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 on the picket-line came clearly over the walls. Horses stamped and whickered a little, and 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!”
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 made out walls on all sides of him, close enough to touch. 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 birds.
They must have thrown him into some kind of shed, something that had once held chickens or pigeons. 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.
Still, once darkness descended, it might be possible to get away. If he could overpower whatever guards that 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—
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 oil 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, 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, 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 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. He hadn’t even found the stirrups when the stallion turned on his hind feet.
There was a crack of collapsing wood, as fire engulfed them. Burning thatch fell before and behind them, sparks showering as the air was sucked into the blaze, hotter. . . .
But, amazingly, no fire licked at his flesh once he had mounted. . . .
Alberich sobbed with relief as the cool air surged into his lungs—the stallion’s hooves hit the ground beyond the flames, and he gasped with pain as he was flung forward against the saddle-bow.
Then the real pain began, the torture of half-scorched skin, and the broken bones of his capture, jarred into agony by the stallion’s headlong gallop into the night. The beast thundered towards the villagers, and they screamed and parted before it; soldiers and Voice alike were caught unawares, and not one of them raised a weapon in time to stop the flight.
:Stay on,: the stallion said grimly, into his mind, as the darkness was shattered by the red lightning of his own pain. :Stay on, stay with me; we have a long way to go before we’re safe. Stay with me. . . .:
Safe where? he wanted to ask—but there was no way to ask around the pain. All he could do was to hang on, and hope he could do what the horse wanted.
An eternity later—as dawn rose as red as the flames that had nearly killed him—the stallion had slowed to a walk. Dawn was on their right, which meant that the stallion was heading north, across the border, into the witch-kingdom of Valdemar. Which only made sense, since what he’d thought was a horse had turned out to be one of the blue-eyed witch-beasts. . . .
None of it mattered. Now that the stallion had slowed to a walk, his pain had dulled, but he was exhausted and out of any energy to think or even feel with. What could the witches do to him, after all? Kill him? At the moment, that would be a kindness. . . .
The stallion stopped, and he looked up, trying to see through the film that had come over his vision. At first he thought he was seeing double; two white witch-beast
s and two white-clad riders blocked the road. But then he realized that there were two of them, hastily dismounting, reaching for him.
He let himself slide down into their hands, hearing nothing he could understand, only a babble of strange syllables.
Then, in his mind—
:Can you hear me?:
:I—what?: he replied, without thinking.
:Taver says his name’s Alberich,: came a second voice in his head. :Alberich? Can you stay with us a little longer? We need to get you to a Healer. You’re going into shock; fight it for us. Your Companion will help you, if you let him.:
His what? He shook his head; not in negation, in puzzlement. Where was he? All his life he’d heard that the witches of Valdemar were evil—but—
:And all our lives we’ve heard that nothing comes out of Karse but brigands and bad weather,: said the first voice, full of concern, but with an edge of humor to it. He shook his head again and peered up at the person supporting him on his right. A woman, with many laugh-lines etched around her generous mouth. She seemed to fit that first voice in his head, somehow. . . .
:So, which are you, Alberich?: she asked, as he fought to stay awake, feeling the presence of the stallion (his Companion?) like a steady shoulder to lean against, deep inside his soul. :Brigand, or bad weather?:
:Neither . . . I hope . . .: he replied, absently, as he clung to consciousness as she’d asked.
:Good. I’d hate to think of a Companion Choosing a brigand to be a Herald,: she said, with her mouth twitching a little, as if she was holding back a grin, :And a thunderstorm in human guise would make uncomfortable company.:
:Choosing?: he asked. :What—what do you mean?:
:I mean that you’re a Herald, my friend,: she told him. :Somehow your Companion managed to insinuate himself across the Border to get you, too. That’s how Heralds of Valdemar are made; Companions Choose them—: She looked up and away from him, and relief and satisfaction spread over her face at whatever it was she saw. :—and the rest of it can wait. Aren’s brought the Healer. Go ahead and let go, we’ll take over from here.:
He took her at her word, and let the darkness take him. But her last words followed him down into the shadows, and instead of bringing the fear they should have given him, they brought him comfort, and a peace he never expected.
:It’s a hell of a greeting, Herald Alberich, and a hell of a way to get here—but welcome to Valdemar, brother. Welcome . . .:
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Stolen Silver (valdemar (05)) Page 2