Whisper of Venom: Brotherhood of the Griffon, Book II Page 6

  Medrash grinned and shouted, “Walk!” The patrol started their horses forward, slowly for the first few paces.

  Some of the giants faltered and stared.

  “Trot!” Medrash called. The riders in turn spoke to their steeds, or touched them with their spurs, and the animals accelerated.

  A couple of giants were still frozen in surprise. Others were scrambling to get ready. One bawled, “Shangbok!”

  Medrash wondered if that was somebody’s name. “Canter!” he yelled. Once again the riders urged their horses to go faster. “Lances!” Two and three at a time, the weapons swung down to parallel the ground.

  By then the enemy was close enough for Medrash to clearly discern the sunken, pitch-black eyes in their long, gaunt faces. Then suddenly one horse, evidently realizing its rider had no intention of veering off, panicked. It turned of its own volition, and in so doing, plunged toward the steed and rider on its right.

  Medrash flinched in anticipation of the impending collision. But somehow the rider who still had control swung around the other and drove on.

  Medrash looked right and left and saw that only the one horse had balked. The mages’ charms were working on the rest.

  Which didn’t mean everything was perfect. The line had gotten ragged. It wasn’t the moving wall Khouryn recommended. Nor did the riders have the open ground that would best have served their purposes. The huts and various pens broke up the space.

  Still, he felt a sudden surge of confidence that the tactics would actually work. “Gallop!” he roared. “Kill the brutes!”

  The giant directly in front of him whirled a sling. Sensing more than truly seeing the fist-sized stone hurtling at his head, Medrash raised his shield. The missile hit it with a crack, hard enough to jolt and sting his arm.

  He hastily lowered his shield again so he could see. The lance still didn’t hit the spot he was aiming at, but at least it punched into his huge foe’s shoulder. In so doing, it nearly heaved Medrash out of the saddle. But he was bracing himself in the posture Khouryn had taught him, and that, combined with the high cantle of his newly altered saddle, held him in place.

  The lance tore free in a shower of blood. The giant staggered, and Medrash plunged onward. At that moment, it would have been impossible for a human knight to make a follow-up attack. He was too close to his foe for a jab with the lance and had no time to drop it and ready a shorter weapon.

  But Medrash had a weapon he didn’t need to ready, and so he used the tactic Khouryn had recommended for when a lance thrust failed to neutralize its target. He sucked in a deep breath, then spat bright, crackling lightning at the giant’s head.

  His horse carried him by before he could see how much damage he’d done. As soon as he could arrest the animal’s forward momentum, he wheeled it around. Carnage spun past his eyes.

  A giant with jagged black streaks of war paint supported himself on one hand and both knees. There was a broken lance stuck all the way into his belly and several inches out his back. Despite his size, his screams were shrill.

  Another hulking barbarian swatted a lance out of line, then plucked the lancer out of the saddle. He gripped the dragonborn’s shoulder with one massive hand, seized his head with the other, and wrenched it off. Blood sprayed from the stump.

  A horse repeatedly reared and hammered its front hooves down on a fallen giant, who writhed beneath the punishment but seemed capable of nothing more. The dragonborn on the animal’s back had lost his lance and uselessly brandished a war hammer. He wasn’t sufficiently adept at mounted combat to lean out of the saddle and land a blow. Fortunately, it didn’t look like the horse needed the help.

  Another lancer missed. As he passed by his foe, the giant lunged after him, stone club raised for a blow that would at the very least dash him from the saddle. But another dragonborn rode at the barbarian’s back and speared him between the shoulders. Like Medrash, the rider had plainly finished his initial pass and turned his mount, because the animal wasn’t moving very fast. Still, the stab staggered the giant, and his intended victim galloped beyond his reach.

  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. Ha
uling 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 the hut. The giant’s legs were too long, and a horse couldn’t negotiate the corners quickly enough.

  Medrash reached out and seized all the divine Power he could hold. He sent it surging down his sword arm into his blade, then cut down at the barrier in front of him. For an instant he seemed to glimpse a much larger sword, forged of light and too big for even an ash giant to wield, surrounding his own weapon and making the identical attack.

  When his blade sheared into the wattle, the hut flew apart in a flash of light, one half of it tumbling and crashing to the right and the other to the left. Suddenly deprived of his cover, Shangbok gaped in surprise.

