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Paths of the Westfold
The daylight slowly dims as she passes along the road, the freshly bound wound at her leg burning hot as angry coals, and sending jolts of pain through her at every jostle of her horse.
“Not much farther now,” she murmurs to herself. In truth, she has no heading.
The emptiness in the pit of her stomach is enough to make her knees buckle, and head spin. She tightens her grip on the reigns, slumping forward in the saddle. Somewhere in the wind, she hears her mother’s voice, fainter than a whisper:
“Nos da, blaidd bach. Your father will be home before you wake.”
Another jolt of pain, and bile rises in the back of her throat. “We haven’t far to go.”
