[Vfw-times] MK Winter Assault Intermission part 4

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A sudden shudder passed through him, even as he turned according to Saulius's 
signal.  He had failed to protect his former master, the man to whom he'd 
dedicated his life many years ago.  With one blow he had been sent underneath 
his horse, his legs crushed to the point that he was lucky he could walk 
today.  Lucky, with the help of the curse giving him completely new legs.  He 
had failed once before, he would not allow himself that luxury this time.  He 
was going to save the Duke, no matter what it cost himself.

And then, the ground began to level out.  With a surge of relief, Egland 
realized that they had managed to descend the hill safely.  Saulius gave out 
a short chittering laugh and patted him on the side of the neck.  Gazing down 
towards the ground, he could easily see the path that Thomas had taken 
southwards.  Snorting in new found urgency, he leapt through the snow, 
bounding with cervine grace into the wintry night, while the rat held on 
tight, his armour clanking at every hoof fall.  Yes, he would save Thomas, 
that he promised himself.


***


The storm's urgency had faded the further South they went.  Bryonoth was glad 
of that, for it allowed him the luxury of a bit more light as he continued to 
drive Thomas through the knight.  He was not sure if he was being followed, 
but he doubted very much that the Keepers would allow him the luxury of an 
escape so easily made, despite their other problems.  But he knew that his 
steed could not handle too much exertion in one evening, especially through 
this sort of weather.  Why, his legs must be freezing, only continuing to 
move because they were so used to the motion.

Bryonoth had been learning the layout of the land south of the Keep for the 
last two months, and so knew his way about fairly well, and knew where to 
find shelter.  Turning through the woods, he slowed Thomas down slightly, 
pulling back on the reins.  Obedience was immediate, and he doubted that 
Thomas even realized that the spell of control had waned.  He was just used 
to obeying his rider's commands.  He'd strengthen it again while Thomas 
slept, so that he did not realize that it needed to be recharged.  No point 
in giving his new found stallion reason to be obdurate or rebellious.
The snow was lighter at least, only a foot or so deep in the woods.  The 
blizzard had mostly been concentrated at the Keep, and had died off to a 
light dusting after an hour's ride.  Both he and his steed appreciated that, 
as it allowed them to move faster down the valley.  Bryonoth was no fool 
though.  He knew that he was not safe, and Thomas would not truly be his 
steed until they had safely left the valley and were in the Midlands proper.  
There, he could have Thomas shoed in preparation for the trip to the Steppe 
of the Flatlands. 

Once they arrived in his homeland, it would not be difficult to rejoin the 
Bryonoth clan, and Thomas would produce many fine foals.  Of course, he'd 
need a more fitting name than Thomas.  It just wasn't of the Steppe.  He'd 
have to think on that for now, as nothing sprang to mind.  But surely he 
would bring his family much honour by claiming a steed as this.  And he knew 
a rune to cast that would seal Thomas forever into this form just as soon as 
he was branded by his clan.

However, for any of this to come to fruition, he needed to find shelter, 
before Thomas's legs became too cold to move.  Ducking under a few more 
lifeless branches, casting the snow upon it to the ground and over Thomas's 
hindquarters, he saw that building that he'd intended for.  It was a small 
farm that had been abandoned the previous winter.  Signs of attack had still 
been upon it when Bryonoth had found it last month.  He'd spent a few days 
repairing the stables, and stealing enough hay from the nearby farms to stock 
it.  

With a lick of his tongue he turned Thomas towards the front door, slowing 
him down to a simple walk.  Thomas, with bowed head, complied, obviously 
exhausted from his run through the bitter winter chill.  Bryonoth patted his 
steed's neck with one hand to assure him that all was well, though said 
nothing.  He had a few other places prepared in case he had been able to make 
it further on the first night of his escape, but the blizzard made this 
stable a necessity.

Dismounting, the knight lifted the latch on the stable door, and led Thomas 
inside, where it was warmer, though not a great deal.  After closing the door 
and removing his gauntlets, he took the tinder from the saddlebags perched on 
either side of Thomas's flanks and lit the lantern he'd hung inside the 
doorway.   The stable was small, only three stalls, each of them freshly 
stocked with hay, while more awaited in the hayloft above.  There was a small 
fire pit on the other side, which had fresh kindling and twigs already placed 
inside.  Taking a small stick, he lit it with the lantern's flame, and then 
proceeded to start the fire.

It took him a few moments to get the flame nice and bright, but once he had 
done so, he removed a blanket from the saddlebags and held it before the 
flickering orange flame, until it was pleasantly warm.  Turning, Bryonoth 
approached Thomas, who stood in the middle of the stables rather dumbly.  
Bryonoth let out another nicker, and the horse clopped forward upon the 
hay-strewn wood floor, his eyes the fire both apprehensively, and 
appreciatively.  

Bryonoth leaned forward and began to rub Thomas's legs down with the warm 
cloth, restoring feeling to them as he worked.  Thomas just stood there 
meekly, cooperating as if he were but a tame horse, though the knight gave no 
orders.  Bryonoth gazed a moment into the Duke of Metamor's eyes as he worked 
on his forelegs, trying to see what thoughts were betrayed in them.  All that 
he could discern though was appreciation for this gesture.  No sense of that 
former rebellion remained in them.  

