Zihark turns just in time to see Micaiah's "dog" flying through the air, ripping into the neck of some poor soldier, felling him on the spot. Suddenly the swordmaster spots an incoming sage and an open tome. Volug is flanked by soldiers on every side. He can't get away in time. Zihark charges in without thinking, shouting to Volug as he draws his blade.
Five seconds. That's all it takes to make steel meet flesh and bone, and the sage goes down in an impromptu blossom of red as the final canto passes his lips. A flame-like glow recedes from the fallen body, and for a second, Zihark thinks that he's made it in time. Until a spark shrieks overhead and he feels the heat of explosion against his back. Frantically he searches for Volug's silhouette amid the smoke and debris.
And then a fur-lined back raises itself above the din. Zihark lets out something between a groan and a sigh. He dodged it. "Lucky ass dog," he mutters, relaxing a gloved fist to get the blood moving again. Too damn close. Volug stands on all fours over a finished pile of three or four soldiers, and for a moment, their eyes meet.
Thank you, the swordmaster hears suddenly. In his mind? Or… But before he can process the fact that he heard something—a phrase, a string of syllables at once achingly familiar and not in Common Speech—enemy reinforcements are bearing down on them both, and his vision drowns again in a flurry of red and black.