"Mistress…" Menelachos began, astonished.

"I cannot explain," the Forestmaster interrupted. "It is Chislev's will. I can only tell you that in this war, darkness must triumph."

The centaurs were silent. The trees creaked mournfully in the wind.

"Then I have no choice, Forestmaster," Chrethon declared. "I forsake thee."

The unicorn drew back, her hooves scraping the stone. "What did you say?"

"I forsake thee!" Chrethon bellowed, his voice ringing across the glade. "If thou wilt not fight the evil, I shall do it alone—and to the Abyss with thee."

Dezra's Quest

( Dragonlance - Bridges of Time, Book 5 )

Chris Pierson

For Ann Unger and Peter Mehren,
my teachers and friends.

Chapter One

They gathered at twilight, beneath the plum-hued sky. The glade, in the heart of Darken Wood, glowed with the sun's ruddy light. The trees cast clutching shadows. The breeze tousled the ferns, its murmur echoing the summer insects' drone.

The glade lay in a hollow among the hills, surrounded by moss-bearded oaks. Velvety grass carpeted the earth, dotted with fragrant wildflowers. An outcropping of pale rock, dappled with lichen, rose high above the hallowed grove. The Circle of Seven congregated before it, their faces grim.

Seven tribes of centaurs lived in Darken Wood. Their chieftains formed the Circle, governing with even-handed wisdom. Four times each year, when the seasons changed, they held moot before the outcropping, which was holy to Chislev, god of wild beasts. The High Chief listened to each tribe's doings, and mediated disputes. Sometimes the Forestmaster—the unicorn who held sway over Darken Wood—would appear: The grove was, after all, her domain.

Today, however, the rhythm of the seasons was broken. The summer solstice was only three weeks past, the equinox months away. From time to time, dire circumstances made such unusual meetings necessary, but it had been decades since it last happened. The chieftains' hearts were filled with worry as they came together.

Old Nemeredes, lord of the Soaring Mane tribe, was first to trot out of the forest. His long, silver mane and hoary, braided beard blew back from his age-lined face. His chestnut hide was frosted with white, but he was still strong as a young stallion. With him came his two eldest sons, Nemeredes the Younger and Gyrtomon. They wore their ash-blond manes tied back, and carried spears draped with ivy. They knelt with their father before the outcropping, then rose and waited in silence.

Next came Pleuron the Fat, once called the Shadow for his utterly black skin, coat and mane. His considerable belly bobbed as he strode toward the outcropping. He, too, had an escort—warriors of his tribe, for his children were not of age. Pleuron, head of the Green Willow tribe, nodded to Nemeredes, then genuflected to the rock and took his place as well.

The rest arrived soon after. Leodippos of the Leaping Hart was youngest, his black beard still downy upon his cheeks. His brown-furred legs fidgeted as he waited. Thymmiar of the Laughing Brook was the most outlandish, his coat a patchwork of black and white. His head was shaved, save for a narrow strip of hair down its midst. The other chiefs spared him troubled looks, not for his appearance but for his demeanor. Normally quick with a grin, Thymmiar was unusually solemn this night.

Eucleia of the Iron Hooves, gray-coated and steel-maned, was a rarity among the horsefolk. Though mares hunted and fought beside stallions, the role of chieftain passed from father to son: a female chief was seldom heard of. She carried herself arrogantly, defying the others to look at her askance. Her strong-jawed face severe, she bowed to the outcropping.

Last of all, his scarred face creased with thought, came Menelachos of the Ebon Lance. Tall and broad, bay-coated and black-maned, he entered the grove without escort. This, and the sapphire-studded, golden tore encircling his neck, marked him as first among the Seven, the High Chief of the horsefolk. The other centaurs bowed to his approach, and he nodded in reply, his bushy beard bristling against his muscular chest. He strode to the outcropping, then knelt and kissed the cool, pale stone. The other five chieftains bowed their heads.

"Blessed Chislev, Mistress of the Wilds," Menelachos murmured. "We look to thee for guidance."

At this, the spear-bearers unfurled the ivy coiled about their weapons and tossed it forward to land at the monolith's foot. Menelachos rose and turned to face the others, eyes glinting in the twilight.

"It is a dire business that brings us here," he declared, his rich voice filling the glade. "I thank thee for coming on such short notice."

The other chiefs glanced at one another, perplexed. "Why are we here?" Eucleia challenged. "Some of us were seeing to important matters when we received the call."

Nemeredes snorted in disapproval, and Eucleia responded with a steely glare, but Menelachos quickly intervened. "I hear thee, Lady of the Iron Hooves. But these are dark times. The followers of Takhisis will not wait for autumn."

The High Chief drew a slow breath. In the silence, even the twittering birds fell still.

"There is a reason only six of us have come," Menelachos said slowly. "The Circle is broken. One of our own has turned against us."

Young Leodippos muttered something under his breath. Menelachos held up a hand. "Do not say his name!" he snapped. "It must not be spoken until he is accused."

The other five chiefs blinked in surprise, forehooves pawing the ground. "He's here?" Pleuron asked, eyebrows rising.

"He is." Menelachos looked across the glade. "He will answer now for what he has done. Rhedogar!"

The shadows at the grove's edge parted. A silver-coated, grizzled warrior—his lance and war harness meant for battle, not ceremony—stepped into the glade. The chiefs and their escorts turned as he strode forward, hooves thudding against the turf. He stopped halfway to the outcropping and bowed. "He awaits, my lord," he declared.

"Bring him forward," Menelachos said.

Rhedogar signaled to the trees, and several more warriors appeared. Two hauled on chains of iron. As they pulled, another figure stumbled out of the dark forest: a huge centaur, pure white save for his dark, gleaming eyes. There was blood on his face and flanks, and angry bruises stood out against his pallid skin. He wore an iron collar around his throat, attached to the warriors' chains. Bowstrings bound his sinewy arms, and he was hobbled as well, his front and rear right legs tied together. He moved unsteadily, but there was defiance to his stride as well. His gaze fixed proudly on Menelachos as the warriors yanked on their chains, jerking him to a halt.

“My lord," he said coldly.

"Chrethon of the Keening Wind," Menelachos replied. He met pride with pride, looking down his hawkish nose. "Dost thou truly consider me thy lord, after what thou hast done?"

The white centaur's eyes narrowed. He shrugged.

Menelachos nodded. "The charges against thee—"

"I know the charges," Chrethon interrupted. He glared at the chieftains. "I'm accused of taking action against evil, rather than hiding like a coward."

Several of the chiefs flushed, and Nemeredes drew a sharp breath to respond, but Menelachos spoke first. "Fair words," he retorted, "and not without some truth. But a grain of truth can grow a crop of lies, as the minstrels say. Answer me this, Lord Chrethon: wert thou in this grove, not a month since, when the Forestmaster appeared and asked us to take no action against the Knights of Takhisis?"

"Aye," Chrethon replied, eyes blazing.

"And," Menelachos continued, "didst thou swear, on thy blood and that of thy tribe, to heed her?"

The white centaur was silent.

"Didst thou swear?"

Chrethon flinched at the High Chief's fury, then nodded with a sneer.

"And finally," Menelachos concluded, "didst thy tribesmen ambush and slaughter two-score of those very Knights, three nights ago?"

"They did, at my command," Chrethon snapped. "I would have them do it again, if it came to that."

"It will now," growled Nemeredes. "The Knights will send more of their kind, to avenge the slain. Thanks to thee, the war shall come into our homes."

"Let it come!" Chrethon shot back. "It would have anyway, soon or late."

On Menelachos's other side, Eucleia and Leodippos nodded. Seeing this, the High Chief shrugged. "Mayhap it would," he declared. "But the Forestmaster doesn't wish us to interfere with the war beyond these woods. Dost thou truly know better than she?"

A heavy silence settled. Chrethon drew himself erect.

"Aye," he said. "I do." He flung out his arms. "Look around, Menelachos! None have seen the Forestmaster since that night! Where is she now, with darkness and war at our forest's edge?"

"She is here."

The centaurs started. Chrethon's eyes widened, rising toward the source of the deep voice. Menelachos and the others turned to follow his gaze, and gasped in wonder.

The unicorn stood atop the sacred outcropping, silhouetted against the dying light. The sun tinted her silvery coat brilliant gold; her ivory horn shone brightly. Such was her beauty that the horsefolk averted their eyes and knelt—all save Chrethon. The white centaur regarded the Forestmaster scornfully.

"Are you truly so sore at me, my child?" the Forestmaster asked, her voice at once stem and kind.

"I will not bow to thee, mistress," Chrethon replied.

The unicorn bobbed her graceful head. "I understand," she said sorrowfully. "You see evil all around, and yearn to fight. But that is precisely what we mustn't do."

"What should we do, then?" Chrethon demanded. "Surrender?"

"If we must."

The other chieftains looked up. Chrethon recoiled as if the Forestmaster had struck him.

"Mistress…" Menelachos began, astonished.

"I cannot explain," the Forestmaster interrupted. "It is Chislev's will. I can only tell you that in this war, darkness must triumph."

The centaurs were silent. The trees creaked mournfully in the wind.

"Then I have no choice, Forestmaster," Chrethon declared. "I forsake thee."

The unicorn drew back, her hooves scraping the stone. "What did you say?"

"I forsake thee!" Chrethon bellowed, his voice ringing across the glade. "If thou wilt not fight the evil, I shall do it alone—and to the Abyss with thee."

The Forestmaster lowered her head. Her horn flashed as she swept her gaze over the other chieftains. "I see doubt in your eyes, also," she told them. "I don't blame you, but I beg for your trust. Will you follow me?"

"I will," said Nemeredes quickly. "Though it pains me, I shall keep the pact. My honor and love for thee demand it, mistress."

The other centaurs murmured as he knelt before the sacred stone. After a moment, Thymmiar and Pleuron followed, then, reluctantly, Leodippos and Eucleia. When the unicorn's gaze turned to the High Chief, only he and Chrethon remained standing.

"And you, Menelachos?" the Forestmaster asked. "Have I your loyalty?"

Wordlessly, he bent down, bowing so deeply that his forehead touched the grassy earth.

The Forestmaster tossed her head, her mane flying. "Chrethon, will you reconsider?"

"No," he answered firmly. "I will not endanger my own people in thy name."

"Very well." The unicorn's voice was a well of sadness. "The Circle of Seven is no more: the Circle of Six shall reign in its place. As for Lord Chrethon—" She hesitated, her gaze drifting back to Menelachos. "Do with him as you will."

Then she was gone, wheeling about and vanishing in a silvery blur. The horsefolk stared at the outcropping, none willing to break the silence. At last, however, Menelachos turned back to Chrethon. "This is a heavy thing thou hast brought upon thyself," he proclaimed sternly. "Never in our history has the Circle been broken. And now, this treason—"

"Don't call it that, Menelachos," Chrethon snapped. "I only want to protect the Wood from those who would harm it."

Menelachos pursed his lips. "That may well be. But treason is treason, no matter how noble the motive. We cannot be blinded by thy good intentions."

Chrethon's eyes flared. His guards tensed, hands twisting about their lances. After a long moment, however, he bowed his head.

"So be it," he murmured. "Do what thou must."

Menelachos nodded slowly. "We must discuss this," he said to the other chieftains, then waved to Chrethon's guards. "Take him hence, so we may confer. When we're ready, we shall call for him."

The guards bowed, then turned and trotted back toward the glade's edge. Chrethon stood still, staring balefully at the sacred stone. If a man's gaze could split rock, the outcropping would have crumbled. Then his chains tautened, and he wheeled quickly as his captors dragged him away.

Chrethon and his guards waited for more than an hour as the Circle discussed his fate. Several of the warriors fell into a game of dice, arguing and laughing between casts. The others stayed close, keeping a tight rein on his chains as he strained to hear what was being said in the holy glade.

"… cannot allow this to happen again!" Nemeredes thundered. "We must send a message that we will not tolerate—"

"What message would that be?" Eucleia shot back. "We weaken ourselves if we're unduly harsh toward Chrethon's followers, not to mention…"

Chrethon strained, but couldn't make out any more. Eucleia's voice had dropped back below his hearing. He glanced around. The dicers were engrossed in their game—the stakes had risen, one player putting up five goats against his opponent's silver arm-bands. What was more, Rhedogar wasn't around: the silver centaur had gone off into the woods, probably to piss. Only three warriors watched him: the two holding his chains, and a young bay who regarded him intently.

Three—the odds were bad, but he had a chance. The bay might be a problem, but Chrethon doubted he'd have a better opportunity to escape.

Resolved, Chrethon took a deep breath and tensed to run. At that moment, however, the bay glanced about, then started striding his way. Chrethon held his breath, not sure what to expect.

"My lord?" ventured the bay in a hushed voice. "Is it true? Thou fought the Knights of Takhisis?"

"Aye," Chrethon replied warily. "What of it?"

"How did it happen?"

Chrethon looked around uncertainly. The guards holding his chains didn't seem to be listening; as for the bay, he looked honestly curious. Chrethon shrugged.

"We attacked them by surprise," he said softly, "while they slept in their camp. Our archers slew their guards—all but one, who raised the alarm before a lancer finished him. But it was too late for them by then. They were fewer than us, and unprepared. We killed them all, every last one. It was glorious."

"And they're going to punish thee for that?"

"Thou heard the Forestmaster," Chrethon declared. "She wants us out of this war."

The bay opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again to speak. The words came out in a rush. "Then I think thou wert right to forsake her."

Chrethon was silent a moment, pondering. "What is thy name, lad?"

"Thenidor, my lord," the bay replied.

Chrethon frowned, thinking quickly. "And dost thou think thy friends might feel the same way?"

"Aye, lord," Thenidor said eagerly. "I'm sure of it."

"Good." Chrethon smiled. "When thou returnest to thy home, then, tell them what I did, and what the Circle did to me for it. Wilt thou do that?"

"Aye, my lord."

"What's this?" demanded a gruff voice. Thenidor started guiltily. Old Rhedogar was striding swiftly toward him. "Get away from the prisoner, lackwit! And quit that accursed game! If Lord Menelachos saw thee, he'd have my head!"

The guards scrambled, the dicers hurriedly scooping up their winnings. Thenidor glanced at Chrethon as he hastened away, and nodded. Yes, the gesture said. I will remember.

The voices in the grove had stilled. Chrethon clenched his fists impotently. For nearly a minute, there was no sound but the creaking of the boughs overhead. Then came Menelachos's voice, raised in a shout:

"Bring the prisoner!"

It was, in fact, Chrethon who brought the guards. He moved so quickly, they had to pull on the chains to keep him in line. When he entered the glade, however, and saw the Six arrayed before the outcropping, he stopped short.

"Come, Chrethon," bade Menelachos, beckoning. "It's time to face thy fate."

Bowing his head, Chrethon strode toward the sacred stone. The guards stopped him where he'd stood before. He searched the chieftains' faces. Neither Nemeredes nor Eucleia looked pleased: Chrethon guessed that Menelachos had, in the end, imposed a compromise upon both of them. He could glean nothing else from the rest.

"Chrethon of the Keening Wind," Menelachos intoned, "thou art a traitor to the Circle and Chislev. Thou hast refused to repent, even at the Forestmaster's bidding. Dost thou wish to speak before sentence is passed?"

Slowly, Chrethon shook his head.

"Very well. Know that some here—" the High Chief glanced at old Nemeredes "—wished the fullest punishment upon thee."

Chrethon swallowed. According to centaur law, the worst penalty for criminals was to be gelded, led through Darken Wood to beg forgiveness from each of the tribes, then beheaded. It had been done before, though not for many years.

"But," Menelachos continued, "others have argued for mercy, to thee and thy tribe. We have listened to both sides, and have reached a decision amenable to all."

Behind the High Chief, Eucleia snorted and Nemeredes pawed the ground. Menelachos ignored them both.

"There will be no execution or gelding," he stated. "Nor, however, will we show lenity. Thou shalt be punished, Chrethon, and thy people too for aiding in thy treachery.

"By order of this Circle, the Keening Wind tribe are cast out. Thou and thine may remain in Darken Wood, but must live apart from the rest, and may never again set hoof in any of the sacred places. No centaur may consort with or help thee.

"Furthermore," Menelachos continued, "thou art to be marked for thy deeds, Lord Chrethon. Thou art sentenced to daicheiron—the Tail-Cutting."

Chrethon's mouth dropped open. He lifted his bound hands to his head. Weakened by shock, he didn't resist as the guards seized his arms and legs, holding him still. Behind him, Rhedogar drew a short, broad sword from a scabbard on his battle harness. He stepped toward Chrethon.

Eucleia of the Iron Hooves held up her hand. "Wait."

Everyone—Chrethon, the guards, the chieftains—looked toward her. "It is too late to protest, Eucleia," Menelachos warned. "Thou agreed to this punishment."

"That's true," she agreed, "but I refuse to watch it happen. I ask leave to depart."

Menelachos scowled, but Eucleia didn't quail. Finally, the High Chief waved her away. She turned and cantered into the forest, her guards following. Menelachos looked to the other four chieftains, his eyes glittering.

"If any of thee wish to follow, then go," he said.

Immediately, Leodippos wheeled about and trotted after Eucleia. As he vanished into the woods, Pleuron murmured an apology and left as well. Menelachos looked to Nemeredes and Thymmiar, who nodded and stayed where they were. Satisfied, he turned back toward Chrethon.

"Proceed," he bade Rhedogar.

The dwarves of Krynn are said to value their beards so highly, they would sooner give up a life's wealth of steel than shave. The elves are as protective of their pointed ears, which are a precious trophy to goblins and other foul races. Among the horsefolk, however, the tail is the greatest source of pride: to have it docked is a permanent mark of shame. Even grizzled Rhedogar hesitated before seizing Chrethon's white, flowing tail. He pulled it taut, then set his blade where the short, fleshy stub met Chrethon's rump. Gritting his teeth, he drew the blade swiftly downward.

Bright blood spurted as the sword sliced through flesh. Chrethon cried out, in anguish and pain, and thrashed mightily against his captors. The guards held him tight until he finally fell still.

"It is done," Menelachos murmured. "Loose his bonds."

Obediently, Rhedogar severed the cords binding Chrethon's arms and legs. Chrethon stood weakly, wobble-kneed, as the guards removed his collar. He stared at the remaining chiefs with open hatred. Thymmiar lowered his gaze, and Nemeredes glared back coldly.

"Now," said Menelachos, "go to thy exile."

Chrethon blinked, then began to chuckle. He tossed his head, his pale mane flying, as the chuckle gave way to laughter. The chieftains glanced at one another uneasily, each wondering if the others had seen the faint, unclean glimmer of madness in the white centaur's eyes.

"I will go," Chrethon said. "But know this: I will return. And when I do, woe unto all of thee." He looked up at the sacred stone, eyes glittering. "All of thee."

He searched the ground a moment, then stooped and picked up the mass of bloody hair that had been his tail. Lifting it high above his head, he galloped out of the glade and into the depths of Darken Wood.

Chapter Two

It was early in the year to be so warm, but the folk of Solace didn't complain. The winter had been fierce, with bone-freezing winds and snow that drifted up the trunks of the mighty vallenwoods, halfway to the cottages nestled in their branches. A month ago, a storm had sheathed the huge trees with sparkling ice. Most of the bridges that linked the tree-bound houses had snapped from the ice's weight, and several old vallenwoods had burst, collapsing in tangles of shattered wood.

The gods' absence only made things worse. Where a cleric's prayer once brought healing, folk lost fingers and toes to frostbite; illnesses, once cured with a word, crippled or killed instead. But the folk of Solace were used to doing without divine aid: Ten years had passed since the Second Cataclysm, when the gods had quit the world forever. Many people had despaired of this, but the folk of Solace were resilient: They overcame what troubles they could handle, endured what they couldn't.

So Solace survived the direst winter since the Summer of Chaos. The dead were buried, the sick and injured cared for with herb and poultice instead of magic. The villagers rebuilt the bridges, took in those who'd lost their homes, planned to build new ones.

A fortnight ago, the cold had ended. Now the vallenwoods were coming alive: Yellow-green buds prepared to burst into leaf, and fragrant blossoms dotted the branches. Songbirds, gone since autumn, flitted above and below the houses, filling the air with music. Shrews, flying squirrels, and gray-tailed markle chased each other among the boughs. Children played in the open air, and young couples stole time together in secret. Everyone, it seemed, was cheered by the coming of spring.

Caramon Majere, however, was in one of his moods.

Tika, Caramon's wife of more than forty years, stood by the bedroom door and surveyed the bulk that was her husband. He lay on his side, facing the sunlit window, his legs tangled in the blankets. Tika sighed, shaking her head. She loved Caramon dearly, but he wasn't the man he'd once been. This past winter had been his sixty-seventh, and few of his years had been easy. His long hair had turned gray, thinning here and receding there. His girth, which he'd battled most of his life, now had him beat: Despite years of hard work running the Inn of the Last Home, his muscles were turning, bit by bit, into flab. Hardly a day went by when he didn't gripe about some new ache or pain.

Tika understood. She was six years his junior, and while her freckled face showed few lines for a woman her age, her once-aubum tresses were snowy, and she was plumper than she'd once been. It was all part of growing older: Bodies gave out, and that was that.

It wasn't her husband's body that troubled Tika; it was his spirit. He'd become prone to fits of deep depression. He moped about, ate too little, slept too much. He wasn't nipping into the dwarf spirits again, as he'd done in his youth, but she suspected that day would come, if something wasn't done.

She wished to the vanished gods that she knew what that something was.

"Caramon," she said. "Get up."

He mumbled, rolling over. The bed groaned.

"Laura has breakfast ready downstairs," Tika pressed. "There's still some eggs and sausage, if you're hungry."

In years gone by, the mention of food would have made him lunge out of bed like a berserker. Now, though, he raised his head, peered at her, then flopped back down. "I'm not hungry," he grumbled.

Caramon's boots were propped by the door. Tika grabbed one, weighed it in her hands, and heaved it at him. It struck his side with a meaty smack.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, sitting up. Tika tried not to notice how his flesh—once hard as stone—jiggled and jounced. "Huma's teeth, Tika, that hurt!"

"There's another boot, right here," Tika said, nudging it with her foot. "Get up."

He slumped. "What for?"

"What for?" Tika was growing livid. "It's Spring Dawning, you great ox! The festival starts at midday. You've got to tap the spring brew before then."

"Let Laura do it," Caramon said. Laura was their elder daughter, and well on her way to running the Inn.

Tika shook her head. "Laura can't carry the kegs up from the cellar. Neither can I. Caramon, what in the Abyss is wrong with you?"

"You want to know?" he snapped, surprising her with his sudden anger. "Fine. I'm tired of watching people die."

She was silent a moment. "Is this about old Dezra?" she asked. Dezra Sepadin had worked at the Inn even longer than Tika. She'd been a close friend to Tika and Caramon. They'd named their younger daughter after her.

Dezra had also been a midwife. One night this past Frostcold, she'd gone out late to help the weaver's wife give birth to her second son, and had caught a terrible coughing sickness. She'd died soon after, with Tika and Caramon at her bedside.

Caramon shrugged. "Partly. I miss them all, Tika—my old friends, my brother, our sons."

Tika chewed her lip, looking away. Losing dear ones was another part of growing old, but it had been particularly hard on Caramon. His closest friends, the six he'd adventured with as a youth, were all gone. Sturm Brightblade and Flint Fire-forge had died during the War of the Lance; his half-sister Kitiara had perished soon after in a failed attempt to conquer the Lordcity of Palanthas. His twin brother, Raistlin, with whom he'd shared a bond Tika could never understand, had been sealed inside the Abyss after failing to overthrow Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness; he'd returned during the Chaos War, ten years ago, only to accompany the gods when they departed Krynn. The same war had also claimed the lives of Tanis Half-Elven and Tasslehoff Burrfoot, as well as Caramon and Tika's eldest sons, Tanin and Sturm. The boys' graves lay beneath a vallenwood not far from the Inn.

Others had died since. Riverwind of Qué-Shu and his daughter Brightdawn… Gunthar uth Wistan… and now old Dezra. Caramon had lost many friends, it was true.

"We aren't all gone," Tika told him. "You've got me, for one thing. Goldmoon and Laurana are around. And you still have three children, you know—not to mention two grandchildren."

As Caramon pondered this, Tika thought she saw him brighten. They didn't see Palin, their surviving son, as often as they liked—he spent most of his time at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, seeking new magic to replace the sorcery that had vanished when the gods left. He still visited Solace a few times each year, though, and he and his wife Usha were always sure to bring along their own children, Ulin and Linsha, for Tika and Caramon to spoil. Then there was Laura, who was indispensible around the Inn. And Dezra, their youngest, who—well, who was a regal pain in the backside. But that was another set of worries altogether.

Caramon looked less miserable, but he still hadn't budged. Tika reached for the other boot.

"All right," he said, chuckling. "Go easy. I'm getting up." He kicked loose the blankets and swung out of bed. His knees popped loudly, making him wince. "Go back downstairs. I'll be along."

She studied him a moment, then shook the boot at him, unable to keep from grinning. "You'd better be. If I have to come back up here, I'll find something harder than this to throw at you."

"I believe it," he said.

Tika dropped the boot and left the room.

Caramon stood quietly beside the bed, listening as her footsteps creaked down the stairs. Sighing, he went to fill the washbasin.

"Closing time!" Caramon shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Everyone finish your drinks!"

If the folk who'd crowded the Inn for the tapping of the spring ale heard him, they gave no sign. They laughed and shouted, downing long draughts of foamy, golden beer. It was a good batch this year, with an earthy flavor that came from moss that grew on the vallenwoods' highest branches. Many travelers in Abanasinia went out of their way to stop at Solace, just to taste Caramon's ale.

It had been Borlos the minstrel, a fixture around the Inn for years, who'd first tasted the batch. He and his friends, Clemen and Osier, had shown up at daybreak just so they could have that honor. He'd quaffed it carefully, thinking long and hard.

"Not bad," he'd declared. "A bit sour, though."

Caramon's face had fallen, and Borlos had grinned. "Just kidding, big guy," he'd said, raising his tankard. "This is some of the best you've ever brewed. Bard's honor."

Caramon had filled a second tankard and carefully dumped it over Borlos's head, to the crowd's delight.

He'd been busy ever since, pouring and handing drinks to Tika and Laura, who carried them to the thirsty townsfolk and brought back empty ones for Caramon to refill. Otik Sandath, the Inn's previous owner, had always made sure the first keg of spring beer was empty before closing up for the Spring Dawning festival. Fifty years later, the folk of Solace weren't about to let such a fine tradition die. Mug after mug, Caramon had poured until the barrel ran dry.

Now came the hard part.

"Come on!" Caramon yelled again, banging the bar with his fist. "It's all gone! Get yourselves down to the fair!"

If anything, the crowd got even louder. Somewhere in the back—Caramon couldn't see for the press of bodies—some youngsters were playing pipes and drums. Many of the drinkers were singing along. Borlos had joined them for a while with his lute, but had since lost interest and joined Clemen and Osier at their usual table by the kitchen, to drink and play cards.

Realizing the crowd wasn't listening, Caramon threw up his hands in exasperation. Then, from the kitchen door, came a new sound: a loud, metallic crash, as if two fully armored Knights of Solamnia were beating each other with maces. Near the door, Borlos and his comrades clapped hands over their ears and winced. The crowd quickly fell still, and Caramon grinned, relieved, as a woman pushed through the throng. There was an iron skillet in each of her hands, and a ferocious look on her face. Reaching the middle of the room, she slammed the pans together again with a loud, ringing clang.

Unlike most taverns, the Inn of the Last Home had no bouncer. It didn't need one: It had Tika Waylan Majere.

Like her husband, Tika had fought against the Dragon Highlords in the War of the Lance, some forty years ago. Unlike Caramon, however, she'd never trained as a warrior, relying instead on the art of bashing opponents with whatever heavy, blunt object was available. That skill had served her well after the war. Anyone who thought of causing trouble at the Inn quickly thought otherwise when Tika brandished one of her skillets—if they wanted to keep all their teeth.

"Didn't you hear my husband?" Tika asked. "We're closed."

With precision a Knight of Takhisis would have admired, the crowd set down its tankards and headed out the door. Soon, only Caramon, Tika, and the card-players remained.

"Four of Flames," said Borlos, throwing a card down on the table. He raked a stack of coins toward him as Clemen and Osier groaned. "I take this trick."

Tika glared at them. "I'll count to ten," she declared. "One. Two."

"We were just going," Borlos said.

Tika continued to count as the card-players snatched up their bets and dashed out the door. "Seven!" she snapped as she followed them onto the balcony. "Eight!"

Their footsteps scurried away outside, fading in the distance. Tika came back in and set her skillets down on the bar, green eyes twinkling.

"I can still clear a room, can't I?" she asked.

Chuckling, Caramon made his way around the bar. Without a word, he took her in his arms and pressed his lips against hers. She made a surprised sound, then softened into the kiss. Her face was red when he lifted his mouth from hers.

"What in the Abyss was that for?" she asked.

"This morning," Caramon said. "Sorry I was such a lummox."

"Forgotten," Tika answered. Smiling, he began to turn away, but she grabbed his apron, pulling him toward her. "Get back here."

They kissed again, folding their arms about each other. They didn't hear the footsteps in the kitchen, or the creak of the door swinging open.

Laura Majere stepped into the taproom, carrying a steaming crock-pot. "I've got the herb-roasted beans for the feast tonight," she said. "Where should I—"

Flushing, Tika and Caramon parted. Caramon grinned at his daughter, a little too widely. "Laura!" he exclaimed in a rush. "Smells wonderful. Did you use enough sage? I should put the spiced potatoes on. Is the stove still hot?"

Laughing, Laura set the pot down on a table and flipped back her long, red curls. "Don't worry about the potatoes," she said. "I'll take care of them. You two enjoy yourselves. Go down to the fair." She winked. "Or whatever else you want to do."

Caramon's cheeks nearly glowed. "I think we've done it," he told Tika, his broad chest swelling with pride. "We've raised the perfect daughter."

Tika laughed, untying her apron. A moment later, her eyes narrowed. She peered about suspiciously. "Where's your sister?"

Laura looked away, clearing her throat. "Oh, she's around… somewhere. I, uh, think she went out to the cistern to fetch water."

Her parents exchanged knowing glances. "She's a lousy liar," Caramon said.

"She gets that from you," Tika replied.

Laura sidled toward the kitchen. "I'd better see to the potatoes—"

"Stop right there," Caramon said sternly. "Where's Dezra?"

"I don't know." Laura shrugged helplessly. "She went out this morning. She wouldn't say where she was headed."

Tika shook her head. "Typical. One perfect daughter and one perfect brat. I swear, that girl's looking for trouble. And it'll find her, too."

Caramon sighed. Though Dezra was only a year younger than Laura, the sisters couldn't have been less alike. While Laura worked hard to help run the Inn, Dezra was always out, and seldom up to any good. She drank, swore, kept unsavory company. That she'd leave without a word, even on Spring Dawning, was scarcely a surprise.

"She'll be all right," Laura said. "Don't let her spoil the day for you."

Tika frowned, then spread her hands and walked to Caramon. He offered his arm, and she took it. "Don't stay here too late," she chided Laura. "You should enjoy the festival too. And if you see your sister—"

"I'll tell her you're looking for her," Laura said.

Arm in arm, Caramon and Tika strolled outside. Laura listened to them go, then went to the bar and started polishing mugs.

"Gods, Dez," she murmured. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Chapter Three

Mostly, the folk of Solace preferred not to come down from the trees. True, some of the town's buildings—smithy, stables, storehouses—were on the ground, but many of the villagers could spend weeks at a time up among the boughs. Town fairs, however, were a different matter: it was easier, and safer, to hold them in the broad town square on the ground. So, at least once a season, the townsfolk descended to the forest floor to make merry.

The Spring Dawning fair was a tumult of activity. Merchants from all over Ansalon had set up tents and counters, selling everything from leather pouches to gemstones, steel weapons to vallenwood carvings. There was food, too—venison and honeycakes, culberries and elven quith-pa—and everywhere one looked, someone was hawking ale or wine.

There was more than just things to buy, of course. Bards and entertainers of all sorts had come to ply their trades. Wandering about the fair, Caramon counted a dozen minstrels and storytellers, a company of acrobats, a puppet show, stilt-walkers, jugglers, jesters and a fire-eater. He and Tika stopped to watch, and left coins in hats here and there.

There were others, too: reminders of what the world had lost ten years ago. False prophets preached to the masses, seeking converts for their faiths. Caramon cast them a baleful eye—in his youth, he and his friends had run afoul of their like many times—but he left them alone. Some people needed gods to believe in, and the real ones weren't coming back soon.

It hurt more to see the magicians. To the delight of onlookers, they made coins dance in the air, conjured white birds out of nothing, and cut ropes to pieces, only to make them whole again. It was all fakery and flash powder, of course. Caramon's brother had performed most of the tricks when they were boys. For Raistlin, such illusions had been a means to the end of learning true magic. Raist was gone with the gods, though, and sorcery with him. Caramon was sure some of the "magicians" on the fairgrounds today had once been real wizards, wielding true spells. It saddened him to see them, reduced to roadside spectacles.

Besides watching the buskers perform, the townsfolk also made their own fun. A riddling contest was due to take place later on. On the far side of the square, human and elven archers feathered targets with lethal accuracy. Footraces, javelin throws, and other contests drew the skillful and foolish. Caramon and Tika stopped for a while beside one game, where two young men with quarterstaffs stood on a beam above a mud pit, trying to knock each other off. The crack of wood against wood sounded above the crowd's shouts.

The combatants traded blows, dodging and blocking, until finally one gained the upper hand. He struck his opponent's knee with the end of his staff, then swept his weapon up and hit him again in the chest. The stricken man toppled from the beam, landing in the pit with a splash that spattered mud on the onlookers.

Laughter and curses rose as bets were settled and young men yelled challenges against the champion. Soaking with mud, the defeated man rose from the pit and stormed off into the crowd.

"Look at this," Tika groaned, brushing her mud-flecked skirts. "We've been here an hour, and my frock's ruined. You'll have to buy me a new one."

Caramon grunted but said nothing, staring wistfully at the beam.

Tika groaned. "No," she told him. "I know that look. Just forget about it."

He sighed, not seeming to hear. "I used to fight in competitions like that, when I was young." He nodded at the champion, who arrogantly straddled the beam. "I could have knocked that whelp halfway to Haven."

Tika snorted. "That was fifty years ago, you dolt," she scolded. "I could have done the same, back then. But you're not seventeen any more, Caramon. That's a game for young men."

Reluctantly, Caramon turned to face her. "So what's left for me to do?"

Sensing another mood coming on, Tika looked around. "There's always the eating contests," she said, pointing.

Caramon's eyes drifted to a table where several large men were cramming a seemingly endless supply of sausages into their mouths while the watching crowd laughed. "I will not do that," he sulked, grimacing. "I'd look less of a fool if I locked myself in the pillory and let people throw rotten fruit at me."

"And you'd have looked better, getting knocked on your backside in the mud?"

Caramon looked down at Tika, saw the fire in her eyes, and grinned. "Point taken."

He turned, peering over the heads of the other fairgoers. At six and a half feet, he towered above nearly everyone. After a moment, he started shoving through the mob.

Tika hurried to keep pace. "What is it?" she asked. "I can't see a thing—"

He gave no answer, leading the way to a shouting knot of people, crowded about a table on a crude, wooden dais. As the crowd parted to let him pass, Tika saw what had caught his attention. A doubtful frown appeared on her face.

Atop the dais, two muscular, sweating men sat across from each other at the table. One was a young, beefy farmboy; the other was Japeth, a woodcutter and frequent patron of the Inn. Their right elbows were on the table, their hands clenched together. The arm-wrestlers grimaced and grunted, muscles bunching in their arms and necks as they pitted strength against strength.

"Well, this is exciting," Tika said dryly.

Caramon shushed her, his eyes on the contest. Japeth had a slight advantage, his quivering arm slowly pushing the farm-boy's over. The onlookers roared with approval, and Japeth started to grin.

Then the farmboy smiled too. The crowd fell still as, with a burst of new strength, he pushed back. In a heartbeat they were deadlocked again; in another, Japeth was faltering. He held out a few moments longer, but in the end it wasn't enough. Still grinning, the farmboy pushed him all the way over, slamming his arm against the tabletop. Japeth slumped as a short, bald man came forward.

"Uwen wins!" shouted the bald man, raising the farmboy's hand. "That's three in a row, lad. Want to try for a fourth?"

The boy nodded, grinning, as Japeth's friends led the woodcutter away.

"All right, then!" The bald man turned to the crowd. "Who's next?"

Tika slumped. She didn't need to glance at Caramon to see the look on his face. He'd mope the rest of the day if she didn't let him wrestle. With a small shrug, she let go of his arm and shoved him forward.

"Right here!" she called.

Caramon stared across the table at the farmboy—Uwen, his name was. The lad was blond and sunburned, with a face so guileless it was almost comical. He looked fairly intimidated. He knew who his opponent was, though his father had been a boy when Caramon was fighting in the War of the Lance. The contest's judge checked their hands, making sure their grip was good—Caramon was left-handed, but had offered the boy his right—and stepped back.

"Remember the rules," the judge declared. "Keep your other arm at your side, and if your elbow comes off the table—or your arse off your seat—you're out." He turned to shout at the crowd. "Next round! Uwen Gondil against the challenger, Caramon Majere. Bets, please."

Caramon offered Uwen a friendly grin. The boy bit his lip.

"Go," said the judge.

Caramon moved quickly, pushing with all his might. Uwen's arm dropped halfway to the tabletop before he recovered—then, muscles bunching, he shoved back. To both men's surprise, he slowly pushed Caramon's arm back upright. They ground their teeth and groaned with effort. Before long, Uwen pulled even. Then he pushed even harder, gaining the upper hand.

Caramon couldn't believe it. He'd wrestled stronger men than this: trained warriors, gladiators, even half-ogres. He'd defeated them all, too. But this apple-cheeked lad—he couldn't have seen more than eighteen summers—was beating him!

The onlookers shrieked furiously, most of them as amazed as Caramon. Tika's voice carried above them all. "Rip his arm off!" she hollered. "Make him cry for his mother!"

Caramon found the strength to shove harder, stopping Uwen and forcing him back an inch, then another, until they were even again. They stayed that way for a long moment, trembling, then Caramon shut his eyes and gave another push.

Uwen faltered, his strength suddenly flagging. Startled, Caramon seized the opportunity. Uwen never had the chance to recover: Within seconds his hand hit the table, and he grabbed his arm with a pained grimace. The crowd cheered, thrusting their fists in the air.

Caramon didn't rejoice, however. As the judge came forward, his eyes met Uwen's, and he knew the boy had thrown the match. Sorry, Uwen's gaze said. I thought you'd be able to win without my help.

Before Caramon could say anything, though, Tika climbed onto the dais and threw her arms around his neck. When she let him go again, Uwen was already gone.

The crowd was chanting Caramon's name. The judge grabbed his hand and raised it, proclaiming him the winner. Feeling no satisfaction at all, Caramon rose. "Come on," he told Tika. "Let's go."

"No!" the judge said, grabbing Caramon's elbow. "Don't leave! You're the champion."

Caramon looked to Tika for help, but she shook her head. "You wanted to do this," she said.

Scowling, Caramon looked out over the clamoring crowd. "All right, who's next?"

The cheering stopped. The onlookers fell silent, none willing to speak a word, lest it be misinterpreted as a challenge. No one was eager to take Uwen's place. The crowd began to thin, moving on to other parts of the fair.

"Hey!" the judge snapped. "Don't walk away! Somebody has to have the guts to—"

"I'll do it!" called a loud voice.

The onlookers froze, turning. Caramon followed their gaze, and saw the man who'd spoken. He was hard to miss.

He stood at the back of the crowd, towering head-and-shoulders above the tallest of the townsfolk. He looked like a barbarian: bare-chested, his skin a ruddy brown, and sporting a shock of long, ash-blond hair, with a short beard to match. His jaw was strong, his eyes dark. About his neck was a bronze tore, and matching bracers graced his wrists. A large ring hung from his right ear.

He smiled broadly as the villagers gawked. His teeth were huge and white. "I am Trephas," he said, tossing his head proudly. "I will wrestle thee, Hero of the Lance."

He strode forward, and the crowd parted, murmuring in awe. When the foremost onlookers stepped aside, Caramon and Tika caught their breaths in amazement.

The man wasn't a man at all. His sturdy human torso ended at the waist; below, where his legs should have been, was the body of a chestnut horse, with white fetlocks and a proud, ash-blond tail.

Trephas was a centaur.

As Caramon gaped, he heard the crowd's startled muttering begin to grow angry. While there'd been little trouble with the centaurs of Darken Wood in the past, things had changed in the past few years. More than once, their kind had waylaid folk on the Haven Road. Several people had disappeared, and stories had started about how the lost travelers had been murdered by the horsefolk. The tales grew steadily grimmer over time: They ate the flesh of their enemies, some said. They stole maidens and took them into Darken Wood to ravish. They coupled with horses, who died giving birth to twisted, misshapen foals.

The crowd was glaring at Trephas, but they hung back, seeing the broad-bladed spear looped through his war harness. From the way he carried himself, it was clear he could use the weapon well.

Either Trephas didn't notice the crowd's hostility, or he didn't care. He strode to the dais and bowed, a courtly gesture that didn't match his uncouth appearance.

"May I join thy game?" he asked. His accent was as formal and archaic as his demeanor.

The judge regarded the ornery crowd, then turned back to Trephas. "It'll be difficult," he ventured. "You can't get up on this platform so easy, built like you are."

"True," the centaur agreed. "But there's no need. I'm the right height where I stand, if thou wilt move thy table to the edge of the dais."

"Hmmm," the judge said. He frowned at the table, then shrugged. "All right, I've no problem with it—if our champion doesn't mind."

Caramon eyed the centaur: as tall as a small ogre, and nearly as broad, Trephas looked like he could have flattened Uwen the farmboy. But Caramon knew he couldn't refuse. The townsfolk wouldn't allow it, and he didn't want things to get any uglier.

"Sure," he said. "I'm game."

"Excellent!" boomed Trephas as Caramon and Tika helped the judge drag the table over.

The crowd was muttering excitedly, more passersby joining the mob every moment. When everything was in place, Caramon sat and rested his left elbow on the tabletop—he'd be damned if he was going to wrestle the horse-man with his off-hand.

Trephas flashed another toothy grin. "Mayhap we can make this more interesting?"

Caramon's brow furrowed. "A wager?"

"Aye. If I lose, I shall remain in Solace for a season, and keep the stables at thy Inn," Trephas declared. "Thy horses shall never know better care."

"And if you win?" Tika asked suspiciously.

"Then, madam, I ask thy husband to accompany me to Darken Wood."

The crowd's muttering redoubled. Caramon started, blinking. "What?" he gulped. "Go into Darken Wood? What in Paladine's name for?"

"I don't intend to leave this fair empty-handed," Trephas replied. "If I beat thee, thou wilt carry my goods to my home."

"Carry—" Caramon stammered, then shook his head. "But you're a horsel Can't you just get a wagon and haul it yourself?"

A haughty gleam sparked in the centaur's eye. "I am a chieftain's son. I don't haul wagons. That job," he added with a sneer, "is better suited to a common ox. Now, wilt thou accept my wager?"

Caramon glowered, fighting back the sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn't want to make such a bet… but on the other hand, if he turned it down… .

"Absolutely not," Tika snapped, coming to his rescue. She planted her hands on her hips, a dark line appearing between her brows. "My husband was smart enough not to want to go into Darken Wood when he was young, and he isn't so fuddled by age to think otherwise now. Right, Caramon?"

"Uh, right," he answered lamely. "But," he added, seeing the centaur frown, "I'll offer something else. I've just tapped my spring ale. If I lose, I'll give you two kegs to take back with you in my stead."

Trephas considered, still crestfallen at Caramon's refusal. At length, though, he nodded and rested his left elbow on the table. "So be it," he said, clasping Caramon's hand. "And let the best man win, four legs or two."

The judge raised his voice. "New round, then! Caramon Majere against the challenger, Trephas—er—"

"Son of Nemeredes the Elder," Trephas said.

"Sure. All right, then. Go!"

The centaur's grip was like a band of iron. He was every bit as strong as he looked. Right away, Caramon was straining and moaning and hissing through his teeth as he fought to keep Trephas from pushing him over. The crowd roared as he and the centaur struggled. Thus, between the noise and the pounding of blood in his ears, it was understandable Caramon didn't hear the shouting at first.

It started on the far side of the fairground, where the wealthier merchants had set up their tents. It quickly grew louder and closer, and heads began to turn. Someone—folk soon recognized him as Ganlamar, a rich gemcutter from Gateway—was yelling at the top of his lungs:

"Stop! Thief!"

Throughout the crowd, kender—there would always be kender at the Spring Dawning fair, no matter how much people wished otherwise—jumped up and looked around, trying to see who the gemcutter was talking about. Some were so distracted, they dropped the rings and money-pouches they'd been tucking, absentmindedly, into their pockets.

The thief and his pursuer were headed toward Caramon, but still he didn't hear. He focused on holding out against Trephas's strength. His muscles burned. Black spots danced before his eyes. The centaur hadn't even broken a sweat.

Then, in a blur, the thief darted past the crowd. Caramon only glimpsed a young, slender figure in a bright green shirt, but Tika stared as it passed, and choked in horror.

"Dezra?" she yelped.

"What?" Caramon blurted, looking up.

The moment's distraction was all Trephas needed. With one great shove, he slammed Caramon's arm down onto the table. Caramon grunted in surprise, then rose from his seat and turned to stare after the thief. About fifty yards on, a rope ladder dangled from a walkway high above, among the vallenwoods' boughs. The figure in green leapt, caught it, and scrambled upward, laughing all the way.

"Oh, gods," Caramon moaned, watching in disbelief as his youngest daughter made her getaway.

Chapter Four

It bad seemed a good idea at the time.

Dezra Majere had woken before dawn, dressed quietly, and snuck out of her room, past her parents' chamber to the stairs. Her hand had been on the banister when she heard the dick of a door opening behind her.

She'd frozen, stomach clenching, and glanced back, expecting to see her father. It was just Laura, though. Relieved, Dezra had raised a finger to her lips, then nodded down the stairs.

Soundlessly, the sisters had crept down to the tavern. Dezra had slipped into the kitchen to grab a wedge of cheese, given half to her sister, wolfed the rest down.

"What's happening?" Laura had asked. "Why are you up so early?"

"I'm going out," Dezra had answered.

Laura's face had tightened with concern. "Father's tapping the spring beer today," she'd said. "He's bound to miss you."

"Let him. I'm not running tankards to a bunch of drunks."

"He'll ask me where you went."

Dezra had thrown up her hands. "Laura, don't be hopeless. Just cover for me, and I'll never ask you again."

"That's what you said last week. And the week before that."

"And you did a good job, both times," Dezra had answered, flashing a lopsided grin.

Laura had sighed. "Sure, Dez. Whatever you say."

With a bow—a masculine gesture, to go with her men's clothes and short, brown hair—Dezra had padded out of the Inn.

The fairgrounds had already been busy when she arrived. Workmen built stalls and platforms for the festival; merchants set up their wares outside their tents. She'd walked among them freely, but not unnoticed. Dezra had always been a tomboy, but she was nineteen, and many of the men stopped to watch her pass. Instead of blushing, as Laura might have done, or glaring, like her mother would have, she played along, pouting and winking. One didn't grow up in an inn without learning to flirt.

She hadn't come to the square just to parade in front of a bunch of clods with callused hands, though. She had work to do. She'd eyed the stalls the craftsmen were setting up, and noted two in particular: a moneychanger and a gemcutter. Both tradesmen were from out of town, weren't particularly attentive, and had goods within easy reach.

Both easy marks for a young thief.

Satisfied, she'd left the town square and headed south, to the seedier side of town, where she'd entered the Rusty Shield Tavern and ordered a whiskey and a dark ale from Brandel, the scruffy, eyepatched tapman. She'd downed the whiskey in a gulp, then nursed the beer, not speaking to Brandel or the tavern's mangy regulars. Finally, at mid-afternoon, she'd thrown back another whiskey and headed back to the fairgrounds.

She'd wandered the fair a while, careful not to draw attention to herself. Bought a baked apple, stuffed with raisins and spices. Talked with several young men, laughing and leading them on—even kissed one, full on the mouth, to his astonishment—before leaving them behind. Through it all, she'd watched the merchants she'd marked, waiting.

The first opportunity came when she was near the moneychanger's counter. Several stalls down, a weaver had caught a kender wandering off with a colorful blanket under his arm. As the weaver shouted for the guards and the bewildered kender protested that he was only taking the blanket to show a friend, the moneychanger's patrons had turned to watch. Dezra had bided patiently by the counter, and when the moneychanger glanced up toward the ruckus, she'd snatched a stack of coins and slipped them into her pocket.

It wasn't much, only about fifty pieces of steel. As she strode away, though, she'd relished the surge of energy that rushed through her. She loved that thrill—except for a tumble in the stables with a young man, Dezra thought there was nothing better.

Ganlamar, the gemcutter, was more difficult. He was shrewd, but she was confident she could beat him. She'd moved in, repeating the pattern: hover nearby, wait for a diversion, then move… .

It had seemed like a good idea, anyway.

This time, the distraction came from across the square, where a barker was announcing an arm-wrestling contest. One of the contestants was a centaur, of all things: a swaggering beast who drew everyone's attention. The other was Caramon. Dezra had laughed at the irony: her own father, providing the distraction she needed.

The crowd around Ganlamar's booth began to thin as people hurried over to watch the match. Dezra sidled closer to the table, one eye on the contest and the other on the fat gemcutter. Ganlamar was in the middle of selling a pair of opals to an overstuffed spice merchant. Stones and money changed hands, then the gemcutter turned too, to get a glimpse of the horse-man.

Lightning-quick, Dezra reached out and seized a shining amethyst. At the same moment, on the other end of the counter, a young child knocked over Ganlamar's scales.

The balances clattered loudly as they fell, and the gemcutter whirled to see what was the matter. Dezra pocketed the amethyst, but it was too late. Ganlamar's eyes met hers, then narrowed to angry slits.

Dezra ran.

"Stop!" Ganlamar shouted, leaving his apprentice to watch his wares as he gave chase. "Thief! Come back!"

Sure, thought Dezra as she dashed away, into the mob. She elbowed her way through the press of bodies, sending people sprawling. Some idiot, hearing Ganlamar's cries, grabbed for her sleeve; she shoved him into a baker's counter, then charged onward. Loaves of bread flew everywhere.

Ganlamar was surprisingly fleet-footed. Glancing back, she saw he was catching up to her. She cast about, looking for something to slow him down, then bolted for a potter's stall. She vaulted over the counter, smashing a clay urn and drawing an outraged shout from the potter, then lunged for one of the ropes that held up his tent. She drew a dagger from her belt, and, with a flick of her wrist, slashed the rope. The tent collapsed.

The potter and several townsfolk crowded around, grabbing for the fluttering canvas. The sudden commotion blocked Ganlamar's way, and Dezra gained another dozen strides on him before he resumed the chase. She slammed her dirk back in its sheath, laughing as she ran.

She hadn't been heading toward the arm-wrestling contest on purpose, but there it was, just ahead. She considered turning aside, going the long way around, but Ganlamar was gaining ground again. Lowering her head, she plunged on. As she skirted the edge of the mob surrounding the contest—a mob that was now watching her instead of her father and the centaur—she caught a glimpse of her mother. Tika stood beside Caramon on the dais, staring straight at Dezra.

"Crap," Dezra muttered as she darted past.

There was a rope ladder ahead, hanging from a walkway. Dezra bolted for it and leapt. It swung wildly as she grabbed its rungs and began to climb. Ganlamar shouted furiously below.

She was nearly at the top when she heard the whistles. The shrill sounds were all around her, moving along the walkways among the trees. She knew what they meant: Solace's town guards were up there, trying to head her off. There were more guards below, too, grabbing for the swaying ladder. She swore again, climbing faster, and pulled herself up onto the walkway, far above the staring crowd.

"Over there!" shouted a voice to her left.

Glancing over, she saw guards heading toward her, carrying spears and clad in leather cuirasses and iron helmets. She whirled and ran the other way. She led a merry chase, dashing across bridges from treehouse to treehouse, but the guards were well coordinated, several staying on her tail while the others ran ahead, trying to outflank her. Far below, the onlookers yelled and laughed. Dezra was sure some were cheering for her.

She barreled across a walkway, which jounced wildly with each pounding step, then reached the balcony at the other end and pulled up short. Half a dozen guardsmen were waiting for her.

They started forward. "C'mon, Dez," said the one in the lead, a youth she remembered from one particularly unsatisfactory stable-grope. "Give up before you get yourself hurt."

"Bite my breeches," she snarled.

She heard boots on wood behind her. Looking back, she saw several guards blocking the way she'd come. Angrily, she spat and glanced around, seeking escape.

Then, suddenly, she saw her chance: To her right, a few feet from the balcony's railing, was another bridge. It wasn't attached to the balcony where she stood, instead linking two neighboring trees, but it was tantalizingly close, swaying gently in the breeze.

"The Abyss with it," she muttered, and ran for it.

There was a single guard in her way. She hit him hard, ducking low and driving her elbow into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath. Below, the crowd gasped as Dezra hopped up onto the railing, teetered for a heartbeat a hundred feet above their heads, then leapt off, toward the bridge.

It was a day full of bad ideas.

She made the jump, but just barely, catching the walkway with her arms and scrabbling for purchase. Her legs churned beneath her as her fingers clutched the bridge's planks. One of her boots came off, falling to the ground below.

"Dezra!" bellowed her father, below. "What are you doing?"

"I wish to Reorx I knew," she muttered, trying to pull herself up.

"Help her!" her mother shrieked. "Someone get to her before she falls!"

The guards didn't sound so coordinated any more. Their clattering footsteps milled about the balcony behind her, spreading out as they tried to find their way to her. She made another try to haul herself up, but she had no leverage. She started to lose her grip.

She wondered which would hit the ground first: her head or her feet.

Suddenly, the tromp of footsteps rattled the bridge. It shook so badly, she nearly let go. "Careful, damn it!" she snapped. "You'll knock me loose!"

The man coming toward her must have heard, because he slowed his pace. She continued to slip, dimly aware of her parents' panicked shouts below. Finally, after what seemed like forever, a meaty hand grabbed her wrist. She looked up, expecting a guard, but instead saw a broad, guileless face, surmounted by a mop of blond hair.

"Who the—" she blurted.

He reached for her with his other hand. "My name's Uwen."

Before she could ask more, he grabbed her arm and jerked her upward, muscles bulging. He lifted her like she was a child, then set her down on the bridge. Below, the tenor of the crowd's cries changed from fear to relief.

She leaned against him, breathing hard. "Thanks," she gasped.

"You're welcome," he said. He grinned at her, his simple, blue eyes almost glowing, and Dezra groaned inside. She'd seen that look on many a drunk's face. It was dumb infatuation.

Hobnail boots clomped toward her, from either end of the bridge. There wasn't anywhere left to run, so she pushed herself away from Uwen with an apologetic shrug. "Sorry to leave you like this," she said, turning toward the approaching guardsmen. "But I think I'm about to be arrested."

Chapter Five

Caramon followed his daughter across the Ranging walkway to the Inn of the Last Home. He stared at her back, trying to control his stewing anger. He'd spent the afternoon dealing with the wreckage Dezra had left behind. He'd paid the merchants she'd robbed for their troubles, made amends with the one whose tent she'd collapsed, then gone to the jail to get Dezra out.

Retark, the town sheriff, had led him to her cell. She'd been leaning against the door, flirting with one of the guards. Seeing Caramon, she'd rolled her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she'd asked.

Caramon let out an explosive snort and stopped walking. Dezra sauntered on a moment, then glanced back, smiling crookedly.

"Coming?" she asked. "I must have a good talking to lined up for me. Let's get it over with."

Caramon stared at her, simmering, then shook his head. "Where did I go wrong?" he muttered at the vallenwoods' boughs as he followed his daughter.

"Nine of Leaves," said Borlos, tossing a green card on the table. "Take that, you dogs."

Smiling lazily, he reached for his lute and plucked its strings. The song he played was either The Lady of Thelgaard or My Love Came Sailing Home. Both songs had the same tune, but different words.

"Spit," groaned Osier, running a hand through his red hair. He threw down the Six of Leaves. "You always know when I've got a weak suit."

Clemen sorted his cards, frowning. Rotund and almost totally bald—a contrast to tall, slim Osier and short, wiry Borlos—he resembled a monk at prayer. Finally, he pulled out a silver card—the Two of Fates, marked with the symbols of the gods Shinare and Hiddukel—and laid it atop the other two.

"Sorry," he smirked. "I'll just have to trump you."

Borlos's fingers froze upon his lute. "Son of a—" he blurted, then laughed. He ran his plectrum across his strings. "Fair enough. Just you wait, though. I'll get you back."

Beaming, Clemen studied his cards again, then threw down his lead: the Mage of Winds. "Try me," he said.

Borlos was glowering at the card when the door bashed open. The players looked up and saw the hulking figure of Caramon. Dezra was with him, her arm gripped in her father's massive hand.

Caramon gaped at the card-players, bewildered. "How'd you three get in here? This place is supposed to be closed!"

"Laura let us in," Clemen explained cheerily. "We figured we'd play a quick game before we went to the feast."

"She's already gone, if you're looking for her," Borlos added. "We promised to watch the Inn till you got back from the jail."

Caramon nodded, then stopped, eyes narrowing. "How'd you know I was at the jail?"

Borlos shrugged, grinning. "Where else would you go after they hauled Dez away in irons?" He raised his full mug. Behind the bar, a keg's spigot was dripping. "Good show, Dez. The whole town's probably heard about your little adventure by now."

Snorting, Caramon dragged Dezra inside. She shook off his grasp, then stormed over to the bar. Caramon watched her, then glared at Borlos, Clemen and Osier.

Chairs scraped against the floor. "Sounds like the feast's about to start," Borlos noted as the card-players rose.

They left, Borlos plucking his lute. When they were gone, Dezra frowned. "Where's Mother?"

"At Elise's" Caramon replied, naming one of Tika's friends. He stomped to the door and bolted it. "She'll be gone till morning."

"Oh," Dezra said. "So you're in charge of discipline tonight, then."

Caramon stiffened, his hand on the door's handle.

Dezra picked up an empty tankard and poured herself a beer. "Usually you start with 'if your brothers were around to see you,' or 'when I was your age'. "She blew the head off her ale, spattering it on the floor, then took a long quaff. She nodded, wiping her lips. "Pretty good. Not the best I've ever had, but—"

"Damn it, Dezra!" Caramon thundered.

She took another drink, then set the mug down. "Mother would understand. Or have you forgotten she was a thief too, when she was young?"

"That was different. Your mother was an urchin. She stole so she could eat, until Otik took her in. She isn't proud of her childhood, Dezra."

She shrugged.

"Stop treating this like some big joke!" Caramon roared, hammering his fist against the wall. The windows rattled. "You made an ass of yourself today, in front of most of Solace! Don't you care?"

"No," she shot back. She spread her hands. "I don't give a damn what a bunch of idiot fanners and woodcutters think."

Caramon sputtered, looking around as if seeking someone to share his incredulity. "What in Paladine's name is the matter with you, girl?" he demanded. "Why can't you be more respectful, like—"

"Like Laura?" Dezra interrupted, laughing scornfully. "She's just like the rest of them. All she wants from life is to stay here, pour ale, and cook your damned spiced potatoes."

"There's nothing wrong with that. It's honest work."

"It's boring. You and all those dead friends you're always carrying on about? You didn't stay holed up in this wretched little village."

Caramon's gaze turned icy. "All right, then," he said. "You don't want to live here? I'll help." He unlocked the door and yanked it open. The sky outside was darkening. Pale moonlight spilled into the tavern. "Go," he said.

"What?"

"You heard me." He folded his massive arms across his chest. "You want to leave? Here's your chance."

Dezra stared in amazement, then shrugged, turning toward the stairs. "Fine. I'll get my things, and—"

"No. No things. If you need anything, go ahead and steal it."

She stiffened, her lip curling. Her eyes glistened in the red hearth-glow. Then she reached for the keg behind her and opened the spigot. As ale gurgled onto the floor, she strode across the taproom. "To the Abyss with you, then," she told him, and walked out of the Inn.

The door slammed shut behind her.

Caramon stood quietly, quivering with rage. He listened as Dezra's footsteps moved across the balcony, then down the stairs. Soon they were lost amid the din from the fairgrounds, where the feast had begun.

