Page 136 of Dragon Avenger (Age of Fire 2)

“Your Feeney’s building a wall to stop them,” Wistala said, watching the activity behind.

Rainfall lifted himself a little higher. “What’s this?”

A strange sort of barrier was stretched across the bridge, mostly the women and children holding hands. Their men ran to their families, and Mod Feeney pointed them into place.

“Don’t let go of each other. Even if they ride straight for you,” Mod Feeney said over the clatter of the approaching hooves.

The riders slowed their horses, pulled up.

“What’s this supposed to be,” Vorl snarled.

“You’ll do no murder in our thanedom,” Mod Feeney shouted back.

“Then we’ll retrieve that elf and hang him from thane Vog’s high lintel,” Vorl said. “He stabbed my lord in the back.”

“I was there—it was Vog who did the backstabbing,” Mod Feeney said.

“Ha! Out of my way, or we’ll ride you down,” Vorl said. “Stirrup to stirrup now, my men.”

“Is it come to this?” Mod Feeney said back, her voice a little more high-pitched. “One Hypatian Thanedom riding down the children of another? High honors to carry home, the blood of babes on your horse’s hooves.”

“Enough, Vorl,” said the compatriot Wistala recognized from her oak-limb perch above the road. “Buy your way into the thane’s hall with different coin.”

“And Thane Vog not cold yet!” Vorl said. “How dare you—”

“How dare you lie to the men of House Gamkley. Beware, men. He lied to you about Vog’s death. He died a scoundrel. I should have spoken then, but I’ve been a fool. A fool drawn by promises and unearthed gold.”

Vorl brought his horse around, pointed it straight at Mod Feeney. His heels went out, and his spurs turned inward.

Wistala nerved herself to jump from the wagon. If Vorl rode through the line of people, she’d turn him into a pyre of burning cloak and horsehair. Nothing would reach the wagon but the stench of charred flesh—

The man who at last spoke the truth to Vorl’s company rode up and seized his horse by the throat latch. “Enough, Vorl. Remember the battles of our boyhood. Thanedom against thanedom at Ciril and Starkhollow. Would you see that repeated? Hammar has the friendship of barbarians and more besides, and he’s rich enough to hire mercenaries. Let us put away sword, bury Vog, and take counsel.”

“Elvish bewitchment, taking the heart out of you!” Vorl shouted, turning his horse south. “You’re all under it! I’ll call none of you my friends again.”

The others gave short head-bows to Mod Feeney and turned for the south end of the bridge.

The man who had grabbed Vorl’s horse looked at the linked-arm assembly and smiled. “My compliments on your battlements, Mod,” he said. He rode off.

Mod Feeney sank to her knees. “I should have turned to candle-selling and book-copying long ago,” she sighed.

“I’ll see her a high priestess if it’s my last act,” Rainfall said, falling back into his feedsack chair. A long brown leaf dropped from his hair. “Jessup,” he called. “Take me to Mossbell, that I might die clean in my bed.”

Chapter 16

Rainfall did not die.

As he recovered from the blood loss, it became clear to all that he would never walk again, barring some kind of miraculous healing. At first Wistala wondered if it was best that he had lived beyond his wounding (though she later looked back on that sentiment with shame). He could not walk, and he made a rather pitiable sight being hauled around like an arrowed deer over the shoulders of Forstrel, Jessup’s nephew.

The only time he moved as she remembered him was upon Stog, for he rode the mule about Mossbell’s lands, offering advice—that’s how it sounded to Wistala. He was far too polite to issue anything that sounded like an order to the new tenants. And at table, he presided from his chair with his former charm.

To help him in the house and on the grounds, the Widow Lessup and her whole family moved into Mossbell. With Rainfall unable to so much as work the handle of his well-pump, he needed a good deal of assistance.

Wistala helped him up and down stairs. She regularly wore her game harness, and Rainfall sat atop her back gripping it as she negotiated the tight, winding stairs of Mossbell.

“I should flood the place and pole about, as they do in Wetside,” Rainfall said. She’d heard stories of its famous water gardens before.

Mossbell’s old ferry-call rang thrice for dinner, forestalling another tale of spiced shrimp and tuna. The Jessup and Lessup clans trooped in from the fields in answer.

---