Mercedes Lackey - Exile's Honor

Exile’s Honor

A Novel Of Valdemar

Mercedes Lackey

2002

Novels By Mercedes Lackey

The Heralds Of Valdemar

Arrows Of The Queen

Arrow’s Flight

Arrow’s Fall

The Last Herald-Mage

Magic’s Pawn

Magic’s Promise

Magic’s Price

The Mage Winds

Winds Of Fate

Winds Of Change

Winds Of Fury

The Mage Storms

Storm Warning

Storm Rising

Storm Breaking

Kerowyn’s Tale

By The Sword

Vows And Honor

The Oathbound

Oathbreakers

Oathblood

Brightly Burning

Take A Thief

Exile’s Honor

Darkover Novel (With Marion Zimmer Bradley)

Rediscovery

The Black Swan

The Serpent’s Shadow

The Gates Of Sleep

Phoenix And Ashes*

Written With Larry Dixon:

The Mage Wars

The Black Gryphon

The White Gryphon

The Silver Gryphon

Owlflight

Owlsight

Owlknight

Dedicated to the memory of NYFD crews lost 9/11/2001:

Squad One:

Brian Bilcher

Gary Box

Thomas Butler

Peter Carroll

Robert Cordice

David Fontana

Matthew Garvey

Stephen Siller

Edward Datri

Michael Esposito

Michael Fodor

James Amato

Squad 18:

Eric Allen

David Halderman

Timothy Haskell

Andrew Fredericks

Lawrence Virgilio

William McGinn

Squad 41:

Thomas Cullen III

Robert Hamilton

Michael Lyons

Gregory Sikorsky

Richard VanHine

Michael Healey

Squad 252:

Tarel Coleman

Thomas Kuveikis

Peter Langone

Patrick Lyons

Kevin Prior

Squad 288:

Ronnie Gies

Joseph Hunter

Jonathon lelpi

Adam Rand

Ronald Kerwin

Safety Battalion I:

Robert Crawford

Fire Marshal:

Ronald Bucca

Special Operations:

Timothy Higgins

Michael Russo

Patrick Waters

Raymond Downey

Citywide Tour Commander:

Gerard Barbara

Donald Burns

Prologue

SlLVER stamped restively as another horse on the picket line shifted and

blundered into his hindquarters. Alberich clucked to quiet him and patted the

stallion’s neck; the beast swung his head about to blow softly into the young

Captain’s hair. Alberich smiled a little, thinking wistfully that the stallion was

perhaps the only creature in the entire camp that felt anything like friendship for him.

And possibly the only creature that isn’t waiting for me to fail, hoping that I will,

and ready to pounce on me and cut me to pieces when I do. Life for an officer of

Karsite troops was spent half in defeating the enemies of Karse and half in watching

his own back.

Amazingly gentle, for a stallion, Silver had caused no problems either in combat

or here, on the picket line. Which was just as well, for if he had, Alberich would have

had him gelded or traded off for a more tractable mount, gift of the Voice of Vkandis

Sunlord or no. Alberich had enough troubles without worrying about the behavior of

his beast.

He wasn’t sure where the handsome and muscular creature had come from;

Shin’a’in-bred, they’d told him. The Voice had chosen the beast especially for him

out of a string of animals “liberated from the enemy.” Which meant war booty, of

course, from one of the constant conflicts along the borders. Silver hadn’t come from

one of the bandit nests, that was sure. The only beasts the bandits owned were as

disreputable as their owners. Horses “liberated” from the bandits usually weren’t

worth keeping, they were so run-down and ill-treated. Silver probably came from

Menmellith via Rethwellan; the King was rumored to have some kind of connection

with the horse-breeding, bloodthirsty Shin’a’in nomads.

