The suggestion that Torm willingly associated with any sort of dragon deity struck Medrash as blasphemous, but he did his best to hide his distaste. “I look forward to fighting alongside you as well.”

“Then let’s go kill some giants.”

As the warriors of the company fell into a loose formation, Balasar said, “It’s a funny thing. I wouldn’t think a bit less of myself if I stayed behind.”

“Yet here you are,” Medrash answered. Patrin flourished his sword, and everyone started forward.

“Here we all are,” Khouryn said, his urgrosh in one hand and a crossbow in the other. “Me, because I want to see how this ragtag band accomplishes what a better company couldn’t.”

“Let’s hope the answer isn’t pure luck,” Balasar said. “Or if it is, let’s hope this isn’t the day the luck runs dry.”

When they reached the top of a rise, they saw the giants awaiting them. Several ash spires towered in the enemy’s vicinity, three with horizontal branches interconnecting them, two others sliding sluggishly. Medrash couldn’t actually tell if the enemy had a shaman capable of pushing the landforms around, but he assumed so.

The dragonborn jogged forward. Khouryn broke stride for a moment to discharge his crossbow. Other warriors loosed their bows.

Medrash just had time to see some of the shafts hit their marks. Then one of the giants-clearly the adept he’d been trying to spot-swung a long stone rod in a circle over his head and growled a word of power. The interconnected spires exploded into ash. The wind howled and blew the grit into the oncoming dragonborn’s faces.

Medrash’s eyes burned, and he coughed. The ground shuddered under his feet, surely a sign that the giants were charging and perhaps that other ash spires were sliding toward the Tymantherans as well.

He raised his sword over his head and chanted a prayer. Off to his left in the streaming murk, visible only by virtue of the white light shining from his blade, Patrin did the same. Nala chanted a spell.

The wind died, and the blinding, choking ash simply vanished from the air. Someone had countered the shaman’s power. Or perhaps they’d all three done it working together.

But unfortunately, the ash storm had lasted long enough to neutralize the advantage afforded by their bows. The giants were closing fast. So were two ash spires, looping in on either flank.

“Swords!” bellowed Patrin. “Charge!” Medrash saw it was the right move. At least once the Tymantherans closed with their foes, the spires couldn’t threaten them anymore. Not without running into the giants as well.

The attackers raced forward. An enormous javelin flew at Medrash. He threw himself flat, it hurtled over his head, and he leaped up again.

His allies were as eager to close as he was, and the momentary break in his advance allowed the foremost to reach the giants ahead of him. As a result, he had a good view when they spat their breath weapons.

Then he nearly faltered in amazement. A dragonborn’s breath attack could be formidable but, in his experience, rarely as devastating as this. The blasts of fire, frost, or what have you hurled the gray giants reeling backward.

About half the dragonborn pressed their foes and spewed a second attack. That was astonishing too. The ability almost never renewed itself so quickly. In that moment, Medrash almost believed the Platinum Cadre had found a way to invoke a “dragon within.”

But only almost, because the notion of such a kinship was obscene. And, combined with the shame attendant on all his previous blunders and defeats, the illusion of it fueled his determination to show every deluded follower of a false creed like Patrin, and every scoffer like Balasar, what the servant of a true god could do.

“Torm!” he bellowed. “Torm!”

A giant ran at him with a sword made of stone held in a middle guard. The edges of the weapon glowed and threw off heat like a bed of red-hot coals.

The ash giant cut. Medrash caught the blow on his shield, and sparks flew. It was a hard impact, but not hard enough to rob him of his balance.

He shifted forward and slashed the giant’s knee. As the huge barbarian pitched off balance, he shifted behind him and cut the same leg again. The giant toppled, and he drove his sword point into the knobbed ridge of his spine.

He glimpsed motion from the corner of his eye and pivoted toward another giant rushing to avenge his comrade. The creature hadn’t quite closed to striking distance, so Medrash used the time to chant a prayer.

White light flared from his sword. The giant cried out and stumbled as a spasm wracked his body. Hoping to strike him before he recovered his balance, Medrash rushed in.

The giant managed to jab the tip of his greatclub at Medrash’s head. Medrash slipped the attack and slashed. His sword bit into his opponent’s flank.

And hurt him badly too, if Medrash was any judge, but he didn’t seem to feel the effects as yet. He twisted, pulling free of the sword in the process, and swung his club straight down at Medrash’s skull.

At another moment, Medrash would have dodged out from underneath. Now, however, instinct prompted him to hold his shield over his head and depend on his god.

Composed of hazy luminescence, the form of an upturned hand in a metal gauntlet flickered into being around the shield. The greatclub hit the combined defense and shattered into three pieces. Medrash scarcely felt the jolt.

The phantom gauntlet vanished, but its power didn’t. That burned down Medrash’s arm and through his body, and he cried out in exhilaration. He felt strong as one of the Brotherhood’s griffons and light as air.

He sprang high enough to make it easy to strike at the startled giant’s neck. His sword sheared through slate-colored flesh. The huge creature toppled backward, blood leaping like a geyser from the gash.

“Torm!” Medrash shouted. He turned, seeking another foe, and spotted the adept. He still had his wand, but now he was holding up an egg-shaped crystal in his offhand. Unlike the gray talisman the other shaman had used, this one was red.

Medrash charged the adept. But before he could close the distance, a drift of ash churned, then exploded. A creature lunged out of the flying grit.

Massive enough that it almost seemed to waddle on its four thick legs, the gigantic lizard had scales of a mottled, dirty red. Its piggy eyes gleamed white, and a pair of horns swept back from the base of its skull. Rows of fangs lined its beaklike jaws, and fire flickered at the back of its mouth. Its body threw off heat like an oven.

It immediately oriented on Medrash, either because the adept wanted it to or simply because he was the nearest foe. It opened its jaws wide and, with a thunderous belching noise, spewed a plume of fire.

Medrash threw himself down, and the flame washed over him. The red lizard charged, and he rolled aside to avoid the champing, fiery jaws and stamping feet.

The firebelcher turned, trying to compensate, and bumped him as he started to rise. The beast was heavy enough that even that slight contact flung him reeling off balance.

Meanwhile, the huge lizard completed its turn and put him in front of its jaws again. It spewed more flame, and a shock ripped through him. For an instant, he couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

“Torm,” he croaked, and a cool surge of vitality restored him. It didn’t heal all his burns and blisters, or quite take away the pain, but it turned it from something that hindered him into a source of righteous fury.

And fortunately, it did so quickly enough for him to dodge when the firebelcher tried to catch him in its fangs. He spun aside, and the triangular teeth clashed shut on empty air. He cut. His blade split scaly hide and grated on the bone beneath. The lizard thing kept coming.

And coming. As the fight progressed, he channeled Torm’s power repeatedly, using it to augment his natural might and to smite the brute with attacks that cut both flesh and spirit, until he simply couldn’t draw down any more. Still, the creature wouldn’t stop-and soon, heart pounding, breath rasping in his throat, he felt his physical might flagging as certainly as his mystical talents had.