the cultists who seared them with repeated blasts of flame and vitriol. Balasar had just about decided he could sit out the rest of the fight when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a hog toss its head and slice a green-scaled dragonborn from thigh to shoulder.
Even as Balasar scrambled to his feet, it occurred to him that the injured fighter was a wyrm-worshiper and thus, in the truest sense, an enemy. Someone he himself might want to kill someday. But his instincts were stronger than that consideration. He charged the boar, meanwhile yelling as best he could in the hope that he could distract it from the foe sprawled helplessly before it.
The huge pig started to turn. Hoping the blade would pass unimpeded under bone and find some vital spot, Balasar thrust his point at the base of its jawline.
The boar exploded into a great thrashing spasm, and it was luck as much as Balasar’s nimbleness or battle sense that kept it from slashing him in the process. But it didn’t, and then it flopped over onto its side.
Still keeping an eye on it, he moved to check the wounded cultist. The son of a toad lay in a sizeable pool of his own blood, but at least he was breathing.
Balasar looked around. All the pigs had fallen and lay inert, mere ugly mounds of bristles and charred, bloody flesh, while Patrin was already trotting in his direction. The paladin evidently realized that if he used his healing powers quickly enough, he could save the maimed cultist.
Patrin kneeled down in the gore, murmured a prayer, summoned silvery light into his hands, and then applied them to the long gash in his fellow worshiper’s body. The magic worked exceptionally well. The wound closed completely, and the fellow dazedly raised his head.
When Patrin helped him to his feet, the cheers erupted, with only a scattering of holdouts among the crowd looking disgusted at everyone else’s reaction.
Balasar registered the acclaim with mixed emotions. He really didn’t want anyone applauding the Cadre for anything. But curse it, he’d fought well, and there was a part of him-no doubt the part the elders of Clan Daardendrien had always decried as frivolous, immature, and irresponsible-that simply wanted to wave and bow.
Then Nala came to the side of the pen, and her cool, appraising gaze reminded him he was playing a deadly serious game-and nowhere near winning it yet.
“You only used your breath once,” she said.
Balasar smiled. “My way was more sporting, and more fun.”
“He fought well,” Patrin said.
“Yes,” Nala said. “But I’m not sure I saw the god’s gift of fury augmenting his strength.”
“My teachers trained me to fight with a cool head,” Balasar said. “Sun and sky, when we faced the giants, Patrin didn’t constantly spit fire, and he didn’t go berserk either.”
“It’s because I’m a paladin,” Patrin said. “Bahamut blessed me with a different set of gifts.”
“Well,” said Balasar, “maybe he’ll end up making me a paladin too.”
Nala snorted. “I doubt it. Still, it’s true that the god doesn’t bless everyone in precisely the same way, and occasionally it can take a while for his blessings to manifest. Even so, the next time-”
The war drums started thumping. They’d sounded often across the Market Floor, and through all Djerad Thymar, ever since the giant tribes had set aside their feuds and joined forces to assail Tymanther. Sometimes the drummers had pounded out the steady cadence of an alert and sometimes the slow, hollow beats that announced defeat. Only rarely had they hammered out the fast, intricate, largely improvisational rhythms used to celebrate a victory, but they were doing so now.
The spectators headed toward the center of the marketplace, where many folk were starting to cheer. Nala, Patrin, Balasar, and the rest of the neophytes followed.
On horseback, the lancers loomed above the heads of the crowd. Despite all the excited people crowded together in front of him, Balasar could more or less see Medrash and the rest of the procession riding past. Unlike the Platinum Cadre, the patrol hadn’t mutilated the bodies of fallen giants for trophies. But they had appropriated the barbarians’ huge stone weapons to show what they’d accomplished.
“This is glorious!” Patrin said.
He didn’t see the scowl Nala gave him, but Balasar did. At that moment, it was difficult to believe the two were lovers.
As the servant ushered Gaedynn into Hasos’s study, he reflected that he and the baron had a good deal in common. They were both gently born and followed the profession of arms. They were still young and good-looking, and in their disparate styles took pains with their appearances. Still, he could tell from Hasos’s frown that it wasn’t likely to be a particularly cordial meeting.
I don’t like it either, Gaedynn thought. But if I have to swallow the stone, then so do you.
Hasos stood up from behind his desk, although not with any great alacrity. “Sir Gaedynn,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“My scouts report that the dragons and their creatures are closer than we’d hoped.” Gaedynn noticed a map on the desk and pointed to a spot in Threskel. “As of this morning, they were here. Which means that to carry out Captain Fezim’s strategy, we need to break the siege now.”
Hasos’s frown turned into an outright glare. “That’s impossible.”
“To the contrary. It’s entirely feasible, especially since we have powerful wizards on our side.” At least they might be powerful. Gaedynn hadn’t seen any irrefutable evidence to the contrary.
Hasos made a spitting sound. “Wizards. Devil-worshiping degenerates.”
Gaedynn grinned. “Not anymore. Not since Tchazzar proclaimed them to be fine fellows, one and all. More to the point, whatever you think of them, we can put them to good use.”
“Still-”
Gaedynn decided it was time to move on from unfounded optimism to outright lies. “It’s also my pleasure to inform you that the war hero and the army under his personal command are now on their way to Soolabax. They’ll advance onto the battlefield when their sudden appearance will do the most damage.”
“Where’s the messenger who carried this news? Why didn’t you bring him to me right away?”
“Because it was the mage Jhesrhi Coldcreek, speaking to me from far away. The spell didn’t last long enough for me to send someone to fetch you.”
“Then have one of the ‘powerful’ wizards who are still in the city communicate with her. Or Captain Fezim. Or the war hero himself.”
Gaedynn smiled and spread his hands. “I wish that were possible. But as you may know, every sorcerer has his own secrets and specialties. Oraxes and his fellows truly are formidable, but alas, none of them is a master of the particular art in question.”
Hasos sneered. “You have an answer for everything.”
“I like to think so. Unfortunately, it’s clear you don’t find any of them especially convincing. But you can believe this: We’re going ahead with Aoth’s plan, and Tchazzar will receive a report of the outcome. It’s up to you whether he hears that you gave your wholehearted support or balked at every turn.”
His voice tight with resentment, Hasos said, “When exactly are we planning to launch the attack?”
FOUR
4 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Nicos Corynian loved his family and made a point of taking his evening meal with them whenever practical. That night, however, the bright, trivial chatter of his wife and nieces grated on his already jangled nerves. As soon as he could make his escape, he headed for the private study that served him as a kind of refuge.
His hand with its scarred knuckles trembling ever so slightly, he opened the door, set the single white wax candle he’d brought along on the dice table, and headed for the walnut cabinet in which he kept strong drink. The taper was sufficient illumination for the moment. He’d worry about lighting the lamps when he had some brandy inside him.
A deep voice sounded from the shadows. “Good evening, milord.”