Whatever; when Alberich lost his faithful old Smoke a few weeks ago he hadn’t

expected to get anything better than the obstinate, intractable gelding he’d taken from

its bandit owner. But fate ruled otherwise; the Voice chose to “honor” him with a

superior replacement along with his commission, the letter that accompanied the

paper pointing out that Silver was the perfect mount for a Captain of light cavalry. It

was also another evidence of favoritism from above, with the implication that he had

earned that favoritism outside of performance in the field.

Talk about a double-edged blade.... Both the commission and the horse came with

burdens of their own. Not a gift that was likely to increase his popularity with some of

the men under his command, and a beast that was going to make him pretty damned

conspicuous in any encounter with the enemy. A white horse? Might as well paint a

target on his back and have done with it.

Plus that’s an unlucky color. Those witchy-Heralds of Val-demar ride white

horses, and the blue-eyed beasts may be demons or witches, too, for all I know. The

priests say they are. The priests call their owners the “Demon-Riders.”

The horse nuzzled him again, showing as sweet a temper as any lady’s mare. He

scratched its nose, and it sighed with content; he wished he could be as contented.

Things had been bad enough before getting this commission. Now—

There was an uneasy, prickly sensation between his shoulder blades as he went

back to brushing down his new mount. He glanced over his shoulder, to intercept the

glare of Leftenant Herdahl; the man dropped his gaze and brushed his horse’s flank

vigorously, but not quickly enough to prevent Alberich from seeing the hate and

anger in the hot blue eyes. No, indeed, the Voice had done Alberich no favors in

rewarding him with the Captaincy and this prize mount, passing over Herdahl and

Klaus, both his seniors in years of service, if not in experience. Neither of them had

expected that he would be promoted over their heads; during the week’s wait for word

to come from Headquarters, they had saved their rivalry for each other.

Too bad they didn’t murder each other, he thought resentfully, then suppressed

the rest of the thought. It was said that some of the priests of Vkandis could pluck the

thoughts from a man’s head. It could have been thoughts like that one that had led to

Herdahl’s being passed over for promotion. But it could also be that this was a test, a

way of flinging the ambitious young Leftenant Alberich into deep water, to see if he

would survive the experience. If he did, well and good; he was of suitable material to

continue to advance, perhaps even to the rank of Commander. If he did not—well,

that was too bad. If his ambition undid him, or if he wasn’t clever enough to see and

avoid the machinations of those below him, then he wasn’t fit enough for the post.

That was the way of things, in the armies of Karse. You rose by watching your

back, and (if the occasion arose) sticking careful knives into the backs of your less-

cautious fellows, and ensuring other enemies took the punishment. All the while, the

priests of the Sunlord, the ones who were truly in charge, watched and smiled and

dispensed favors and punishments with the same dispassionate aloofness displayed by

the One God. Karse was a hard land, and the Sunlord a hard God; the Sunpriests were

as hard as both.

But Alberich had given a good account of himself along the border, at the corner

where Karse met Menmellith and the witch-nation Valdemar, in the campaign against

the bandits there. Frankly, Herdahl and Klaus put together hadn’t been half as

effective or as energetic as he’d been. He’d earned his rank, he told himself once

again, as Silver stamped and shifted his weight beneath the strokes of Alberich’s

brush.

The spring sun burned down on his head, hotter than he expected without the

breeze to cool him, hot as Herdahl’s angry glare.

Demons take Herdahl. There was no reason to feel as if he’d cheated to get where

he was. He’d led more successful sorties against the bandits in his first year in the

field than the other two had achieved in their entire careers. He’d cleared more

territory than anyone of leftenant rank ever had in that space of time—and when

Captain Anberg had met with one too many arrows, the men had seemed perfectly

willing to follow him when the Voice chose him over the other two candidates.