  For his part, Medrash felt a kind of hollow ache inside. It meant that for the time being he’d exhausted the ability to channel the might of Torm and henceforth would have to engage Shangbok using only mundane tactics. Well, so be it. He urged his horse forward over the rush-covered earthen floor the destruction of the hut had left behind.

  Shangbok retreated and resumed chanting. Medrash had hoped that, startled, the adept had hesitated long enough to lose the cadence of his incantation. But manifestly not, because the giant thrust out his big gray hand, and embers blasted from his fingertips.

  Medrash lowered his head and squinched his eyes shut. He couldn’t do anything to protect his poor horse, but the animal endured the blistering barrage and kept surging forward.

  Shangbok reached for the axe hanging at his hip but failed to unlimber it in time to contend with Medrash’s first attack. The dragonborn slashed the shaman’s neck and rode on by.

  When Medrash wheeled his mount around, Shangbok was on his knees. He was clutching his neck, but blood still spurted between his fingers. He groped in his sack and brought out the green egg. His mouth moved, and shadow squirmed inside the crystal.

  No, thought Medrash. We’ve seen enough of your lizard friends. He rode at the giant and drove his point into the shaman’s chest.

  Shangbok collapsed, and the egg rolled from his hand. Then, all at once, it shattered into glittering dust. Medrash realized the giant hadn’t been trying to create more minions after all. He’d used the last of his strength to destroy the talisman.

  Off to the right, people started to cheer. Medrash looked around and saw that he and his comrades had eradicated their foes.

  He tried to share in the other riders’ jubilation. It seemed reasonable that he should, for after all they’d won a victory. In so doing, they’d validated Khouryn’s training and proved that a warrior didn’t have to be a wyrm-lover to stand a chance against the giants.

  But his instincts told him the egg had been important. What might they have learned from it if they’d captured it intact?

  THREE

  28 MIRTUL—3 KYTHORN

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  Wings beating, Eider climbed into the cool night air, attaining the altitude necessary to protect her from bowshots from the ground. She couldn’t find an updraft to carry her, and gave a querulous little rasp at the effort involved.

  “Lazy beast,” Gaedynn said. “Do as you’re told, or it’s off to the knackers with you.” He gave the griffon an affectionate, rustling scratch amid the feathers on her neck.

  When he judged they were high enough, he flew her over the city walls and the enemy camp beyond.
The Threskelans’ yellow fires flickered, just barely revealing the nearest soldiers and tents. No one called the alarm as Gaedynn soared overhead, and he inwardly conceded that Eider might have had a point. Maybe it hadn’t been necessary to rise so high. Maybe the night was shield enough. But also maybe not. Kobolds, orcs, and some of the other beings in the Great Bone Wyrm’s employ saw pretty well in the dark.

  Gaedynn flew some distance beyond the force encircling Soolabax, then set down behind a stand of oaks. If he’d been in command of Alasklerbanbastos’s army, he would have stationed a picket or two among the trees. But he hadn’t spotted any when he’d flown over in the daylight.

  He scrutinized the shadows under the branches and decided no one was there now either. Something made a tiny rustling sound in the underbrush, but his hunter’s instincts told him it was a small animal, a vole or stoat perhaps, not a threat.

  He unbuckled his safety straps, swung himself out of the saddle, and led Eider into the cover the coppice afforded. “Wait for me here,” he said. “Keep out of sight.”

  Eider grunted. No wizard had altered her in the womb, and she didn’t possess a quasi-human intelligence like Jet. Still, Gaedynn was confident she understood.

  He patted her head, then headed for the far side of the oaks. By the time he reached it, he was crouching low and creeping.

  He was reasonably sure the enemy force was directing most of its vigilance inward, toward the town that was their objective. But they surely had at least a few sentries looking out at the countryside too. So he all but crawled across the open ground between the coppice and the tents and fires on the near side of the half-erected earthworks and half-assembled siege towers and trebuchets. He paused often to study the ground ahead.

  He supposed a charm of invisibility could have made the little excursion easier. But relying on such an enchantment could also mean disaster. There were wards that could strip away invisibility. Bareris Anskuld had run into one at the Dread Ring in Lapendrar. And since Gaedynn was no spellcaster, he doubted his ability to detect and avoid them. Better then to rely on the woodcraft he’d learned during his captivity in the Yuirwood.