When he could no longer hear her, Caramon shook his head. He jogged to the bar and closed the open spigot. The floor was awash with foamy ale, but he didn't pay it any mind; instead he leaned on the bar, beside the tankard Dezra had left behind, and stared into the shadows. His youngest daughter was gone. He'd thrown her out.

Tika was going to kill him.

Chapter Six

In time, Dezra slowed her pace. Moonlight or no, it was getting hard to see. To her right was the gleam of a bonfire, the sounds of music and laughter—the feast, no doubt. In its ruddy glow she saw moss on the vallenwoods' trunks. She was heading south, into the disreputable part of town.

She smiled. It had been her wont, through her teenage years, to head this way whenever she and her parents had a blazing row. Why should tonight be different? She walked on, resting her hand on the pommel of her dagger. This was no part of town for a young woman to go unarmed, no matter how self-assured she was.

The path opened into a weed-choked courtyard surrounded by dilapidated buildings. Most were dark, their doors shut, but the one on the far side stood open, lamplight shining within. Above its door, creaking in the breeze, was a well-rusted shield.

The Inn of the Last Home had, since time out of mind, kept a policy of refusing business from truly unsavory folk. Before the Summer of Chaos, the ruffians and rogues the Inn turned away had gathered at a ramshackle alehall called the Trough. The Knights of Takhisis had burned the place down during the Chaos War, but soon after they retreated from town, the Rusty Shield had taken its place.

Ten years later, it had settled into comfortable decrepitude. Its slate-shingled roof buckled, and the paint peeled on its walls. It had no windows, nor a proper sign. Various stenches—smoke, soured ale, and worse—hung about it. Dezra smiled as she approached. She spat in a row of scrubby bushes beside the tavern's door, then stepped inside.

"Well, if it ain't the Flying Majere," said the tapman, his good eye crinkling mirthfully.

"Leave it alone, Brandel," she shot back. She swaggered to the bar, tossing down a few coppers. "Get me a drink."

Still grinning, Brandel snatched up the coins and turned to a keg behind him. He talked as he poured. "I'm surprised to see you. Reckoned your parents wouldn't let you out of sight after what you did today."

"Can we leave alone what I did today?" Dezra snapped. "I'm sick of hearing about it."

"Whatever you say." He set her ale in front of her.

Dezra drank in silence. The beer was stale, but she finished it and ordered another. While Brandel refilled her stoup, she turned and surveyed the taproom.

The place was nearly empty. Besides Brandel, the only person working was the barmaid, Edelle. Youth had left Edelle behind, but that didn't stop her from trifling with customers half her age. Right now she was whispering with Fingers, a pickpocket who'd lost half his hand years ago in a failed snatch-and-grab. A couple local drunks snored in the shadows. And sitting by the door was a big, blond-bearded man with a battle-axe strapped across his back: a sellsword. She'd seen plenty of his kind in the Shield over the years, and was used to the leer that creased his face as he looked her up and down. Sneering, she turned back to the bar.

After a moment, she heard a chair push back, and the jingling of chainmail. A shape appeared beside her, eclipsing the lamplight. He said nothing, but simply stared, breathing heavily and leaning against the bar.

Dezra glowered. "Looking at something?"

"I'll say," he answered, grinning drunkenly. "I'm Storvald. Storvald of—" he stifled a belch "—of Wayend. What's your name, lovely?"

Lummox, Dezra thought, studiously ignoring him.

His hand reached out, touched hers. His fingers were callused and crooked. "Have I seen you somewhere? At the fair, maybe?"

A strangled laugh came from behind the bar. Dezra glared at Brandel, who quickly strolled into the storeroom in the back of the tavern.

"I doubt it," she told the sellsword.

"Well, no mind," Storvald declared. "We know each other now, don't we?"

Suddenly, his fingers seized Dezra's wrist. His bearded face lunged toward hers, and he kissed her on the mouth. His breath was sour.

Dezra leaned back, breaking the kiss. "Let go."

Storvald snarled, his grip on her arm tightening painfully. "Now, love, be nice. We'll find someplace quiet, a hayloft maybe—"

Brandel came back into the taproom. His lips tightened when he saw Dezra's red face. "Everything all right, Dez?" he asked. He held a knotted wooden cudgel. "You—don't make me use this."

For someone so drunk, Storvald was surprisingly fast. Reaching over his shoulder, he yanked his massive axe from its harness and slammed it down on the bar. It buried itself an inch deep in the wood.

"This ain't your trouble," he growled.

Brandel stopped, staring. His cudgel fell to the floor with a thump.

"That's better," Storvald said. "Now, the girl and me are leaving to find a nice, quiet hayloft." He jerked Dezra's arm. "And no one's stopping us, right?"

"Wrong," Dezra said, and stomped on his ankle.

Her attack came with no warning. Storvald howled in pain, staggering. He let Dezra go, grabbing the bar with both hands. Her fist slammed into his jaw. She wore a ring, set with a green cat's-eye gem. It opened his cheek, and blood ran down his face.

Reeling, Storvald shook his head and lunged for her. She danced aside, however, and he stumbled against the bar, flattening his hand against the countertop. Dezra drew her dagger and drove it through that hand, pinning it to the bar. There was more blood, and Storvald cried out again. He clawed for her clumsily. She ducked, spun, and hooked his uninjured leg with her foot, then hit his forehead with her knee as he fell. He went limp, hanging from the bar by his impaled hand.

Dezra straightened and pulled her dagger free. Storvald crumpled in a heap.

The Rusty Shield was silent. She pried Storvald's axe out of the bar and handed it to Brandel. “Yours," she said, nodding at the cudgel on the floor. "Thanks for trying to help—but next time, stay out of it."

She drained her half-empty tankard, then bent over the unconscious sellsword and grabbed his arms. "Give me a hand, Edelle," she said.

Grinning, the barmaid hurried over and took Storvald's legs. They carried him out and dumped him in the prickly hedgerow. "What if he wakes up?" Edelle wondered.

"He won't," Dezra said, and kicked him, hard, in the head. "That should keep him till morning."

They went back inside. Now that the surprise had worn off, the patrons carried on with their business. This wasn't the first time someone had been beaten senseless in the Rusty Shield.

Brandel poured Dezra another beer. "I'm looking for new muscle," he said.

Dezra laughed, taking a deep drink. "Look somewhere else. I'm leaving this louse-ridden town."

"Sure. You say that every week."

She shrugged, tracing her fingers around the rim of her stoup. "I mean it this time. Tomorrow morning, I'm gone."

"Dost thou, perchance, want company?" asked a voice from the doorway.

Dezra sighed. "Not another one," she muttered, quaffing her ale. "Can't a woman have a drink without every lout in town thinking—Brandel? What's wrong?"

The barkeep didn't say a word; he just gaped at the door. Curious, Dezra glanced over her shoulder, did a double-take, and stared.

It was the centaur, the one her father had been wrestling when Ganlamar caught her stealing the amethyst. He stooped down awkwardly, half in and half out the door. He wore a quiver of arrows and an enormous bow, and there was a long-bladed lance strapped to his war harness.

"Sorry, friend," Brandel said. "No horses allowed."

The centaur's eyes blazed. "I'm no horse!" he blustered, chin rising. "I am Trephas, son of Nemeredes!"

"Son of an old nag," Brandel muttered.

"Easy," Dezra said.

"No," the barkeep shot back, loud enough for Trephas to hear. "I don't want him in here, stinking the place up."

Trephas's face darkened. He lifted his head, sniffing disdainfully. "I hardly think my smell would hurt this place."

"Let him in, Brandel," Dezra murmured. "You've heard the stories about how much his kind drink. That's a lot of money to turn away."

Brandel thought it over. "Good point," he noted. "But if he craps on the floor, you're cleaning it up." He beckoned to the centaur, smiling thinly. "Come in, then, whatever your name is."

With some difficulty, Trephas squeezed through the door. He glanced around, then walked toward the bar, his iron shoes clacking against the wooden floor.

Edelle bustled over to Dezra with a tray of empty mugs. "You should see him from behind," she whispered, grinning. "Now I know where that saying comes from."

Brandel and Dezra snickered, drawing another hot look from the centaur. "What'll you have?" the barkeep asked, composing himself. "A glass of wine?"

Trephas regarded him like something he'd just scraped off his hoof. “A glass?" he asked scornfully. "You may as well fill a thimble, man. Bring me a pitcher!"

Brandel bristled, but Dezra gave him a look, and he brought himself under control. "Fine," he said.

"And it had best not be watered." Tossing his mane, Trephas pulled his lance from his harness and leaned it against the bar.

"Of course not," Brandel said tightly. He disappeared into the back. He carried a ewer, brimming with red wine, when he returned. Trephas reached for it, and he snatched it back. "I think you're forgetting something."

"What?" Trephas blurted. Then he chuckled haughtily. "Oh, of course. I forgot—humans pay for their drinks." He reached for the purse that hung from his harness. "Will five pieces of silver suffice?"

Brandel had been about to ask for only two pieces, but he quickly swallowed his words. "Er, yeah, that's right," he declared. "Five." He waited while the centaur counted the coins—they were old, dating back to before the first Cataclysm—then handed him his wine.

The pitcher was heavy, but Trephas hoisted it as easily as a human might lift a flagon. Then he poured a large measure—enough to fill a goblet—on the ground.

"Hey!" Brandel exclaimed. "My floor!"

Trephas waved him off. "That was a sacred libation," he said. "For Chislev the Beast. The gods must have their due, departed though they may be."

Brandel peered over the bar at the dark stain before the centaur's hooves, then at Trephas's full purse. "Sure," he said. "Whatever you say."

Trephas blew out his lips—a peculiarly horselike gesture—and brought the pitcher to his mouth. He drank it down in one draught. Wine spilled around the corners of his mouth, flowing in twin runnels down his bearded cheeks. Most, however, went straight down his throat. Everyone in the tavern stared. He slammed the empty pitcher on the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Ahhh," he declared lustily. "A bit plain, but 'twill do. Fetch me another."

Brandel was too awed to reply. He grabbed the empty pitcher and headed for the back room again.

Trephas turned to Dezra, his thick eyebrows rising. "Now. Thou wert saying, when I came in, that thou art planning to quit this town?"

Dezra blinked. "Well," she said, "planning's a strong word, but… yeah, I'm leaving."

The centaur nodded. Brandel brought a second pitcher, and Trephas traded another handful of silver coins for it, then poured another libation and drank. He didn't finish it in one gulp this time, but still put it away with astonishing speed.

"Come with me, then," he said. "I have use for thee."

"Use for me?" Dezra repeated. "That's a hell of a way to put it. Anyway, I thought your kind preferred to take young women without asking their permission."

Trephas snorted and let out a braying laugh. "Oh, ho!" he declared. "Of course—those childish tales thy people tell. My folk kidnapping and ravishing maidens and such. No, that isn't my meaning. I want thee to come to Darken Wood, Dezra Majere. I need thy help."

It was Dezra's turn to laugh. “My help? What in Hiddukel's name for?"

The centaur waved his hand. "My people are having trouble with some renegades in the forest. We have need of human aid to put a stop to the trouble. I saw what thou didst at the fair today, and again with that sells word." He set down the pitcher and folded his arms across his chest. "I think thou wouldst be fine for the job."

Dezra pursed her lips, then shook her head. "You've got the wrong Majere. I'm not the one who goes off on grand quests for people I hardly know. Why don't you ask my father?"

"I already did. He refused."

Dezra looked at him sharply, her eyes narrowing. They were both silent for a time. At length, Dezra coughed and glanced away. "Maybe I am interested, after all," she said. "What's in it for me?"

Trephas looked at her, confused.

Dezra nodded at the centaur's purse. "I'm not going to Darken Wood for free, you know."

"Oh," he said. He thought on this. "I suppose I could give thee some silver… ."

"Steel," she corrected. "Two hundred pieces—and that's just for me to go to Darken Wood with you. Once I'm there, if I decide to help, I'll expect more."

He pondered, pawing the floor with his forehoof. "Very well," he said after a moment. "I didn't realize thy people sold themselves so, but there it is. I'll pay thee, if thou wilt go. We leave in the morning."

"It's a deal," she said, offering her hand. He took it, clasping her wrist painfully tight. She raised her stoup. "To Darken Wood, then."

"To Darken Wood," Trephas echoed, flashing his big-toothed grin as he lifted his pitcher.

It had been a long night for Uwen Gondil. He'd eaten an obscene amount of food at the feast, and drank enough ale to make the ground rock underfoot. He'd also earned the attentions of many young townswomen. They'd heard of his heroics at the fair, and at times there were whole packs of them trying to catch his eye.

It wasn't that Uwen didn't appreciate all that giggling and eyelash-batting—he was seventeen, after all—but his attention was elsewhere. How could it be otherwise, when he'd lost his heart today? So, even when the chandler's daughter was whispering unladylike words in his ear, he'd kept an eye on the crowds, searching for Dezra Majere.

Sometime after midnight, when all but the young and the foolish had gone home, Uwen had found himself talking with Borlos, the bard, who claimed to be Caramon Majere's best friend.

"This ain't the first time this has happened," Borlos said, drunkenly flinging his arm about Uwen's shoulders. "That girl's been in more trouble than a kender in a gnome-hole. Anyway, she's more than you want to handle, believe me. Why not try her sister instead?"

He'd pointed at a red-haired girl who was busy keeping people's flagons filled. Uwen had walked over to her and exchanged a few words, but it had led nowhere. Laura was nice, yes, and friendly, but she was too docile and demure. Not at all like her sister. They'd drifted apart, and he'd resumed his vigil.

In the end, Dezra didn't show up; disappointed, Uwen stumbled away from the fire's embers. The sky was gray, brightening with coming dawn. He was weary and still a bit drunk, and had to stop now and then to lean against a vallen-wood's trunk.

It was during one of these stops that he saw her. He blinked in surprise as he watched Dezra skulk through the morning mist, bound for the fairgrounds. He thought to call out to her, but decided against it. There was something about the stealthy way she moved that made him think it would be a bad idea. Taking a deep breath, he pushed away from the tree and followed.

The fairgrounds were quiet and still. Most of the merchants would set out on the road this afternoon—after sleeping contentedly through the morning—bound for Haven or Gateway, or towns farther away. Dezra crept between the stalls, stopping now and again to lift a tent flap or peer inside a sack. At last she smiled, picked up a loaf of bread, and tucked it into a pouch at her hip.

Uwen gaped, not believing his eyes. There was no one to see her but him.

He should stop her, he knew. His parents had taught him good from evil, enough to know stealing wasn't right. But he didn't. He was captivated, watching the way her lithe form moved, the crooked smile that curled her lips. She crept on, and he went after her.

The bread wasn't all she stole—she also filched a wheel of white cheese, a few apples, and several hard sausages. She hooked a full ale-skin from a brewer's stall, as well as a silver flask of stronger spirits. From a tailor, she took a hooded, gray cloak. Last, she stopped at a weaponsmith's tent. The smith's apprentice, who should have been standing guard, slumped in his chair, snoring and drooling. Dezra eyed the drowsing lad, then nodded to herself, chuckling softly. Quiet as a shadow, she slipped into the tent. Uwen held his breath until she stepped out again, nearly a minute later. She buckled a swordbelt about her waist as she emerged. A slender, scabbarded blade now hung at her hip.

Uwen Gondil had lived most of his life on his family's farm. He'd never seen a woman wear a sword before. His fascination with Dezra Majere grew even stronger.

She was moving again, faster this time. He followed, the fog muting his thudding footsteps. Once she was out of the square, Uwen expected Dezra to head back to the Inn of the Last Home. To his surprise, she turned west instead, toward the edge of town. He kept after her.

Suddenly, another shape emerged from the fog in front of Dezra. Uwen stopped, staring in amazement. He'd heard there'd been a centaur at the fair, but he hadn't seen the beast. Now his mouth dropped wide open.

Dezra and the centaur spoke together a moment, too soft to hear, then he bent low beside her. She swung a leg across his withers, pulled herself astride his back, and gripped his shoulders as he rose again. Turning, he trotted west, out of Solace and onto the Haven Road.

Uwen was too stunned to do more than stare as Dezra and the centaur vanished into the mist. The sound of hoofbeats faded away. He thought of the stories his grandfather had told him when he was a boy. Didn't centaurs kidnap young ladies? Yes, of course they did—kidnapped them, took them to Darken Wood, and did things Grandfather hadn't wanted to talk about. Now that he was older, he had an idea what those things were.

One of the creatures had just taken Dezra.

He took a step forward, then stopped. Uwen could run fast, but not as fast as a horse—which was what the centaur was, after all. And if he did catch them? What then? He was a farm-boy, not a warrior. He'd seen the horse-man's lance and bow. He needed help.

Turning, he hurried back across Solace, toward the Inn of the Last Home.

Chapter Seven

Fortunately Caramon saw the mug coming, he ducked as it flew toward him, and it hit the wall behind him with a crash. Its shards clattered down around his feet.

"She's gone!" Uka shouted. "He took her, damn you!"

"What are you talking about?" Caramon asked, raising his hands to ward off more flying tankards.

Tika looked behind her. "You tell him."

Looking past her, Caramon saw the farmboy he'd wrestled at the fair. "Uwen?"

"It—it isn't my fault," the boy stammered. His eyes were wide, his face pale. "I wanted to stop him—"

"Hold on," Caramon said. "Slow down, lad. What's the matter?"

Uwen told him, pale and terrified: He'd seen Dezra at dawn, watched her pilfer traveling gear from half a dozen different merchants, then seen her and the centaur ride west out of Solace. Caramon bowed his head, a hollow feeling in his gut.

"It's your fault!" Tika yelled, letting another mug fly. He grunted as it glanced off his elbow. "Blast it, Caramon! How could you?"

"You'd have done the same thing."

"Exactly," she said, tears on her cheeks. "That's why I asked you to deal with her. I didn't trust my temper." She gestured at the shattered mugs. "I thought you'd go easier on her. You've always been the reasonable one. Was it reasonable to throw her out?"

Caramon sighed. He walked toward her, took her hands, gazed into her eyes. "Maybe it's time she was on her own. The boys were, when they were her age."

Tika's eyes flashed. "Look where that got them."

Caramon winced as he thought of Tanin and Sturm, their graves overgrown with ferns and myrtle. "Palm was young too, the first time he left home," he murmured. "If we'd kept him here, he wouldn't have met Usha, or had children of his own." There was unspoken meaning behind his words. If they'd sheltered Palin, Krynn might no longer exist. His magic had helped stop the mad god Chaos from destroying the world.

Tika shook her head stubbornly. "We're not talking about Palin. We're talking about our little girl."

"Gods, Tika," Caramon said, throwing up his hands, "what am I supposed to do?"

"Find her, you dolt! Get her back from that centaur."

Uwen stepped forward. "I think he kidnapped her," he said. "Like in the stories."

"I don't know," Caramon said, scratching his head. "You say she was wearing a sword… ."

"Kidnapped or not, she's riding into Darken Wood," Tika argued. "She doesn't know what she's getting into."

Caramon thought she probably did, but didn't say so. He bowed his head, gesturing at himself. "Look at me, Tika," he said. "Even Lord Gunthar quit sallying forth from his keep when he was my age—and he was a Knight of Solamnia."

"Gunthar would have gone, if it had been his daughter."

Yes, Caramon thought, I guess he would, damn it.

"And I know another man who wasn't much younger than you are now when he set out on a quest," Tika pressed. "A quest much more dangerous than following a runaway daughter into Darken Wood… ."

He shut his eyes. "Don't—"

"Riverwind."

Caramon blew out a long breath. Riverwind of Qué-Shu had been sixty-five when he'd gone east to defend Kendermore. But the kender hadn't approached him first—they'd asked Caramon. He'd turned them down, so Riverwind had gone instead. And Riverwind had died. Of all the burdens Caramon had shouldered in his life, it was one of the heaviest.

He took Tika's hand, squeezed it tightly. "I guess I'd better go find my armor then, eh?"

Caramon Majere had grown up with his half-sister Kitiara, the roughest woman he'd ever known. He'd lived among mercenaries, sailors and gladiators. He'd led an army of bandits and dwarves, and had run an inn for forty years. All of this, put together, made him one of Krynn's foremost experts on cursing.

The words that erupted from his bedroom as he tried on his armor would have made a pack of ogres run for cover.

He hadn't worn his armor since the Summer of Chaos. He took it out now and then to polish it, and it shone as he laid it out on the bed—gleaming plates and glistening mail, supple straps and glinting buckles—but he hadn't donned it in ten years.

Caramon knew he was in trouble as soon as he pulled on his chainmail shirt. It had hung loose on him when he was young, but now he could barely get it down over his belly. When he did, the mail bit into his flesh, leaving a web of red marks when he dragged it off again.

That was when the swearing started.

He tried to buckle his plate greaves on his shins, but the straps wouldn't reach. He had the same problem with his vambraces. After he tried—and failed—to put on his leather thigh guards, he started throwing things. He broke the washbasin with a gauntlet and gouged a furrow in the wall with a pauldron. He grunted and groaned, yanked and winced, but in the end only two pieces of armor still fit. One was his breastplate, an ornate Solamnic piece he'd acquired during the Dwarfgate War. The other was the piece he'd owned the longest, since his youth: a battered bronze helm with a crest shaped like a winged dragon. Once he had it on, he gathered the rest of his armor and stowed it away again. He kept the greaves and vambraces—a stop at the smithy would procure some larger straps—cursed a few more times for good measure, then went to fetch the rest of his armaments.

His dented, oval shield also needed new straps. He tossed it on the bed. He found an old spear, a shortbow without a string, and a half-empty quiver of arrows. He added a trip to Tavis the fletcher's shop to his list of errands, then walked to the mantel and pulled his sword off the wall. It was a formidable weapon, with a keen, well-tempered blade. Most men would have needed both hands to wield it, but Caramon could use it one-handed easily. He slid it out of its scabbard and took a few practice swings, satisfying himself that years of hoisting kegs had kept him strong.

Then he glimpsed himself in the silver wall mirror, and his smile faltered. He didn't see the young, brawny warrior who'd once swung the sword. It was a fat old man, and it didn't change no matter how much he sucked in his paunch.

Habbakuk's bollocks, he thought. Look at yourself. If you make it a league out of town without keeling over, it'll be a bloody miracle.

Laughing ruefully, he grabbed his gear, kicked open the door, and headed back downstairs.

Tika had laid several leather pouches and a pair of waterskins on the bar. Caramon dumped his gear on a table and went to examine them.

“It's trail food," Tika said. "Hardtack, salt pork, some prunes."

"Yum," Caramon said sourly. "Seems a bit much, doesn't it? I don't think I'll be gone longer than a few days." He unstopped a waterskin and took a sniff, then looked at Tika in alarm. "This is ale! You know I can't drink this stuff."

Tika nodded. "It isn't for you."

Caramon's eyes narrowed, then he shook his head, his helm glinting. "No," he told her. "You're staying here."

"It's not for her either, sir." Uwen stepped forward. "I volunteered to go with you."

"Eh?" Caramon gave the boy a hard look; Uwen lowered his gaze, his cheeks going red. "This isn't like scaring off some goblins who've been stealing your cattle, lad. Most folk who go into Darken Wood don't come out again."

"Darling," Tika said. "A word with you?"

She led him to the kitchen, leaving Uwen flushed and silent behind them. "He insisted," she said when they were beyond the boy's hearing. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen. I think he's sweet on Dez."

"Sweet Reorx," Caramon swore. "Does she even know he exists?"

"Well, he did save her from falling yesterday."

Caramon grunted, unconvinced.

"If you tell him no, he'll follow you anyway," Tika said.

Caramon studied Uwen. Solace was probably the farthest the boy ever been from his family's farm. And shouldn't he be going back there, now that the fair was over? Better that than bumbling after Dezra. He was likely to get himself killed.

Still, it didn't look like any of that mattered. Tika was right; even if he left without the boy, he'd turn around later today and see Uwen walking behind him. Better to begin the journey as friends. "All right," he said, raising his voice. "He can come."

The boy's face shone like a lantern. Caramon winced, and Tika hid a sudden grin.

"Well, then," Caramon said finally, gathering his gear again. "We'd best be off. Grab the food, Uwen, and—"

The door banged open. Caramon and Tika both looked at it, vainly hoping to see Dezra standing there. They were disappointed.

"Hey, big guy!" Borlos beamed.

He tromped into the tavern, lute slung over his shoulder. Clemen and Osier came in with him, and headed to their table by the kitchen. Clemen started shuffling cards as soon as he sat. Borlos stopped halfway across the room, however, looking at the pouches on the bar.

"Going somewhere, big guy?" he asked. "Looks like you're packed for a trip."

"We're going to Darken Wood," Uwen declared. "A centaur kidnapped Dezra. We're gonna rescue her."

"Really?" Borlos asked, nodding. The comers of his mouth twitched.

"Oh no," Caramon muttered. "Please don't smile."

The bard grinned. "A little adventure then, eh?" he asked. "To rescue the damsel fair. I know a song or three of the sort." He patted his lute.

"Bor!" called Clemen, riffling the deck. "We're setting up for a game of Blind Dwarf. Grab a seat."

"Not today, thanks," Borlos said. "Bigger things afoot. Don't want to miss an adventure, you know. I'll play when I get back."

"Get b—" Caramon started, then closed his mouth, scowling. It was the same with Borlos as with Uwen—he'd trail along, and nothing Caramon said would sway him.

The bard was even more of a problem, though. At least the farmboy was young and strong; Borlos was short and skinny, and at somewhere around forty winters he was past his prime. Still, he'd fought both the Knights of Takhisis and the hordes of Chaos ten years ago. At the least, he'd be good company.

"Fine," Caramon said at last. "You can come too."

"Great," Borlos answered, doffing his cap. "Maybe there'll even be a ballad in this, eh?"

We can only hope, Caramon thought wryly. "Dear," he said, "I think you'd better—"

Tika, however, was a step ahead. She'd already gone to the larder to pack more food. Shrugging, Caramon grabbed an empty waterskin and went to fill it with his spring brew.

They got horses from the stables, quick steeds Caramon kept to sell to travelers who needed fresh mounts. Uwen swung astride his easily, saddle creaking, but Borlos was a another story. He fumbled about with one foot in the stirrup while his horse twitched its ears in irritation. In the end, it took a boost from Caramon to get him up.

Caramon surveyed his companions and tried not to sigh. "You both might need armor," he said, gathering his horse's reins. "Boiled leather, at the least. I don't suppose either of you has a weapon?"

Uwen shook his head.

"I've got this," Borlos said. He drew a stiletto from his belt. Its narrow blade glinted in the sun.

"That won't do," Caramon said. "We'll find something simple—an axe or a hammer, or something. Can either of you pay?"

"I have some silver," Uwen declared.

Caramon turned to Borlos.

"Sorry, big guy," the bard said blithely. "I'm in debt to Clem and Osier a fair bit of steel just now. I'll have to owe you."

"Ah," Caramon declared without surprise. He eyed the both of them one last time, then trudged toward the smithy. This was going to be quite the adventure, all right.

Chapter Eight

Dezra felt like death on a platter.

She'd still been drunk at dawn, when she stole her gear and rode out on Trephas's back. That was long past now, and sobriety wasn't being friendly. Her stomach kept trying to climb up her throat; her head wanted to hatch. Trephas wasn't being very considerate, either. He kept at a canter along the winding Haven Road, bouncing her mercilessly with every step.

Finally, as the sun began to wester, she could take no more. "Stop," she moaned. "Now."

Trephas glanced at her, then halted and knelt in the road. She slid off his back and stumbled over to lean, wheezing, against a mossy boulder. Trephas pulled some flat bread and black olives from his pack and ate. He chuckled. "Ah, yes," he said. "I've heard thy kind get terrible sick from too much drink. A… hangover, is that word?"

Last night, his arrogance had seemed charming; now it rankled her. Blithely, he pulled out a wineskin and took a long swig. "I wouldn't know the feeling," he said. "It's never happened to me before."

That, Dezra thought as she rubbed her throbbing temples, was not fair.

She looked around blearily. The Haven Road was busy most spring days, but this was the day after a festival. There were no travelers to be seen. Ahead on the left loomed a tall mountain, its cleft top shaped like a pair of giant, beseeching hands.

"There's Prayer's Eye Peak," she said. "There should be a path to it up ahead."

"There is." Trephas clenched his jaw, pawing the ground. "We shan't use it, though."

"What?" Dezra returned. "Prayer's Eye Peak's the only pass into Darken Wood around here. If we don't take it, we'll have to go miles out of the way."

The centaur's eyes narrowed, lingering on the cleft mountain. "Even so," he said.

Dezra shook her head. "You're going to have to say more than that. I don't know how it is with your people, but I'm not some… filly you can order around without—"

"Whist!" Trephas hissed, holding up a hand.

"Whist?" Dezra exclaimed. "Who uses words like 'whist' any more?"

"Be still!"

The centaur's sharp tone silenced her. She touched her sword as he reached over his shoulder and pulled out his bow. He slid an arrow out of his quiver and notched it on the string. It tapped nervously against the bow-stave.

Dezra glanced about, searching for whatever trouble Trephas sensed. For a moment all was silent, save the moan of the wind and the soft tap-tap-tap of the centaur's arrow. Then, faintly, she heard something ahead: the thud of hoofbeats, the rattle of harnesses.

Trephas's tail twitched edgily. "Mount up," he hissed. "We must ride before the trap is set."

Dezra caught her breath, then lunged toward the centaur and climbed onto his back. She almost slid off the other side, then caught her arms about his waist to right herself.

Trephas's reflexes were quicker than any horse's. One moment he was standing still, the next he was halfway to a gallop and gaming speed. Startled, Dezra nearly lost her grip, and clutched him even tighter. Her heels pounded his flanks, spurring him on.

"Stop kicking me!" he barked. "And loosen thy grasp. I can't breathe with thee squeezing me so!"

Reluctantly, she obeyed. Trephas surged down the path, mane flying, dust billowing behind him. Dezra considered drawing her sword, but only for a moment: it was hard enough to stay on the centaur's back with two hands. She didn't want to risk one.

The path curved ahead. It was a sharp turn, after which, Dezra knew, it descended into a gully where an old trail led to Prayer's Eye Peak. That was where the approaching hoof-beats were coming from. She didn't know who would get to the crossroads first.

"Hang on," Trephas warned.

She gripped with arms and knees as Trephas flew around the turn. They charged downhill, at a pace that promised broken bones, or worse, if either of them fell. Dezra craned her neck, brushing aside his mane to peer ahead. The path to Prayer's Eye Peak was a narrow game trail, bristling with grass and leafy weeds. It cut through the mountains toward the cleft crag, barely wide enough for a lone rider to negotiate. So, instead of coming two or three abreast, the ambushers had to move single file.

They were centaurs, Dezra saw. But something was wrong with them.

At first glance, they looked like they were kin to Trephas, but something was different. They moved with unnatural fluidity, plucking arrows from their quivers and nocking them on their bowstrings. Every now and then, they twitched and jerked, like a man stung by a wasp. They were shaped oddly, too. One was so thin as to be skeletal; others were masses of corded muscle; another still was disgustingly obese. Some had lost patches of hair, others were too hairy by half. Their legs were too long, or of mismatched lengths; arms too short; ears like horses' instead of men's. None of them had tails. Their eyes had no whites, but were all dull, empty pupil: blank, dark, devoid of feeling.

Dezra shuddered as she met their cold, empty gaze. Branchala bite me, she thought. What are these?

Now they were a hundred paces away. One, a hulking, bay brute whose upper half resembled an ogre more than a man, raised his bow and loosed a shot. The arrow soared high, then dove to shatter before Trephas's flashing hooves.

Sixty paces.

"Thenidor," Trephas snorted as the bay readied another arrow. "I should have guessed." Keeping up the charge, he brought up his bow, pulled back the string. The misshapen horsefolk did the same, arrowheads glinting in the sun. Dezra clenched her teeth.

Forty paces. Trephas's bowstring thrummed. To the bay's left, a gray, hunchbacked centaur dropped, its breast pierced. It thrashed on the ground, limbs flailing.

It saved them.

The bay, Thenidor, stumbled sideways as the dying gray kicked at him. He fired, but his aim was ruined. The shot soared away uselessly. Beside him, a wiry black centaur lowered his weapon and leapt aside. At the end of the row, a shaggy brown whose long face had at least as much horse as man to it launched his own shot. Dezra ducked as the arrow streaked straight toward them. Trephas swerved, and she heard a hum as the shaft flashed past.

Twenty paces.

She peeked over Trephas's shoulder. Ahead, the misshapen centaurs milled about in confusion. Thenidor dropped his bow and pulled a halberd from his war harness.

Ten.

Dezra ducked behind Trephas, squeezing her eyes shut and gripping him tightly.

There was shouting all around, and the clatter of hooves. Trephas struck something hard, glanced off, and kept running. A low whistle split the air—Thenidor's halberd—then the commotion was behind them: horseshoes ringing on stone, snarled curses, creaking bows.

She opened her eyes and glanced about. Trephas was bleeding from a gash across his flank, but he kept up his desperate, galloping pace. The road ahead was dear. She twisted, glancing back, and saw their would-be ambushers in disarray. The gray was no longer moving. Awkwardly, the other centaurs wheeled around. Thenidor still gripped his halberd, but the wiry black and the shaggy brown raised their bows and fired. One shot fell to Trephas's right, splintering against the stones; the other grazed the tip of his tail before clattering to the ground.

"We made it!" Dezra whooped, pounding his back.

Trephas ignored her, plunging on without slowing. Soon, Dezra saw why: The misshapen horse-men leapt into motion. She counted their pursuers—six, it looked like—before Trephas crested the rise and rounded another bend in the road. Then they were gone from sight, though she still could hear their thundering hooves.

"So much for Prayer's Eye Peak," Dezra said, watching the mountain drop away behind them. "What in the Abyss were those… things?"

Trephas didn't answer. He lowered his head, charging along the winding Haven Road into the heart of the Sentinel Peaks. Their pursuers' hoofbeats kept pace.

"Hey!" Dezra yelled. "Aren't you listen—"

"I can run," Trephas snarled, "or I can talk. I haven't the wind for both." He drew a ragged breath, as if to emphasize the point.

Dezra scowled. "All right. Don't be so damn touchy."

Trephas grunted and galloped onward, mane and tail streaming. Dezra held on, her hangover forgotten.

They rode hard and fast, for what seemed like hours. When they slow'ed again at last, Dezra was exhausted. Every bone in her body throbbed from the centaur's jarring gait. Lathered with sweat, Trephas eased into a trot and glanced back.

They'd seen their pursuers only twice since Prayer's Eye Peak, and then only for a few moments. The misshapen centaurs had loosed a few shots, which Trephas had evaded nimbly. Now, however, there was no one behind them.

"Are they gone?" Dezra asked.

Trephas cocked an ear, sucking his teeth, then nodded. "I reckon so. They kept us from the Wood, which was their aim—though I'm sure Thenidor's fuming that he didn't kill us. Now," he added, coming to a halt, "I must rest. Get off."

Dezra slumped off his back and sat on a tree stump by the roadside. She winced as her legs tried to cramp up, took a nip from the flask of dwarf spirits she'd purloined, and looked about, getting her bearings.

They had come a long way. The vallenwoods of Solace Vale had given way to swaying pines and spruces. They were almost to the Sentinel Gap, where the Haven Road turned south, toward Shadow Canyon and the lowlands beyond. The sun almost touched the mountaintops ahead.

"So," she asked, glancing back. The road remained deserted. "Now that we've lost your friends back there, would you mind telling me what that was about?"

When Trephas didn't answer, she glanced at him in irritation. The centaur had dozed off on his feet, as a horse might do. His head drooped, his short beard mingling with the hairs on his chest. His flanks moved in and out, dark with perspiration.

"Oh, no you don't," Dezra muttered.

She tossed a pebble at him, striking him on the shoulder. He looked up with a snort, fumbling with his bow. "What—"

"Answers," Dezra said. "You said we'd talk when you stopped running."

He set down his weapon, his brows lowering, and rubbed his aching shoulders. "What wouldst thou know?"

"Well, to start, why did a bunch of your people try to fill us with arrows back there?"

"They aren't my people." Trephas tossed his head. "They gave up any kinship to me long ago."

"I see." Dezra regarded the centaur levelly. "Who's Thenidor?"

"He's Lord Chrethon's man," Trephas replied. "Though once he was loyal to Lord Menelachos, before he Crossed and threw in against the Circle."

"Ah. So he's one of those renegades you've been talking about," Dezra said. "Who are the others? Chrethon and Menelachos?"

He regarded her carefully, then shook his head, amazed at her ignorance. "The Circle of Four rule over the centaurs of Darken Wood—those who haven't turned to darkness, at least. Lord Menelachos is High Chief; my father, Nemeredes the Elder, is another of their number. So was Lord Chrethon, until he turned oath-breaker and renounced them. For that, they cast him out—would that they'd cut his throat instead of his tail! But he lived, and vowed revenge. That was a decade ago. We've been at war ever since."

Dezra caught her breath. "War?" she echoed furiously. "I thought you said there were only a few rebels!"

Trephas glanced away, his mane fluttering in the wind. "I was going to tell thee the truth, before we entered the Wood," he said. "I didn't think we'd run afoul of Thenidor. I meant to go the long way around, through Shadow Canyon, and enter the forest from the west—that part of Darken Wood doesn't belong to the Skorenoi yet."

"Skorenoi?"

"The Fallen Ones," Trephas explained. "Those who've given themselves to Lord Chrethon."

"Oh," Dezra said. "Like Thenidor."

Trephas spat on the ground. "Just so. I didn't think they'd be bold enough to waylay us on the open road."

Dezra studied Trephas's handsome, ruddy face as he stared into the distance, then she slapped her hands on her knees and pushed to her feet. "So what happens now?"

"That's thy choice to make," Trephas said. "I lied to thee—if thou dost not wish go on into Darken Wood, I shall understand. I'll take thee to Haven, and seek other help there."

"Oh, I'll go on," Dezra declared. "But my price for riding into a war is higher than we agreed on. Another hundred pieces of steel."

Trephas pondered, stroking his beard, then nodded. "Very well."

Dezra smiled. "Good. Now, we should get moving again. The sun's going to go down, and there's still a long—"

She broke off, a shiver running up her back. She'd heard something—something that wasn't the wind or a far-off rock-fall. Presently it rose again, echoing among the peaks: hoof-beats. They were still distant, but there they were, behind them and coming closer.

"Sharp stones and ,loose shoes," Trephas swore.

Muttering a curse Of her own, Dezra peered back down the path. She could see them now, in the distance: three of them. One was small and wiry, another fat, the third massively muscular.

Trephas had an arrow nocked, and was tapping it against his bow. "Thou had best climb on my back again," he ventured. "Our flight isn't over yet, it seems."

Chapter Nine

The wind shrieked like a banshee as they charged through Sentinel Gap, blasting their faces with stinging ice. Patches of pebbly snow covered the stony ground, wreathed in meltwater. In the midst of the pass, a deep pool had accumulated. Trephas plunged into it without hesitation. Dezra gritted her teeth as the frigid water splashed her. If it bothered the centaur, he gave no sign.

Then they were out the other side, the road rising steeply. They stopped atop the ridge at the gap's far side. Before them, the road descended again, winding south through the mountains. Behind, the narrow defile stretched out beneath them.

Trephas squinted. "Chislev's withers," he cursed. "I see them."

Peering, Dezra spotted them too: three indistinct forms, halfway down the near slope. "Damn," she swore. "They've gained ground."

"The climb slowed us," Trephas said. "We should waste no more time. Shadow Canyon still lies ahead, and night comes on."

Several miles farther on, two mountains rose like fangs on either side of the road. They were the twin peaks, Tasin and Fasin, each more than twice as tall as Prayer's Eye. Between them, the path narrowed into a crevasse that was swathed in gloom. It was early evening now, and Tasin blocked the sunlight, so Shadow Canyon was as dark as a starless night when Trephas and Dezra rode into it.

The darkness deepened the farther they went, forcing Trephas to slow to a trot. This turned out to be good fortune: It kept them both from being killed when, suddenly, he threw one of his shoes. He stumbled, and Dezra pitched sideways, clutching his war harness to keep from falling. She swung awkwardly to the ground and bent down beside him.

“Lift your hoof," she said. "Let me see."

He did as she bade, twisting and craning so he could look too. She shook her head.

"Came off clean, looks like," she said, rising. "I'll go find the shoe. Maybe I can bang it back in—"

"No!" Trephas yelped.

She stopped, startled. "What?"

"Hast thou ever shod a horse before?" he asked.

"No, but… ."

"Then don't try now. Thou couldst lame me. I'd rather go unshod." He shuddered. "Bang it back in indeed."

Using his lance, he pried off his remaining shoes. He tucked them into a pouch, then walked forward a few halting paces.

"I should be fine," he said. "There isn't much farther to go over stone—there's a valley that leads to Darken Wood on the gap's far side." He glanced back. "I can't keep the pace we've been making, though."

Dezra couldn't hear their pursuers' pounding hooves yet, but that wouldn't last. "They'll be on us soon."

"We can't outrun them," Trephas said grimly. "We'll have to find another way."

"You mean fight."

"If need be, aye."

Dezra nodded grimly. "We'd better find some way to even the odds, then."

A hundred yards on, they found what they sought: an old, fallen walnut tree. It lay at the road's edge, abristle with broken branches. Together, they dragged it across the pass. Its sharp limbs formed an invisible picket in Tasin's shadow.

Trephas wiped his brow, then made his way around the log and stooped low on the other side. Dezra started to follow, then stopped, glancing up Tasin's slope. Carefully, she climbed onto the log. She ran her hands over the cliff face and found a crack in the stone, wide enough for her to wedge her fingers inside. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself up.

"Dezra!" Trephas hissed. "Get back down here—we have to make ready for them!"

"What do you think I'm doing?" she shot back.

She continued to pull herself up until she reached what she'd seen from the ground: a ledge ten feet above the canyon floor, just wide enough to stand on. She hauled herself up onto it, flattening against the stone.

"Art thou all right?" Trephas asked.

"Fine," she replied, sucking on a tom fingernail and tasting blood. Slowly she sidled away from Trephas and the log. She reached for her sword, then checked herself and drew her dagger instead. "All right," she said. "You keep them busy. I'll jump them from behind."

Trephas regarded her uncertainly. "Thou hast done this before?"

"Of course not."

The centaur turned back to the road. His arrow tapped softly against his bow. Before long, they heard it: the faint clamor of iron-shod hooves. It grew steadily louder and closer, trotting straight toward the fallen tree. Dezra strained to see, and managed to make out the shapes of their pursuers in the gloom. She counted three heads, which seemed right, but there was something strange about the shadowed figures. She concentrated, holding her breath, as she tried to figure out what it was.

Reckless riders would never have seen the log, and would have impaled themselves on its branches. Their pursuers' gait was only a trot, though, and the lead rider—from its muscular shape, she guessed it was Thenidor—reined sharply in. Hooves skittered as the threesome drew to a halt, not far from the fallen tree. The fat one stared at it, almost straight at Trephas. He'd stopped right beneath Dezra. Looking at him, she realized what wasn't right. It was something about the the way he fingered his bow, and pulled on his reins… .

Reins?

She knew, then. They weren't Thenidor and his fellows at all. They were men on horseback. She swallowed, realizing how close she'd come to leaping on the fat one and plunging her dagger into his ribs.

Then, from behind the fallen walnut, she heard the creak of a drawn bowstring.

"No!" she hissed. "It isn't them! Don't shoot—"

Startled, the rider below her swung his bow up and fired. Dezra ducked, twisting aside—and lost her balance as the shaft missed her completely. She dropped her dagger, wind-milled her arms, and toppled off the ledge, onto the fat rider. His bow went flying as he tumbled from his saddle, landing with a crash of armor. Dezra sprawled across the saddle, shaken but unhurt.

The horse, already skittish in the darkness, went completely berserk. Screaming, it reared and threw her off, then bolted back up the road. As it passed, the third horse followed suit, throwing its rider—the small, wiry one—as well. Only the first man, the muscular one, stayed upright. He turned, fumbling for a weapon.

"Don't," Trephas told him, rising from behind the log. "There's an arrow aimed at thy heart."

"Caramon?" the muscular one asked, his voice edged with fear. "Can you see her?"

Dezra had landed on top of the fat rider. He grunted and pushed her off, then stood up stiffly. "More or less," he said.

Dezra stared. "Father?"

Behind her, the wiry man groaned, lurching to his knees. "What in the blue Abyss is going on?"

"It's all right, Bor," said Caramon. "We found them. Or they found us. Or something."

He extended his big, meaty hand. She took it, and he hoisted her to her feet. She glanced at the wiry man—it was Borlos, the bard from the Inn—then at the muscular one who'd kept his horse. "Who's he?" she asked.

"That's Uwen," replied Caramon.

It took her a moment to put a face to the name: the oafish farmboy who'd saved her from falling off the bridge. The one who'd looked at her with those dumb, lovestruck eyes. She groaned.

"It's all right, Dezra," Uwen vowed. "You're safe now."

Dezra laughed scornfully and turned toward Trephas.

"Hear that? I'm safe. You can put down the bow."

Slowly, the bowstring relaxed. They all stood quietly, looking at one another. Dezra cleared her throat and looked at her father.

"So," she asked, "what in the Abyss are you doing here?"

It took a while to get sorted out; everyone was confused, and the darkness didn't help. Uwen retrieved the horses, and they continued afoot, leading the animals out of Shadow Canyon. The sun had set; the clouds glowed gold and rose as they wended toward the lowlands. Trephas led the way, bow in hand. Borlos and Uwen followed. Both were dad in plain leather armor. The bard wore a round-headed mace on his belt; the farmboy carried a stout axe. Behind them, separated by a fair distance, came Caramon and Dezra.

"I didn't come to rescue you," Caramon said.

Dezra nodded at Uwen. "He seems to think you did."

The farmboy was glowering at Trephas. She and the centaur had both explained that Trephas hadn't abducted her, that Dezra had accompanied him freely. Still, Uwen remained suspicious.

"If this isn't some dim-witted idea of a rescue," she pressed, "then why'd you come after me? Last night you never wanted to see me again."

Caramon's mouth was a hard line. "Your mother sent me. She's wants you to come home. I don't really care what you do."

"Good," Dezra snapped. "Because unless you conk me on the head and carry me back, I'm going on."

"Into Darken Wood." Caramon bared his teeth. "Why?"

"Because it isn't Solace."

Scowling, Caramon nodded ahead, at Trephas. "Tell me, girl—do you even know why that one wants your help?"

Dezra realized she wasn't sure. The story about a simple problem with rebels rang false, now that she knew the horsefolk were at war. The troubles in the forest ran deeper than Trephas had told her.

"That doesn't matter," she said stubbornly. "I've only agreed to go to this Ithax place to find out what the Circle wants. If I don't like it, I'll leave."

Caramon's brow creased. "You really think it'll be that easy?"

She bit her lip. "I'm getting paid for this," she growled.

"Oh," he said knowingly. "I'm sure the money will be a great comfort when you get yourself killed."

She glared at him. "Go home, Father. Take Borlos and that clod"—she jerked her thumb at Uwen—"with you. I don't want your help."

Before he could reply, she picked up her pace, striding quickly ahead. He took a few steps after her, then relented, watching her shove Uwen aside to join Trephas at the fore. He shook his head.

"Sure, Dez," he mumbled. "Don't worry about that."

Chapter Ten

The view from the Haven Road was spectacular, they were still high up in the hills, and the forest stretched out below them, the trees crowded together with little space between. The breaks among them were small and few: here a gap marking a meadow, there a snaking line where a stream flowed. The rest was a verdant ocean, rippling as the wind hissed through the leaves. It was the witchery of the place that made it lush when Solace's vallenwoods were still budding. The trees looked ordinary—aspens on the hills, dark oaks below—but something about them exuded a wild, deep power that was more felt than seen.

"Are we going to stand up here forever?" Dezra asked. "Or can we go down now?"

"D-down?" Uwen blurted, wide-eyed with awe.

"You're not scared, are you?" Dezra scoffed. She laughed as the farmboy's face reddened.

Borlos glared at her. "Have done, Dez. There's enough stories about Darken Wood to shiver a kender's skin."

"Ghost stories, you mean." She nodded at the trees. "The dead don't walk there any more."

Caramon nodded. "True. But what about those things who attacked you at Prayer's Eye?"

"The Skorenoi won't trouble us," Trephas declared. "These lands still belong to my people. But even so, we'll camp outside the Wood until morning."

Uwen let out a thankful sigh, and even Borlos and Caramon looked relieved. Dezra, however, eyed the centaur skeptically. She picked up an aspen leaf and began to rip pieces off it.

"What now, then?" she asked.

Caramon nodded down the slope. "We camp. There's a spot down there, at the wood's edge."

They followed his gaze, seeing a green sward, dotted with wildflowers, down by the tree line. A creek wended through it, forming a pond at the forest's rim.

"S-so close?" Uwen asked nervously. "Isn't there somewhere else?"

"You can stay in the middle of the road, if you want," Dezra snapped.

"Dezra," Borlos interjected. "Leave the kid alone."

She shot him a scathing look. "Why don't you go play your lute?" Turning, she started downhill.

It was a hard climb. The ground was loose and gravelly. The horses flared their nostrils, shying back when Caramon and the others tried to coax them down the slope. Finally Trephas, who'd followed Dezra partway down the hill, turned and climbed back up. He strode from one fidgeting horse to the next, making strange sounds. He blew out his lips, pranced sideways, and shook himself, whickering. The horses eyed him, then lowered their heads.

"Release the reins," he said. "Leave them to me."

Astonished, the others did as he bade. When he started back down the hill, the horses followed. The others gaped.

"Did he just do what I think he did?" asked Borlos. "Did he talk to them?"

"Why not?" Dezra called up. "He's at least as much horse as man, and he can speak our language well enough."

Down in the sward, Caramon and Uwen tethered the horses while Trephas walked in a broad circle, flattening the grass. Borlos sat on a log, tuning his lute. Dezra went to the creek and filled her waterskin.

It was dark when she returned. Caramon and Uwen walked toward the camp from the tree line, carrying armloads of dry, gray wood. "Don't worry," Caramon told Trephas. "It's all windfall—we didn't cut any. My brother Raist warned me never to harm anything in Darken Wood."

"I've heard tales of thy brother," Trephas said. "His wisdom is renowned, but in this case he overstated. It isn't forbidden to cut timber in Darken Wood, or gather berries or nutmeats… or even hunt. The only law is not to take more than we need. It's the way of Chislev: We don't mourn that which dies fulfilling its purpose in this world."

"I remember," Caramon replied. "The Forestmaster told my friends and me that, during the War—" He stopped, eyebrows rising. "What's wrong?"

The centaur's ruddy skin had grown suddenly pale, and his nostrils were flared wide. He bowed his head, his mane spilling over his face.

"Trephas?" Dezra asked.

He was silent a moment, then drew a deep breath and blew it out. "I'll find us supper," he said. He moved away, to the forest's edge.

The others watched him go. Dezra chewed her lip, then turned to her father. "You should see to the fire."

Nodding, Caramon set up the firewood on a patch of bare earth and ringed it with stones. Satisfied, he picked up a rock and struck it against his dagger. Nothing happened. He struck them again and again, to no avail.

"Come on, you bastard," he muttered. "Light."

Sighing, Dezra strode over and crouched beside him. She scraped another stone against her own dirk, and made a bright spark that fell into the firewood. The tinder caught quickly, issuing a curl of smoke that she coaxed into a crackling fire.

Caramon looked from the flames to Dezra, raising an eyebrow. She shrugged, her mouth curling into a lopsided grin as she slapped her dagger back into its sheath.

The sound of plucked strings rang across the sward: Borlos was playing his lute. He strummed a few chords, tightened a string, then began a sweet, wistful ballad. He sang in a quiet tenor:

The silver moon shines down on me,
And on my lady fair-oh,
It glows within her eyes of green,
And in her golden hair-oh.
In years gone by, the moon has heard
Our laughter and our tears-oh,
It listened as we shared our love,
Our hopes and wants and fears-oh.
Its light has seen our limbs entwined,
Her body clasped to mine-oh,
It breathed the perfume of her breath—

"She stank of fish and wine-oh," Dezra interrupted.

Borlos's lute twanged discordantly. He glared at her. "I'd rather you didn't interrupt," he said.

She laughed. "And I'd rather you didn't play. Honestly, Bor, that song was so maudlin—"

"Hush," Caramon said suddenly.

The sharpness in his tone checked Dezra's tongue. She rose, touching her sword. Uwen reached for his axe. Borlos set down his lute and cast about, trying to remember where he'd put his mace.

"Stay," Caramon said. "We're not in danger."

"Oh, for the love of Reorx," Dezra snapped. "What, then?"

His brow furrowed. "I'm not sure. A feeling—like someone was in pain. It came from that way… ." He pointed toward the dark forest.

He expected Dezra to laugh. Instead, she stared at the trees, her face pale. "I think I felt it too, just now," she murmured. "It was like… like…"

"Like the forest itself was suffering."

They nearly leapt out of their skins. Concentrating on the forest, they hadn't seen Trephas approaching. The centaur stepped into the firelight. Slung over his shoulder were three coneys.

"It happens sometimes," he said, his face troubled. "It isn't very strong here. Still, not long ago, we wouldn't have been able to feel it at all, this far away."

"Far away from what?" Borlos asked.

Trephas hesitated, stricken, then lowered his gaze. "No. I've already said too much. Thou must wait until we reach Ithax."

"The hell we must," Caramon said. He walked toward the centaur, folding his arms. "There's more than just a war going on in there," he said, pointing at the trees. "Tell us."

The strange, disquieting feeling had passed. The night was still, save for the murmur of the leaves. The fire crackled, sending a storm of embers roiling skyward. Trephas looked from Dezra to Caramon, then sighed and tossed the coneys to the ground.

"Very well," he said. "But first, let us eat. Thou wilt have little appetite, I fear, after the tale is told."

"It began ten years ago, when the Knights of Takhisis held these lands," Trephas began. He knelt by the fire, staring at the embers. The others gathered around, sucking meat from the last of the coneys' bones. They watched the centaur intently, glancing now and then at the looming shadow of Darken Wood.

"I've told thee of Lord Chrethon," Trephas murmured. "I haven't said why he rebelled against the Circle. It wasn't for any terrible crime, not as two-legged folk reckon it. He was exiled for fighting the Dark Knights. His tribe slew a company of them, so the Circle cast them out."

"What?" Dezra exclaimed. "But they were evil! It was right to fight them."

"That was what Chrethon believed. He wasn't alone." Trephas paused, then shook his head. "But the Forestmaster bade us not to enter the war—and in those days, the Forestmaster spoke for Chislev herself."

"And the gods chose for darkness to win the war," Borlos added. "Chaos was too much a threat for Good and Evil to quarrel, and at the time, Evil was stronger. So the gods—all the gods—let the Knights triumph, so they could fight the greater danger."

Trephas nodded. "Just so. But Lord Chrethon felt he knew better. The Circle was loath to slay him for it, however, and instead took his tail, marking him as a traitor and exiling his tribe.

"For two years after the Chaos War, we heard nothing of his people. They'd gone east and disappeared. Some believed they'd perished, or left Darken Wood. Then, one spring, one of the Circle, Lord Thymmiar, went hunting in the east. Without warning, Chrethon and his minions attacked his party, and slaughtered them all—save one, Xagander, whom Chrethon allowed to go free. First, though, Chrethon gelded him."

The meadow was still. Caramon and Borlos exchanged grim glances. Uwen went white, dropping his hands into his lap.

"That was the war's beginning," Trephas continued. "Xagander returned to Ithax, bearing Lord Thymmiar's head and the tale of the attack. Chrethon, he said, had gone mad, yearning for revenge against those who had punished him.

"Chrethon's followers had changed in other ways, too. Out of loyalty to their lord, they had docked their own tails—but that wasn't all. They were deformed now, Xagander said, twisted and foul. They looked and moved like no centaur."

"Like the ones at Prayer's Eye," Dezra murmured.

Trephas nodded. "At first, the Circle didn't believe Xagander. He was mad himself after his ordeal, and soon took his own life. But that summer, Chrethon and his minions struck again—another ambush, this time aimed at Lord Pleuron. Unlike Thymmiar, however, Pleuron survived, though he lost an arm in the fighting, as well as his son, Acraton. He returned to Ithax and confirmed Xagander's tale. The Keening Wind tribe had indeed changed—or Crossed, as we call it now. They'd become Skorenoi."

"But it would take powerful magic to do such a thing," Caramon ventured. "How could it happen?"

"That was a mystery," Trephas said. "My people never practiced sorcery, even before magic disappeared. The Circle tried to learn the answer, but to no avail. The Skorenoi's attacks became more and more vicious. By the next year they were razing whole villages. They slew scores of my people, and took even more as prisoners. What's worse, within a week, those prisoners had also Crossed, and fought beside the Skorenoi, their tails shorn and their bodies changed.

"So our enemy grew, and we weakened. We fled lands we'd walked for centuries. Even in the places we thought safest, we found danger from within. Our own kin deserted us, gave themselves into Chrethon's service."

Dezra stared in disbelief. "But why?"

"What reasons are there ever for betrayal?" Trephas replied. "Many warriors sympathized with Lord Chrethon. They went over to his side. Thenidor and his fellows were the first to do so. Once they did, others followed—young stallions, mostly.

"Others did it simply for power," he added, and spat in the fire. "They saw Chrethon was winning, and changed sides. The worst happened two summers ago. One of the chieftains, Leodippos of the Leaping Hart, renounced the Circle and took most of his tribe to Sangelior, the Skorenoi's stronghold. Now Leodippos is Chrethon's right hand, leading many of the attacks himself. And every time, he drives us back even farther.

"That's how it stands today," Trephas finished sadly. "We are outmatched. The Circle believes we won't see summer's end, unless something's done."

"So they sent you to find help," Caramon said.

The centaur nodded.

Dezra glanced around the sward, looking at Uwen, Borlos and her father. "And this is the best you could do?" she asked. "You should have gotten an army of Solamnic Knights, or at least a gang of sellswords."

"The Circle didn't send me for help fighting the Skorenoi," Trephas replied. "We need thee for something else."

"What, then?" Caramon pressed.

Trephas leveled his dark gaze on them. "Thou asked what stood behind Chrethon—what sort of magic begat the Skorenoi."

"I thought you said you didn't know," noted Dezra.

"Not so. I said it was a mystery, and it was, for many years. But now we know the truth." He paused, then blew out his lips. "During our first battle against Lord Leodippos, after he and his tribe Crossed, my brother Gyrtomon captured several Skorenoi. We lost the battle, and many of our warriors were dragged away to serve Chrethon, but we kept the prisoners to question them.

"Most of them took their own lives, rather than telling us anything. One we kept from harming himself, though, and our herbalists plied him with draughts to make him speak. That was how we learned about the daemon tree."

Dezra blinked. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't think I heard that right. Did you say daemon—"

"Tree, aye."

"I see," Dezra said skeptically. "And it's this… tree… ."

"That changes my people into Skorenoi," Trephas finished.

"How?" Uwen asked.

Caramon spoke before the centaur could answer. "Chaos," he breathed. "That's it, isn't it?"

"What?" Dezra scoffed. "That's impossible. Chaos was banished ten years ago, at the end of the war. How can he be back?"

"He isn't," Trephas said. "If he were, Darken Wood would no longer stand. But his children remain, just as the children of the gods—elves, ogres, humans—stayed when their makers departed. Even now, shadow-wights and fire dragons still roam the land."

Borlos nodded. "I've heard the same."

"And there are others, too," Trephas continued. "Beings of immense power. One dwells in Darken Wood, in the east. Its true name is not known, but my people call it Grim-bough. Once, it was one of the forest's grandest oaks, but Chaos touched it, perverted it with his power. When the change was done, Grimbough could think and speak, and lusted for blood. Like all minions of Chaos, its power comes from corrupting others. Such is the case with the Skorenoi. Grimbough twists them when they Cross—in body, mind and soul."

No one spoke for a long time. A wolf howled mournfully, deep within the wood.

"Grimbough isn't just corrupting my people, either," Trephas added. "It wants to destroy the forest itself. That's why Darken Wood's in pain." He drew a hand across his face, his eyes shining. "In the east, Grimbough has worked its corruption on the forest, just as it has marked the Skorenoi. Its stain still hasn't spread far, praise Chislev, but it grows every day. My people strive to preserve the wood, but if Chrethon defeats us, Darken Wood will be lost."

