The alcove set back within the eastern wall of the castle was cold, stone’s pressing obsessively close around the Duke of Metamor. Long slanting shadows stretched towards the outer bailey, while massive buttresses rose like the fins of some sea monster up from the field still lightly covered with snow. The snow was a jumbled mess of foot, paw, and hoof prints that had traced back and forth over the last few weeks. Along the most travelled paths there was snow at all, only the promise of new grass in the coming months.
Thomas held the magical halter between his fingers as he leaned against the wall, staring out into the shadowed field. Behind him, the dark secret corridor stretched back until it angled upwards as a musty staircase. A flambeaux was guttering woefully behind him, the tender flame struggling to stay lit as short gusts of wind churned within the small corridor. Amidst the greater darkness of the Keep’s shadow, his own silhouetted form thrown against the ground danced to and fro like a inebriated jester with only one leg.
His fingers stroked along the leather of the halter, the fabric brushing along the fur of his hands and wrists. His tail flitted from one side to the other in both agitation and eager anticipation. He wondered if he could not place the halter on himself. He certainly could not remove it, as it would force him to be a full horse, but was there anything preventing him from placing it on himself?
Staring with intense eyes down at the small straps of leather firmly bound together, he began to stretch them out until they were of the proper shape. The metal bit hung down in the ball of his palm, cool against his fur. He stepped a little higher, hooves clacking against the masonry, echoing back up the alcove and stairwell. None but he could hear it though.
With unsteady fingers, he lifted the halter towards his face, ears twitching forward, lips trembling. He felt the first of the leather straps brush over the fur along his muzzle, his whole body beginning to shake. His heart pounded so loudly in his chest, he was certain that the guards standing upon that distant bailey watching the valley would think it war drums! More and more of the straps scrapped along his face, until just beneath his lips bobbed the sweet bit.
“Thou shouldst not don that with thy clothes still on, Toumoth,” a voice a short distance away chided. Suddenly abashed, Thomas turned, and smiled as he saw Bryonoth standing there just outside the alcove, a small pack slung across one of her shoulders. She repositioned it, dark eyes studying him there as he leaned against the dank wall.
“Nor shouldst thee don that by thy own hand. Thou art but a horse, Toumoth. No horse dons his own halter.”
He nodded then, and offered the halter to her. On their second meeting, Bryonoth had told him very plainly that horses cannot speak human tongues. Ever since that moment, he had never spoken a single human word to her, only whinnied and neighed. Sometimes he would snort and bob his head up and down, or scrape the door to his stall with one hoof, and other times he would stamp his hooves upon the hay-strewn floor of the stables. But never did he speak human words.
Bryonoth lifted a slender hand, callused still from years amongst horses, and brushed along his muzzle with it. His eyes watched that hand, ears perked tenderly atop his head. Her hand slid down slowly long his neck, until she had placed her palm against his woolen tunic. “Horses do not wear such things,” she chided gently, as she always did. Thomas could not help but smile slightly at that. He waited for her to pull out the plain clothes from her pack as she always did.
Instead, she pulled out a long lead, and several long blankets. “Remove thy clothes and leave them here, Toumoth,” she instructed, her voice gentle but firm. There could be no argument with her, Thomas knew that well. It was clear that she intended to have him walk openly throughout Metamor as just a horse this day. It was why she had summoned him before nightfall.
Her eyes settled upon the opposite wall as he undid his clothes, leaving them in a small pile upon the floor. When he had nothing on, his hands rested at his navel, flesh twitching nervously. The cold draft blew across his skin, his fur twisting in whorls. “Tis wide enough,” she murmured to herself, one hand patting the stone wall. Her gaze then returned to the Duke, eyes surveying him quickly, dark, firm, but admiring as well.
She then lifted the halter in her hands. Thomas felt his heart quicken as he saw that. Bryonoth smiled to him, holding it out, even as his head leaned forward to press once more within the leathery confines. With deft ease, she slipped the thong behind his ears, the bit fitting squarely within his jaws. He felt the metal’s tang upon his tongue, a simple but bitter taste that made his whole body shiver.
