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“Tell Hammar they make for the Shoulder Fell,” she said, flying upside down to keep out the shafts. She repeated it again over another group of tents, before turning back for the dwarves.
They stuffed her with horse entrails before she took off the next morning, with the three wounded dwarves tied across her back. The burden seemed light compared with the supplies she’d carried in the previous day.
By the time she returned to the Titan bridge, one of the wounded had died. The other two were untied and rushed into the Hardhold.
Wistala lay on the bridge like a dead thing as the dwarves untied the messages. One of the lordly dwarves took the courier-pouch from her neck and rushed it to the king.
Fangbreaker himself came down to the bridge to see her, stumping along on his horse hoof, which clomped on the wood planks of the bridge.
“They are in bad shape, my king,” Wistala said. Some in the crowd cried out, and she heard mutters of dhssol. “I fear I am, too.”
“Boltcaster’s need is great,” King Fangbreaker said. “I must ask you to fly again as soon as you’ve rested. He needs more supplies.”
“You go,” Wistala said.
“What?”
Wistala raised her head, too tired to do much but speak. If the bodyguard closed on her, it would be all she could do to roll off the bridge. “You go. Gather your forces and go to his aid.”
The crowd went instantly silent.
“No,” said the king. “Boltcaster must rely on his own skill and courage. We cannot take that risk. Every dwarf will be needed here.”
“Or you could return with your number of warriors doubled,” Wistala said.
“She’s exhausted,” King Fangbreaker said, loudly. “The dragon is mazed. Pay her no mind. Go, good Oracle, go to your tower and rest.” He reached for a handful of cocolat-covered coins to place in her mouth and evidently thought the better of it. He tossed the bag down before her.
“Eat these—you’ll feel better.”
Wistala picked the bag up but did not eat them. Instead she bowed to the king and turned for her tower, trying to forget the masked faces of the doomed dwarves in Boltcaster’s column. They were getting what they deserved. Would she?
The bodyguard closed around the king behind her, seeing the hard stares of some in the crowd.
Wistala slept, and ate, and waited.
The news finally came: Boltcaster and his remaining dwarves had been defeated on the slopes of a mountain, evidently the barbarians had prepared and then rolled rocks down on them from above, breaking the shield wall just before a charge.
Fangbreaker called their end “glorious” and a credit to the Wheel of Fire. But there were mutterings against him, arrests, even an assassination or two, and suicides that some said were not suicides.
One of these was the son of Lord Lobok, who finally agreed to take command of the outer wall at the edge of the Ba-drink.
The star-guild whispered of threats to her life, and Yellowteeth grew afraid to go down for coal. Wistala shrugged off the danger. The dwarves needed every warrior who could carry a spear and would not waste any on a dragon that could be dealt with later.
Then came a dread winter morning when word spread that a barbarian horde was on the foothills below the Ba-drink. With them were Hypatian mercenaries, cavalry, even gargants. Will-making became a popular diversion, there were parties of a desperate nature on the balconies as the dwarves who would defend the walls spent one last night with their kith and kin.
Wistala watched, from her high tower, the barges creep across the Ba-drink, disgorge the dwarves for the walls, and then return for more. Control of the Ba-drink meant control of the herds on the south shores of the lake, and access to the east road for supplies, so the wall had to be held to avoid a bitter siege.>“The weight of several dwarves,” Wistala said. “Over short distances.”
“This will be a long flight of short hops, then. I need you to bring him food, medicines, and above all crossbow bolts.”
“My wings are at your command, Great King,” she said.
“There’s been talk of you being absent for some time,” King Fangbreaker said. “To where did you fly?”
“To see my friends at the circus. They go into winter camp about this time each year.”
“Hmpf,” said King Fangbreaker, from behind his shield. “You seem the type to keep friends long. How about enemies?”
“I’ve set out to make no enemies, my king,” Wistala said. “I made more friends than enemies with the circus. Of course, there are those who felt they were cheated—”
