by E. E. Knight
She pulled up, still with the point raised, and Wistala made ready to jump out of the way.
But here was Jessup, chasing her down. He put a hand on Feeney’s. “Hold. She’s friendly.”
Rainfall managed to raise his hand. “I still breathe,” he whispered.
“We need to leave,” Wistala said. “Get him on the cart. Don’t forget the coin.” To Jessup: “I’ll meet you back at Mossbell. If there’s a hunt, I’ll confuse them.” A strange clarity had seized her; she had no idea where the words came from, but they flowed steadily. “Gather those horses and that mule there so more may ride. And weapons, that you might overawe any in the village. Vog’s a blackheart and deserves to lose all.”
“I’m not leaving the injured lying in the mud,” Feeney said.
“Then stay and see how your kindness is rewarded.”
Next Stog was there, the bonfire revealing the mud on his sides and the filth about his hooves, a broken rope dangling. “Wistala. Strange fortune brings us together again. Forgive—”
Feeney and Jessup just stared in wonder at the mule, nickering and tossing his head at the drakka.
“No time for words, Stog. Do you wish to return to Mossbell?”
“Is clover sweet? Of course.”
“Then you can do me a favor, and bear a burden back.”
“I’ll carry the master to the icy tundra if I must, and stomp any—”
“No,” Wistala said. “He’s riding in the cart. I want you to carry a cat.”
Stog ended up carrying two cats, Yari-Tab and a night-black female named Jalu-Coke, who had a litter of rambunctious kittens.
“She’s a good friend and a stalking good huntress,” Yari-Tab said. “She hears like a bat. Speaking of which, I’ve seen her leap and bring one down—”
“Fascinating,” Wistala said, forestalling more anecdotes. Once cats got talking about themselves, they’d go on about whisker length or tail-balancing until the sun came up, and she didn’t have that kind of time. Or Rainfall didn’t.
Jessup fixed a thick knit blanket and a bread box on Stog’s back. The cats and kittens rode easily enough.
Rainfall, his shirt bound about his waist, rested in the back of the cart, gripping his leather-wrapped treasures to his chest. He begged them to leave the shepherds’ share of coin.
Mod Feeney was the last to leave the ruins. She bandaged the foemen and spoke many words about how lucky they were to come away with only two dead, and any pursuit would just call up another vengeful fury of red tooth and claw, for the treasure was cursed and only she held the ward-key. Then she hurried down the road after the receding creak of the wagon-wheel.
Wistala watched it all from the ruin-haunted hillside nearest the road. The wounded were helped off to the hovels of the shepherds, leaving the bodies of the two slain men to the rats.
The old milk-eyed rat’s prophecy had come true.
Vog’s men made a pursuit of it that night after all. As Wistala trotted up the side of the road, she heard them a long way off, a faint but growing sound of hooves. If they’d walked or trotted their mounts, they probably would have caught up to the plodding cart anyway, but perhaps the sight of two bodies, one belonging to their thane, had inflamed them into recklessness. Besides, they were armed and arrayed, and their foes humble.
As to the stories of a scaled beast, confused accounts by injured men and shepherd boys watching from afar might make a freak encounter with a channel-back more than it seemed, and as for the warning of the priestess, trumped-up midwives are always making dire predictions.
How the coin figured into their reckoning of risks, vengeance, and rewards Wistala could guess.
She had to delay them. But how?
Improvise, Mother’s voice said to her. She couldn’t outfight the men, or outrun the horses. Horses . . .
Rainfall was right about one thing: the road here was in terrible shape. On the north side of the river, it was trim, dry, and even. Here it was sunken, rutted, and holed, with either side of the verge thick with plants.
Rainfall was right about the washes—a veritable stream cut through the road a little ahead. It had eroded until it was as deep as her neck, almost as treacherous as a troll trap.
Slowing up the men and slowing up their horses were one and the same. Would a troll trap do that?
Wistala went to the wash and placed branches in a grid. Next she tore up twigs and leaves and covered the wash as best as she could. She felt bad for the poor heedless brutes—and the four-legged beasts under them—but they would bring battle.