With a bit of a chuckle, Bryonoth patted Thomas's cheek with one hand, a hand 
that the horse leaned into.  Smiling, he turned to work over his steed's rear 
legs, delighted at the compliance he found.  Perhaps the Duke would not be so 
hard to break as he had at first suspected.  And so, as the fire crackled, 
the flames growing higher and higher in the inglenook, Sir Albert Bryonoth 
continued warming the Duke's body with the cloth, rubbing it firmly across 
every one of his legs, taking care around each joint.

Once he was finished with that, he lifted the saddle from the Duke's back, 
and set it on the nearby rack.  He then gripped the reins, and led Thomas 
into one of the stalls, turning him about so that his head rested above the 
slightly rotted wooden door.  Thomas clopped about, his tail swishing from 
one side to the other almost lazily, snorting and champing a bit at the 
halter.

Bryonoth chuckled then, and patted the side of his head, just beneath one 
eye. "Thou art mistaken if thou thinks I shalt remove thy halter just yet." 
Leaving the horse inside the stall, he retrieved two sets of poles from one 
of the other stalls, each with wide clasps on the ends.  Returning to his 
steed, he said, "Stand still, " and immediately, Thomas's body stiffened, the 
legs locking beneath him as if he were sleeping.

Stepping underneath his stallion, Bryonoth placed the clasps around the upper 
portion of Thomas's right foreleg, and then placed the other around his right 
hind leg.  He used the other pole on the horses's left side, before locking 
each clasp in place, and shifting them about to make sure that they were 
secure.  He then stood before his horse and offered him a slight smile. "I 
shall warn thee, if thou attempts to change back, then thou shalt break they 
arms and legs.  A horse whose limbs are broken is good only for its flesh." 

Thomas's eyes went wide at that, but he offered no protest.  Bryonoth then 
untied the halter, and pulled it from the horse's head, the bit coming free 
of Thomas's mouth at last.  It looked as if it were a great relief to Thomas 
to have those straps of leather from his face, for he opened and shut his 
mouth several time sot get the taste of the bit out.

Bryonoth hung the halter from a peg on the post next to the stall, and then 
dragged one of the feedbags over, and began to pour the oats into the trough 
just inside the stall.  Thomas was quick to set his face down into the 
offering, eating gluttonously.  Nodding in approval, Bryonoth walked over to 
one of the cisterns on the other side of the barn, and placed a pail beneath 
the valve.  Turning the handle, he saw that the water had not completely 
frozen, as it trickled slowly into the pan.  Once it was half full, he turned 
the handle back, carried the pail back to the horse's stall, and filled the 
water trough with what he had in the pail.  Bryonoth made three trips before 
he was satisfied his steed had enough to drink.

Content that Thomas was well cared for at the moment, he turned to face the 
two doors leading outside.  If indeed he the Metamorians were looking for 
him, then the Keepers would have little difficulty in following that trail 
he'd left.  He took the long shaft of wood and laid it in the braces for the 
door.  It would take a bit of effort for any Keepers to burst their way into 
the stable, which would give him just enough alarm to defend himself and his 
steed.

He shoved a few logs into the inglenook then, listening to the crack of the 
fire as it snapped and worked to turn the kindling to ash.  He held out his 
chapped hands to the flames, letting them be warmed once more.  It would feel 
good to be back on the Steppe, were weather such as this rarely if ever 
occurred.  There was a soreness to his body as well, in his legs, one that he 
had greatly missed in the last two months.  It was the feel of a horse 
between his legs.  

An unpleasant moue crossed his features then as he thought over the last two 
months.  He'd had to live out of the saddle, without the companionship of his 
steed.  It was a bitter existence that, one that he was not meant to live.  
He was born to the saddle, a man of the Steppe.  He breathed in deep of his 
own flesh, and found its taint of equine odour appealing, a true impression 
of living.  Turning back to Thomas, he saw that his steed was eating quietly 
from the feed tray, the poles about his legs not preventing him from taking 
small steps, but certainly from changing back or attempting to flee.

Walking once more across the short space of the stables, Bryonoth rested his 
now warmed hands upon the horse's neck, running his fingers through the mane 
there, and breathing in deep of the pleasing aroma.  Thomas lifted his head 
to consider the knight, his eyes curious, but did not appear to be damning or 
in the least bit reproachful.  Bryonoth rested his forehead against Thomas's, 
as he gently ran his fingers through the cheek fur. "I thank thee," was all 
he could say before he began to whimper quietly.

Thomas nuzzled him a bit with his head, and Bryonoth hugged that head close, 
his whole body so delighted to just have the feel of a horse so close. Never 
before could he remember when he had felt so delighted to have a steed at his 
side to care for.  Truly, he needed a steed to feel complete, to feel like a 
man.  As he held that massive equine head in his hands, all other thoughts 
fled his mind.  Truly, the blood of a horse flowed in his own veins.

******

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