It was not a charge of ode or poetry. The barbarians came in a ragged line, a few at the front so crazed to outrace the others that they threw away their weapons as they ran, others slipped in the mud and the fortunate got up again before they were stepped on by those behind.
The dwarves did what they could, barricaded the landings and docks, but the barbarians climbed above to the galleries, or uprighted stranded barges and longships and climbed up the staves at the hull bottom as though they were ladders.
Screams, and over all the cacophony of steel on steel, the growled hurrahs of the dwarves matched against the wild catlike screeches of the men.
Wistala caught sight of a long, thin barge flying purple pennants, oars worked by black armored beetles, pulling away from chaos east across the receding waters, a one-legged figure at the center. She took a deep breath and went down to the landing and retrieved the ball-weight and chain.
Wistala rose into the air, all four limbs holding the burden to her belly. Up, up, up toward the sun, racing only herself and her exhaustion. In all likelihood, she would never have a mating flight. This would have to do. The air grew thin and cold, but she kept her eye always on the barge below, heading for the eastern road.
When she could go up no more she closed her wings somewhat and went down.
It was dizzying, a little frightening, she felt hurried by the weight of the iron ball, but she needed time to adjust her dive. The surface of the slowly receding lake rushed up to meet her at a frightening speed. She angled a little, then closed her wings more so she dropped almost straight down.
Here is your crown, King Fangbreaker—
Perhaps at the last moment he looked up from his position at the center of the barge, urging his rowing bodyguard on—Wistala didn’t know, for she released her weight and opened her wings, sick from the change in air pressure. Pain tore at her joints as she leveled off, streaking across the lake surface at an impossible speed.
Kra-sploosh!
She dipped her wings and looked back. The barge had folded in on itself, and a fountain of water rose from the center like the jaws of some sea dragon shutting on a bird. Flung dwarves spun through the air before splashing down into the Ba-drink.
She flew back toward the battle, saw that flames were pouring out of some of the balconies and galleries in the Hardhold. Tall Rock seemed still to be holding, and the dwarves manned that half of the half-shattered Titan bridge.
Wistala flew with aching wings back to the outer wall. Ragwrist and Hammar stood in one of the towers with a few elderly barbarians, and she alighted next to them.
“Glorious, glorious, glorious,” Hammar said, smacking his fist into palm. “Have you ever seen such a fight? Wistala, you’re a marvel. With you at my side, there’s no stopping me now. We’ll ride your wings to Hypatia herself. ’Twas a happy day when we settled our enmity.”
“It’s Nuum Wistala, bookburner. I don’t remember settling anything with you,” Wistala said. She beat her wings and rose into the air, seizing Hammar by his fur cloak.
He hung there, struggling and swearing, and reached for his blade. Wistala beat him about the body with her wing-tips until he dropped it.
She flew up to the top of Tall Rock, where a few dwarves still manned war-machines, firing down at the barbarians fighting on the Titan bridge.
She swooped low between the towers, and dwarves scattered. “A parting gift from the Oracle,” Wistala called. “Here’s King Hammar the Dwarfhanger.” She set the former thane down gently. “Dangle him from the Titan bridge or use him to negotiate, I care not.”
And with that she flapped away, leaving Hammar lying bruised in a ring of desperate dwarves.
Now there was only one more account to settle on the balance sheet of her life.
The Dragonblade’s home was easy enough to find. It was the only one with a dragonscale door and fire-shutters, carved under an overhanging rock that resembled a closed clam. The rest of the dwellings were humble shepherd’s huts or fishermen’s wharfside homes.
Wistala landed in the mud of the fallen-away lake to the barking of hounds from all around the house.
She waited out of arrow-reach and warily examined the small square windows. The flower boxes and hanging mountain ferns might hide war-machines, for all she knew.
“I call for the Drakossozh,” Wistala roared. “Let him show his face if he dares.”
Silence from the house.
“Well? Daylight is burning, as will this home, if I do not have an answer.”
The door opened, and a long-limbed young woman stepped out. There was some of the Drakossozh in her broad face, but she had a sensitive mouth. Wistala realized she was the womanly version of the girl glimpsed watching the circus leave years ago.
She came only half out the door, seemed ready to jump back inside and slam it at the first sign of flame.
“I speak for the household,” she said, voice quavering only a little. “If you’ve come for vengeance, my father is not here. If you’ve come for murder, there are children within.”
“I’ve come for neither,” Wistala said. She sat, the mud squelching against her backside. Had she ever been so tired?