And then, she had attached the thong behind his ears, and he felt the familiar fire spread through his body. The first time he had experienced the demand, it had pained him greatly, an agony as if he had been plunged into scalding water. But now, after it had come upon him so many times, it felt as if he were stretched out before a campfire, the warmth suffusing his body with pleasant energy. His mind was lifted by it, wrapped in cushioning quilts as his form was remade by that halter.
And then, he who was one Duke Thomas Hassan of Metamor, was now Toumoth the horse, all four hooves clattering upon the stone masonry of the alcove. He breathed in deeply through his nostrils, noting that Bryonoth smelled of other animals, the familiar scent of an elk and oryx, Sir Egland and the knight’s squire Intoran. There were also other horses, filling his heart with a sudden pang of jealousy.
Bryonoth did not dally long there in the alcove. She soon had lain the blankets across his back, providing him with some protection against the cold of the late afternoon air. She then attached the lead to the halter, and gave it a firm tug. He stepped forward, walking out into the snow, crushing the frozen blades of grass beneath his hooves. She pulled the secret door shut behind him, and then continued to lead him back through the shadows of the Keep towards the town.
Toumoth was very self-conscious at first, glancing this way and that as best he could on the lead. At first as they made their way around the buttresses, they saw no one on that side of the castle. But as they made their way towards the town, back around towards the northern side, more and more people were walking about. When none of them paid Bryonoth and her horse any heed, Toumoth felt his heart begin to beat more slowly. Who could guess what soul lurked within the body of the horse the Flatlander led?
Soon his hooves began to clop along the stonework, and it would be clear to anyone that he was unshod. He nervously scanned about, watching as Metamorians walked by unconcerned along the streets, many returning to their homes after a long day at work. The houses along the streets were mostly rebuilt. A few ruins dotted the variegated avenues, smouldering piles of ash and stone that had been swept together, conspicuous only by the gap they left in the face of each street.
Very quickly Bryonoth turned down a narrow side avenue. On either side were homes, their eaves still filled with the last of the winter’s snow. Toumoth felt the tug upon his reins and followed, setting each hoof down gently, for fear of the sound that resounded to his ears indicting him as unshod. But Bryonoth was insistent, and so he had little choice but to follow after her at a comfortable walking pace.
The alley opened out onto a smaller street, along which, Toumoth could see was the stables that Bryonoth had kept him in. His pace quickened a bit, and his muzzle came up to her shoulder, lips brushing against the thick wool of her shirt. She leaned her head against the side of his muzzle, coarse hair ticking his nostrils. He snorted once, blowing those strands onto the other side of her head.
But instead of leading him through the main doors, Bryonoth took him around one of the sides where a wagon sat unoccupied. The side door to the stables stood closed, but she opened it quickly. A bit of snow fell from the roof, dashing off the side of the wagon, and brushing Toumoth’s flanks. He stepped forward at that, bumping his snout against her back.
Bryonoth laughed lightly at that, turned around to pat his nose firmly with one hand. He snorted into it, nickering softly. She leaned forward and planted a small kiss upon his tender flesh, and then walked inside the stables. The fresh scent of hay, as well as the powerful aroma of horses came to him even before he made his way underneath the lintel.
There were no lamps lit within the stables, and so the only light came from a westward facing window set just over the door. It cast a rectangular block of light down upon the near side of the stables, illuminating two other horses. They glanced up from their feed troughs as Bryonoth and he entered, but returned to them just as quickly.
When Toumoth next glanced over at the Flatlander, he saw that she was bringing a yoke and harnesses. He blinked, scratching his forehoof in the hay. She simply smiled and set the wooden yoke over his neck. “I hath told thee I needed thee for work, Toumoth.” Her voice was firm, almost lecturing. But what thrilled him the most was its paternal quality, as if she were speaking to any old horse.
She took his lead again, and brought him back outside to the wagon. The weight of the yoke was burdensome, but hardly unbearable. Toumoth found that he barely strained in carrying it upon his neck and shoulders. As long as he held his head up, it rested comfortably at his shoulders.
