"Help Balasar," gasped the dwarf. "I'll keep watch."

Medrash dropped to his knees beside his clan brother. Please, Torm, he thought, grant me just a little more of your grace. He rested his hand on Balasar's shoulder, then felt power flow through the point of contact. New scales covered raw, seeping burns.

"That looks better," Khouryn said, his voice sounding from behind Medrash's back. If he could stand there and talk, it must mean the firebelcher really was dead, and that no other threats were advancing on them.

Balasar grinned up at the dwarf. "That was a good trick." He wheezed. "Were you a ropewalker in a carnival, to keep your balance like that?"

"I'm a dwarf," Khouryn answered. "We have low centers of gravity."

Even with an invasion looming, Hasos couldn't completely neglect the mundane business of the barony. On market day, that meant he had to sit in judgment on his dais in Whistler's Square.

It wasn't a permanent platform. Workers set it up in the morning and dismantled it again in the evening, and in recent years it had started to creak and quiver at odd moments.

Hasos tried to stop wondering if and when it might actually collapse, and at what cost to him in dignity and bruises. Tried to focus instead on the two peasants squabbling over where one's farm ended and the other's began.

It was an effort, because he despised boundary disputes. In the wake of the Spellplague and the changes it wrought, his greatgrandfather had ordered the fief surveyed. That should have settled every conceivable conflict in advance. Yet somehow the glib and the greedy still found arguments to challenge the placement of markers, hedgerows, and fences.

"The stones have always marked the line," said the farmer nervously twisting a soft, broad-brimmed hat in his hands.

"You dug them up and moved them!" said the plaintiff, an old fellow seemingly bedizened with every religious trinket he could lay his hands on, either to persuade the gods to favor him or to convince Hasos he was devout and thus, surely, honest. "Do you think people can't see the fresh-turned dirt?"

"Has anyone else seen it?" Hasos asked. Or would he have to send someone to look?

The pious peasant hesitated. "Well ... not exactly. The wife has bunions. She can't-"

Hasos spotted a stirring at the back of the crowd of waiting disputants and spectators, and a flash of bright yellow clothing. He raised his hand to silence the plaintiff and craned for a better look at what was happening. Followed by a pair of her subordinates, Cera came bustling toward his platform.

His feelings for Cera were complicated. They'd been lovers for a season, and he'd liked her well enough to start considering whether a priestess of her rank could possibly make a suitable wife for a baron. Then she'd told him that as far as she was concerned, their affair had run its course.

It had probably saved him from making a foolish decision, but it still stung, and kept stinging at odd moments over the three years since. It was worse when he knew she was keeping company with another man, and had been particularly bad since she'd taken up with the very scoundrel-a soulless mage, no less!-who'd come to Soolabax to subvert his authority.

Yet there was a part of him that always craved her company, even when he felt most jealous and resentful-even when he expected it to hurt. And besides, whatever she wanted, it was bound to be more interesting than the trivia on the docket.

He rose and gave her the shallow bow appropriate to their stations. "Sunlady. This is an unexpected pleasure."

"Milord." Cera was a little out of breath, and her golden vestments hung slightly askew. "I realize others have been waiting for their turns, and I apologize for shoving in ahead of them. But the dignity of Amaunator demands immediate action!"

"What do you mean?" Hasos asked.

"You're aware Captain Fezim is badly wounded."

"Of course. It's a pity. Although I did warn him that his forays into Threskel were reckless in the extreme."

"I assume you know too that I'm tending him myself in the temple."

Just kick me in the stones, why don't you? Hasos thought. "Yes, I heard."

"Well, I don't mind doing it. Since the war hero herself sent the sellswords to us, it seems only right that a senior priest or priestess should take the responsibility. But I won't have the Keeper's worship and rituals disrupted!"

She seemed so put out that Hasos wondered if he could have been mistaken about her interest in the Thayan. Or maybe that too had already run its course. Small wonder if it had. With his tattoos and glowing eyes, the man was positively freakish.

"Actually," he said, "the way I see it, it was Nicos Corynian who sent the sellswords. But I take your point. Well, part of it. How does the presence of one invalid interfere with temple business?"

"If it was only Captain Fezim," Cera answered, "it wouldn't. But his soldiers insist on standing guard over him, and they're a pack of thieving, blasphemous ruffians. Worse, his griffon is there! A huge, black, man-eating beast roaming among the altars! People are afraid to come and pray! My clerics can't perform their sacred offices!"

For a moment Hasos enjoyed her distress and thought that if he refused to help her, it would only be what she deserved. But whatever his personal feelings, public order was his responsibility. And anyway, even though he realized the notion was probably stupid, he couldn't help wondering if this was a chance to win back her affections.

"I assume you want me to clear out the riffraff," he said.

"If you can," she said.

"Certainly I can. While the mage was well, he and I shared command. But now that he's incapacitated, every soldier in Soolabax, whether loyal Chessentan or sellsword, answers to me." And didn't that assertion taste sweet in his mouth!

So sweet, in fact, that he left his humbler petitioners to wait while he helped Cera shoo the surly outlanders and the black griffon-which truly was an enormous, terrifying brute-out of her domain. She gave him a hug and a light little kiss when they finished.

His burns aching, but not as badly as before Medrash healed him, Balasar looked up at his clan brother and Khouryn. Both were blistered, and Khouryn's black beard was singed and smoking. Their chests heaved as they sucked in air.

"Help me up," Balasar said.

Khouryn held out a hand. "Sure you're ready?"

Balasar gripped the dwarf's hand and dragged himself upright. He felt a trifle unsteady on his feet, but it was nothing he couldn't manage. "That patch of ground would make anyone ready. It's hard, and it smells like rotten eggs."

"Balasar's not one to stay down while the outcome of a battle's still in doubt," Medrash said. Which was true, but it sounded idiotic when spoken aloud.

"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."

T.

E.

N.

12 MIRTUL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR).

Gaedynn straightened up and loosed two arrows. Jhesrhi looked in the direction they flew and belatedly spotted the black silhouettes of two sentries, each of whom collapsed with a shaft in his chest.

The humans waited until it seemed plain that no one else had noticed the shadar-kai falling. Then they crept onward until they had a clear view of the hillside where Tchazzar lay manacled to the ground.

"Are you ready?" Gaedynn whispered.

"Of course," she snapped.

Actually, she wasn't certain. Since arriving in the Shadowfell, she'd gradually discerned that even the elements here had a filthy, alien feel. In her own world, they leaped to do her bidding. In the Shadowfell, they balked and looked for ways to turn her magic against her.