It had been the policy of late to permit the brigands to flourish, provided they

confined their attentions to Valdemar and the Menmellith peasantry and left the

inhabitants of Karse unmolested. A stupid policy, in Alberich’s opinion; you couldn’t

trust bandits, that was the whole reason why they became bandits in the first place. If

they could be trusted, they’d be in the army themselves, or in the Temple Guard, or

even have turned mercenary. He’d seen the danger back when he was a youngster in

the Academy, in his first tactics classes. He’d even said as much to one of his

teachers—phrased as a question, of course, since cadets were not permitted to have

opinions. The question had been totally ignored. Perhaps because it wasn’t wise to so

much as hint that the decisions of the Sunpriests were anything other than divinely

inspired.

But, as Alberich had predicted, there had been trouble from the brigands once

they began to multiply; problems that escalated far, far past the point where their use

as an irritant to Valdemar was outweighed by their effect as a scourge on Karse. With

complete disregard for the unwritten agreements between them and Karse, they struck

everyone, and when they finally began attacking villages instead of just robbing

solitary travelers or going after single farms, the authorities deemed it time they were

disposed of.

Alberich had spent a good part of his young life in the Karsite military schools

and had just finished cavalry training as an officer when the troubles broke out. The

ultimate authority was in the hands of the Voices, of course. The highest anyone not

of the priesthood could expect to rise was to Commander. But officers were never

taken from the ranks; many of the rank-and-file were conscripts, and although it was

never openly stated, the Voices did not trust their continued loyalty if they were given

power.

Alberich, and many others like him, had been selected at the age of thirteen by a

Voice sent every year to search out young male children, strong of body and quick of

mind, to school into officers. And there was one other qualification—that at least half

of them be lowborn, so that they were appropriately grateful to the Voices for their

opportunity to rise in rank and station.

Alberich had all those qualities, developing expertise in many weapons with an

ease that was the envy of his classmates, picking up his lessons in academic subjects

with what seemed to be equal ease.

It wasn’t ease; it was the fact that Alberich studied long and hard, knowing that

there was no way for the bastard son of a tavern wench to advance in Karse except in

the army. There was no place for him to go, no way to get into a trade, no hope for

any but the most menial of jobs. The Voices didn’t care about a man’s parentage once

he was chosen as an officer, they cared only about his abilities and whether or not he

would use them in service to his God and country. It was a lonely life, though. His

mother had loved and cared for him to the best of her abilities, and he’d had friends

among the other children of similar circumstances. When he came to the Academy, he

had no friends, and his mother was not permitted to contact him, lest she “distract

him,” or “contaminate his purity of purpose.” Alberich had never seen her again, but

both of them had known this was the only way for him to live a better life than she

had. And there had been a half-promise—which he had no way of knowing was

kept—that if he did well at the Academy, his mother would be rewarded, perhaps

with a little house of her own, if she could manage to keep herself from further sin.

He had trusted in that particular Voice, though. The priest had no reason to lie to

him—and every reason to give his mother that reward. After all, Karse needed

officers.... willing officers, and young boys eager to throw themselves into their

studies with all the enthusiasm of youth in order to become those willing officers.

Knowing that their parents would be taken care of provided plenty of incentive.

And he had done better than well. He had pushed himself harder than any of his

classmates pushed themselves.

Friends? When did I have the time for friends? Up before dawn for extra exercise,

all my spare time practicing against the older boys, and after dinner studying by the

light of Vkandis’ lamps in the Temple until the priests came in for midnight prayers.

Alberich had no illusions about the purity of the One God’s priesthood. There

were as many corrupt and venal priests as there were upright, and more fanatic than

there were forgiving. He had seen plenty of the venal kind in the tavern when they

passed through his little mountain village on the way to greater places; had hidden

from one or two that had come seeking pleasures strictly forbidden by the One God’s

edicts. He had known they were coming, looking for him, and had managed to make

himself scarce long before they arrived. Just as, somehow, he had known when the

Voice was coming to look for young male children for the Academy, and had made

certain he was noticed and questioned—

And that he had known which customers it was safe to cadge for a penny in return

for running errands—

Or that he had known that drunk was going to try to set the stable afire. Oh, that

had been a tricky thing to manage—to stay awake despite aching eyes that threatened

to close long enough to be able to “stumble out of bed” and into the courtyard in

search of a drink from the pump “just in time” to see the first flames. No matter how

much noise is in a tavern, the sound of a child’s shrill scream will penetrate it. No

matter how drunk the inhabitants, the cry of “Fire!” will get the appropriate

response.

