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“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.