"It's something to do with the tree, right?" Borlos asked. "That's why you want our help."

"Aye. Don't ask what thy task shall be," the centaur added before they could speak. "The Circle didn't tell me."

Caramon shifted, giving Trephas a hard look. "So… you tricked me into coming," he said slowly. The fire popped, sending sparks soaring.

"Father," Dezra said impatiently, "he didn't come for you. I'm the one who went with him, remember?"

"Only to lure me after you," Caramon said. "Isn't that right, Trephas?"

The centaur hunched his shoulders, staring at the ground. "Aye," he replied. "I proposed the wager at the fair to trick thee into accompanying me, but when thou refused, I had to find another way. I took thy daughter, knowing thou wouldst follow."

Dezra rose, her face red. "So I was what, then?" she snapped. "Bait?"

"Not just that," Trephas answered. "The Circle bade me bring back a Majere—they didn't specify which. At first, I wanted thy father, because of his renown. But when I saw what thou didst at the fair, and again to that sellsword in the tavern, I thought the Circle would find thee as useful as Caramon—perhaps even more." He flashed an apologetic glance at her father. "I mean no offense, but I thought thou wouldst be… more like thou once were."

"Then you don't need him after all," Dezra declared triumphantly. "I'm the better choice."

The centaur hesitated. "Perhaps… ."

"Good," Dezra finished. "Because you can only have one of us. If he goes with you, I'm out."

"Dez—" Caramon began.

"No!" she snapped. "I don't want you tagging along, hanging over my shoulder. Go back to Solace. If you don't, I'll leave, and go on to Haven."

No one spoke. The others looked from daughter to father, not sure what would happen next. They stared stonily at each other. Finally, Caramon sighed, slumping.

"If that's the choice, then," Caramon said, "you go to Haven. I won't let you do go into Darken Wood alone."

Dezra scowled. "Fine. Sorry, Trephas—I hope you can make do with an old man instead of me."

More silence.

At length, Borlos frowned. "One thing I don't get," he said. "What about the Forestmaster? She's Darken Wood's guardian. Can't she stop this daemon tree?"

Trephas drew himself up righteously. "The Forestmaster fought Grimbough with all her strength. That's why more of the forest hasn't changed."

Caramon stared at the centaur, his face pale, forgetting his quarrel with Dezra. " 'Fought' ?" he repeated. "Is… is the Forestmaster dead?"

"Nay," the centaur answered sadly. "But perhaps 'twould be better if she were… ."

Chapter Eleven

The satyr darted through the forest, and knew he wasn't fast enough. His goatish legs were good for climbing and leaping, but not for running. The end of the chase was clear, but Hurach ran on anyway.

Stubbornness ran deep among his people. His clan had refused to leave their village, even when the forest around it began to change. The oaks, which had long stood straight and tall, had grown withered and twisted, weeping acrid sap and swarming with pale insects. The swards, where the goat-men had capered to pipe-music beneath the moon, became barren. Streams turned brown, brackish. Still, the headstrong satyrs had remained.

Then, today, the Skorenoi had come.

The goat-men had been asleep, as was their wont when the sun was up. Hurach had woken to screaming, smoke and blood. Half the village had been in flames, the ground strewn with corpses. The Skorenoi were everywhere. He'd watched as they slaughtered his kinfolk, shooting them with their great bows or goring them with lances. They hadn't killed everyone, though; some twisted centaurs had wielded huge nets to snare the goat-men. Those satyrs' screams were worse even than those of the dying.

Hurach had fled, wading down the murky creek that flowed by his hut. Before long, though, he'd heard hoofbeats behind him, unseen among the sickly, weeping trees, but undeniably there. He'd been the Skorenoi's sport for hours, on past dusk. It was dark now. It would soon be over.

He stumbled over a rock and winced as he wrenched his leg, sending a hot lance of pain up his spine. He staggered, slumping against a tree. A black-fletched arrow struck the bark beside him. Rancid sap sprayed forth.

He lurched forward, sobbing. The hoofbeats were very close. "Sweet Chislev," he wept. "Help me… ."

Ahead, Hurach heard a new sound: the rush of water flowing over stones. A river lay before him, its waters high with meltwater from the mountains. He ran faster. If he could reach the banks, he could clean his wounds, wash away the scent of blood, and try to hide. He felt hope surge inside his breast.

He was almost to the river when half a dozen shadowy forms appeared before him, moving with terrible, fluid grace to block his way.

With a shriek, Hurach whirled and started back the way he'd come. More Skorenoi stood behind, bows drawn. Two let fly; their shafts struck the ground before him. He cast about desperately. The Skorenoi between him and the river closed in, unfurling their nets.

"No!" he snarled. "If this is a hunt, make it proper! Kill me!"

One of the archers lowered his bow. His body was shaped differently from the others—almost normal, for a centaur. His head, however, was a monstrosity: it was grotesquely elongated, halfway between horse and man. He snorted derisively.

"Leodippos," Hurach spat.

The Skorenos angled his gruesome head. "Thou led a merry chase, little goat," he growled roughly. "But that is done."

The net-bearers were almost upon him. Bleating desperately, he dove for the arrows the centaurs had fired at the ground.

"Stop him!" yelled Leodippos, waving.

Hurach landed next to the arrows, and grabbed one. The Skorenoi sprang into motion as he pressed the shaft's head against his breast, then braced its notch against the ground. All he had to do now was fall.

Then, suddenly, he was rising through the air as a net caught him from behind, sweeping him up off the ground. He squealed and thrashed as the Skorenoi wrapped the mesh around him. In a moment, Leodippos was beside him. He no longer had his bow; instead, he held a heavy cudgel. He smiled coldly.

"Sleep, little goat," he said. "It will make the rest easier."

Leodippos raised the club, brought it down. Hurach's world went white with pain, then faded to darkness.

The night was dark when his mind emerged from the shadowy depths. One of his eyes had swollen shut—the whole side of his face felt like meat—but he managed to crack the other one open and look around.

He was in the mountains somewhere—near Sangelior, he guessed. The vale where he lay was narrow and steep-walled, with peaks blotting out the stars on all sides. The trees were horribly warped, their bark split and slick with sap. They moved constantly, though there was no wind: branches twisting, roots clenching beneath the earth. There was something else, too—a presence in the vale that made his hackles rise. He couldn't see it from where he lay, but he could feel it: a hungry, throbbing darkness that lurked nearby.

"This is the one who ran, my lord," said Leodippos behind him. Hurach twisted to see, and nearly blacked out again. He lay gasping, tasting bile.

"He still has some fight left, I see," said another voice. This one was toneless and dry, like old parchment. "Rouse him."

Hooves approached. Leodippos's half-horse face loomed above as he prodded Hurach with his lance. "Up, little goat," he snarled. "The lord of Darken Wood commands it."

Whimpering, Hurach sat up. The vale whirled around him for a moment, then snapped to a stop. He looked past Leodippos, toward the other speaker, then fervently wished he hadn't.

That the creature had once been a centaur was almost unthinkable. Now it was a skeleton: emaciated, all spindly limbs and knobby bones. Its flesh was colorless, save for the twisting blue of veins beneath the skin. It had no hair anywhere on its body, horse or man. Its black, sunken eyes regarded Hurach without pity.

"Well," said Lord Chrethon. His lips pulled back, revealing small, sharp teeth. "Perhaps we can use this one. Bring him to the tree."

The oak crouched amid the darkness like an ant lion in its pit, awaiting its prey. It was massive, looming higher than any of the centuries-old trees around it. Its night-black bark was deeply gnarled, cloaked with shelf fungi and rusty moss. Its enormous roots snaked through the ground; its branches clawed skyward like skeletal arms; its sharp-toothed leaves whispered in a hundred susurrant voices. Hurach clapped his hands over his ears, trying to drown the voices out, but it did no good. Small wonder the Skorenoi were mad—who could bear that whispering for long, and remain sane?

Lord Chrethon laughed. It was a hard, mirthless sound, glittering like the edge of a knife. He gestured, and Leodippos threw Hurach to the ground.

"We wait here," Chrethon said, nodding toward the daemon tree. "It's not finished feeding yet."

Hurach didn't want to look, but he couldn't help it. A small, dark shape huddled, shivering, on the ground, halfway between them and the daemon tree. It was another satyr, one of his kinfolk. Hurach saw the curve of the goat-man's horns, the white fringe on his black, hairy legs, and put a name to him: Druthed. Hurach couldn't hear him for the hissing leaves, but he imagined Druthed was weeping.

"Wait," Lord Chrethon murmured, his face aglow. "Wait…"

A faint creak, so low it was almost a rumble, sounded from the tree. Hurach watched, eyes wide, as Grimbough began to move. Its branches bent, curling down slowly toward the cowering satyr, twigs groping like talons. Hurach tried to look away, but Leodippos held him fast, forcing him to watch as the oak shrouded Druthed with its leaves.

It happened so suddenly that Leodippos grunted in surprise, tightening his grip on Hurach's shoulders. With a loud, tearing sound, the ground beneath Druthed's sobbing form ripped open. Roots, pallid and smelling of fresh earth, clawed up from below. They coiled around Druthed's wrists, ankles, shoulders… even the goat-man's throat. They cradled him a moment, and he shivered like a newborn kid. Then, slowly, they began to pull.

Druthed screamed.

The satyr's agonized cries were the most horrible sound Hurach had ever heard. Hurach closed his eyes, but he couldn't shut out the shrieking, nor the gruesome sound that joined it: a wet, popping sound that put him in mind of a joint of lamb being pulled apart. Then, abruptly, Druthed's howling ended. The grisly crunching continued a while longer, accompanied by thick, sucking sounds that made Hurach want to vomit. Finally, even these stopped. Only the creaking of Grimbough's limbs remained.

Hurach steeled himself against what he might see when he opened his eyes. It didn't help. Pieces of Druthed were strewn about the clearing, drained of blood. Flushed, the grasping roots pulled away and slipped back into the ground. The earth sealed shut. Slowly, Grimbough's branches straightened.

Hurach stared at the shredded meat, shuddering. That will be me soon, he thought. Mere blood to slake the tree's thirst.

Still grinning, Lord Chrethon raised a bony arm. "Grimbough!" he called. "I would speak with thee."

The oak stirred slightly. Something rumbled deep beneath the ground. Hurach heard words in the sound; the muttering leaves echoed them as Grimbough spoke.

"Again?" boomed the sepulchral voice. "Have you brought another offering for me?"

… me? whispered the leaves.

"If it is thy wish," Chrethon replied solicitously. "But this one, I think, may be of better use."

Without warning, Grimbough's mind entered Hurach's, a rusty spear cleaving his skull. He drew breath to cry out, but the terrible presence was just as swiftly gone.

"Bring it forward," the tree bade.

… forward, the leaves hissed.

Well past panic, Hurach felt almost serene as Leodippos shoved him toward the tree. Chrethon followed. They stopped amid Druthed's remains. Now that he was closer, Hurach saw Grimbough's trunk was throbbing, swelling like a great, slow-beating heart. He waited, with calm fascination, for the branches to bend down, the ground to open, the unbearable strain as the roots ripped him apart… .

"Yes," said the tree. "This one will suffice."

… suffice, echoed the leaves.

Hurach tore his gaze from the pulsating trunk and looked at Chrethon. The emaciated centaur nodded. "Wilt thou take him now?"

"No," Grimbough said. "Let him see the prize first."

…first…

Chrethon bowed, then exchanged nods with Leodippos. If anything, his too-broad smile grew even wider.

Leodippos gave Hurach a shove. The satyr stumbled, nearly fell, and followed Chrethon past Grimbough, toward the grove's far side.

"Where are we going?" he asked, glancing around.

"Never fear, little goat," Leodippos leered. "It isn't far."

Fewer than a hundred paces from Grimbough, they came to a clearing in the woods. In its midst stood a huge briar-patch, an dense thicket that rose above even the Skorenoi's heads. The brambles twisted and coiled restlessly, bristling with wicked, curving thorns the size of daggers.

"Go," Chrethon bade. "Look inside."

Against his will, Hurach found himself walking forward until he stood before the thicket, staring into its senselessly writhing depths. There was something inside, almost invisible amid the briars: a white shape, frail and feeble. Hurach let out a cry when he saw it.

It was the Forestmaster.

He'd seen the unicorn only once before, during a pilgrimage to her grove when he came of age. She'd been beautiful then, a creature of grace and silver light. He'd wept with joy at the sight of her; now he wept again, with grief. She was as wasted as Chrethon, ribs showing clearly through her skin. Her coat had turned mangy and dull, marked with rusty patches of dried blood where the vicious thorns had dug into her flesh. Her mane and tail were matted and filthy, tangled with burrs. A muzzle of leather and steel covered her face, save for her dull, pleading eyes. Only her horn, gleaming like moonlit pearls, bore any of her former splendor.

Hurach dropped to his knees on the barren ground, sobbing. "Mistress," he choked. "Oh, Mistress… what have they done to you?"

"Nothing, compared with what awaits her," Chrethon said, chuckling cruelly. "Now rise, goat-man. Grimbough awaits."

Hurach didn't move. He stared at the wretched form of the Forestmaster, trapped within the snaking thornbushes. Finally, Leodippos came forward, war harness jingling, and grabbed his arm. The satyr knew he should struggle, fight, try to break free, but he did nothing. He was as limp as a corpse as Leodippos yanked him to his feet and dragged him back toward Grimbough.

When they were near the daemon tree again, Leodippos threw him down on the ground. Hurach made no effort to rise.

Grimbough was pleased. "Good," it boomed. "He is ready. You may leave, Chrethon. I will summon you when I am done."

… done.

Hurach heard the Skorenoi withdraw, but didn't turn to watch them go. There was a loud, low creaking from above, and shadows blocked out the moonlight as Grimbough's branches bent down. The ground beneath him tore open. He didn't flinch as the roots burst forth and caught his legs, arms and waist. A tendril wound about his neck, choking him. He waited for pain, for the tree to rend him to pieces. For an end.

But that didn't happen. Instead, Grimbough pulled him under. Spongy, dank earth pressed tight around him, closed in, sealed over. The dull rumble of Grimbough's voice began to speak in his mind. It talked for a long time. The satyr wept brokenly, then slid into blackness.

While he slept, Hurach began to change.

Chapter Twelve

"Big guy. Hey." Borlos's voice.

Caramon brought his hands to his face, pressed their heels against his eyes. "G'way," he moaned. "Lemme sleep."

"I don't think so." The bard shook Caramon's shoulder. "You'd better get up.”

Muttering a curse, Caramon sat up and cracked his eyes open. He had a moment, as daylight blinded him, to notice how badly he ached. How long had it been since he'd slept on the ground?

It was a little past dawn, the sky dotted with golden clouds. Darken Wood loomed to his left; to his right, Uwen was stamping out the fire's ashes. Past him were their horses, tethered and contentedly cropping grass. Caramon twisted, joints cracking, and looked around. A moment later he stiffened, hissing through his teeth.

"Where's Trephas?" he asked. "And Dezra? Bor, where's my daughter?"

"Well," Borlos began, spreading his hands as Caramon staggered to his feet. "It's like this, big guy—they're gone."

"You had last watch, you damned fool!" Caramon snapped. "What happened?"

The bard flushed. "I'm sorry. I, uh, guess I dozed off."

Caramon swore again, balling his hands into fists.

Borlos stepped back warily. "Easy, big guy. Breaking my teeth won't help anyone. Here." He offered Caramon a creased scrap of parchment. "She left this."

Caramon snatched the parchment from his hand and unfolded it. It was a notice proclaiming the Spring Dawning feast, back at Solace.

"What—" he began.

"Turn it over."

He did. On the back of the parchment were hastily scribed words, scratched out with a bit of charcoal.

Father,

They read.

We made a bargain yesterday. I kept my side—you know what's happening in Darken Wood now, and why the centaurs want my help. Now you're going to keep yours.
Go home. Take Bor and Uwen with you. None of you are up to this. I neither need nor want your help.
Say good-bye to Laura for me.

—D.

"Goblin spit," Caramon snarled. He clenched his fist, crumpling the message.

Uwen walked over. He wore his armor and axe, and his blue eyes were ablaze with purpose. "We're going after her, right?" he asked.

"Whoa," Borlos said, raising his hands. His armor was still by his bedroll, with his packs. "Hold on, lad. Dez has a point—that isn't just any forest." He jerked his thumb at Darken Wood. "Do you really feel like heading straight into a war, with deformed centaurs and daemon trees and all that? Because I don't."

Uwen's face was stony. "I'm going after her."

"And what if you do?" Borlos argued. "How will you find her in there? There aren't any roads to follow, and I don't know a whit about tracking." He turned to Caramon. "What about you, big guy? Think you can follow her trail?"

Caramon shook his head. In the old days, tracking had been up to the likes of Tanis and Riverwind.

Borlos threw up his hands. "So. How do you propose to—"

"I can track her," Uwen said.

"—find her in the middle of—huh?" Borlos asked. "You can?"

Uwen nodded. "My father keeps sheep at our farm. We had trouble with wolves a couple years ago. Papa taught me wood-lore, so we could hunt them down."

"Oh. Well, then," Borlos grumbled. "That makes everything better."

"I'm going," Uwen vowed. "You go back to Solace if you want."

Borlos glanced at the heavens, beseeching, then looked to Caramon. "Would you talk some sense into him?"

Caramon scowled at Uwen, who looked back with earnest defiance, then he snorted and strode toward his horse.

"See?" Borlos asked. "The big guy has sense enough not to go traipsing off into—hey." He stopped, staring, as Caramon started unbuckling his horse's bridle. "What are you doing?"

"What do you think?" Caramon replied. The horse tossed its head as the bridle came off. "I'm setting her free. I can't use her where I'm going."

Grinning, Uwen jogged to his own gelding and began to undo its harness. "You can always take them back with you, if you're worried about them," he told the bard.

Borlos hesitated, then shook his head. "No way. I'm coming too."

Caramon shot the bard an amused glance.

"What can I say?" Borlos replied, shrugging as he walked toward his mare. "I'd rather run across that daemon tree than face Tika if I come back without you or Dez."

They unharnessed the horses, then untied their tethers. As they raised their hands to slap the animals' rumps, however, the horses wheeled and cantered back up the hill, toward the road. Taken aback, Caramon, Uwen and Borlos watched as they climbed the steep slope, then turned north and galloped out of sight.

"Wow," Borlos remarked as the pounding of their hooves faded in the distance. "If I didn't know better, I'd say they knew where they were going."

Caramon considered. He had an inkling they were going back home, and another thought that Trephas had told them to do so. He wondered what Tika would think if they returned, riderless, to the Inn.

He sighed, thrusting the thought aside, and went to gather his gear. "Come on," he said. "They've got enough of a head start as it is."

There were few virgin forests left in Ansalon. Even the homelands of the elves and kender, though idyllic, peaceful places, had been quietly shaped by their sylvan inhabitants. Although dwarves and humans wouldn't recognize them as such, they were civilized.

Darken Wood, however, remained a wild place, utterly untamed. Its black oaks grew close together, their branches mingling to weave a blanket of twig and leaf that stretched overhead for miles. Shadows cloaked the forest floor. Apart from occasional spears of brilliant, golden sunshine, the only light was a dim, green glow. It made everything look as though it lay at the bottom of the sea. Despite the gloom, though, the forest floor wasn't barren. Ferns, saplings and shrubs grew between the oaks' mossy trunks. Fat bees drifted drowsily among white and blue flowers.

There were animals, too. Dozens of different kinds of birds flitted among the boughs, bright-feathered males twittering and swooping to draw the attention of their drab mates. Red squirrels darted up and down the oaks' trunks. Holes beneath the trees marked the burrows of badgers and spiny trevils, who tended to come out at night. Deer moved among the shadows, white tails held high; here and there, bloody gouges scored a tree where a young stag had rubbed the velvety skin off his new-grown antlers.

It wasn't badgers or deer Dezra was thinking about, though; it was the large, brown bear in front of her.

Dezra had seen bears before. They were common in Solace Vale, though those were small and black. She'd never been this close, though—near enough to smell salmon on the great animal's breath. It was, she decided, an experience she could have done without.

She and Trephas had been walking quietly, several leagues from the forest's edge. She'd looked behind them for a moment, and when she turned around, the bear had been there, ambling out of the shadows to sit down before them. That had been several minutes ago; neither Dezra nor the bear had moved since.

Trephas looked at her, nonplussed. "What's the trouble? Why hast thou stopped?"

"You're kidding, right?" Dezra asked through tight lips.

Trephas followed her gaze to the bear, then laughed. "Ah," he said. For such a small sound, it was remarkably condescending. "Of course. I forgot thy kind fear our forest-biethren. Rest easy; the beast means no harm, so long as thou dost not harm him."

"Oh," Dezra said. "That's nice."

The bear yawned, revealing a mouthful of fangs. Trephas was within its reach. If it decided to give him a swat, he'd be lying on the ground in tatters. He turned his back on it, glancing at her. "Come on. We can't wait here all day."

"Crap," Dezra muttered, swallowing. Nervously, she edged forward, making a wide circuit around the bear. In time, she made her way past the animal. She glanced back, and saw it staring at her over its shoulder, its tongue lolling from its mouth.

"See?" Trephas asked. His booming voice made her jump. "He's never met thy kind before—only mine, and the other woodfolk. He doesn't fear us."

"Lovely," Dezra said. "And what if that wasn't just a friendly old bear? What if it had… Crossed? Like the Skorenoi?"

"I would have known," Trephas said magnanimously. "Never fear."

Dezra glanced up at the leaves, her face sour. Above their heads, a pair of jays flapped from branch to branch, squalling. She and Trephas walked on. She didn't ride. Neither of them had enjoyed it very much yesterday, and they were no longer in so great a hurry. He'd assured her, before they set out, that their path would be free of danger. They would walk to the Darkwater River, then follow it downstream and arrive in Ithax two days hence.

Around midday—it was hard to keep track of time, with the sun hidden behind the shifting leaves—she heard a new sound ahead: the babble of a flowing stream. She glanced at Trephas.

"The Darkwater," he said, nodding. "We can stop there and rest, if it pleases thee."

"I don't have to rest," Dezra said pointedly. The idea was appealing, but Trephas's attitude—that if they stopped, it would be to humor her—irritated her. "I can keep up."

He glanced at her, his brow furrowed, and shrugged. "Even so, we should tarry to eat. Our waterskins could use filling, also."

"Suit yourself."

The black oaks yielded to golden willows. The Darkwater snaked among them, shrouded by their drooping branches. Their shadows made it live up to its name, though a cataract foamed white, a ways upstream. Green and blue dragonflies danced above its surface, and fish darted beneath. Dezra knelt at its edge to fill her waterskin, then sat down in the grass and ate the food she'd stolen from the fair. Between mouthfuls, she snuck sips of dwarf spirits from her flask.

She smiled as the liquor warmed her, then glanced toward Trephas. The centaur knelt several yards downstream. As she watched, he plucked a fistful of grass from the ground and tucked it in his mouth. She let out a quick laugh, then looked away, covering her grin with her hand. Sure, he was half horse, but she'd never thought he'd graze like one.

He ate other things, too—some soft cheese from his pouch, plus a few velvety leaves off a bush that grew beside one of the willows. There was another shrub like it near Dezra, and while Trephas wasn't looking she plucked a leaf and put it in her mouth. She spat it out again immediately, grimacing, and downed a swig of dwarf spirits to kill the astringent taste.

Suddenly, Trephas rose to his feet and stared back into the woods, the way they had come. His nostrils flaring, he drew out his bow and strung it.

Dezra twisted to her feet, her hand straying to her sword. "What?" she whispered. "I thought you said there wasn't any danger here."

"There shouldn't be," he answered curtly. "I thought I heard—" He trailed off, then held up a hand. "Wait here. I'm going to have a look."

He crept away, moving among the trees with astonishing stealth. Dezra soon lost sight of him in the shadows. She didn't think to follow. The centaur was too quick. Instead, she hunched beneath a willow, eased her sword out of its scabbard, and waited.

A twig snapped, off to her right. It couldn't have been more than thirty paces upstream. For a moment she glimpsed movement amid the trees, but the shadows were too thick to see more. She looked for Trephas, cursing under her breath, but the centaur was nowhere in sight.

There was a drop down from the grassy riverbank to the stream. She eased herself down, sword in hand, onto the Darkwater's edge. It was slippery with wet clay, but she managed to keep her footing. Hunkering low, she crept silently toward the noise. Carefully, she peered up over the bank, into the brush. There was something there, all right, although she couldn't make it out. It didn't seem to notice her.

She didn't think twice. She vaulted up onto the riverbank, brought her sword around, and slammed its pommel into the shadow's side. It fell with a grunt, and she went down on top of it, her sword's blade pressed against its throat. Breathing hard, heart thundering, she flipped her hair out of her eyes and glared… into Uwen Gondil's simple face.

"Easy, Dez," said a voice, deeper in the shadows. She looked and saw Borlos standing beneath a willow tree. Behind him was a larger shadow, wearing a dragon-winged helm.

She bowed her head, then lifted her blade from Uwen's throat. "Damn it," she snarled as she rose.

"We made a bargain," Dezra snapped. She stood on the riverbank, hands on her hips, glaring at her father. Caramon looked back defiantly, while Borlos and Uwen stood off to the side. Trephas still hadn't returned. "You were supposed to go home," she snapped. "That was the deal."

"Then I'm breaking it," Caramon replied. "And what was sneaking off before dawn supposed to accomplish?"

She rolled her eyes. "I snuck away because I knew you'd want to come along. I wasn't about to spend the morning arguing with you—and I'm not now, either. Get out of here." She waved at Borlos and Uwen. "Take them with you, before one of you gets killed."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Dezra threw up her hands. "Look—"

Caramon shook his head firmly. "Dez, listen. Despite what you think, this isn't all about you. I'm not going to Ithax for your sake. I'm here for the Forestmaster. She helped me and my friends find the gods, years ago. You may not give a damn about that, but I do. I owe her my help."

She eyed him askance. "What about Bor and the kid? Did they want to accompany you on this little crusade, or did you decide to drag them along?"

"Now wait just a moment," Borlos interjected. "No one got dragged along. We came with him by choice."

"Then you're an even bigger fool than he is."

Uwen strode forward, his expression infuriatingly earnest. "I didn't come for the Forestmaster," he said. "I came here for you, Dezra. Let your father deal with the trouble here. You can come back to Solace with me."

"That does it!" Dezra snapped.

She stepped forward, grabbed the front of Uwen's tunic, and jerked him toward her. He grunted in surprise, stumbling, and she cocked her head back and kissed him fiercely on his lips. For a moment he struggled, his eyes wide, then he relented, his mouth opening against hers. When she pulled away, his face practically glowed with embarrassment.

"There!" she proclaimed, her eyes glinting above her mocking, lopsided smile. She shoved him back. "A kiss from the damsel fair. Isn't that what you wanted? I'd give you more, but my father's watching. Maybe tonight—"

"Dezra!" Caramon barked. "That's enough!"

"Leave him alone, Dez," Borlos added. He gestured at Uwen. "The lad's taken with you. So what?"

Dezra glared the bard into silence. "He's an idiot," she snarled. "Just like the rest of you. Did you really think—"

She stopped suddenly, her voice catching in her throat. Her gaze, which had been fixed on the mortified farmboy, slid past him to the shadowy woods. She'd seen something there—a gleam of metal. It was gone, but now there was a faint sound: the slow, soft creaking of sinew and wood. None of the others seemed to notice, but there was no mistaking it.

"Look out—" she began.

Too late. The arrow hissed through the air and struck Uwen in the back, punching through his armor. The surprise in his eyes grew even more pronounced. Then they emptied, and he fell against Dezra, blood on his lips. She lost her balance as he struck her, and they tumbled off the riverbank, into the Dark-water.

Chapter Thirteen

Dezra swallowed a mouthful of frigid water, struggling as Uwen's body bore her down. She tried to push him off, but his limp arms entangled her. Her struggles began to weaken.

Then the weight came off, pulled up from above. Hands grabbed her tunic, hauled her up. She emerged choking, and her rescuer—Borlos, of all people—dragged her to the river's edge, and pounded her back until she spat out a racking gout of water.

"Easy, Dez," he said as she wheezed, her face and hair fouled with clay. He looked past her. "How is he?"

Caramon didn't answer. Dezra twisted, gasping, and saw him standing in the stream over Uwen. The water around him was red with blood. He met her gaze accusingly, then another arrow flashed overhead, hitting him in the chest. It glanced off his breastplate with a loud ping!, then splashed into the water.

"Down!" Borlos shouted, hunkering low behind the embankment. "Leave him," he added when Caramon glanced at Uwen. "Move, before you end up the same way!"

A third arrow dove into the river to Caramon's left. He lunged forward, his legs churning the water, and threw himself down beside Dezra. He looked at her again, then turned away.

"Uh, big guy?" Borlos ventured. "I don't mean to be rude, but you do have a bow… ."

Caramon blinked. Awkwardly, he readied his shortbow, notched an arrow and pushed himself to his knees. Peering over the grassy embankment, he pulled back the string and let fly. Dezra heard a grunt, then the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

"Got him," Caramon said. "One of those Skorenoi things. I think he's—"

A loud crack rang out before he could say more. He recoiled, ducking down.

"What was that?" Borlos asked.

"It blew up," Caramon said incredulously. "The arrow—it exploded when that creature died."

"Like the daemon warriors," Borlos said. "Chaos's legions in the war. The weapons that killed them were destroyed when they died, too. Huma's teeth: if all the Skorenoi are like that—"

Three more arrows arced above. Two vanished into the Darkwater; the third hit Uwen's body, floating in the stream.

Dezra pushed herself up, her hand on her sword. "How many are there?" she asked.

Caramon shrugged. "Hard to tell. Maybe six."

"Six," Borlos muttered. "Where'd your centaur chum get to, Dez?"

She ignored him, turning to her father. "How many more can you shoot?"

"I was lucky to hit the one."

Yet another arrow flew. It rose high, then dove sharply, striking the clay near Borlos's ankle. The bard flinched, drawing his leg in toward his body.

"We can't stay here," Dezra declared.

"Where are we supposed to go?" Borlos demanded.

"Give me a second." She rose to peer over the embankment, shaking off her father as he tried to pull her back. She saw the body of the one Caramon had shot—and the splintered remnants of the killing arrow—then looked past it, to the trees. She counted five misshapen shadows in the undergrowth, then drew back again when a shaft struck the ground in front of her.

"I think it's Thenidor's lot," she said. "They must have figured we'd come this way, and tried to head us off. They're close—I think we can rush them."

"Rush them?" Borlos gasped. "Are you insane?"

"You have a better idea?" Dezra shot back.

"You bet," the bard replied. "Dive in the river and swim."

Caramon shook his head. "They'll just pick us off from the bank. No, Dez is right. If someone draws their fire, we might get to them before they can shoot again."

The bard swallowed. "So who gets to draw their fire?"

Dezra and Caramon looked at each other, then at him.

"I thought so," he said grimly.

Trephas hunkered low, watching the Skorenoi pepper the riverbank with arrows, and wondered what to do. He'd found them on the way back from investigating the noise he'd heard, but by that time, they'd been sneaking up on Dezra and the others. He'd watched Thenidor shoot the farmboy, and was a good enough archer to know it was a killing shot.

Scowling, he pulled an arrow from his quiver. He notched it, doing a quick count of the surviving Skorenoi: five. He could sneak up, kill one from behind—two if he was lucky. He shook his head. It wasn't enough. Nervously, he began to tap the arrow against his bow. Ahead, the Skorenoi's shadows shifted, turning toward him. He froze as Thenidor gestured to one of his fellows, a stoop-shouldered skewbald who turned and started stealthily back into the woods. Trephas watched him approach, pulling back his bowstring.

Then, suddenly, Borlos's voice rang out from the river, singing a bawdy drinking song in something between music and shout:

Sing as the spirits move you,
Sing to your doubling eye.
Plain fane becomes lovable Lindas
When six moons shine in the sky…

"Hey, you ugly buggers!" Borlos shouted, apparently content with just the one verse. "Over here!"

The Skorenoi—including the skewbald—turned toward the voice. As they did, something small and round, the size of a head, rose from behind the grassy riverbank. Reflexively, Thenidor and his fellows fired. The shafts hit the object with a hollow, thrumming sound.

It wasn't a head after all; it was the bard's lute. Riddled with arrows, it flew back and splashed into the river.

Trephas didn't think twice. Seizing the distraction, he loosed his arrow. It struck the skewbald in the neck, then exploded in a storm of splinters as the creature crumpled.

Thenidor whirled, eyes flaring with rage. Furious, he started toward Trephas. His fellows watched him go.

Then everything went crazy. Dezra and Caramon leapt onto the riverbank and charged, sword and spear upraised. The Skorenoi hesitated, confused. One managed to fire at Caramon, but he deflected the arrow with his shield and kept on coming. Dezra, who was quicker on her feet, didn't give them even that much chance. She lunged toward a Skorenos, sword flashing, and it leapt back, fumbling for its cudgel.

Caramon charged spear-first at a bowlegged, harelipped gray. It knocked his weapon aside with its war-scythe, and another of the twisted centaurs, a shaggy brown, swung a massive, two-handed club at him. Caramon blocked the blow with his shield, then gave ground and turned to face both foes at once.

Dezra continued to press her opponent, a wart-covered sorrel. She had a dagger in her off-hand now, and cut the sorrel's shoulder with it as she parried his cudgel with her sword. Behind her, Borlos hoisted himself up from the Dark-water and ran toward the battle, yanking his mace from his belt.

Thenidor, halfway to Trephas, glanced back in bewilderment. Trephas laughed aloud—until the Skorenos turned back around, his lips curled into a vicious smile. "Hai!" Thenidor bellowed. "My warriors! To me!"

Trephas stopped, a cold feeling in his gut. Suddenly, there was movement behind him. Another half-dozen Skorenoi rose from the forest's shadows, lances ready. He gaped, astonished.

It was Thenidor's turn to laugh. "There, now!" he shouted above the clash of battle. "Give thyself to us, son of Nemeredes."

"And become like thee?" Trephas spat. "I'll die first."

Thenidor nodded. "Aye, thou wilt—and thy human friends with thee." His warriors started forward, lowering their spears.

Dezra gave ground, parrying a vicious flurry of attacks from the sorrel. Borlos fought beside her, but the bard was no warrior, and the tentative swipes he made with his mace didn't accomplish much. She bumped into him as she dodged a high, whistling swing.

"Get out of my way!" she snapped, raising her sword to block the cudgel's backswing. She stepped back, jostled Borlos again, and elbowed him aside. "Move, for Paladine's sake!"

The sorrel pressed forward, his club moving with frightening speed. He swung again and again, his face contorted into a snarl.

"Oh, enough of this," Dezra muttered.

She ducked, thrusting her sword at the sorrel's belly. The blade scraped against his war harness, drawing blood but not cutting deep. The Skorenos reeled, then reared, lashing out with his hooves. Twisting, she brought her dagger up and stabbed him between his forelegs. The sorrel whinnied in pain.

Dezra yanked the dagger free, and he crashed to his knees, dropping his club. She stabbed him again, between the ribs. He stiffened, and her dagger shuddered in her grasp. She let go, and it exploded in a cloud of flashing shards.

"Guess he's dead," she muttered.

She kicked him to make sure, then glanced at her father. Caramon was holding his own, blocking his foes' attacks with his shield while he stabbed with his spear. She drew another dagger from her boot and took a step toward him.

"Dez!" shouted Borlos. "It's Trephas! He's in trouble!"

Dezra hesitated, her gaze following the bard's waving arms. Trephas was backed against a poplar tree, swinging his spear to keep six Skorenoi at bay. She gaped for a moment as she watched them jab at Trephas with their lances. They were toying with him, wearing him down so they could take him alive. Thenidor stood behind them, laughing.

Dezra wavered for a moment, then turned away from Caramon and sprinted to Trephas's aid.

Caramon's spear and shield felt like they were made of lead, and his arms burned as he thrust and blocked. Each attack was harder than the last. Cramps clutched his legs. Sweat coursed down his face. The Skorenoi, meanwhile, weren't the least bit tired. They grinned viciously, relishing his desperation.

Luckily, the Skorenoi were wild, undisciplined fighters, attacking with fury rather than skill. Caramon, on the other hand, had trained in the Istarian arena, learning to take advantage of his enemies' smallest mistakes. So, when the gray overextended himself after a wicked slash with his scythe, Caramon didn't hesitate. He ducked, jabbing the creature's right foreleg with his spear. The gray fell with a cry. Caramon brought his spear up—blocking the brown Skorenos's club with his shield at the same time—then thrust it into the gray's throat.

The spear blew apart, leaving only a short, jagged bit of its shaft in his hand. He stumbled back, then tripped and fell to one knee. The brown Skorenos loomed above him, club raised.

Borlos came out of nowhere. Howling furiously, he charged the brown from behind. He raised his mace, aiming for the creature's hindquarters.

The blow never landed. As Borlos started to swing the mace, the Skorenos whirled, lashing out with its club. Borlos's shout turned ragged. He ducked, lost his balance, and hit the ground head-first. He didn't rise again.

Again, Caramon's training took hold. Seizing the dead gray's scythe, he lunged and cut a gash across the brown's flank. It bellowed in pain, staggering. Caramon brought the scythe around and struck the creature's neck, shearing its head from its shoulders. He tossed the scythe away. It blew apart before it hit the ground.

Caramon knelt beside Borlos: the bard was senseless but alive. Then he raised his eyes toward the forest, where Dezra had run. He could see only shadows. The jumbled sounds of battle gave no clue as to what was happening. Wheezing, he grabbed Borlos's mace, then lurched toward Trephas and his daughter.

"You said this part of the forest was safe," Dezra growled.

She'd fought her way to Trephas, but hadn't been able to turn the tide of the battle. There were just too many Skorenoi. Trephas had killed one—its body sprawled at their feet, surrounded by the remnants of the centaur's cudgel—but now the two of them fought solely to stay alive. Dezra faced two foes at once, Trephas three. Thenidor stood back, his sinewy arms folded across his chest. It was only a matter of time.

Trephas grunted as a lance got past his defenses, grazing his shoulder. The wound wasn't deep. The Skorenoi aimed to hurt him so he couldn't fight any more, then take him to Grimbough alive. Dezra, on the other hand, was useless to them. They would kill her if she gave them the chance.

"Where are the others?" Trephas demanded, spinning his spear to parry his opponents' weapons.

"How should I know?" Dezra snapped. She twisted to avoid a jabbing lance, then swatted another aside with her blade. She quickly reversed the stroke, lopping off the second spear's head. The Skorenos backed away to draw his cudgel.

Dezra glanced toward the river. Borlos sprawled on the ground, unmoving. Caramon staggered toward the battle, tired or hurt. She nearly missed a parry as she looked, and dropped to one knee to avoid being run through. The second Skorenos rejoined the fight, cudgel swinging, giving her no chance to rise again.

Thenidor, meanwhile, had followed Dezra's glance. He turned, watched Caramon's lurching approach, then threw back his head, braying with laughter.

"Looking for a fight, old man?" he scoffed. He shook his head, turning toward Caramon. "Very well. I'll give thee one."

Caramon saw Thenidor coming and winced. He shifted his grip on his shield and prepared to fight. Thenidor laughed again as he pulled his halberd from his harness.

The duel lasted three blows. Thenidor swung his halberd, and Caramon deflected it with his shield. Caramon swung back with Borlos's mace, and Thenidor parried easily. Then the Skorenos reared and lashed out with his forehooves, kicking Caramon in the chest.

Caramon's armor kept Thenidor's hooves from crushing his ribs as they hammered him flat. He lay still, stunned, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. Looming above him and laughing, Thenidor raised his halberd high. Caramon closed his eyes, awaiting the killing blow.

Instead, he heard the distant thrum of a bowstring, and Thenidor let out a grunt of surprise and pain. Looking up, Caramon saw the Skorenos stumble sideways, an arrow in his shoulder. Thenidor stared at the shaft in amazement, then grabbed it and broke it off, leaving the head embedded in its flesh. Another shaft cut across his arm, and he dropped his halberd, eyes widening as he looked toward the river.

Confused, Caramon twisted and looked back at the Dark-water. The stream's far bank swarmed with horsefolk: a score, maybe more. Half held their bows ready; the rest were knee-deep in the river, wading across. They were real centaurs, not misshapen Skorenoi.

A rescue. Caramon could hardly believe it.

Four more archers fired. Their shots arced overhead, dropping among the Skorenoi who fought Dezra and Trephas. Two of those fell, and the rest faltered, casting about in astonishment. Trephas stabbed one with his lance, which splintered as it pierced the creature's heart.

Regaining his wits, Thenidor gestured sharply and galloped away. His surviving minions followed, vanishing into the shadows of Darken Wood. Trephas watched them go, then saw one of the arrows the centaurs had fired. He studied its fletching—two blue feathers, one white—then turned toward the river, grinning.

"Gyrtomon!" he called.

The leader of the centaurs—a blond-maned chestnut who was the image of Trephas, only slightly older—finished fording the river. He raised his lance in salute as he climbed onto the grassy bank. "Hail, Trephas," he replied, smiling. "And well met, I'd say."

They stayed by the Darkwater long enough for the centaurs to sling Uwen's body and Borlos's senseless form across their backs, and for an older horse-man to salve Caramon, Trephas and Dezra's wounds.

Trephas clapped Gyrtomon on the back. "Brother!" he exclaimed heartily. "What art thou doing in this part of the woods?"

"Looking for thee," Gyrtomon replied. "Our outriders caught sight of Thenidor's lot, riding this way. I had a feeling it was because thou had returned, so I rode out last night with my warriors. I see," he added, regarding Caramon, "that thy quest was successful."

Trephas nodded. "Aye—but it nearly ended here. I owe thee a great debt."

Gyrtomon waved dismissively. "We should leave this place," he declared. "Thenidor is beaten, but these lands are still dangerous. Lord Chrethon has taken a great deal more of the forest since thou left, Brother. The war goes poorly—all the more reason to get these humans to Ithax swiftly."

While Gyrtomon arranged for two of his warriors to serve as mounts, Dezra looked at her father, her eyes narrow. He was rubbing his left shoulder absently. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Flushing, Caramon let his hand drop to his side. "I'm fine. I'm not turning back."

Dezra nodded. "I thought not."

Two centaurs came forward and knelt before them. As they climbed onto the horse-men's backs, Dezra's gaze fell upon Uwen's body. She winced.

"Poor kid," she said as the company fell into line behind Trephas and Gyrtomon. "You never should have let him come."

Caramon nodded, his lips tight. "You're probably right, girl."

They rode south, following the river.

Chapter Fourteen

Lord Chrethon stood atop a ridge overlooking Sangelior, a shadow against the waning moon. The wind was frigid, but Chrethon cared nothing about the cold. He tossed his head, his lipless mouth curling into a smile.

The town below seethed with activity. Firelight flickered among the Skorenoi's skin tents. A cacophony of sounds rose: wild laughter, bestial howls, strangled screams. Through it all threaded tangled, dissonant music—lyres, drums and pipes that made no attempt to play in time or time. It was the sound of damned souls.

Chrethon didn't turn at Leodippos's approach. The horse-headed Skorenos halted behind him, his harness jingling. "A fine sight," Leodippos declared. "It makes the blood sing in my veins."

Chrethon's smile shifted into a scowl. "What is it, Leodippos?"

Leodippos, once Chrethon's peer in Circle, bowed deferentially. "Thenidor and his company have returned," he said. "He has captives, lord."

Chrethon glanced back. "Where?"

"Below. I bade him wait while I fetched thee."

Chrethon's gaze lingered on Sangelior a moment longer, then he turned away. "Very well," he said. "Take me to him."

Blood flew as Chrethon's fist struck Thenidor's jaw. Though his flesh was wasted, the lord of the Skorenoi was no weakling; the hulking warrior reeled, then swayed unsteadily, shaking his head.

"This?" Chrethon raged, gesturing behind Thenidor. A dozen centaurs stood in chains, under the watchful eyes of the huge bay's warriors. "Thou wert gone nigh a week, and all thou hast to show for it is this?"

Thenidor lowered his eyes. "I had them in my grasp, lord," he declared. "Trephas, and the humans he went to fetch. We slew one—"

"One?" Chrethon raged. "I commanded thee, when I sent thee to Prayer's Eye Peak, to bring back either Trephas or his head. Instead, what dost thou give me? Twelve mere common warriors!"

"I thought—"

Chrethon shook his head, silencing him. "Thou hast failed me, Thenidor."

The hulking bay's face colored, but he met Chrethon's gaze steadily. "So. Kill me, if thou wilt."

Chrethon reached for the sword on his harness, then checked himself. "No," he said. "I've had good use from thee in the past, Thenidor. I'm not so disappointed that I would rob myself of one of my finest warriors."

"I thank thee, lord." Thenidor bowed again. A dark bruise blossomed where Chrethon had struck him.

But Chrethon wasn't finished. He signaled to a pair of Skorenoi, who came forward and seized Thenidor's arms. As the hulking bay struggled, Chrethon drew his dagger and slashed Thenidor's face—once, twice, opening both his cheeks. Thenidor gasped in pain, clutching at the bloody wounds.

"Bear those scars for thy shame," Chrethon declared. "Next time, I'll cut thee far worse."

Thenidor nodded, trying to stanch the flow of blood. "I won't fail thee again, lord," he groaned.

"Aye," Chrethon agreed. "Thou won't. Now, let's see to thy captives. Bring them to the vale."

Thenidor's prisoners screamed a long time. Lying at the base of Grimbough's trunk, held fast by the oak's clutching roots, their bodies contorted as the daemon tree slowly changed them into Skorenoi.

Four were dead when the screaming stopped. Not everyone survived the Crossing. Two others were warped so badly that Leodippos had to kill them with his cudgel. They were the lucky ones. The remaining six survived, their bodies swelling and distorting. Bones cracked and bent. Muscles tore, then reformed into new shapes. Flesh ran like candle wax. Teeth fell out, fangs and tusks sprouting in their place. The horsefolk whimpered and howled, their minds breaking. It was a kind of mercy when, finally, their eyes blackened into empty voids.

At last, the ground beneath their contorted bodies opened, and the roots dragged them down. Grimbough took the dead as well, to feed upon their bodies. The grove fell still and silent.

At a word from Lord Chrethon, Thenidor, Leodippos, and the other Skorenoi left the vale, heading back toward Sangelior. Chrethon stood alone beneath Grimbough's murmuring branches, staring at the ground. Below, Grimbough was seeing to the last, most terrible part of the Crossing. The centaurs' bodies and minds had been changed; now, deep within the earth, the daemon tree was devouring their souls. When it released them, the new Skorenoi would be as newborn foals: pale, quivering, their mouths soundlessly screaming. He would cut off their tails, and they would belong to him, and to Grimbough.

Smiling with satisfaction, Chrethon glanced up at Grimbough. The oak's trunk pulsed as it fed. He stepped toward it, pressed his hand against its gnarled bark, and shut his eyes.

Soon. His forces were stronger now than those loyal to the Circle. Soon, Menelachos and the other chiefs would be either dead or Skorenoi. More important, he had the Forestmaster, helpless in her cage of thorns. His forces had attacked her sacred grove—the same grove where the Circle had maimed and exiled him—and he himself had wrestled the unicorn down, bound her with chains, muzzled her so she could not speak. He'd brought her here, to the daemon tree's vale, and trapped her in the brambles.

He'd tormented her mercilessly since that day, reducing her to a wretched husk. He'd starved her, deprived her of water and sleep. He'd flayed her, burned her, cut her, beaten her until his hand was too sore to hold his cudgel. Yet she refused to die. And that was the trouble. As long as the Forestmaster lived, Darken Wood would never belong to Grimbough. The unicorn's power, even now, was too strong for the daemon tree to overcome fully. Until Chrethon broke that power, he wouldn't have the vengeance he desired.

With a snarl, he turned and strode into the darkness. He stalked through the warped forest to the edge of the clearing where the thornbushes stood, and gazed at the shriveled form within the brambles. The Forestmaster stirred feebly, her flanks moving as she drew a slow, ragged breath.

Chrethon stepped into the clearing. All at once, movement surrounded him. Five dark shapes emerged from the shadows, clutching bronze swords and knives. They loped toward him with ungainly speed, on goatish legs. Twisted horns curled on their heads. Before he took three steps toward the unicorn, the shadow-satyrs surrounded him, weapons leveled.

He looked at the one in front of him, a stooped, shaggy creature. Its face was a covered with dark, bristling hair; one of its horns was broken. Its eyes were as empty as the Skorenoi's.

"Well done, Hurach," Chrethon declared.

The satyr nodded. "It is as you commanded. None have sought to enter the clearing since you were last here."

"And if they had?" Chrethon asked, half-smiling.

The satyr's bloodthirsty leer showed white through his bushy beard, an answer in itself.

"Good," Chrethon said. "Now put up thy weapons and resume thy watch."

Hurach bobbed his head, then bleated harshly at the other goat-men. They fell back, fading into the shadows again. The goat-men's affinity for darkness was uncanny. Their ability to hide from view, and the silence with which they moved, made the handful of goat-men who'd survived the Crossing useful in many ways.

The thornbushes trembled, rustling, at his approach. He reached toward them with his left hand, as if he meant to impale it upon the thorns. The branches parted, rattling like old bones. They knew him: the daemon tree had bidden them never to harm Chrethon. So far, they had obeyed.

He reached deeper and deeper, clearing them away from the Forestmaster's head and neck. He watched the thorns pull out of her flesh, drawing streams of blood. The unicorn groaned and shuddered.

"Be still, my lady," Chrethon murmured. "I'll end this, if thou wilt let me."

She looked at him with wide, gleaming eyes, pleading and defiant. It was a look to break hearts, but Chrethon had none left to break. He grabbed her muzzle. Thoms tore her flesh as he pushed her chin back, exposing her throat.

The flesh there was a network of scars, crisscrossing her withered skin. He smiled, brushing them with his thumb. The Forestmaster whimpered. She knew what was coming: she'd been through it many times.

Holding back the unicorn's head, Chrethon drew his short, broad sword. It winked with starlight as he brought it up before him. He kissed the blade, then set its edge against the unicorn's throat. It creased her flesh: a bead of blood won free to trickle down her breast.

With quick, emotionless precision, he cut the Forestmaster's throat.

She gasped and choked. Blood spurted from the wound, starting strong, but growing steadily weaker. The unicorn bled to death in moments before his eyes.

But this was nothing new. Chrethon had done it before, more times than he could remember, and every time it had been the same. No sooner did the bleeding stop than the cut began to heal, leaving yet another scar. Her breathing resumed, became smoother, more easy. Her beseeching eyes continued to stare at him. Her horn shone with moonlight, casting a faint, pale glow.

Spitting a curse, Chrethon cleaned his sword and slid it back into its scabbard. It was the horn that wouldn't let the Forestmaster die; no matter how he sought to kill her, it repaired the damage. The same magic, he knew, was what kept Grimbough from corrupting all of Darken Wood.

The answer was clear: Remove the horn, and the Forestmaster could die. So far, though, it had steadfastly refused to come off. He'd chopped with blades, raked with saws, pounded with hammer and chisel, to no avail. He'd even tried to burn it off with a hot iron bar, but hadn't even been able to leave a mark.

He stared at it, seething, as its glow faded. "I will take it," he murmured. "Mark me, my lady. There is a way, and I will find it."

The Forestmaster didn't answer, but only stared with those defiant, imploring eyes. That look unsettled Chrethon more than any words could.

With an inarticulate snarl, he snatched his hand out of the thicket. The brambles closed around the unicorn, the great thorns pushing back into her flesh. Chrethon saw blood as they gouged her. Moments ago, she hadn't had enough in her to bleed from a cut throat. The horn glinted with starlight.

Chrethon whirled and strode away. He stopped at the clearing's edge. "Hurach!" he boomed.

The satyr emerged from the darkness, bowing. "My lord?" he hissed. "What is your will?"

"Dost thou know the way to Ithax?"

"Aye, lord."

Chrethon nodded. "And if thou left tonight, couldst thou be there by dusk tomorrow?"

"Aye, if I ran the whole way."

"Go, then," Chrethon bade, raising his hand. "The Circle sent Nemeredes's son to bring humans to Ithax. I would know why."

Hurach bowed again. "It shall be done, my lord."

"Good," Chrethon declared, dismissing him.

The satyr was gone in an instant, melding with the shadows. Nodding to himself, Chrethon glanced back at the thicket, and the tormented form within.

"I will take it," he murmured again, then turned and galloped into the tortured forest.

Chapter Fifteen

They traveled in darkness, the centaurs holding guttering torches. The humans walked among them. They'd ridden only the first two hours from where they'd fought Thenidor and his men, then continued afoot the rest of the way.

Not for the first time, Gyrtomon's warriors began to sing. They were fond of music, and knew many songs. They sang in the centaurs' ancient language, so the humans didn't understood the words:

Elessan ho palethai nisi,
He temon adrabai leomon,
Pithandcr, gonaios salisi,
He oidren lelemoras tomon.

It went on, a steady drone that set a good pace for marching. The centaurs' rich, baritone voices reverberated among the shadowed trees. Soon Caramon began to hum along. Dezra glared at him, but he didn't notice. With a muttered oath, she slowed down, letting her father and the other centaurs pass. She resumed her pace again when Borlos caught up with her. The bard walked with his head bowed, his forehead sporting a yellow bruise.

"You're awfully quiet," Dezra noted.

The bard cast her a despairing look. "Do you expect me to sing with them? Without my lute to play? I can't believe you and Caramon left it behind."

Dezra shrugged. She'd last seen the instrument floating down the Darkwater, riddled with arrows. "It wouldn't have played properly anyway," she told him. "It sounded bad enough when it wasn't full of holes. Besides, you had better luck than some."

Borlos paused, then glanced over his shoulder at the second-last centaur in the party. The horse-man still carried Uwen Gondil's cold, stiff body.

"Poor lad," he said. "At least it was quick. I'd sing a dirge for him… if I still had my lute, that is."

"Leave it lie, Bor."

Dezra looked around, surveying the horse-men. They were still chanting. She suspected they could go on for hours. She tapped the nearest centaur on the arm. "What's this bloody song about, anyway?"

He stared at her, annoyed by the interruption; she met his gaze steadily. He stopped singing, his eyes glinting in the torchlight.

"Is very old," he replied, chin rising. He spoke with a thick accent: Unlike Trephas and Gyrtomon, he was unfamiliar with the common tongue. "We are always singing, after good hunting or fight. Is come-home song."

"You mean a homecoming song."

The centaur regarded her as if she were slow-witted. "Is what I say, yes?"

Dezra let it pass. She raised her eyebrows. "We're almost to Ithax, then?"

"Almost," the centaur agreed. "Soon we in hills—then town."

Sure enough, before long the land began to slope. The forest thinned, letting shafts of pale moonlight through the leaves. Oaks yielded to groves of olive trees. Dezra was impressed that they could grow this far south, where the winters were so harsh.

More of the forest's magic, she told herself. Who's to say there is winter here?

Suddenly, a sound rose before them that made Dezra stiffen: the creak of drawn bows. She clapped a hand to her sword as she peered ahead, trying to make out the archers in the darkness. The centaurs stopped, but didn't reach for their own weapons.

"Phante!" came a harsh call. "Po khansi?"

Dezra understood. "Who goes there?" had a certain tenor, no matter what the language.

"Gyrtomon ot Trephas" Gyrtomon replied. He extended his hands, showing they were empty. “Nemeredou mokhai.”

A moment passed as several voices muttered together in the darkness. Then the speaker uttered a sharp word, and all fell silent. The unseen bows creaked again as the horse-men relaxed their grips.

A strange centaur stepped out of the shadows. He was piebald, his coat and skin a patchwork of black and white. He wore a war harness and a quiver of arrows to go with the longbow in his hand. There was war paint on his fur and tattoos upon his skin. Rings hung from his ears and nose. His mane was shaven, save for a long, white braid.

"Arhedion!" Trephas called. He strode toward the piebald, beaming. They clasped arms, then the piebald did the same with Gyrtomon.

"Welcome back," Arhedion said. He spoke the common tongue easily, so the humans could understand. "I see thy journey bore fruit, Trephas."

"Aye," Trephas declared, gesturing toward the humans. "Any news from Ithax?"

The piebald shrugged. "Very little, since thou left. It's been quiet, mostly. Except—" He stopped suddenly.

"Except what?" Trephas asked sharply.

"A war party. They left town some hours after thee, Gyrtomon. Nemeredes the Younger led them."

"Our brother?" Gyrtomon asked, glancing at Trephas. "Where was he bound?"

"North and east. I… know not where."

Trephas regarded the piebald, his brow furrowing. "That isn't all, is it?"

Arhedion looked down, pawing the ground with his forehoof. "Forgive me," he said. "I should not say. Thy father will tell thee."

Gyrtomon and Trephas exchanged worried glances.

"I'll ride on ahead and herald thy return," Arhedion continued, still not meeting the brothers' gaze. "The Circle shall wish to meet with thee, I'm sure."

"Wait," Trephas said. "Arhedion, what about—"

Before he could say anything more, the piebald wheeled and trotted away into the forest. Trephas and Gyrtomon stood still, listening as he rode away, then turned and signaled to the others.

"Come on," Gyrtomon declared. "Ithax awaits."

"There should be music," Trephas murmured. "Flutes, lyres and drums—and singing, too."

The humans had moved up to walk near the front of the party, alongside the brothers. The hills around them were nearly treeless—a strange thing, in the heart of Darken Wood—and rowed with vines. The vineyards were poorly tended. The plants were sickly and brown, and weeds grew among them. The war had turned so dire that the wine-loving centaurs had neglected the coming year's vintage.

"Music?" Dezra repeated skeptically. "In the middle of a war?"

Gyrtomon nodded. "It's our custom to welcome chieftains' sons that way, even when times are dark."

"There should be folk dancing among the vines, colts and fillies tossing silverwood blossoms across our path," Trephas said, worried. "Instead, no one. Something ill has happened, I fear."

They wound onward. They passed several thatched huts, crudely built of branches bound with withes. All of them were dark. Gyrtomon's warriors grew nervous, reaching for their weapons at every shadow. Finally, they crested a low ridge and came to a halt, looking down into the broad valley below. In its midst stood a mound, and on top of that was a town.

It was surprisingly large, a mass of trees and roofs made from thatch or bark shingles. Smoke drifted from stone chimneys, glowing orange with reflected firelight. A tall palisade of sharpened logs ringed the mound. Torches blazed atop the wall, illuminating the guards who paced the battlements.

"Ithax," proclaimed Gyrtomon.

Trephas nodded, smiling. "Home."

"Sure seems well-guarded," Caramon observed.

"The Skorenoi have tried to attack before," Trephas replied.

"They'll try again," Gyrtomon added, "before the summer is ended—the Circle is sure of it."

Below, one of the guards peered across the valley and saw the torches Gyrtomon's party bore. He waved an arm, shouting: "Hai! Gyrtomon temerikhai keleion!"

Gyrtomon returned the gesture, then reached to his harness, where a curved horn hung. He brought it to his lips and blew a long, blaring note that echoed across the vale. With that, he started down toward Ithax. The others fell in behind him.

"What happens now?" Dezra asked as they followed a narrow, dirt path through a pasture of grass and clover.

"Arhedion has gone within, to tell the Circle of our arrival," Trephas replied. "Our father will come to the gates to welcome us with the Wine of Greeting."

Borlos's eyebrows rose. "You greet each other with wine?" he asked, grinning. "Why am I not surprised?"

The gates were built of stout oak, bound with black iron; they looked heavy enough that a giant would have to struggle to open them. The palisades were strong—not as mighty as a stone wall, but close. Suspicious eyes and nocked arrows tracked Gyrtomon's party from above as they drew near.

Half a dozen guards rode forward to intercept them, lances ready. Gyrtomon stopped, raising a hand.

"Keleion he phomenos!" he called.

There ensued a short conversation in the centaur language. In the end, the guards couched their weapons and stepped back. Through their midst strode a large, silver-coated centaur. He wore his snowy mane and beard braided, and his face was weathered and hard.

"Your father?" Dezra asked.

Trephas shook his head, staring as the silver centaur bent down to lift a heavy, eared jug. "No," he said. "It's Rhedogar, the leader of our people's warriors."

"But you said—" Caramon began.

"I know!" Trephas interrupted curtly. He pawed the ground with his forehoof. "Something's wrong."

"Rhedogar!" Gyrtomon called. "Why hast thou come to greet us? Where is our father?"

