutting brier, just straight through as the hounds hot breath and clenching teeth were close behind.
Behind the hounds, the horse carried the hunter, dress matched for cutting thorns. His quarry was close.
Hounds barked. The smell of their putrid breath…
He hadn’t done it. He hadn’t… as the first death hound clamped on.
Arrived the horseman… and shot him down.