Somehow. That was Alberich’s secret. He knew things were going to happen.

That was a witch-power, and forbidden by the Voices of the One God. If anyone

knew he had it—

The Fires, and the Cleansing. Oh, of course, those whom the One God favors are

supposed to be able to endure the Fires and walk from the ashes Cleansed. Not that

anyone has ever seen that happen.

But he had also known from the time that the visions first came on him, as surely

as he had known all the rest, that he had to conceal the fact that he had this power,

even before he knew the law against it.

He’d succeeded fairly well over the years, though it was getting harder and harder

all the time. The power struggled inside him, wanting to break free, once or twice

overwhelming him with visions so intense that for a moment he was blind and deaf to

everything else. It was getting harder to concoct reasons for knowing things he had no

business knowing, like the hiding places of the bandits they were chasing, the bolt-

holes and escape routes. But it was harder still to ignore them, especially when

subsequent visions showed him innocent people suffering because he didn’t act on

what he knew.

He brushed Silver’s neck vigorously, the dust tickling his nose and making him

want to sneeze—

—and between one brush stroke and the next, he lost his sense of balance, went

light-headed, and the dazzle that heralded a vision-to-come sparkled between his eyes

and Silver’s neck.

Not here! he thought desperately, clinging to Silver’s mane and trying to pretend

there was nothing wrong. Not now, not with Herdahl watching—

But the witch-power would not obey him, not this time.

No—Sunlord, help me, not now! He believed in the Sunlord, in His power and

goodness, if not in the goodness of those who said they spoke for Him ...

A flash of blue light, blinding him—

Then came sight again, but not of the picket line, but another place.

Where? Where? Sunlord, where?

The bandits he’d thought were south had slipped behind him, into the north,

joining with two more packs of the curs, becoming a group large enough to take on

his troops and give them an even fight. But first, they wanted a secure base. They

were going to make Alberich meet them on ground of their choosing. Fortified

ground.

That this ground was already occupied was only a minor inconvenience, one that

would soon be dealt with.

He fought free of the vision for a moment, clinging to Silver’s shoulder like a

drowning man, both hands full of the beast’s silky mane, while the horse curved his

head back and looked at him curiously. The big brown eyes flickered blue, briefly,

like a half-hidden flash of lightning, reflecting—

—another burst of sapphire. And now, now he knew where! The bandits’ target

was a fortified village, a small one, built on the top of a hill, above the farm fields.

Ordinarily, these people would have no difficulty in holding off a score of bandits.

But there were three times that number ranged against them, and a recent edict from

the High Temple decreed that no one but the Temple Guard and the army could

possess anything but the simplest of weapons. Not three weeks ago, a detachment of

priests and a Voice had come through here, divesting them of everything but knives,

farm implements, and such simple bows and arrows as were suitable for waterfowl

and small game. And while they were at it, a third of the able-bodied men had been

conscripted for the regular army.

Alberich’s own troops had acted as silent guards for the process, to ensure that

there were no “incidents” while the conscripts were marched away, while the

weapons were taken or destroyed. Yes, he knew this place, knew it too well.

These people didn’t have a chance.

The bandits drew closer, under the cover of a brush-filled ravine.

Alberich found himself on Silver’s back, without knowing how he’d gotten there,

without remembering that he’d flung saddle and bridle back on the beast—

No, not bridle; Silver still wore the halter he’d had on the picket line. Alberich’s

bugle was in his hand; presumably he’d blown the muster, for his men were running

toward him, buckling on swords and slinging quivers over their shoulders.

Blinding flash of sapphire—throwing him back into the vision, showing him what

he would rather not see. He knew what was coming, so why must he see it?

