A dragonborn cried out. His bat tumbled with one of the ghostly dragons ripping at each leathery wing.
Medrash called out to Torm and shook his fist. White light flared from his steel gauntlet. It revealed the locations of the shadows, seared them, and dashed them toward the ground. The two clinging to the wounded bat lost their holds, and the steed spread its torn wings and leveled out of its fall.
Unfortunately, the blaze of holy Power dimmed immediately, and the dark things winged their way upward again. Khouryn took a frantic look around and decided the creatures were fewest in the northeast.
He pointed. “I want a blast of fire right above that rock with the two lumps on top.”
Biri chanted and thrust out her wand of quartz. A red spark flew from the tip and exploded into a roaring mass of flame.
The fire washed over shadow things and burned them to nothingness, breaking the circle they’d formed around the scouts. “This way!” Khouryn shouted, urging his mount toward the gap. His comrades streaked after him.
Medrash hurled another flash of Torm’s Power to slow pursuit. Khouryn glanced back-with a dragonborn seated behind him, he had to lean sideways to do it-and met the gaze of Skuthosiin’s lambent yellow eyes.
To his relief, the green was still perched on his makeshift dais, still performing his ritual, and showed no signs of joining the chase. But his stare was chilling.
Khouryn spat the chill away.
As the scouts raced on, leaving the shadow things behind, giants hurled javelins and rocks. But as far as Khouryn could tell, none of the missiles found its mark, and after a few more heartbeats he and his comrades were clear of Ashhold entirely.
But they didn’t slow until they reached their own camp, an orderly sprawl with a scarcity of campfires. The foragers couldn’t find fuel, and even had it been otherwise, Black Ash Plain in summer could blunt anyone’s enthusiasm for heat and smoke.
It seemed to Khouryn that his bat landed with an awkward bump. Unlike a griffon, the beast wasn’t built to prowl around on the ground. But it had its own virtues, and he gave it a pat before allowing a black-scaled Lance Defender-in-training to take charge of it.
“That’s the kind of young fellow you should be ogling,” he murmured.
Like Skuthosiin-well, not really-Biri declined to respond to the provocation.
Medrash and Balasar gave up their borrowed steeds, and the four of them strode onward to the center of the army. Where Tarhun awaited them along with a motley assortment of senior Lance Defenders, clan war leaders, and mages.
Smiling, the vanquisher rose from his campstool as they approached. “Did everyone get back safely?” he asked.
“Yes, Majesty,” Medrash said, saluting. “They spotted us, but we managed to break away.”
“And that’s not the only piece of good news,” said Balasar with a grin. “We didn’t see all that many of the giants’ pets. Apparently the adepts haven’t figured out that we can keep them from calling the beasts from afar. Which means they really won’t be much of a factor in the fight.”
“True,” said Medrash. “That much is good news.”
Belatedly registering his clan brother’s somber demeanor, Balasar said, “All right, what did I miss?”
“Since you aren’t versed in a mystical discipline,” Biri said, “I understand why you didn’t sense it. But Medrash is right. The ceremony Skuthosiin is performing is something powerful and bad.”
“You saw Skuthosiin?” Tarhun asked.
“Yes,” Khouryn said, “and, if anything, he looks even nastier than his reputation. So I can believe he’s about to dump something hellish on our heads. The only question is, what form will it take?”
Biri hesitated. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to tell that.”
Balasar gave her a smile. “It’s all right, sweetling. You did fine. We might not have gotten out of there without you.”
A clan leader scratched her chin with the claw on her thumb. She had a row of little ivory moon piercings-waxing from new to full, then waning again-running across her brow. “If we don’t know exactly what Skuthosiin’s doing,” she said, “do we know how much longer it will take?”
“No,” Biri said.
“So if we want to interrupt the proceedings,” Khouryn said, “we should attack now.”
Tarhun frowned. “At night. After rushing our preparations.”
“I admit it would have its drawbacks,” Khouryn said.
“Which is why the giants won’t expect it,” Balasar said.
“I’m no longer a member of the Lance Defenders,” Medrash said, “but I still remember what I learned when I was. The bats will spot what we can’t. They’ll let us know what’s lurking in the dark.”
Khouryn had no difficulty believing that was true. A griffon didn’t need to be able to talk to alert its rider to the presence of danger, and a bat probably didn’t either.
Fenkenkabradon Dokaan, commander of the Lance Defenders, was a bronze-colored warrior almost as big as Tarhun. He carried a sheathed greatsword tucked under one arm, and branching steel piercings like miniature antlers jutted from his temples. He grunted and said, “One of your escort told me you just now ran into shadow creatures the bats had trouble seeing.”
“With respect, High Lord,” Medrash replied, “magic and unnatural creatures always pose special problems. My observation is still sound.”
Dokaan gave a brusque nod. “Fair enough. It is.” He turned toward Tarhun. “Majesty, I think Sir Khouryn’s plan has merit.”
Several other officers and clan leaders tried to speak at once. Somewhat to Khouryn’s surprise, they all seemed to be expressing support. But maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him. They were the warrior elite of a valorous people, and they were heartily sick of the giants.
“So be it,” said Tarhun. “Ready the troops.”
Jet flew a zigzag course to throw off the aims of archers and crossbowmen. Aoth chanted words of power and repeatedly jabbed his spear at the Threskelan company below. Hailstones the size of his fist dropped out of thin air to pummel the foe.
Aoth wanted to conserve his power. But that particular war band had soldiers riding bounding drakes, as well as a pair of shambling, long-nosed war trolls. It made sense to soften them up a little.
Once Jet carried him beyond the reach of their arrows and quarrels, he twisted in the saddle and looked for some sign that Tchazzar had entered the battle. The Firelord knew, it shouldn’t be hard to spot.
But you’re afraid he’ll balk, the griffon said.
Jhesrhi stayed behind to encourage him, Aoth replied. Unfortunately, Halonya’s there too, without me to intimidate her. We just have to hope-
A roar thundered across the scrubland, drowning out the rest of the muddled cacophony of battle. Wings lashing, golden eyes burning, blue and yellow flames leaping from his mouth, the red dragon rose from the center of the Chessentan formation.
In the night, few of the advancing enemy could see Tchazzar as clearly as Aoth could. Yet even so, every one of them faltered. Lurching, stumbling hesitation rippled across the battlefield.
Congratulations, said Jet. One of your schemes finally worked.
Not yet, said Aoth, but it’s off to a reasonable start.
Tchazzar was supposed to fight hard during the opening movements of the battle, wreaking havoc on Alasklerbanbastos’s army and creating the appearance that he was squandering his strength. Assuming he conducted himself as he had in past conflicts, the Great Bone Wyrm would let his archenemy wear himself down, then attack when he judged he had the advantage. At which point Jaxanaedegor and his fellow traitors would turn on their overlord, and they and Tchazzar would take him down together.