The telthor weaved through an aerial melee that, with griffons, winged telthors and fey, and ghosts swooping, wheeling, and tearing at each other, and blasts of magic raining down from the skyship above the trees, was every bit as savage as the struggle on the ground. Still, the gold appeared to be scrutinizing the combatants down in the gory snow.
Vandar was too, but he didn’t spot Uramar until an instant after the griffon dived at him. The blaspheme had almost worked his way to Yhelbruna, Cera, and the other spellcasters. Already, the hathrans’ protectors were faltering as the leading edge of Uramar’s cloud of cold washed over them, and meanwhile, other undead were scrambling to aid the patchwork swordsman as he finished carving his way to his objective.
The golden griffon slammed down in the midst of those would-be helpers, crushing some and striking at the rest with snapping beak and snatching talons. The spiritual power of a telthor made such attacks devastating to even an insubstantial entity such as a specter.
Still, that small part of Vandar that could consider such things despite the fury was surprised at the gold’s choice of target. He’d expected the griffon to plunge down on Uramar. But evidently the creature expected his rider to finish what he’d started while he made sure that this time, no other foes meddled in the duel.
Well, so be it. Vandar gripped argent feathers and the hide beneath to anchor himself and gave every bit of himself over to the rage. Sound faded, and the world slowed.
The gold spun to continue striking at the remaining foes he’d chosen for himself. Uramar circled too, and Vandar realized the blaspheme was maneuvering to attack the telthor, not him. He meant to strike the griffon down from behind.
Vandar pulled his handful of feathers as if they were reins, and somehow the golden griffon understood he meant for it to turn, and in what direction. It jerked around just far enough for Vandar to catch Uramar’s cut with a parry.
Steel clanged. Bellowing, the patchwork man sprang and cut at Vandar’s head.
Vandar leaned sideways and slashed at the same time. Uramar’s sword whistled past him while his blade sheared into the blaspheme’s neck.
Uramar floundered forward, even though that made the fey sword slice deeper. He threw both arms around Vandar in a crushing bear hug.
Finally too bitter for any mortal human being to withstand, chill plunged into Vandar like icicle daggers. He jerked and lost his grip on his sword hilt, and then the cold was even worse. All he could do was shudder as the blade in the blaspheme’s good hand hitched around to aim at his face.
But then Uramar groaned and slumped, and the sword thrust never came. The golden griffon wrenched himself around in a manner that further loosened the undead’s embrace, and with a convulsive effort, Vandar shoved him away. The patchwork man toppled backward to sprawl motionless between the bodies of a fey with spindly limbs and enormous hands and feet and a witch with her bronze mask and the head behind it smashed out of shape. Still shaking, Vandar couldn’t tell if she’d been a hathran or a durthan.
Spinning blades of blue light chopped Lod’s tail. Unfortunately, that didn’t keep the bone naga from throwing a magical attack right back. He whipped his lower body clear of Aoth’s creations and stretched out his skeletal hand simultaneously.
Streaks of darkness painted themselves on the air, defining a cube with Aoth and Jet at the center. Lashing his wings, the griffon hurled himself forward and through the murky stripes in front of him. Cold seared him and his rider too, but they broke out before the magical structure could quite coalesce into a solid cage.
Aoth hurled a glimmering, silvery sphere of force from his spear. Lod flicked his hand to the side, and the attack flew off course to smash bark and wood from a tree trunk.
Your magic isn’t getting the job done, Jet snarled, and unfortunately, that was so.
Aoth had thrown sunlight, thunderbolts, acid, focused noise, and eventually fire-he’d apologize to the hathrans later if anyone complained-and found them all ineffective. Pure force, generally the most difficult energy for a spellcaster to shield against, had done a little more damage, but so far, not enough to slow Lod down. And Aoth had already exhausted his ability to cast his most potent attacks.
As he with his spellscarred eyes had observed early on, the problem was protective runes graven on the inside of Lod’s human rib cage. Coupled with the defensive spells the bone naga could cast at will, they rendered him largely impervious to combat magic.
Still, Aoth hadto defeat him. Although since the start of the duel he’d perforce kept his attention on his adversary, he nonetheless inferred from the increasing brightness that his allies were winning the larger battle. But given the chance, Lod, who, as he’d gradually discovered, might even be as powerful as the dracolich Alasklerbanbastos, could still turn things around.
Let’s tear him apart!Jet continued, swooping to dodge a burst of freezing shadow.
Set me down, and I’ll tear him. You fetch Jhesrhi.
Do you think I can’t handle him? I’m as strong as I ever was!
I know that. But look in my head and you’ll see what I have in mind.
Aoth’s sense of connection pulsed stronger as Jet examined his thoughts. Then the griffon spun around Lod and over the heads of the nearest combatants, warriors and creatures that had likely come rushing to aid either Aoth or his foe but ended up fighting one another.
Jet plunged down behind the bone naga. Aoth scrambled off the familiar’s back and roused the magic of tattoos that augmented his strength, agility, and hardiness. At once, aquiline talons and leonine hind paws throwing up snow, Jet ran three strides with the uneven gait of his species, beat his wings, and sprang back into the air.
By then, Lod was twisting atop his serpentine coils to orient on Aoth. His fleshless jaw worked, surely whispering an incantation, and then streamers of snow leaped up from the ground. As they stretched and twisted, they darkened into something so infused with malevolence that their mere proximity made Aoth’s head throb.
He charged his spear with destructive force and whirled. The preternaturally sharp edges of the head slashed three of the shadowy snakelike things to nothingness. The fourth had time to strike at him, but he simultaneously blocked the attack with his shield and annihilated the attacker with a thrust.
He pivoted back toward Lod and, with a short incantation and a jab, hurled glowing blue darts of force from his spear. Apparently they stung, for when they struck just below the point where bare bone gave way to scaly flesh, the undead naga flinched and hissed. In that instant, Aoth dashed a couple of steps closer.
Then Lod swayed from side to side, and something about that sinuous motion wormed its way into Aoth’s head and snarled his thoughts into confusion. No longer sure why he was running, he stumbled to a halt.
His bewilderment lasted only a heartbeat. Then, by trained reflex, he pictured a sigil of psychic defense, and his thoughts snapped back into focus. By that time, though, a wave of smoking liquid was sweeping toward him like a breaker rushing toward the shore.
He threw himself flat in the snow, burrowing in it, and covered his head with his shield. Even so, as it washed over him, Lod’s conjured acid seared him at various points along his back and legs. But evidently not badly, for he was able to leap back onto his feet, and the magic of another tattoo sufficed to mask the lingering pain.
He charged onward. Until Lod vanished, leaving nothing behind but the long, twisting rut where his enormous tail had dragged through the snow.