The bandits attacked the village walls, overpowering the poor man who was

trying to bar the gate against them, and swarming inside. He couldn’t close his eyes to

it; the vision came through eyes closed or open. He would look because he had no

choice.

It hadn’t happened yet, he knew that with the surety with which he knew his own

name. It wasn’t even going to happen in the next few moments. But it was going to

happen soon.

They poured inside, cutting down anyone who resisted them, then throwing off

what little restraint they had shown and launching into an orgy of looting and rapine.

Alberich gagged as one of them grabbed a pregnant woman and with a single slash of

his sword, murdered the child that ran to try and protect her, followed through to

her—

The vision released him, and he found himself surrounded by dust and thunder,

still on Silver’s back—

—but leaning over the stallion’s neck as now he led his troops up the road to the

village of Sunsdale at full gallop. Hooves pounded the packed earth of the road,

making it impossible to hear or speak; the vibration thrummed into his bones as he

shifted his weight with the stallion’s turns. Silver ran easily, with no sign of distress,

though all around him and behind him the other horses streamed saliva from the

corners of their mouths, and their flanks ran with sweat and foam, as they strained to

keep up.

The lack of a bit didn’t seem to make any difference to the stallion; he answered

to neck-rein and knee so readily he might have been anticipating Alberich’s thoughts.

Alberich dismissed the uneasy feelings that prompted. Better not to think that he

might have a second witch-power along with the first. He’d never shown any ability

to control beasts by thought before. There was no reason to think he could now. The

stallion was just superbly trained, that was all. And he had more important things to

worry about.

They topped the crest of a hill; Sunsdale lay atop the next one, just as he had seen

in his vision, and the brush-filled ravine beyond it.

There was no sign of trouble.

This time it’s been a wild hare, he thought, and his skin crawled at the thought

that he’d roused the men and sent them here at the gallop, and there were sure to be

questions asked for which he had no answers.

And I answer what? That I wanted to see how quick they’d respond to an

emergency? That would hardly serve.

He was just about to pull Silver up and bring the rest of his men to a halt—no

point in them running their horses into foundering—

When a flash of sunlight on metal betrayed the bandits’ location.

Alberich grabbed for the bugle dangling from his left wrist instead, and pulled his

blade with the right. He sounded the charge and led the entire troop down the hill, an

unstoppable torrent of hooves and steel, hitting the brigands’ hidden line like an

avalanche.

Sword in hand, Alberich limped wearily to another body sprawled amid the rocks

and trampled weeds of the ravine, and thrust it through to make death certain. His

sword felt heavy and unwieldy, his stomach churned, and there was a sour taste in his

mouth. He didn’t think he was going to lose control of his guts, but he was glad he

was almost at the end of the battle line. He hated this part of the fighting—which

wasn’t fighting at all; it was nothing more than butchery.

But it was necessary. This scum was just as likely to be feigning death as to

actually be dead. Other officers hadn’t been that thorough—and hadn’t lived long

enough to regret it.

Silver was being fed and watered along with the rest of the mounts by the

youngsters of Sunsdale; the finest fodder and clearest spring water, and a round dozen

young boys to brush and curry them clean. And the men were being fed and made

much of by the older villagers. Gratitude had made them forgetful of the loss of their

weapons and many of their men. Suddenly the army that had conscripted their

relatives was no longer their adversary. Or else, since the troops had arrived out of

nowhere like Vengeance of the Sunlord Himself, they assumed the One God had a

hand in it, and it would be prudent to resign themselves to the sacrifice. And

meanwhile, the instrument of their rescue probably ought to be well treated.

Except for the Captain, who was doing a dirty job he refused to assign to anyone

else.

Alberich made certain of two more corpses and looked dully around for more.

There weren’t any, and he decided, when he spotted a pool of clear rainwater a

little farther down the ravine, that he had to wash. He had to get the blood off his

hands and the stink of death out of his nostrils.

