“That does Daardendrien credit,” Khouryn said. “But I’m not sure it is. In doubt, I mean.”
Balasar took a look around and decided the dwarf was right. Most of the giants had already fallen, and the Platinum Cadre was pressing the others hard. It really didn’t appear that there was much left for his companions and him to do.
Medrash’s face betrayed little, but Balasar thought he knew what was going on behind it. His clan brother was undoubtedly glad the dragonborn were winning, and if he had any sense, he must realize he’d acquitted himself in a manner that brought honor to his peculiar creed. Still, on some level, it bewildered and even rankled him that their demented new allies had performed so much better than a war band of Daardendriens.
“Look.” Khouryn pointed with the axe head of his urgrosh.
Nala and the ash giant adept now stood a stone’s throw apart, staring fixedly at each other. Light rippled up and down the rods they swung and shifted like swordsmen cutting and parrying. The space between them seethed and shimmered with the forces contending there.
Meanwhile, Patrin fought to keep a giant warrior away from the dragonborn wizard. A huge greatclub crashed repeatedly on his shield.
Balasar decided Patrin’s adversary had the right idea. Kill the enemy spellcaster while he and his opposite number were busy tossing magic back and forth. He ran toward the adept, and Medrash and Khouryn followed.
But they were only halfway to their objective when Nala cried out in a voice as loud as thunder, and rainbows swirled around her body. The shaman froze in position, and a kind of discoloration ran through his flesh, staining it a different shade of gray. Then his outstretched arms crumbled under their own weight, because Nala had turned him into a figure of solidified ash like the spires. The red crystal egg fell to the ground.
An instant later, Patrin roared, “Bahamut!” His sword streaked in a high horizontal slice that opened his opponent’s belly. Guts bulged out, and the giant dropped his weapon and clutched at the wound to hold himself together. While he was working on that, Patrin thrust his point up under the rib cage into his heart.
Khouryn had been right the first time. There truly wasn’t much more to do. Balasar felt an odd mix of anticlimax and relief.
As the giant warrior fell, Nala trotted toward the gradually eroding remains of the adept. Patrin followed, but he was a pace behind her.
She bent at the waist and straightened up with the scarlet egg in her hand. She glared into its translucent depths, and Patrin said, “Stop!”
But she didn’t look away. And the talisman suddenly blazed with multicolored light bright enough to make Balasar squint and avert his eyes. When the glow faded, the egg was gone.
“Curse it!” Patrin exclaimed. Balasar realized it was the first time he’d heard the fellow sound upset. Up until then, he’d projected the same annoying calmness that Medrash so often displayed. “I told you, if we kept one of those intact, the vanquisher’s wizards could study it and maybe learn something useful.”
“And I told you,” said Nala, “the stones are evil.” She still sounded calm. In fact, Balasar thought he heard a trace of amusement lurking in her tone. “Bahamut wants them destroyed.”
“I’m his champion, and I don’t sense that.”
“I’m his champion too, in my own fashion, and he talks to me about different things.” She gazed into his eyes. “I hope you aren’t going to start doubting me now. Not after we’ve come so far.”
Patrin sighed, his glare softened, and Balasar’s suspicion that the two of them were lovers as well as fellow fanatics strengthened into certainty. “Of course I trust you.”
“Then let’s talk of other things. If you can draw down more power, the wounded could use your healing touch. And we need to get everyone organized again.”
“All right.” Patrin turned toward Balasar, Medrash, and Khouryn. “Can you help?”
“I don’t know that I can work any more magic,” Medrash said. “Not for a while. But I can knot a bandage.”
“That’s something at least.” Patrin led them toward two dragonborn, one lying on his back, the other applying pressure to his comrade’s bloody chest wound.
When they’d left Nala several paces behind, the dwarf murmured, “For what it’s worth, I agree with you. We should have kept the talisman for study.”
Patrin shook his head. “No. No. Nala’s wise. You see what we can accomplish with her powers backing up our swords and bows.” He peered down at the wounded warrior. “I can handle this. You help someone else.”
Medrash led the rest of them onward, toward another injured cultist. Meanwhile, other dragonborn sank to their knees.
In itself, that wasn’t strange. Combat was exhausting. Soldiers often flopped down where they stood when it was over.
But the members of the Platinum Cadre also rocked their upper bodies from side to side. It was the same repetitive motion that kept Nala’s frame perpetually writhing, only more pronounced.
“Do you see this?” Balasar asked.
“Yes,” Medrash said, “but I also see something more pressing.” Evidently perceiving just how badly his prospective patient was hurt, he broke into a trot and left his companions behind.
“Fair enough,” said Balasar, “but I want a closer look.” He headed for the nearest swaying cultist, a ruddy- scaled female with the silver falcons of Clan Clethtinthtiallor pierced into her right ear and the back of her right hand. Khouryn tramped along at his side.
Suddenly the Clethtinthtiallor turned and scuttled to the nearest giant corpse. Her sway becoming more pronounced, and she clawed the foe’s gray, ash-smeared flesh with alternate swipes of her right and left hands.
Balasar and Khouryn faltered in surprise and distaste.
The cultist tore out a handful of flesh, then peered down at it as though entranced. She opened her mouth.
Balasar lunged, grabbed her by the shoulders, and gave her a shake. “No!”
She tried to twist free of his grip and bring the raw flesh to her face at the same time. But by then Khouryn was there too. He seized hold of her wrist with one hand and dug most of the meat out of her fingers with the other.
Then a feminine voice murmured a string of words, each softer than the one before. For a moment, Balasar’s eyelids drooped. The Clethtinthtiallor went limp in his grasp and started snoring.
“Thank you,” Nala said, stepping closer. Her hand trailed a blur of power as she lowered it to her side. “We wouldn’t want her to do something that might embarrass her later.”
Balasar laid the sleeping cultist on the ground. “What’s wrong with her? With all of them?” He waved his hand to indicate the other swaying warriors. Some of them had started tearing at giant bodies too, although it didn’t look like they necessarily meant to eat them.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Nala answered. “It’s just… well, you saw how powerful their breath attacks were, and how fiercely they fought in general.”
“Yes.”
“That’s because the Platinum Dragon exalted them as Torm grants power to Medrash. And it isn’t always easy for ordinary people to channel the might of a god. Afterward, they sometimes experience a brief period of… altered consciousness.”
“I understand why you’re taking the ears. But it’s degrading to oneself to desecrate the body of any enemy, even an ash giant, in some sort of frenzy. And sick to want to eat it!”
“I assure you,” Nala said, “the urge to eat is unusual, and we stop those few who feel it. But even if we didn’t, you can’t condemn what a person does while under the control of the divine. The gods are beyond your judgment.”
Balasar smiled. “With respect, wizard, not even Medrash’s special god matters a flyspeck to me, and I don’t consider anything beyond my judgment.”
“You may yet,” Nala said. “You may yet.”
TEN