There was deep sorrow in the grizzled centaur's eyes. He came to a halt before the party. He held out the amphora. It was intricately painted, with twining black grape vines and capering red horsefolk. "I offer wine, sons of Nemeredes," he declared formally. "Drink, and be welcome."

His face drawn with worry, Gyrtomon accepted the jug. He poured a crimson stream on the ground as a libation, then raised the amphora to his lips and gulped down a deep draught. He handed it to Trephas, who repeated the ritual, then returned the wine to Rhedogar. The old centaur drank last of all.

"I ask thee again," Gyrtomon said. "Why hasn't our father come to greet us?"

Reluctantly, Rhedogar met his gaze. "I'm sorry to say this. Nemeredes the Elder is not here because he is in mourning."

"Mourning?" Trephas blurted.

"It's our brother," Gyrtomon interrupted. "Isn't it?"

Rhedogar nodded.

"How?" Trephas exclaimed.

The silver centaur shook his head. "Thou shouldst hear it from thy father. He waits at the Yard of Gathering, with the rest of the Circle."

With that, he turned and strode through the gates, setting the amphora down as he went. Trephas and Gyrtomon hesitated. Their faces were ashen, and their eyes shimmered in the torchlight.

"Well?" Dezra asked. "Are we going in, or do we just stand out here all night?"

That earned her angry looks from both Caramon and Borlos, as well as several centaurs. It also snapped Gyrtomon and Trephas out of their stupor, however. Haltingly, they started forward, leading the way through Ithax's mighty gates.

Chapter Sixteen

Ithar was a jumble of buildings with little sign of order. There were no real roads, but rather meandering trails that wound this way and that. Its huts were simple, made of daub and wattle, interspersed with tall oak trees. None was taller than a single story—the horsefolk had no love for stairs—and few had foundations. There were skin tents as well, painted with spirals and knotwork patterns. Many structures were simple frameworks with open sides beneath thatch or bark roofs. Torches mounted on stakes guttered, and bonfires crackled in the open.

Then, of course, there were the centaurs. They were as varied as horses and men. Some were jet black, others brown or gray, bay or chestnut. A few were mottled with more than one color, as Arhedion was, and even those who weren't had some mark of another color on them—white fetlocks on one, a black streak running down another's face. They wore their manes and beards long, though some tied them in braids or tassels, and others had shaved parts of their heads. None, however, tied their tails. These they left long, free of tangles and burrs.

There were signs everywhere of the ongoing war. Most of the horsefolk wore harnesses and quivers, and carried cudgels or spears. Many were scarred, and some were missing an arm or hand. They nodded in recognition as Trephas and Gyrtomon passed, but regarded Caramon, Borlos and Dezra with mistrust.

"Where are all the women?" Caramon asked.

"Most will be preparing for the funeral," Trephas said softly. "Though there are some about, here and there." He pointed with his chin. "See? There's a filly, over by that stump."

Caramon looked, and spotted her. He wasn't surprised he hadn't noticed any other females before. At first glance, her beardless face was all that marked her apart from the stallions. She was well-muscled, with a brown mane that tumbled down over her shoulders, hiding her bare breasts. She wore a longbow across her back, and had the same hard look about her as the males. The horse-women were warriors, just like the men of their race.

The huts grew larger and grander as the party wended toward the middle of Ithax. Some had antlers and animal skulls mounted on their walls; others sported bone-and-wood windchimes or bright hangings of woven wool. A few stood dark and empty, with no fires burning inside or out. Leafy bundles were nailed to their lintels.

"Those are the homes of dead warriors," said Trephas. "Our brother, it seems, was not the only one slain. Their bodies rest within, and the fennel stalks"—he nodded at the leafy bundles—"protect them from evil. Tomorrow, they'll be tom down and made into pyres for the fallen."

"Whist," Gyrtomon bade. "We're almost to the Yard of Gathering."

At the crest of the hillock the town was built upon was a broad, open pasture. Torches flickered at its edges, illuminating green, sweet-smelling grass. The Yard was large enough to accommodate hundreds of centaurs, but now it was nearly empty. In its midst, nearly lost in darkness, stood a handful of horsefolk. They looked up, toward Gyrtomon and Trephas, then turned away again, murmuring in hushed voices.

"What now?" Caramon whispered.

"We wait, until the Circle calls us," Trephas replied. "Then we'll partake of the grass and go to stand before them."

"Partake?" Borlos's eyes widened. "As in eat?"

"Aye," said Trephas. "That's the custom."

"I don't know if you realize," Dezra said, "but humans don't eat grass."

Trephas frowned, but Gyrtomon nodded. "We understand," he said. "It isn't necessary for thee to observe the rite."

"No," Caramon said. "We'll follow the ritual."

Dezra and Borlos looked at him. "But—" Dezra began.

"We'll follow the ritual."

"And spend the rest of the night ritually puking up our suppers," Borlos muttered.

"Here comes Rhedogar," Trephas said, looking out across the Yard.

The silver-furred centaur trotted back across the meadow. Arhedion was with him. They stopped before the companions, bowing.

"The Circle of Four welcomes thee," Rhedogar declared. "They ask the sons of Nemeredes and the humans to partake and come forward."

Solemnly, Gyrtomon and Trephas knelt, plucked handfuls of grass from the ground, and placed it in their mouths. Caramon followed suit, chewing a few blades and swallowing hard. Shrugging, Dezra followed suit. Borlos went last, and smacked his lips in distaste as they strode across the Yard, toward the Circle. The rest of the party stayed behind, with Rhedogar and Arhedion.

A ring of stones, worn with age, stood in the Yard's midst. Within, a brass brazier gave off a low, ruddy light. Three centaurs stood around it, their faces shadowed, watching as a fourth laid something on the glowing coals. Steam billowed, accompanied by loud sizzling. The smell of burning fat wafted to meet the companions.

Caramon's stomach rumbled like an ogre in full battle rage. "Gods, that smells good," he sighed.

"That," Gyrtomon snapped, "is a sacrifice. The deer fat is for the gods to savor, not mortals."

"Sacrifices, libations," Dezra said. "You do know the gods are gone, right?"

"They've left before," Gyrtomon said quietly. "When thy kind brought down the fiery mountain. They returned then; they will return again."

Dezra opened her mouth to argue, but caught a glance from Caramon and held her tongue.

They were almost to the standing stones, and could make out the features of the centaurs by the brazier. One was the color of coal and immensely fat, his girth putting Caramon's to shame. His right arm ended in a stump below the elbow. Beside him was a gray mare, whose iron hair was tied in a tight bun, and whose eyes glittered like ice. Next to her was a tall bay stallion, almost Caramon's age but still in fighting trim, with hard, corded muscles. His long beard hung in braids beneath a scarred face. Before them, kneeling by the brazier, was the fourth member of the Circle. He was quite old, his chestnut fur shot through with white. His age-lined face was wet with tears. Not seeming to notice anyone was approaching, he picked up another ragged piece of deer fat and laid it on the brazier. Smoke rose, and he vanished for a moment.

"Your father?" Borlos murmured.

Trephas nodded slightly. "The rest of the chiefs stand with him—Pleuron the Fat, Lady Eucleia, and High Chief Menelachos."

They stopped at the stone ring's edge. Trephas and Gyrtomon prostrated themselves, extending their right forehooves. Caramon knelt a moment later, and Borlos did the same. Only Dezra remained standing, hands on her hips.

"So," she said, "you must be the Circle."

The chiefs regarded her coldly. Dezra didn't quail before them, however, and after a moment the muscular bay raised his hand. Golden bracers gleamed on his wrists. He wore a matching tore, studded with sapphires, about his neck. "Rise," he bade in a booming voice. "Stand before the Circle, guests, and be welcome."

They obeyed, Caramon wincing as his knees popped. The chiefs watched in stony silence. Old Nemeredes rose unsteadily from behind the brazier, smiling sadly as he beheld his sons.

"Gyrtomon, Trephas," he quavered. He strode forward to clasp their arms. "This lightens a heavy heart. We must share wine later. Thou hast heard about thy brother?"

The brothers nodded. "Rhedogar told us," Gyrtomon replied. "He didn't say what happened, though."

Nemeredes sighed wearily. "What is it ever, in these dark days? Yesterday morn the scouts reported a party of Skorenoi, not five leagues from this place. Thy brother took a war-band out—a large enough company, he thought, to put a quick end to them."

"But it wasn't?" Trephas guessed.

"No." Nemeredes shook his head. "It was a trap. Thy brother led his company straight into slaughter."

Gyrtomon bowed his head. "Were all slain?"

"Not all. The Skorenoi took a score of thy brother's warriors captive, back to Sangelior," Nemeredes replied. The centaurs all made warding signs, their faces grim. "Thy brother, thanks be to Chislev, wasn't one of them. He died, taken through the heart by a spear. It was quick… he didn't suffer… ." He stopped, choking with tears.

Pleuron came forward, his girth bobbing, and laid his good hand on Nemeredes's shoulder. Trephas and Gyrtomon each held one of their father's hands, comforting him.

Caramon found himself weeping as well. He'd lost two sons, and knew the agony the old chief was going through. He looked up at the cloudy sky, blinking back tears.

"As usual, the Skorenoi sent back one survivor, to tell what happened," said Pleuron. His eyes flashed. "I rode out today, with a much larger company, to bring back the bodies. Thy brother lies in his hut, his wounds washed and his weapons laid out with him."

Gyrtomon looked up, his face damp with tears. "My thanks, Pleuron," he said. "We would see him tonight."

Dezra had watched the tearful scene with growing restlessness. Now she cleared her throat loudly. "Excuse me," she said.

Everyone turned to look. The centaurs were incensed, their nostrils flared with anger. "Be still, girl," Caramon growled.

"Nay," Menelachos said. "The lass is right. We shouldn't neglect our guests, no matter how deep our loss might be." He looked the humans up and down. "These are the ones thou hast brought back, Trephas?"

Wiping his eyes, Trephas stepped back from his father and faced the High Chief. "Aye, my lord," he said. "There was a fourth, a young man, but he was slain on the way here. My brother wasn't the only one to fall into a Skorenoi trap—Thenidor and his lot waylaid us, on the banks of the Darkwater."

Menelachos's bushy eyebrows lowered. "Then we owe the Skorenoi double for what they've wrought. But please, introduce our guests."

"Of course, my lord." Trephas waved his hand. "This is Borlos, a bard of Solace, and Caramon and Dezra Majere."

"Caramon?" Menelachos repeated. His hawklike eyes studied Caramon critically. "The same Caramon Majere who knew the Forestmaster, and fought the dragon-armies?"

Caramon's face burned. "That's me," he said. "I'm sorry to hear what's happened to the Forestmaster. I want to help."

Eucleia's lip curled with disdain as she regarded the humans. "This is the best thou couldst do, Trephas? An unmannered girl, a bard and an old man?"

Dezra glared at the steely-eyed mare. Before she could retort, however, Menelachos interjected. "Lady Eucleia," he said, "these humans are our guests, and are to be shown respect. We bade Trephas to bring back a Majere—he has brought two. They are our hope of surviving the war with Chrethon—and of saving the Forestmaster."

"Then we're likely doomed," the mare said. She tossed her head, leveling her glinting gaze on Trephas.

That was enough for Caramon. "Pardon me, lady," he said, "but we've come a long way from home, although we don't know exactly why—and one of us has already died because he wouldn't turn back. If you expect me to stand here while you insult me, you can go to the Abyss."

The Yard of Gathering fell silent, save for the hiss of the sacrificial fat on the coals. After a moment, Eucleia smiled tightly.

"I misjudged thee, Majere," she said. "I took you for a man with no fire left in him. It seems I was wrong. I apologize for speaking ill of thee."

"Oh," Caramon said lamely. He hadn't expected to win the argument so easily. "Well, good then."

Dezra shook her head. "I don't want your apologies. I didn't come here for you, or for the Forestmaster. I was promised steel."

The Circle looked at Trephas. "Is this true?" asked Menelachos.

Reluctantly, the young centaur nodded. "It was the only way I could convince her to come."

The High Chief regarded Dezra sternly. "Very well, lass," he said, his voice heavy with disdain. "We centaurs honor our bargains. We will pay thee… and then, thou wilt learn why we've summoned thee here."

Chapter Seventeen

"I can't believe you," Caramon said, disgusted. "Asking the centaurs for money when they're in mourning."

The horsefolk had left them alone in the Yard of Gathering. Trephas and Gyrtomon had gone with their father to grieve over their brother's body, and the rest of the Circle had withdrawn to confer. Several young colts brought the humans cold venison and wine—their amazement when Caramon asked for water instead was almost comical—then left them alone.

"Are you listening to me, girl?" Caramon asked.

Dezra raised her eyebrows. "When was I supposed to bring it up? The way it sounds like the war's going, there probably isn't any time they aren’t in mourning."

"Will both of you shut up?" Borlos snapped.

Caramon and Dezra started. The bard had been so quiet, nursing flask after flask of centaur wine, that they'd all but forgotten he was there. Now he glared at them, swaying slightly.

"Don't you two ever get tired of bickering?" he asked. "I've known ogres who are less ornery! It's this bloody arguing that got Uwen killed at the Darkwater. Who'll it be next time? Trephas? Me? All of us?"

"You could always leave," Dezra suggested dourly.

"No," Borlos replied. "There's grand things happening in this forest. One way or another, there'll be a tale to be told, and I'm the only bard around to see it happen. No, I'm seeing this through. But you're going to have to quit being such a pair of stubborn asses."

No one spoke after that. They were still quiet, half an hour later, when the thud of hooves approached across the Yard. They looked up and saw the Circle approaching, Trephas and Gyrtomon with them. The brothers' faces were creased with sorrow. The horsefolk drew to a halt before the humans, who quickly got to their feet. Lord Menelachos tossed a jingling sack at Dezra's feet.

"As was agreed," he declared. "Three hundred pieces of steel."

Dezra nodded, nudging the sack with her foot. "Thanks."

Menelachos inclined his head. "Now, if thou art not too tired to listen, we'll tell what we need of thee."

Caramon glanced at Dezra and Borlos, then nodded. "Go ahead," he said.

Old Nemeredes stepped forward. "My son says he's already told thee about the war, and the foes we face. Not just Chrethon and his Skorenoi, but also the daemon tree. He also told thee about the Forestmaster."

"Is that it?" Caramon asked. "Do you want us to rescue her?"

Menelachos shook his head. "No. We've tried that before. We lost many good warriors. If our finest couldn't help her, then thou certainly cannot, either. We need thy help destroying Grimbough."

Silence hung over the Yard, save for the crackling of the torches.

"Chrethon's power comes from the daemon tree," Nemeredes said. "If we're to stop him, we must dam the river at its spring. Grimbough must die."

"But how?" Caramon asked. "If the tree's as powerful as you say, how can we harm it?"

"We wondered about that for some time," Eucleia admitted. "But we've found an answer: Soulsplitter."

Nemeredes's sons glanced at her in alarm. The humans, however, frowned in confusion.

"Who?" Dezra asked.

"Not who," Menelachos corrected. "What. Thou hast not heard of Soulsplitter?"

Dezra and Caramon shook their heads, then looked at Borlos. The bard spread his hands.

The Circle exchanged glances. "I see," said Menelachos. "This shall take more explaining than I'd expected." He clapped his hands, and a colt galloped across the Yard to him. "Fetch Olinia," he bade. As the messenger bolted away, Menelachos turned back to face the humans. "I've sent for a minstrel, a history-speaker. She'll tell thee Soulsplitter's story."

In time, the runner returned, walking with a young mare. She was lovely, her skin and coat the color of ivory. Her golden tresses flowed down to her withers; her face, with its high cheekbones and aquiline nose, would have been at home on a marble statue. In the crook of her arm she carried a finely carved lyre; her other hand rested on the messenger's shoulder. After a moment, the humans realized she was blind.

She stopped, staring into the distance. "My lords?" she asked, her voice like honey. "Thou hast summoned me?"

"Aye, Olinia," Menelachos said. "We have guests who must hear the tale of Soulsplitter."

"Ah." Her smile set her face aglow. "One of our oldest stories. Aye, I will tell it—I ask but a moment to tune my lyre."

With that, she started plucking chords on the instrument. Its dulcet tones rang out across the Yard. As she was preparing, Dezra nudged her father. "Look at Borlos," she said.

Caramon did, and broke into a broad grin. The bard was staring at the minstrel in rapt attention, a dazed smile on his face.

"I think someone's smitten," Caramon said, chuckling.

Olinia finished tuning, and ran her long fingers across the strings, a waterfall of notes. Plucking her lyre, she began the tale.

"We horsefolk use many weapons in battle," Olinia said. "Spears, cudgels, swords and scythes. But there is one none of us will wield, nor has any in a hundred generations. Not since our people were young has any centaur swung an axe in war. This is the story of why this is so.

"Our people were born of chaos. Ages past, when the Graygem was freed to wander the earth, it left none who beheld it unchanged. Trolls, goblins, minotaurs—even the dwarves and kender sprang from its magic. It changed people according to their nature, and so, when it found tribes of barbarian horsemen, it made horse and rider into one. Thus did our people first appear.

"The time of the Graygem was also a time of fear. Those it had not touched reviled those it had, fearing them for their differences. Men hated us, drove us out. We became nomads, wandering the face of Ansalon. Our scattered clans joined together, forming the seven great tribes: Ebon Lance, Laughing Brook, Iron Hooves, Green Willow, Soaring Mane, Leaping Hart and Keening Wind.

"We found no peace. We would settle in one land or another, sometimes for years, but in the end we were always forced to leave.

"There were those among us," Olinia continued, her tone growing ominous, "who said we should fight, to win a place for us to live for good. One of those was Peldarin of the Ebon Lance tribe. Peldarin was a brave warrior. Whenever the fearful attacked, Peldarin was always the last to withdraw. He fought with great skill and no mercy, slaying hundreds with his war axe, Soulsplitter.

"No one knows for certain whence Soulsplitter came. Some say it is of dwarven make, and that the mountain folk gave it to Peldarin as they would later give the Hammer of Kharas to Huma Dragonbane. Others claim Peldarin forged it himself, from the ashes of a fallen star. Still others say he found it in an ancient, ruined temple. Whatever the case, Soulsplitter was a weapon of might. It cut through armor as if it weren't there, and could cleave a stone in a single blow. Some tales claim Peldarin could sunder mountains with the axe: indeed, one legend claims he is the one who cleft the peak called Prayer's Eye.

"Without Peldarin and Soulsplitter to defend them, our people may well have perished. Certainly, we would have been far fewer when we at last found Darken Wood. Here, at last, we were safe—few humans lived in Abanasinia then. Lord Hyrtamos, who was High Chief in Peldarin's time, befriended the fey folk and satyrs who dwelt in the wood, and swore fealty to the Forestmaster and Chislev. At last, after years of wandering, we'd found a home.

"Not all were content with peace, however. Peldarin yearned to lead war bands into the lands of humans, to wreak vengeance upon those who'd tried to destroy us. When he asked the Circle of Seven for leave to do so, however, the High Chief forbade it.

"That should have been the end of it. Then as now, the word of the Circle was law. But Peldarin wouldn't have it, and took matters into his own hands. He secretly led marauders into southern Ergoth, and to the villages that would later become Xak Tsaroth and other great cities. They slew many humans on their raids, always taking care not to lead pursuit back to Darken Wood.

"Peldarin couldn't hide his activities from the Circle forever, though. Hyrtamos began to suspect, and confronted him several times. Each time Peldarin denied having done any wrong. At last, however, he made a mistake he couldn't hide. He returned from a raid with human blood still on Soulsplitter's blade.

"Hyrtamos should have brought Peldarin before the Circle when he learned of this. Instead, foolishly, he accused Peldarin in private, hoping to talk sense into him. Instead, they quarrelled bitterly, and the High Chief threatened to have Peldarin's tail shorn. Then he turned his back to leave.

"Though he was a great chief, Hyrtamos still made mistakes, and this was by far the greatest. In a fit of rage, Peldarin struck him down. Soulsplitter's magic was such that the axe cut Hyrtamos in two, cleaving his human half from the part that was horse. So the first High Chief of Darken Wood died, at the hands of his greatest warrior.

"Our people have one punishment for murdering a chief: gelding and death. Knowing this would be his fate, Peldarin took up the axe and smote himself in the neck, cutting off his own head. When the High Chief's guards discovered the bodies, they had to break Peldarin's dead fingers to make him let Soulsplitter go.

"The Circle, left with the axe, resolved to destroy it. But they couldn't break it. When they tried to smash it with stones, the stones burst instead; it emerged from the hottest fires unscathed. At last, the chiefs decided: if they couldn't sunder Soulsplitter, they would hide it away, so no centaur could use it in wrath again.

"They couldn't take it out of Darken Wood, however; if they did, they feared humans would find it one day and wreak great evil. Instead, they hid it where no centaur or human had ever gone. They approached the laird of the sprites, ruler of the fey folk, and beseeched him to keep it in his hidden kingdom, where only his kind and the dryads went. They also asked him to swear an oath, that his people would never let the axe leave their realm in centaur hands. So Soulsplitter passed from this world.

"Ever since that day," Olinia concluded, plucking a final chord upon her strings, "no centaur has ever raised an axe in war."

The final, ringing notes from the minstrel's lyre slowly fell into silence.

"It is late," Menelachos said. "Thou mayst go, Olinia."

The minstrel bowed. "My lord," she murmured. Then she let the messenger guide her away, into the darkness.

When she was gone, Caramon cleared his throat. "So you think this Soulsplitter can destroy Grimbough?"

"We are sure of it," Eucleia declared proudly.

Pleuron chuckled. "Not that we believe Peldarin made Prayer's Eye Peak, of course, but if half the tales about it are true, no tree could stand against it—not even one corrupted by Chaos."

"We need thee," Menelachos said, "to travel to the kingdom of the fey folk and retrieve the axe from Laird Guithern, who rules the sprites."

Dezra's brow furrowed. She jerked her thumb in the direction the minstrel had gone. "Didn't she just say no one could go there?"

"Nay," said Menelachos. "Only that none of us ever have. We could go ourselves, but the sprites are forbidden to give us Soulsplitter."

"How do we get there?" Caramon asked.

Nemeredes spoke up. "Thou hast heard of the dryads?"

Caramon and Dezra shook their heads, but Borlos nodded. "Sure. They're oak spirits. They lure men into their trees to kill them."

Several of the centaurs snorted in amusement. "Human ignorance," Eucleia sneered.

Pleuron spoke before anyone could retort. "What Lady Eucleia means to say, in her own charming way," he said, "is that the stories seem to have become… twisted… by thy people."

"What?" Dezra asked, one eyebrow rising. "You're telling me not every bard's tale is absolute truth?"

Borlos shot her a look that could have withered crops. Caramon and the centaurs chuckled, however. Only dour Eucleia didn't smile.

"Just so," said Menelachos. "The truth is, the dryads—the oak maidens—aren't spirits at all, but flesh. And while they do lure men into their trees, it isn't to feast upon them."

"Not in that way, anyway," Pleuron added. "You see, they normally mate with satyrs, and they don't like it much. So sometimes they seduce one of thy kind. Poor fellows often don't come back out of the trees for years."

Caramon swallowed. "Years?"

"If at all," Pleuron added.

"A dryad's tree is like a gate," Menelachos explained. "They're all connected—the ones in Darken Wood, anyway—and they also lead to the kingdom of the sprites. We know of one who might take thee there."

"But surely you could tell one of the sprites to ask this Laird Guithern to give you the axe," Caramon said.

"Aye, we could," Pleuron allowed, "but the sprites haven't left their kingdom since the Second Cataclysm. And the dryads and satyrs… well, to be honest, we don't trust them. They can be fickle things."

Dezra regarded Menelachos intently. "So you want us to find this dryad, use her tree to get into the faerie realm, convince this Laird Whoever-he-is to give us this axe, and bring it back to you?"

"Aye," said Menelachos. "The funeral is tomorrow. Thou wilt leave the day after that. Trephas will go with thee."

"Pay me another thousand in steel," Dezra said after a moment's thought, "and I'll do it."

"We'll do it," Caramon amended quickly.

Dezra shot him a look, but said nothing.

Hurach dared move again only when the Circle and the humans were gone. The satyr crept slowly across the Yard of Gathering, his cloven hooves making no sound in the long grass. He moved from shadow to shadow, melding with the darkness wherever he could. He stopped at the edge of the Yard, his breath coming in quick, fearful gasps. A party of horse-men walked past the shadows where he hid. They were singing and swigging wine from heavy jugs. He waited long enough for them to turn their backs, then sprinted across Ithax with all the speed he could muster.

The huts passed in a blur, and soon he was back at the palisade. He paused in the wall's shade, listening for sounds of pursuit, shouts of alarm. A moment passed, and he grunted with satisfaction: nothing. He hadn't been spotted.

Hurach climbed the palisade easily, moving up the smooth surface with the speed and sure feet of a spider. Using his muscular, shaggy arms, he pulled himself onto the battlements—

And froze, looking straight up the shaft of a centaur's spear.

"Here, now," the horse-man said, pressing the lance's broad head against the underside of Hurach's chin. "Who art thou? A goat-man… and a spy at that. I can tell by thy eyes." The centaur spat.

Hurach had a knife tucked into his loincloth. Only now it wasn't there; it was in the centaur's chest, all the way to its crossguard. The horse-man and the satyr both stared at it stupidly—Hurach couldn't remember having drawn it, much less throwing it—then the centaur collapsed, the dumbfounded expression frozen on his face.

Hurach glanced around. He hadn't been noticed yet, but that would change if he didn't move. He vaulted over the top of the palisade.

It was a long drop, and his wind left him when he landed. As he lay on the ground, wheezing, he marveled that he hadn't broken anything. Dazedly, he dragged himself to his feet and lurched away from the town, keeping always to the shadows. He laughed quietly as he ran.

He'd heard everything—the minstrel's tale, the bargain the centaurs and the humans had struck, the plan to recover Soulsplitter. Now, he made his way back into Darken Wood's depths. He would be at Sangelior by nightfall tomorrow.

He was sure that, when he got there, Lord Chrethon would be interested to hear what he'd learned.

Chapter Eighteen

The horsefolk began arriving at the yard of Catering shortly before sunset. There was no shouting or laughter among them, no music or games. It was no time for gaiety, with the dead among them.

Nemeredes the Younger's company had been more than fifty strong. The centaurs had recovered nearly thirty bodies. Now the slain lay atop their pyres, their weapons arrayed about them. Woolen blankets shrouded those who had died badly.

Those dear to the dead warriors gathered about the pyres, many weeping openly. They burned deer fat, poured wine on the ground, and laid tokens—bronze and silver jewelry, wreaths of laurel and oak—beside the dead. A father, a sister, a husband, a daughter, a lover, a friend. Nearly everyone had lost someone dear to them.

Nemeredes the Younger's pyre stood within the stone ring. His brothers stood beside him. His hands were folded across his chest, gripping the stout cudgel he'd held when he died. His face was peaceful; he might have been sleeping, but for the pallor of his skin and the ragged wounds where the enemy's lances had pierced him.

Dezra, Caramon and Borlos stood nearby. Though none of them had ever known Nemeredes, Caramon had placed three arrows from his quiver on the pyre, one for. each of them. Trephas and Gyrtomon thanked him, their eyes shining in the twilight.

The sun disappeared behind the mountains, and the stars winked into view. Darken Wood faded into night, and the centaurs began to wail.

It began quietly, rising across the Yard. Stallions rumbled deeply, and mares keened in reply. Slowly, it grew in pitch and fervor, building to a bellowing, shrieking crescendo. Centaurs pulled their manes and beards, pounded their breasts, stamped their hooves. Some smashed wine-jugs, then trampled the potsherds into dust. Many fell to their knees, shouting and shaking their fists at the sky. Others reared on their hind legs, flinging their arms wide. The humans clapped their hands over their ears. The air itself seemed to shudder with the horsefolk's grief.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the wailing stopped. The evening wind sighed among the trees. Crickets sang. From the Yard's edge came the slow thud of hoofbeats.

The crowd turned, began to part. Four banners, flapping in the breeze, moved through the gap: a green willow in full leaf, a blue river, a pair of gray horseshoes, and a long, black spear. The Circle had arrived. They strode behind their standard-bearers, backs erect and tails held high. On their heads were silver masks, engraved in the images of animals. Pleuron was a boar, old Nemeredes a hawk, Eucleia a wolf. Menelachos, a stag with a spreading rack of antlers, walked with Olinia the minstrel, her hand on his arm. Each of the masks had been crafted as though wracked by woe, with etched tears spilling down their cheeks.

The processional stopped at the stone ring, staring at the body upon the pyre. "Kin of the slain," Menelachos intoned. "Come forward."

Obediently, Gyrtomon strode around his brother's body to stand before the Circle. Trephas walked behind him.

"Gyrtomon, son of Nemeredes the Elder," declared Menelachos. "We come to grieve for thy brother."

Gyrtomon trembled, struggling to contain himself. "What tribute hast thou brought?"

"We bring nothing," said old Nemeredes, "save our tears and the blood in our veins." His shoulders shook as he spoke.

Bowing their heads, Gyrtomon and Trephas stepped aside. "It is enough," Gyrtomon said. "Pass, and be welcome."

Slowly, the chiefs strode forward to stand before the pyre. Old Nemeredes wept, his sobs echoing within his mask. Trephas and Gyrtomon stood beside him, resting their hands on his shoulders.

Menelachos raised his arms, holding his hands over the dead centaur's body. "Again, our young ones die before their time," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "For ten years now, we've lost those we loved to Lord Chrethon's wrath. So we have lost Nemeredes, son of Nemeredes, and those who rode with him. Chrethon believes that by slaying those dear to us, he can rob of us of our will to resist.

"He is wrong. With every centaur he murders or gives to the daemon tree, our resolve strengthens. So with young Nemeredes and his riders. Their memory gives us the will to carry on. When their flesh is ashes, their spirits will fight on, beside us."

The High Chief lowered his right hand, keeping his left outstretched over the body, and drew a bronze dagger from a sheath on his harness. It gleamed with moonlight as he raised it before him.

"We give our blood to the dead," he declared, "and pray they will bear our memories with us, as they ride beyond the stars. In Chislev's name."

Swiftly, he raked the dagger across his open palm. Blood welled forth, and he cupped his hand, letting it gather. Sheathing the dirk, he tipped his hand and poured the blood onto young Nemeredes's body.

One by one, the other chiefs repeated the ritual, staining the centaur's chestnut coat with their blood—old Nemeredes last of all, his dagger quivering as he opened his flesh. When the Circle was finished, Trephas and Gyrtomon followed the ritual as well. Across the Yard, mourners did the same, washing the bodies with blood. Finally, when the last dagger was sheathed, all eyes returned to the High Chief.

"Nemeredes the Younger lived a good life," Menelachos declared. "He died well, defending his people. We should not grieve overlong for those who die fulfilling their purpose. Let the mourning end."

"Let it end," the gathered centaurs murmured.

The four chiefs reached up as one, and the masks came off. Their solemn faces glistened with sweat in the cool evening air. Menelachos raised his voice in a shout. "Light the torches!"

All over the Yard, flames flared as the mourners lit firebrands and held them aloft. Again, the centaurs looked to Circle.

Menelachos, his torch raised high, turned to old Nemeredes. "My friend," he said, "he is thy child. The first touch is thine."

Nemeredes regarded the High Chief, his eyes like open wounds, then bowed his head. He bent low to kiss his dead son's forehead; then, tears running down his cheeks, he placed his torch on the pyre. The flames leapt up swiftly, spreading around the centaur's body. As the fire rose, the rest of the Circle added their brands, then Gyrtomon and Trephas did the same. The horsefolk at the other pyres did the same, and soon the Yard of Gathering shone with golden light. Glowing embers drifted up toward the stars.

As the pyres burned, Olinia stepped forward. She set her fingers to her lyre and raised her voice in song:

From the sky the rain,
The rain kisses the earth.
From the earth the tree,
The tree yields its fruit

The fruit feeds the man,
The man lives and dies,
He lies among the flames,
They rise into the sky.

From the sky the rain…

Over and over she chanted, going through the cycle again and again. The other centaurs joined in, reciting the verse with her as they watched the flames.

Borlos tapped Caramon on the shoulder. "We've seen all we're going to see," he said. "And we've still got poor Uwen to attend to."

Caramon blinked, shaking his head. The centaurs' chanting had entranced him. "Right," he said. "Come on, Dezra. Let's—"

He stopped, looking around. His daughter was gone.

The centaurs had given their human guests a hut to sleep in while they were in Ithax. It was tall and plain, with walls of bound branches and a roof shingled with old, mossy bark. Caramon had begged a blanket to cover the open doorway, to keep out the draft. Now he shoved it aside and peered inside, searching.

The floor was bare earth, with mats of woven rushes for beds. There were two large clay jugs—one filled with wine, the other with water—and a small, bronze basin for washing. Other than that, and a crude table, there was no furniture. Built as they were, the horsefolk had no use for stools or chairs. Nor was there a chest or trunk in which the humans could store their gear. It lay in heaps against the far wall.

Caramon was relieved to see there were three piles. Between his armor and weapons, and Borlos's pouches—on top of which rested a simple lyre, a gift from Olinia—were Dezra's sword and packs.

"Her things are still here," he told Borlos, who stood behind him, craning to see. "I thought for a moment she'd left Ithax."

"Me too," the bard agreed. "Nothing else?"

Caramon shook his head.

They went on, walking deeper into the darkness of the centaur town. The horsefolk's chanting and the light from the pyres faded behind them. Finally, as they neared the southern palisade, they came to another expanse of grass and trees. It was small compared with the Yard of Gathering, but large enough that the shadowy form of Uwen Gondil's pyre looked little from where Caramon and Borlos stopped.

"There she is," said the bard.

Squinting, Caramon saw the silhouette of a woman by the pyre. Dezra's back was to them. If she heard their approach, she gave no sign.

Their eyes never left her as they crossed the grass. When they were twenty paces from her, Caramon touched Borlos's arm and gestured for him to stop. The bard gave him a questioning look, and Caramon nodded toward his daughter. Borlos looked, and after a moment he saw what her father had spotted. Her shoulders were hunched, and shook slightly as she gazed down at the farmboy's body.

"You go ahead," the bard said. "I'll wait here."

Caramon smiled, patting Borlos's arm, then walked on alone. He stopped behind his daughter, coughing quietly.

"We can come back, if you want," Caramon said.

"No." She glanced over her shoulder, and he saw her eyes were red. "We should get this over with. You bring a torch?"

Caramon had one, tucked into his belt. He stepped forward, joining his daughter by the pyre. He looked down at Uwen's face: the hollow cheeks, the waxen skin. He wondered what he'd tell the boy's family when he went home.

"Bloody shame," Dezra murmured.

They were both silent a moment, then Dezra reached to her belt. Steel scraped as she drew her dagger, then cut her palm, as the centaurs had done. Blood dripped onto Uwen's face, ran back into his shaggy, blond hair.

Clenching her fist, Dezra offered the dirk to her father. He looked at it a moment, then nodded and took it. He added her blood to hers, then returned the blade.

"You have your aunt's smile, you know," he said quietly.

Dezra's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Kitiara's smile. It was just like yours." He nodded. "All crooked, one corner higher than the other. It always meant she was up to something. I remember one time, when Tanis and Sturm were—"

"Spare me," Dezra snarled abruptly. She shook her head. "Just this once, keep your bloody stories about Tanis and Sturm and Kitiara to yourself."

Caramon flushed, his mouth working soundlessly. "Dezra…" he growled.

"Get something straight, Father," she went on. "I don't care. You may have been as big a hero, once, as you claim to be, but that was a long time ago. I look at you now, and all I see is an old man living in the past."

Something in Caramon gave way. "Hold your tongue, girl!" he barked, drawing back his hand.

Dezra flinched. A heartbeat later, however, she raised her chin, silently offering it to him. Caramon flushed, ashamed, and let his arm drop to his side. Never, in his life, had he raised his hand against his children. That was for other men—weaker men.

They stood silently a while, then Dezra shrugged. "Well," she said, turning to go.

Caramon slumped, shaking his head. Borlos crept forward. "You all right, big guy?"

"Help me get this torch lit," Caramon snarled.

Borlos studied Caramon's face, then nodded, reaching into his pouch for flint and steel. "Sure thing, big guy."

It took a few strikes before a spark kindled on the brand. When the torch was burning brightly, Caramon turned to face Uwen's body. He should say something, he knew, but all that came to him was the thought that had been rolling in his head, ever since the arrow struck the boy dead: I should never have let you come along.

Softly, Borlos cleared his throat. He began to chant, echoing the horsefolk at the Yard of Gathering:

From the sky the rain,
he rain kisses the earth.
From the earth the tree,
The tree yields its fruit…

Sighing, Caramon laid the flickering torch on the pyre. He bowed his head, feeling tired, as the flames rose.

Chapter Nineteen

Chrethon plunged through the dark, twisted forest, laughing wildly. There was blood on the wind. It maddened him, more intoxicating than strong wine. He understood what the smell meant. One of the new Skorenoi had wounded its quarry.

It was a thing he always did, whenever new centaurs Crossed. From the beginning, he'd taken the newest Skorenoi into the woods to hunt. It was the best way to test his followers' prowess. Those who caught the first prey became leaders in his growing horde.

He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. Thenidor ran behind, halberd upraised, his coat dark with sweat. "They're close!" Chrethon bellowed. "They'll have their first kill soon!"

Thenidor nodded enthusiastically. Before either of them could say anything more, however, someone called out ahead of them. The pounding of hooves stopped, then turned right. A bowstring thrummed, followed by a squeal of pain. The blood-scent grew stronger, headier as the Skorenoi pursued the boar up a craggy hill. With a glance to make sure Thenidor was still with them, Chrethon followed.

They clambered upward for more then half a mile. The hillside was more sparsely wooded than the valley below, and Chrethon caught glimpses of the hunters in the silver moonlight. He squinted past them, but couldn't see the boar. He kept going, slowly gaining ground on the Skorenoi. One of the hunters raised a bow and let fly. The boar answered with an even more furious shriek than before, then changed direction again, angling downhill.

They cornered it soon after, driving the panicked beast into a rocky cleft near the hill's bottom. Trapped, it turned to face them. When Chrethon and Thenidor caught up, the Skorenoi had formed a half-circle about the cleft's mouth. One shot his bow, feathering the boar’s neck. It screamed and thrashed, stubbornly refusing to go down.

The Skorenoi turned at Chrethon's approach. The one who'd fired held up a hand, and the others lowered their bows. He strode toward Chrethon, bowing.

Chrethon looked him up and down: Grimbough had done worse than usual with this one. His face was neither human nor horse, but a mass of leathery skin so malformed that it was all but impossible to make out his features. His forelegs ended not with hooves, but with fat, stubby-fingered hands that gripped the rock beneath.

The faceless Skorenos bowed. "We have it trapped, my lord. The killing blow is thine, if thou wish it."

Chrethon stared into the black pits of the creature's eyes, then strode past, toward the boar. The animal snorted fiercely, drawing back. Its tusks glistened: if Chrethon got too close, it would surely try to run underneath him, gore him from below. He kept his distance: he'd been hunting boar since long before he Crossed.

He extended his lance one-handed toward the boar, raising his other arm over his head and waving to distract the wounded beast. It froze, its small eyes squinting, and he lunged, driving the spear into its neck.

The boar shrieked and thrashed. Chrethon bore down, twisting the weapon and shoving the animal back with all his strength. It backed against a boulder, collapsed, and died. Satisfied it wasn't going to get back up again, he jerked the spear free, wiped its head on the animal's hide, and turned back toward the other Skorenoi. Without a word, he strode up to their leader and smashed its shapeless face with the butt of his spear.

There was a satisfying crunch. The Skorenos dropped its bow and clutched its face, howling. Blood sprayed between its fingers. Without hesitating, Chrethon brought his spear-butt up again and struck it in the gut. It doubled over, sinking to its knees.

"Never give up a kill!" Chrethon snarled. "Not even to me. Finish, and don't hesitate. Dost thou understand?"

The Skorenos managed to nod, whimpering. "My lord… I'm sorry… ."

Chrethon turned away in disgust. He glared at the other five Skorenoi. "I still hunger for the chase," he said. "Continue the hunt."

The Skorenoi wheeled, bows in hand, and charged out of the gully. Chrethon followed, Thenidor coming behind. They left the faceless one lying on the ground with the dead boar.

An hour later, a wolf-eared Skorenos stopped at the crest of a low, wooded hillock and raised its head to sniff the air. Somehow, though Chrethon could smell nothing, he picked up a spoor. Nostrils flared, he turned east, cantering down the hill. The others followed.

They tracked the scent for miles, moving east in a more or less straight line. Finally, the wolfish Skorenos held up a hand, bringing the company to a halt. Without a glance at Chrethon, it crept toward a clump of blackthorns, whose branches drooped with shriveled fruit. The shadows around the bushes were deep enough to hide a large animal—a wolf, perhaps. Chrethon squinted, trying to see what the Skorenos was stalking, but the darkness was too thick to make anything out.

Twenty paces from the bushes, the hunter stopped again, raising his bow. The bow's limbs creaked as he pulled back the string.

"Wait!" a voice bleated. "Don't shoot!"

Chrethon drew up, his eyes widening. "Hurach?"

The shadows seemed to solidify, revealing the shape of a one-horned satyr. "My lord!" the goat-man yelped.

The wolfish Skorenos hesitated, confused. He risked a look at Chrethon.

"It's all right," Chrethon said. "He's a friend. Put up thy bow."

With a nod, the Skorenos relaxed his pull. As soon as he was no longer in danger of getting shot, Hurach crept out of the shadows and strode forward to kneel before Chrethon.

"What art thou doing out here, Hurach?" Chrethon snarled.

"I was on my way to Sangelior, lord," Hurach answered. "I thought you'd be there, not out hunting. I surely didn't think you'd be hunting me."

Chrethon smiled slightly. "Thou hast news? Thou hast been to Ithax?"

"Aye, lord," the satyr said. "I spied upon the Circle itself. The sons of Nemeredes were there, too, and the humans."

Thenidor snarled a curse, reminded of his failure by the Darkwater. His hand strayed to the bandaged arrow-wound Gyrtomon had dealt him.

"Be still!" Chrethon barked, not bothering to turn. "What then, Hurach? What didst thou hear?"

The satyr hesitated. "My lord… I think it would be better if I told you without so many ears about." He nodded toward the other Skorenoi.

Chrethon glowered, but finally he relented. "Very well, Hurach." He gestured past the blackthorns. "Come—let us walk together, alone."

Leodippos was dicing with his tribesmen, a jug of wine at hand, when the runners galloped through Sangelior, shouting that Lord Chrethon's party was returning. Leodippos stiffened, glancing at the sky. The moon and stars confirmed his suspicions: The hunters were early. He tossed the dice away, drawing dismayed groans from his fellow players.

"Whist, idiots!" he growled. "There's trouble afoot."

The other Skorenoi fell silent. He took a long, deep quaff from the jug, then dropped it on the ground. It cracked in half, wine soaking into the trampled earth.

"I want twenty archers to meet me at the western road," he said. "Lord Chrethon may have need of us."

Obediently, his warriors dispersed. Leodippos cantered through Sangelior alone. The town was an anarchy of dancing, feasting, rutting and fighting. Laughter and screams rose into the sky amid the firelight. He made his way to the town's outskirts, where a trail wound toward the heart of Darken Wood. His escort joined him as he'd ordered, and together they waited, watching the shadows.

Soon he heard the thud of hooves, the rattle of war harnesses. He recognized Chrethon's gait in particular. He tightened his grip on his lance, glancing at his escort to make sure they were alert. A minute passed, then another, then a lone figure came trotting out of the darkness: Thenidor. He held his bow half-drawn. The weapon rose when he saw Leodippos, then recognition flickered across his face and he lowered it again.

"Stand aside!" Thenidor roared, gesturing with his arrowhead. "He's right behind me! If he finds thee blocking his way—"

"Back!" Leodippos shouted to his men, herding them off the path. He stared past Thenidor, into the darkness, listening as the rest of the party approached. Before long they rode out of the gloom, Chrethon in their midst. Hurach ran with them.

"My lord!" Leodippos called. "What's the trouble?"

"No time!" Chrethon shot back. "I go to Grimbough's grove. Come with me. I'll tell thee when we're there."

Then he was past, riding on toward Sangelior. Leodippos hesitated, stunned, then snorted and waved his men after the hunting party. He rode behind, his brow furrowed. He'd seen something on Lord Chrethon's face—something that filled his belly with ice. For the first time Leodippos could recall, the lord of the Skorenoi was worried.

"I have never believed the legends," Chrethon finished, his gaze fast on Grimbough's mossy trunk. "Yet, if what Hurach says is true, they have located the axe and are sending a band of humans to retrieve it."

"They mean to chop me down," Grimbough rumbled.

… down, whispered the dark leaves overhead.

Chrethon lowered his gaze. "Aye."

The daemon tree stirred, its massive limbs creaking and groaning. "Could this Soulsplitter do me harm?"

… harm?

"I don't know," Chrethon replied, swallowing. "I've only heard tales. But there is a danger, aye."

"Then stop them!" Grimbough thundered. "The centaurs must not be allowed to regain this wood. I am too close to claiming it to fail."

…fail…

"It shall be done," Chrethon swore, bowing.

The daemon tree's branches straightened. It fell still, leaves rattling in the wind.

Thenidor, standing with Leodippos behind Chrethon, stepped forward and bowed. "Let me go, lord. The humans escaped me before; it won't happen again."

Chrethon didn't answer. He stared into the night, stroking his hairless, bony chin.

"Lord," Thenidor ventured again.

"I heard thee the first time."

Chrethon pondered a moment longer, then nodded. He strode past the others, motioning for them to follow. "Come," he said. "We'll discuss this further."

Thenidor exchanged glances with Leodippos, who shrugged. They followed Chrethon away from the daemon tree, and soon they stood before the seething thicket that held the Forestmaster. Chrethon stepped forward, reaching toward the brambles to clear them away from the unicorn's head. He stroked her muzzle, and she shuddered, her eyes rolling.

"Menelachos and his lot can't be allowed to use the axe as they hope to," he said. "But we shouldn't stop the humans from retrieving it."

"What?" Leodippos exclaimed. He glanced over his shoulder, toward the daemon tree. "But Grimbough said—"

"I know what Grimbough said," Chrethon interrupted. He blew out his lips impatiently. "I have my own reason for wanting the axe, though. A very good reason."

Leodippos stared at the Forestmaster, eyes wide. "Of course," he breathed.

Chrethon nodded. "We'll let the humans retrieve Peldarin's axe," he said. "But we'll take it from them before they can use it. We'll bring it here, and then, finally… ." He trailed off, caressing the unicorn's silvery horn.

Thenidor grinned cruelly. "How will we do it?"

"Later," Chrethon replied. "Go back to Sangelior. We'll discuss this more when I'm done here."

Thenidor and Leodippos bowed and withdrew, leaving him alone with the Forestmaster. He stood over her, his hand on her horn. A cruel smile twisted his lips.

"Ironic, isn't it, my lady?" he asked quietly. "All these years, I've sought vengeance against thee, and now the Circle itself shall give me the means." He chuckled. "Ah, but that's the future. For now, I'll take my pleasure from thee as I've always done."

He cleared more of the brambles away, baring her wasted flank. Then, leering hatefully, he pulled his cudgel from his harness and raised it above the helpless unicorn.

He didn't return to Sangelior for some time.

Chapter Twenty

Dezra woke to loud snoring. She fumbled for her flask of dwarf spirits, took a quick drink, then rose and quietly gathered her gear. Carefully, she crept to the door, nearly tripping over Borlos's slumbering form along the way. Stepping over the bard, she slipped out of the hut, into the early morning light.

The sky was overcast, promising rain. Mist clung to the earth. The breeze was cold and damp. She pulled her cloak tight against its chill.

"Going somewhere?"

She dropped her packs and spun, dagger in hand.

Caramon perched on a log next to the hut, wearing his armor and his old, dragon-winged helm. He looked like he'd been sitting there for a while.

"I thought you might try to sneak out," he said. "Could you put that knife away? Unless you mean to use it, of course."

With a flick of her wrist, she reversed her grip on the dagger and flung it. It buried itself in the log, a hand's breadth from Caramon's leg.

He regarded the knife, then reached down and prized it free. "That was supposed to prove something, I suppose."

"I could have put it through your throat just as easily," Dezra said haughtily. "I can take care of myself."

"You can, eh?" He lobbed the dagger, hilt-first, back to her. She caught it easily. "What about just now? I certainly seemed to take you by surprise. If I'd meant you harm, I'd be cleaning your blood off my sword right now."

"You're a fine one to talk. I saw the way you looked after that fight by the Darkwater."

"You've got a point. No, I admit it," he said, seeing her brows knit. "If I go on this quest, there's a good chance I won't come back—especially if there's much fighting. Still, I'm going. I owe it to the Forestmaster—and besides, if that daemon tree corrupts all of Darken Wood, it won't be long before it turns on Solace."

She shrugged and started picking up her things. "Go wake Borlos," she told him. The bard still snored inside the hut. "I won't leave without you. Far be it from me to keep you from getting yourself killed."

She turned and walked swiftly away. Caramon watched her go, then went back into the hut.

They were five when they set out: the three humans, Trephas, and the scout, Arhedion. The wild young piebald galloped ahead, riding at point. They headed southeast until midday, then rounded an arm of the mountains and turned north. It began to rain, fat drops pattering on the leaves above.

"How far do we have to go?" Borlos asked, pulling up his hood. He'd been plucking his new lyre absently while they walked; now he tucked it into his cloak to keep its strings dry.

Trephas tossed his wet mane. "The dryads who'll speak to my people are few. But don't worry—there's one I know well. We'll reach her tree by dusk."

The weather turned worse. The rain came down harder, making everyone profoundly miserable. Soon their clothes were soaked through, and boots and fetlocks were caked with mud. Night began to fall, and still the rain refused to stop. Finally, as darkness consumed the forest, they caught up with Arhedion. The young scout had come to a halt in a narrow clearing, and watched the tree line, an arrow nocked on his bow.

"We're stopping?" Borlos asked hopefully.

Trephas exchanged words with Arhedion, then nodded. "It's safe here. We shouldn't go on any farther tonight. The dryad's tree is near here, but we shouldn't seek her at night. We'll go tomorrow morning—a bit late, but not such as will make any difference."

Arhedion had been busy while he waited for them. He'd built a crude lean-to of branches and withes, and had also shot two coneys, which they cooked over a low, guttering fire. They ate beneath the shelter, and the rain let up, diminishing to a drizzle, then stopping altogether. The cloud-blanketed sky was full dark when they were done, sucking their fingers clean and clearing their palates with water and wine.

They lit torches from the fire's embers and split into two watches. Exhausted from the long slog through the foul weather, Borlos and Trephas—who had the second watch—dozed off almost immediately after.

When Dezra woke them, sometime after midnight, Caramon and Arhedion were already asleep and she was drowsy to the point of incoherence. Mumbling to herself, she slumped to the ground, resting her head on her pack. Before she could pull her blanket over her body, her head lolled and she began to snore.

Trephas, who'd been watching her, crept to her side. Carefully he bent down, took the blanket from her limp hands, and pulled it up over her slowly moving breast. He tarried a moment, then brushed her cheek before rising back up to his full height. When he turned around, he saw Borlos sitting on a tree stump, plucking absently at his lyre. There was a knowing smile on the bard's face.

"Aha," Borlos said, winking.

Trephas shot him a look that could have lit tinder.

Borlos stopped playing and raised his hands. "Easy there, friend. Just having fun. Look, you can tell me—you've got a thing for her, don't you?"

"A… thing?"

"Yeah, you know. A crush. A thing. Don't worry," he added, seeing the centaur's face darken. "I won't tell her. Although I get the feeling she fancies you, too, even though she's as testy with you as she is with her father."

Trephas's face reddened. He slung his quiver over his shoulder, the arrows rattling. "I'll take the north side of the clearing," he said curtly, pawing the ground. "You watch to the south. We'll wake the others at dawn."

Grinning, Borlos watched him stride away. He'd hit near the mark, that was for certain. Finally, the bard glanced down at Dezra. Her face was lined with annoyance, even in sleep. Chuckling, he rose from the stump and went to a boulder at the clearing's south end. He dragged himself up onto the rock, stretched, and sat. Wedging his torch into a crack in the rock, he began to pluck at his lyre again as he watched the pitch-black forest.

Borlos fell silent suddenly, his fingers flattening against the strings to still them. He'd heard something, he was sure, in the forest. Now he heard it again, clearer this time: a faint scuffling. His stomach tightened until it felt as small and hard as a walnut. Slowly, he pulled his mace from his belt.

"Who's there?" he whispered.

The scuffling sounded a third time. He set aside his lyre and rose, glancing over his shoulder. "Trephas!" he hissed. "There's something out—uh-oh."

The centaur was still on his feet, but there was no mistaking the slump of his shoulders, the droop of his head—not to mention his bow, which had fallen from his limp hands. He'd fallen asleep standing up.

Borlos gawked in amazement. Then, with a start, he realized his back was turned to whatever was making the noise out in the darkness. Turning back around, he stood still, listening, but the noise didn't come again. He climbed down from the rock, hurried back to the fire, and grabbed Caramon's shoulder.

"Big guy," he said. "Wake up."

"Snuzz," Caramon grunted, rolling over. "Murblix."

"No you don't," Borlos snapped, shaking him. "Come on. I need you to—"

"Furz nub!" Caramon mumbled. One of his arms flailed, shoving the bard away.

Borlos stumbled and fell on his backside too. He glanced at Dezra and Arhedion: they were both asleep, just as deep as Caramon. Reluctantly, he turned back toward the darkness. He heard the scuffling again. It sounded nearer.

"Right," he said gravely.

Torch in one hand, mace in the other, he crept back to the boulder, then sidled into the forest. "The rest of you, follow me," he bluffed loudly. "Whoever it is, the ten of us will make short work of them."

The scuffling stopped. In its place came a soft growl. He froze. It was ten paces in front of him, a dozen if he was lucky. He held his torch out. Its flickering light seemed pathetic amid the darkness.

"H-hello?" he murmured.

All at once, the shadows came alive. Something burst out of them, lunging at him with a snarl. He leapt back, stumbled, and fell, his mace flying from his hand. As he went down he caught a glimpse of spiny fur and wide, dark eyes, felt something nip at his left heel, then heard whatever it was change directions and bolt into the bushes again. He saw it from behind as it fled. It was the size of a small dog, low to the ground, and moving with a swift, darting gait. Its tail was covered with thick white quills.

It was a spiny trevil, no threat at all. Borlos shut his eyes and began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" asked a voice directly above him.

Borlos stopped laughing so fast, he nearly swallowed himself. He scuttled backward like a bug, eyes flaring, and raised his torch. Its ruddy glow illuminated the slender figure of a woman.

His first thought was that Dezra had come after him, but that was all wrong. For one thing, the figure was too short: Dezra was tall, nearly six feet, but this woman was barely five. She was slight and willowy like an elfmaid, with a delicate face to match. Her skin was jet black, and her long, silken hair was the bright green of spring leaves. And she was stark naked.

"Who—" he started to ask, then his voice broke and he had to try again. "Who are you?"

Her large, violet eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'm Pallidice," she replied. "What manner of man are you, who hunts trevils in the depth of night, then laughs when he flushes them out?"

Borlos was smitten. It swept over him with the sudden, pleasant warmth of a summer breeze. He felt himself drawn into this strange woman's gaze. His mouth opened and closed.

The woman laughed musically. "No matter," she said, her eyes traveling up and down his trembling body. They fixed on his heel, where the trevil's teeth had pierced his boot. "Ah, you're wounded. I'll tend you."

She knelt down—he caught his breath as her hair shifted, revealing glimpses of soft, supple skin—and pulled off his boot. Self-consciously, he started to rise, but she pushed him back with a tiny hand.

"Be still," she said sternly, then bent down and pressed her lips against his injured foot.

Borlos shuddered, his pain forgotten. She kissed his heel a while, then began to wander, creeping up his body. Before long her face was above his, smiling. Her mouth opened, lowering toward his. He responded in kind, and his whole body went rigid as their lips crushed together. She tasted like wild-flowers.

Then it ended. With heartbreaking grace, Pallidice rose and stood above him, pouting.

"Do you love me?" she asked.

He boggled. "I—er—you… yes. Great gods, yes. I love you."

She laughed. "Then catch me!"

With that, she sprang away, moving with startling speed into the forest. Borlos scrambled to his feet and charged after, waving his torch as he gave chase. Now and then he saw a flash of black skin and green hair, then she disappeared again, leading him deeper into the woods. He followed her waterfall laughter.

He realized, as he ran, that one of his feet was bare: he'd left his boot behind. For good measure he kicked off the other. Then, without knowing what he was doing, he tore off the rest of his clothes. His armor went first, tossed away into the night, then his tunic. Somehow he got his trousers off while he ran. He was down to just his breechcloth when he caught up to Pallidice again.

She'd come to a stop before a tall, old oak tree, her back pressed against its gnarled bark. Her small breasts heaved as she shrank back in mock terror. "No!" she breathed, giggling. "What shall I do? You've trapped me!"

With a lusty laugh, Borlos stepped toward her. She reached down, tugged at his breechcloth. It fell away, and she wrapped her arms about him. Their mouths sought each other. Their limbs tangled. She writhed in pleasure as he pressed her back against the ancient oak.

Borlos didn't realize anything was wrong at first. His eyes were shut, so he didn't see the tree's bark split open behind Pallidice. He was so lost in rapture, he didn't feel the wood beneath give way. Only when the smell of fresh, sweet sap surrounded him did he realize something was wrong.

By then it was too late. They were inside the tree.

"No!" he pleaded, his hand groping its way out of the tree. "Please… let me go… ."

But the dryad only laughed, her breath hot in his ear, as the tree sealed shut around him.

Chapter Twenty-One

There was blood on the boot: not much, but enough to set Dezra's heart hammering against her ribs. She glanced around with her torch held high. The forest was dark, silent save for the rustling of leaves in the wind.

"Damn it, Borlos, where are you?" she muttered.

She'd woken from a dream she immediately forgot to find the bard missing and Trephas asleep. She'd tried to wake the centaur, Arhedion, and even her father, but no amount of shaking, shouting or slapping would rouse them. Finally she'd given up, grabbed her blade and a torch, and gone to look alone.

Borlos's trail had been easy to find. She'd followed trampled plants and broken branches until something caught her eye. That something was the boot that lay at her feet.

"Bor!" she hissed. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

She saw footprints in the rain-softened earth. They led away, deeper into the woods: one bare, one shod. She followed them, and before long found the bard's second boot. After that, she started encountering his clothes: his leather armor scattered about; his tunic snarled in a thornbush; his trousers crumpled beneath a poplar tree. The tracks went past all these.

Finally, some distance from the camp, the trail stopped before a massive, ebon oak. Its branches creaked in the breeze as Dezra crept toward it. A man's breechcloth lay at the base of its mighty trunk. Beside it was a torch, which had guttered out.

"Borlos?" she called, her voice trembling.

“Dzzz…"

The voice was faint, muffled. She stepped back, waving her torch. "Bor? Where are you?"

Something moved, partway up the oak's trunk. At first she thought it was an animal: a chipmunk, perhaps, or a markle. Then she saw it clearly, and her jaw dropped. It was a hand, sticking out of the tree.

She watched in horrified fascination as the bard's fingers scratched feebly at the bark. Cautiously, she circled the tree, trying to understand what was going on. The oak looked perfectly normal—except for the hand.

A muffled noise, half-screech, half-whimper, sounded from within the tree. She reached out and touched the twitching fingers. The hand made a grab for her, and she yelled and jerked free. It clenched into a shaking fist. She heard Borlos's voice again.

"Hlp," he pleaded. "Gt… out… hrrr."

Dezra stuck her sword in the ground and pressed her ear against the bark. "Bor?" she asked.

"Dry -ad."

Her brows knitted. "You let her bring you here?"

"Yes, I'm an idiot," he snapped. "Now get me out!"

"Sure. How?"

The hand drooped, and Borlos sighed. "I don't know. Just think of something."

Carefully, she probed the bark around Borlos's wrist. It was thick and gnarled, and didn't yield to her touch. She gouged at it with her dagger, flaking away a piece. The wood beneath was dense, however, and she couldn't do more than score it with her blade.

She stepped back, glancing around, and looked at his breechcloth on the ground. "Borlos," she asked, "are you naked?"

