AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“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.>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.”