At Bryonoth’s instruction, he backed between the two poles at the front of the wagon. She hooked them to either end of the yoke, and then removed the lead from the halter. In its place she took long leather straps and hooked them tight. Moving around behind him, she climbed up into the seat of the wagon, gripping the reins tightly in one hand. With a sudden crack, Toumoth felt the snap of the reins upon his back like the nip of a fox or dog. He lurched into motion, dragging the wagon behind him.
He felt the bit in his mouth pull to the right, and so he turned that way as soon as they were out upon the street. The wagon followed behind, clattering over the stones in the street. Toumoth had to push harder to pull the wagon, his hooves digging into the stones with every step, but it offered little resistance, for which he was grateful. Occasionally, he would feel the sting of the bit pulling in one direction or another within his muzzle, and he would turn to lessen the pain. Otherwise, he just walked, vaguely aware of the Keepers moving about as the sun continued its downward trek towards the western mountains.
The shadows that lined each road were long fingers that climbed up the houses on the other side like black sentinels. Along the road where the sun still shone, the wet stones and snow sparkled with its incandescence. Toumoth could see the bobbing of his own shadow before him, and he could trace the yoke and hitch that held him fast to the wagon. He carted the burden with a simple solemnity, not truly noticing much else as they moved through the city streets.
Suddenly, as they were passing before several larger buildings, the scent of metal even clearer in his nose, he felt the reins pull back tight, the bit pressing firmly against his tongue and teeth. He slowed to a stop, leaning his head back to get away from the painful tearing of the bit. The wagon came to rest just behind him, the front end gently bumping his hind quarters as it did so. Toumoth gave a small start, stepping forward uncertainly, and then leaned his head down, the journey come to an end.
Bryonoth stepped off the wagon, patted his flanks with one hand, and then knocked on the wide door. A few moments later a thick animal scent filled his nostrils, though he was used to them in Metamor. The door opened, revealing a heavy-set badger. Another scent, this one pungent, came to him then as well, that of onions.
“I was wondering if you were going to make it, Dame Bryonoth,” the badger said, wiping his paws together. “When you told me you would carry my onions, I did not think you would do it so late! Any longer and it would have been tomorrow!”
Bryonoth nodded her head. “I wast needed elsewhere this morning, master Derygan. Thou hast my apologies for my tardiness.”
Derygan snorted and glanced past the woman to the horse pulling her wagon. “What horse is that? Isn’t Povunoth your horse?”
Bryonoth sneered then, a strange expression that startled Toumoth. “I wouldst not dare insult Povunoth by making him tow a wagon like a common beast! ‘Tis a horse found in battle. I hath named him Toumoth.”
Toumoth felt his flesh shake then. He could not quite understand how he felt just then. A part of him was angry, but another part seemed to exult in his diminished status, and neither part seemed wholly against the other.
He glanced up, lifting his head as Derygan took a step closer, claws hooking through his belt. “Nice looking beast, I suppose. Why isn’t he shod?”
Bryonoth grimaced then, and nodded. “The blacksmith’s hath little time for such things. But I shalt have him shod ere next time thee sees him.”
Shod? Toumoth tried not to blink or appear alarmed. How was he to be shod?
“Good,” Derygan nodded, stepping back into his doorway. “We cannot let him get a split hoof. Now you have four sacks to deliver, each sack is worth two gold. I’ve drawn each Inn’s sign on the bags, so you won’t miss them. Collect the money and bring it back once you are finished. If you finish before I go to bed this night, I’ll let you keep a little more.”
“I thank thee, master Derygan,” Bryonoth inclined her head appreciatively at that.
“Good, the bags are right here,” the badger kicked at something just inside the door with is foot paw. “I’ll help you get it loaded up.”
Between the two of them, it only took them half a minute to load all four bags of onions into the wagon. Toumoth felt the hitch shake when each bag was dropped into the back. He simply stood there, waiting, his mind still reeling from what was said. He could not quite imagine himself with nails driven through all of his hooves. But it was what all horses had upon their hooves after all.
Before he realized it, Toumoth felt the crack of the reins upon his back again. He started out, following the bit, towing the much heavier wagon behind him. For the moment, pulling that load was all he could think about.
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