He picked his way down the rocks to the pool—not rainwater, after all, but fed by

a tiny trickle of a spring, a mere thread of clear water that didn’t even stir the surface

of the pool.

He bent over it, and caught his own reflection staring back at him. A sober fellow,

with a face of sharp planes and uncompromising angles; a stubborn mouth, his mother

had always said, and eyes that stared unnervingly back at him. “Hawk eyes,” said

some; with a fierce and direct gaze. Dark hair, cut as short as possible to fit beneath a

helm’s padding. Skin burned dark by the sun. He looked at the reflection as if he was

looking at a stranger, hunting for—what? The taint of witchery?

He saw only a toughened man with eyes that looked—perhaps—a trifle haunted.

Suddenly, he didn’t want to look anymore—or more closely. Introspection is for

poets. Not men like me.

He bent quickly to wash, disrupting the reflection. When he straightened to shake

the water off his arms and face, he saw to his surprise that the sun was hardly more

than a finger’s breadth from the horizon. Shadows already filled the ravine, the

evening breeze had picked up, and it was getting chilly. Last year’s weeds tossed in

the freshening wind as he gazed around at the long shadows cast by the scrubby trees.

More time had passed than he thought, and if he didn’t hurry, he was going to be late

for SunDescending.

He scrambled over the slippery rocks of the ravine, cursing under his breath as his

boots (meant for riding) skidded on the smooth, rounded boulders. The last thing he

needed now was to be late for a holy service, especially this one. The priest here was

bound to ask him for a thanks-prayer for the victory. If he was late, it would look as if

he was arrogantly attributing the victory to his own abilities, and not the Hand of the

Sunlord. And with an accusation like that hanging over his head, he’d be in danger

not only of being deprived of his current rank, but of being demoted into the ranks,

with no chance of promotion, a step up from stable-hand, but not a big one.

He fought his way over the edge, and half-ran, half-limped to the village gates,

reaching them just as the sun touched the horizon. He put a little more speed into his

weary, aching legs, and got to the edge of the crowd in the village square a scant

breath before the priest began the First Chant.

He bowed his head with the others, and not until he raised his head at the end of it

did he realize that the robes the priest wore were not black, but red. This was no mere

village priest—this was a Voice! He suppressed his start of surprise, and the shiver of

fear that followed it. He didn’t know what this village meant, or what had happened

to require posting a Voice here, but there was little wonder now why they had

submitted so tamely to the taking of their men and the confiscation of their weapons.

No one sane would contradict a Voice.

The Voice held up his hand, and got instant silence; a silence so profound that the

sounds of the horses stamping and whickering on the picket line came clearly over the

walls. In the distance, a few lonely birds called, and the breeze rustled through the

new leaves of the trees in the ravine. Alberich longed suddenly to be able to mount

Silver and ride away from here, far away from the machinations of Voices and the

omnipresent smell of death and blood. He yearned for somewhere clean, somewhere

that he wouldn’t have to guard his back from those he should be able to trust.

“Today this village was saved from certain destruction,” the Voice said, his words

ringing out, but without passion, without any inflection whatsoever. “And for that, we

offer thanks-giving to Vkandis Sunlord, Most High, One God, to whom all things are

known. The instrument of that salvation was Captain Alberich, who mustered his men

in time to catch our attackers in the very act. It seems a miracle—”

During the speech, some of the men had been moving closer to Alberich,

grouping themselves around him to bask in the admiration of the villagers.

Or so he thought. Until the Voice’s tone hardened, and his next words proved

their real intent.

“It seems a miracle—but it was not!” he thundered. “You were saved by the

power of the One God, whose wrath destroyed the bandits, but Alberich betrayed the

Sunlord by using the unholy powers of witchcraft! Seize him!”

His heart froze, but his body acted, and he whirled. The men grabbed him as he

turned to run, throwing him to the ground and pinning him with superior numbers. He

fought them anyway, struggling furiously, until someone brought the hilt of a knife

down on the back of his head.

