Dragon Avenger

“Rah-ya, Wistala, here’s a hoard worthy of a dragon,” he called up. “Silver and gold and baser coins.”



“Will you be able to find it again?”



“I’m sure of it. I return. Close your eyes, for I’ve a handful of gold.”



She shut her nostrils, too. Her mouth went wet, and her stomach growled at the faint smell.



Rainfall spoke in her ear. “Now open your mouth.”



She complied, and felt a hard fall on her tongue.



Rainfall spoke: “Just a mouthful of the best silver I could find.”



The coins slipped easily down her throat, greased by the thick saliva the smell of metals brought to her mouth.



“But you need the coin,” she objected. (Once the coins were safe in her stomach!)



“I matched need against deserve, and deserve won. I have some proofs of the money resting there still in my bag.” He pulled on the strap of his satchel so the coins within jingled.



Wistala napped out the morning light under a cool slab in a quiet corner of Tumbledown, concealed by a cascade of runners dropped by the ferns clinging above. She’d gone to the pasture to look for Stog, but only a mare and her colt remained. The men must have put him to work.



She felt a soft nuzzle under her chin. “Tchatlassat?” came a familiar purr.



Wistala came wide awake in a flash. “Yari-Tab?”



She’d grown wide-bodied feasting on rats, or had a bellyful of young, perhaps. “I smelled you as I was finishing my night’s prowl and followed the trail. Such doings in the Tumbledown. Digging by my entrance to the Deep Run. What’s the hunt?”



Wistala had to think for a moment—she was so used to speaking in Elvish. “Hominids come for the gold.”



“Will there be fighting? The rats would like that.”



“No, my host has arranged a diversion.”



“Serves them right, savage beasts. But when mice can’t be found—”



Wistala raised her head and stretched. “Sister! I’ve a wonderful idea!”



“Yes!” Yari-Tab said, settling down in the warm spot left by her throat. “A good nap till noontime. Then perhaps a sunbath.”



“No. I know of a catless barn that has the mice running wild. Come along to it, and I can promise you all the hunting you like. Perhaps a little goat milk now and then. The owner is a kindly sort.”



Yari-Tab fixed eyes on her. “Warm and dry?”



“Yes.”



“Oh, tchatlassat! I would like that.”



“You deserve it. I’ll explain things to Rainfall. Once he knows that you’re the spring from where this new stream of wealth flows, he’ll take you in. I’m sure of it.”



With Yari-Tab running scout, Wistala made it to a hillside downwind from the sheep and watched events beneath the triple arch from an overhanging slab. Shirtless men brought the coin out in small buckets, to be laid on a clean white sheet spread out on the ground in front of the hole that had been widened. Feeney and another man dressed in similar robes and tassled hat passed the coins back and forth before moving them to a chest—in the case of the visitors—or a low trough.



Stog made an appearance, dragging a sledge piled with firewood. The man leading the mule struck him about the flanks to drive him on, and Wistala felt her fire bladder pulse. Poor Stog—he was an extraordinarily strong beast.



Yari-Tab grew bored with events and fell asleep in the sun.



By evening they’d brought out the last of the small hoard of coins. Rainfall emerged from the tunnel dirtier than ever, holding what looked like a platter of considerable weight wrapped in a piece of leather. He showed it to the pair of priests.



Wistala couldn’t see much from her vantage. It looked like a piece of pinkish stone, but the low priests both touched it as they spoke. After they nodded, Rainfall took it away to Jessup’s wagon, spoke to him, and placed it on the high driving seat.



As the sun set, the gathered hominids set up a feast. A bonfire was lighted with the pile of wood Stog dragged. Some of the shepherds took out pipes and drums and small hand harps as others roasted a pig.



“That’s a mouthwatering smell,” Wistala said.



“Aye, but I must hunt,” Yari-Tab said. “I’ve kittens growing fast within, and they’re hungry, too.”



Wistala marked Rainfall wandering the opposite hill outside the bonfire light, taking a small bite now and then from a joint of the remaining mutton from last night’s meal. He probably meant to find her and offer it. “Wait. I might return with something tastier than a sewer rat.”



The moonlight-washed ruins frowned down on the figures moving about the bonfire, as though waiting for the merrymakers to disperse so they could return to their gradual collapse.



