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“Canny of you to mention him. But remember, elves have no particular feeling for their siblings, and evoking his memory awakes in me no desire to help avenge him. All I want to do is forget that unpleasant night.”
“Odd that you would send money to Lada to help her get Rayg back, then. Yes, I’ve been to the Green Dragon Inn and heard the latest from Forstrel. He’s raising bees for Lessup’s honey-mead now, near an old cave I sometimes use, and complained much of the share Hammar demands from all production. He also told me that you paid out of your pocket to fix some of the damaged houses. And that you raked the old ferry-bell out of the ruins and kept it.”
“Rumor, rumor, rumor. I’m interested only in facts and expenses and how much I might get from the dwarves for you.”
“I shall ask you to drive a harder bargain than you know. I want several conditions on the sale, all in the interest of my health, of course. Is Brok still with you?”
“Of course.”
“I need him to forge a very stout collar for me, something that even a troll couldn’t break.”
“What, so that the dwarves may better chain you? Suppose you wish to break away and escape?”
“I didn’t say that I wanted to break it. I just want to be able to open it.”
Wistala stood in her new collar at the Ba-drink landing, a tiny escort of circus folk with her.
They’d set up a tent around her, specially sewn for the purpose, purple and patterned with powerful symbols, for she came to the Wheel of Fire dwarves not as an abject slave, but a great treasure, one to be guarded and protected and honored.
Wistala listened to the spring melt pouring over the dam spill and waited.
The collar itself was a thick ring of steel, leathered at the inside and edges, with two forged-steel loops, one at the top and one at the bottom, for the attachment of chains, though only the tiniest wisp of azure blue silk bound her to a silver peg in the floor. There was no latch or spot for a key, and if you ran your hands around the inside only hardened leather met your fingers. Only Wistala knew where, if you opened the stitching, you could insert a claw point and open the lock, which then left only a false weld to break before the collar fell away.
At last she heard the creak of oars in their locks, and shouts and orders and calls of dwarf voices.
“King Fangbreaker comes. Sound the trumpets! Beat the drums!”
If you’re patient enough, and keep still out of sight and smell, the prey will feed itself right to you. . . .
Something took off with a whistling whoosh and exploded far overhead, Wistala guessed it to be a firework. A thundering tattoo broke out on the drums, it sounded like boulders coming down the mountains, and the trumpets pealed so high and clear, it was like sunshine had been turned to music.
Wistala, hearts hammering, waited for the audience.
The tent flap opened, letting in a little fresh air that Wistala welcomed, as Ragwrist was having incense burned to abate the dragon- smell for the honored guests.
“Winged, as you see. And a little grown, a little more appetite at mealtimes, but the same Oracle,” Ragwrist said as he ushered three dwarves in. Wistala saw prostrate dwarves outside, who looked as though they’d been felled or struck by sleeping spells.
Wistala noted the changes in him even as the mighty dwarf looked her over.
Gobold Fangbreaker wore a silver mask now, emblazoned with a four-pointed star, two slits for his eyes and two more beneath flanking the ridges of the star, whose shining points extended beyond the dull plate of the mask. Below, his beard had swirling designs of gold and silver dust worked into it, and a golden cord bound it into a tuft at the bottom from which hung a piece of glass Wistala guessed to be a magnifier. He was somewhat thinner but still broadly built, in a cuirass of silver and leather cushioning, oddly like her own steel collar in its padding, only with more elaborate flourish down the centerline, evocative of spear heads. King Fangbreaker now wore purple caping at back and throat and sash.
The most obvious difference, though, was the absence of his right leg. An inverted half skull—Wistala guessed it to be a hominid’s, though she knew not what branch had such strangely long fangs and a ridge at the temples that almost resembled horns—capped the missing limb at the knee. Projecting out of this and running to the floor was a rod of white crystal, like lighting frozen into immobility. A mundane steel-shod horse hoof at the base gave him some stability on the ground.
He still wore the helm capped with dragon fangs, only now overlarge horn-tips projected from its sides, gilded and filigreed.
Evidently the crown of Masmodon still eluded him.
Behind King Fangbreaker stood two more dwarves, one bearing a tall banner he had to dip somewhat to fit in the tent. It was the old ruby-tipped staff Fangbreaker had carried before, only now grown and with a crossbar added at the top to support a small purple banner, and the ruby was the perch of a stern-looking brass eagle. The other dwarf lugged chests and bags tied on either side of a steel shoulder pole.
Wistala dipped her snout until it almost touched the ground. “I see changes in you, Gobold Fangbreaker. Did my oracle come true, or have you come for my head and claws?”
Why, why, why did you say that? It sounds like a challenge—
“Hmpf,” King Fangbreaker said. “I come to do this, though there are many who will swear, when the tale is told, that it is an impossibility.”
He approached her and threw his strong arms about her neck, and patted her three times with his right hand hard enough to make her scales clatter.
“Yes!” King Fangbreaker said. “So happy am I that I embrace you like a sister! For no sister ever gave brother such encouragement as you gave me. You set my heart afire as though you had spat flame into it! And look!” He cast his arms wide and lifted his purple robes. “Results speak louder than any words.”
