Through their psychic bond, Aoth could feel the deadly chill that emanated from Uramar’s body assailing Jet. And the griffon must have likewise sensed his concern.

I’m not some dainty human, Jet snarled. I can take a little cold.

You can’t take even a scratch from a life-stealing blade, Aoth replied. Just drop him. If the fall doesn’t kill him, I’ll blast him.

I’m gripping him so he can’t use the sword. I want to pull him apart and pop his stitches.

Aoth opened his mind to Jet’s perceptions so completely that it was like the griffon’s body was his own. And then he realized Jet was right. The familiar was able to withstand the chill, and with both arms grinding together in one set of talons, Uramar truly was helpless.

All right, Aoth agreed, kill him. But when he shifted back to his own body’s senses, Aoth regretted saying it.

Because twisting atop the thick, scaly coils of his lower body, Lod was tracking Jet’s course through the air. Lod’s fleshless jaw worked, and his naked phalanges crooked, forming a series of conjuring signs.

Aoth couldn’t tell what spell the leader of the Eminence of Araunt was casting, but he expected he and Jet needed to dodge it and the griffon would require every iota of his speed and agility to do so. Unfortunately, intent on the struggling foe in his claws, Jet hadn’t even noticed the threat.

Drop him! Aoth ordered. And see what I’m seeing!

Jet did both things at once; Aoth’s sense of communion pulsed stronger as, for an instant, his steed looked through his eyes. Then Jet swung himself through a tight evasive maneuver that, in the absence of a saddle and safety straps, nearly tossed his rider off his back.

Magic banged through the air so loudly, it was as if the world itself were shattering, and Aoth’s ears throbbed. Still, Jet had avoided the actual stream of focused, murderous sound. The attack struck one of the weirs and rattled it, snapping loose a number of the spreading limbs. One just missed Aoth and Jet as it plummeted to the ground.

Still turning, the griffon sought to get behind the bone naga. Aoth extended his spear, spoke a word of command, and released one of the spells stored in the weapon. A ray of sunlight leaped from the point.

Unfortunately, the top of his dragonlike tail twisting to rotate the human-skeleton apex of his body, Lod refused to allow his opponents to strike him from behind, and at the same instant the light stabbed forth, he clenched his bony fist. The unnatural gloom thickened around the beam and all but smothered it. The dim remnant that splashed across the naga’s ribs made them shiver and smoke but nothing more.

All right, Aoth thought, the undead naga had evidently warded himself against daylight, and he’d promised not to hurl fire. But maybe a thunderbolt would do the trick. He rattled off buzzing, crackling words and used his spear point to scratch a glowing zigzag on the air.

Striding between two of the several lumpish, faceless men of dirt and stone that the earth had spawned for her further protection, Jhesrhi spotted Nyevarra among the mass of undead and dark fey. A fair-minded universe would at least have kept the vampire durthan busy tending the darkness that increasingly eroded the resolve and vitality of mortal men and bright fey alike. But evidently Nyevarra had finished altering the curse she’d laid on the forest and was thus free to rejoin the battle.

Specifically, raising the Stag King’s stolen weapon high, she appeared to be casting maledictions in Cera’s direction, and the peril to her friend made the urge to hurl fire roar through Jhesrhi’s mind and sent heat surging through her veins.

But instead of succumbing to the impulse, she spoke once more to the earth, the other element to which she was currently most attuned. Brown hands erupted from the snow under Nyevarra’s feet, gripped her calves, and jerked her downward.

The surprise attack disrupted the durthan’s casting, and as the earth spirit sought to drag her under, Jhesrhi urged her motley squad of warriors forward. Perhaps they could reach Nyevarra before she struggled free.

Alas, no. Too many undead and dark fey were in the way, and Nyevarra retained the presence of mind to exploit her vampiric abilities. She dissolved into mist, flowed upward, and took on human form again above the earth elemental’s reach.

Her whipping hair and robes revealed that a wind was holding her aloft. Other such entities screamed at Jhesrhi and her companions, battering and chilling them and slinging snow in their eyes. Men cried out and stumbled backward.

For a moment, the only thought Jhesrhi was able to think was that fire countered cold. Then she thrust the notion away and conjured a floating luminous shield to deflect the brunt of the blast.

Next, she sought to grow the arms and clutching hands she’d already drawn from the soil into a complete manlike figure like the ones she’d summoned previously. But Nyevarra conjured a whirlwind that ripped the new creature apart, half-formed.

Air wasn’t intrinsically stronger than earth, and Nyevarra wasn’t inherently a more powerful mage than Jhesrhi. In fact, in their previous combat, Jhesrhi had decided she was the stronger. But apparently not when malignant darkness was grinding at her and her adversary bore the Stag King’s scepter. Not when she’d forsworn the use of fire.

So burn Nyevarra! Burn Lod! Burn everything! Where was the good if the “soul” of the forest survived but as a corrupted precinct of the Shadowfell and Rashemen fell to the undead?

But if Jhesrhi resorted to that tactic, it would be like surrendering. Like admitting that all of Aoth’s training and all her hard-won sellsword experience had been for naught because there was nothing left of her but the raw strength and mindless greed of fire. And she recoiled from that possibility in disgust.

Because the soil-and-stone warriors she’d evoked previously were making little headway against the localized gale and were too short of stature to reach Nyevarra anyway, Jhesrhi bade them crack and crumble, and then commanded the resulting debris to throw itself at the vampire. None of the missiles reached its target. Living earth and rock forfeited a portion of their strength as soon as they lost contact with the ground, and the durthan’s allied winds tumbled each attack off course.

But as the futile barrage ran its course, Jhesrhi whispered a spell.

A final stone veered in flight and thumped down in the snow. The vampire in her mask of blackened silver swung the Stag King’s staff, and as the weapon swept through its arc, shadowy disembodied racks of antlers burst from it and hurtled at Jhesrhi.

She dodged and rattled off a counterspell at the same time. The antlers shredded away to nothing. But by the time they did, Nyevarra, still riding the wind, was plunging down at her. No doubt to uncover her mouth, she’d removed her mask, and her snarl revealed extended fangs. The blood thirst was on her.

But even the frenzied urge to slake it didn’t keep her from faltering in shock when something tore the antler-axe from her hands.

Nyevarra had summoned several winds to attend her, but that hadn’t prevented Jhesrhi from calling one of her own. It had simply kept the durthan from sensing the newcomer when several other such invisible presences were already moaning and gusting around.

As instructed, Jhesrhi’s ally had hovered and waited for an opportune moment to snatch the talisman. Now it was sweeping the staff away over the heads of the combatants on the ground, taking it where she hoped it would do the most good.

Jhesrhi spoke a word of power and lunged to meet the descending Nyevarra in the moment of her consternation. Charged with force, the head of her staff stabbed into the vampire’s chest like a stake. Jhesrhi recited a rhyme to send a bit of her own vitality streaming down her weapon and poison the impaled creature with the essence of natural life.