Wistala saw Rainfall, smelled the mutton, and rattled her griff against her scales to attract his attention.



Rainfall turned and opened his mouth to speak, but a thundering sound rolled through the night. Hoofbeats!



Two lines of riders crested the southernmost hill and rode down toward the bonfire.



Wistala counted seven . . . eight. One carried a high standard, a banner suspended from a crossbar the length of an ax-handle. Wistala’s night-sharp eyes distinguished a thin-legged, long-necked bird standing out white on the material of the standard.



“Dis!” Rainfall said. “Bandits, you think? Go and keep hidden, Wistala. Oh, there can’t be fighting!”



He tossed the mutton shank in her direction and ran toward the bonfire, his hair making a sound like leaves hitting a wall on a windy night.



Wistala wouldn’t leave the mutton to prowling rats and dogs. She returned it to Yari-Tab at the angled overhang.



Yari-Tab sniffed the greasy, ragged joint. “Tchatlassat, you’re a wonder!”



“Please stay here,” Wistala said, an eye toward the center of the three hills. “There’s a new group arrived in Tumbledown. I don’t like the look of it.”



Wistala circled around through the ruins and found all a-tumult. Shepherd boys guided their flocks off the grassy hills, dogs barked everywhere, and around the bonfire, the celebrants had divided into two huddled groups.



At the edge of the fire, the men stood their horses, the banner in the center and another man, rather shorter but above the rest thanks to the size of his horse, speaking with Rainfall.



The riders had thrown back their cloaks to reveal metal plates fixed about their chests, hands on sword hilts, save for the tall one with the bird standard. She let the wind carry the words, along with the aroma of roast pig, humans, and the horses, to her.



“I’m thane here, elf. All your legalisms and tricky wordplay won’t change that.”



“You claim to be thane here, Vog. The maps say differently. The ruins of Hesstur belong to the Directory. You interfere with one of its agents.”



Vog, the short man on the tall horse, laughed. He snapped his fingers in the air. “That’s for the Directory. All sound and no presence. Those doddards couldn’t muster an Imperial Host if Hypat itself had barbarians climbing the First Walls.”



“They could if their thanes attended to their duties instead of wine and hunts.”



“Do you mean to insult me?” Vog sputtered.



Wistala crept around toward the newcomers’ horses.



“I beg your pardon for not making myself understood. If I meant to insult you, I would point out that your roads are so overgrown that a wagon can hardly pass without being tangled in branches, that there are a dozen washouts to a vesk at least, or that I cannot distinguish the difference between a pig-chasing dog’s collar and your mens’ livery, or that you act and speak in the manner of a barbarian warlord rather than a Hypatian Thane, who would dismount to address a fellow citizen.”



Vog put his hand on his sword hilt. “How dare you—”



“How dare you, sir,” Rainfall roared. Wistala wouldn’t have thought him capable of making such a sound; she froze in her tracks where she crept behind the horses. “How dare you touch your sword when addressing a Knight of the Directory, a Temple Star, and a former Judge Imperial.”



Vog’s mount danced backwards from Rainfall’s fury, unsettling the other horses. Wistala heard a rattle, saw one of the men take a handle with a chain leading back to some metal objects that looked like small metal balls set with dragon teeth.



When Vog had his mount under control again, he leaned forward. “I dare because old titles don’t frighten me any more than old moss-backed elves. You’re badly in need of a hiding, prissfall. I’ve a mind to give you one.”



“Your having a mind to do anything beyond drawing breath comes as a shock to me,” Rainfall said.



“Insult! Bind him!” Vog shouted.



Wistala, at last upwind of the horses, rattled her griff as loudly as she could and loosed her urine. Once before, in her journey with Auron, she’d used her urine to scare off a prowling bear. This time the trick worked to spectacular effect. The horses jumped and plunged as though ghost-ridden. Four riders fell, Vog jumped off, and the rest held on to mane and rein for life and limb as their mounts bolted.



The men of the wading-bird standard must have blamed Rainfall for the madness of their horses. They picked themselves up and, following Vog’s example, drew their swords, or swung the whirling metal ball in the case of the man with the chain weapon. It made a sound as it cut the air that reminded Wistala of eagle cries.