Story

The mare skittered nervously over the cobble courtyard, pulling at the reins. Fear was strong in her nostrils. The two-legged thing on her back was afraid, and that gave her reason to be afraid. Another two-leg opened its mouth and a noise burst out. Danger! The bit pulled at the mare’s mouth, but she fought it this time. Suddenly, a great rattle of cold-metal. A roar of many-two-legs behind her--run! Her hooves thudded on the tree-ground.
    Ismaril dragged the mare’s head around and clapped his heels to her side. They slipped under the portcullis and clattered over the drawbridge. The babe, strapped inside of basket in the saddle gave a squall as the mare leapt away from the castle. Out of the corner of his eye, Ismaril saw three or so of the men at arms holding open the gate. Then, as he watched, arrows began to fall among them and the portcullis, left with a sudden absence of resistance, crashed to the ground. Then Ismaril turned his face to the road and bent low over the mare’s neck, one arm over the basket. Behind him, bells began tolling.
      
At dawn, it was the horse that checked Ismaril’s flight. She paid no heed to the urgings of her rider, and came to a halt in the middle of a thicket of pines, foam encrusted on her lips, then staggering slowly to her knees.
     They had left the road behind long ago. Ismaril had purposefully ensconced them in the Thalia, a forest that blanketed the country on both sides of the great river for miles. The problem was, ensconced also meant lost, however purposefully Ismaril had entered the forest. He slid out of the saddle and pulled at the straps holding the basket to the saddle. Roswhen’s son had long since fallen into a sullen and sleepy silence, but when Ismaril lifted him down, he gave a tired whimper. Cynan. Ismaril whispered his name softly. Cynan murmured and waved his arms. For a fleeting moment, everything was peaceful. A gust of wind blew through the pines, and the grasses rustled. The mare gave a weary snort and pricked her ears. Ismaril frowned. “What're you hearing?” He said softly. Again, the wind came, playing with the horse's tail. On its crest it bore a sound--the very sound Ismaril had, though not quite consciously, dreaded hearing. The baying of hounds.
       For an instant, he stood, rooted. Then Ismaril jumped at the mare with feverish haste, fumbling with the basket. The horse lifted her blocky head, looking at Ismaril with glassy eyes. As the wind again washed over the small party, she gave a groan and let her head fall back to the earth. Ismaril struggled to make the mare rise. He shouted, shoved, beseeched , and all the while the babe accompanied his pleas with wails. Ismaril stood, defeated, as the mare closed her eyes. He slowly bent down and lifted Cynan out of the basket. Wrapping the leather straps around his hands, he tied the packsaddle onto his back and wrapped the child firmly in his blankets. Holding Cynan tightly to his chest, he began to trot west: or rather, he the way he hoped was west. While all his nerves screamed at him, run! run! every time the wind gusted and brought with it the same viscous sounds, Ismaril held his pace. In the long run, this will be better, he thought, firmly.
        He loped away, heading north.

So, I have several questions. First, what do you all think of this story? If you have comments, or criticism about anything: plot, character, Writing, I'd love to hear it. Advice is appreciated.
I need to add some more characters. So far, I have a villain, a main, and several subs: Cynan, a woodcutter and his family. Any ideas for more characters I could add?
I have a hard time doing quality characterization when I write in 3rd person. Could you give me your impressions of who Ismaril is right now? Like, his personality traits.
So anyway, I'm exited for this story, but I have some rivers to ford before it gets to where I want it to be.