“Is he alive?” Balasar whispered.

Medrash whispered a prayer. For a moment, power warmed the air. “Yes. I feel his thoughts. But I think he’s badly injured.”

“Where’s the tail-waggling son of a toad that shot him?”

“That I can’t tell.”

“Even a giant could hide behind one of those spires,” Khouryn said. “But that’s just a guess. The enemy could be anywhere, and there may be more than just a lone archer.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Medrash said. “I have to get down there if the Lance Defender is to have any chance of living.” He stood up straight and headed down the hillside.

“What about my chances of living?” said Balasar to his clan brother’s back. But he followed without hesitation. So did Khouryn and everyone else.

Peering one way and another, weapons at the ready, they prowled halfway down the slope. Then the column of ash to their right shuddered. Grit broke off and showered down the sides. Then it slid forward.

“We’ve got an adept!” Medrash shouted. He meant a giant shaman capable of magically pushing the spires around to serve as ponderous but powerful weapons.

Though few dragonborn possessed a knack for spellcasting, the Daardendriens had brought along one of the exceptions, an old fellow with a scarred snout and bronze scales who wore six wands sheathed on his belt like a collection of daggers. He drew one carved of alexandrite, greenish in the light here, pointed and spiral-cut to resemble a unicorn’s horn. He stabbed it at the advancing column and snarled words of power.

The spire kept coming. As Khouryn tried to predict its course and poised himself to dodge as need be, he thought, I’ll bet Jhesrhi could stop it.

At which point it did stop, and he decided he hadn’t given the dragonborn sorcerer enough credit. Then the pillar shredded apart, the demolition proceeding from top to bottom as quickly as a sword stroke.

It filled the air with much more ash than before. Khouryn felt like he was choking on the stuff, and his smarting eyes were so filled with tears that he could barely see.

Balasar coughed. “The giants have learned a new trick.”

It hurt, but Khouryn forced himself to take a deep breath anyway. So he could shout. “They’re coming! Be ready!”

A dragonborn started to curse, and then the obscenity warped into a scream. If not for the warning, Khouryn might never have noticed another spire gliding in on his left.

Fortunately, it wasn’t too hard to dodge if you did see it coming and had somewhere to go. But he winced to imagine such a weapon plowing and crushing its way through a close formation of infantry.

He jabbed it with his spear as it shuddered past. He didn’t really expect the attack to accomplish anything, and as far as he could tell it didn’t. The pillar didn’t fall over or anything like that.

The dragonborn wizard began another incantation. Peering through the murk of floating ash, Khouryn saw that the magus had swapped out the alexandrite wand for one made of rose red phenalope. He jabbed it insistently at the ground as he recited, in a manner that reminded Khouryn of someone ordering a dog off a piece of furniture.

The spire crumbled. That had the unfortunate consequence of setting even more ash adrift in the air, but the wizard wasn’t done. He recited a final rhyming couplet, and all the gray-black flakes and particles fell to the ground like they’d become as heavy as lead.

The sorcerer smiled a fierce reptilian smile of satisfaction. Then an arrow as big as the one that had felled the bat punched into the center of his chest. He collapsed, the red wand tumbling from his hand.

Khouryn spun around and saw his first ash giants.

Technically speaking. About twice as tall as the dragonborn, with gray, hairless flesh, cadaverous faces, and deep-set black eyes, they appeared to be an offshoot of the race known as stone giants in other parts of Faerun. It was hard to credit that so many big creatures-six at least-had hidden themselves so well and sneaked so near before being detected. But their natural coloration no doubt helped, and they’d smeared their bodies with ash to camouflage themselves even better. And the limited visibility aided them too.

Balasar half roared, half hissed a battle cry and rushed the nearest. Sword glowing, encircled by floating phosphorescent runes, Medrash charged just a stride behind him. Their clan brothers spread out to flank other foes.

Khouryn doubted that either the adept or the archer had advanced to fight hand-to-hand, so he held back and tried to spot them. He located the bowman first, peeking out from behind a boulder and, by the looks of him, waiting for a clear shot at Medrash.

Khouryn charged. A giant sweeping a greatclub back and forth drove three dragonborn into his path, and he veered around them.

The archer didn’t notice him coming until he’d nearly closed the distance. But then the hulking creature turned, drew his arrow back to his shoulder, and let it fly.

Khouryn covered up with his shield. It was well made and enchanted as well, and even an oversized arrow streaking from an enormously powerful bow failed to penetrate it. But the impact jolted it back against his body.

He couldn’t let the shock make him falter. The giant was already reaching for another of the arrows stuck in the ground. Khouryn hefted his spear and threw it.

It wasn’t meant to be used that way. It was too long and heavy. But he was strong even for a dwarf, and he’d practiced when none of his men were around to watch and decide that if an officer thought casting one’s spear away was a sensible tactic, they should consider using it too.

The giant tried to dodge, but the spear still pierced his thigh. Blood flowed, looking redder than red on his gray skin in that gray place.

The archer yanked the weapon out. That made the wound bleed more copiously, but it would keep him from tripping over the spear as he moved around. Meanwhile, Khouryn dropped his shield, pulled the urgrosh from his back, and pounded on.

The ash giant resumed reaching for an arrow. Then he registered just how close Khouryn had gotten and snatched up the greatclub leaning against the boulder instead.

The club was a length of wood as tall as a man, with sharp chunks of flint jutting from the top. The giant swung it in a low arc. Khouryn hopped backward, and the end of the weapon whizzed by a finger length in front of him.

It was time to rush in close, where the larger combatant’s reach became a handicap and the smaller one found it easier to strike. But unfortunately, the archer seemed to understand that as well as Khouryn did, and the wound in his leg wasn’t doing much to impair his mobility. He retreated, and that gave him the time and room to shift the greatclub back into a threatening position. Khouryn had to stop short to keep from running onto the jagged flint sticking out of the top.

The giant advanced and attacked with short, vicious strikes that kept the club between Khouryn and himself. As Khouryn gave ground, he waited for the archer to overcommit, to open his guard or throw himself off balance. It didn’t happen.

To the Abyss with it, then. Khouryn stopped retreating and so invited an attack. The greatclub whipped at his head. He ducked beneath the blow, jumped back up, pivoted, and chopped at the weapon at the end of its stroke, in that precious instant before the giant could put it in motion again.

The axe blade cut the rock-studded crown off the club. It also broke the giant’s grip on what remained, and he fumbled to regain a firm hold on it.

Now! Khouryn charged up to the giant’s legs and cut repeatedly. Blood gushed, and the archer fell forward.

He wasn’t done, though. He tried to heave himself around, presumably to jab at his foe with the stub of his broken weapon or simply seize him in his enormous gray hands.