"No," he growled. "I'm wearing an enormous bloody tree. Or hadn't you noticed?"

Her eyes settled on the torch that lay, extinguished, beside it. She pursed her lips, then sheathed her dirk and leaned close to the tree again.

"I've got an idea," she said. "Don't wander off."

"Oh. Ha, ha."

Smiling crookedly, she picked up Borlos's torch and lit it with her own brand. When she had it burning, she took a deep breath and thrust it at the oak.

After a moment, the bark near Borlos's hand began to smolder. The whole tree shuddered, from its roots to its topmost boughs. Leaves and twigs fell around Dezra. She held the torch in place, letting it scorch the bark, char the wood beneath.

"Come on," she muttered. "Let him go."

The bark around Borlos's wrist began to open. She dropped the brand she'd brought with her, keeping Borlos's torch next to the wood, and grabbed his hand. She tugged, and his arm started sliding free. Planting her foot against the trunk, she pulled with all her strength.

"Ow!" Borlos grunted. The wood had opened enough for her to see his face, glistening with sap. "Dez, she's in here with me. She's not letting go…

Dezra heard a faint whistling sound from above. She looked up, saw a branch swinging down, and had just enough time to turn her face away before it hit, sending her reeling. She lost her grip on Borlos and hit the ground hard, ears ringing.

When she got her wind back, she turned back to face the tree. She'd gotten Borlos halfway out. Now his arm, his head and part of his chest were outside the tree, while the rest stayed trapped within.

"Well, that didn't work," he said sourly.

"Hold on," Dezra said, raising the torch. "Maybe if I try again—"

Another branch swung down. She felt the wind as its leaves whipped past her face, and stopped in her tracks.

"Or maybe not," she muttered.

She fell back, rubbing her forehead. Borlos winced as, slowly, the dryad started pulling him back in.

Then came another voice, behind her. "Dezra!" it called. "Borlos! Where art thou?"

She spun. "Trephas?" she shouted. "Over here! Hurry!"

They waited, listening to the sound of approaching hoof-beats. At last, Trephas emerged from the darkness, armed with torch and lance. Behind him rode Arhedion; at the rear, red-faced and puffing, jogged Caramon.

"What in the Abyss is going on?" Caramon asked as he stumbled toward Dezra. He stopped suddenly, gaping at Borlos. Only the bard's forearm and face poked through the bark now.

"Hi, big guy," Borlos said. "You happen to bring a hatchet with you?"

"No!" Trephas barked. "Don't harm the tree. It will only make things worse."

"Uh-oh," Dezra muttered.

The centaur looked at her sharply. "I thought so," he grumbled. "Only pain could have broken the spell of sleeping the dryad cast on us. What didst thou do to it?"

Dezra lowered her torch. "I burned it, a little."

Trephas winced. "Pray thou didn't hurt her too badly, then," he said. Dropping his lance, he strode toward the tree. A branch lashed down at him, but he caught it in his hand. "Be easy, Pallidice," he said. "It's me, Trephas."

The branch slipped free and withdrew into the heights. Trephas laid a hand on the tree's bark. "Oak-maiden," he said softly. "The human isn't yours to take. Release him."

A musical voice called from the tree. "I will not!" it huffed. "I love him. He wants to be with me."

"I don't!" Borlos protested.

"There," Trephas said. "Did you hear him? Release him, Pallidice, and come forth."

"Oh… very well."

The tree split open. Borlos tumbled out, naked and glistening. Arhedion hurried forward, helping him rise and stagger away from the tree. Dezra tossed the bard his breechcloth. While he was girding himself, his face red, the dryad emerged from the oak.

Her green hair shimmered in the firelight as she strode toward Trephas. He knelt before her, and she flung her arms about his neck, kissing him repeatedly.

"Trephas!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how wonderful! My tree's gained many rings since I saw you last!"

Arhedion laughed out loud. "She remembers thee well enough."

"So it seems," Trephas said, chuckling. Flushed, he grabbed the dryad's shoulders and held her away from him. "Pallidice, I need your help."

She looked at him, wide-eyed. "Truly?"

"Truly."

The dryad shrieked with delight and spun in a circle, her hair flying outward and revealing her dark, nubile body. When she stopped, she planted her fists on her hips and smiled at Trephas.

"Tell me, then," she said. "What is it you want?"

"Well, why didn't you come to me, instead of sneaking around in the dark?" Pallidice asked when Trephas finished explaining. "It would have saved a lot of bother."

"We were going to see you tomorrow," Trephas replied patiently. "You're the one who put us to sleep, and lured him to your tree." He nodded at Borlos, who looked away. The bard was dressed now, but he was very quiet.

Pallidice shrugged. "Don't blame me. You camped too close to my tree. Would you blame a spider for eating a moth that flew into its web?"

"No one's blaming anybody," Trephas said. "We want your help. Will you take us to Guithern?"

The dryad's face turned serious. It was a striking change from her childish mien. "You say the Wood itself's in danger from this… Grimbough thing?"

"Aye," Trephas replied. "And if Lord Chrethon wins, nothing will be spared. Not even your tree, Pallidice."

The dryad glanced at the great oak. A determined look settled on her face. "Very well, Trephas. I'll help you. But understand this—I do so only to save my tree. The paths my people travel aren't for mortals to walk."

"I understand," Trephas said. "I wouldn't ask, were the need not so great."

The dryad furrowed her brow. "There's one problem, though. I can take only one man inside with me. But never fear," she added, seeing the centaur's face fall. "If you let me return to my tree, I'll find help. Return to your camp and finish your rest. My sisters and I shall meet you here in the morning."

"Sisters?" Borlos blurted, alarmed.

Pallidice laughed. "Of course, my love! These woods are filled with dryads—and won't they be happy to see you!"

Tired though Borlos was, when they returned to camp he didn't sleep another wink.

"There are people," the bard told Caramon, "who'd consider this a sign they were about to enter paradise."

Caramon chuckled. He and his companions faced four dryads now. Pallidice was even more luminous in daylight. Her hair shimmered like emeralds, her eyes like amethysts. Her skin—she still wore not a stitch of clothing—was utterly unblemished. Her three companions were just as beautiful, each in her own way.

"I can see where they'd get that idea," Caramon replied wistfully. "If I'd met these lasses when I was young, I might still be living in one of these trees."

"I think I'm going to be ill," Dezra grumbled.

Trephas, who'd been speaking with Arhedion, turned to face the dryads. "Oak-maidens," he said, bowing. "This is an honor—I know thy kind don't often gather in such numbers in the open."

Two of the dryads nudged each other and giggled, stealing quick glances at Borlos. Pallidice nodded. "How could we do otherwise, with our trees in peril?" she replied. "Now, come. Gamaia will take you to her tree, Trephas. Tessonda will take the old one, and Elirope will see to the girl. As for you," she added, looking at Borlos, "I'm keeping you to myseif."

"Oh," the bard said, smiling weakly. "How nice."

Trephas clapped Arhedion's shoulder in farewell, then let his dryad, Gamaia, guide him into the woods. Caramon went in a different direction, his face red as a summer plum as Tessonda took his hand and led him away. Dezra went last, following Elirope. When the others were gone, Arhedion took his leave as well, turning south and cantering away into the forest.

"Ah," Pallidice said, staring at Borlos through thick, green eyelashes. "My dear one. At last we're alone."

"Uh, well," the bard stammered. "That is, I—"

The dryad spread her arms. "Come to me, my love."

"All right," Borlos said.

He embraced her, his lips seeking hers. He ached with pleasure as their mouths locked together. When they finally parted—he had no idea when that was, except that it was still morning—she led him, laughing, toward her tree. The tree split open, revealing a narrow passage of living wood. Borlos followed her in, glassy-eyed and grinning. He was fully aware she'd cast a glamor over him with her kiss.

On the other hand, he thought, who gives a damn?

Sap flowed about him. She took him in her arms, and they kissed once more. As it had last night, the tree closed around them; this time, he didn't even think of escape. Wood sealed shut, then bark, and all was dark.

"What… happens… now?" he asked between kisses.

"This," Pallidice said.

The ground opened beneath their feet, swallowing them both.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Later, Caramon managed to convince himself he hadn't enjoyed a moment of his time inside the dryad's oak. At the time, though, he forgot everything, aware only of her touch, scent and taste, and of the undulating movements of the tree and its roots as they pushed him and Tessonda down into the earth.

Then, with a shout, he fell through open air, dropping with a clatter of armor and weapons onto solid ground. Tessonda landed nimbly beside him.

"Are you all right, my love?" she asked, concerned.

Caramon lay on his side, wheezing. "I'm fine. Just give me a moment's peace."

"Of course, dear one," Tessonda answered. "Shall I fetch a light?"

"That'd be nice," Caramon said. It was utterly dark. The air was warm and moist, and smelled of rich soil.

After a moment, a dim, blue-white glow kindled in the gloom. The dryad appeared before him, a crystal globe cupped in either hand. Inside the globes crawled countless tiny, glowing beetles.

"Bug-lamps," he said, standing up. Tessonda handed him one of the globes. He'd seen them before, years ago: they'd lit the Forestmaster's glade when he and his friends appeared before her during the war.

The thought of the Forestmaster jolted him back to the present. He glanced around. He and Tessonda were in a close, tight cavern of loose earth. Clots of soil fell from the ceiling and slid down the walls. Hairy tendrils—the lowest extremities of Tessonda's oak—dangled down, tickling his face. He could see no way out, and he stiffened as he realized he was buried alive.

"Be easy," the dryad said, smiling. "No harm will come to you. Your friends are close—follow."

As Caramon watched, Tessonda walked to a wall, and the earth parted before her, forming a narrow tunnel. She stepped inside, beckoning. "Come."

Caramon walked after her. The passage widened, making itself large enough to admit him. He stepped in, holding the bug lamp high. When he was ten paces down the tunnel, he heard a rumble behind him. Glancing back, he saw the chamber he'd just left collapse in a shower of earth. Swallowing, he hurried on, resolving to stay very close to the dryad.

Soon, the passage opened into a broader, higher chamber than the one they'd just left. He and Tessonda stepped inside, the tunnel sealing shut behind them. Trephas and Gamaia were in the cavern already. Tessonda flounced over to her sister dryad, and they whispered and giggled together. Caramon flushed, knowing they were discussing him and the centaur, then turned to regard the horse-man. Trephas, who also held a bug lamp, looked about in awe.

"Seen the others yet?" Caramon asked.

"No," Trephas replied. "They'll be along."

Before long, another passage opened in the chamber's far wall. Elirope emerged, Dezra right behind. Caramon saw his daughter's face was pale, except for two small blossoms of pink on her cheeks. She didn't even look at Elirope as the dryad went to join the others.

She glanced around. "Where are Bor and Pallidice?"

"I don't—" Caramon started.

Before he could finish, a shower of earth pattered down on his dragon-helm. He glanced up, shielding his face from the falling dirt.

"Get back!" Dezra shouted, grabbing his arm and hauling him away.

An eyeblink later, Borlos plunged through the ceiling, falling in a heap where Caramon had been. His lyre made a hideous sound as he hit the ground. Pallidice dropped down beside him, then offered Borlos a hand and helped him rise.

Pallidice conferred with the other dryads for a moment, then embraced each in turn. One by one, Tessonda, Gamaia and Elirope strode to the cavern's walls, stepped into the tunnels that opened there, and disappeared. When the dryads were gone, Caramon turned to his daughter, a bemused grin on his lips.

"I don't want to talk about it," she growled.

"Come," Pallidice said. She strode to the wall, opening another tunnel. "This is the way to Laird Guithern's realm."

They followed the dryad out of the chamber, Dezra going first, then Trephas. Caramon fell in behind, glancing back as Borlos shuffled after. The bard's mouth had curled into a lazy smile.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself," Caramon said.

Borlos nodded, still grinning. "Let's just say I could get used to this."

There was no knowing how far they traveled, in what direction, or for how long. Hours passed, or perhaps days. Without the sky to mark time, it was hard to tell.

They never saw more than ten paces ahead, or twenty behind. Pallidice stayed at the fore, parting the earth before her; when they had all passed, it collapsed again. Their surroundings changed little: black, rich-smelling earth, spotted with red clay and smooth stones. Roots and tendrils dangled from the ceiling. From time to time, the passage rose or fell, turned one way or the other. Pallidice set a brisk, steady pace. The others stayed close, lest the path continue without them and bury them alive beneath the earth.

"How do you know where the passage goes?" Caramon asked.

Pallidice glanced at him, puzzled. Then understanding dawned on her face. "Of course—your kind are used to traveling on roads. That isn't our way. I don't know where the passage goes because there is no passage—not like you're used to. I wish to go to Laird Guithern's domain, so the earth opens to take me there."

They walked on in silence, for hours or days. Slowly, the tunnel grew colder, its edges rockier. When they stopped at last, the ground beneath them was more stone than dirt, the air chill enough that their breath frosted before them, forming misty plumes that glowed eerily in the bug-lamps' light. The tunnel ended in front of Pallidice, in a wall of solid rock. She pressed both her delicate hands against it, and it yielded, opening to reveal a cavern of stone.

They could see right away that the cave wasn't empty. Many large bug-lamps filled it with light; smoldering braziers gave it heat. On the floor, surrounded by cushions, was a white, wool blanket. Upon it, a feast was arrayed: bowls of apples and berries, loaves of bread and wheels of cheese. There was a basket of sweet grass, two silver pitchers and four golden goblets. Four copper bowls, brimming with clear water, rested beside clean linen towels.

"What in the Abyss—" Caramon exclaimed.

"Not the Abyss," Pallidice replied. "We're at the threshold of the faerie realm. You may rest here—wash yourselves, eat, drink—while I go ahead and speak to the sprites."

She strode into the cave, waving for the others to follow. They did as she bade, and the stone wall sealed shut behind them, closing so tightly that not even the slightest crack marked its edges. There was no other way out—at least, none they could see.

"How long will you be gone?" Borlos asked nervously.

"Never fear, my love," Pallidice answered. "No harm will come to you. If I wished you ill, I could have buried you alive at any time, while we traveled from my oak to this place."

"Well, that's a comfort," Dezra said with a wry chuckle. Borlos and Caramon shuddered.

The dryad wrapped her arms around Borlos. "We'll meet again, my love," she promised. "Don't forget me while I'm gone."

"I don't think that's likely," Borlos declared, dazed.

Giggling, Pallidice strode to the cavern's edge, opposite the way they'd come in. She touched the stone, and another passage opened. She stepped inside and turned back to the others. She waved farewell, blew Borlos a kiss, then the rock closed with a low, echoing boom. The dryad was gone.

"So," Dezra said. "What now?"

Caramon's stomach gurgled furiously. Borlos burst out laughing. "Well put, big guy," he said, sitting on one of the cushions. "Let's eat."

They washed first, using the water and towels. Walking through the open earth, had left them all smeared with grime. When they'd rinsed their faces and hands, they dined. The food was succulent—the bread warm and laced with herbs, the cheese soft and nutty, the fruit tart and firm. Trephas devoured the grass with relish. One of the pitchers proved to be filled with mead, the other with fresh milk; Caramon drank the latter while Borlos guzzled two goblets of fragrant honey-wine.

Dezra didn't touch any of it. Instead, she sat on one of the cushions, her back rigid, her sheathed sword across her lap.

"You're not eating?" Caramon asked around a mouthful of bread.

She shook her head. "Being sealed in a cave with no way out doesn't help my appetite."

"It hasn't hurt mine any."

"Not much does, does it?" she snapped.

Before her father could respond, she shoved herself to her feet and walked away, to the cavern's edge. She stood facing the wall, vainly searching for cracks that might indicate a door. Behind her, the sounds of feasting continued.

After a while, she heard Trephas's war harness jingle, and his hooves clack across the stone floor, toward her. She stiffened.

"Dezra?" he asked. "Is something troubling thee?"

She scowled at him. "You mean besides being trapped here by that tree trollop? Yes, actually—there's plenty bothering me. The way you talk, for one thing."

"The way I talk?" the centaur repeated, confused. "What about it irks thee?"

"Just that," she snapped, rounding on him. "All this thee-thou-thy nonsense. It's driving me crazy."

His eyebrows rose. "'Tis only politeness. My people use those words with everyone, except those we love dearly—husbands and wives, parents, children. Even then, we only use them in private. It wouldn't be proper to call thee 'you.' "

"To the Abyss with proper!" she shouted, then fell silent as Borlos and Caramon glanced her way. She waited for the bard and her father to return to their food and drink. "You called that dryad 'you.' "

"Pallidice?" Trephas asked, and chuckled. "We trysted together a few times, when I was a colt. I got into the habit then. When my father learned I'd been dallying with a dryad—"

He broke off abruptly, his brow furrowing.

Dezra tensed. "What's wrong?" She shoved Trephas aside, looking back toward the blanket, and stared in shock.

Caramon and Borlos lay motionless on the ground. The bard had curled up on his side, still gripping a goblet; mead from the cup had spilled onto the floor. Caramon sprawled on his back, mouth open and eyes closed.

"Oh, crap," Dezra growled.

She pushed past Trephas and dashed to her father's side. Crouching down, she pressed her ear against his chest. After a moment, she sighed. "He's still alive."

"The bard as well," Trephas agreed, bending low over Borlos. "What's happened to them?"

"What do you think's happened?" Dezra shot back.

Trephas's eyes went wide. "The food?"

"And the drink too, probably." She stared at Caramon for a moment, then looked up. "How much did you eat?"

The centaur didn't reply. His head drooped, his beard brushing his chest. As she watched, he crumpled to the ground, nearly crushing Borlos. He began to snore.

"That much, huh?" Dezra asked. She sat down, thinking hard. "I'll kill that dryad when she comes back," she muttered. "I'll wring that green bitch's neck with my bare—"

Before she could finish the thought, her mouth opened in an enormous yawn. She reeled, stunned, as weariness settled over her.

"But I didn't eat anything," she muttered, glancing around the cavern. "How could—"

She knew as soon as her gaze fell upon the smoldering braziers. The coals were drugged, too. It took longer for it to work on her, but soon she could no longer fight off the urge to sleep. She slumped against her father's slumbering form, her head resting on his breastplate.

"Damn," she mumbled, and slept.

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Gnats and midges!" swore the lilting voice. "His snoring's so loud, it's like the world's coming to an end!"

Caramon groaned. He tried to fight it, but slowly, inevitably, consciousness was returning.

"Quiet, ye twit!" snapped a second voice—a woman's, with the same strange, trilling accent as the first. It was very close. "And for Branchala's sake, stay away from his mouth. Ye want to get sucked in?"

"G'way," Caramon mumbled, rolling on his side.

The voices fell silent. There was a peculiar fluttering sound, moving swiftly away. Caramon snorted, broke wind, and continued his ascent from sleep. The fluttering came close again. A breeze touched his cheek.

"Now ye've done it, Fanuin," scolded the woman. "I told meself, he's gonna wake the giant—"

"Bah!" replied the man. "You brushed his nose, Ellianthe. It's a wonder he didn't sneeze and kill us both—"

Caramon's patience snapped. "Shut up, both of you!" he growled, squinching his eyes shut.

Desperately, he clutched at the pleasant dream he'd been having—it had involved Tika and roast mutton—but to no avail. Giving up, he opened his eyes, and found himself staring at two small, curious faces. Hovering an arm's length from his nose were two tiny people, each about two feet tall. Their bodies were reed-slim, their elfin features framed by curly, copper-red hair. They were brightly garbed—him in gold and green, her in scarlet and sky-blue—and both wore tiny poniards on their belts. Silvery moth wings fluttered on their backs.

Winged kender? Caramon thought. Merciful vanished gods, please let this be a nightmare.

"Good morrow!" beamed the male, swooping toward Caramon's face. "I hight Fanuin. Glad to meet—"

Caramon shrank back with a yelp, waving at the air. The winged folk cried out, flitted about, then darted away, wings buzzing. Caramon lay stunned.

"Confounded way to wake up," he grumbled. Stiffly, joints popping, he sat up and peered about. He was alone, in a small cavern of gray stone. His daughter and the others weren't with him. His heart thudded—what had become of them?

He relaxed somewhat when he saw the cavern had a door: a low, narrow portal of bronze-girded oak. The cave was spartan, brightly lit by bug-lamps. The bed he sat upon was woven of reeds and cedar branches. A few small jars and a basin of gleaming water, sat nearby. The rough walls and vaulted ceiling were unadorned. Whoever had brought him here had even less regard for furniture than the centaurs did. They'd left him his gear, he soon saw: his packs and shield, even his sword, lay piled by the wall. So did his armor and clothes—he realized, belatedly, that he was naked.

He pushed himself to his feet. The ceiling was low, and he stooped to make himself fit. He shuffled over and grabbed his clothes. They were clean, and had even been mended. Wiping sleepglue from his eyes, he donned his breechcloth and pants. He dragged his tunic over his head, then took it off and put it on the right way around. He opened one of the jugs, and was pleased to discover it was full of water instead of wine. He took a long drink, then stopped, feeling an uncomfortable pressure on his bladder. Setting the jug down again, he searched for something to use for a chamber pot. Finding none, he stumbled to the door and opened it.

There were many bug-lamps in the large cavern on the door's other side. He raised his arm as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. He heard fluttering again. This time, though, it came from many pairs of wings instead of just two. Slowly, he lowered his arm.

He was surrounded. A dozen of the little moth-winged people hovered about him. They were gaily garbed, and most held small bows with tiny arrows nocked and aimed. In their midst was an older creature, whose hair gleamed like quicksilver and who wore a purple tunic over white hose. He held a little sword, glinting in the bug-light. Behind him hovered the pair who'd interrupted Caramon's sleep.

"Hold there," said the one with the sword. His dark eyes glittered. "If ye move, my men will shoot."

Caramon froze, more out of surprise than fear. Despite the arrows, he couldn't take the winged folk seriously. It was like being waylaid by squirrels.

"That's him, Da!" exclaimed Fanuin, pointing at Caramon. "He's the one who tried to kill us!"

"What?" Caramon blurted, seeing the silver-haired one scowl. "I never—"

"Ye did so," retorted Ellianthe, her face reddening to the tips of her long, pointed ears. "Ye tried to swat us out of the air like bugs!"

"Easy, girl," said the silver-haired one. "He's a human. He's likely never seen our like afore."

"What like?" Caramon demanded. "What are you?"

"Why, we're sprites, o'course," Fanuin replied. "Like I was sayin' just now, before ye started swinging, I hight Fanuin, and this is my sister, Ellianthe." His female companion bowed. "We're son and daughter of Laird Guithern o' the fey folk."

"At yer service," said the silver-haired sprite, doffing his feathered cap. "Now, since we all know each other, Caramon Majere, suppose ye tell me why ye tried to murder my children?"

Caramon blinked, at a loss. "I didn't mean to. They just startled me." He nodded at Fanuin. "He came straight at my face."

Guithern glanced over his shoulder at his son. "Is this true?" he asked testily. "I told ye, lad, when we brought the lot o' them here—make like ye mean to fly up someone's nose, and ye'll get smashed."

"Aye, Da," Fanuin grumbled. He studied his pointed shoes and said nothing more.

"I'm dreadful sorry, friend," said Guithern, turning back to Caramon. He sheathed his tiny sword. "Fanuin means well, but sometimes he's a bit dense. No hard feelings?"

It dawned on Caramon then: This small creature was the one the Circle had sent him and the others to find, the one who held Soulsplitter! He sighed in relief.

"No hard feelings," he agreed, and extended his massive hand toward the sprite king.

An odd sound, like a harpstring being plucked, rang out. A sharp pain flared in his backside, as if a wasp had stung him. "Ow!" he exclaimed, reaching back.

To his surprise, he found something embedded in his buttocks. Wincing, he plucked it out and held it up before his eyes. It was a tiny arrow, no bigger than a needle.

Guithern darted forward and snatched the shaft from Caramon's fingers. His eyes flashed with anger as he regarded the bowmen around the old innkeeper.

"Who fired this?" the sprite king barked.

One of the archers flinched. He'd been groping at his quiver for another dart; now he stopped and began to stammer. "I-I'm sorry, H-Highness," he said. "Ye said shoot if he moved…

"I'd put my sword away, ye dolt!" snapped Guithern. "What's 'twixt yer ears? Dandelion wool?"

"Don't worry," Caramon protested. The wound was minor, though for some reason it itched furiously. "It's nothing."

The Laird gave him an odd look. "If only that were so," he said. "Ye'd best lie down, Majere. Not as far to fall, that way."

"Huh?" Caramon asked. "What do you mean?"

Guithern held up the arrow for him to see. On its tip was something dark, sticky. It took Caramon a moment to understand: poison. Suddenly he was swaying on his feet, his brain full of cobwebs.

"Wh—" he mumbled through lips that no longer felt like part of his own face. "Unnnnh… ."

"He's going down!" shouted Ellianthe. The sprites scattered as his knees buckled, and he toppled forward. He was already snoring when he hit the ground.

For a while, Caramon dreamed of mutton and Tika again.

"So… you met the sprites, I see."

He was back in the cave, lying on his stomach. Blearily, he peered back, and saw Dezra kneeling beside him. She grinned crookedly, pressing a cloth against his bare backside.

His bare backside?

"Ahhh!" he yelped, pushing himself up. He fumbled for his britches, which were down around his knees.

Borlos sat nearby, plucking his lyre. He set it aside and applauded. "Well, I'm impressed, big guy," he said, winking. "Now I understand what Tika sees in you."

Scarlet-faced, Caramon cinched the drawstring of his trousers and glared at Dezra. Her lips were pressed together in a valiant attempt not to laugh.

"What in the Abyss do you think you were doing?" Caramon demanded.

"Seeing to the hives on your arse, that's what," she replied with a chuckle. "That stuff the sprites put on their arrows gave you quite a rash. Someone had to see to it, and it was either Bor or me."

"And no offense, big guy," the bard added, grinning, "but there isn't enough steel in the world."

Caramon's flush deepened. "I can't believe the little bastards poisoned me."

"Twice," Dezra said. "Although the second time was an accident. They couldn't stop telling us how sorry they were—especially when you started swelling up. Guithern gave us a salve for the rash, then he and Trephas went to talk about things."

"They told us to stay here," Borlos added.

"Where were you earlier?" Caramon asked.

"In our own caves," the bard replied. "That first hit of the drug put us all out for a good while. Two days, from what I gather. It might have been longer, if the sprites hadn't woken us after they shot you."

"Two days?" Caramon repeated, aghast. "And what about the second time? How long have I been sleeping?"

"Since yesterday," Dezra said. "Count yourself lucky: the sprites told us about the poisons they use. The stuff they got you with is the mildest of all. Most of the others, you never would have woken up."

Caramon swallowed. He touched his tender, swollen backside, wincing. "So you two have been here the whole time?"

"Just Dez," Borlos replied, picking up his lyre and plucking its strings. "I've been in and out. More than a few of these sprites are good at music. They taught me some ballads they say no human's ever heard before—can you imagine what folks will say when I sing them back in Solace? There's this one—"

"Not now," Caramon interrupted, raising a hand. "We should go see this Guithern fellow. We've already wasted enough time." He started stiffly toward the door.

Dezra headed him off. "Whoa," she said. "Trephas is taking care of things. He said they'd send for us when they were ready. Till then, we're not to leave these caverns. Don't kid yourself, Father. We're as much prisoners as guests—at least until Trephas gets things sorted out."

Just then the door opened. Trephas strode into the cave, stooping low to get through the door. With him came Fanuin, Ellianthe, and several other hovering, brightly-garbed sprites.

The centaur was pale, his eyes shadowed. "Thou must come with me," he said, pawing the stone floor. "Quickly—there's little time to lose. We may already be too late."

Dezra's eyes narrowed. "But we've only been here three days. How much could have happened in that little time?"

"Plenty," Trephas replied.

Beside him, Fanuin cleared his throat. "Beggin' yer pardon, but there's something ye should know about this place. The river of time flows quicker here than ye're used to, I fear. Yer kind have tales of this, I think."

"We do," Borlos said. "There's the one about Jeston the Rhymer, who fell asleep in a mushroom ring and was snared by the fey folk. He spent only a twelvemonth with them—or so he thought. When he went home, he found he'd been gone thirty years. I never believed such tales, though," he finished, his brows knitting. "I always figured they were metaphors, for how quickly time passes when you're enjoying yourself."

The sprites shook their heads. "No metaphor, I'm afraid," Ellianthe replied. "And yer tale's got the pace about right. For every day passes here, a month goes by in the world outside."

"A month!" Caramon exclaimed, his jaw dropping. "You mean we've been here a whole season?"

"Aye," Trephas replied. "That's why we can't tarry any longer, and must all of us appear before Laird Guithern at once. Otherwise, it won't matter if we recover Soulsplitter. 'Twill be too late to save Darken Wood."

Chapter Twenty-Four

Spring passed, and summer came, Darken Wood grew darker still as the leaves thickened upon the trees. In all that time, no word came back to Ithax from Trephas, or the humans who had gone with him.

The centaurs had had high hopes at first. The Circle had dispatched extra scouts to watch for Trephas's return. That had lasted three weeks, to no avail. After that, Arhedion had begged leave to ride to Pallidice's grove, once a week, to seek some sign of the travelers. So he had, for another two months. Stubbornly, he'd refused to stop—until a fortnight ago, on his return from yet another unsuccessful sojourn, when Nemeredes the Elder had met him at Ithax's gates. The sorrow on the old chieftain's face had told the young scout all he needed to know.

"My son is gone," Nemeredes had explained, his voice hoarse with sorrow. "We'll not see him again, nor the humans. Soulsplitter will not be ours. I know he was thy friend, Arhedion, but thou must let him go."

Arhedion hadn't returned to Pallidice's grove since. There'd been other duties to see to. The troubles in Darken Wood had grown worse. The Skorenoi continued to advance, slaughtering those they couldn't capture and give over to Grimbough. With each attack, they claimed more of the forest, and the daemon tree's corruption spread. Woods the centaurs had hunted for millennia became twisted and foul.

Despite Chrethon's growing power, the horsefolk remained defiant. They fought valiantly, slaying two Skorenoi for every centaur who fell. It wasn't enough, though. There were too many enemies to hold out forever.

There'd been talk of sending another rider out for human aid. Pleuron and Nemeredes had favored the idea, but Eucleia had argued vehemently against it. Menelachos, to his sorrow, had been forced to agree with her, and that had settled the matter. The centaurs of Darken Wood would stand or fall on their own.

Four days ago, less than a week before Midyear Day, Skorenoi raiders had attacked and killed several herdsmen, as well as their flocks and families. This was nothing new, but these herdsmen had lived less than a half-day's ride from Ithax. Outraged, the Circle had sent forth a hundred warriors, led by Zerian, Menelachos's son, to retaliate. They too had vanished, leaving only a few bloodied corpses scattered in the hills, a feast for the crows.

Now Arhedion rode in their stead, leading fifty centaurs toward the enemy's territory—not to fight, like the previous band, but to spy on the enemy. He wondered, as he crept through the woods, if Zerian had been as frightened as he was.

The sun was high, shafts of light lancing through the foliage, when he called a halt by a narrow creek. "Food and wine," he told his party. "We ride again in ten minutes."

Gratefully, the scouts stopped to eat. Arhedion ordered six to keep watch, and sent a pair ahead to make sure no one waited in ambush. Then he unstopped a wine-flask and devoured a handful of olives, spitting their pits into the bushes. He scanned the undergrowth, his scalp prickling.

Something wasn't right. He gestured to a slender, black mare. "Iasta! Come here!"

Iasta was the band's most skilled woodsman. She knew as much about the forest as anyone Arhedion knew. She cantered over, swigging wine as she came. "What's the trouble?"

"The forest. It isn't right—dost thou feel it?"

"Truly," Iasta agreed gravely. "It's been so for the past mile, perhaps more. Shall I take a closer look?"

Arhedion nodded, and they walked to a young poplar tree. Iasta drew a knife and carved a strip of bark from the tree. She sniffed it, then broke off a bit and put it in her mouth. Grimacing, she spat it out. Raising the knife again, she cut three slashes across the wood she'd exposed. Brown, oily sap ran out. Tiny white worms oozed forth with it, and fell, squirming, on the ground.

"Stones and shoes!" Arhedion swore.

"As I thought," Iasta said, wiping her dagger on a fern. "Grimbough's magic. It isn't strong yet, but there's no mistaking it. The trees near my village became like this, three years ago. A season later, they were beyond help."

Arhedion swallowed. The Circle would want to hear of this. Perhaps he should send a pair of runners back to Ithax—

No sooner had he put together that thought than he heard hoofbeats approaching the camp. He whistled to his warriors. They dropped their packs and flasks and grabbed their weapons, in case the approaching riders were Skorenoi.

They weren't; it was the two outriders Arhedion had sent ahead. They lunged out of the undergrowth, red-faced and blowing hard, then pulled up when they saw the lances and arrows arrayed against them.

"Don't shoot!" gasped one, a yellow-coated mare whose flanks were daubed with whorls of war-paint. "Put up thy weapons. We weren't followed."

"Followed?" Arhedion asked. His tail twitched. "By whom?"

The yellow mare's partner, a gray stallion whose head was shaved save for a white braid above his left ear, cleared his throat. "Skorenoi," he said.

Arhedion's skin bumped with gooseflesh. He blew out his lips. "Show me. I would see for myself."

They waited until the outriders regained their wind, then he named Iasta and a dozen others to go with him. They rode half a league, to a ridge where tall pines swayed.

"Be silent," the yellow mare warned, and started up the slope.

It was a difficult climb: the ridge was steep, carpeted with needles that slid beneath their hooves. They made their way to the top without a sound, then hunkered low, below the rocky crest. Bow and arrow ready, Arhedion peered over the edge, into the broad valley below.

"Chislev's withers," he breathed.

The valley was blanketed with oaks and aspens, but there was no missing what lay beneath the shifting leaves. The woods were crawling with Skorenoi—thousands of them.

"Looks like an army," Iasta murmured shakily.

Arhedion nodded, feeling cold all over. "I think we'd better get back to Ithax."

There was no telling what gave them away. It could have been the jingling of a war harness, the glint of sunlight on an arrowhead—even their scent, borne by the wind into the valley. Whatever it was, though, the blare of horns sounded from behind as Arhedion and the others climbed back down the ridge. Then hooves rumbled, headed toward them.

Arhedion cursed, glancing around. Several of his scouts had frozen in horror. "Move!" he roared, waving his arms. "Run! Go!"

They slid down the ridge, sending showers of needles before them. Arhedion landed hard, losing half the arrows out of his quiver, then Iasta hauled on his arm and they bolted into the woods. The other scouts ran too, galloping recklessly through the trees. Before long, arrows began to fall around them. Arhedion glanced back, and saw the ridge was lined with Skorenoi archers. The gray outrider grunted and fell, an arrow between his shoulders. He started to rise, then another shaft pierced his skull.

Panic seized the horsefolk. Yelling, they pelted onward. An arrow grazed Arhedion's shoulder, drawing a line of blood; another shattered against his war harness. He ran on, heedless.

When the arrows finally stopped and the centaurs dared slow their pace, half the party was gone—including Iasta. Arhedion felt sick at this, but resisted the temptation to go back. Several of the other centaurs started to turn, clearly having the same urge.

"No!" he snapped. "They're gone! Get back to the others!"

They did, hearts hammering, pausing briefly to gather the rest of the party before plunging on. Finally, after they'd been galloping for more than an hour, they slowed their pace.

"We lost them," said one of the scouts. "They gave up the chase!"

Arhedion shook his head. "No. They'll come, sooner or later, all the way to Ithax. This is just the beginning."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Like the cave where the dryad had left them, there were no doors or tunnels leading out of the sprites' cavernous prison. Fanuin and Ellianthe solved the problem by flying up to a wall and parting the stone. A passage opened with a loud scraping sound.

Unlike the way Pallidice had taken them, the passage was solid granite, shot through with white crystals that glittered in the bug-lamps' light. It was cold, and their footsteps echoed eerily. Behind them, the stone sealed shut again, grinding noisily.

Caramon and Dezra shared Trephas's impatience. With the time they spent here multiplied thirtyfold in Darken Wood, even the passage of minutes became dreadful. Only Borlos seemed at ease, sharing stories with the sprites as they walked. The fey folk had an insatiable appetite for tales, and for them, even the War of the Lance was little more than a year in the past. There was much they hadn't heard. In turn, they told Borlos of times long past. Though Fanuin and Ellianthe were young, they remembered the glory of Istar and other ancient realms. Borlos listened to their stories, his gaze distant, a bemused smile curling his lips. It was a simpleton's grin, the same look he'd had after the dryad pulled him into her tree.

The gray stone surrounding them yielded, more and more, to shining crystal. The air grew warmer. Then, with no more warning than a sudden blast of wind, the tunnel ended in open air and a dark, starry sky. The sprites flew out of the passage; Borlos nearly followed, but Trephas pulled him back.

"Careful," the centaur warned. "Another step, and thou would have regretted it."

Borlos looked down, past his feet, and gasped.

"What's the matter?" Caramon asked, craning to see.

Dezra elbowed forward and followed Borlos's gaze down. She caught her breath, her eyes wide. "Huma's wooden teeth," she swore.

The tunnel had opened in the middle of a sheer cliff of white crystal, high above the ground. They were somewhere in the mountains—that much was clear from the shadowed crags before them—but that was all Dezra could tell. "Oh," she grumbled. "Well, that's just marvelous."

"Where are the sprites?" Caramon asked.

"Gone. Bloody bugs stranded us here," Dezra said. She threw up her hands. "What do we do now? Grow wings?"

Trephas chuckled. "That's what I said yesterday, when they took me to the Laird. Don't fret: they'll come back."

A brief eternity later, they heard a familiar sound: the flutter of wings. The sound grew steadily louder, then a broad, flat shape emerged from the darkness.

Caramon squinted, trying to make it out. "It looks like a blanket."

They saw, as it got closer, that it was just that: large enough to cover a king's bed, and well-woven in blue and gold. Several dozen sprites carried it toward the cliff, pulling it taut as they approached. They swooped down out of sight, then rose back up, coming to a hovering stop a yard past the tunnel's end. Fanuin and Ellianthe flew forward to float before the companions.

"It would be best," said Ellianthe, "if ye take off yer boots afore ye climb on the lugruidh."

The companions stared at the blanket, their faces the color of whey. "It'll never hold us all," Caramon hissed. "Even if it was just Trephas or me—"

"It was just me, yesterday," the centaur put in. "And earlier today, when I came back to fetch thee. Besides, we don't have much choice—this is the only way to go."

"All right," Borlos said. "I'll go first."

He pulled off his boots, then tossed them and his packs over. Holding his breath, he sprung forward, into the void. The lugruidh dipped slightly as he landed, then the sprites recovered and lifted it back up again. Borlos turned back to the others and grinned.

"It's fine," he said. "Come over."

Trephas followed, then, reluctantly, Caramon stepped across the gap. He let out a yell, the lugruidh dropping several feet, then sat down heavily as the sprites again arrested its fall. Dezra wrung her hands, staring at it in disgust.

"Come on, Dez," Caramon said. The lugruidh wobbled as he got to his feet. "I'll catch you."

"No," Dezra insisted. "I'll do it myself."

They gave her room, clearing as large a space as they could. She tossed her boots to Trephas, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Just then, she heard the scraping sound of the stone against stone. She didn't need to glance back to know the tunnel was closing behind her. She leapt, and the passage sealed shut, as if it had never been.

"Do you have any idea where we are?" Caramon asked Borlos as they glided among the mountains. He and the bard sat together, hunched in their cloaks to ward off the cold wind. Dezra and Trephas stood at the lugruidh's forward edge, talking with the sprites.

Borlos snorted. "Are you kidding? Even if it were daytime, I don't think I'd have a clue. I wouldn't even wager we were on Krynn at all, except for the stars."

Caramon glanced up. Sure enough, the stars were all there, even the red one that always shone in the north. "Well," he allowed, "I guess that's a relief."

The miles slid by, the lugruidh moving with surprising speed. The sprites didn't seem to tire, and passed the time by singing in their lilting tongue. The melody was strange, mixing joy and melancholy in a manner an elven harper would have envied. Borlos tried to play along on his lyre, but his deft fingers proved too clumsy to capture the song's unearthly beauty. He put the instrument away.

After an hour—more than a day in the outside world—a distant light appeared. It was a bluish glow, like the bug-lamps, coming from behind a ridge between two snowy mountaintops. Fanuin and Ellianthe called out, and the sprites' song changed to a simpler, brighter tune. The lugruidh turned toward the light, picking up speed. Now they were three miles from it, now two, now one… .

Then, suddenly, there were sprites all around them, bows drawn. Caramon regarded them warily. He had a feeling their arrows weren't tipped with harmless sleep-poison.

"Keep still," he told Borlos.

"I couldn't move if I wanted to," the bard replied tensely, staring at the sprites.

Fanuin and Ellianthe buzzed forward to speak with the leader of the archers. After a quick, unintelligible conversation, the commander yelled to his bowmen. “Nadh mhoirra!" he called. "Fin oc Guithern."

The archers lowered their bows, falling in on either side of the lugruidh as it moved on, toward the ridge.

Fanuin flitted over to the humans, doffing his cap. "I'm sorry if we frightened ye. Goidrach there—he's the one we talked to—is in charge of making sure no one intrudes on my father's court. He's quite good at it, as ye saw."

"But how'd they sneak up on us?" Dezra asked. "I didn't see them coming—they were just there, all of a sudden."

Fanuin raised his eyebrows. "That? Oh, that's easy," he said, and vanished.

The humans started. A moment later, Ellianthe appeared just as suddenly, in his place.

"More faerie magic," Caramon muttered.

"Ye could call it that, aye," Ellianthe replied. "It's more a talent than a spell—we learn to make ourselves invisible the way the bard there learned to play his lyre." She disappeared, though the sound of her laughing voice remained. "See?"

Dezra nodded, impressed. "Handy talent."

"Aye," said Fanuin, grinning as he popped back into view. "A pity we can't teach ye. Now, look! We're coming up on Gwethyryn."

They passed over the ridge, almost brushing the tops of the firs that grew on it. When they could see past it, they beheld a wide, bowl-shaped crater. It might have been a volcano once, long ago; now it was carpeted with rich grass and looming trees—mostly firs, but some aspen and ash. The rippling sea of their leaves and needles rivaled Darken Wood in its untainted beauty. Hundreds of bug-lamps hung among the trees, their glow filling the forest with blue witchlight. Clouds of moths and other insects flitted about them.

There were other flying things, too: Hundreds of sprites fluttered both above and among the trees, their silvery wings flashing with reflected light. They were all brightly attired, in bright yellows and oranges, pale greens and blues, rich reds and violets. Most were young, with gold or copper hair, but some had silver locks that identified them as elders. All of them wore swords, and many also had quivers of arrows on their backs.

As soon as the lugruidh reached the vale, a crowd began to form, swarming like locusts in the hopes of glimpsing the giants from far away. Goidrach directed his men to clear a path. For several minutes, as they passed through the swarm, there was nowhere the companions could look where they didn't meet the curious, suspicious gazes of the winged folk.

"Where do they all live?" Borlos asked. "I haven't seen anything like a house on the ground."

"That's because we don't dwell on the ground," Ellianthe replied. "Many of our people make their homes in clefts among the mountaintops. They tend fields of moss and herd beetles and bees. Those who practice crafts, or who are close to the Laird, live here, in the trees—either within the wood itself, or in houses among their boughs."

"Really?" Caramon said. "That sounds just like Solace, where I'm from."

"Of course it does!" Fanuin laughed. "Where do ye think yer folk got the idea of putting their homes in the vallen-woods? Ye're not the first humans to come to this place, ye know."

Soon the shining forest fell away behind them, and they floated over darkness again. Now, however, they could hear the sound of water lapping below. Peering over the lugruidh's edge, they saw the stars beneath them, glittering on the surface of a wide, dark lake. A wispy blanket of mist clung, swirling and eddying, to the water.

As they crossed the tarn, they caught sight of another glow through the fog. It hovered high above the lake's surface, like the watchfire on a castle's tower. They drew near, and the source of the light became clear: an obsidian spire, jutting up out of the water. Several tall firs perched atop it, hung with scores of bug-lamps. The glassy stone shimmered with reflected light.

"Is that where the Laird lives?" Dezra asked. She did her best to sound jaded, but a note of awe crept into her voice.

"Aye," Fanuin said. "His steading's in the high boughs of the tallest tree. He awaits us there."

A score of winged folk, dressed in violet and armed with white bows, rose from the spire to meet them. Goidrach exchanged words with their leader, then called his archers to him and darted away again across the lake. The violet-clad sprites also spoke briefly with Fanuin and Ellianthe and fell in around the lugruidh as it descended toward the firs. As they neared the spire, the companions saw the Laird's steading, nestled on a platform built about the fir's slender trunk.

It was small but beautiful, an enclave of miniature buildings with large windows and open roofs. Violet-clad sprites darted from one structure to another. A party of silver-haired winged folk emerged from the roof of the largest building and glided toward the lugruidh. One of them, resplendent in amethyst and ivory, smiled warmly at Fanuin and Ellianthe, embracing each in turn.

"It's fine to see you again, my children," Laird Guithern said, taking their hands. He looked past them, toward Trephas. "And you also, friend centaur. These, then, are the humans ye told me about?"

"Aye, majesty," Trephas replied, bowing. The others did the same—except Dezra, who only inclined her head. Trephas frowned at this, but went on. "Caramon Majere, a hero of some renown among mortal folk, his daughter Dezra, and Borlos of Solace."

"Ah yes," Guithern said, smiling at Borlos. He extended his hand. "The tale-spinner who's been spreading songs among the guards within the mountain. I'd like to hear some of them, if there's time." He turned from the bard, who looked ready to burst with pride, to Caramon. "And I remember you as well, Majere. I apologize again. An arrow in the rump is no way to greet a guest."

Caramon blushed. "Ah, well," he said. "No harm done, really. I'll just be sitting funny for a couple days."

Guithern laughed. "Excellent!" he proclaimed, clasping his hands. "Now, I'm afraid there's not room enough up here for all o' ye—nor, I'm sure, would ye be comfortable perching so high. I've arranged to hold moot below instead, atop the spire-stone. I've already had food set out for ye there, and milk and mead besides. When ye've had yer fill, I'll join ye, and we'll talk more."

With that, he darted away, back toward his steading. The other elders streamed after him, and Fanuin and Ellianthe as well. When they were gone, the lugruidh descended, gliding down toward the top of the spire.

"Thank the gods," Caramon said to Borlos. "Solid ground at last. And food, too—I haven't eaten since that feast the dryad set out for us. Bet you could do with a flask or three of mead too, eh?"

But the bard wasn't listening; his gaze had turned away, drifting across the misty tarn. At the far shore, the sprites' forest-village glowed in the fog. Tears stood on the bard's cheeks, sparkling like sapphires in the blue light.

"Hey," Caramon said, nudging Borlos in the ribs. "You all right?"

The bard looked at him, without recognition at first. Then he blinked. "Sorry, big guy. It's just—I don't know. There's something about this place. It's so beautiful. I mean, Solace is nice and all, but how can I go back there after seeing this?"

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chrethon strode along the line of the Skorenoi camp, gazing at Ithax's walls. The town's defenders lined the palisade, gripping their bows, staring back across the killing ground that had, not long ago, been a pleasant meadow. Now the grass and clover were gone, the earth trampled to blood-drenched mud. Spent arrows sprouted from the waste, a mocking memory of the daisies that had been in bloom when the siege began. Crows and flies feasted upon the slain. The stench in the air was horrible, but Chrethon reveled in it. To him, it was the scent of triumph.

Forty days ago, the Skorenoi had finally reached Ithax. It had been a long advance, with much hard fighting along the way, but now, except for a few scattered marauders, the horsefolk were penned up within their walls. The Skorenoi had put the vineyards and fields to the torch, slaughtering any horsefolk they'd encountered in those last leagues.

The day they invested the town, Chrethon had ordered an assault on the gates. That had been a mistake. The centaurs had been ready for him. The Skorenoi had lost many to the archers and stake-riddled trenches that protected the town, and hadn't been able to get their rams near the town's gates. In the end, they'd been forced to withdraw.

There'd been celebration among the defenders that night, but their victory was hollow. Now Skorenoi tents and fires ringed the mound where Ithax stood. They'd been there more than a month, keeping anyone from entering or leaving. The siege had been mostly quiet, with only the occasional skirmish as a parties of warriors emerged from the gates, trying to break through the Skorenoi lines. None had gotten through. Their flyblown heads were mounted on stakes within clear view of the town.

Siegecraft was difficult for the Skorenoi. Most accepted means of breaching a wall were impractical, thanks to their shape. Ladders and siege towers were useless to creatures who couldn't climb them. Tunneling to collapse the walls was no easier. There were other strategies, of course, but none had worked so far. The centaurs drenched their walls with water from their spring-fed wells, thwarting attempts to bum them. Rams were useless as long as those who carried them died before they reached the gates. Even starvation, which won more sieges than any other means, was proving difficult. The centaurs had stockpiled a great deal of food. They would run out, of course, but not before autumn.

Chrethon didn't have that long to wait. The Skorenoi were growing impatient. Ithax had to fall, and soon.

He glanced east. The sky was starting to glimmer with dawn. He called for a runner, and one came: a gangly creature with long, muscular legs. It moved toward him with astonishing speed, then bowed.

"What is thy will, my lord?" it asked.

"Find Hurach," Chrethon said quietly. "Tell him to meet me on the north front, behind the lines."

The runner sprinted off. Chrethon glanced once more toward the palisade, then turned north, making his way through the camp. He passed warriors sparring, smiths sharpening lances, fletchers shaping new arrows. As in Sangelior, there was little order to the ranks, but they all bowed to him as he passed.

Hurach was waiting for him, in the shadows. "How may I serve you, lord?" he asked.

Chrethon glanced around, making sure no one could overhear. "I have a task for thee," he answered softly.

"I won't have this!" Eucleia raged. Her tail thrashed as her voice rang out across the Yard of Gathering. "We can't simply sit here, biding, while Chrethon waits for us to starve!"

The other chiefs looked at one another uneasily. The Circle had gathered in the Yard at midday, as they'd done each of the past forty days. There'd been more shouting than discussion. Eucleia and old Nemeredes were responsible for most of the hot words. They'd never been friendly, and tempers had frayed during the siege. Now, as the sun sank toward the mountains, their discord began all over again.

Nemeredes snorted. "What wouldst thou have us do?" he demanded. "Sally forth into their midst? They'd cut us down like barley!"

"Aye, they would," Eucleia shot back. "But if we try to fight through, some might escape into the mountains. If we stay and the Skorenoi wear us down—how many of us will survive then?"

Nemeredes's scowl deepened. Before he could reply, however, Pleuron raised a hand. "Why canst thou not admit it, Nemeredes?" he asked, not unkindly. "She makes sense. They have the upper hand, and no one's coming to rescue us. What other choice do we have?"

Nemeredes shook his head, his white mane flying. "Thou hast always been a fool, Pleuron, but I never doubted thy courage before."

The fat centaur drew himself up, nostrils flared, and pointed the stump of his arm at Nemeredes. "Dost thou call me a coward?" he snapped. "How brave art thou, hiding behind these walls?"

"Enough!" bellowed Lord Menelachos. The High Chief had been silent, calmly listening to both sides. Now, his patience had broken. "All of thee, quit bickering like colts and fillies!"

Pleuron bowed his head. "I ask thy pardon, lord."

"I give it—to all of thee," Menelachos replied, glowering at Nemeredes and Eucleia. The two chiefs continued to seethe at each other silently. "As to this talk of leaving Ithax, it is no new thing. I've spoken against it before. Now, I fear I've been wrong to do so."

Eucleia's face, which had begun to harden, suddenly flared with hope. Nemeredes looked at the High Chief in alarm. "My lord—"

"Whist," Menelachos bade. "I've heard thy opinion on the matter, old friend. And while I value thy counsel, I fear this time thou art misguided. Eucleia's right—we must act, before it's too late."

"If only Trephas and the humans had brought back the axe," Pleuron sighed.

"No," Menelachos declared. "We have no time for 'if only.' We must deal with now. I believe we should ride out before the week ends, and fight our way past the Skorenoi. Who's with me?"

"I am," Eucleia said, her chin rising.

Pleuron hesitated, then nodded.

Nemeredes blew out his lips in defeat, pawing the ground. "What does it matter what I think? If the three of thee have made up thy minds—"

"My lords!"

The shout came from across the Yard. The chiefs turned and saw a young, war-painted piebald pluck a handful of grass, put it in his mouth, and hasten toward them.

"Arhedion?" called Lord Pleuron.

The scout's nostrils were wide, and his tail twitched as he bowed before the chiefs. "My lords, I regret interrupting thy conclave… ."

"What?" Eucleia snapped. "Out with it!"

Arhedion flinched, then nodded. "Of course, my lady. I come from the gates, at Rhedogar's behest. The Skorenoi are advancing."

"Burrs in my fetlocks," Pleuron swore. Eucleia reached for her sword, and Nemeredes spat on the ground.

"How many?" Menelachos asked.

Arhedion coughed. "All of them, my lord."

The air beyond the gates was thick with arrows as Arhedion led the chiefs toward the palisade. In place of stairs, a long wooden ramp led to the battlements; the Circle climbed at a canter, hooves clattering against the planks. Rhedogar hurried to meet them, making his way past the archers who were peppering the ground below. Cries of pain rose outside, punctuated by explosive cracks as killing shots exploded within their victims' bodies. Atop the palisade, a score of Ithax's defenders had already fallen, pierced by enemy arrows. Their fellows shoved their bodies off the battlements, keeping the catwalk clear.

Rhedogar caught Lord Menelachos's arm as the High Chief reached the ramp's top; Nemeredes pushed past them both, heading swiftly to where his son, Gyrtomon, was barking orders to the archers.

To the right, a centaur cried out as an arrow arced over the battlements, piercing his chest. As Rhedogar and the chiefs watched, he reached up to touch the shaft, then collapsed. The archers to either side of him stopped shooting long enough to dump his carcass off the catwalk, then returned to the fighting.

"It's foolish of him to attack like this," Rhedogar growled, "and risk losing so many of his warriors." A flaming arrow flew past, clearing the battlements to land inside the town. It smoldered stubbornly for a moment, then went out. "We can hold him off if all else remains equal. Now with all respect, my lords, I should get back to the fighting."

"Of course," Menelachos replied.

The grizzled centaur bowed quickly, then hurried back to the battlements, loading his bow as he went. Yelling, he let fly at the town's attackers, then plucked another shaft from his quiver and fired again.

Menelachos turned to the others. "We must talk."

"Aye," Pleuron agreed. He glanced down the catwalk as another archer crumpled, an arrow in his eye. "Let's do it somewhere we're not getting shot at, though. I'll get Nemeredes," he added, starting forward.

"Don't," Menelachos said, catching his arm. "He's lost two of his sons already. Let him stay here. If Gyrtomon dies today, Nemeredes should be with him. Now come quickly. Arhedion, stay with us."

They strode back down the ramp. Below, the piles of corpses at the bottom of the wall grew as more of the town's defenders fell. The pounding of hooves and shouts of pain and rage grew steadily louder outside.

"What thinkest thou?" Menelachos watched the others.

"Rhedogar's our finest warrior," Pleuron replied. "He'll hold the gates, whatever the cost."

Eucleia shook her head. "We're missing something. Some advantage the Skorenoi have that we don't know about."

"I've been thinking the same," Menelachos agreed. "Chrethon is cunning—he wouldn't have beaten us as many times otherwise. But what does he plan?"

The chiefs mulled on this. Pleuron shook his head. "I don't know," he replied. "Perhaps we should consider following through on the plans we were making before the attack, though."

"Leave Ithax?" Menelachos asked. "While we're under attack?"

Pleuron nodded soberly. "I don't mean we should ride out now, my lord," he replied, "but if the fight goes badly, we should be prepared."

"I agree," Eucleia said. "Better to be overcautious than dead."

"Very well, then," Menelachos said reluctantly. "Arhedion, ask Rhedogar for all the runners he can spare. Have them ride about the town, telling folk to gather at the Yard. I want everyone who isn't already fighting to assemble there before the sun's down."

Bowing, the scout turned and sprinted back up the ramp.

Hurach crouched in the shadows, listening as the fighting rose in pitch. It had been building for some time, and still Ithax's defenders held out, valiantly keeping the Skorenoi at bay. Even outnumbered, the horsefolk were clearly going to prevail.

He smiled wickedly. That was just what Chrethon wanted them to think. The vain attack was deliberate, to build false confidence among the centaurs. It was working, too. Ithax's defenders let out victorious shouts as they slew the attacking Skorenoi. They were convinced they would win, that none of Chrethon's minions would make it into Ithax.

They were wrong. Hurach was already there.

In the battle's first moments, he'd crept to the south side of the town, far from the main gates, keeping to the shadows. When the attack began, he'd scaled the wall like a goat-legged spider, slipping past the guards as the sounds of battle drew their attention. He'd gone over the top unnoticed, a patch of darkness in the twilight.

There were other ways in and out of Ithax besides the main gates. Searching as Chrethon had bidden, he'd found a postern, wide enough to admit two centaurs abreast, in the south palisade. It made a poor place to assail the wall. The ground outside was treacherous, sloping at an angle that made it impossible to use a ram properly. It was barred with a heavy oaken beam, and four guards stood watch before it. The sentries were all staring north now, toward the fighting. Again, their distraction was a boon. It would make it much easier to do what he must. All he needed now was his sign.

Before long, it came. The red star in the north sky began to shine, revealed by the dwindling of the daylight. On the other side of Ithax, Chrethon would see it and start giving orders. It was time to act.

He drew his knife, creeping toward the guards through the shadows. He crept up, making no sound at all, then darted in, blade flicking like a serpent's tongue.

He took the first centaur with a single stab from behind; it died before it knew anything was amiss. Leaping, he lashed out as the second turned toward him, and opened its jugular. It fell, gasping as blood welled from its throat, thrashed feebly, then was still.

The other two turned and saw him, eyes widening. One, a slender sorrel mare, turned and ran as her partner, an ivory stallion, shouted for her to get help. The stallion wheeled to face Hurach, his lance flashing. The satyr ducked the first thrust, dodged a second, then backed up until he bumped into the corpse of the horse-man he'd stabbed in the back. He twisted away from a third thrust, knocking the lance downward as it passed him. The spear drove into the corpse, lodging there. As the sentry tried to pull his weapon free, Hurach lunged once more, cutting a deep gash across his opponent's stomach. The centaur dropped his lance, groping at the deep, painful wound. Hurach made short work of him, stabbing him three times to make sure he was dead.

The sorrel mare was running, bolting for Ithax's darkened huts. Hurach straightened, reversed his grip on his knife, and threw. The blade spun through the air and struck the mare in the neck. She crashed limply to the ground.

Hurach glanced around quickly to make sure no one else was watching, then loped to the postern. Spitting in his palms, he braced himself against the bar. Shaking with effort, he lifted it from its brackets. He threw it aside, then turned and kicked the gate with a cloven hoof.

It swung open.

The sounds of fighting were diminishing outside the gates, and Lord Menelachos was hoping he'd called the folk of Ithax to the Yard of Gathering for nothing, when the cry arose, freezing his blood:

“The postern gate! They've taken the postern!"

He exchanged horrified glances with Pleuron and Eucleia, then turned to look south, toward the cries. The sentries on the battlements there were firing their bows wildly, at targets both outside and inside the walls. A flight of arrows flashed up in reply, cutting them down. Steel clashed and hooves pounded the earth as the Skorenoi forced their way into the town. Smoke began to rise from burning huts.

"How in the Abyss did they get in?" Pleuron gasped.

"What does it matter?" Eucleia snapped. She gazed across the Yard, at the centaurs who'd gathered there. The horsefolk looked south, snorting and shying as the flames rose. "It's over! They've breached the wall. We've got to get these people out of here."

Menelachos shook his head. "We can still fight—"

"If we do, we die," Pleuron interrupted. "Eucleia's right, my lord—we must flee."

Menelachos was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he heaved a despairing sigh. "Very well. Go on then, Pleuron. Get them out of here. Eucleia, tell Rhedogar to pull his men off the walls. Thou wilt need all his warriors to fight thy way through Chrethon's ranks."

Pleuron's eyes widened. "My lord? What about thee?"

"Someone needs to lead the rear guard," Menelachos replied. He shook his head as the other chiefs opened their mouths to object. "Don't argue—there's no time."