There was a chance that the men would just leap their horses across the wash. But with a long chase behind and possibly ahead . . .
Wistala concealed herself a little behind the trap, by the side of the road in the thick undergrowth, listening to the growing noise and wondering how many riders this thane might have seeking vengeance.
She should have made it deeper. She cleaned the moss off a flat stone and sharpened her claws against it as she tried to count the growing hoofbeats.
At last they came, emerging as a solid mass out of the night, filling the tree-circled road like a rush of dirty water coming down a drainspout. Perhaps six or eight. No, ten, counting a last few with that bird-banner at the back. Too many for her to fight, then.
The men urged lather-soaked horses on with bits of rope or sword hilt. They passed her in a solid wall of hair, leather, steel, and thunder.
Then they hit her trap.
A horse went flat on its face, throwing its rider. The next behind was agile enough to leap out of the way, but the third beast skidded on its hooves as it tried to stop, and went into the wash sideways. Another behind jumped into the woods, dismounting its rider on a branch, and yet another rider went over his horse’s head as it skidded to a stop.
The banner hung almost above her, where the back three had stopped in safety to laugh at the chaos ahead.
Wistala hated that stitched-up bird. She aimed and spat a thin stream of fire up into it. It burst into flames immediately, and in the subsequent alarm, she quietly backed down the road to cross ahead.
“Elvish magic!” a man shouted, stomping on the flames.
Wistala’s nostrils flared. Superstitious hominids. Imagine my tricks taken for spellcraft! She stifled a self-satisfied prrum.
“That old leaf-head is a sorcerer!” another agreed.
“Our horses have grown treacherous. He whispers to them on the wind, I’ll set my hand on it!”
Wistala slunk across the road once all eyes turned to the ring of men in argument.
The second rider, the one whose mount managed to dodge the first fall, stayed on his horse. He wore an odd double cloak, one hanging from each shoulder.
“Someone help Plov,” he said. “How many are hurt?”
“Two cannot ride,” a gruff voice from the group said.
More mumbling. “And three more will not,” a shriller voice added. “That elf isn’t the only one stabbed from behind by Vog. His landsmen have felt their purse strings cut more than once. Gold is not enough of a lure for us to face sorcery to get it back.”
“That leaves four to ride with me!” the two-cloak man said. “Hurry, before they’re back to the bridge. The cowardly can tend to the injured horses, as that’s all they’re fit for.”
“A man who promises murder to a priestess on the Old Road at night should be careful about that word,” the gruff voice said. “You’re down to three, Vorl; I ride no farther with you.”
“More gold for us, then. Take up the banner!”
Wistala was having a hard time picking out the words as the argument continued. She found an oak with heavy branches stretching above the road and swarmed up it. She tested how far her tail could drop. Then she searched the underbranches and cracked off a drooping limb almost bereft of leaves. She tested her tail’s grip on it.
The hoofbeats came again, and she just had time to press her belly to the limb overhanging the road, watching the riders thr
ough the gaps in the leaves. They came on this time at something more than a trot and less than a gallop, the two-cloaked rider the others called Vorl at the lead.
The third man in line held what was left of the scorched bird-banner.
“Let’s have a song, men,” Vorl shouted. “Some airs of wine and women, and all the diversions that gold may buy!”
“How about—?” the last man said, but screamed when he saw the branch swing down from above, striking the rider with the banner full in the face.
Wistala felt the impact run up her tail with some satisfaction.
The banner bearer flipped backwards across his horse’s rump, his heels high and his cloak fluttering. He hit hard and the horse behind jumped to avoid hitting him.
Wistala flattened herself into the branch, barely daring to peep at events with one eye.
All the horses snorted and danced, probably smelling Wistala above.
“What now?” Vorl rasped.
“The tree hit him,” the fourth man shouted, getting his horse out from under the oak. “A limb full of twigs reached down and struck Gleshick full in the face. It was the tree!”
