Two dragonborn stepped forth from the crowd to greet the newcomers.

The one on the left was a big warrior with crimson scales, and scars where, at some point in the past, a blade had hacked away some of the frills around his left cheek and ear. Three silver chains dangled from the studs pierced into his lower jaw like a sparse, clinking excuse for a beard. Judging from the expert workmanship of his plate, Khouryn thought it likely that one of his own people’s armorers had made it. The deep blue surcoat bore the platinum-colored head of a dragon.

The one on the right was a female. Her brown hide was freckled with gold, with a pale, puckered spot on the left side of her brow ridge to show where she’d once carried her piercing. She wore a dark purple robe embroidered with silvery sigils and held the shadow-wood staff of a spellcaster. Unlike most dragonborn of either gender, who generally gave the impression of massive solidity, she swayed lithely, ever so slightly, as she swiveled her head to study the riders one at a time.

“Well met,” said Medrash, and whatever his true feelings, his tone was respectful. “Clan Daardendrien and Sir Khouryn Skulldark, our trusted ally, request assistance.”

“You’ll have it,” the warrior replied. “I’m Shestendeliath Patrin. I’m in command here. This is Yrjixtilex Nala, my lieutenant.”

“It’s just Nala now,” the wizard said.

“The day will come,” Patrin said, “when your clan will be proud to take you back.”

“I pray you’re right,” said Nala, “but either way it’s the last thing these people care about. Climb down from your horses, friends. By the looks of you, you need water, food, and rest. Perhaps the aid of a healer as well.”

“Thank you.” Khouryn clambered down off his steed.

“I understand supplies are hard to come by in this wasteland,” Medrash said. “But if you can do anything for our horses, that will place us even deeper in your debt.”

“Of course,” Patrin said. “We’re mostly a company of foot soldiers, but we have a few horses and feed for them in the supply carts. We can spare a little.”

As it turned out, breakfast wasn’t ham. It was lukewarm gruel, biscuits that needed the mold trimmed off the edges, and strips of jerky. But it was filling, and even Balasar appeared content with it.

Nala and Patrin sat at the dying fire along with Khouryn and the Daardendriens. At first the pair kept quiet and let the newcomers eat in peace. But as they were finishing up, the warrior in the blue surcoat said, “I know there must have been more than six of you when you rode onto Black Ash Plain. I’m sorry if it’s a painful subject, but what happened to the rest?”

Where Medrash was concerned, “painful” was surely an understatement. But he also no doubt recognized that a fellow defender of Tymanther, even a member of the Platinum Cadre, both needed and had a right to the information. He told the story of the fall of the bat, and of all that followed, in a calm, clear manner.

“So you see,” he concluded, “the ash giants have learned new tricks. They’re even more dangerous than they were before. And I hope you won’t take it badly if I repay your hospitality by presuming to give you some advice.”

Nala smiled. Even sitting cross-legged in the dirt, the skirt of her robe puddled around her, she still had the trick of swaying almost imperceptibly from side to side. “You don’t need to,” she told Medrash. “We can guess what you’re going to say. If a company of Daardendrien’s finest couldn’t defeat the giants, then plainly we perverse, crazy outcasts have no hope of doing so.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Medrash replied. “I don’t share your beliefs and never could, but I wouldn’t answer kindness with an insult. What I will say is that most of your troops are nowhere near as well armed as Sir Patrin. Some don’t appear in the best of health. I’ll hazard a guess that those same fellows haven’t spent much time in the training yard in recent years, nor has your company had much opportunity to drill together as a unit. So perhaps you’re not ready to march deep into enemy territory. Maybe you could better serve Tymanther by garrisoning a post along the border.”

Patrin rose. “I regret dragging you to your feet again so soon, but I want to show you something.”

They all tramped over to one of the carts the cadre officer had mentioned. He picked up a sack that smelled of rot. The stink grew stronger when he dumped the contents out.

Those contents were severed ears, too big for a dwarf or human head, and the gray was their natural color. It was the brown and purple spots that betrayed decay.

“I know taking this sort of trophy is a little barbaric,” Patrin said. “But after the war is over, we need to be able to prove what we accomplished.”

“And then the doubters will see the truth and value of our path,” Nala said.

Medrash shook his head. “How did you accomplish this?”

“I just told you,” the wizard said, her upper body weaving a fraction of an inch from side to side. Khouryn wondered if the rhythmic motion was a symptom of some malady or just a nervous tic. “With Bahamut’s aid. By embracing the dragon nature inside us.”

“If you say so,” said Balasar, “but I think my clan brother was asking about tactics.”

Patrin shrugged. “Well, as to that, I doubt they’re different from what anyone else would use. But if you’d like to see us in action, I’m glad, because I have a proposition for you.”

“What’s that?” Medrash asked.

“You came to the Plain to fight and so did we. So join us.”

Medrash hesitated. “None of us wishes to accept your faith.”

Patrin smiled. “Well, I certainly don’t expect you to. I recognize the device on your shield, just as I know that when a paladin pledges himself to a god, the commitment lasts forever.”

Plainly even more perplexed than before, Medrash narrowed his eyes. “How do you know I’m a paladin?”

“Because like speaks to like. You might feel it too if not for your… preconceptions. But here’s the point. We won’t press you or any of these others to embrace our beliefs. If they come to Bahamut, let it be in their own time and for their own reasons. I want you because Clan Daardendrien has a reputation for valor, and so do the dwarves of East Rift. And because you have horses. They’re in sad shape now, but it’s nothing feed, rest, and a little magic won’t cure-and I need outriders.”

“We intended to head east,” said Balasar, “to report our experiences to the Lance Defenders.”

“Perfect,” Nala said. “That’s the way we’re headed. Now that we’ve tested ourselves in a couple of battles, we’re going where the giants are thickest.”

“I’d like to discuss this with my comrades,” Medrash said. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

A scowl flickered across Nala’s face, but Patrin said, “By all means.”

Medrash led his clan brothers and Khouryn several paces away from the Bahamut worshipers and the cart. “What do you all think?” he asked.

“I’ll do whatever you and Sir Balasar want,” said an umber-scaled Daardendrien warrior. “But can it be honorable to fight alongside dragon-lovers?”

“It might be more honorable than slinking home with nothing but defeat to report,” Balasar said. “Lunatics or not, this war band is winning its battles.”

“And if we ride with them,” Khouryn said, “we’ll share in any future victories. And even if they don’t locate any more of the enemy, it’s safer than traveling this wasteland alone.”

“I’ve always looked down on the Platinum Cadre,” Medrash said, “and now I feel ashamed. These warriors have done us nothing but good. Maybe saved our lives. Perhaps they aren’t mad or depraved but simply misguided.”

Balasar grinned. “So we accept Patrin’s offer.”

“If everyone agrees.”

Khouryn looked around the circle and saw that everyone did.