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.”
“More gold for us, then. Take up the banner!”
Wistala was having a hard time picking out the words as the argument continued. She found an oak with heavy branches stretching above the road and swarmed up it. She tested how far her tail could drop. Then she searched the underbranches and cracked off a drooping limb almost bereft of leaves. She tested her tail’s grip on it.
The hoofbeats came again, and she just had time to press her belly to the limb overhanging the road, watching the riders through the gaps in the leaves. They came on this time at something more than a trot and less than a gallop, the two-cloaked rider the others called Vorl at the lead.
The third man in line held what was left of the scorched bird-banner.
“Let’s have a song, men,” Vorl shouted. “Some airs of wine and women, and all the diversions that gold may buy!”
“How about—?” the last man said, but screamed when he saw the branch swing down from above, striking the rider with the banner full in the face.
Wistala felt the impact run up her tail with some satisfaction.
The banner bearer flipped backwards across his horse’s rump, his heels high and his cloak fluttering. He hit hard and the horse behind jumped to avoid hitting him.
Wistala flattened herself into the branch, barely daring to peep at events with one eye.
All the horses snorted and danced, probably smelling Wistala above.
“What now?” Vorl rasped.
“The tree hit him,” the fourth man shouted, getting his horse out from under the oak. “A limb full of twigs reached down and struck Gleshick full in the face. It was the tree!”
“Vorl,” the other rider said, searching the dark overhang of branches. “Perhaps it’s time to leave reins and take up bedcups.”
“My horse cannot be controlled!” the last in line said, spurring his mount away. The beast galloped southward, its rider’s hindquarters lifted high as he hung on. “An evil magic drives it! Good luck!”
“Brothel spawn!” Vorl shouted at the receding figure. “Come.
We’re a short way from House Gamkley. He’ll remember the thane and mount his household.”
“What about Gleshick?”
“A bloody nose and a night on the gravel will teach him not to sleep in the saddle. Let’s hurry! Perhaps we can catch up to that fool and talk some sense into him.”
They galloped off south, and the empty-saddled horse moved to follow them in a halfhearted manner. Wistala dropped from the tree onto its back.
She clung as best as she could, digging her claws into the mane as the men did their fingers.
The horse bucked and screamed. Wistala hung on with all four sets of claws.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Wistala said. “Bear me but short run the other way, and I’ll release you.”
“No!”
“Otherwise you’ll not live another minute,” Wistala said. “I haven’t had horse since I was a hatchling, and your quivering makes me long for the taste.”
The horse tore off up the road north. They hurried through the village where Rainfall had been abused and were out of it again before any but the barking dogs woke.
As their racket faded behind and they reentered the woods, the horse tried to knock Wistala off its back by passing under branches, a difficult proposition as she could flatten herself on the horse’s back better than any man and still keep her grip. Wistala struck its rump with her tail. “Keep to the center.”
“Pity! Exhausted—”
They left the thicker woods and came to open, rocky ground that smelled of sheep and yellow late-summer wildflowers. Wistala saw distant shepherd fires to both sides of the road. Quartz veins in the protruding rocks caught the moonlight. The river ridge broke the horizon in the distance, notched where the road cut through it. She knew that notch. The river ran just beyond.
“Up this far rise, and you’ll be done,” Wistala said.
The horse quickened his step but breathed more heavily than ever, snorting and gasping as though each labored breath might be his last. Wistala made out the wagon cresting the notch.
“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.