<HTML> 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. ****** </HTML>