At first an observer could have mistaken it for a simple eruption of lava. Then, however, it heaved itself higher, and the contours of a lump of a head; a thick, flailing arm; and a hand with four stubby fingers became apparent.
Tall and massive as one of the castle towers, the searing heat of it perceptible even from far away, the colossal elemental finished dragging itself up out of the ground then clambered unsteadily onto its broad, toeless feet. Some of the legionnaires shrank from the terrifying spectacle. Others, remembering that this was supposed to happen, cheered.
Aoth thought the mystical feat deserved acclamation. Had the Burning Braziers summoned and bound a fire elemental big as a spire, that would have been impressive enough. But such an entity, formidable as it was, lacked the solidity required for the task at hand, so the clerics had opted for a spirit whose nature blended the hunger of flame with the weight of stone. That almost certainly made the magic more difficult for them, given that they lacked any special affinity for the element of earth, yet they'd managed nonetheless.
Its tread shaking the earth, the giant advanced to the castle wall, took hold of a row of merlons at the top, and ripped away a chunk of the battlements. It tossed the fragment of stone and masonry inside the fortress-to crush some of the enemy, Aoth hoped-and gripped the wall once more.
Ghouls came running and skin kites soared, to leap and plaster themselves onto the elemental like fleas and mosquitoes attaching themselves to a man. The colossus didn't even seem to notice, and the heat of its luminous body charred them to nothing.
Unfortunately, that didn't mean the behemoth would prove impervious to the efforts of ghosts and spellcasters. The former might be able to leech the life from it, and the latter to break the priests' control over it or send it back to its native level of existence. The Thayan archers and crossbowmen on the ground shot their missiles at any such foe that showed itself on the battlements. Aoth's fellow war mages hurled thunderbolts and fire.
No one with sense would position himself in front of such a barrage or anywhere close, but somebody needed to peer down inside the castle courtyards and counter whatever mischief was happening there. Aoth urged Brightwing higher, and other griffon riders followed his lead. He hoped that if they flew high enough, no stray attack from their own side would hit them.
"If I do catch an arrow in the guts," said Brightwing, discerning the essence of his thoughts, "you'll know when we both plummet to our deaths."
"Put your mind at ease," Aoth replied. "I have a spell of slow falling ready for the casting. Whatever awfulness happens to you, your beloved master will fare all right."
Brightwing laughed.
They raced into the pocket of darkness. Zombies shot crossbows at them, but the bolts flew wild. Brightwing streaked over the curtain wall, and as Aoth had anticipated, live wizards, gathered in circles, were chanting on the ground below. They'd forsaken red robes for nondescript garments, but they no doubt belonged to the order of Necromancy nonetheless.
Aoth prepared a blast of fire to keep them from interfering with the elemental, but wraiths flew up at him, and he had to use the magic to incinerate them instead. Fortunately, his fellow griffon riders, adept at hitting a mark even from the back of a flying steed, harried the necromancers with arrows. Meanwhile, stone crunched and crashed as the magma giant continued to demolish the exterior wall.
Aoth cast spell after spell, more than he liked with so much fighting still to come, but if he and his allies failed to protect the elemental until it completed its work, it wouldn't matter how much magic remained to him. Phantoms and necromancers perished, or abandoning their efforts to stop the giant, bolted for cover.
Brightwing wheeled and dived. Arrows loosed by their own allies streaked past her and Aoth, but he saw that she was right to risk that particular hazard in order to respond to a greater one. Possibly cloaked in enchantments that armored them against common missiles, two necromancers had ascended the battlements. Chanting and whirling their hands in mystic passes, they were glaring not at the elemental but at the war mage and his familiar.
Aoth doubted that he could have cast any of his own attack magic before they completed their incantations, but Brightwing reached them in time. Her outstretched talons punched into the torso of the necromancer on the left, while her wing knocked the one on the right off the wall-walk to drop, thud, and lay motionless on the ground below.
The griffon beat her wings, gaining altitude once more. "I guess he didn't have a charm of slow falling."
"Apparently not," Aoth said.
Then Brightwing lifted one wing, dipped the other, and turned, affording him a fresh view of the fortress, and he felt a reflexive pang of dread.
The nighthaunt had appeared atop the flat, rectangular roof of the central citadel, and despite its apparent lack of a mouth, was attempting magic of its own. Aoth couldn't understand the words of the incantation, but he could hear them inside his mind. Indeed, they pained him like throbs of headache. His fellow griffon riders, those who were still alive, assailed the creature with arrows, but the shafts glanced off its dead black form.
Meanwhile, the elemental was moving more slowly, as if in pain. Glowing chunks of it flaked and sheared away to shatter on the ground.
Aoth hurled lightning at the nighthaunt, but that didn't seem to bother it any more than the arrows. For a moment, he was grimly certain the demonic entity would succeed in destroying the elemental before the latter could break down enough wall to do any good.
But enraged by its agonies, perhaps, the disintegrating giant balled its hands into fists and hammered the stonework repeatedly, then flung its entire body at the barrier as if it were a battering ram. The entity and a broad section of wall smashed into fragments together.
Aoth scrutinized the breach then smiled. He and his allies had hoped the elemental would demolish the entire wall. Due to the nighthaunt's interference, that hadn't happened, but the opening was wide enough for an attacking army to enter in strength, not just a vulnerable few at a time.
The Thayan force cheered. Aoth and the other griffon riders wheeled their mounts and retreated to join their comrades. There was no longer any need to linger in a highly exposed and dangerous position directly above the castle.
It was Aoth's duty to return to his command, but he detoured to set down among the Burning Braziers and the monks who were their bodyguards. He cast about, spied Chathi sitting on the ground, slid off Brightwing, and strode to the fire priestess.
She rose to meet him. Her fire-scarred face was sweaty, with a gray cast to the skin.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Fine," she said. "It's just that the ritual was taxing, particularly once the nighthaunt tried to oppose us."
"If you aren't fit to fight, you've done plenty already." Even as the words left his mouth, he knew how she'd respond.
"I'm a Burning Brazier. I still have magic to cast, and there's a battle to be won. Of course I'm going to fight!"
"Of course. Just be careful." He wished she still served as a member of his company, where he could better keep an eye on her, but now that the army had reunited, the servants of Kossuth constituted their own unit.
Chathi rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mother. Now go do your job and I'll do mine."
He wanted to kiss her, but it would be inappropriate with others looking on. He touched her forearm in its covering of mail then returned to Brightwing.
As the griffon sprang into the air, she asked, "Are you worried about the priestess for any special reason?"