“I hope he’s all right,” Jhesrhi said. “I hope he made it home.”
“The Brotherhood is his home,” said Gaedynn, “and I hope he comes back in time to help us fight the cursed dragons. By the way, I like your new outfit. It’s very Red Wizard.”
That brought a twist of genuine anger to her expression. “It’s not like … It’s a completely practical robe and cloak for a mage to wear to war.”
“Is it? Then I suppose I’m just not used to seeing you put on new clothes until the old ones are covered in patches and falling apart even so.”
“And I’m not used to hearing you speak to me with genuine spite in your taunts. Since you plainly don’t want my company, I’ll bid you good night.” She turned away.
Fine, he thought, go, but then something made him speak up after all. “Wait. Stay if you like. I’m not angry at you.”
She turned back around and, the golden ferrule of her staff clicking on the timbers, walked to the parapet. “At what, then?”
He waved a hand at the pyre. It was quickly burning down to orange coals, and the folk who’d stood watching it were drifting away. “That, I suppose.”
Jhesrhi sighed. “Well, they were just kobolds.”
“I know. Give Hasos credit for choosing those nasty little brutes if he had to butcher someone. Still, you know me, Buttercup. I’m not chivalrous. I’ll cheerfully slit the throat of every bound, helpless prisoner and his mother too if I see a need for it. But this …” He shook his head.
“Well,” she said, “each of them had committed treason by taking up arms against his rightful sovereign. It’s common for people to pay for that offense with their lives.”
“That assumes Chessenta’s claim to Threskel is legitimate. Neither you nor I know that it is.”
“Or that it isn’t.”
“My point is that if we don’t know, the Great Bone Wyrm’s people certainly don’t. When they marched to war, they were just obeying the only rulers they’ve ever known.”
“Maybe when they hear what happened here, they’ll reconsider whether they really want to do that.”
Gaedynn frowned. “I concede that sending a message might be a sensible reason to slaughter some prisoners. But that’s not why Tchazzar did it.”
Jhesrhi hesitated. “Sometimes a king doesn’t explain his true reason for doing a thing. Not if he thinks he can gain some advantage by giving a false one.”
“Why in the name of the Black Bow are you defending him? You thought he was being crazy and cruel just like the rest of us did. That’s why you tried to talk him out of it. And why, just now, you made the fire flare up to burn the bodies quickly. You’re ashamed of what he did.”
“All right. There may be moments when his mind isn’t altogether clear. If something had tortured and fed on you for a hundred years, you might have the same problem. He’ll mend with time.”
“Have you seen any signs of it so far?”
She scowled. “You shouldn’t talk about him this way.”
“Why not? Are you going to tattle?”
“Of course not! But when we first arrived, you were impudent to his face. That’s … unprofessional, and bad for the company as a whole.”
He realized she was right, but he didn’t want to admit it. “I thought working for the zulkirs was bad, but at least they were sane.”
“You’re only seeing one side of him. He ended the persecution of those with arcane gifts.”
Which you hope will ensure that no more little girls suffer the way you did, Gaedynn thought. But what he said aloud was, “And, more importantly, gave you the chance to flounce around in silk and jewels and play the princess.”
“Enough of this,” Jhesrhi rapped. “Enough of you.” She turned back toward the stairs that led down into the keep, and that time, he didn’t try to stop her.
The battlefield lay in the borderland between the desolation of Black Ash Plain and the fertile fields of Tymanther. There were no columns of solidified ash sliding around-which was good, since the giant shamans used them as weapons. But the vegetation was sparse and twisted, and when the breeze gusted from the south, the air smelled faintly of burning.
After the dragonborn had destroyed several giant raiding parties, the rest joined together to make a stand. They waited like gaunt, crudely sculpted figures of stone. Medrash studied their ranks, looking for the leader strong enough to unite the once-contentious barbarian tribes. He couldn’t identify him. So far, no one had.
The giants stood with little apparent organization. Facing them across the length of the field, the Tymantherans had more, although Khouryn had grumbled that they still looked like a motley assortment of little armies instead of one big one. Lance Defenders and anyone else who’d received the dwarf’s training stood in what amounted to one coherent formation, and the warriors who marched under the banners of the Platinum Cadre in another. Small war bands organized by various clans had rather haphazardly taken up positions between and around the two larger ones.
Balasar naturally stood among the dragon-worshipers. Medrash fought the impulse to make eye contact or even glance in his clan brother’s direction. Balasar had told Nala and Patrin that his newfound devotion to Bahamut had estranged him from his kin, and Medrash didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that impression. He contented himself with silently asking Torm to strengthen his comrade’s arm in the fight to come.
Horns sounded overhead. Tarhun was in the air riding a bat, and so were the buglers the vanquisher used to relay his orders to his troops.
Dragonborn archers drew and loosed. Bat riders swooped toward the enemy, and they too shot arrows. Medrash knew that every bowman who’d spotted an adept was trying to eliminate that particular target.
Meanwhile, the clan wizards chanted in unison. Wind howled in the faces of the giants. The idea was to scour away every stray fleck of ash on the plain before the shamans could use it to conjure one of their reptilian servants.
The giants heaved enormous javelins and rocks, the raw strength of their towering frames a match for the mechanical power of a bow. Dragonborn reeled and fell. A horse screamed, collapsed, and-rolling and writhing-ground its rider beneath it. A bat plummeted.
Meanwhile, impervious to the arrows streaking at them-or so it seemed-the adepts brandished their colored globes. The polished curves gleamed in the sunlight, and hulking, scaly creatures sprang into view.
They didn’t scramble from drifts of ash, because the dragonborn mages had blown those all away. They leaped out of nowhere. Medrash realized they always had. The giants, to confuse their enemies, had simply made it look like ash was necessary.
A couple of the beasts looked like stunted, misshapen red dragons. Flames leaping not just from their jaws but rippling across their entire bodies, they jumped into the air, lashed their leathery wings, and soared toward the bat riders.
Other shamans summoned the winged green creatures and gray lizard-bears Medrash had encountered previously. The former hopped and glided, and the latter ran-but snarling and screeching, each charged the dragonborn ranks in its own particular fashion.
Behind them, hunched, dwarf-sized creatures skulked from nothingness. Their hide hung in loose brown folds, and their long arms dragged on the ground. Evidently intending to harass the Tymantherans from the flanks, they headed for the edges of the field.
“Lances!” Medrash bellowed. A split second later, the brassy notes of a bugle cut through the air. The vanquisher was ordering him to take the same action he’d just begun on his own initiative.
He felt taut with eagerness, because he’d learned from experience that Khouryn’s methods worked. And they now had a chance to demonstrate that to a great many dragonborn, the vanquisher included. Everyone would see that Tymantherans didn’t have to betray their ancestors and grovel before those heroes’ ancient enemies to defeat the giants. No matter how many new tricks the savages mastered.