fellow paladin were the same?
Maybe he just needs more time, Patrin thought. Then, as Nala stood panting and leaning on her staff, Balasar stumbled up behind her and planted a heavy hand on her shoulder.
Nala tried to slow her breathing. It wasn’t easy; her masters would have scowled to see her struggle so simply to compose herself. But the assault on the redspawn had been as taxing a feat of magic as she’d ever attempted.
Suddenly something grabbed her shoulder, transferring a goodly portion of its weight to her slumping frame. Startled, sure an ash giant or one of their minions had crept up behind her, she let out a squawk and lurched around.
The hand maintained its grip. Still, her motion brought her face to face with Balasar. Both sides of his face were bloody. The right bore its self-inflicted cut, and the left was raw where being tossed had scraped it against the ground and torn out a couple of his white button piercings.
She could tell from the lopsided way he carried himself that other portions of his body were bruised and sore as well. Good. She prayed he was injured worse than he appeared. That he’d drop dead of it.
Because she didn’t trust him. Perhaps that was unjust, for he’d passed his initiation. But there was a smug, impudent lightness to his character seldom seen in those who sought out her deity’s altar. And earlier he’d fed the hysteria simmering inside her soldiers, prompting them to disobey her command. Maybe it had been true divine inspiration impelling him to act-and granted, since the charge had resulted in Tarhun’s rescue, things had worked out fairly well. But she still didn’t like it, and he’d just compounded his other offenses by compromising her dignity.
Which didn’t change the fact that she needed Patrin, and Patrin liked him. Or the truth that she could scarcely rebuff one of the warriors who’d risked himself to save the vanquisher. Not with other people watching.
She arranged her face into a mask of concern, then asked, “Are you all right?”
“I hurt,” Balasar croaked. “But if you can spare a healing spell, I think I can get back into it.” He jerked his head at the combat raging on every side. Nala was no war leader, but it looked to her like the dragonborn and ash giants had at some point thrown just about everything they had at one another.
“Of course.” Refusing to give in to her exhaustion, murmuring a prayer, Nala reached into the void and drew stinging, bracing Power into her core. Responsive to her true feelings, or her deity’s, it tried to twist itself into poison. But she shaped it into vitality, then clasped the Daardendrien’s shoulder as he was still clasping hers.
He shivered and squinched his eyes shut as the magic flowed into him. Then he straightened up and smiled. “Thank you, my lady. Thank you more than you know.” He stooped, picked up the targe he’d evidently set on the ground, and turned to Medrash. “Kinsman, someone should get the vanquisher out of the middle of this. You could make sure he doesn’t die on us, and then pull some of your followers out of the battle to help escort him. I think they might respond to orders faster than warriors of the Cadre. Will you help me?”
Medrash frowned like he no longer wanted Balasar claiming him as kin. But then he gave a nod and said, “Of course.”
Standing guard, Balasar stayed on his feet while Medrash kneeled beside the unconscious Tarhun. On first inspection, it didn’t look like the warlord was too badly burned inside his armor. At any rate he was still breathing, and that was the main thing.
Medrash reached out to Torm. The god’s Power was as boundless as ever, but he’d virtually exhausted his capacity to channel it. He had to focus intently and strain to draw down even a trickle.
When he had it, he touched Tarhun’s face where his helm didn’t cover, resting his fingertips among the square golden studs. The point of contact glowed as the Power passed from his body into the vanquisher’s. Without waking, Tarhun let out a sigh.
Medrash started to rise. “Wait,” Balasar said, pitching his voice low enough that no one any farther away could have heard it over the crashing, howling din of battle. “Pretend you’re still working on him.”
Considering that they were supposed to have had a falling-out, Medrash had wondered why Balasar requested his help in particular. Now he realized that his clan brother had manufactured an opportunity to confer with him. “What’s going on?” he murmured back.
“I don’t know if you can tell it from here,” Balasar said, “but I could, from the spot where the red thing tossed me. This fight could go either way, and we still have troops we haven’t committed.”
“Because Tarhun never had the chance to order them in.”
“Partly, I suppose. But also because some of them are the other mounted squadrons Khouryn trained. They’re scared to go in. But they don’t have to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m pretty sure Nala used countermagic to interfere with the charms that made your horses brave and biddable. And that when the Cadre charged into battle, she stashed the talisman she used in here.”
Balasar pivoted his shield outward like a door swinging on its hinges, revealing the beaded pigskin bag clutched in his offhand. Because he currently had his back to Patrin and Nala, neither of them would be able to see.
Medrash recognized the bag from his time traveling with the wyrm-worshipers on Black Ash Plain. Nala had worn it on her belt and used it to hold items employed in her spellcasting.
“I’m no cutpurse,” Balasar said, “but she was spent and not especially observant when I was hanging on her. With luck, she’ll think she dropped it when she was running around fighting.”
“You say you’re pretty sure.”
“Have you ever known me to guess wrong when it truly counted?”
“Yes. But stay with Tarhun.” Medrash rose to fetch some of his followers.
They fashioned a litter from lances and surcoats, then-keeping as far away from potential threats as possible-carried Tarhun from the field. Once they’d entrusted him to the healers, Balasar hurried back toward the heart of the battle. Medrash strode in the direction of the nearest company of horsemen.
By the time he reached them, they were dismounting, preparing to advance and fight on foot in the traditional dragonborn manner. “Wait!” he cried.
Prexijandilin Jhiri turned around. Crimson-eyed with umber hide, she had enameled primroses pierced into her cheeks and the tips of the long, ropy scales that made up her crest. Medrash had always considered the flower an incongruous emblem for such a warlike clan.
Jhiri looked momentarily surprised to see him away from his command, or maybe just to see him still alive. Then she said, “I know there haven’t been any orders, but I don’t care. We’re needed, and we’re going.”
“Good,” he replied. “But go on horseback, not on foot.”
She shook her head. “We saw what happened to you.”
“There was a reason for that.” But as much as he wanted to share the details, it would be unwise to accuse Nala without proof. “A counterspell weakened the enchantment that makes the horses obey. But someone took care of it.”
Jhiri eyed him dubiously. “Or maybe our charms just don’t work as well as we hoped.”
“Curse it, you and your followers have already fought giants from horseback. Successfully.”
“When we skirmished with a raiding party. Maybe the mounts can handle that, but not a clash of armies.”
He wished he could cloak himself in a bit of Torm’s majesty to make his arguments more compelling. But for the moment that was impossible. All he had were his own wits and powers of persuasion.
Glad that it was easier to see what was happening from the fringes, he pointed at the battle raging in front of them. “Look there. See how the giants’ flank is exposed. Imagine how badly we could hurt them if we circled around and charged.”
Jhiri frowned, pondering, then shook her head. “No, I won’t risk it.”
“Then I will.” Medrash turned and swung himself up onto a dismounted rider’s roan gelding. The warrior gaped at him in surprise. “Since you’re not planning to use it, or this either.” He pulled the lance from the fellow’s hand.
“What are you doing?” Jhiri asked.
“I hope that you at least aren’t averse to using the horses to get close to the enemy. So here’s the plan: I’ll
