Those teams who had a shot scurried to pivot their weapons and adjust the elevations.
Not an easy shot, Melemer said.
We ll make it, Olthe growled. The battleguard stepped up to the tiefling s catapult, rested her hand on the throwing arm, and chanted a prayer to Tempus. Smirking, Melemer whispered a spell of his own, and points of red light glimmered over the surface of the weapon.
Kill the griffon! shouted Bez.
The catapults and ballistae loosed a clanking, snapping volley, and the missiles turned into blazing thunderbolts and orbs of fire in midflight. Most fell well short, flew far wide, or both.
But the ball of flame from Melemer s catapult hurtled at the mark. Plainly perceiving the danger, the black griffon lashed its wings and dodged out of the way.
Olthe brandished her axe and shouted, Tempus! Melemer smacked the palms of his hands onto his stubby horns, displayed the resulting bloody little punctures to the heavens, and snarled two rhyming words in some Abyssal tongue. Gripping the hilt of the rapier hanging at his side, Bez rattled off an incantation of his own, but more for form s sake than because he expected any of the magic to accomplish anything. The griffon had simply evaded too deftly.
But the orb of fire veered in what was nearly a hairpin turn, a magical course correction so pronounced that, despite decades spent practicing battle wizardry, Bez had never seen the like. There was always an element of chaos and uncertainty in magic, the more so when multiple spells worked in concert. And it appeared that the arcane and divine forces at play on the Storm had achieved an amazingly potent synergy.
Perhaps its power caught the griffon by surprise, too. The beast tried to dive and dodge again, but the luminous sphere hit it anyway. The missile exploded into a ragged, booming burst of yellow fire, and a burning mass tumbled out of the heart of the blast and plummeted toward the ground.
Momentarily forgetting she didn t like him, Olthe gave Melemer a clap on the shoulder. The buffet nearly knocked him off his feet.
Vandar roamed through the corpse-littered courtyard and the chambers adjacent to it, checking on his brothers. Despite the magic of his crimson weapons, which evidently, had some power to delay the onset of fatigue, he felt the same grinding exhaustion as the others. But as lodge master, it was his duty to offer praise, guidance, encouragement, jokes, or consolation as needed.
Too often, it was the last. The entire Griffon Lodge was a tight-knit fellowship, and nearly everyone had lost at least one close comrade. The society as a whole had lost half its initiates and all its more notable allies as well. Aoth, Jhesrhi, Jet, and the Stag King had all either perished or disappeared.
Vandar felt a pang of his own grief, or perhaps even guilt. His brothers had died because he had led them to the Fortress. And for all he knew, Cera and the other outlanders might conceivably have survived if he hadn t turned away when he heard her calling.
The red metal shaft of his spear warmed in his hand, and he realized such self-reproach was pointless. His fallen brothers had been warriors, and they d died as they would have chosen, fighting to destroy a threat to Rashemen. They d succeeded, too, and as a result, the lodge they d loved would henceforth stand as high, or higher, than any in the land. Recruits would pour in to replenish its depleted ranks.
And as for the outlanders The mound guardian s prophecy said that, had they lived, they and Vandar were fated to be enemies. That being the case, wouldn t it be foolish to regret the manner of their passing? Wasn t it better that they d died before they had had the chance to betray a comrade and so disgrace their names?
Remember the dead, but move on, he thought. Focus on getting his weary, wounded brothers home, claiming and taming the griffons, and building the lodge into a warrior fraternity whose fame would live forever.
Smiling, he stepped back out into the morning sunlight to organize the trek south. And then he faltered, because five stag warriors were waiting in front of the doorway. Their brown eyes fixed on him.
Vandar had been so busy seeing to the needs of his own people that he d half forgotten the fey. It occurred to him that they might well feel demoralized and confused. They d suffered heavy casualties just like the berserkers, and on top of that, they d lost the lord and progenitor who had, until yesterday, given purpose and order to their lives.
Uh hello, he said.
My brothers and I are grateful to you for fighting alongside us, and we mourn for your fallen comrades. And Well, plainly, our work is done now. The fight is over. So I suppose you should take whatever you want in the way of plunder and go back home. And know that we will always be your friends.
The stag warriors kept staring at him. They didn t understand a word he d just blathered, and with no one left who spoke Elvish, there was nobody to translate.
Vandar gestured to the open gate and the wide world outside. The stag men followed the sweep of his arm, but then just looked back at him.
He shook his head in perplexity. It occurred to him to wonder why they were interested in him in particular. What differentiated him from all the other humans? It might be that he was the one striding around giving instructions, but he suspected it was the fey weapons.
He lifted the red spear to display it. The stag warriors bobbed their heads and rang the bells in their antlers.
All right, Vandar said. Understand, I m not commanding you to do this. You really are free to go home. But if you want to come with me and my brothers when we move out, you can.
And that was what the stag men did.
As everyone trudged southward through the snow, a cold wind blew at their backs. Vandar reflected that surely Yhelbruna would be able to communicate with the stag warriors. She could send them home.
Unless, of course, they truly didn t want to go. What if there was something in their natures that made them need a chieftain different than themselves, and they d selected Vandar for the role?
He supposed that the lodge would have to make accommodations for them, and fetch their females and children to join them in Immilmar. Just think how feared and famous he and his brothers would be if they had griffons to ride into battle and a band of fey archers for allies!
He imagined that intriguing possibility for several strides before he felt a throb of warning from his spear and sword. A heartbeat later, one of the men behind him shouted.
Vandar turned. With her sails billowing and canvas wings spread, the Storm of Vengeance was flying out of the northeast like a dragon. The she-demon figurehead leered down at the folk on the ground, as did the crimson skull on the flapping ensign.
Looking up from below, it was all but impossible to make out what the sellswords aboard the skyship were doing. But Vandar s every instinct screamed that they were attacking. That, and not Aoth and Jet striking at him from the air, was what the mound spirit s warning had portended.
In that moment of ghastly clarity, Vandar even understood exactly why it was happening. The Griffon Lodge and its allies had destroyed the undead threat to Rashemen. But if Mario Bez and his crew killed the victors, they could steal the credit and the prize for the victory.
Vandar cast about. There was nowhere on the rolling scrubland to take cover. The mercenaries had evidently hidden their ship until their prey had marched away from the relative safety of the fortress, then flown after them to catch them in the open.
And what could the exhausted warriors on the ground do about it? Men who d been riding in litters or limping along using their spears for crutches struggled to stand on their own two feet. Others screeched hoarsely, struggling to raise the fury one more time, and hefted the javelins they surely realized could never reach the enemy in the sky. The stag men with their longbows might do a little better, but not enough for it to matter.