As near as Medrash could tell from such brief, chaotic glimpses, his side was winning. He oriented on the giant he’d injured. His breath had charred the brute’s face black, and he was unsteady on his feet. Medrash was still trying to judge whether the barbarian remained a threat, whether he should finish him off or go after one of his fellows, when another giant appeared in the doorway of one of the huts.
The new one barely fit there, and would have to crawl to squeeze through-the Loyal Fury only knew why he’d bothered to go inside in the first place. But from the runic scars carved into his long, bony face and the necklace of raw crystals and bones dangling around his neck, Medrash took him for a shaman and wondered if he was Shangbok.
Whoever he was, it would be wise to kill him before he started casting spells. Medrash rattled off an invocation and jabbed at the air with his lance. White light flared from the point. It slammed the giant with the burned face and wounded shoulder back against the front of the hut, which swayed beneath his weight. But it only rocked Shangbok back a little, like a startling but harmless slap in the face.
The shaman thrust his hand into the sack tied around his waist and brought out a green crystal egg, polished and perfectly formed. Staring at it, he rattled off a rhyme.
The burning wood and coals beneath the roasting ox heaved upward, and then-as if springing up from a hitherto hidden pit-a creature exploded out from underneath them, knocking over the spit in the process. It was about the size of an ash giant, but covered in green scales and possessed of a saurian head. It walked on its hind limbs, which were short and thick. The front ones were ungainly looking batlike wings.
Medrash cursed. He’d seen giant shamans create comparable creatures before. But on those occasions they’d conjured them from the endless drifts of ash in their own desolate country, where their magic was strongest. He hadn’t known they could play the same trick with just the ash in a cookfire less than a day’s ride from Djerad Thymar.
The scaly green head of a second beast popped up into view. Medrash wondered if killing the shaman, or simply disrupting his concentration, would stop that one from manifesting completely. But before he could try, the first conjured reptile gave a rasping screech. It bent its legs, leaped into the air, and spread its wings to glide, though it seemed to hurtle at him fast as an arrow.
Medrash turned his horse-biddable even in the face of this horror, thank Torm and the vanquisher’s wizards- and aimed his lance. With luck, the gliding creature would impale itself.
Its jaws opened, and it spewed slime at him. He raised his shield, and most of the spray splashed against the barrier. But stray droplets spattered his skin and seared him and his mount. His mount screamed. Noxious fumes from the slime choked him and flooded his eyes with tears.
Suddenly half blind, he barely saw the glider lash its wings and bob harmlessly above the head of the lance. It then whirled one of the limbs like it was striking a blow with a flail.
Once again Medrash lifted his smoking, sizzling shield. The claw-like extrusions at the ends of the bony fingers inside the wing slashed, clattering across the armor. Already crumbling under the corrosive onslaught of the spew still clinging to it, the heater couldn’t withstand the added punishment. It shattered, leaving Medrash with only the leather straps that had held it to his arm.
But at least the arm was still attached.
Having altered the attitude of its wing to strike a blow, the glider couldn’t stay in the air. It thumped down behind Medrash’s horse, then whirled, yellow eyes blazing.
Twisted at the waist to keep track of it, he saw he’d never turn his horse around as fast as his foe was spinning. Which meant only a mystical weapon could serve him. He glared at his foe and willed the creature to perceive him as the agent of divine majesty he truly was.
Crouched, the ends of its wings dragging on the ground, the creature snarled and recoiled. Hauling on the reins, Medrash brought his horse around. He aimed his lance and urged the animal forward.
The conjured reptile flexed its legs to spring back into the air. Once again Medrash reached out to Torm. A torrent of Power poured through the core of him, and he shaped it according to his purpose. His lance glowed, and his horse streaked across the intervening distance, less running than flying.
As a result, he reached his adversary before the beast could get into the air. The shining lance stabbed through its torso, and it collapsed in a heap.
But then, to Medrash’s astonishment, it rose on its stumpy legs once more. Snarling and screeching, it started to shove itself up the length of the lance. Its neck repeatedly swelled and contracted, perhaps working up another discharge of burning sludge. Its wings whipped out and back, out and back, straining to reach the foe at the other end of the long weapon.
Regretting the loss of his heater, Medrash kept hold of the lance with one hand and drew his sword with the other. Maybe he could land a killing stroke before his foe maimed either him or his steed, although it didn’t seem likely.
Then a second lance punched into the creature’s body from the flank. The brute threw back its head, screamed, thrashed madly for one more moment, then collapsed, pulling the ends of the two embedded weapons down with it.
The rider who’d finished off the winged beast gave Medrash a wild, fang-baring grin. “I like fighting on horseback!” he said.
“Good,” replied Medrash, meanwhile thinking that it had taken a lot of magic just to kill the one creature. Torm’s might was limitless, but his servants’ capacity to channel the Power wasn’t. If he had to use his gifts against every one of the conjured beasts-
But when he glanced around, that didn’t appear to be the case. He didn’t know how many creatures Shangbok had initially conjured, nor-amid the frenzied confusion of battle, with huts blocking some of his view-could he be sure how many still posed a threat. But he only saw two.
One dived at a rider. A second warrior urged his horse up beside the dragonborn the glider threatened, and then there were two lances poised to catch the creature. Medrash judged that it would have a difficult time evading both.
The other reptilian beast was stuck on the ground, a bloody, broken wing furled awkwardly against its torso. Lunging and spinning, it used the undamaged wing to lash at the five dismounted dragonborn surrounding it. Whatever had become of their steeds, they didn’t seem to need them at the moment. They harried the creature from behind, then leaped back to safety when it wheeled to face them, just as Khouryn had taught them.
Still other dragonborn appeared to be holding their own against the surviving ash giants.
Suddenly a cloud of embers appeared around a rider. No doubt startled and stung by the sparks, the dragonborn faltered and his horse reared. Taking advantage of their distraction, their ash giant foe shifted into striking distance, swung his axe, and nearly beheaded the steed.
The magical attack meant Shangbok was still alive and might still be capable of winning the fight for the raiders. As he tugged in a futile effort to free his lance from the glider’s carcass, Medrash glanced around for the adept.
For an instant he couldn’t find him amid all the snarling, shrieking, pounding confusion, because Shangbok wasn’t peering out of the doorway anymore. At some point and for some reason-better visibility, perhaps-he must have crawled out into the open. But where had-
Medrash abruptly perceived that Shangbok was still right in front of him. The giant was crouching behind the hut, using it for cover in the same way a dragonborn might use a low wall or a boulder.
Medrash dropped the useless lance, drew his sword, bellowed a war cry, and rode at Shangbok. He veered right to circle the rustic home widdershins. The shaman scuttled in the same direction, staying ahead of him while growling words that alternately sounded like rocks grinding together and ash whispering on the wind.
A huge spear appeared floating above the thatched roof of the hut. It glowed red and looked like somebody had made it by fusing hot coals together. It stabbed down at the head of Medrash’s horse. Medrash swung his sword and parried with all his strength. The impact stung his arm and just barely sufficed to knock the enormous weapon out of line.
The spear leaped back up into the air and thrust at Medrash. He ducked, and then, to his momentary relief, the conjured implement faded away. But, glaring across the roof with his dead black eyes, Shangbok was already reciting another charm.
Medrash suspected it would be unwise to stay where he was and trade ranged mystical attacks. Shangbok might well be his master in that regard. But he couldn’t close with the shaman by chasing him around and around
