Sweat poured from Reynold's brow as Star Chaser thundered around the track.
Nine.
Somehow, against all odds, he'd captured nine wreaths, and he still had four more in his path.
Underneath him, Star Chaser moved at the same controlled, collected canter that they'd begun at, but when the destrier stallion moved, he devoured distance as if they were sprinting at a full gallop. The earth felt like it was pushing them along, as if the very soil beneath Star Chaser's hooves was trying to help.
By the fourth wreath, Reynold understood how the witchcraft worked, or at least, he understood enough of it. Like the old fable of the man wagering his lord for grain who asked for a single grain of barley on the first square of a game board and then doubling it to the next and doubling it again until the lord had to empty his whole granary to pay the debt, the power of the wreaths grew greater and greater each time.
But the difficulty of capturing them increased each time as well.
