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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 through 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.