He didn’t black out altogether, but he couldn’t move or see; his eyes wouldn’t

focus, and a gray film obscured everything. He felt himself being dragged off by the

arms—heaved into darkness—felt himself hitting a hard surface—heard the slamming

of a door.

Then heard only confused murmurs as he lay in shadows, trying to regain his

senses and his strength. Gradually, his sight cleared, and he could make out walls on

all sides of him, close enough to touch. The last light of dusk made thin blue lines of

the cracks between each board. He raised his aching head cautiously, and made out

the dim outline of an ill-fitting door. The floor, clearly, was dirt. And smelled

unmistakably of other fowl birds.

They must have thrown him into some kind of shed, something that had once held

chickens or pigeons. It didn’t now, for the dirt floor was clean and packed as hard as

rock. He was under no illusions that this meant his prison would be easy to escape;

out here, the chicken-sheds were frequently built better than the houses, for chickens

were more valuable than children. Children ate; chickens and eggs were to be eaten.

Still, once darkness descended, it might be possible to get away. If he could

overpower whatever guards the Voice had placed around him. If he could find a way

out of the shed!

If he could get past the Voice himself. There were stories that the Voices had

other powers than plucking the thoughts from a man’s head—stories that they

commanded the services of demons tamed by the Sunlord—and he knew those stories

were true. He’d heard the Night-demons ranging through the dark, off in the far

distance. No dog ever produced those wails, no wolf howled like that, and no owl

conjured those bone-chilling shrieks from its throat. And once, from a distance, he’d

seen the result of one of those hunts. Whatever the demons had left behind wasn’t

human anymore....

While he lay there gathering his wits, another smell invaded the shed,

overpowering even the stench of old bird-droppings. A sharp, thick smell. It took a

moment for him to recognize it.

—But when he did, he clawed his way up the wall he’d been thrown against, to

stand wide-eyed in the darkness, nails digging into the wood behind him, heart

pounding with stark terror.

Oil. They had poured earth-oil, the kind that bubbled up in black, sticky pools

around here, around the foundations, splashed it up against the sides of the shed. And

now he heard them out there, bringing piles of dry brush and wood to stack against

the walls. The punishment for witchery was burning, and they were taking no

chances; they were going to burn him now.

The noises outside stopped; the murmur of voices faded as his captors moved

away—

Then the Voice called out, once—a set of three sharp, angry words—

And every crack and crevice in the building was outlined in yellow and red, as the

entire shed was engulfed in flames from outside.

Alberich cried out, and staggered away from the wall he’d been leaning against.

The shed was bigger than he’d thought—but not big enough to protect him. The oil

they’d spread so profligately made the flames burn hotter, and the wood of the shed

was old, weathered, and probably dry. Within moments, the very air scorched him; he

hid his mouth in a fold of his shirt, but his lungs burned with every breath. His eyes

streamed tears of pain as he turned, burning, staggering, searching for an escape that

didn’t exist.

One of the walls burned through, showing the flames leaping from the wood and

brush piled beyond it. He couldn’t hear anything but the roar of the flames. At any

moment now, the roof would cave in, burying him in burning debris—

:Look out!:

How he heard the warning—or how he knew to stagger back as far as he could

without being incinerated on the spot, he did not know. But a heartbeat after that

warning shout in his mind, a hole opened up in the side of the shed with a crash. Then

a huge, silver-white shadow lofted through the hole in the burning wall, and landed

beside him. It was still wearing his saddle and hackamore—

And it turned huge, impossibly blue eyes on him as he stood there gaping at it. It?

No. Him.

:On!: the stallion snapped at him. :The roof’s about to go!:

Whatever fear he had of the beast, he was more afraid of a death by burning. With

hands that screamed with pain, he grabbed the saddle-bow and threw himself onto it.

Mercedes Lackey - Exile's Honor

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