Pleuron tarried long enough to clasp the High Chief's shoulder, then whirled and cantered toward the assembled centaurs, shouting to get their attention.

"Go on," Menelachos told Eucleia. He took off his jeweled tore and handed it to her. "You're High Chief now, my friend. May Chislev walk beside you."

She nodded solemnly, donning the tore. Then, bowing, she wheeled and galloped north toward the gates, calling Rhedogar's name.

Menelachos watched her go, then cantered south, his eyes on the smoke and flames. He drew his sword and waited.

Chrethon laughed at how well his plan had worked. How easily Ithax had fallen in the end! Smoke piled high on the town's far side, and shrieks of terror rose with it. Even Rhedogar and his archers had come down off the battlements, letting the Skorenoi advance unhindered upon the gates. Chrethon tensed. At last, victory was within his grasp.

"My lord!" called a voice.

He glanced toward it and saw a long-striding runner, frothing as it sprinted toward him. He recognized it: He'd sent it to the postern with Thenidor and his warriors.

"I bring news from Ithax!" the runner proclaimed. "The foe is making a stand at the Yard of Gathering. Thenidor asks for more men to help in the fight!"

Chrethon hesitated, glancing toward Ithax. He wanted as many Skorenoi as he could spare waiting at the front gates when they came down. But then, if Thenidor was having trouble pushing through the town… .

"Find Leodippos," he snarled. "Tell him to go to the postern at once, and take his warriors with him."

The runner bolted away. Soon after, a third of the Skorenoi broke off to circle around the town. Chrethon watched them go, then returned his attention to Ithax. The rams were in place now, beginning to swing as bloodthirsty Skorenoi crowded around.

Chrethon smiled. The rams drew back.

Then, suddenly, the gates swung open on their own. A volley of arrows—hundreds of them—fired through the gap. The rams fell as their bearers died or ran for cover.

"What?" Chrethon exclaimed, astounded.

Before he could say more, a column of centaurs charged out through the gates, weapons flashing. They caught the waiting Skorenoi by surprise, cutting a swath through their midst. As Chrethon watched, his troops fell away from the gates and milled about in confusion, all but letting the fleeing centaurs pass. And still the horsefolk kept coming, fighting and dying valiantly as they pressed outward from the doomed town.

He understood, then: The centaurs were fleeing, using their last chance to escape. It was mad, desperate, but it was working. If he'd still had Leodippos and his legion to call upon, he might be able to stop it happening; now, though, there were no longer enough Skorenoi before the gates to contain the horsefolk.

Rage broke over him in a red, burning rush. Plucking his lance from his harness, he charged toward Ithax, shrieking wildly for blood.

For a time, as the Skorenoi gave ground in confusion and disarray, it seemed the centaurs might escape all but unscathed. Rhedogar, leading the charge, ordered his warriors forward, cleaving through the foe with desperate fury. Many Skorenoi fell back; others died, gored by lances and arrow-riddled by archers who fired as they ran. Behind the horsefolk's warriors, the common folk made their way out across the battlefield as the sounds of fighting spread throughout Ithax behind them. Most carried clubs or spears, but there was little need. The centaur warriors pushed onward, toward the dark hills to the west, the Skorenoi yielding before them.

Then, howling, Lord Chrethon and the rest of his host descended upon them.

Rhedogar had expected this. Barking furious orders, he gathered five hundred of his bravest warriors and led them away from the fleeing masses. Gyrtomon, left in charge of the rest, continued to lead the fleeing centaurs away. There were tears in his eyes as he did, for he knew what Rhedogar meant to do. Five hundred warriors wouldn't be enough to beat Chrethon on the field. But it would slow him down.

Chrethon understood this as he thundered toward the centaurs, lance held aloft. He saw the warriors coming to meet him, and understood Rhedogar's plan. He couldn't help but smile as he cursed the old, cunning war-leader. With a snarl, he lowered his lance and pushed himself even faster, clots of mud flying behind his churning hooves.

The centaurs and Skorenoi exchanged savage flights of arrows, firing without breaking pace. Bodies fell in tangles on either side, some toppling their fellows or those behind. Then the two forces struck, lances piercing flesh, cudgels shattering bone. Screams of rage and pain filled the air. Wood and metal shattered as the Skorenoi died; the centaurs plucked more weapons, from their harnesses and the hands of the dead, to continue the fight.

Rhedogar fought furiously, laying about him on all sides as he sought Lord Chrethon. He lost his lance as he slew one foe, then his sword, and a scythe he snatched from a dying Skorenos. Finally, as he bent to lift a spear from the blood-damp earth, he saw his quarry. He raised the lance high and bellowed a challenge. Chrethon, his face wild with battle lust and glistening with centaur blood, wheeled to face him. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, then they charged.

Rhedogar's lance, the longer of the two, struck first. At the last moment, however, Chrethon twisted, and the spear's point, which had been aimed at his breast, instead opened a furrow in his shoulder, then caught on his iron-studded war harness. The weapon's shaft snapped. Rhedogar's eyes widened—

And emptied, with shocking suddenness, as Chrethon's spear took him through the heart.

The silver centaur collapsed in a lifeless heap. Whooping with mad glee, Chrethon yanked his lance free, then pushed on, deeper into the fight. The battle continued around him, but already the horsefolk were flagging, their numbers depleted. Here and there, Skorenoi won through their ranks and bolted onward, toward the fleeing mass of Ithax's centaurs. Chrethon killed two more warriors—a mare and a stallion, both barely of age—then charged onward, toward the enemy, Skorenoi galloping with him on all sides.

It was too late, though, and Chrethon cursed, knowing it. Rhedogar and his five hundred had lasted only a short while, but long enough. The centaurs were at the edge of the battlefield now, moving at a gallop, archers firing back to ward off pursuit. He watched, not slowing his pace, as they vanished into night's shadows, into the hills. Too fast to catch.

Even so, he and his warriors followed them into the highlands. They caught stragglers, killed them without mercy—colts and fillies, the old and sick, and those warriors who followed Rhedogar's example and valiantly sought to delay the Skorenoi. A third of Ithax's centaurs died, on the field and in the hills—but the rest escaped, coursing westward through the night, out of Chrethon's reach. Finally, long after the chase became fruitless, he raised his war horn and blew three long blasts, recalling his warriors. With a snarl, he wheeled and started back toward the blazing ruins of Ithax.

Hours later, as dawn approached and the flames were dying, Chrethon stood in the Yard of Gathering, surrounded by the bodies of centaurs and Skorenoi alike. He stared down at one in particular, sprawled before him. For the first time since the centaurs' escape, his needle-sharp teeth bared in a smile.

Lord Menelachos had fought ferociously, to the last. His arms were broken, his fingers shattered. Even when he could find no more weapons to use, he'd killed with his bare hands. The same magic that broke whatever weapons slew the Skorenoi had maimed him, left him helpless before the killing stroke: a crushing blow to the temple, which had smashed his skull.

Chrethon looked at the crowd of Skorenoi who'd gathered around the body. "Who slew him?"

No one spoke. Chrethon nodded. More likely than not, he'd never know the answer. He shrugged.

Leodippos and Thenidor stood by, smeared with blood. "I want this town razed," Chrethon hissed at them. "Nothing must remain, save ashes and rubble."

"It shall be done," Leodippos snarled. "And after? What of the survivors?"

"Fled into the hills, most likely. When we're done here, thou shalt hunt them down."

The horse-headed Skorenos bowed. "It will be an honor, lord."

"And I?" ventured Thenidor. "Shall I join the hunt?"

Chrethon shook his head. "No, Thenidor. Thou wilt return to Sangelior with me. I would have thee near, in case I need thee."

Thenidor looked disappointed, but bowed nonetheless. He nodded toward Menelachos's body. "What shall we do with that, lord?"

Chrethon considered a moment, then a cruel leer spread across his face. He bent down, drawing his sword, and set its edge against the High Chief's tail. He sighed at the sound of steel slicing through flesh: it was a sound he'd waited ten years to hear.

He rose, gesturing at Menelachos's mutilated corpse. "Stake his head," he said. "As for the rest of him, let Ithax be his pyre."

With that, he whirled and galloped away through the ruins, holding aloft the High Chief's tail.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The sward atop the spire-stone was small, only fifty paces across, with sharp drops on all sides to the steaming tarn below. Bug-lamps rested on the grass, bathing it and the trunks of the firs in blue light. The sprites had laid out pheasant and fish, mushrooms and berries, with milk and their incomparable mead to accompany the feast; the companions devoured it all, then sat, waiting. Borlos stared into the distance, plucking his lyre. In time, Laird Guithern and the other winged folk joined them, and the talk turned to the war, Grimbough, and Soulsplitter.

"So," Guithern declared, folding his arms as he hovered in the air, "if ye take the axe back, ye'll use it to destroy this daemon tree?"

Trephas nodded. "That's what the Circle hopes, as I told thee yesterday."

Guithern nodded, then lapsed into deep thought. He and the other sprites who'd gathered for the moot—Fanuin and Ellianthe, several elders, and a number of warriors—bobbed up and down as the night wind blew about them.

"My father told me about Soulsplitter," Guithern mused at length. "It was his da the horsefolk brought it to, seventy summers ago—or two thousand of them, as time passes in yer world. They asked for his word, in the names of Branchala and Chislev, that if any centaur came seeking it, he'd refuse to give it over. 'Twas too great a danger, they said: it slew their High Chief, and only the gods knew what other evil it might wreak if one of yer kind ever raised it again.

"My grandfather made my father take the same oath, and so, also, with me. I swore, before the gods of the wilds, never to surrender the axe." He stared at Caramon, his dark eyes glinting. "And here you are, at the centaurs' behest, asking me to break that very oath."

Dezra snorted, rolling her eyes. "I don't care if you swore before Paladine, Takhisis, or the gnomes of Mount Nevermind," she said. "We still need it back."

"That ye may," Guithern replied coldly. "But even if all the dragons of Krynn were arrayed against ye, I couldn't relinquish it. We fey folk might be capricious, but we abide by our word."

"But thou must!" Trephas insisted, his voice rising. "Too many of my people have died already. Wilt thou condemn the rest of us?"

The Laird shook his head. "I don't say this on a whim, friend centaur. Thy ancestors felt Soulsplitter bore too much power, that after what befell Lord Hyrtamos, they should never use it again—not even against the most dangerous foe."

"Then they were fools!" Dezra snapped, rising to her feet. The sprites darted back, reaching for their weapons. "And you're no better, Your Highness, if you'd keep an oath so blindly!"

A hush fell over the sward. The elder sprites glared at Dezra, their narrow faces severe. She returned their gaze coolly, hands on her hips.

"If ye think insulting me is the way to get what ye want," Guithern hissed, "then it's you who are the fool. With a word, I could have ye drugged and taken back to Darken Wood. No dryad would ever let ye return here."

Dezra sucked in a breath to retort, her eyes ablaze. Before she could speak, however, Caramon interjected. "Your pardon, Highness. But blunt as my daughter may be," he said carefully, giving Dezra a warning look, "she's also not far off the mark. When the Circle gave your people the axe, they couldn't have anticipated what's happening now, that there is a threat dire enough to warrant its return."

"If Grimbough is victorious," Trephas added, "the dryads will perish, as surely as my people will. Or worse, they'll Cross, as have the Skorenoi and many of the satyrs. And once they're Grimbough's thralls, they'll seek out this place." The centaur waved a hairy arm, encompassing the whole vale. "Don't think thou wilt go untouched. Thy home will become as corrupt as mine."

Guithern was silent, his face clouded with thought. He studied Caramon and Trephas. "It's truly that bad?"

"Aye," the centaur said. "I wouldn't lie about this, Highness."

"No," the sprite murmured, "ye wouldn't." He drew a delicate hand down his face. "So, then. What good is an oath if it dooms all it was meant to protect?"

"Then you'll give us the axe?" Caramon asked.

Guithern shook his head, his silver locks shimmering. "No," he said. "I don't have it to give."

"What?" blurted Dezra.

"My grandfather protected it the best way he knew," Guithern declared, "by putting it where my people dare not—and the centaurs cannot—go."

"Tell us," Trephas bade.

The sprite hesitated, then nodded. "There's a place, in the mountains north of here—an old, ruined tower, where a wizard once lived. I don't know the sorcerer's name, but he was powerful. He did terrible things there: summoning demons from the Abyss, tormenting the dead. He even sought to create life."

Caramon shuddered. At the height of Raistlin's power, his brother had done the same thing. He'd never seen the fruit of that horrible experiment, but he'd heard stories. The Live Ones had been tormented, repulsive things, in constant pain, begging to die.

"Did… did he succeed?" he breathed.

Guithern shook his head. "I think not. If he did, the flesh of the creatures he made is surely long since dust. The tower stood outside my kingdom, and the wizard was dead when the centaurs gave Soulsplitter to my grandfather. All that remains is the pit beneath: a deep shaft, leading down into the living rock of the mountain.

"It's to that pit my grandfather took the axe. He threw it in and left it there, in the depths. Since then, my people haven't entered the place."

Caramon frowned. "I don't get it. You just said the tower fell apart thousands of years ago, that it's abandoned—why do you fear it?"

"Because," Guithern said solemnly, "it isn't abandoned. The Guardian, the last of the wizard's creations, still dwells there."

Dezra's eyes narrowed. "But you said the things he made were gone—their flesh was dust."

"Aye," Guithern answered. "But the Guardian isn't flesh. It's shaped of the stone itself, a creature the wizard built to watch over his keep. It remains there, waiting to slay anyone who enters. My people wouldn't go into that place even if I ordered them to."

"Then we'll have to try," Dezra said.

Caramon bit his lip. "Dez, this Guardian thing sounds like a golem. Raist told me about them, when we were young. They're really powerful. I don't think—"

"I'll do it," Dezra insisted. "I'm not going back empty-handed. You're free to stay and wait for me, if you're too scared to go."

If she'd meant to anger him, she was disappointed. He only stared at his hands, folded in his lap. "You're right, girl," he murmured. "We've come too far to stop now. We'll all go." He looked toward the Laird. "We're going to need help getting there, though."

They left in the morning, riding the lugruidh once more. The eldritch vale was even more splendid in daylight—the tarn shone turquoise, the mist that shrouded it gleaming gold in the sun's slanting rays. Above the spire, and across the lake in Gwethyryn, sprites danced on the wind. The winged folk brought the companions sweet bread and cheese to break their fast, then Guithern and his court came down to see them off and supply them with food, water and rope for their journey.

"I'll be plain with ye," the Laird said while they strapped on their arms and armor. "I'm not certain I'll see you alive again."

Caramon laughed mirthlessly, jamming his winged helmet on his head. "You and me both, Highness. But then, it's not exactly a new feeling for me."

Fanuin and Ellianthe arrived soon after, leading the company of sprites who'd carried the companions to the spire. They unfurled the lugruidh, snapping it taut and gliding smoothly to the spire's edge. The companions stepped onto it, not daring to look down. Another command, this time from Ellianthe, set them moving, soaring out over the lake toward its northern shore. Guithern called farewell, then flew away, a mote of silver light.

They glided on, buffeted by the wind, toward the ridge at the vale's edge. They rose slowly as they went, clearing the snow-dappled rocks by less than an arm's length—

—and then, without warning, the sky changed. The sun, which had been just barely past dawn, was suddenly high, just beginning to descend in the west. The high, wispy clouds became thick and dark. The pale moon hung low in the east, a slender crescent.

"What the—" Dezra gasped.

"We're outside the faerie realm," Borlos replied.

Fanuin and Ellianthe nodded, gliding beside the lugruidh. "The ridge was the border between yer world and ours," Ellianthe said. "And yer time and ours, too."

Caramon glanced around, trying to get his bearings. "I still don't see anything I recognize. Not Prayer's Eye Peak, not Tasin and Fasin. I don't think we're even in the Sentinels at—"

He broke off suddenly as he looked back the way they'd come, then paled, his eyes widening.

The others regarded him with concern. "Big guy?" Borlos asked. "What's wrong?"

"Gone," he gasped when he found his voice. "Sweet Reorx's beard. Look."

Startled, the others turned to follow his gaze. Caramon was right: of the fey folk's vale, which should have been right behind them, there was no sign: nothing but a succession of snowy peaks.

"Whoa," Dezra remarked, impressed. "Where'd it go?"

The sprites laughed. "Oh, it's still there," Fanuin said. "But ye'll need our help finding it again. Ye can't just walk into the faerie realm. One of us has to take you, or ye'd end up wandering the mountains forever."

"I don't understand," Dezra said.

"Ye're not supposed to," Ellianthe said, grinning. "Ye're not one of us, after all. Now stop fretting. We'll get ye back safely—if the Guardian doesn't get the lot o' ye, that is."

Borlos gulped as they glided onward. "Do me a favor," he said. "Stop saying things like that, all right?"

Chapter Twenty-Eight

If the sprites hadn't pointed out the tower to her, Dezra wouldn't have recognized it. The centuries had left nothing but a tumble of stones, standing on a broad shelf halfway up a towering, snow-capped peak. The black-veined marble that had been its walls was jumbled with slabs of slate that had broken loose from the slope above.

She shivered as the lugruidh descended. A hand touched her shoulder, startling her. "Dez?" her father asked. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," she snapped. "Just leave me alone."

He was silent a moment, then turned away, shrugging.

The lugruidh stopped at the edge of the shelf. They slipped on the frost-rimed rocks when they stepped off, but soon found purchase, their breath fogging in the chill air. Steel rasped as Caramon drew his sword. He eyed the ruins and the mountainside, then turned to Fanuin and Ellianthe, who hovered nearby.

"Anything live around here?" he asked. "Mountain cats, trolls, wyverns?"

"Nay," Fanuin answered, shaking his head. "Nothing's dwelt here for ages. I reckon beasts fear it, for what the wizard once did here."

"They do," Trephas said quietly. His nostrils were wide, his tail twitching. He shifted from hoof to hoof. "I can feel it. If I were more horse and less man, I might panic at being so close."

Borlos eyed him nervously. "But you're fine now?"

The centaur grinned. "Don't worry. If I have the urge to bolt, I'll tell thee first."

The wind whipping their cloaks and hair, they strode toward the ruins. Fanuin and Ellianthe flew along, but the other sprites remained behind. Caramon kicked at a small, jagged chunk of slate, then nodded at the stone pile. It was taller than even Trephas could reach, and fifty paces across.

"So," he asked the sprites, "where's this pit your great-granddad threw the axe into?"

"Near the middle, according to the story," replied Ellianthe. "I'll look ahead." She flitted to the top of the rubble, then perched on a jagged shard of slate, staring down. She turned and nodded. "I can see it from here. There's some big stones blocking it, though."

Fanuin darted after her and drew up alongside. "Aye," he said, then glanced at the peak above. "Reckon there's been a rockslide in the past century."

"Is it totally choked?" Dezra asked.

Ellianthe shook her head. "Not totally. Come look for yer-selves."

They climbed slowly, the slate shifting beneath their feet. Trephas's hooves scrabbled as he made his way up the rubble. Dezra reached the top first, Borlos right behind, then Caramon and the centaur. Together, they stared down into the ruins.

For a moment none of them saw anything amid the shattered stone; then Dezra pointed. "There," she said. "Under that big slab."

Then they saw it: a sliver of darkness, mostly blocked by a massive chunk of slate that had smashed down and cracked into pieces. The huge, flat rock nearly plugged the hole shut.

"Great," Borlos muttered. "That isn't big enough to fit a greased kender, let alone any of us."

They climbed down to it, but the gap didn't get any bigger up close. Testing, heedless of what might lurk in the darkness, Dezra stuck her foot into the hole. She slipped her leg in up to the knee before getting stuck, then pulled herself out again.

"No luck," she muttered. "Now what do we do?"

Trephas ran his fingers over the slab, probing the cracks where it had split. "How much rope do we have?" he asked after a moment.

Caramon, who had the rope looped over his shoulder, unslung it and let it slide down onto the rubble. "Guithern said three hundred feet."

"And pitons?" the centaur pressed.

"About a dozen. What's your plan, Trephas?"

"Bring them to me," he said, resting a hand on the slab. "I'll show thee."

An hour later, after much hammering and arguing over which rope should be secured where, they'd rigged together a complicated harness. One end was attached, with pitons, to the slab; the other to a crude yoke made by lashing together Caramon's spear and Trephas's lance. They stepped back, regarding it thoughtfully. It was just the four of them now. The sprites had gone, too frightened of the shaft to stay near for long.

"Will it work?" Caramon asked. "That rock looks heavier than anything I ever lifted."

"Maybe, but thou art human," Trephas replied confidently. "I've a warhorse's strength behind me. I won't be able to hold it long, though. We should decide which among thee will climb down."

"I'll go," Dezra said at once.

"Are you sure?" Caramon asked, his brow knitting.

"What about the Guardian?" Borlos pressed. "It'll kill you if it finds you."

"I don't think any of us could survive a fight with a golem," she returned, grinning crookedly, "not even you, Father. But I might be able to outrun it, if it gets ornery. Now get the rope ready. The day's wearing on, and I'd rather not still be down there when the sun sets."

Relenting, Borlos and Caramon drove a piton into the shaft's lip. The bard tied one end of their remaining rope to it, then leaned back, hauling with all his strength. Satisfied it would hold, he tossed the rope into the hole. It slithered down, more than two hundred feet of it.

Dezra pulled out a torch and lit it. "All right," she said.

"Let's get this over with."

Trephas took up the yoke and laid it across his broad shoulders. He dug his hooves into the loose rubble, then closed his eyes and pulled.

At first, nothing happened. Trephas's face turned crimson, and muscles stood out all over his body, from his neck to his fetlocks. Sweat coursed down his face and lathered his coat. He groaned, a harsh sound that grew into a roar. With a grinding scrape, the slate shifted. It moved an inch, then another, as Trephas strained and bellowed. Finally, when it had lifted nearly three feet from the shaft, he stopped pulling, and dug in to hold it.

"Go!" he hissed.

Dezra didn't need to be told twice. Gripping her torch in her teeth, she grabbed the rope and swung down into the opening. She slid down several feet, then set her feet against the shaft's wall, held on to the rope with one hand, and grabbed the torch with the other. She looked up at Borlos and her father, who stood over the hole.

"Be careful," Caramon added.

She smiled crookedly. "Why, Father," she told him, "when have you ever known me to do otherwise?"

Taking the torch in her teeth again, she started climbing down. Above, the stone slab came back down with a loud, ground-trembling thud.

The darkness grew deeper as she descended. Below was nothing but emptiness.

She rappelled a while to pick up speed, but returned to more careful climbing a hundred feet down. Her feet knocked chips of crumbling flagstone from the wall. Down and down she went, until she began to fear she'd run out of rope before she reached solid ground.

That was just what happened, but it wasn't as bad as she'd feared. She was down to her last thirty feet when the torchlight finally lit the shaft's bottom, and while it didn't quite reach, the rope's end was still within jumping reach of the floor. It would do.

Hanging from the rope with her right hand, she took her torch with her left and shone it about. She held her breath, expecting to illuminate the carven form of the Guardian, but suspicious shadows proved to be nothing when the light fell upon them. Satisfied she was alone, she turned her attention to the floor.

Over the centuries, a great deal of rubble had fallen into the pit. It covered the ground, a jagged, treacherous carpet of rock. There were a couple of archways on the walls, but they had collapsed, choking the passages beyond. There was nothing else to see from where she was.

She let go of the rope, fought a moment for her balance on the sliding rocks, then crept forward, torch held high. She kicked aside loose stones as she went, scanning the floor for some sign of the axe.

"Come on, you bastard," she muttered, her voice loud in the stillness. "Where are you?"

Nothing. She circled the chamber, looking this way and that. She had a despairing thought: What if Soulsplitter wasn't here? What if the Guardian had moved it, somewhere beyond the crumbled archways, where she couldn't get to it? What if it was beneath a stone that was too big for her to move? What if—

She stopped suddenly, squinting. She'd reached the far side of the shaft, and finally something caught her eye. She bent low, shining her torch. For a moment there was nothing but stone on stone. Then she saw it again: the glint of steel, beneath the rocks.

Stifling a whoop of joy, she wedged her torch between two large stones, then started digging in the rubble.

The rocks were heavy and hard to move. Wishing she had Trephas's strength, or her father's, she lifted them laboriously, one by one, and shoved them aside. Sweat soon coursed down her face, plastering her hair to her forehead and turning black as it trickled down her dust-caked face. Her lungs burned with every laboring breath. Her shoulders and back ached in places she'd never felt them hurt before. A new pain greeted her with every stone she prized free of the rubble. Her knuckles bled, scraped raw by the rough stones, and she swore a vile oath as her fingernails bent, tearing down to the quick. When her eyes were open, black spots swam before them; when she squeezed them shut to heave a stone, white lights exploded in the darkness. The minutes grew leaden as she dug, and she seemed to get no closer, no matter how deep she went. She refused to relent, though, pausing only long enough to gather her wind and mutter a curse before bending to lift the next stone, and the next, and the next… .

Then, suddenly, it was there. She lifted a chunk of marble, rolled it aside, and caught her breath. "There you are," she told it.

The axe disappointed her at first. From the legend Olinia had told, she'd expected it to be a thing of beauty: gilded, engraved, set with gemstones. Instead, it was simplicity itself: a black iron haft, four feet long, wrapped in dry, cracked leather and capped with a massive, double-bladed head that shone golden in the firelight. There was power in its plainness, though: it had lain here for centuries, yet bore not a single scratch, dent, or fleck of rust. She stared at it, marveling at how its head reflected her image, wondering how sharp its edges might be. Slowly, fingers trembling, she reached for it.

She'd expected it to be freezing, but it was warm, as though it had lain in the sun instead of entombed in the frigid mountains. It wasn't as heavy as she'd expected, either, and came up out of the stones with ease. She hefted it, holding it up to the light. Then, yielding to a sudden urge, she struck a large piece of granite beside her.

The crash was deafening. The stone shattered, showering sparks as Soulsplitter's head cleaved through it. When she raised it again, the axe was unmarked.

"Wow," she murmured.

"What was that noise?" called a voice from above: Caramon. "Dez, are you all right?"

She closed her eyes, sighing, then cupped her free hand to her mouth. "I'm fine! I found the axe. I'll be on my way back up in a—"

At that moment, she heard a sound that robbed her of her voice. It was low and muffled, but unmistakable: the dry scratch of stone against stone. She cast about, trying to find its source, then stiffened.

Before her, ten paces away, the rocks moved. They shifted slightly at first, then tumbled aside as something stirred beneath. Then, with a clatter, something thrust up out of the rubble: a massive, granite hand.

"Oh, shit," she gasped.

More than anything, she longed to move, to get away from the thing digging out from beneath the rocks. Her body, however, wouldn't respond. She couldn't even close her eyes as the thick gray fingers clenched into a fist, then relaxed again and started shoving rubble aside.

With a noise like a small earthquake, the Guardian sat up. It was crudely carved, in the shape of a bald, muscular man. It looked back, its malachite eyes gleaming with green light. Still paralyzed by horror, she watched it rise to stand on legs as thick as pillars. It was ten feet tall, from head to toe. It moved haltingly, like a man groggy from a long sleep, but as its joints scraped together the stiffness that afflicted them began to abate.

Run! her mind shrieked.

But where? The Guardian stood between her and the rope. It was moving now, taking a jerky step, wading knee-deep through the stones. She forced herself to move, started circling to her left, but the golem matched her movements, still blocking her way. Her torch, which she'd left behind, began to flicker and gutter.

The golem was five paces away, now four, now three. Its arms stretched out, stony fingers clutching, seeking to crush her… .

With a horrified yell, Dezra lashed out. She swung Soulsplitter wildly, striking the golem's elbow. There was another deafening smash, and the Guardian's arm came free, spinning away to crash, unmoving, on the rocky floor. The golem reeled with the force of the blow—which had come more from Soulsplitter than Dezra—and she swung again, aiming high.

The axe sheared off the left half of the Guardian's head; the glow vanished from the malachite eye as the piece fell atop the rubble. The golem swayed like a drunk, then fell back among the stones. It made one struggling attempt to stand up again, then was still.

She stood still for a long moment, her breath coming in hard, ragged gasps. The golem didn't move again.

She pulled a second torch from her pack and lit it from the first. She made a wide circuit around the golem, then paused to secure the axe to her belt. Clasping her torch in her teeth again, she reached for the rope.

Behind her, stone scraped against stone.

Fear struck her like a fist. Unable to breathe, she looked back. The Guardian was moving again.

Crunching and grinding, it tried to push itself up, but collapsed again as the stump of its arm slid out from beneath it. It lay still a moment, then tried again. It succeeded this time, shoving to its feet and turning toward her. Its remaining eye shone like a green sun.

She jumped. It was a wild leap, and she would have fallen badly if she missed, but her right hand caught the rope, then she grabbed it with her left as well. Her feet kicked beneath her, finding purchase on the wall. Below, the golem took a clattering step toward her, then another, and another.

Furiously, she hauled herself up. She heard a low whistle, felt a rush of air just beneath her. The golem was under her now, swinging its remaining arm. Its fist swiped empty air; unable to reach her. She hauled herself onward, grinning, shuddering with relief. She'd escaped! She had the axe, and had eluded the Guardian. Fifty feet up, she paused to catch her breath.

Then, beneath her, she heard the sound of stone bursting. She glanced down, and her heart clenched.

The golem was starting to climb.

It had driven its remaining fingers into the wall of the shaft, punching through the flagstone. Now it did the same with one of its feet, kicking a hole in the wall, making its own toehold. Its half-head looked up at her, the carven face maddeningly calm.

She screamed. The torch tumbled from her mouth, clattered on the stones, and went out. She didn't care.

She climbed, faster than she'd ever climbed before.

Caramon and Borlos crouched over the narrow opening, staring down at the darkness. Trephas tensed where he stood, the yoke still on his shoulders, waiting for the sign to start pulling again.

Cupping both hands around his mouth, Caramon yelled into the pit. "Dezra? Where are you?"

The reply was closer than he'd expected, though still a ways down: seventy feet, or about. She was climbing quickly, her voice frantic:

"Move the thrice-damned slab! It's after me!"

Caramon looked at Borlos, the color draining from his face. "Oh, gods," he murmured. He turned to Trephas. "Hurry! Lift the stone!—"

Trephas was already moving. He lunged forward, hauling on the ropes. He strained, groaning. It didn't budge.

"Move it!" Dezra yelled.

She was forty feet down now. Through the gap, Caramon saw her, faintly, against the darkness. There was something else, too: a mote of green light, beneath her, flaring in the gloom.

"Trephas!" Borlos yelled. "It's right behind her! Lift the bloody stone!"

Tears spilled down the centaur's cheeks. It wasn't working, it wouldn't move. His whole body burned; his muscles bunched hard as iron. "Come on," he growled through teeth clenched so hard, he thought they'd splinter.

She was twenty feet down and still coming, the terror plain on her face. The green eye—from the shadows, it was part of something very large—glinted even closer.

"Come on… ."

With a loud crack, the slate jerked upward, rising a foot in an instant. Trephas stumbled, fought to keep his footing, keep raising the stone.

Caramon thrust his arms down into the shadows, grasping for his daughter's hands. For what seemed like forever, she stayed just beyond reach. Sobbing, she pulled herself up, and Caramon caught her wrists. With a mighty heave, he yanked her up, out of the hole. "Trephas!" he roared. "Put—"

Before he could say more, a massive stone hand emerged from the gap and grabbed for Dezra's leg. It missed, saving her from a crushed ankle or worse, but its fingers caught her trouser-leg. Down beneath the slate, the malachite eye glowed as the Guardian dragged Dezra back into the gap.

"Don't drop the stone!" Borlos yelled. "She's under it again!" The bard glanced at Trephas, swallowing. The centaur's strength was clearly flagging. Above Dezra, the slab trembled.

Meanwhile, Caramon too was straining, against the might of the golem. He was losing: the Guardian was too strong, dragging his daughter back into the shaft with it.

"The axe! Use the axe!" Dezra bawled.

Borlos saw the bright gleam of steel at her belt, caught his breath, then dove for the shaft, slipping on loose slate and nearly sliding right past Dezra into the pit. He fumbled for Soulsplitter, fighting to undo the knots she'd tied to bind it to her belt. After a moment he gave up, drew his knife, and cut the cords. He grabbed the weapon as it fell away from her, then pushed back and knelt above Dezra and the Guardian. He raised the axe.

"Do it!" shouted Dezra, Caramon and Trephas, almost all at once.

Soulsplitter came down, chopping off the Guardian's remaining arm. Stone splintered, sparks flew. The golem jerked back, hung in space for an eyeblink, then plummeted soundlessly out of sight. Caramon fell back, hauling Dezra out of the shaft.

"Drop the stone!" he bellowed.

With a groan of relief, Trephas relaxed his pull. The slate slab came down with a final boom that made the earth tremble. A second crash echoed it, far below, as the Guardian struck the floor of the shaft.

Dezra laughed wearily, leaning against her father. "See… how easy… that was?" she gasped.

Then her eyes closed and she slumped, unconscious, in Caramon's grasp.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

"You don't understand," Caramon protested. "We don't have time to waste, waiting here with your people. The centaurs need Soulsplitter now!"

Laird Guithern shook his head. "I know. But there's naught I can do to get ye back to Darken Wood faster. I sent a messenger to the dryads after ye left for the tower, but 'twill take time afore Pallidice returns to guide ye back. Ye may have been nearly a day outside the vale, but here ye were gone less than an hour."

"How long must we wait?" Trephas asked anxiously. Soulsplitter, secured to his war harness, gleamed in the sunlight.

Guithern thought a moment. "About a day, I reckon."

"But that's another whole month, outside this place!" Dezra exclaimed. "At that rate, there might be nothing to get back to!"

"I'm sorry," Guithern repeated. Though his words were contrite, there was an unmistakable crispness to his voice. "I can't change how quick or slow the river of time flows. It's best ye forget yer cares for now. I'll summon food, and mead and music—"

Caramon shook his head. "No. Bring us one of those flying blankets, so we can leave. We can go as far as those caves in the mountains. No offense, Highness, but I'd feel better waiting there."

The Laird bowed, acquiescing, and took his leave. The other sprites swarmed with him up to the palace at the top of the fir tree, leaving the companions alone.

Caramon cleared his throat. "I'll check on Borlos."

The bard sat at the edge of the spire-stone, staring out across the tarn. In the distance, the sprites' wings made the air over Gwethyryn sparkle. He held his lyre across his lap, plucking a quiet, sad melody. He didn't turn at Caramon's approach.

"Well?" Caramon asked. "Are you coming with us, or is this good-bye?"

The bard sighed slowly. "I want to stay," he murmured. "I can't bear to leave."

"It's witchery, Bor," Caramon said, gesturing at the lake. "This place has worked some kind of magic over you. I look at it and I see beauty, but I'd never dream of not going back."

"Of course you wouldn't," Borlos stated. "You have a family to go home to, an inn to run. What do I have? Clemen and Osier? How many years have I wasted playing cards with them, night after night?"

"So you're staying." Caramon couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice.

"Let me finish." Borlos laid a hand across his strings. "I could stay, but I'd always wonder if I could have done more to help the centaurs. I'd never be happy, no matter how beautiful this place is, or how much pleasure I find with Pallidice."

Caramon coughed. "So what you're saying is…

"I'm leaving," Borlos said. He took a deep breath, then let it out.

"Sure, Bor," Caramon said. He patted the bard's arm, then, sensing he wanted to be alone, turned and walked back to join the others.

Borlos turned back toward the tarn, staring across the water. His fingers strayed back to his lyre. The wind caught the chords he plucked and snatched them away.

The lugruidh carried them back the way they'd come, Fanuin and Ellianthe flying beside it. It soared over the tarn and Gwethyryn, crested the ridge at the crater's south edge, and sailed on, among the looming peaks. In time a glint of light appeared in the distance. The companions watched as the crystal cliff grew closer, winking like a diamond in the sun—all of them, that is, save Borlos. The bard stared back, clutching his lyre to his chest.

At Fanuin and Ellianthe's direction, the lugruidh drew up alongside the cliff and hovered within reach of its shimmering surface. The Laird's children swooped toward the stone, hands outstretched, and the rock split, opening into a tunnel again.

Guithern had given the companions bug-lamps before they left; now each of them took one, then stepped into the passage. Fanuin and Ellianthe led them back into the mountain, parting the stone before them; the tunnel closed behind, sealing them inside. After a long walk, they emerged in the caves where they'd awoken after eating the drugged food.

Hours passed. Fanuin and Ellianthe brought food and mead, and Borlos played upon his lyre, his eyes shining as his music resounded about the cavern. Trephas took Soulsplitter from his harness, laid it on the floor, and stared at it thoughtfully.

Finally, with a crack that filled the room, one of the cavern's walls split open. Several swift-flying sprites emerged, darting toward Fanuin and Ellianthe. The winged folk jabbered together, then Ellianthe broke off and flew to join the companions.

"Something's wrong," Caramon said, seeing the grim look on the sprite's face.

"It's Pallidice, isn't it?" Borlos asked. He rose, setting his lyre aside. "What's happened?"

Ellianthe raised a hand. "The dryad will be here soon. But she is ill. The messengers fear she's dying."

A few minutes later, the tunnel in the wall widened even more, and a figure emerged. The companions caught their breaths.

"Oh… ." Borlos moaned. "Oh, gods."

The oak-maiden had changed. Part of it was because of the shifting seasons: gold and flame-red streaked her green hair, harbingers of an early autumn. But the difference ran deeper than that. Her dark, supple skin had turned gray. Her youthful face was haggard, her slender limbs bony. Even her eyes were dull, as though a cloud had fallen across them. She trembled, her shoulders hunched.

"Pallidice," Borlos murmured, his voice breaking.

She peered up at him, a ghost of joy lighting her face, and smiled wearily. She was missing several teeth, and the rest had turned brown. "My love," she croaked. Her voice quavered thinly. "My heart sings to see you again. Would that it were the same for you."

"What?" Borlos asked, then flushed. "I—I'm sorry," he stammered, looking down. "I just—"

"Nay, say nothing, my love. I know what I look like." Pallidice shook her head woefully. "The daemon tree's curse began to work upon my sisters and me, soon after I brought you here. It grows worse all the time. I fear I won't live to feel the weight of snow upon my oak's boughs again."

Borlos's mouth tightened. His hands curled slowly into fists. "No," he growled. "You will. Grimbough will fall, if I have to chop it down myself."

"Peldarin's axe is ours," Trephas added, raising Soulsplitter. "We must take it to my people. Return us to Darken Wood, and I also swear to stop Grimbough from harming you any more."

Pallidice nodded, though there was little hope in her eyes. "Of course. I'll take you. Gather your gear, and follow." She turned, stepping back into the tunnel.

Hurriedly, the companions prepared to go. "Thanks for your help," Caramon said, turning toward the sprites. "We couldn't have—"

He stopped. The winged folk were gone.

"Fanuin?" he asked. "Ellianthe? Where'd they get to?"

Dezra shrugged. "Back home, probably, while we were all staring at Pallidice. Come on. The others are waiting."

Caramon glanced about once more, but the sprites were nowhere to be seen. Shrugging, he put on his helm, shouldered his pack, and followed the others out of the cave.

The earth gave off a faint, noisome stench as Pallidice led them back to Darken Wood. Now and again, a beetle or worm emerged from it and dropped, squirming, to the floor. Strange chittering sounds surrounded them, and obscene, blister-like bulges appeared in the walls and ceiling. The air was dank and close.

Finally, the tunnel opened once more into a familiar earthen vault—the same place they'd met when Pallidice and her sisters drew them in. The tendrils that hung from the ceiling had shriveled; black ichor dripped from them onto the floor. Brown mist swirled about their feet, reeking like spoiled meat.

"Stay here," Pallidice rasped. "I will summon my sisters, and we'll return you to the surface."

Then she was gone, into another passage in the earth. The earth sealed shut behind her.

The companions waited in silence. Borlos turned away from the others, head bowed. Caramon walked to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. Trephas plucked his lance from his harness and jabbed at a swollen, white spider that crawled across the floor.

Dezra strode to one of the walls, where a huge blister had appeared in the earth. It glistened in the bug-light, and she saw something dark moving within. Grimacing, she drew her dagger to burst the growth.

As she was raising the blade, though, the blister's membranous surface split open, revealing a large, bloodshot eye. She leapt back, yelping, as it stared at her. A heartbeat later, her senses returned, and she lashed out with her blade, piercing the eye. Black corruption spilled forth. She stared as the membrane closed again.

Caramon hurried over. "What in the Abyss was that?"

Dezra shook her head, wiping her dagger with a rag from her pouch. "I'm not sure," she said quietly. "I think someone just saw us."

Caramon frowned, but before he could ask more, a tunnel opened, and Pallidice stepped into the chamber. With her came the other three dryads who'd brought them here. They didn't flounce or giggle, as they'd done before, but hobbled and shuffled like old women. All were horribly marked by Grimbough's magic. Gamaia was obscenely bloated, and had lost all her lovely green hair. Tessonda was horribly scrawny, bones showing through her skin, which was covered with weeping sores. Elirope was worst of all. Her limbs and back were twisted and bent, as though every bone had been broken and badly set. Seeing them, the companions couldn't help but cringe.

“Aye," said Pallidice, laughing harshly. “We are hideous to behold, aren't we? A cruel trick to play on us, who prided ourselves on our beauty."

Borlos shook his head angrily. “This will end, Pallidice. You have my word."

The dryad smiled gruesomely. "Thank you, my love," she said. "Now, shall we bring you back to the surface?"

The other dryads led Trephas, Caramon and Dezra away, leaving Borlos and Pallidice alone. Her eyes downcast, the oak-maiden came forward. "I'm sorry, my love," she said, "but we must embrace for me to take you back through my tree. I won't ask for more than that. I know what I am now."

Tenderly, Borlos rested his hands on her shoulders. He bent down and kissed her gently on her forehead.

"I know what you are too," he whispered. "And it isn't this."

She smiled at him, a joyful look that nearly erased the suffering from her face. Their arms snaked about each other. After a while, the roots came down and lifted them up and away.

Lord Chrethon smashed the runner's face with the back of his hand. The long-legged Skorenos fell to its knees with a howl. It started to rise, clutching at its bloodied nose, and Chrethon kicked it in the chest. It fell flat, wheezing.

"What didst thou say?" he thundered, towering over the fallen runner.

"My lord—I can't—don't—" the runner whimpered, cowering.

Chrethon plucked his lance from his harness and lowered it. "Tell me, or I'll geld thee right here."

The Skorenos looked at the upraised lance, its face filled with terror. "My lord," it groaned, "Lord Leodippos asks more warriors to aid in the search for those who escaped the sacking of Ithax."

Chrethon cursed himself again for letting so many of the centaurs escape. Leodippos's warriors had chased them into the mountains at the westernmost edge of Darken Wood, killing stragglers the whole way, but once they made it to high ground, the horsefolk had become almost impossible to root out. Leodippos was a relentless hunter, but the centaurs had constantly eluded him. They'd started fighting back, too, through ambushes and night raids. Leodippos had already asked for reinforcements once, over a week ago, to shore up his dwindling numbers. Now he wanted them again!

Chrethon wanted to blame Leodippos for his failure, but he knew better. If he asked for more warriors, it was because he needed them badly. It would do no good to deny him.

There were, however, plenty of runners in his horde. He wouldn't miss one. Chrethon thrust his lance, driving it through the cowering messenger's heart. He let go of the weapon's shaft, and it exploded into splinters of wood and metal.

Leaving the corpse, he strode along the hilltop, looking down at Sangelior. Much of the town was empty and dark. Its inhabitants were either dead or searching the mountains for the Circle. Chrethon dreaded having to send still more of his warriors west, but had little choice if he wanted the last of the centaurs dead before winter. He raised his hand, beckoning to another runner.

The messenger came forward hesitantly. It had seen what he'd done to its fellow. "M-my lord?" it stuttered. "What is thy w-wish?"

"Be still," Chrethon growled. "I'm not going to harm thee. Go down and tell the war leaders. They must each send fifty warriors west, to aid Lord Leodippos."

"F-fifty, my lord?"

Chrethon glowered. The runner paled, turned, and sprinted away.

Chuckling wryly, Chrethon turned to look over the town. The runner's uncertainty was understandable. There were ten war leaders left in Sangelior, which meant he was sending five hundred warriors to Leodippos's aid. After that, there would be only another thousand left at his disposal. And what if Leodippos sent another runner, in a month's time, asking for still more help?

Chrethon spat in the dirt. If that happened, maybe Leodippos would feel his wrath, after all.

He reared, forehooves churning the air, then whirled and trotted down the path to Sangelior. He hadn't taken more than twenty steps, though, when he heard the clop of approaching hoofbeats. He reached for his shortsword.

It was another runner, a mare. She stopped when she saw Chrethon, then bowed and hurried forward. Chrethon recognized her: He'd posted her at Grimbough's grove.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

The mare bowed. "My lord, I apologize for intruding, but the tree asks for thee."

Chrethon caught his breath, then rammed his sword back into its scabbard. "Come with me," he bade, then turned and galloped east, toward the daemon tree's grove. The runner followed.

When they arrived, Grimbough was seething with rage. Its branches waved and rustled madly, and its thick trunk throbbed. Chrethon bowed before it. "What dost thou wish?"

The tree's low voice was furious. "The humans have returned from the faerie lands," it rumbled. "I have seen them, in the secret places of the dryads. They will be back in Darken Wood soon."

…soon, muttered the branches above.

Chrethon stiffened. He hadn't thought about the son of Nemeredes and his human friends for some time. He'd begun to think they would never return. But now—

"Do they have Soulsplitter?" he asked.

"Yes."

…yes… .

Chrethon didn't even think of questioning how the tree knew. It had its ways. He spoke with it a moment longer, then withdrew, signaling for the runner who'd accompanied him to the grove. "Find Thenidor," he bade. "Have him meet me here."

Chrethon stood among the twisted trees after the mare left, thinking quickly. He doubted the humans would know yet that Ithax had fallen. They would try to go there first. If they were just leaving the dryads' grove now, Thenidor had time to intercept them there.

But Thenidor had faced Trephhas and his companions before. Chrethon needed another plan, in case he failed again. He knew right away what that plan would be.

Coming about, he cantered through the woods, toward where the Forestmaster lay. He called for Hurach as he ran.

Chapter Thirty

The stain of Grimbough's power bad spread far across Darken Wood. Its trees had changed; some were swollen and rotting, others twisted or splintered as if struck by lightning. The songbirds that had flitted among the boughs were gone, and only shrieking crows remained, clustered about the carcasses of animals that hadn't been able to flee the corruption.

Mile upon mile, the befouled forest went on. Bracken and thornbushes thrived where ferns and flowers had grown, and Trephas had to use Soulsplitter to clear them away. No sooner had he cut a path, however, than the brambles began to twist and writhe, growing together again. They clutched at the companions, ripping clothing and scratching flesh with their wicked thorns.

Three leagues out of the dryads' glade, rain began to fall in small, slashing droplets, stinging faces and hands. Still they struggled on, covering what bare skin they could and fighting through the rest.

A grasping briar snagged Dezra's cloak as she walked; irritated, she yanked it loose and stumbled against a leafless oak. The tree's spongy wood yielded, as though it sought to pull her in. Several large centipedes slithered out of the rot and up her arm, jaws twitching. She brushed them off with a yell, then stomped on them, cursing, as they tried to scuttle away.

"Does this ever end?" she asked angrily.

"It must," Caramon replied, swinging his broadsword as another thorny tendril lashed toward him. The branch pulled back, hissing like a snake. "I'd give anything for some high ground, so we could see the wood from above."

Dezra drew her own blade and began to cut the briars as well. "Do you think Ithax is like this now too?"

Caramon glanced toward Trephas. The centaur was well ahead, swinging Soulsplitter like a scythe. "I'm not sure," Caramon admitted quietly. "There's still a couple of leagues to go. Maybe it'll end before we get there."

"You don't sound convinced," Dezra noted.

"I'm not."

Another mile on, they found the first of the bodies.

There was no mistaking the shape of the carcass that lay tangled in the brambles. They didn't need to see the outflung hand, the fingers savaged by carrion birds, to know what it was. Trephas let out a heartbroken moan, then hurried forward, his companions following.

"Trephas," Caramon began. "Don't—"

Too late. The centaur ran to the corpse, waving his arms and yelling to scare away the crows that had settled over it. Then he stopped suddenly, shying back and bowing his head. His breath came in sharp, wracking gasps as the other companions came up beside him.

The centaur had died some time ago, and what flesh the crows hadn't taken was black and swollen. Its ribs showed white through torn flesh. Flies buzzed about it in a thick, black cloud.

Worse than decay, though, was the way it had died. Many of its bones were broken, and its flesh had been hacked with swords or scythes. Its head lay nearly a yard away, eyeless, little more than a skull. The broken shaft of an arrow was lodged in its temple.

Borlos made a strangled sound, then staggered away to vomit. Dezra, too, felt her gorge rise. She looked away, wrinkling her nose at the ungodly stench.

Trephas wept openly, his shoulders shaking. "Merciful Chislev," he murmured. "Iasta. Oh, my dear—what have they done to thee?"

"You knew her?" Caramon asked.

"She was a friend," Trephas said softly. "One of Arhedion's patrol. I recognize her harness. The three of us played together when we were children. Oh, Iasta… they took thy tail… ."

They did what they could for the dead mare, which wasn't much at all. Caramon helped Trephas free her from the brambles, then took her skull and placed it with the rest of her. There was no time to build a pyre; in the rain, it wouldn't have burned anyway. Borlos played a dirge on his lyre, and Trephas cut his hand and bled on her corrupted form. Then they went on, leaving her.

Dezra motioned her father to her as they walked. She glanced at Trephas, to make sure he was out of earshot. He stomped ahead, slashing at the briars.

"Wouldn't the centaurs have brought her body back to Ithax?" she whispered.

"I'd think so," Caramon agreed. "If they could."

There were more corpses ahead: dozens of them, all savaged like Iasta. Trephas went from one to the next, naming those he recognized. "Parimon… Chostos… Endrathimar…" he recited dully. "Chrethon will answer for this." He stared up at the sky, squinting as frigid rain lashed his face. "I swear, I'll live to see him pay in blood."

Darkness was settling over Darken Wood when they reached Ithax. By then, they all knew what they'd find. The crows circling above the forest were no surprise, nor was the fact that no fireglow glimmered in the gathering night. They slowed their pace when they emerged into the pastures surrounding the town—pastures littered with corpses and churned to mud by the passage of many hoofed feet—then stopped atop the rise overlooking the valley, staring in awe at the carnage below.

Ithax was gone. Atop the mound where it had stood, there was only rubble, ash and razed earth. The ground was scattered with the bodies of centaurs and Skorenoi. The stench of death thickened the air.

"Paladine's bollocks," Dezra swore.

No one moved for several minutes. All eyes turned to Trephas. The centaur's throat bobbed as he fought to speak. "Let's go down there," he said finally. "I must know if any of my people survived this slaughter."

"Are you sure?" Borlos asked. "I mean, with night coming on—"

"I said we go down!" Trephas bellowed. Without waiting, he broke into a gallop, charging down into the corpse-littered valley.

The others glanced uncertainly at one another as the centaur rode away. "Well?" Borlos asked.

"You heard him," Caramon answered. "We go down."

They never found Lord Menelachos's body, but his head was easy to locate. Before leaving Ithax, the Skorenoi had spitted it on a stake before the ruined gates. The crows had taken his eyes, cheeks and lips, and the rest was bloated and flyblown, but they recognized him just the same. He wasn't alone, either. Two other heads were impaled with him, one on either side.

"Rhedogar," muttered Trephas, regarding the silver-maned stallion on the left. He looked to the head on the right, a gold-tressed mare, and groaned. "Olinia."

"What?" Borlos demanded, staring in horror at the blind minstrel's remains. "Those bastards! How could they do that to her?"

"The same way they murdered the rest," Trephas replied coldly. "It meant nothing to the Skorenoi that she couldn't see, and never harmed anyone in her life. She was a centaur, and important among the tribes. So they killed her and did… this."

Caramon frowned. "What about the rest of the Circle? Eucleia, Pleuron… your father and brother?"

Trephas glanced at him, his eyes hopeful. "Aye," he said. "Chrethon would have staked their heads too, if they'd been killed."

"Then they're still alive," Dezra stated. "They could have gotten away."

"It's possible," Trephas said doubtfully.

"Where would they have gone?" Caramon asked. "Surely they had a plan for what they'd do if Ithax fell."

Trephas nodded. "There's a stronghold in the mountains. Only the Circle and a few others knew of it. I'll take thee. Chislev willing, my people will be there."

"Good," Dezra said. "Let's get moving, then."

She turned to go, but Caramon caught her arm. "Have some respect, girl," he hissed, nodding toward the severed heads. "We need to see to them first."

She stopped, looked at the stakes, and slumped. "Of course," she grumbled. "It's dark, I'm cold and wet, and the stench here could kill a troll. All right, don't grouse. I'll help."

She stepped past Caramon, to Trephas's side. Caramon started to follow, then glimpsed Borlos out of the comer of his eye. The bard's face was gray. He swallowed, staring at the centaurs' heads—Olinia's in particular—with wide, horrified eyes.

Caramon rested a hand on his shoulder and offered him a flask of water. Borlos took a long drink, then looked up again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I can't."

Trephas turned toward him. "It's all right, my friend," he said. "I won't ask for thy help. The rest of us will see to this."

Borlos smiled thankfully, pushing himself back to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily, but shook his head as Caramon reached out to him. "I'm fine," he said. "I just need to feel the wind on my face."

"Sure, Bor," Caramon said. "Just don't get lost."

With a grateful wave, the bard staggered away, across the body-strewn battlefield. He labored for breath as he walked. In time he stopped, glancing about blearily. The others were well behind him. He unstopped the wine-flask at his hip and drained it. Shuddering, he gazed at the ground. Corpses lay all about him, ravaged by a month's exposure to wind, rain and scavengers. Gently he nudged one of the twisted bodies with his foot. It shifted, then settled again, one of its begrimed hands dropping flaccidly beside his boot. His mouth twisting with disgust, he turned again, to head back to the others.

Something grabbed him from behind.

Borlos was too stunned to react as the Skorenoi bore him down, wrestling him to the ground. By the time he recovered his wits, it was too late. They had his arms and legs pinned, and one clapped a hand over his mouth. He struggled for a moment, then went limp as a bay Skorenos—a tall, ogrish beast with a shaggy black mane—strode toward him.

"Lift him up," Thenidor growled. The Skorenoi hauled Borlos back to his feet again. The bay spat in the mud, leaning on his halberd. "The bard," he snarled. "Trust my luck to catch the least useful one among them."

Borlos jerked suddenly, biting the hand over his mouth. The Skorenos who'd gagged him pulled back with a curse. Borlos sucked in a breath and shouted something—he wasn't sure what—before glimpsing the haft of Thenidor's halberd, flashing toward him.

There was a crack, and a flaming arrow of pain in his head. A wave of blackness swept him away.

Chapter Thirty-One

"Big guy! It's Thenidor! Don't—"

Then silence.

Everyone stared at each other in mute horror. Caramon peered into the gloom. "Bor?" he called, resting a hand on his sword. He started forward. "Borlos!"

Dezra grabbed his arm, hauling him to a stop. "Whoa," she said. "Hold up."

"Let go of me, girl," Caramon growled, shoving her back. She held firm, though. He whirled, furious. "I said let go!"

"Not a chance," Dezra replied. "Stop and use that thick head of yours. Didn't you hear what he just said? The Skorenoi are out there."

"And they've got Borlos," Caramon growled. "I've got to go help him."

"How?" Dezra snapped. "By lumbering off into the dark, so they can get you too? We need to think, or we'll end up dead—and they'll get the axe."

"What do you suggest?" Caramon snapped.

Dezra peered into the night, her brow furrowing. "Give me a moment. It would help if we knew where they are, and how many there are."

"Which we don't," Caramon said.

"Be still, both of thee!" Trephas interjected hotly. "There has to be something we can do."

"Maybe we can help," said a lilting voice, very close by.

They started in alarm, reaching for their weapons and searching for the man who'd spoken. There was nothing but darkness.

"Who's there?" Caramon whispered harshly.

"Ye don't remember us?" asked a second voice, a woman. She clucked her tongue in disappointment. "And I thought we'd gotten to be friends."

There was a rapid, fluttering sound. Then, suddenly, two small, elfin figures appeared before them. Silver moth wings sprouted from their backs. The companions stared in astonishment as the sprites doffed their caps, bowing as they hovered above the ground. "There," said the female, grinning. "Does that help?"

Caramon blinked. "Ellianthe?" he asked. "Fanuin?"

"Aha!" Fanuin declared, his green eyes glinting. "Ye do remember us!"

"But—" Trephas sputtered. "How… ?"

"Oh, we've been with ye since ye left our kingdom," Ellianthe answered blithely.

Caramon frowned, then understanding dawned on his face. "I remember now. I tried to say good-bye, before we left, but you'd disappeared. I thought you'd gone, but you were with us the whole time, invisible. Right?"

The sprites beamed. "Very good," Fanuin said.

"But why?" Dezra asked.

An awkward silence followed. Fanuin coughed. "Our da sent us along in secret, to see if the troubles in Darken Wood were as bad as ye said. Now we know they are," he declared, staring sadly at the battered bodies. "We were going to hie back home when ye left this place, and none o' ye would be the wiser."

"That was the plan, anyway," Ellianthe remarked. "But since ye're in trouble, we figured ye could use the help."

"We sure can," Dezra said. She smiled, thinking fast. "Can the two of you make yourselves invisible again?"

"Aye," Ellianthe stated, her chest swelling proudly. "Just say the word."

Caramon looked at his daughter, a smile curling his lips. Dezra returned the grin crookedly. "Great," she said. "I think it's time we found out what we're up against."

The rain finally ended. A cold wind gusted in its wake, scouring the battlefield. The companions huddled, shivering, as long, silent minutes crawled by. The wait was excruciating, but they'd resolved to stay where they were until Fanuin and Ellianthe returned.

Thenidor shouted in the darkness. "We have the bard!" he bellowed. "Give us Peldarin's axe, and we'll return him to thee!"

"Sure they will," Dezra murmured sourly.

"How'd they find out about Soulsplitter?" Caramon asked Trephas.

Trephas shook his head, scowling.

Suddenly, the buzz of moth wings sounded nearby. Fanuin and Ellianthe blinked into view, bobbing on the gusting wind.

"We saw them," Ellianthe reported. "Eight of those… creatures." She shuddered.

Caramon gestured at the muddy ground. "Draw it for us," he bade. "Show us where they were."

The sprites did as he bade, using their needle-like swords to scratch several circles in the soft earth. "Four with bows, four without," Fanuin said.

"All of them are Skorenoi?" Trephas asked.

Ellianthe nodded. "Aye." She tapped the last circle with her blade. "This is the leader."

"Thenidor," Trephas growled. "What about Borlos?"

Fanuin quickly added an X, off to the side. "He's alive," he added in answer to the companions' anxious looks, "but not moving."

"Senseless, huh?" Dezra asked. "He'll be even less useful than usual, then."

A grim silence settled, punctuated by the moaning wind and the flutter of the sprites' wings.

Caramon glanced at the others. "So," he said, "they have us outnumbered, and Bor's their hostage. But we have a few things in our advantage too. They don't know about the sprites. And they don't know we know as much as we do."

The others nodded. "So what's the plan?" Trephas asked, pawing the earth.

Dezra frowned, studying the makeshift map. "Give me a minute," she said. "I think I have an idea."

The Skorenoi heard hoofbeats on the blasted earth and tensed, the archers raising their bows. Thenidor glanced at Borlos—the bard hadn't stirred—then peered into the shadows, his hands twisting about his halberd.

The hoofbeats stopped. A torch flared, less than twenty paces away. Trephas held it high in his left hand; his right was empty. He smiled as the bowmen trained their arrows on him.

"I'm flattered," he said. "Thou must think me truly important, to arrange such a welcome."

"I only wish thy father's head had been awaiting thee, beside Menelachos's," Thenidor leered. "Alone, art thou? Where are thy companions—the old man and the girl?"

"Waiting back there," Trephas answered, jerking his head vaguely behind him. "They needn't be involved in this. I've come to surrender to thee, Thenidor."

The Skorenoi stared at Trephas in astonishment. Two of the archers lowered their bows slightly; Trephas's eyes flicked toward them, then away.

Thenidor, however, wasn't fooled. "Surrender?" he scoffed. "Why wouldst thou do that, son of Nemeredes? It isn't thee I want. I seek Peldarin's axe."

