Free Lord of the Clans by Christie Golden Page A

cell. Over the years, Thrall had painstakingly worked a single stone loose and had hollowed out the space behind it. It was here that he stored his most precious things: his letters from Tari. Now he moved the stone, found the letters, and wrapped them up in the only other thing that meant anything to him, his swaddling cloth with the white wolf against the blue field. For a brief moment, he held them to his chest. Then he turned, and awaited his chance.
    The bell continued to ring, and now shouts and screams joined it. Thrall’s sensitive nose, much more keen than a human’s, could smell smoke. The smell grew stronger with each heartbeat, and now he couldsee a faint orange and yellow lightening of the darkness of his cell.
    “Fire!” came the cries. “Fire!”
    Not knowing why, Thrall leaped for his makeshift bed. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep, forcing his rapid breathing to become deep and slow.
    “He’s not going anywhere,” said one of the guards. Thrall knew he was being watched. He kept up the illusion of deep sleep. “Heh. Damned monster could sleep through anything. Come on, let’s give them a hand.”
    “I don’t know. . . .” said the other one.
    More cries of alarm, mixed now with the treble shrieks of children and the high voices of women.
    “It’s spreading,” said the first one. “Come on! ”
    Thrall heard the sounds of boots striking hard stone. The sounds receded. He was alone.
    He rose, and stood in front of the huge wooden door. Of course it was still locked, but there was no one to see what he was about to do.
    Thrall took a deep breath, then with a rush of speed charged the door, striking it with his left shoulder. It gave, but not entirely. Again he struck, and again. Five times he had to slam his enormous body against it before the old timbers surrendered with a crash. The momentum carried him forward and he landed heavily on the floor, but the brief pain was as nothing compared to the surge of excitement he experienced.
    He knew these hallways. He had no problem seeing in the dim light provided by the few torches positionedin sconces that were fastened here and there to the stone walls. Down this one, up this stairwell, and then. . . .
    As it had earlier in his cell, a deep instinct kicked in. He flattened himself against the wall, hiding his huge form in the shadows as best he could. From across the entryway, several more guards charged. They did not see him, and Thrall let his held breath out in a sigh of relief.
    The guards left the door to the courtyard wide open. Cautiously Thrall approached, and peered out.
    All was chaos. The barns were almost completely engulfed by flames, though the horses, goats, and donkeys ran panic-stricken in the courtyard. This was even better, for there was less chance of him being spotted in the milling madness. A bucket chain had been formed, and even as Thrall watched, several more men hastened up, spilling the precious water in their heedless rush.
    Thrall looked to the right of the courtyard gate entrance. Lying in a crumpled pool of black was the object he was seeking: a huge black cloak. Even as large as it was, it could not possibly cover him, but it would serve. He covered his head and broad chest, crouched so that the short hem would fall lower on his legs, and scurried forward.
    The trip across the courtyard to the main gates could not have lasted more than a few moments, but to Thrall it seemed an eternity. He tried to keep his head low, but he had to look up frequently in order to avoid being run down by a cart carrying barrels of rainwater,or a maddened horse, or a screaming child. His heart pounding, he threaded his way amid the chaos. He could feel the heat, and the bright light of the fire lit up the entire scene almost as brightly as the sun did. Thrall concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping as low as possible, and heading for the gates.
    Finally, he made it. These, too, had been thrown open. More carts