“Vorl,” the other rider said, searching the dark overhang of branches. “Perhaps it’s time to leave reins and take up bedcups.”
“My horse cannot be controlled!” the last in line said, spurring his mount away. The beast galloped southward, its rider’s hindquarters lifted high as he hung on. “An evil magic drives it! Good luck!”
“Brothel spawn!” Vorl shouted at the receding figure. “Come.
We’re a short way from House Gamkley. He’ll remember the thane and mount his household.”
“What about Gleshick?”
“A bloody nose and a night on the gravel will teach him not to sleep in the saddle. Let’s hurry! Perhaps we can catch up to that fool and talk some sense into him.”
They galloped off south, and the empty-saddled horse moved to follow them in a halfhearted manner. Wistala dropped from the tree onto its back.
She clung as best as she could, digging her claws into the mane as the men did their fingers.
The horse bucked and screamed. Wistala hung on with all four sets of claws.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Wistala said. “Bear me but short run the other way, and I’ll release you.”
“No!”
“Otherwise you’ll not live another minute,” Wistala said. “I haven’t had horse since I was a hatchling, and your quivering makes me long for the taste.”
The horse tore off up the road north. They hurried through the village where Rainfall had been abused and were out of it again before any but the barking dogs woke.
As their racket faded behind and they reentered the woods, the horse tried to knock Wistala off its back by passing under branches, a difficult proposition as she could flatten herself on the horse’s back better than any man and still keep her grip. Wistala struck its rump with her tail. “Keep to the center.”
“Pity! Exhausted—”
They left the thicker woods and came to open, rocky ground that smelled of sheep and yellow late-summer wildflowers. Wistala saw distant shepherd fires to both sides of the road. Quartz veins in the protruding rocks caught the moonlight. The river ridge broke the horizon in the distance, notched where the road cut through it. She knew that notch. The river ran just beyond.
“Up this far rise, and you’ll be done,” Wistala said.
The horse quickened his step but breathed more heavily than ever, snorting and gasping as though each labored breath might be his last. Wistala made out the wagon cresting the notch.
“Well enough,” Wistala said, hopping off. “Go where you like, but on the other side of the river—”
The horse tore off down the road, away from the fearful dragon-smell.
“Stupid brute,” Wistala muttered. Ah well, of such mentalities meals are made. She trotted at her best pace after the wagon. As the sky grew pink and then orange, she breached the rise.
She couldn’t help but think that the notch would make another fine ambush site. Its steep sides meant that with a little work they could block the bend ahead, and she could rain fire upon anyone at their heels. . . .
And here was the wagon. She scrambled up the ridge—her hearts beat fast and hard at the sight of the river and the bridge—then got ahead of it.
She counted heads. Each face was drawn and exhausted from the long flight. One was missing: that priestess, Mod Feeney. Had she gone off the road?
“Jessup!” she called when they came within the sound of her voice. “Jessup! Does Rainfall still live?”
“The avenger calls!” Jessup said.
What has that man been telling the others? He halted the wagon and set the brake.
“Rainfall asks for you,” Jessup shouted. “He begs you to join him.”
Wistala came forward.
“That’s a dragon?” one of the men said. “I’ve yearling pigs that weigh more.”
The horses didn’t like her smell, and only Stog stood quietly next to the wagon, cat-filled breadbox on his back as the other brutes stamped and danced.
Wistala jumped into the wagon, and some of the men gasped at the quick move.
Rainfall’s skin had darkened, like fresh game-meat exposed to air. He sat propped up on a sort of cushion of bags of horse feed. A piece of marbled stonecraft, with letters deeply cut and coated with time-tarnished metal, sat at his side. He rubbed it absently as a man might pet a dog while conversing.
“Wistala, daughter,” Rainfall said. “You are here.”
“And glad to see you still alive.”
“Jessup, drive on,” he said with some energy. “The sooner we’re through Mossbell’s gates—” He winced at some inner pain as the wagon lurched into motion.