"That's why I've come," Trephas said. He reached over his shoulder, groping for something on his war harness.

The archers' bows creaked, but Thenidor stayed them with a gesture. "Take care, Trephas," he warned. "Make an unwise move, and this will end poorly for thee."

"I know," Trephas declared calmly, and pulled Soulsplitter from his harness.

The Skorenoi gaped as he brought it forward and held it before him, glittering in the torchlight. Thenidor's eyes gleamed as they fell upon the axe.

Then they narrowed. "What trick is this?"

"No trick," Trephas replied. "I'm giving it to thee—in exchange for the bard." He nodded toward Borlos's motionless form. "That was the deal, wasn't it? Let him go, Thenidor, and Soulsplitter is thine." He extended the axe. "Take it back to Lord Chrethon. He'll surely honor thee as a hero. I only ask thee to let the humans go. This isn't their war."

Thenidor considered this, his heavy brow beetling. He licked his lips, staring at the axe. Finally, he nodded. "Bring it forward," he said. He gestured to the archers. "And remember—I can kill thee with a word."

Trephas strode forward, holding Soulsplitter before him. As he went, the two more alert archers followed him with their sights; the other pair tracked him too, but inattentively, their eyes on the axe. No one but Trephas heard the flutter of invisible wings, or the slight creak of tiny bowstrings being drawn back.

They did hear the sound that followed—a pair of high-pitched, harpstring twangs—but then it was too late. This time, the sprites' arrows weren't coated in their sleep drug; the venom they bore was much stronger. Both of the alert archers were dead before they even felt the shafts prick their flesh. They crumpled to the ground as if struck by lightning. Everyone glanced, just for an instant, in their direction.

Everyone, that is, except Trephas. He broke into a run the moment he heard the sprites fire their bows, casting his torch aside and raising Soulsplitter high. The inattentive archers brought their bows up again, but by then it was too late: Trephas was in the midst of the other Skorenoi. Then, just as quickly, Caramon and Dezra sprinted out of the darkness, weapons flashing. The archers turned to meet them, casting aside their bows and yanking their cudgels from their harnesses.

A hunchbacked Skorenoi interposed itself between Trephas and Thenidor, club raised to ward off the young centaur. Soulsplitter flashed and took the hunchback's right arm off at the elbow. The axe cleaved through flesh and bone, sending the Skorenoi's cudgel—and the hand that held it—spinning away. The hunchback screamed, clutching at the stump of its arm. Trephas reversed his swing and took off its head. Blood fountained, and the hunchback's body went down in a heap. Soulsplitter shuddered in Trephas's hand as the creature's magic tried to destroy it, but its power was too great. The axe stayed intact.

Trephas heard another Skorenos rush toward him from behind and spun, bringing up the axe in time to ward off its cudgel with its haft. Wood rang against iron, then Trephas fell back as the Skorenos pressed toward him.

Not far away, the others were having a harder time of things. Caramon took a mighty smash to the chest from his opponent's club; his breastplate turned the blow aside, making a sound like a gong. Even so, the force of the attack drove the wind from his lungs, and he gasped for breath as he fought on, blocking with his shield and making occasional, ineffectual thrusts with his spear.

Dezra fought with sword and dagger, needing both to ward off the flurry of her opponent's attacks. She cursed under her breath as she struggled to find an opening in her opponent's whirlwind defenses. There was none to be found, however; Dezra started to tire.

Trephas fought two opponents at once. One had cast aside its cudgel, which Soulsplitter had neatly shorn in half, and fought on with a bronze sickle; the other used its lance to keep out of Soulsplitter's reach. Thenidor circled around the battle, halberd upraised, staying away from Trephas's whirling blade.

Dezra yelped in pain as, finally, she missed a parry and her foe's cudgel struck her shoulder. It was only a glancing blow, but it caused everything from her elbow down to go completely numb. Her dagger dropped from her grasp. Wincing, she leapt back from her opponent, parrying its next stroke with her sword, then shifted her stance to fight one-handed.

At the same moment, Caramon's opponent slipped in the mud. Caramon seized the opportunity, driving his spear through the twisted creature's breast. The Skorenoi jerked wildly, its cudgel flying from its hand, and sank to its knees. Caramon stuck it again, in the throat, and his spear exploded. The force of the blast knocked him back, and he fell to one knee, gasping for breath.

Trephas danced sideways as Thenidor's halberd slashed the air; the movement brought him clear of the attack but put him at the mercy of his other two foes. Each struck home, the lance gouging a long, bloody furrow in his flank, and the sickle raking across his chest. Trephas stumbled, groaning, then lashed out in reply with Soulsplitter. He hit the sickle-wielder in the side, cleaving deep. The axe trembled as the Skorenos died, and again its magic kept it from shattering.

The attack had been desperate, however, and clumsy; the follow-through carried Trephas off-balance, turning him to face Thenidor and exposing his right side to his other opponent's lance. The lancer laughed with vicious glee, raising its weapon—

Twin harpstrings sounded. This time, the poison wasn't as quick; the lancer had time enough to grope feebly at the spot where the sprites' arrows had struck before it collapsed.

With a grunt of relief, Trephas wheeled, reared, and kicked Thenidor in the chest. Thenidor stumbled, then shoved Trephas aside with a sweep of his arm and cracked the butt of his halberd down on the young centaur's withers. Trephas staggered beneath the attack, bringing up the axe to hold Thenidor at bay while he regathered his strength.

Caramon stayed down, clutching his shoulder and groaning in pain. Dezra fought on, her slender sword flashing. She'd evened the odds with a lucky cut across her opponent's forearm. The blade had bitten deep, slowing the pace of his dancing cudgel. Now, bit by bit, Dezra gained the upper hand, jabbing his shoulder, then slashing across his stomach. Lunging, She drove her sword into his chest. The blade burst, and the Skorenos stumbled and fell… directly on top of her.

All she could do was twist so the creature landed on her legs instead of something more vital. She hit the ground hard, and lay beneath its weight, too dazed to move.

Across the battleground, the air whistled as Thenidor and Trephas swept their weapons back and forth, each circling the other, seeking an opening. Finally, Trephas feinted left, then shifted the attack quickly to his right. Thenidor wasn't fooled; he brought his weapon across to block. Soulsplitter struck the halberd's haft, cleaving it in half.

Snarling, Thenidor flung the pieces of his ruined weapon at Trephas and danced back, reaching for his sword. The blade rang free of its scabbard, and he lunged back into the fray. Trephas backed away, parrying—and tripped over the corpse he'd decapitated. He dropped to his knees.

Laughing, Thenidor lunged in. With an expert twist of his sword, he wrested Soulsplitter from Trephas's hand, sending it flying through the air to splatter in the mud, nearly twenty feet away. He swung the sword again, and Trephas leaned back, narrowly escaping a blow that would have disemboweled him, then fell, landing on his side.

"No!" Dezra shouted. Furiously, she twisted and squirmed, trying to get out from beneath the dead Skorenos.

For a third time, Fanuin and Ellianthe's bowstrings pinged. Thenidor twitched, groping at his rump. His eyelids drooped, but he shook his head, throwing off the effects of the sprites' poison. As Dezra dragged herself free of the fallen Skorenos, Thenidor loomed above Trephas, sword raised. He reached down, grabbing the centaur's mane, and jerked his head back.

"Now it ends, son of Nemeredes," he declared.

Dezra saw her dagger, stuck point-down in the mud. She grabbed it, felt its weight in her hand, and flung it desperately. It hissed through the air. A look of disbelief appeared on Thenidor's face, then froze there as the blade pierced his throat.

The sword fell from Thenidor's hand into the mud. A loud crack rang out, and Dezra's dagger blossomed in a cloud of steel dust. The explosion threw Thenidor backward, to lie motionless on the ground.

Silence settled over the battlefield. Trephas struggled back to his feet. He stared at Thenidor's body, then turned to gaze in amazement at Dezra.

"Thank you," he said. Not thee—you.

Dezra smiled. "Don't mention it."

Hurach watched from the shadows as Trephas retrieved the axe. He cursed his luck. If Soulsplitter had flown the other way when Thenidor disarmed the centaur. He could have grabbed it and escaped before anyone noticed. Instead, the weapon had landed on the far side of the fight, and the satyr had forced himself to watch the last of the battle unfold.

He'd felt no regret when Thenidor fell. In fact, he was somewhat relieved. He'd listened with great interest as Trephas and the humans discussed where to go next, and had overheard their talk of finding the centaurs' secret stronghold in the mountains. He thought, grinning, of how Chrethon would favor him if he returned not just with Soulsplitter, but also with the location of the horsefolk's sanctuary. Thenidor had almost ruined that with his clumsy attack; now that he was dead, Hurach was free to carry out his plans.

He shook his shaggy head. Now wasn't the time to dream of glory. He edged forward, his cloven hooves squelching in the mud, staying in the shadows to make sure his quarry didn't see him. They were gathering themselves now, tending their wounds. The bard was on his feet, swaying unsteadily and rubbing the fresh bruise on his temple. The old innkeeper had finally stopped grasping his shoulder, and color was returning to his ashen face.

They lingered a while longer, speaking in hushed voices, then they turned to walk west. Hurach's black eyes narrowed to slits as he watched them go, then he stole after them, through the shadows.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Arhedion's hand strayed over his shoulder, toward his quiver. He started as his fingers touched fletching, then cursed softly and lowered his hand back to his side. Chewing on a wild parsnip, he stared down into the rocky defile where his patrol stood guard.

In the month since Ithax fell, the tenor of the war had changed. When Leodippos pursued the centaurs into the highlands, Gyrtomon—who'd taken Rhedogar's place as war leader—had taken the fight to him. Again and again they'd struck, using the craggy terrain to scatter the foe. They'd inflicted heavy losses each time, fleeing into the hills before the Skorenoi could counter. Arhedion had been among the best at this, knowing how to find the best spots for an ambush. He and his twenty scouts had slain more than a hundred Skorenoi, losing only two of their number in return.

Two days ago, though, their duties had changed. Over Arhedion's protests, Gyrtomon had ordered them back and put them on guard duty. Since then, they'd stood at the mouth of this ravine, which was the only path to the horse-folk's stronghold. It was a prestigious duty, but Arhedion chafed at it nonetheless. He longed to be back in the hills, stalking the enemy.

He'd said as much to Gyrtomon, when the war chief and his own fighters passed by on their way to harry the foe. Gyrtomon had laughed. "Maybe it is dull," he'd admitted, "but this kind of fighting can't last. There'll be a direct attack, once they discover where we are. When that happens, I'll need my best warriors guarding this pass."

Arhedion knew it was flattery, but took pride in it anyway. He did as the war chief bade.

He raised his gaze, for a moment, from the defile to what lay beyond. Darken Wood stretched out to the horizon, tainted by Grimbough's curse. He only spared a momentary thought for the blighted forest; to do more was to court despair. He'd seen more than one stalwart warrior driven to tears by what had become of their home. Better to mind the ravine, and not what was happening in the lowlands. He stared into the gap, his sharp eyes combing the trees at its far end… .

Suddenly he stiffened, snorting in alarm. He reached over his shoulder again, plucked a shaft from his quiver and notched it on his bowstring. He let out a trilling whistle, and along the ravine's mouth his scouts readied their own bows.

Arhedion spat parsnip juice, licking his lips anxiously. Then the rowan trees at the bottom of the defile rustled, bright orange berries falling from their branches. Arhedion whistled again, sharper this time. All along the ravine's mouth, bows creaked as centaurs pulled back their strings. A third signal would send a score of deadly shafts soaring down the slope.

A heartbeat later, a lone figure stepped out of the trees. Arhedion trained his sights on it, then checked himself suddenly, gaping in disbelief. The figure at the bottom of the ravine was neither Skorenos nor centaur. It walked on two legs instead of four. Sunlight glinted on its bronze, winged helmet.

"Shave my tail," Arhedion swore. "I don't believe it."

As he watched, two more humans joined the first. Last of all came a horse-man, whose chestnut coat and ash-blond mane he knew well enough. Arhedion laughed aloud.

"Trephas!" he called. "Chislev's withers, is it really thee?"

Below, Trephas answered with a shout of his own, then reached to his back and produced a gleaming, double-bladed axe. Seeing this, Arhedion stood bolt upright, then dropped his bow and flung his arms up toward the sky, yelling with wild joy.

His warriors stared at him as though he'd gone mad; it only made him laugh harder, until tears streaked his cheeks. "Put up thy bows, fellows," he said. "At last, we've got a chance."

Lysandon was a ramshackle gathering of crude lean-tos, skin tents and campfires, clustered in a narrow cleft between two towering peaks. It had been built in the image of Ithax, with the warriors' dwellings clustered in the center of the town, around a broad, grassy sward—the horsefolk's new Yard of Gathering. It was smaller than Ithax, and more crowded. When Arhedion escorted the companions into town, word spread quickly that Trephas and the humans had returned at last from their quest, bearing the lost axe of Peldarin.

There was laughter and tears when the companions appeared before the Circle: old Nemeredes wept openly as he embraced his youngest son, and all the chiefs—including Lanorica, Menelachos's ivory-coated daughter, who'd succeeded her father as head of the Ebon Lance tribe—bowed to the returning heroes.

Caramon stammered awkwardly, trying to shrug off the horsefolk's appreciation, but the centaurs would have none of it. They lifted him up, and Dezra and Borlos as well, and bore them three times around the village, waving torches and aspen branches in the air. Trephas walked with them, surrounded by cheering warriors.

Several hours after the companions' return, the sun began to set, and the feasting began. The horsefolk gathered in their new Yard, bearing baskets of food and huge pots of wine. Pipers and drummers capered, playing jovial songs; Borlos joined them eagerly, plucking his lyre and singing along.

The wine was strong, flavored with pine resin. The horsefolk poured libations to Chislev, the Forestmaster, and their slain kinsfolk, then drank, smashing the amphoras on the ground when they were empty. When the celebration reached a pitch, the centaurs began to pass the food around. The feast was sumptuous by any standard—all the more so considering the horsefolk had been driven from their home a month ago. There was flat bread laden with herbs, and soft, crumbling cheese. With these came meaty black and green olives, pastries stuffed with spinach and dill, and joints of lamb and venison. There were other dishes too, which would never be found on a human table: concoctions of grass, shoots and leaves that the centaurs devoured by the fistful. Afterward came apples and small, dark-skinned plums, and more pastries soaked in honey.

And, all through the meal, wine, wine and wine.

Finally, when the eating was done—but not the drinking, of course—the centaurs parted to form a circle of open grass in the Yard's midst. Torches held high, they began to stamp their hooves upon the ground. It started slowly, then gained in speed, faster and faster, thundering like a stampede. As the centaurs worked themselves into a frenzy, the Circle of Four entered the clearing.

The chiefs came masked, as they had to young Nemeredes's funeral: young Lanorica now wore her father's stag mask. On closer inspection, though, the masks proved subtly different: instead of weeping, the animals' faces were glad, their mouths hanging open in silent laughter. The crowd fell silent as the Circle moved to stand in the middle of the Yard.

Eucleia stepped forward, her grinning wolf mask gleaming with moonlight. She stood with shoulders squared and chin raised proudly, and lifted her arms. The stamping and shouting ceased.

"The questers have returned," she proclaimed, her voice ringing within her mask. "With them, they bear a mighty treasure, which, Chislev willing, shall be our salvation, after so many years of suffering. I ask Trephas, son of Nemeredes, to bring forward Soulsplitter."

Beaming, Trephas made his way through the crowd. The centaurs yelled and whistled as he stopped before the Circle, Peldarin's axe raised above his head. Its blade shone golden in the torchlight, then he lowered it again and, kneeling, proffered it to Eucleia.

"My lady," he said solemnly. "I give this axe to thee, in the hopes that with it, the scourge might be lifted from this wood."

Eucleia inclined her masked head and, reverently, took the axe from Trephas's hands. The centaurs cheered even louder, raising their wine-jugs as she lifted it high.

"With this axe," she shouted, "Grimbough shall fall! And then woe unto the Skorenoi, and all who worship the daemon tree!"

She swung Soulsplitter in a wide circle, to whoops and bellows from the horsefolk, then lowered it again and gestured toward the back of the crowd. At her beckoning, a pair of stern, gray stallions strode through the throngs and knelt before her.

"Phenestis, Xaor, my sons," Eucleia said, extending the axe. "Take this to the caves north of this vale. Keep it safe."

The high chief's sons rose, their heads bowed. Phenestis took the axe from his mother's hands, and Xaor clasped her hands in his. "We shall guard it with our lives," he declared solemnly.

Together, they wheeled and strode back through the crowd, which parted to let them pass. Bearing the axe, they rode north into the darkness.

Eucleia stared after them, then turned to Trephas. "Now, son of Nemeredes," she said, "tell us thy tale. How didst thou retrieve this treasure from the fey folk?"

Trephas hesitated, then bowed his head. "My lady," he said, "I first ask thy leave to call forward the humans who traveled with me."

Eucleia's eyes, shadowed by her mask, flicked toward the crowd, where Caramon, Dezra and Borlos stood. Caramon's cheeks reddened as the horsefolk turned to stare. It took both Borlos and Dezra, pulling his arms, to get him through the crowd, to the center of the Yard.

The centaurs cheered as the humans took their place beside Trephas. Flashing a toothy grin, Trephas bowed to Eucleia. "Thou wilt hear our story," he said loudly, "but not from me. There is one of us who is better suited at spinning stories."

Borlos's head jerked up. "Uh-oh," he murmured.

"This man," Trephas continued, undaunted, "is a bard. He left Solace seeking a tale to tell, and now he has it. Borlos, wilt thou do this for us?"

The bard hesitated, but the rapt stares on the centaurs' faces overcame his reluctance. Smiling in spite of himself, he unslung his lyre. Someone passed up a half-full jug of wine. He took it and downed a long draught, then handed it to Dezra and set his fingers to his strings.

"It began in Solace on the day of the Spring Dawning fair," he proclaimed, plucking a ringing chord. "A horse-man came, asking for aid… ."

Chapter Thirty-Three

When Borlos plucked the final chord from his lyre, the centaurs were silent a moment, then, slowly, began to stamp their hooves upon the ground. Beaming with pride as they shouted and whistled, he lifted his wine-jar, poured a measure on the ground, then took a long, deep drink.

Eucleia came forward once more, to stand behind him. She doffed her mask—the other chiefs followed suit—and flung up her hands, reaching toward the starry sky.

"Let the revels begin!"

At that, the shouting centaurs surged forward, filling the clearing they'd made for the Circle. Other musicians began to play, on lyres and pipes, hand-drums and tambourines. Laughing, Borlos joined them.

The dancing was was wild and boisterous, gleefully anarchic. The centaurs reeled in ones and twos, lines and circles, hooves clomping on the grass. More wine flowed, strong and plentiful. Shouts and laughter carried out into the darkness.

Dezra was finishing her second flask of resin-wine, light-headed and laughing as she watched the centaurs cavort, when she turned to her father and grinned crookedly. "Dance with me," she said.

Caramon, almost the only one in the Yard who was still sober, looked at her in surprise. "What?"

"Dance with me!" she shouted, tugging his hand. "You always used to, when I was a girl."

Caramon's face twitched with memory, then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dez," he said. "I'd love to, but… I'm just so tired."

Dezra's face fell. Her father had changed since the fight at Ithax ruins. He seemed smaller somehow, weaker and wearier. There were dark smudges under his eyes, standing out against the pallor of his face. His hand felt clammy in her grasp; the other strayed to his shoulder and rubbed it absently.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Caramon tensed, his hand dropping into his lap. "Fine. A bit stiff, that's all." He looked past her and grinned. "Here comes someone who'll be your partner."

Surprised, Dezra turned to see a tattooed, piebald centaur lunge toward her, arms outstretched. She had enough time to drop her wine-jar and yelp in surprise before Arhedion grabbed her about the waist and hoisted her off the ground.

"Hoy!" he bellowed gleefully and spun her away, into the milling crowd.

Dezra spent much of the next hour being whirled about by various young stallions. It made her uncomfortable, at first, to be manhandled so, but soon she was laughing wildly as the centaurs passed her back and forth. Finally, though, she ran out of breath. Exhausted, she shouted for them to put her down. They complied, then bounded away to cavort elsewhere. Before he left her Arhedion bent down and kissed her on the lips.

She stumbled dizzily across the Yard, the crowd spinning around her. She got her hands on another wine-flask and downed it as she wended among the merry-makers.

In time, she realized she was looking for Trephas, and began to call his name. A young, brown mare, whose black mane spilled down over her withers, waved her over. The mare tossed her head, then gestured past the far side of the Yard, into the darkness. Nodding, Dezra went that way, through the milling crowd.

She found him standing in the shadows, beneath a rustling aspen. He smiled as she approached, his teeth flashing in the moonlight. "It took you long enough," he said.

Dezra stopped short, scowling. "Really," she said sourly. "And you were sure I'd come."

"Of course. You're here, aren't you?"

Dezra shrugged. "So are you. And you just called me 'you' again."

"So I did." Trephas's cocksure grin turned sheepish. She favored him with a crooked smirk of her own. He blew out his lips, then shook his head, his mane flying. "I could tell you it's because I owe you my life."

"You could," she said. "Of course, you'd be lying."

He nodded slowly. "So… ."

"So."

He looked at her, his dark eyes wistful. "Dezra, this isn't simple. My people and yours… we're not made for each other, if you understand. And besides, my father wouldn't allow it."

"You think mine would?" she replied, laughing.

He nodded sadly. "No," he said. He fell silent, looking away—then, impulsively, took her hands in his. He bent down, his head angling toward hers; she let him. Their lips crushed together, their bodies pressed close, hands grasping and searching.

Neither of them saw nor heard the dark, goat-legged shape that stole toward them, through the shadows.

Hurach hesitated, his hand straying toward his knife. Dezra and Trephas were too preoccupied to notice him. He could kill them both before they knew he was there, but stayed his hand. If the bodies were found before he finished his task, there would be trouble. Better to let them live. He moved silently onward.

With a hunting hound's determination, he'd followed Trephas and his companions into the mountains. True to his suspicions, they'd led him straight to this place. He'd snuck into the village in the companions' wake, then crouched in the shadows beyond the Yard of Gathering while Trephas gave the axe to the Circle. Hurach had watched as Eucleia handed Soulsplitter to her sons, then had hidden in the darkness for several hours, giving the horsefolk time to get drunk on resin-wine. Now, at last, with dark clouds gliding past the gibbous moon, he darted north out of Lysandon, his cloven hooves whispering in the grass.

It didn't take him long to pick out the cave where Peldarin's axe lay. The centaurs hadn't been foolish enough to light any torches, but that made little difference. Hurach could see in darkness as well as in full light. Scanning the steep slope at the vale's edge, he soon found what he sought: the dark shapes of two stallions, standing in the shadowed mouth of one of the cliff's many caverns. Phenestis and Xaor stared in the night, bows in hand, spears within easy reach.

He climbed the slope, at one with the night. His hooves moved from foothold to foothold with uncanny silence and speed. In only a few minutes he clung, still unseen, to the rock beside the cave mouth. Pressed flat against the stone, he slunk past the centaurs, into the cavern.

His eyes fell upon Soulsplitter. The urge to run to it was almost overwhelming. He had to force himself to move slowly, glancing furtively over his shoulder. It wouldn't do to become careless now. He edged toward the axe, lips pulled back in a snarl. He reached out, fingers trembling, lifted the axe, and turned. The gray stallions still hadn't noticed him.

He killed Xaor with a single blow, stealing up behind him and burying Soulsplitter deep in his back. The centaur's body crumpled, and he jerked the axe free, whirling to face the other guard.

Phenestis stared at his brother's corpse for a heartbeat, then started to raise his bow. As the arrow came up, Hurach swung Soulsplitter a second time, shearing off the bow's upper end. Phenestis stumbled back, dropping his ruined weapon and gaping. The axe lashed out again, opening his throat. His eyes dimmed, and he fell across his brother's body.

Hurach tarried only a moment beside the dead horse-men, to catch his breath. Then, quick and quiet, he bolted back down the slope into the darkness, the bloody axe in his hand.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Caramon woke suddenly, in the early light of dawn, to blazing pain. He ground his teeth together, trying to sit up. The agony was too excruciating. It felt like a flaming arrow was lodged in his shoulder—the same sensation he'd felt after the battle at Ithax, and earlier at the Darkwater. It was stronger now, stealing his breath and making black dots whirl before his eyes.

He knew, now, that it was his heart—he'd had his doubts before, but there was no mistaking how the pain rose and fell in rhythm with his lifebeat. The same thing had killed old Flint Fireforge, forty years ago. Was it going to take him too? He thought of Tika and Laura, Palin and his grandchildren—could he leave them behind? Then he remembered Flint and Sturm, Tanis and Riverwind, and all the friends who'd died before him. He thought of his sons. It would be good to see them. And maybe… maybe Raistlin would come, from wherever he was, and visit him too.

Yes, he thought as he lay upon his bed of rushes, staring at the roof of the tent the centaurs had given him. Maybe it is time… .

But it wasn't. After a while, the pain ebbed, the fist that had clenched within his ribs loosening its grip. When he drew breath, there was only a dull ache. He blew a long sigh through his lips, not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed.

The sunlight that streamed through the tent-flap was too bright to go back to sleep. Scratching his balding pate, he sat up and glanced at the other beds the horsefolk had laid out. Borlos lay sprawled on one of them, his arm flung across his eyes, mouth hanging open. The bard had enjoyed a great deal of resin-wine at the festivities: Caramon had had to carry him back to their tent. That was probably what had set his heart off this time, he decided.

The other bed was empty. The rushes were undisturbed, the blanket still folded. Dezra hadn't slept in the tent last night. But if not here, where? He was scowling, an idea forming in his head, when the flap opened, and his daughter ducked in.

She started in surprise when she saw him, then flushed. "You're up early," she said, not meeting his gaze. "Are you well? You look pale."

"I'm fine," he said. "You were out late."

He picked up her worn pouch and handed it to her. As she reached for it, though, he saw something dark on her wrist. He caught her arm and pushed back her sleeve. In the morning light he saw what he'd spotted: a blue tattoo. It was a knotwork pattern, encircling her wrist.

"What's this?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

She snatched her arm back. "None of your business," she snapped. "But if you must know, it's a warrior's mark. Arhedion and his men gave it to me. I ran into them after—after the dance," she finished awkwardly, turning away.

Caramon scowled. "So you must be ready to leave this place. Which way are you going?"

"West," she replied. "Trephas says it's a short way to the Haven Road from here."

"Bor and I'll come with you," Caramon asked. "It's probably best that you don't go wandering the mountains alone, with so much trouble about."

She glanced at him sharply, then tossed her pack out of the tent. "Sure," she said, shrugging. "But when we reach the road, I imagine you'll want to go back to Solace, instead of tagging along with me."

Caramon swallowed. "You're not coming home?"

"No, I'm bound for Haven, then probably Ankatavaka on the coast. I'll be able to afford passage on a ship, once the centaurs pay me."

"Good," Caramon grumbled. "That tattoo will make you popular with the sailors."

She started to snarl a retort, then glanced over her shoulder. The pounding of hooves rose outside, moving closer. She turned, frowning, and reached for the flap. Just as her fingers brushed it, it flew open. Trephas came in, sweating and pale. His eyes were wide, his nostrils flared. His tail twitched anxiously.

"What's wrong?" Dezra asked, stepping toward him.

He shied back, glancing at Caramon. He started to speak, but his voice caught, and he had to clear his throat to get it back. "There's been trouble," he said. "The Circle wishes to see thee."

"The Circle?" Caramon echoed, alarmed. He shoved himself to his feet. "Why?"

"It's the axe," Dezra said suddenly. "Something happened to Soulsplitter, didn't it?"

The centaur pawed the ground. "It would be best if thou just came," he said. "Dress thyselves and wash, but be quick. I'll wait outside."

He withdrew, letting the flap close behind him. Dezra flashed a worried glance at her father, then followed Trephas into the daylight.

Absently, Caramon began to rub his shoulder again. He sighed, shaking his head, then bent down to wake Borlos.

The companions stared at the bodies, their faces like stone. Phenestis and Xaor lay where they'd died, covered with woolen blankets stained crimson with blood. Several warriors stood nearby, as did the Circle of Four.

"And the axe?" Dezra asked softly.

Lord Pleuron shook his head. There was a silence.

"Was it treason?" Caramon asked. "Could Chrethon have an ally in Lysandon?"

Old Nemeredes shook his head. "It wasn't even a centaur," he said. "Look."

He nodded at the ground. After a moment, the companions saw them too: tracks. Whoever had taken Soulsplitter had walked through its guardians' blood, leaving a trail of hoofprints behind. The prints weren't horselike, though; they were cloven, like a goat's.

"A satyr?" Trephas asked.

"So it seems," Eucleia said tonelessly.

Standing beside her dead sons, the High Chief fought to remain austere and aloof, but her eyes were filled with pain. Caramon felt a pang, remembering the sight of his own sons' lifeless bodies, ten years ago.

"Grimbough must have corrupted the goat-men too," Eucleia went on. "Chrethon's probably been using them against us all along, and we've been too blind to see it. Now one of them has the axe."

"But why?" Dezra asked, glancing from one of the chiefs to the next.

"To keep it out of our hands, for one thing," Trephas answered. "But I've a feeling there's something else."

"Of course there's something else, boy!" growled old Nemeredes. "Use the wits thy mother and I gave thee! Hast thou forgotten whom he holds captive at Grimbough's grove?"

The companions exchanged horrified looks. "You mean—" Caramon began.

"Aye," Eucleia replied. Her calm cracked, her face contorting with guilt and grief. "We've long known he wishes to destroy the Forestmaster. The satyr is surely taking Soulsplitter to Sangelior. And when Chrethon has it, he'll use it to take from her that which holds her power—her horn."

"And we gave him the means to do it!" Trephas snapped. "We brought it back from the faerie realm, just so he could take it!" He rounded on the chiefs, livid with rage. "How couldst thou be so blind?"

Eucleia's face darkened. She opened her mouth to snarl a retort, but Pleuron rested a hand on her arm, stilling her. Old Nemeredes stepped forward, regarding Trephas sternly. "Boy," he began, "we knew the risk. What wouldst thou have us do? Leave our only hope hidden away, out of fear Chrethon might use it?"

Trephas seethed, trembling. "Better than letting him use it to undo the Forestmaster."

"We thought we could keep it from him, long enough to use it," Pleuron muttered, shaking his head. "We didn't think he knew… we thought it would be safe."

"We thought wrong, then!" Eucleia growled. "Damn our arrogance! Trephas is right—we've been nothing but Chrethon's fools."

"And now it's over," murmured Dezra. "All that trouble, and it's come to nothing."

"No," Caramon rumbled. "There has to be a way."

The chiefs were unconvinced. "If so, I don't know what it is," Pleuron said. "We lose the satyr's tracks beyond this cavern. How can we give chase, with no trail to follow?"

"We know where he's going," Trephas said. "If we can get to Grimbough's grove first, maybe we can stop him."

"And how shalt thou do that?" Eucleia shot back. "He must have several hours' head start, and if Chrethon sent him to steal Soulsplitter, he's surely fleet of foot. I fear even our fastest runners won't be able to outpace him."

For a while, no one spoke. The wind whistled outside. Below, in Lysandon, the horsefolk had woken and were moving about the town. Word of what had happened had yet to reach them. It wouldn't be long, though, before they knew that the axe was gone.

Borlos cleared his throat. "What about the dryads?"

Everyone turned to look at the bard. He'd been quiet until now, suffering from the effects all the wine he'd drunk.

"What didst thou say?" Eucleia breathed.

The bard swallowed. "The dryads," he repeated. "Maybe we can get to Sangelior faster with their help. If someone goes to Pallidice's grove, maybe she and her sisters can take them the rest of the way."

The centaurs looked at one another, eyes wide. "It could work," Pleuron allowed.

"It's a slim chance," Eucleia added, "but better than none at all." She turned to Caramon. "Wilt thou do it?"

Caramon looked at the horsefolk in surprise. All of them were staring at him. "Us?" he asked.

"Aye," said old Nemeredes, nodding. "Thou hast treated with the oak-maidens already. They know thee, and are more apt to help thee again. I don't ask this lightly," he added, glancing at Trephas. "It means sending my son as well. But I fear that once again, thou art our best chance."

“Well, I'm going," Borlos said as he stepped into the tent. "I'm not just going to sit by and let Grimbough destroy this forest. We owe that much to the fey folk."

"I don't owe anyone anything," Dezra said. She started gathering her packs. "We've done what they brought us here to do."

Caramon rounded on her angrily. "How can you say that, girl?" he demanded. "How can you leave, when they need our help more than ever?"

"Watch me," Dezra snapped, slinging her pack over her shoulder. "And you—why are you going, Father? Don't think we haven't noticed you're sick. You can't even get through a fight without almost keeling over. If you go to Sangelior, you'll probably finish yourself off."

"I know," Caramon said. "But I still have to go."

"For Reorx's sake!" Dezra swore. "Why?"

"Because it would be wrong not to."

Dezra was silent a moment, her lips parted in disbelief. She shook her head. "Fine," she said. "You want to die? Go ahead. But you're not killing me too." Angrily, she shoved past her father and stormed out of the tent.

Caramon watched her go. Then, glancing hopelessly at Borlos, he stooped to gather his gear. As he did, his hand strayed to his shoulder and began to rub it again.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Dezra was sitting on a mossy boulder just outside Lysandon's guardposts, irritably tossing acorns down the mountainside, when she heard footsteps behind her. At first she thought it was Trephas, but there were two feet, not four. Her father? No—she knew Caramon's lumbering gait. Which meant—

"Dez?" Borlos called. "I've been looking for you."

She flung the acorns away. They rattled down the slope. "Go away, Bor."

Ignoring her, he climbed up on the boulder and sat down, cradling a clay jar in his lap.

"What's that?" Dezra asked.

Borlos laughed. "Hair of the dog." He lifted the jug, sloshed it around a little. "Want some?"

She looked at him dourly, then shrugged and took the jug from his hand. She took a long swig of resin-wine and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"So," she said. "This is how you're going to convince me to come to Sangelior, is it? By plying me with drink?"

The bard laughed, taking the jug back, and drank a swallow. "Not at all," he said. "Your mind's made up. I just wanted to let you know why I'm about to say what I'm going to say—that I do it because I love your father like he was my own.

"I used to have a crush on you, Dez. It started a year ago, I guess: I'd watched you grow into an interesting woman—much more interesting than your poor homebody of a sister. It guess it was part of the reason I came along when Caramon went after you—just like poor Uwen did."

She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up his hand. "Let me finish. Since we came to Darken Wood, I've discovered something about you, Dez: I don't like you very much. You're breaking Caramon's heart, and you seem to enjoy it. Not to put too fine a point on it, you've still got a lot of growing up to do. So go on. Leave. We'll all be better off, but especially your father."

Dezra stared at him, thunderstruck. Then the surprise faded from her eyes, giving way to glittering anger. "Is that it, then?" she snapped. "Because if it is, you can go."

"Sure, Dez," Borlos said. He slid off the rock, then started to leave. He hesitated, though, and turned back to her. "One more thing."

She glared at him, and he reached into his cloak and produced a heavy, bulging sack. He tossed it to her. It jingled as she caught it.

"I talked to the Circle before I came looking for you, and picked up your reward," he said, nodding at the sack. "You've got your money now. I hope it makes you happy."

With that, he turned and walked back toward Lysandon. Stunned, Dezra watched him go. She looked at the sack of coins, then out at Darken Wood for a while, then back at the coins again.

Cursing under her breath, she drained the wine jug, and threw it, spinning, down the mountainside.

An hour before midday, Trephas, Borlos and Caramon arrived at the Yard of Gathering. The Circle was waiting for them. Partaking of the grass, they approached.

"It's only the three of thee, then," said Eucleia, as stern as ever. She wore a fennel stalk, tucked into her war harness, the only open sign that she mourned her dead sons.

Caramon nodded. "So it seems. We can't afford to wait any longer, either—the satyr has enough of a head start on us already."

"Quite." Eucleia glanced at the other chiefs, who nodded in agreement. "Very well, then. I'll send another of our warriors with thee, so that thou mayst both ride to the dryad's grove."

"Thanks," Caramon said.

Old Nemeredes came forward next, and clasped arms with Trephas. "Chislev walk with thee, my son," he said.

"I wish Gyrtomon had returned before I left," Trephas replied, returning his father's gesture. His brother was still on patrol in the mountains, and not due to return for several days.

There were more farewells, from Lord Pleuron and Lady Lanorica, and from young Arhedion as well. They walked to the edge of Lysandon, where Trephas bent down and let Borlos climb up on his back. A second horse-man did the same for Caramon. Without another word, they started down the path toward Darken Wood. Caramon threw one last, searching glance back at the centaur village.

"Looking for someone?"

Caramon whirled. Less than twenty paces ahead of them, Dezra stood beneath a copse of rowan trees. She stepped forward to stand athwart their path, hands on her hips. The others looked at her, mouths open, and a crooked smile curled her lips. "You didn't think you could sneak away without me, did you?" she asked.

Caramon's eyes narrowed. "What about your money? Your journey to Haven?"

"Haven will still be there when we get back," she said, walking toward them. "And the centaurs will watch my reward while we're gone. Can the Circle spare another warrior, so we can all ride?"

Trephas grinned. "I'm sure we can arrange something."

Leodippos looked up from his maps, saw the runner approaching, and cursed. He glanced back at the parchments—useless, since none had helped him find the centaurs' sanctuary—then rolled them up and thrust them at a servant as the messenger came near.

He felt more than a little dread at the runner's approach. He'd already ruined one good spear today, slaying a messenger who'd brought him bad tidings at dawn. A hundred centaurs, led by Nemeredes's elder son, Gyrtomon, had attacked his largest search party in the night. Nearly half a thousand of his finest warriors had perished.

The loss had been grievous; it would have been worse if he hadn't already sent a runner of his own to Sangelior just yesterday, asking for yet more reinforcements. Lord Chrethon would honor the request, but he knew it would be the last time. There were few warriors left in Sangelior to send.

And now another messenger. He shook his head. How many would be dead this time? Hundreds? A thousand?

"Speak," he bade as the runner bowed before him.

"My lord," said the messenger. "A visitor has come. He says he bears good tidings."

Leodippos leaned forward. "Who?"

"He says his name is Hurach, my lord."

"The satyr?" Leodippos asked, scowling. "What does he want?"

"It's as he said," said a voice. "I bring good news."

Leodippos turned. A dark, silent form emerged from a jagged boulder's shadow and strode toward him on cloven hooves. He saw the broken horn on the satyr's head and nodded: it was Hurach, all right. But there was something else—something in the goat-man's hand… .

He caught his breath, staring in amazement at the axe. Now that it was out of the shadows; its double-bladed head gleamed in the sunlight.

"Is—is that what I think it is?" he asked softly.

Hurach nodded, smiling smugly. "Aye," he said. "I'm taking it to Sangelior. First, though, I thought I should come to you, and tell you where to find what you seek."

“The centaurs' stronghold?" Leodippos breathed. His whole body tensed at the thought. So much fruitless searching, and now, to have the key to victory delivered to him… .

"Where is it?" he asked.

The satyr described everything, from the terrain around Lysandon to its defenses. Leodippos listened, a bloodthirsty smile on his horse-like face, then clapped the goat-man on the shoulder, laughing.

"This is glorious!" he rejoiced. "Now we can finish the Circle at last!"

Hurach nodded, hefting Soulsplitter in his thick-fingered hands. "Aye," he said. "And now I must go. I still have a long journey ahead of me."

Leodippos raised an eyebrow. "I could send a runner instead," he said.

"So you could tell Chrethon that you recovered the axe instead of me, no doubt," the satyr remarked with a cunning smile. "No, lord. I will go myself. With your leave, of course."

Shrugging, Leodippos waved his hand. Hurach turned and strode away, vanishing into the shadows.

Leodippos paid the satyr little mind. Whirling, he beckoned to the runner who'd heralded Hurach's arrival. The messenger approached, its face eager.

"Put the word out among thy fellows," Leodippos said. "Have them go to all the warbands, and have them report to me at once."

The runner galloped away, its long-striding legs devouring the ground. Leodippos turned, smiling to himself, and gestured for the servant to bring his maps.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Sarken Wood had grown worse, the daemon tree's corruption spreading farther west. The companions rode with weapons in hand, watching the shadows, and imagining ail sorts of nameless horrors lurking within the gloom.

Despite their fears, however, the forest was empty. Except for the occasional crow or scuttling beetle, the birds and beasts were either dead or had fled into the highlands. There was no sign of the Skorenoi, either. They were all in the hills, searching for Lysandon.

The deeper they went, the worse the woods became. The earth beneath the unclean, eddying haze grew treacherous. For a while it was a spongy morass, then it became barren, choked with sharp stones. The centaurs struggled through it all, moving ever eastward.

Night fell over the forest, but they didn't stop. The humans raised guttering torches to light their way, letting the centaurs keep both hands free to hold their bows. The brands' flickering glow seemed horribly weak in the vast, befouled forest. They rode on through the darkness, the leaves whispering madly above.

Finally, as the sky began to brighten again, the party drew to a halt. "We're here," Trephas said.

Pallidice's grove was even more blighted than when they'd left it nearly a week ago. Some of the oaks had burst open, scattering shreds of rotten wood upon the ground. Others stood like gray skeletons, seemingly devoid of life. Only a few withered, brown leaves still clung to the branches of Pallidice's tree, rattling in the chill wind. Its bark was cracked and pitted, the color of bone. It might have been dead, but for the dark, thick sap that trickled in bubbling rivulets down its trunk.

“Gods," Caramon murmured, his voice choked with horror. He swung down from his mount's back, staring at the oak. "How can Pallidice live inside that?"

"She has no choice," Trephas replied as Dezra and Borlos both dismounted as well. "Her soul is one with the tree. I only pray she survives."

"There's only one way to find out," Dezra said. She pointed toward the tree with her sword—the centaurs had given her a new blade, as well as a dagger to replace the one that had killed Thenidor. "Go on, Bor."

The bard's eyes widened. "Me?"

"You're the one she knows best," Caramon said. "If anyone can bring her out of the tree, it's you."

Borlos glanced at Trephas, who nodded. "She'll remember thee. Just put thy hand on the trunk, and speak her name."

Bowing his head, Borlos let out a long, slow sigh. Hesitantly, he stepped toward the tree. He raised his hand and touched the bark. The sap that coated it was warm and sticky.

"P-Pallidice?" he stuttered. He took a deep breath. "Can you hear me? It's me, Borlos."

For a long moment, all was silent. Then, slowly, the oak split open and a pale, withered shape emerged. Borlos stumbled back, crying out at the sight of the dryad.

Pallidice was gnarled and bent, her skin the color of parchment, mottled with crimson welts. Her once-thick hair clung in brown wisps to her scalp. She stared at Borlos, one of her eyes milky-blind, and smiled. Most of her teeth had fallen out. "My love," she breathed, her voice raspy and thin. She reached out with a shriveled hand, tipped with cracked, yellow nails. "You've returned to me after all… ."

Borlos stepped back, his face stricken with pity and disgust.

"Pallidice," Trephas said. "We need your aid."

The dryad glanced at the centaur, then at the others, seeing them for the first time. "No!" she exclaimed. "You promised you wouldn't ask me for help again. I cannot—"

"The Skorenoi have Soulsplitter, Pallidice," Trephas interrupted. "Even now, one of Chrethon's minions takes it to Sangelior."

Pallidice stared, horrified. "How did this happen?"

"That isn't important now," Dezra interjected. "If you don't take us to Grimbough's grove, your tree will die, slowly and painfully—and you with it."

The dryad blanched, hesitating. She bowed her head a moment, trembling, then nodded. "Very well," she said. "I'll find my sisters, and we'll do as you say. I can only take the four of you—not those two," she added, pointing at other centaurs, standing behind Trephas. "I lack the strength to open a passage large enough for them as well as you."

She stepped back into her tree, and it sealed shut behind her. When she was gone, Trephas turned and spoke to the other centaurs. Bowing, they wheeled and trotted away, into the noisome mist. The companions waited in silence, eyeing the shadows. Finally, the oak opened again, and Pallidice emerged. Three other dryads—each horribly misshapen—also approached, from their own trees.

"You remember Gamaia and Tessonda," Pallidice said, gesturing toward the other oak-maidens. "The third is Anethae. She will take the girl."

Dezra frowned. "What about Elirope?"

Pallidice shook her head, gesturing toward the trees. Elirope's oak had collapsed, felled by rot. Dezra shut her eyes, sickened.

They split up, the dryads leading the companions to their trees. Borlos remained, staring at Pallidice with trepidation. The oak-maiden smiled sadly.

"You needn't fear me, my love," she said. "My tree can still be healed: my sisters and I fight Grimbough's blight with all our power. If the daemon tree is destroyed, we can yet reclaim these woods. I shall be young again, as you remember me." She spread her arms; wrinkled skin hung from them in flaps.

Weeping, the bard stepped into her arms. She embraced him, drawing him into her tree. The parched wood closed around him, and they were gone.

Gyrtomon returned to Lysandon at dawn, running at a full gallop to the Yard of Gathering. Hurriedly eating a handful of grass, he trotted across the meadow to join the Circle.

"My son," Nemeredes said, embracing him. "It gladdens my heart to see thee."

Gyrtomon shook his head. "Thou wilt not think so, after the tidings I bear." He stepped back and bowed his head, gathering his thoughts. "Leodippos comes hither, his full horde with him. I've seen them on the march. I don't know how they learned the way here, but they'll be here by dusk."

The chiefs were unsurprised. "I thought this might happen," said Nemeredes. "The satyr must have told them how to find us."

"Satyr?" Gyrtomon asked, frowning. "What satyr?"

The Circle told him, then, of all that had happened in the past two days. When the tale was done, Gyrtomon bowed his head. "My brother," he murmured. "I should have been here. I should have gone with him."

"No, my son," Nemeredes said. "Thy place is here, with us. If Leodippos means to attack, we need thee to lead the defense."

Gyrtomon took a deep breath, composing himself. "Perhaps," he said. "Although I don't see what difference it will make, if Chrethon slays the Forestmaster."

"That hasn't happened yet," Eucleia said sternly. "It mightn't happen at all, if Trephas and the others succeed."

"We must hope they do," Pleuron added firmly. "There's naught else we can do to help them. We can only fight Leodippos, and pray the rest turns out well."

"Very well," Gyrtomon declared. "But we'll need every lance we can spare. We must bring the attack to him, before he gets here."

Eucleia nodded, her steely eyes gleaming. "Let us end this moot, then," she said, turning to the other chiefs. "Wake thy people, and have them arm for war. And be quick—we march when the sun is high."

As Pallidice led the companions into the heart of Grimbough's domain, the chaos-corrupted earth became a nightmare. Hideous, unblinking eyes stared from the walls, gleaming in the bug-lamps' light. Wiry worms and huge, horned beetles covered the floor in black, writhing patches, crunching underfoot. The roots and tendrils that dangled from the ceiling coiled and writhed, weeping putrid, milky juices.

There were obstacles, too. The dirt was rife with huge boulders that blocked their way. Elsewhere, the soil grew soft and wet, and they had to turn aside to keep from sinking into the mire. In still other places, the earth turned dry, veined with cracks that hissed brown, noxious mist. It stung their eyes and burned their throats. Through it all, a chorus of mad voices chittered around them, as the leaves had muttered aboveground.

"It's getting worse," Borlos murmured. "We must be close."

Pallidice nodded, parting the earth with her withered hands. "Aye," she rasped. "The daemon tree's power is strong here—I can feel it in the soil, working against me. I can resist it now," she added, seeing the companions' brows knit in concern, "but I don't know how much longer I can go on. The time will come when I must find a tree through which you can leave this place, and you'll have to go on above."

On they went, twisting and turning. The tunnel turned steadily more treacherous. The insects on the floor bit and stung, and some of the bulges in the walls held not eyes but mouths full of sharp, snapping teeth. The oozing tendrils whipped at their faces, trying to blind them. Pallidice's breath came quick and hard, and she stumbled every few steps. Still she insisted, over the companions' objections, that she could go on.

Finally, she collapsed from the strain, falling against the tunnel wall, where the snapping, hungry teeth nipped at her bare skin, drawing blood. With a groan, she dropped to her hands and knees.

"Pallidice!" Borlos cried, hurrying toward her.

Insects started crawling over the dryad's body almost immediately, climbing on each other as they sought a patch of flesh to feast upon. She moaned, and the tunnel began to shudder. Clots of earth fell from the ceiling. At either end, the passage began to close.

"Rouse her, quickly!" Trephas called from the rear of the party. "We'll be buried alive!"

Dezra got to the dryad's side first. She knelt down beside Pallidice, ignoring the crackling of insects beneath her, and rolled the dryad over. Pallidice trembled at her touch, her eyelids fluttering. Dezra slapped her face.

"Come on," she growled, glancing around as the walls began to slide. She struck the dryad again. "Wake up, damn you. Don't you dare let this tunnel collapse."

Borlos crouched down, shoving her out of the way. He bent over the dryad and brushed the dirt from her haggard face. Then, tenderly, he leaned over and pressed his lips against hers. At first nothing happened, but finally Pallidice's eyes opened. She stared blearily at the bard, then returned the kiss, threading her arms about his neck.

Borlos pulled away. "No," he told her. "This isn't the time, and it sure as Shinare isn't the place. Let's get you up."

With Dezra's help, he got the dryad to her feet. She pressed her hands against the earth, squeezing her eyes shut; after a moment, the tunnel stopped shuddering.

"I think," Caramon said solemnly, standing ankle-deep in loose soil, "it's time to go back to the surface."

No one argued.

Searching, Pallidice found a suitable oak, and opened the tree to form an exit. One by one, she carried the companions out, back into Darken Wood. They blinked in the light—most of the trees around them were bare, letting the sun's rays through to touch earth that had been shrouded in shadow since the world was young.

"I know this place," Trephas said. The terrain was uneven and rocky, covered with trees that were either dried-out husks or swollen with rot. Brown haze clung to the blighted earth. "We're close to Sangelior—three leagues, perhaps."

"Would that I could take you farther," Pallidice said, shaking her head.

"No," Caramon said. "You've done all you could. We'll make the rest of the journey on foot."

"Do we have time for that?" Dezra asked, glancing up at the sky. It was early afternoon: they'd been traveling under the earth for more then half a day. "Can we get to Sangelior before the satyr?"

"We'd better," Borlos said.

Trephas slid an arrow from his quiver and nocked it on his bowstring. He turned to face the dryad. "My thanks for thy help, Pallidice."

She smiled weakly, then turned to Borlos and took his hand. "Farewell, my love. I pray to Branchala we'll meet again."

The bard raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he let her go, and she turned back to the oak. She stepped inside, and was gone.

Borlos stared at the tree for a moment, then bowed his head, sighing. Caramon rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come on," he said. "We've got a long way left to go."

Borlos nodded. "Sure, big guy," he said. "Lead on, Trephas."

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sangelior was nearly deserted. Most of the remaining Skorenoi had ridden west, to join Leodippos's horde. The town was almost wholly dark, its tents and huts standing empty.

The companions hid in a copse of dead birches, whose papery bark fluttered in the chill wind. They kept their weapons stowed, not wanting an errant gleam of afternoon sunlight on metal to give them away.

Trephas tapped his arrow against his bow as his eyes scoured Sangelior's scattered hovels. "From what I know of this place, Grimbough's vale is on the far side of the town," he said.

"We'd better go around the long way," Caramon whispered. He was ashen-faced and breathing hard. They'd jogged most of the way from where Pallidice had left them. "There's still enough Skorenoi about to make life hard if we're seen."

They were just starting to rise and creep away when Dezra raised her hand. "Wait," she whispered, pointing.

They froze. Fifty paces away was a clump of leafless blackthorn shrubs, heavy with wrinkled fruit. The companions stared, seeing nothing at first. Then the bushes' shadows shifted, their thorny branches rattling.

"Something's there," Borlos murmured. He rested his hand on his mace. "What is it?"

Caramon shook his head, squinting. "I can't make it out. It's too dark."

Abruptly, the shadows swelled, and the blackthorns parted. A black, misshapen figure, with one horn and shaggy goat's legs, emerged from the darkness. In its hand, a familiar, double-bladed axe glistened, reflecting the rays of the westering sun.

"Oh, damn," Dezra gasped.

Trephas moved swiftly, raising his bow and pulling back its string. He sighted down his arrow, training its broad, steel head on the shadowy goat-man. Biting his lip, he loosed his shot.

The arrow soared through the air, lightning-quick—and struck the bushes a hand's breadth from the satyr.

The noise startled the goat-man. With a glance at the companions, he whirled and dashed away, as quick as his hooves could move.

Caramon fumbled with his own bow, bringing it up, then cursed and lowered it again: Hurach was out of range.

Trephas stared at the bushes, uncomprehending. His ruddy face had turned ashen. He dropped his bow and clutched at his mane, shuddering. A low sob escaped his lips. "I missed," he moaned. "Missed! We've come so far… ." He bowed his head, his body going limp.

"No, you don't," Dezra said, grabbing his shoulders. "Pull yourself together. We still need you."

He raised his eyes, blinking tears of frustration. "You're right," he said. "We must go on, hope for another chance. Better to die trying than quit and live, eh?"

Dezra made a sour face. "Well, I really hope there's a third choice." She rose to her feet. "All right, let's get going. One way or another, we have to finish this."

Caramon and Borlos looked at her in surprise. Ignoring them, she turned and ran, keeping within the tree line, out of sight of Sangelior. Trephas followed. Borlos and Caramon came last, glancing warily at the town as they made their way along the fringe of the wasted forest.

Gyrtomon stood on the riverbank, his face grave, trying to think like the enemy. The Skorenoi would come this way. The stream before him could only be forded here. For miles either way, it was a foaming torrent, tumbling over sharp rocks. Even here it flowed swift and deep, reaching up to the thighs of any centaur who waded through. Leodippos's horde would need to slow its pace to cross. There was no better place to fight them.

Satisfied, he turned to survey his army. The centaurs of Lysandon were dressed for battle, wearing leather harnesses studded with bronze and iron, their long manes tied so a foe couldn't grab them. They gripped bows and cudgels, lances and scythes. Many had daubed their coats with slashes and whorls of red, green and white war paint. Their faces, some painted with chalk and woad, were set into fierce expressions. They were ready to die here, if it came to that.

Gyrtomon hoped it would do. The centaurs had sent forth everyone who could lift a bow, from colts and fillies who wouldn't come of age for years yet to veterans even older than his father. Even so, they numbered only two thousand—only a third as many as Leodippos's horde. Surprise and the river would help even the odds, but still… .

He shook his head. Such doubts were the last thing he needed. His gaze drifted to the warriors nearest him. In their midst, beneath their colorful standards, stood the Circle.

Eucleia turned toward him, her woad-painted face solemn. "Is there any word from Arhedion yet?"

Gyrtomon shook his head. He'd dispatched the scout and his warriors an hour ago, sending them ahead to watch for the Skorenoi. They hadn't returned yet, for which Gyrtomon was glad. The longer the enemy took, the lower the sun would be in the sky, and the more the glare would blind them. He'd take any advantage he could get.

Eucleia grunted, jabbing her lance at the ground. "That's good," she said. "Even so, though, we should start to place our warriors. I'd rather we were ready before time than unprepared when the foe arrived."

Gyrtomon glanced around, surveying the terrain. On their side of the river, the ground sloped up, covered with pines and rowans. Rocky outcroppings, spotted with lichen, stood here and there. Between the trees and the boulders, there was plenty of cover to conceal his warriors.

"Very well," he said. "Be sure the archers have a clear shot at the river and plenty of arrows."

The chiefs nodded, then trotted away to give their orders to their warriors. Gyrtomon stayed put, chewing olives and watching the centaurs take their places on the slope, hidden among the trees and rocks. The concealment wasn't perfect—here and there he could see a shadow move, or the glint of a lance or arrowhead. It was good enough, though. He could spot them because he knew they were there, but Leodippos wouldn't expect to find a fight so far from Lysandon. The ruse would be good enough to fool him into starting his army across the river. Gyrtomon prayed to Chislev that it would be enough.

Time passed, the sun casting long shadows down the hillside. Archers fingered their bowstrings, watching the far side of the river. Some of the horsefolk chanted softly in their liquid tongue, asking Chislev and the spirits of their ancestors for strength and courage. Gyrtomon strode along the slope, watching the river.

Twice he heard a strange, fluttering noise. He was far from alone, too: when he asked, many of the other centaurs admitted they'd heard the sound as well. He became convinced it was no mere trick of the wind. But what, then?

While he was wondering, a loud skirl, as of a hawk, sounded from the riverbank. He whirled to stare downhill, his hand reaching toward his quiver. The screech was a signal; the warriors closest to the ford had heard someone approaching. Soon another sound rose, so all the waiting centaurs could hear: hoofbeats, moving swiftly toward them.

All over the hillside, wood and sinew creaked as archers drew back their bowstrings. After a moment, though, Gyrtomon trilled a loud, descending whistle, and the horsefolk relaxed again. It wasn't the Skorenoi coming: the hooves were too few, moving too fast.

A few moments later, Arhedion cantered into view, leading his scouts. Giving another whistle to tell the archers to hold their fire, Gyrtomon broke from cover and ran down the hill. He stopped on the riverbank, waiting while the scouts made their way through the cold, deep water, then offered Arhedion a hand. The scout took it, and emerged, dripping.

"What news?" Gyrtomon asked as the other scouts stepped onto the bank. "Leodippos?"

Arhedion nodded, his single braid bobbing, and waved a painted arm behind him. "They're coming," he replied. "About a league off, not very quickly. An hour, maybe."

Gyrtomon smiled. "Excellent," he said. "Did they see thee?"

The scout shook his head, grinning. "We were stealthy as the wind. I heard them talking about attacking Lysandon tonight. They don't suspect a thing."

Gyrtomon smiled. He had every advantage he could ask for. He clapped Arhedion on the arm. "Well done. Go get some food, then find thy place."

The scout bowed again, then led his warriors up the slope. Gyrtomon turned to follow, then stopped, cocking an ear. The fluttering sound had returned again. He glanced about, but saw nothing. Then it was gone.

Scowling, he shook his head and started uphill.

The storm grew over Grimbough's vale with astonishing speed. One moment, the sky was clear, dotted with wispy clouds that glowed golden with the coming sunset. The next, black thunderheads boiled above, flashing wildly as lightning played within. They didn't move as clouds should, but in random directions, colliding and breaking apart, speeding up and slowing down, churning like mud in water. Thunder roared, and the wind screamed. Rain and hail slashed the air, battering the trees without mercy. Amid it all the daemon tree loomed, writhing. Its trunk pulsed hungrily, its squirming roots churning the earth.

Lord Chrethon gazed at Grimbough in exultation. The tree had called him to the grove nearly two days ago, telling him the glorious news: Hurach was returning to Sangelior bearing the axe. Leodippos was also marching on the Circle's stronghold, but that paled beside the knowledge that soon Soulsplitter would be in his hands.

"It is coming," the tree's voice rumbled. "Soon it will be in the vale."

…vale, hissed its black, rotting leaves.

Chrethon laughed, turning his face up into the driving rain. After a moment, though, worry creased his face. "And the humans? Nemeredes's son?"

"They come also," Grimbough replied. "I have not been able to stop them. But it matters little—even if they get past your guards, they will be too late."

…late…

Chrethon's grin returned. Grimbough had warned him Trephas and the humans were coming, through the dryads' secret ways. He'd ordered guards placed at the mouth of the vale. Half a dozen Skorenoi now stood watch, with orders to kill anyone but the satyr.

Content, he turned away from the daemon tree and cantered through the tangled forest, coming to a halt before the thicket where the Forestmaster lay. Trembling, he strode to the brambles and thrust his hand into their midst. They recoiled, pulling back from the unicorn's face. A thrill ran through him when he saw the fear in the Forestmaster's eyes.

"Thy end is at hand, my lady," he murmured, running his fingers down her ivory horn, relishing her anguish.

On an impulse/he reached down and unclasped the muzzle that covered the unicorn's mouth. It fell away, revealing angry sores where it had chafed her flesh. The Forestmaster drew a ragged breath, her flanks shuddering.

"And when I am dead?" she asked. The words came slow and thick. "What will you have gained?"

"Revenge." Chrethon's black eyes gleamed. "Ten years ago, thou stripped me of all I was. And all because I chose to fight evil!"

