Medrash reached out to Torm. The god’s Power was as boundless as ever, but he’d virtually exhausted his capacity to channel it. He had to focus intently and strain to draw down even a trickle.

When he had it, he touched Tarhun’s face where his helm didn’t cover, resting his fingertips among the square golden studs. The point of contact glowed as the Power passed from his body into the vanquisher’s. Without waking, Tarhun let out a sigh.

Medrash started to rise. “Wait,” Balasar said, pitching his voice low enough that no one any farther away could have heard it over the crashing, howling din of battle. “Pretend you’re still working on him.”

Considering that they were supposed to have had a falling-out, Medrash had wondered why Balasar requested his help in particular. Now he realized that his clan brother had manufactured an opportunity to confer with him. “What’s going on?” he murmured back.

“I don’t know if you can tell it from here,” Balasar said, “but I could, from the spot where the red thing tossed me. This fight could go either way, and we still have troops we haven’t committed.”

“Because Tarhun never had the chance to order them in.”

“Partly, I suppose. But also because some of them are the other mounted squadrons Khouryn trained. They’re scared to go in. But they don’t have to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m pretty sure Nala used countermagic to interfere with the charms that made your horses brave and biddable. And that when the Cadre charged into battle, she stashed the talisman she used in here.”

Balasar pivoted his shield outward like a door swinging on its hinges, revealing the beaded pigskin bag clutched in his offhand. Because he currently had his back to Patrin and Nala, neither of them would be able to see.

Medrash recognized the bag from his time traveling with the wyrm-worshipers on Black Ash Plain. Nala had worn it on her belt and used it to hold items employed in her spellcasting.

“I’m no cutpurse,” Balasar said, “but she was spent and not especially observant when I was hanging on her. With luck, she’ll think she dropped it when she was running around fighting.”

“You say you’re pretty sure.”

“Have you ever known me to guess wrong when it truly counted?”

“Yes. But stay with Tarhun.” Medrash rose to fetch some of his followers.

They fashioned a litter from lances and surcoats, then-keeping as far away from potential threats as possible-carried Tarhun from the field. Once they’d entrusted him to the healers, Balasar hurried back toward the heart of the battle. Medrash strode in the direction of the nearest company of horsemen.

By the time he reached them, they were dismounting, preparing to advance and fight on foot in the traditional dragonborn manner. “Wait!” he cried.

Prexijandilin Jhiri turned around. Crimson-eyed with umber hide, she had enameled primroses pierced into her cheeks and the tips of the long, ropy scales that made up her crest. Medrash had always considered the flower an incongruous emblem for such a warlike clan.

Jhiri looked momentarily surprised to see him away from his command, or maybe just to see him still alive. Then she said, “I know there haven’t been any orders, but I don’t care. We’re needed, and we’re going.”

“Good,” he replied. “But go on horseback, not on foot.”

She shook her head. “We saw what happened to you.”

“There was a reason for that.” But as much as he wanted to share the details, it would be unwise to accuse Nala without proof. “A counterspell weakened the enchantment that makes the horses obey. But someone took care of it.”

Jhiri eyed him dubiously. “Or maybe our charms just don’t work as well as we hoped.”

“Curse it, you and your followers have already fought giants from horseback. Successfully.”

“When we skirmished with a raiding party. Maybe the mounts can handle that, but not a clash of armies.”

He wished he could cloak himself in a bit of Torm’s majesty to make his arguments more compelling. But for the moment that was impossible. All he had were his own wits and powers of persuasion.

Glad that it was easier to see what was happening from the fringes, he pointed at the battle raging in front of them. “Look there. See how the giants’ flank is exposed. Imagine how badly we could hurt them if we circled around and charged.”

Jhiri frowned, pondering, then shook her head. “No, I won’t risk it.”

“Then I will.” Medrash turned and swung himself up onto a dismounted rider’s roan gelding. The warrior gaped at him in surprise. “Since you’re not planning to use it, or this either.” He pulled the lance from the fellow’s hand.

“What are you doing?” Jhiri asked.

“I hope that you at least aren’t averse to using the horses to get close to the enemy. So here’s the plan: I’ll ride ahead of the rest of you. When we get close, I’ll charge. If my horse does what he should, and yours don’t show any signs of balking, you charge after me. Otherwise, abandon your mounts and engage the enemy on foot.”

“Khouryn said that charging together is-”

“The moving wall. I remember. But it’s my risk, not yours. So, are you game?”

Jhiri shrugged. “When you put it that way, why not?” She turned and shouted, “Mount up!”

As the riders maneuvered, some of the hunched brown creatures assailed them with blasts of sand. Medrash actually welcomed the harassment, because the horses bore it without panicking. He hoped it had a beneficial effect on the confidence of the warriors riding behind him. In truth, he himself was glad to see a bit of evidence that Balasar’s hunch was correct.

Although the real test was yet to come. He turned the roan toward the massed giants. Patting the animal’s neck, he said, “Do this, and I’ll bring you apples for the rest of your days.” Then he urged the steed into motion.

The roan moved forward, picking up speed until he was galloping, never wavering. The giants were busy watching or fighting other foes, and the horse covered a surprising amount of distance before anyone noticed him. Then one of the barbarians pivoted and hurled a big flint hatchet.

Medrash raised his shield, angled in such a way that the weapon ought to glance off. As it did, although the impact still jolted him back in the saddle.

Despite the bang, the horse still didn’t balk. Medrash couched his lance.

The giant who’d thrown the hatchet tried to dodge. Medrash compensated by nudging the roan with his knee. The lance punched into the middle of the barbarian’s chest, and his long gray legs with their knobby knees folded beneath him.

Medrash tried to jerk the lance free, but it was buried too deep, and that and his own momentum tore the shaft from his grip. As he hurtled onward, a lone rider with foes towering on every side, he snatched his sword from its scabbard.

A spear jabbed at the horse’s flank, and he had to lean sideways to catch the thrust on his shield. As he heaved himself upright again, a sort of flail-rocks in a leather mesh bag-whirled at him. Somehow he shifted the battered heater quickly enough to catch that blow as well.

He slashed at the spine of a giant that still had its back to him. Unfortunately, that was the last one slow to react to his intrusion. Others moved in from every side. He wheeled his mount, looking for a way through. He couldn’t find one.

Then, hooves pounding, lances making cracking sounds when they snapped, Jhiri’s charge smashed into the giants. It really was like a racing wall with long spikes sticking out, and for an instant as it hurtled forward, Medrash felt a pang of fear that it would sweep him away along with the hulking foes surrounding him. It didn’t, though. By dint of Khouryn’s training or simple luck, the nearest riders galloped past without spearing or running into him.

When he looked at the slaughter they left in their wake, he suddenly felt certain that even without the vanquisher to lead them, the dragonborn were going to carry the day.