“How is it?” Wistala asked. Oh, the inadequacy of words, even tuneful Elvish! If he were a dragon, she could let him feel her concern. Let him know . . .
“I can’t move my legs, Wistala. The pain isn’t bad at all—if anything I’m cloudheaded. But such wounds . . . if I should succumb, you must bring Lada to Mossbell, look out for her until she is of age to run the place. I’ve told Mod Feeney, and I’ve told Jessup—” He sank back into the cushions again.
“What happened to that priestess?” Wistala asked.
“She rode ahead,” Jessup said from his seat. “Hammar has a healer more skilled than she.”
It would be hard to say who heard the pursuing hooves first, the horses or Wistala. Both startled.
“Jessup, try to get a little more out of the horses,” Rainfall said. “Whip them if you must.”
He turned his gaze on the drakka. “Wistala, if they catch up to the wagon, jump on Stog and take that bag of gold to Mod Feeney. She’ll see that a judge and a high priest come before the thane and restore Lada to her home.”
As dawn came up, some of the men began to run toward the bridge. Home stood just on the other side of the canyon. A more clear-headed one jumped on the lead wagon horse and urged it on.
As they came down the road—the incline helped speed the wagon—Wistala saw the first rider appear behind. Others, ten or eleven in all, came down in a long straggling line. She saw no sign of the bird-banner.
She looked ahead. A group of people stood on the bridge. She recognized Mod Feeney by her odd hat.
Behind, Vorl drew his sword and waved it forward, calling to his men.
Rainfall looked at the coming riders, moving at a pace to catch the wagon before it even crossed the bridge.
“Wistala, on Stog, now!” he gasped.
“No. Wait,” Wistala said, seeing the group ahead. What sort of warriors had Mod Feeney gathered at the thane’s borders? They seemed dreadfully undersized.
The wagon rattled past Feeney’s gathering, the horses’ hooves thundering on the wooden planks that bridged the central arch in the ancient masonry. The apron- and tunic-clad assortment were mostly women and children. Wistala guessed them to be families of those in
Rainfall’s ill-fated expedition, from the way they waved and called to each other.
Jessup halted the column well across the bridge.
The men dismounted and embraced their wives and children. Many of the latter shrieked as they circled the cart with streamers tied to sticks. Curly-tailed dogs barked, adding to the happy chaos.
Wistala peeped at it all through gaps in the wagon-boards. Some of the dogs barked at her.
“For the last time, Wistala, take Stog and go!” Rainfall said. “Look, Vog’s armsmen come.”
“Your Feeney’s building a wall to stop them,” Wistala said, watching the activity behind.
Rainfall lifted himself a little higher. “What’s this?”
A strange sort of barrier was stretched across the bridge, mostly the women and children holding hands. Their men ran to their families, and Mod Feeney pointed them into place.
“Don’t let go of each other. Even if they ride straight for you,” Mod Feeney said over the clatter of the approaching hooves.
The riders slowed their horses, pulled up.
“What’s this supposed to be,” Vorl snarled.
“You’ll do no murder in our thanedom,” Mod Feeney shouted back.
“Then we’ll retrieve that elf and hang him from thane Vog’s high lintel,” Vorl said. “He stabbed my lord in the back.”
“I was there—it was Vog who did the backstabbing,” Mod Feeney said.
“Ha! Out of my way, or we’ll ride you down,” Vorl said. “Stirrup to stirrup now, my men.”
“Is it come to this?” Mod Feeney said back, her voice a little more high-pitched. “One Hypatian Thanedom riding down the children of another? High honors to carry home, the blood of babes on your horse’s hooves.”
“Enough, Vorl,” said the compatriot Wistala recognized from her oak-limb perch above the road. “Buy your way into the thane’s hall with different coin.”
“And Thane Vog not cold yet!” Vorl said. “How dare you—”
“How dare you lie to the men of House Gamkley. Beware, men. He lied to you about Vog’s death. He died a scoundrel. I should have spoken then, but I’ve been a fool. A fool drawn by promises and unearthed gold.”