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A rider with a knotted beard and heavy tattooing above his eyes grunted something at Hammar.
As they spoke, Rainfall turned to Forstrel. “Good work, Yeo Lessup,” he said quietly. “Now get to the tunnel with the others.”
“My mother stands in the hall with her laundry ladle, swearing to brain the first barbarian through the door,” Forstrel said.
“Drag her down by the ear if you must,” Rainfall said out of the side of his mouth. “I want you in the escape tunnel forthwith. Don’t stand there rooted—obey!”
“Master,” Forstrel said, bowing, and there were tears in his eyes.
“Watch out for him,” Forstrel whispered as he squeezed by Wistala.
Outside, the barbarian finished his speech.
“And you shall have it!” Hammar shouted. “Warriors of Kark, Blacklake, and Turi Fell, all that you may carry off between the Whitewater and the twin hills is yours. Beast, coin, garment, bag, and babe, take what you will.”
Rainfall lifted himself out of the chair, gripped the balcony railing in white knuckles. “You know not what you do, Hammar,” he shouted, but the barbarians were cheering so loudly, Wistala wondered if he was heard.
The barbarians divided, and Wistala, peering over his shoulder, saw a contingent ride off in the direction of the Green Dragon Inn and the homes around it.
“I know exactly what I do, enemy. I’ve got men in every town of the Minelands and the Quarterings. Loyal men, and I’m declaring myself Lord. My alliances are set, and my plans are just begun. But there’s one small irritant, no more of consequence than a road pebble in my horse’s hoof, and that’s this estate. I now take what is rightfully mine.”
“You and your barbarian wife are welcome to it,” Rainfall said. “I will go in peace. Take Mossbell lock and window intact.”
Hammar turned to the Dragonblade. “Have you ever heard the like? As though he’s doing us a favor! No, that is water long since under your precious bridge. I’ll have my justice for the years of insult and hang you by the boughs of your grandfathers!” Hammar turned to the remaining barbarians. “Search this wart of a hill from top to bottom, and bring out that elf and his riches!”
Four of the barbarians—it was hard to see where hair and beard ended and where the fur of their loincloths and vests began—drew war-picks and -axes and hurried for the door. Wistala heard crashes at the back of the house.
Rainfall backed his chair into the hallway.
“A good game while it lasted, Wistala. You should break toward Quarryness. The dogs and riders won’t get over the wall, they’ll have to go back to—”
A female shriek sounded from below. “Brutes!”
“Oh no,” Rainfall said. “Don’t tell me she wouldn’t—”
Widow Lessup ran up the grand stairs with a speed that did her years credit, clutching an oarlike laundry ladle.
“Oh, sir, they’re breaking in,” she said. “I couldn’t leave, I just couldn’t, I tricked For and shut the—”
Rainfall ignored her. “Wistala!” he shouted.
Three barbarians ran up the grand staircase. Wistala extended her neck and spat her foua, its oily odor setting every fringe-tip down her spine aquiver.
The first two men dissolved in the hot spew; the third fell back down the stairs, his arms beating vainly as the liquid fire engulfed his head.
“Go now, Wistala, out the back gallery!”
The railing began to burn.
“No,” Wistala said. “Not without you.”
She whipped her neck up and crashed her head into the ceiling. A second smash—her vision went white for a moment—and she was through to the floor of the library.
Rearing up, she tore the hole wider with her sii. Rainfall pressed on a wooden panel, and a grid of steel dropped down behind them, closing off the balcony doors . . . though she imagined arrows could still be shot through.
“Up,” she said. Both hominids stood there dumbly. “To the library!”
“I’m to climb your back?” Widow Lessup asked.