"Against Chislev's wishes."

"Chislev!" he scoffed, laughing. "And where is she now? Fled the world, like the coward she is!"

Weakly, the unicorn shook her head. "Chislev left the world to save us, just as she bade us not fight the Knights for the greater good. She didn't want the world to fall to Chaos." She regarded Chrethon sadly. "Your thirst for vengeance has driven you to embrace the very thing she meant to fight, that seeks to destroy all you once held dear. I weep for you, Chrethon."

Chrethon hesitated, uncertain, then sneered. "I remember now why I had thee muzzled. Keep thy honeyed words, my lady. I shall be avenged."

"This is folly," the unicorn said. "Grimbough is using you. Why can you not see it? Chaos cares for no one, Chrethon. When it no longer needs you, it will consign you to oblivion, and not shed a single tear."

But Chrethon was no longer listening. He cocked his head, glancing toward the clearing's edge. His eyes narrowed, seeking. Then lightning flashed, illuminating the whole grove as bright as day, and he saw. Hurach stood at the grove's edge, dark as night even in the levin-bolt's flare. In his hand was Soulsplitter.

Chrethon's mouth fell open. Wordlessly, he strode toward the goat-man. Hurach came forward and bowed. "My lord," he murmured, proffering the axe.

A jolt of energy ran through Chrethon as his fingers grasped Soulsplitter's haft. He turned to leer mockingly at the Forestmaster, raising the axe above his head.

She didn't see him: her eyes were shut in despair.

Scowling, Chrethon turned back to Hurach. "Thou hast done a great thing today," he said. "When this is over, I shall reward thee. But now, there is one more task I ask of thee."

The satyr bowed his head. "Anything, lord."

"Go, then," Chrethon said. "Trephas and the humans approach the vale even now. If the guards fail to stop them, thou must see to it."

"Of course, lord," Hurach said. "It shall be done." He vanished into the shadows once more.

Grinning, Chrethon turned back to the Forestmaster. Tears streamed down the unicorn's face as he approached her, axe in hand. Roughly, he reached into the thicket and seized her horn.

"Now, my lady," he said. "Farewell."

"No!" boomed a rumbling voice. "Not like this."

…this, came the whispering echo.

Chrethon froze, tensing. He glanced back toward Grimbough. Above the treetops, he saw its limbs claw at the storm-wracked sky.

"What—" he began.

"Not like this," the daemon tree repeated. "If I am to claim this land, I must slake myself upon her life's blood."

…blood…

Chrethon thought for a moment to protest, then relented. It would take time to free the unicorn from the brambles, but what was another hour, when he'd waited ten years for this moment?

"Very well," he murmured. Letting go of the Forestmaster's horn, he began to part the thornbushes.

Gyrtomon was staring east, at the seething, black clouds that had appeared above the forest, when one of the warriors by the riverside skirled. Listening, he heard a distant, ominous rumbling. There was no mistaking it: thousands of hooves, pounding the earth. Leodippos and his horde were near.

Up and down the slope, archers raised their weapons. Gyrtomon followed suit, plucking an arrow from his quiver and fitting it on his bowstring. He glanced at his father, who stood beside him on his vantage overlooking the river. Nemeredes nodded. Together, they pulled back their strings and waited while the hoofbeats thundered closer.

The din of the approaching horde grew so loud that yellow-brown leaves began to rain down from the rowan trees. Finally, when it seemed it might go on forever, the first of the Skorenoi appeared on the far side of the ford. The vanguard was composed mainly of fast, long-legged runners, but there were stouter creatures among them as well. They slowed their pace, pulling up as they neared the water and squinting into the ruddy sunlight. Some threw up their arms, fighting to see.

"Hold," Gyrtomon murmured through clenched teeth. If any of the centaurs shot before he gave the signal, the ambush would fail. The horsefolk knew that, but there was always the chance someone would fire early, out of eagerness or fear. "Hold… ."

The Skorenoi bunched at the ford's edge, shying back from the river—first one hundred, then two, then five. For a moment, Gyrtomon wondered if they'd smelled the trap, but angry shouts and curses arose within the horde, and he knew the runners had stopped simply because they were leery of the water.

Nearly a thousand Skorenoi gathered at the riverbank now. The temptation to fire into their midst was almost overwhelming, but somehow the horsefolk held back. Finally, pressure from behind pushed the first runners into the water. They plunged in, splashing, and the raging current nearly carried them away as they fought for balance on the pebbly riverbed. They squalled in fear, and on the far bank their comrades laughed. A few chuckles arose among the centaurs too, but the commotion among the Skorenoi was such that none of them heard.

"Hold," Gyrtomon breathed, his heart thundering.

More and more Skorenoi stepped into the river and began the slow, struggling journey across. The crowd on the far bank continued to thicken as more of the twisted creatures came out of the woods. Gyrtomon searched the throng for Leodippos, hoping he would be a target when the killing began, but didn't see him. He was keeping to the rear of the horde.

The first of the foe were nearly across now. The mightier warriors had overtaken the runners, and would be on land again in moments. Behind them, the water was packed with Skorenoi. Gyrtomon held his breath, waiting—and finally, the moment came.

"Loose!" he cried.

As one, more than a thousand bowstrings thrummed. Hundreds of arrows arced skyward, punching through the foliage and soaring toward the river. The Skorenoi stopped, recognizing the sound, and stared up in shock. An eerie silence fell as the shafts hung in midair.

Then they came down, straight into the Skorenoi's midst, and the screaming began.

Arrows tore through flesh, shattered against bone, blew apart as their victims died. Bodies fell like reaped grain, vanishing beneath the water. Shouts of pain and terror filled the air. The centaurs answered with furious war cries, firing again and again.

Panic killed as many of the Skorenoi as did the arrows. Shocked by the sudden attack, they wheeled, trying to flee. But there was nowhere to go—their fellows kept gathering on the far bank, blocking their escape. They fell over one another, stumbling over the bodies of the slain. The larger creatures shoved their smaller kin aside, or tried to clear a path with their clubs and lances. They smashed and gored those who got in their way, destroying their weapons as their victims fell. Some trampled their fellow's, and fell, screaming, as the their legs shattered. Dozens drowned.

While that was going on, the centaurs kept firing. Bodies tumbled, sprawling on the far bank and splashing in the water. The river reddened, ribbons of scarlet snaking downstream. The stones grew slick with blood, making it even harder for the Skorenoi to escape the river. The archers picked off anyone who looked as if he might escape the bloodbath.

It couldn't last forever, though; at last, after long minutes of slaughter, the enemy broke and fled, shouting, back into the woods. The centaurs shot at them as they ran, but most of the Skorenoi escaped.

Then all was still. Bodies lay in tangled heaps all along the far riverbank—hundreds of them, most dead but a few moaning and trying, vainly, to crawl to safety. The river, choked with carcasses, began to overflow its banks. Dead Skorenoi floated downstream, snarling on rocks or vanishing into the pink, foaming rapids.

All along the slope, the centaurs let out victorious whoops. Gyrtomon let them enjoy the moment, then called for silence. Quickly, the horsefolk fell still.

"Is there a count?" called Eucleia from across the slope. "How many did we slay?"

Gyrtomon didn't answer; he was scanning the carnage even now, trying to guess how many Skorenoi lay dead.

Before he could figure it out, however, another voice called out—Arhedion, from halfway down the hillside. "Two thousand, or about!" he cried. "It's a slaughter!"

More cheers rose, and warriors stamped their hooves on the ground. Gyrtomon, however, felt a cold fist grip his heart. He glanced at his father, and saw his dread reflected on Nemeredes's face. Two thousand was a great many Skorenoi, but not as many as he'd hoped. Leodippos's horde still outnumbered Gyrtomon's warriors two-to-one.

"Not enough," Nemeredes said quietly.

Gyrtomon tossed his mane in frustration. Surprise, their greatest advantage, was gone, and the glaring sunlight would soon vanish too. When the next attack began, the river wouldn't stop it. It would become a hand-to-hand fight, a fight he couldn't hope to win.

"We've lost," he murmured, taking care to keep his voice low. It wouldn't do to let his warriors hear such things—although, he knew, many must be reaching the same conclusion. "We can't hope to stand against them."

"Not without help," said a lilting voice.

He stiffened. The buzzing sound that had dogged him before the battle was back. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.

There was nothing there. Then, suddenly, there was: two small, elfin figures—one male, one female—with copper hair and bright clothes appeared out of nowhere. Silver moth wings fluttered on their backs.

"Good morrow to ye!" proclaimed the male, bowing. "I hight Fanuin, and this is Ellianthe. It seems ye're in some trouble. Want some help getting out?"

Gyrtomon blinked, baffled. "What—who—"

Nemeredes strode up beside him and clapped his shoulder, grinning. "It's the sprites!" he exclaimed. "The ones Trephas met. He said they disappeared after they defeated Thenidor."

The winged folk nodded, grinning. "That's true," Ellianthe said. "Once we saw what became of Ithax, we knew ye'd need our help fighting these Skorenoi things."

"So we went back to our realm, as quick as we could, and brought our kin back with us," Fanuin added. "We've been gathering here all day—invisible, o' course."

"It looked for a while like ye wouldn't need us after all," Ellianthe concluded. "But ye're right: There's too many o' those beasts for ye to win. Unless we help, o' course."

Gyrtomon frowned, looking the sprites up and down. "I don't see how much help thou couldst be," he said. "Thy arrows are no bigger than thorns."

Fanuin's eyes sparkled. "That may be," he said, "but ye'll find they have quite a sting." He drew a tiny shaft from his quiver and held it out. Its tip was coated with dark venom.

"That will help," Nemeredes said, smiling. "How many of thee are there?"

Ellianthe frowned, counting on her tiny fingers. "I'd say… oh, about three hundred."

"Three hundred!" Gyrtomon blurted. He glanced around in amazement—could there truly be so many winged folk flitting, unseen, through the air?

"Just so," Fanuin replied. "Each of us invisible, with killing poison on their darts. So…" he added, extending his small hand, "would ye like our help?"

For a long moment, Gyrtomon could only gape in astonishment. Then he nodded as he grasped Fanuin's hand. "Aye," he said. "I'd like it very much."

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Half a dozen Skorenoi stood watch before the pass leading to Grimbough's vale. The companions stopped thirty paces from them, watching from a copse of rotten oaks.

"This isn't going to be easy," Caramon muttered. He was breathing hard, his face creased with pain. "Trephas, do you think you can put one of them down from this range?"

The centaur glanced at the sky, where the black clouds continued to swirl, their insides blazing with lightning. He frowned, his arrow tapping. "I think so," he answered, "but the way this wind shifts, I can't be sure."

"Try anyway," Dezra said. "Six of them are too many for us to fight past."

Nodding, Caramon pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. As he drew back his bowstring, though, his arms began to tremble. He tried to sight down the shaft, then relaxed his pull.

"Big guy?" Borlos asked, touching his arm.

Caramon shook him off. "Just give me a minute," he grumbled.

Then Dezra's hands were on his, loosening his grip on his bow. "Here," she said. "I'll do it."

"You?" Caramon demanded. "You're no archer, girl."

"Maybe, but at least I can aim without my arrow waving about."

Scowling, he handed her the bow, then shifted his shield onto his arm and readied his spear. Dezra raised the bow, drew back the arrow, and held it, aiming carefully. "I've got the one on the left," she hissed. "Trephas?"

"All right," the centaur replied. "Be ready."

Caramon hefted his spear. Beside him, Borlos nodded.

Trephas turned, sighted his target, then held his breath, waiting for the gusting wind to calm. When it did, he wasted no time. "Now," he said.

His and Dezra's bowstrings thrummed, and their arrows flashed out of the trees. Trephas's shaft hit a Skorenos in the eye and exploded, snapping the creature's head back as it collapsed. Dezra's shot struck her target in the chest. The creature looked down, at the bright blood welling from its wound. Then the shaft broke, and the Skorenos sank to the ground. The other four Skorenoi stared in shock at their fallen fellows.

"Go!" barked Caramon.

The companions broke from cover, weapons raised. The Skorenoi fell back a step, then turned to face Trephas and the humans. Two of the surviving beasts were archers, but they loosed their arrows in a hurry, without aiming. One shot flew long, streaking over Dezra's head. The other homed in on Caramon. He batted it aside with his shield.

Trephas fired a second shot as he ran. His arrow caught one of the archers through the throat, exploding in a burst of flinders. At the same time, Caramon slowed his pace and heaved his spear with all his strength. The archer had enough time to cry out as the spear drove through its breast, then fell in a shower of splintered wood.

Dezra was the first to reach the remaining pair; they were ready for her, standing side by side before the pass. One thrust its lance at her, but she dove beneath the blow. Rolling, she rose nimbly to one knee, raising her sword to parry the second Skorenos's cudgel. The lancer drew back his weapon for a second thrust, then saw the rest of the companions bearing down and turned to face them. He swept his spear before him as Borlos lunged in, and the bard stumbled back, the lance's head narrowly missing his face.

Trephas charged in next, tossing aside his bow and pulling his broad-bladed spear from his harness. He and the lancer traded a flurry of blows, the hafts of their spears cracking together. Each of them took a bloody cut in the skirmish—Trephas across his chest, the Skorenos to the cheek—then they fell back, breathing heavily.

Dezra and her foe fought hard, sword and cudgel swiping viciously. They were well-matched, but then Caramon entered the fray, his face red and streaming with sweat. He shoved his daughter aside and lashed out with his sword. The Skorenos dodged the swing and reared, kicking with its forelegs. One of its hooves struck Caramon's arm, jarring the sword from his grasp. The blade spun away, landing well out of reach. Caramon fell, armor clattering. He foundered on the ground, trying to rise.

The Skorenos glanced away from him, looking for Dezra. She lunged back into the fray, sword whirling. The creature brought its cudgel to bear, blocking the attack easily—

Then its eyes widened as it saw the dagger in her other hand, flashing toward its unprotected flank. It tried to bring its club around, but was too slow. Dezra drove her dirk through the Skorenos's ribs, then released it, leaving it buried in the creature's side. The blade exploded, tearing a hole in the creature's side as it fell.

"Well done," Caramon groaned, struggling to his feet. He glanced over at Trephas and Borlos, who fought the last of the guards. As he looked, Trephas opened a long gash down the creature's forearm with his lance, then jabbed it in the stomach. The Skorenos doubled over, and Borlos leapt in, bringing his mace down on its head. It collapsed, Borlos's weapon smashing into countless fragments. The way into the vale stood clear.

Dezra was at Caramon's side, holding his sword. "Thanks," he said, taking it from her.

"You're not as young as you used to be," she said, grinning crookedly.

Then she turned and walked away, toward the pass. Trephas and Borlos joined her, the bard picking up one of the Skorenoi's cudgels as they went.

Caramon hesitated, sheathing his sword, and winced at an unpleasant twinge in his shoulder. He rubbed his arm, willing the pain to go away, as he followed the others.

The sun set. Night fell over the mountains, and the Skorenoi horde tried to ford the river again.

At a shouted command from Gyrtomon, the centaurs fired on them once more, peppering them with arrows. Leodippos's warriors tumbled in heaps and splashed in the water. Killing shafts exploded, filling the air with splinters. But this time the Skorenoi didn't rout; instead, their own archers shot back, across the stream. One the other side, centaurs began to fall, killed or wounded by the bombardment.

Leodippos laughed cruelly. He'd cursed both his warriors and himself for not expecting the ambush. It had been a terrible blow, but he'd known, just like Gyrtomon on the river's far side, that he had the upper hand now.

He could already taste victory as his warriors waded across the ford. The return fire threw the centaurs into disarray. They scattered among the trees to avoid being shot. With fewer arrows in the air, the horde's advance became inexorable. Though the river slowed them, and those in the vanguard continued to fall, the Skorenoi pressed forward, toward the far bank. Soon they'd be back on solid ground, free to ride up the slope and slaughter the foe.

The horsefolk did all they could to keep that from happening. Gyrtomon barked an order, and the centaurs galloped downhill to the stream, brandishing lances and cudgels. They fell into line along the riverbank, hoping to keep the horde in the water.

Leodippos could see clearly that the horsefolk lacked the numbers to hold him back. He saw figures he recognized—Gyrtomon and Nemeredes here, Eucleia there, Pleuron elsewhere—and smiled. Before the sun rose, he'd wear all their tails on his harness.

"For the Forestmaster!" shouted Gyrtomon as he galloped down to join his warriors.

The centaurs echoed the cry, raising a thicket of clubs and spears. Shouting in reply, the Skorenoi surged to meet them. With a crash of metal and wood, flesh and bone, the two armies met.

Bodies fell on either side, gored by spears and crushed by bludgeons. Behind Gyrtomon's lines, colts and fillies dashed back and forth, passing fresh weapons to those who lost theirs. The battlefront didn't move. Valiantly, the centaurs held back the Skorenoi, kept them in the surging, frigid water.

But it couldn't last. For each of Leodippos's troops who fell, another came forward to take its place, with even more behind, filling the river and massing on the far bank. The centaurs, however, had no such reinforcements—and, in time, they would run out of weapons too. Their ranks began to falter before the press of the enemy. If the Skorenoi broke through, the battle horsefolk would be lost—and, unlike Ithax, there would be no escape.

Leodippos stood on the riverbank now, his warriors surging past him into the water. He raised his horselike head, shouting across the ford. "It's over, my lords!" he bellowed. "Nothing can save thee now!"

He heard something strange, then: a low, fluttering sound. He looked around, puzzled. The noise was all around him, but there was nothing to see in the darkness.

Then, suddenly, there was. Overhead, hovering on silvery wings, were hundreds of small, brightly garbed figures. Each held a tiny bow, with a tiny arrow on its string. They were smiling.

With a yell, Leodippos leapt into the river. As he jumped, the air filled with music, like hundreds of harpstrings being plucked at once. Then he hit the water hard, losing his lance as he fell among his warriors. The press of bodies forced him under. He thrashed wildly, kicking with all four hooves as the current swept him downstream.

At last, his head broke the surface. Choking, he fought to get his feet under him, then got his bearings. He was a hundred paces from his warriors. The battle continued, but its tenor had changed. The Skorenoi were looking back now, shouting in terror.

He turned, gazing across the river, and froze. The bank where he'd been standing was littered with bodies. Hundreds of Skorenoi lay dead, fallen where they'd stood. Above, silver wings glinting with reflected starlight, hovered hundreds of sprites. As he watched, they fired a second volley from their little bows, which sang like harps as the shafts flew. Another wave of his warriors toppled, succumbing to the arrows' strong poison.

As he stared in disbelief, the sprites laid waste to the rear ranks of his horde. His warriors jostled and shouted, swiping at the air with their weapons, but the winged folk only laughed, hovering out of reach as they loosed shot after envenomed shot upon the horde.

Soon not a single Skorenos remained alive on the riverbank. Slowly, the sprites started flying across the river, working their way forward through the horde's ranks, leaving only corpses in their wake.

It was over. Years of capturing centaurs so Grimbough could warp them, of victory upon victory over the horsefolk—it was all coming to an end. Watching the sprites slaughter his warriors, Leodippos knew he was doomed. The centaurs, who only moments ago had been on the verge of ignominious defeat, would prevail.

He resolved, then, that he wasn't going to die by the sprites' arrows. If he fell, he'd do it fighting the enemy, as it should be.

He turned away from the deadly, winged swarm—they were a quarter of the way across the river already—and looked to the far bank, where the battle raged on. His eyes scoured the riverbank, and soon found one of the Circle, near the end of the enemy's lines. It was old Nemeredes: sword in hand, bellowing at his warriors. Gyrtomon stood nearby.

Sneering, Leodippos searched the water, finding a cudgel to replace his lost lance. Quietly, he moved toward the riverbank.

Arhedion's painted face, now wet with Skorenoi blood, tightened into a grimace as an enemy lance pierced his shoulder. Pain shot up and down his arm, and he lashed out with both forehooves. Fortunately, the wild double-kick broke his opponent's arm instead of killing him: Arhedion had seen more than one centaur collapse, his legs smashed by the magic that destroyed whatever weapon slew one of the Skorenoi.

His foe staggered, clutching his useless arm, and Arhedion thrust his spear into the creature's face. He let go of the lance, and it erupted into splinters, sending the Skorenos splashing lifelessly into the river. The water, already pink with blood, turned scarlet where he fell.

Arhedion pulled back from the battlefront as another Skorenos came forward to fill the gap in the enemy's ranks. "Weapon!" he shouted, looking behind him.

A young, black filly ran to him, a bundle of spears and cudgels across her back. She drew a lance from the bundle and tossed it before cantering onward, answering more calls down the line. Arhedion caught the lance, then turned back to the battle, searching for a gap in the horsefolk's defenses. He soon found one: near the end of the line, not far from where Gyrtomon and Nemeredes were overseeing the fight, the line was beginning to falter. As he watched, a Skorenos used a scythe to cut a centaur's forelegs out from underneath him, then swept the weapon up, gutting the horse-man as he fell.

With a fierce yell, Arhedion galloped toward the scythe-wielder, recklessly shouldering his way into the ranks. He blocked the scythe with his lance, then spun the spear expertly, cracking its shaft against the scythe-wielder's neck. The Skorenos rocked sideways, knocked off-balance, and the white stallion to Arhedion's right smashed its skull with his club, then flung the weapon away. The cudgel tore itself to shreds as it flew through the air.

"Thanks," Arhedion said as the white stallion fell back, shouting for a new weapon.

So it had gone, since the skirmish began. There was a rhythm to the battle: fight, kill, fall back, take a new weapon, then fight again. The struggle had been hard and bloody from the start, with the horsefolk so badly outnumbered, but it had been necessary: they had to hold the Skorenoi at bay until the last of them were on the river's far bank. Scores of centaurs died valiantly, but many more of the enemy went down as well. Since the battle first joined, Arhedion had killed nine of the enemy and helped his fellows slay a dozen more.

He glanced above the massed forces of the foe, and saw the air atwinkle with motes of silver: starlight flashing off the sprites' wings. The little folk moved ever forward, now almost halfway across the stream. Their bows made sweet music as they shot down the Skorenoi. Arhedion grinned. It wouldn't be long before the sprites neared the riverbank. The battle was already won; all that remained was to finish the last of the foe. In an hour, none of the enemy would remain.

He nearly didn't live that long. Staring at the sprites, he almost didn't see the hunchbacked Skorenos who lunged toward him, swinging his club with both hands. With a shout, he twisted aside, and the cudgel whistled through the air a finger's breadth from his chest. He blocked the return swing with his lance, then brought the spear down again, slashing the creature's leathery scalp with the weapon's head. The Skorenos screeched, dropping its club, and he rammed his spear into its breast. The lance splintered as he backed out of the fight one more.

"Weapon!" he bellowed.

It took longer this time for the runner to reach him. She was down the line, passing out spears as quickly as she could. He shouted a second time, waving his tattooed arms, then glanced quickly back toward the line. It was holding, but the Skorenoi continued to press, and several other centaurs had lost their weapons. He cast about, seeking something to fight with. To his left was a large rock, sunk into the muddy riverbank. He started toward it—then stopped.

Something was moving in the darkness beyond Nemeredes and Gyrtomon. He squinted, then made out a shape—a large, horse-headed Skorenos. It charged toward them out of the dark, cudgel held high.

"My lords!" he shouted. "Behind thee!"

Too late. Leodippos fell upon them as they were turning to look. He swung his club, striking Nemeredes's jaw. There was a sickening crack, and the old chieftain went limp his neck bent at an impossible angle.

"No!" Arhedion yelled, horrified.

With a roar of rage, Gyrtomon lunged, thrusting with his lance. Leodippos grabbed the spear's shaft and pulled with all his might, jerking it out of Gyrtomon's hands and tossing it away. Thrown off-balance, Gyrtomon slammed into him, and they fell together in the mud, long legs kicking. Arhedion watched for a moment, stunned, then shook himself and ran to the rock he'd spotted. Gritting his teeth, he tried to pry the stone out of the ground.

Leodippos and Gyrtomon struggled together, grappling and clutching. In the end, the Skorenos came out on top. He'd lost his cudgel, so he leaned on Gyrtomon, forcing the centaur's face into the soft mud, trying to smother him. Gyrtomon flailed, strugging desperately, but it wasn't enough. His strength began to flag, and his thrashing grew weaker. Leodippos brayed a harsh laugh as mud bubbled up around the edges of Gyrtomon's face.

Arhedion scrabbled at the rock until his fingers bled, tears of frustration on his face. Frantic, he glanced up, and saw that Gyrtomon had almost stopped struggling entirely. He hauled with all his might on the stone, deciding that if he didn't pull it out this moment, he'd attack Leodippos with his bare hands. Better to lose his arms, if it came to that, than let Gyrtomon die.

With a loud, sucking sound, the stone at last came free. Arhedion nearly fell over, then rose, hefting the massive rock. Propping it on one shoulder, he charged toward Leodippos.

The Skorenos's attention was focused on Gyrtomon; he didn't see Arhedion until the young scout was upon him. His eyes widened, then Arhedion heaved the massive rock, striking his horselike snout with a horrible crunch. Then the rock burst asunder, turning to gravel as Leodippos fell into the mud, his face a ruin. His legs twitched, then fell still.

Arhedion dashed to Gyrtomon's side and hauled him out of the mud. Gyrtomon sputtered and coughed, then glanced at Arhedion and smiled.

"Thanks," he said when he could draw breath without choking.

But Arhedion only shook his head, looking past Gyrtomon to the body that lay beside Leodippos. "Nay, don't thank me," he said. "I've failed thee, my lord—I didn't save thy father. I should have been quicker."

Gyrtomon followed his gaze, and winced in anguish when he saw Nemeredes. He bowed his head, shuddering, then turned to face the scout, blinking back tears. "Don't be a fool," he said. "Thou wert as quick as could be, and no less. But no time for that now." He offered Arhedion his hand. "Let's get back to the fight. We can grieve when the last of these beasts are slain."

Arhedion hesitated, staring at the bodies, then nodded and clasped Gyrtomon's arm. Together, they turned back toward the battle.

It was soon over. The sprites made it across the river, leaving nothing but twisted corpses in their wake. The Skorenoi line gave way, and the clash along the riverbank deteriorated to isolated skirmishes, then fell still. The centaurs spared none of the Skorenoi. Even when the battle was done, they strode across the killing ground, spears upraised as they searched for enemies who still breathed. Now and again, a shout and the sound of splintering wood marked where they found one.

When that grim business was done, they saw to their own dead. The centaurs' victory had come with a heavy cost: Of the two thousand who'd fought at the river, more than six hundred had perished. Silently, too tired to weep, the centaurs pulled their slain from the tangle of Skorenoi corpses and laid them out upon the slope.

Among the bodies, Gyrtomon and Arhedion stood over Nemeredes the Elder. They'd borne him away from Leodippos's corpse when the fighting ended, and laid him out with his weapons. His eyes were shut, his wounds washed with clean water from upstream of the ford. Gyrtomon looked dully at his father's corpse, saying nothing. Arhedion rested a hand on his shoulder.

The sound of hoofbeats drew near, and Gyrtomon looked up to see who approached. It was the rest of the Circle—the other three chiefs had survived the battle, though Pleuron had taken a deep cut across his cheek and Lanorica, Menelachos's daughter, walked with a limp, wincing with every other step. With them flew the sprites, Fanuin and Ellianthe.

Eucleia came forward to stand beside Gyrtomon, and looked down at Nemeredes, shaking her head. "This is a terrible thing," she said. "Thy father and I were often at odds, Gyrtomon, but still he was my friend." She hesitated, then gripped his shoulders, turning him away from the body. "Thou art chief now, Gyrtomon—and a hero of our people. Thou hast saved us from our doom."

He thought on this, then shook his head. "No, my lady—not just me. All of us—centaurs and winged folk both. But still it might come to nothing." He nodded past her, across the forest.

The horsefolk and sprites turned, following his gaze. In the east, over Sangelior, the stormclouds still roiled, aglow with lightning.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Hailstones as large as robin's eggs pelted down into the pass. The clamor as they rattled down the cliffsides drowned out even the bellowing thunder. The companions held cloaks and shields over their heads to protect themselves as they pushed on, their feet slipping over the ice-slick stones.

High above, a forked levin-bolt struck a rocky crag, blowing it apart. Chips of stone showered down. A blast of wind, channeled by the narrow pass, struck them head-on; Borlos cursed as it tore his cloak from his hands, sending it spinning off into the darkness. He started back after it, but Dezra caught his arm and shoved him forward. At last, ahead, the rocky walls of the pass came to an end. The companions stopped, staring in awe and terror.

The pass emerged atop a rocky slope that descended into a narrow, bowl-shaped valley. Trees, still in full leaf, carpeted the vale, undulating in the gusting wind like the ocean in a hurricane. In the midst of this shifting sea was a massive, black-leafed oak, whose mighty limbs spread high above the rest. It stood still, in the eye of the storm, emanating a sense of disquiet, of wrongness, that jangled the companions' spines. The muttering of leaves rose from it, audible through the fury of thunder and wind. It flooded their ears, clawed at their minds: the sound of madness, dark and sweet and seductive.

Borlos cleared his throat. "That had better be Grimbough," he declared. "Because if it isn't, I don't want to see the real thing."

"It is," Trephas said. His knuckles whitened as he clutched his spear. "And if the daemon tree is here, then Lord Chrethon cannot be far away."

"And the Forestmaster?" Caramon put in.

The centaur nodded. "If she yet lives."

"What are we waiting for, then?" Dezra demanded. Lifting her sword, she started down the slope, hailstones clattering all around her. The others hurried to catch up.

The forest was dark, the oaks looming close on all sides. The stormlight shone through in swiftly stabbing shafts, lighting the black trees in flashes that left blood-red stains floating before the companions' eyes. Trephas led the way, lance at the ready, while Dezra and Caramon walked behind. Borlos brought up the rear, glancing about with wild eyes.

"I feel something," he hissed as they wended among the trees, stepping over exposed roots and pushing aside drooping boughs. "Like something's in pain… ."

"The Forestmaster," Caramon breathed. He looked at Trephas, who nodded. "Chrethon hasn't killed her yet, then," he said. "We've still got time."

The going got harder, the trees growing thicker as they moved toward the middle of the vale. Again and again, they found the way ahead blocked, the oaks clumped too tightly to pass. They had to search for paths among the clustered trees, guided by the anguish that flowed from the grove's heart.

Branches creaked ominously in the wind. The leaves' muttering surrounded them. Then there was a new sound: a low, roaring whistle above them. Dezra had heard the sound before, in Pallidice's glade, and threw herself flat. "Look out!" she shouted.

The others stared at her, then looked up and saw branches swinging down, jagged leaves fluttering. Caramon got his shield up to block a stout bough; it struck with a resounding crash, knocking him to one knee. Trephas twisted away from a branch, and caught the twigs at its end across his backside. He grunted in pain—it was like being struck with a switch swung by an ogre—and lashed out with his broad-bladed lance, slashing off the end of the limb as it drew back up into the heights.

Borlos, however, was too surprised to get out of the way. A bough caught him across the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him flying. He hit the knotted trunk of an oak, his lyre making a horrendous clamor, then collapsed with a groan.

"What is this?" Caramon asked, bringing up his sword as more branches swept down. He slashed at them, steel slicing through wood. "Even the trees are against us!"

Dezra grimaced, rising into a crouch. As she did, a gnarled root burst from the earth and groped toward her. She recoiled, then brought her sword down, cleaving it in half. The stump twitched, weeping black ichor, then slid back into the ground.

Borlos stirred groggily, his head lolling. Roots burst through the earth around him: one coiled about his left ankle, another grabbed his right wrist, tightening painfully. Slowly, they began to twist and pull. He regained his senses with a start and struggled against their grasp. "Dez!" he yelped. "Big guy! Help me!"

Caramon got to him first, sword flashing; he hacked through one of the roots, then the other, then cut off yet another branch that lashed downward, toward his head. He held the blade high, watching for more attacks, as Dezra grabbed Borlos's arm and helped him rise. They turned toward Trephas. The centaur had put his lance back in his harness, and had drawn a shortsword to defend himself; he slashed high and low as more branches and roots assailed him.

"We've got to keep moving!" Dezra shouted, driving her own blade point-first into a snaking tendril. "Bor, can you run?"

The bard stood unsteadily, wincing with every breath. He ducked as a branch swept overhead—a leaf slapped his face, leaving a red mark—then started stumbling forward. "Guess I've got to, eh?" he said.

Together, they plunged deeper into the grove, the oaks stirring around them.

It was hard to extricate the Forestmaster from the brambles. The wicked thorns had dug deep into the unicorn's body, refusing to let go. Finally, though, Chrethon coaxed even the stubbornest brambles into releasing her, then seized her by the horn and hauled her wasted form out of the bushes.

He'd thought she might fight once she was free of the thicket, but she didn't. Enervated by pain and hunger, she no longer had the strength to struggle. He dragged her wasted body through the grove, to the sward where Grimbough stood. The daemon tree rumbled with pleasure as Chrethon threw the unicorn's bedraggled form to the grassy ground. Grimbough's leaves echoed its joy with a delighted hiss.

The daemon tree's gnarled trunk swelled, beating like a dark, mossy heart. Its branches writhed, twigs scratching together like old bones. Lightning flared above, lighting the grove as bright as day. Thunder shook the air.

Chrethon stood above the haggard, motionless unicorn, Soulsplitter in his hand. "Now, Grimbough!" he shouted. "Let me finish her!"

"Not yet," the tree rumbled. "I must be ready when you strike her down."

…down, murmured the leaves.

Chrethon seethed impatiently, but he waited nonetheless, staring hungrily at the wasted unicorn.

The earth around the Forestmaster tore open. Thick, fibrous roots rose from the ground. They waved in the air, then reached toward the unicorn and wrapped about her legs and neck. They held her tight, pulling her down so she lay flat against the damp, fetid ground. Finally, all fell still. Grimbough stopped moving, save for the slow pulse of its trunk. Low and growling, it spoke.

"It is time."

…time…

Chrethon smiled, hefting Soulsplitter in both hands. "Close thy eyes, lady," he murmured. "I will be swift."

But she didn't close her eyes; instead, she looked directly at him. In her liquid gaze, Lord Chrethon saw many things: disappointment, defiance, regret. Mostly, though, there was profound sorrow.

With a victorious shout, he brought the axe down.

The crash was deafening. Soulsplitter buried itself in the earth. Chrethon let go of the weapon and stepped back, laughing triumphantly.

His laughter died quickly. The horn remained attached to the Forestmaster's head.

"What?" he cried, aghast.

At first he thought he'd missed, but he realized that wasn't so: the axe had struck the horn full on, then glanced off and cleaved through the wet soil. His eyes narrowed as he peered at the horn… then he saw something, and his spirits rose anew.

It was a tiny mark, almost invisible, but it was there, white against the gleaming silver of the horn.

Laughing softly, he prized Soulsplitter from the ground and raised it again. "It seems, my lady," he said, "that this will not be so swift after all."

The sound of the axe falling rang out across the vale, echoing among the trees. Trephas cried out in anguish. "No," he moaned, tearing at his mane. "Merciful Chislev, we're too late! The Forestmaster—"

"Look out!" Dezra snapped, her sword lashing out. She struck a branch that would have broken the centaur's back, shearing it in two. "Damn it, will you keep moving?"

But Trephas shook his head. "What difference can it make?" he whimpered. "She's dead, the Forestmaster is dead, and all this has come to nothing… ."

Then, as loud as the first, a second crash sounded above the thunder and wind.

"Maybe not," Borlos said in the stunned silence that followed. "Unless she has two horns, that is."

Suddenly, Trephas came to himself again, his despair cast aside. "Quickly!" he bade, starting forward once more. "Mayhap we can still reach her before Chrethon finishes."

The forest, however, wasn't so accommodating. They were near the daemon tree now—the muttering of its leaves was very loud, and the clamor Soulsplitter made as it struck the unicorn's horn again made their ears ring—but the forest continued to thicken, its trees forming a wall. Branches swung and roots coiled, seeking to push them back.

They tried to cut through with their swords, but the oaks wouldn't yield. Frustrated, they followed the wall, searching for a way through. The axe smashed down again, and again. Trephas wept in frustration, swinging his blade blindly to keep the clutching trees away.

The axe fell three more times before they finally found a gap in the wall. It was narrow, and to either side the trees groped and grabbed, showering leaves and acorns. Trephas and the others hurried toward it, hacking with their blades to clear a path. Beyond, Soulsplitter came down another time. The hiss of Grimbough's leaves rose even louder.

Trephas cut away a last, fumbling bough, then stood before the gap, his flanks heaving with exertion. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, toward the shadows beyond the trees—then fell back again with a shout as those very shadows came alive.

They boiled out of the darkness—five of them, their bodies black and shaggy, with the horns, legs and cloven hooves of goats. They made no sound, raising wicked, curving knives that glinted in the levin-light.

"Satyrs!" Trephas shouted, swinging his shortsword at the shadowy creatures. The blade bit into a goat-man's chest, and the weapon snapped as the abomination collapsed.

A moment later, Borlos shrieked in pain, a satyr's knife laying open the back of his hand. His cudgel dropped from his fingers. He stumbled back and sprawled on the ground as the goat-man slashed again. Its dagger whistled through the air.

Caramon slew a second goat-man with a blow so mighty that his sword cleaved halfway through its body. Steel splintered with a horrible shriek, leaving him with a foot of jagged metal where his weapon's blade had been. He held onto the ruined sword, swinging it at the satyr who'd attacked Borlos. Beside him, Dezra spun her blade, pushing back a third goat-man who faced her. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the single horn on his shaggy head, recognizing it as the creature who'd stolen Soulsplitter from Lysandon.

Another satyr lunged at Trephas, drawing a line of blood across the spot where his human and horse halves met. The centaur's war harness snagged the blade, pulling it out of the goat-man's hand. The satyr fell back, its black eyes widening, and Trephas reared, kicking it with both forehooves and flattening it to the ground. It bleated wretchedly, struggling to rise.

Trephas never gave it the chance. Bending down, he grabbed one of the branches he and the others had cut from the trees. Without hesitating, he brought the bough down on the satyr. He struck again and again, until the goat-man stopped moving and the branch splintered. Dropping the limb, he started toward the gap in the trees.

Then he stopped, looking back. Dezra and Caramon fought furiously against the two remaining satyrs. Borlos was on his knees, fumbling for a weapon. Trephas hesitated, torn, then took a step toward the humans.

"What do you think you're doing?" Dezra snapped, parrying Hurach's knife with her sword. She waved toward the gap with her free hand. "Go on! Don't wait for us!"

Trephas hesitated a moment longer, then, behind him, Soulsplitter crashed again. Wheeling, he charged through the gap. He plucked his lance from his harness, howling a furious war cry as he plunged into the darkness.

"Reorx's beard," Dezra swore. "I thought he'd never leave!"

Caramon barked a rough laugh, blocking his opponent's darting knife. The blade scraped across his shield, and he shoved forward, throwing the satyr off-balance. Twisting, he drove the shredded stump of his sword through the goat-man's throat. He released the weapon, and it exploded a second time, this time leaving nothing but tangled metal.

Dezra cried out in pain then, and she fell, Hurach's knife stuck in her thigh. She landed on a fallen branch, winding herself, and lay on her side, writhing in pain. The satyr yanked his blade out of her leg, then leapt, aiming a downward thrust at her breast.

Seeing the upraised knife, Caramon ran, his massive legs straining. A red sun of rage kindled in his head and he let out a furious bellow, thrusting aside pain and weariness and age as he threw himself at the goat-man.

He struck Hurach shield-first, with the force of a rock-slide. The satyr flew back, his dagger flying from his grasp, then crashed down in a heap. Caramon landed on top of him, his face a mask of rage, and hammered his meaty fist into Hurach's face.

"Stay away from my daughter!" he thundered.

Yelling furiously, he pummeled the satyr again and again. Stubbornly, Hurach refused to black out; instead, he gathered his strength and tried to push Caramon off. Through the haze of rage, Caramon cast about for a weapon. But he had nothing. His sword was gone, his shield too cumbersome. Even the satyr's knife was out of reach. Finally, he yanked his dragon-winged helm off his head and slammed it against Hurach's nose.

With a crunch of bone and gristle, the satyr's face became a bloody ruin. Roaring like a maniac, Caramon struck him a second time, then a third. Finally, on the fourth blow, the tip of one of the helmet's bronze wings pierced the satyr's temple. Hurach bucked wildly, throwing Caramon off, then went limp.

The helmet, lodged in Hurach's skull, shivered a moment, then blew apart in a storm of jagged metal.

Caramon sat still, staring at the shards of his helm. After a moment, he became aware of movement beside him, and felt Dezra's hand on his shoulder. He looked up dazedly.

"I loved that helmet," he said. "I wore it for fifty years."

"I know," she said.

She crouched down in front of him, offering her hand. He let her pull him to his feet.

"You're hurt," he said, glancing at her wounded leg.

She shook her head. "It isn't bad. Hurts like the Abyss, but I can walk. Now come on—we've got to help Trephas."

She turned away, to help Borlos up. Caramon stared at Hurach's corpse a moment longer, then stooped and picked up a bloody piece of metal: one of his helmet's wings. He turned it over in his hand, then rose with a sigh, tucking it into his belt. Grabbing a stout, heavy branch for a weapon, he joined the others, then went with them through the gap in the trees, toward the heart of the grove.

Chrethon's arms burned with fatigue as he brought Soulsplitter down on the Forestmaster's horn for the tenth time. There was a shallow notch in the Forestmaster's horn now, with tiny cracks radiating from it. The unicorn squeezed her eyes shut, her nostrils flaring with each gasping breath.

"Again!" boomed Grimbough.

Again! echoed its leaves.

Chrethon slumped. He wanted to rest, to ease his aching muscles, but the daemon tree wouldn't let him. Compelled by Grimbough's voice, he gripped the axe in both hands, aiming his next blow. He raised Soulsplitter high—

And then he heard it: hoofbeats, growing swiftly louder, coming through the trees. Lowering the axe, he turned.

With a roar, Trephas charged out of the gloom. He came on so fast that Chrethon almost forgot to dodge his spear. The lance, which had been aimed at Chrethon's heart, struck his left arm instead, cleaving through his wasted flesh. Its shaft snapped from the force of the blow, then Trephas slammed into Chrethon and they crashed to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

They wrestled together a moment, kicking and clawing, then Chrethon pulled away, shoving Trephas off. As he did, Trephas grabbed the sword Chrethon wore on his harness. Steel rang as the blade slid from its scabbard, then they parted, scrambling to their feet.

They stood apart from each other, breathing hard, holding their weapons ready. Blood trickled down Trephas's chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Chrethon chose that moment to attack, Soulsplitter whirling. Trephas raised his sword to parry, then recognized the feint and leapt back as Chrethon suddenly reversed the blow and swung upward, aiming to cleave him from beneath. The axe struck flesh and bone, carving easily through both, and two fingers from Trephas's left hand fell to the ground.

Gasping in pain, Trephas snatched back his injured hand, then ducked as Soulsplitter parted the air above his head. He rose again, then swung his sword low, parrying a slash aimed at his legs. He struck Soulsplitter's haft, the force of the blow nearly jarring the blade from his hand.

Again they separated, circling each other. This time Trephas came on, swiping with his sword. The blade opened a gash in Chrethon's belly, but not deep enough to kill. The Skorenos swung in response, and Trephas leaped back… .

And stumbled.

Chrethon's face lit with maniacal joy as Trephas fell to his knees, dropping his sword. He raised Soulsplitter high to smite his defenseless foe.

Then he saw Trephas's eyes. His smile turned into a snarl as the centaur surged forward, slamming his shoulder into Chrethon's stomach. Air erupted from the Skorenos's lungs in a loud rush, and still Trephas continued to drive forward and up. Trephas flung his arms about Chrethon's waist, squeezing with all his strength. Chrethon gasped for breath, trying to swing Soulsplitter, but he had no room. Meanwhile, Trephas twisted and shoved, jerking him this way and that. Finally, Chrethon lost his balance, and the two fell to the ground once more. Soulsplitter flew from his grasp, landing out of reach.

Trephas shifted his hold, wrapping a sinewy arm around the Skorenos's throat. Inexorably, Chrethon began to choke. When he was wavering on the edge of unconsciousness, however, Trephas relented. Even in the red fury of battle, the centaur wasn't foolish enough to kill him with his bare hands. As Chrethon lay gasping on the ground, Trephas rose, went to pick up the sword he'd dropped, and limped back to the Skorenos's side.

Chrethon tried to rise, but couldn't. He raised his chin defiantly. "It's done," he said. "Finish me.”

Trephas drove the sword into the Skorenos's breast. Chrethon grimaced, let out a weak breath. The sword burst into a million pieces.

Silence fell over the vale. Even the storm seemed to abate as Lord Chrethon died. Then a deep, furious roar rose, almost inaudible at first, but gaining strength until it was louder than thunder, shaking the earth under Trephas's hooves. Grimbough's branches waved and writhed in rage. Trephas stared at the daemon tree, his eyes wide with fear.

Then the ground beneath him erupted, and thick, hairy roots burst forth. He had just enough time to cry out in terror as they coiled about him and dragged him down.

Chapter Forty

The others were almost to the edge of Grimbough's sward when Trephas screamed. Dezra stiffened, then broke into a run, limping toward the daemon tree.

"Dez, wait!" Caramon yelped. He grabbed for her, catching her wrist, but she shook him off. Then she was gone, vanishing into the shadows. "Damn and blast!" he swore as the trees writhed in her wake. "Borlos—"

"Right behind you, big guy," the bard said.

They hurried after her, but she was quicker. When they reached the edge of the sward, she was already halfway across, sprinting toward a dark form that struggled on the ground. They only glimpsed her for a moment, however, before Grimbough stole their attention away. Stopping, they stared up at the seething form of the daemon tree. It writhed and shuddered, its branches clawing at the stormy sky. The voices in its leaves were heavy with wrath, filling their minds with images of darkness, blood and suffering. They staggered beneath its fury.

"Father!" Dezra yelled. "Come quickly!"

Caramon blinked and shivered, his head aching from the tree's terrible thoughts. Grabbing Borlos's arm, he started running again, across the sward. Grimbough creaked and groaned above them. They drew up behind Dezra, gasping for breath.

She sat on the ground before the dark shape they'd seen from the sward's edge. It was Trephas; the centaur was buried in the earth up to his chest, with only his head and arms free. His face twitched with pain, eyes squeezed shut and lips pulled back from his teeth. Dezra leaned back, pulling his arms with all her might, but to no avail—he wouldn't budge.

"The tree's got him!" Dezra snarled. "Help me!"

Caramon knelt beside her, took one of the centaur's arms, and pulled. Something yanked back from beneath the ground, matching his strength easily.

Trephas's face contorted even more. He moaned, a violent shudder wracking his body.

"What is it?" Dezra demanded. "What's happening?"

He shook uncontrollably, foam flecking his lips. When he spoke, the words came thick and slow. "I don't know," he moaned. "Something's… happening. I can feel it… ."

Borlos paled. "Are you Crossing? Is it trying to change you?"

Trephas opened his eyes, and his companions recoiled in horror. A deep blackness swirled in them, like some great beast under the surface of the sea.

"No!" Dezra yelled, pulling even harder. "We have to get him out!"

The centaur shook his head, twitching. "Not me. The Forestmaster," he murmured. "She must be freed… ."

"I'm not leaving you," Dezra told him.

"Please," Trephas whimpered.

"No," Caramon told him. "It's all right. Stay with him, Dez. Bor and I'll take care of the rest."

He and Borlos left Dezra with the centaur, hurrying toward the huddled shape of the unicorn. Caramon winced when he saw what had become of the Forestmaster. He remembered what she'd looked like forty years ago, all silvery majesty, and had to look away from her wretched, withered form.

"Come on, big guy," Borlos urged, bending down. He grabbed one of the tendrils that held the unicorn and tugged at it. "Help me get her loose."

As Caramon turned back toward the Forestmaster, something caught his eye: a glint of steel, shining on the ground as lightning flashed above. He caught his breath, then turned and hurried away, toward the gleam.

"Hey!" Borlos shouted, still trying to prize the tendril from the Forestmaster's throat.

Caramon ignored him. Soon he saw what had glimmered in the lightning's glow. Catching his breath, he bent down and picked up Soulsplitter.

"Big guy!" Borlos snapped. "Get back and help me!"

"No," Caramon said. "There's only one way to end this."

"What are you talking about?" Borlos asked.

Caramon hefted Soulsplitter. "My father was a woodcutter," he said. "His father too, and so on, back more years than I can count. I was the first Majere son in generations not to follow the family trade." He smiled. "I think it's time I started."

Borlos blinked, then glanced at the daemon tree and grinned. "Sure thing, big guy," he said. "Just make sure it doesn't fall this way, all right?"

Chuckling, Caramon shouldered the axe and turned toward Grimbough. He swallowed, took a deep breath, then started forward.

In that moment, the daemon tree's furious muttering found a focus. Its rage struck at him, an almost physical force that clawed at his mind with talons of hate. With an effort of will, Caramon forced himself to ignore it. He concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other as he strode toward the oak's pulsing, gnarled trunk.

The tree lashed out at him with a mighty branch as he approached. He swung the axe to meet it. Soulsplitter sliced through six inches of hardwood as if it wasn't there, and then half of the branch was on the ground, oozing dark sap. Grimbough tried again and again, boughs swinging down and roots rising from the moist earth, but every time Soulsplitter was there to block the tree's attacks. Caramon kept coming, leaving a trail of broken, black wood in his wake. Grimbough's rage continued to flood his mind, but there was something else now, quaking beneath the anger.

The daemon tree was afraid.

He stopped at the foot of the oak, staring at its trunk in awe. Its girth was greater than any tree he'd ever seen, save the vallenwoods of Solace. It would have daunted even the most skilled woodcutter.

But no woodcutter had ever used an axe like the one he held.

He shrugged off his shield, tossing it on the ground. Then, gripping Soulsplitter in both hands, he touched the weapon's blade to Grimbough's trunk. The axe's blade parted the oak's tough bark like water and notched the wood beneath. Rancid sap seeped from the cut. Grimbough let out a terrified, creaking moan. Gritting his teeth, Caramon braced his feet, brought the axe back, and swung.

The axe struck, biting deep. A booming roar, so loud it made Caramon's ears buzz, rang out across the vale. High above, branches convulsed with agony. Sap coursed, steaming, from the gash in Grimbough's trunk.

Caramon wrenched Soulsplitter free, then brought it back and struck again. The tree howled louder.

So it went, slow but steady. Chips of dark wood flew, and the earth grew sodden with ichor. Caramon chopped again and again, not stopping to rest as he drove Soulsplitter's twin-bladed head ever deeper. His breath came hard and shallow, and his arms and back burned, but he ignored everything, focusing solely on axe and wood.

Then, after how long he didn't know, a new sound joined the tree's screams: the groan of straining wood. He was almost halfway through the trunk now, and what remained could no longer bear the tree's weight. Grimbough crackled and popped, split and splintered. Smiling with satisfaction, Caramon raised the axe for the final blow.

The pain hit him then, a burning spear that ripped through his chest and sent fire lancing up his neck and down his arm. It hammered him to his knees, and Soulsplitter dropped from his hand as, groaning, he fell on his side. He rolled onto his back, clutching at his breastplate with fingers bent like claws.

Above him, the daemon tree shuddered—but it did not fall.

"Father!" Dezra cried from across the sward, her voice breaking. He heard feet running toward him.

Weakly, he turned his head. His daughter flung herself down beside him, grabbing his hands.

"Father," she gasped, out of breath. "How can I help? What can I do?"

He ground his teeth as another wave of pain broke over him, swelling out from his failing heart. "F-f-f—" he started to say, then his voice failed him.

He lay still for a moment, taking a weak, shuddering breath—it was terrifying, how much even that hurt—then he pulled his hand from her grasp, reaching to his side. His fingers were numb and weak, but in a moment they found what they sought: the iron haft of Peldarin's axe.

He took another breath, let it out. "Finish … ."

Dezra's plaintive eyes became clear. She smiled—not the least bit crookedly—and took Soulsplitter from him. Gripping it with both hands, she rose and stepped toward the tree. Caramon twisted, trying to ignore the surging pain in his breast, and watched her raise the axe, pause for an eye-blink, then swing.

Grimbough gave a long, despairing howl, then fell silent. Dezra let go of the axe and stepped away, leaving it buried in the daemon tree's trunk. For a moment, everything was still. Then Soulsplitter shattered into countless glittering pieces.

With a deafening crash, Grimbough smashed to the ground. At once, everything stopped: the raging storm, the quaking of the ground, the hateful muttering of the leaves. Stillness settled over the grove.

Weakly, Caramon began to laugh.

Then another burst of pain tore through him, and he let it all fall away. His friends were waiting for him.

Dezra stared in horror as her father's florid skin turned gray. The lines of pain on his face smoothed, leaving an expression of terrible, sickening peace.

She slapped him, hard, across the face. "No!" she shouted, hitting him again and again. "No! No! No!"

Then Trephas was behind her, grabbing her arms and lifting her away from Caramon. She fought and kicked, but he held her fast. She slumped in his grasp, sobbing.

As the centaur gathered her close, Borlos came over. Stricken, the bard bent down and pressed his fingers against Caramon's throat, feeling for the lifebeat. He closed his eyes, blowing out a long, shuddering breath.

"Help him, damn you!" Dezra snarled. "Do something!"

Borlos looked at her, his face like an open wound. "I'm no healer," he said. "And even if I were, I don't think I could do anything for him, Dez."

They stood over Caramon for a long while, none daring to move. Then, as the stormclouds above the vale dissolved on the cool night wind, something stirred behind them. Hooves whispered on the damp, blighted earth. Dezra didn't move, but Borlos and Trephas turned at the sound, and stared in astonishment and awe at the Forestmaster.

The marks of her ordeal remained. Her flesh was tight against her bones; blood crusted her coat. But her eyes were clear, and despite her frailty there was grace in her movements as she strode toward them. Her horn caught the starlight, shimmering.

Trephas and Borlos stepped back as she approached, but Dezra stayed where she was, beside her father's unmoving form. The Forestmaster stopped behind her.

Dezra turned and glared at the unicorn, angry words on her tongue. She stopped, though, when she met the Forestmaster's liquid eyes. Paling, she stepped away from Caramon's body. The Forestmaster's gaze lingered on her a moment, then she stepped lightly to Caramon's side and lowered her head. Her horn, sparkling with light, touched his breastplate. Then she stepped back, her eyes shining.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Caramon's mouth fell open, and he drew a loud, snorting breath.

Dezra stared at the Forestmaster, incredulous. The unicorn dipped her head to her, then turned and walked out of the sward, into the night.

When she was gone, Dezra turned back to her father, kneeling down beside him as Borlos and Trephas crowded behind. She took his hand in hers.

Caramon's eyes opened, and he looked up at her. "What in the Abyss?" he asked, his brow furrowing with confusion. His voice was still frighteningly feeble. "Dez?"

Smiling through her tears, she reached out and touched his cold, clammy cheek. "It's all right, Father," she told him. "I'm here."

Epilogue

Winter was coming.

It was weeks away still—autumn was only halfway done, and the first snows were still a month or more away—but Caramon could feel its approach in his bones. Another marvel of growing old, he thought. It was worse this year than last, but that was no surprise. He'd ended last summer by brewing harvest beer; this summer he'd nearly died.

He sighed, staring out across Darken Wood. He stood on a vantage just outside Lysandon, listening to birdsong and feeling the chill mountain wind on his face. Below, the forest stretched out to the horizon. It had changed in the past few weeks, while he remained with the centaurs. The dark stain that had spread across the wood was fading. Many trees that had been blighted at the start of the autumn grew healthy once more; from what Arhedion and the horsefolk's other scouts said, most of the forest would recover with time. Even so, there were patches of woodland that would never regain their former glory. In some places—especially around Sangelior, where the few surviving Skorenoi still dwelt—the decay had gone too far. Darken Wood would heal, but it would never quite be the same.

I know how it feels, he thought with a wry chuckle.

He could only remember flashes of what had happened after Dezra felled Grimbough. He recalled the soothing touch of the Forestmaster's horn, the sound of his daughter's voice, the gentleness with which the others had lifted him onto Trephas's back. The ride back to Lysandon was a blur; between leaving Grimbough's vale and meeting Arhedion's scouts in the highlands, he only knew flashes of trees and the music of Borlos's lyre.

He'd stayed in Lysandon since his return. The unicorn's magic had saved him from death, nothing more. Recovering his strength took time. He'd longed to go home, worrying that Tika and Laura would think he was dead, but he'd quickly learned not to push himself too hard. Barely a week after returning, he'd collapsed after stubbornly trying to rise and walk out of his hut. That had put enough of a scare into him to make him stay put until the horsefolk's chirurgeons told him otherwise.

There had been celebrations, of course, when the companions returned. Every night, for more than a week, the mountains surrounding the town had echoed with song and laughter. There'd been games, a ritual hunt, feasting and dancing. Caramon had missed most of the merrymaking, but Borlos had played for him, and Dezra had snuck him a bit of venison from the stag she'd brought down in the hunt. That had helped.

Fanuin, Ellianthe, and the rest of the sprites had left soon after the festivities ended, flitting off into the forest to return to their hidden realm. Caramon had been certain his daughter would follow. Borlos clearly enjoyed staying with the centaurs, but Dezra, he was sure, would take her money and go. To his surprise, however, she'd remained, and had even checked in on him several times a day. She didn't fuss over him, but she was there.

At first, he'd thought she stayed because of Trephas. He was convinced the two had trysted together the night Soulsplitter was stolen, and that it was continuing now. But he'd learned he was wrong. Since their return, Trephas had spent much of his time with Lanorica, the chief of the Ebon Lance tribe. Finally, a month ago, he'd promised himself to her in marriage, placing a wreath of willow withes upon her head as was the horsefolk's custom.

Dezra didn't seem to mind. "Centaurs and humans don't make good matches anyway," she'd told Caramon the morning after the betrothal. Then she'd winked. "And besides, there's plenty of men in the world."

The rest of Caramon's time in Lysandon had passed with little event. Three weeks ago, the healers had let him rise from his bed, but he was still weak and couldn't walk far. Since then, he'd fought to build his strength. Now, at last, he could move about without tiring, though he still had to use a walking stick and would need to for some time. Still, he was capable of travel. And so, at last, it was time to go.

He heard a scuff behind him: boots on stone. He didn't turn, his eyes on the forest. "What is it, girl?" he asked.

Dezra stopped several paces behind him. "What do you think?" she asked, irritated. "I've been looking all over for you. Everyone's waiting at the Yard."

Caramon nodded. He took a deep breath, then turned to face her. "Well, then," he said. "I guess we'd better get going."

He hobbled to her, leaning on his stick. She didn't offer him her arm, and he didn't ask. They walked back toward Lysandon side by side.

The Circle of Four stood in the midst of the Yard of Gathering when Caramon and Dezra arrived. There were others with them, too: Trephas and Arhedion, and Borlos as well. Caramon and Dezra paused at the meadow's edge to partake of the grass, then walked across the field.

"I'm sorry I've kept you," Caramon said.

"Nay, don't trouble thyself for us," said Gyrtomon. He'd settled into his father's place in the Circle, and carried himself with a chieftain's bearing. "If we're anxious, it's because the day grows old, and the way to Solace is long."

The other chiefs nodded. "We'll do something to shorten that journey, if thou wilt have it," said Eucleia. "Trephas and Arhedion will carry the two of thee to the Haven Road."

Caramon inclined his head. "Thanks," he said, then frowned. "Wait… two of us?" He turned to Dezra. "You're staying?"

"Not her," said Borlos. "Me."

"You?" Caramon echoed, astounded. "Why?"

"Why not?" the bard replied. "I was bored in Solace anyway, and with Olinia gone, these people need a minstrel. I figure I'll hang around here… or Ithax, rather, when they rebuild it in the spring. I'll take on a couple of apprentices, and when I've taught them enough to take my place, I'll go back to Pallidice's grove."

"The dryad?" Dezra asked, her eyes widening. "You're going to live with her?"

Borlos shrugged. "Partly, yes. And in Gwethyryn too. Before they left, the sprites said I was welcome to go back. I want to live there—for a few years, at least."

"A few years…" Caramon's brow furrowed. "But, with the way time flows there—"

"I'll be gone a long while, yeah," Borlos said. "Maybe centuries, if I return at all." He spread his hands. "Don't think this is easy for me, big guy. But I was happy there, like I've never known before. Would you turn your back on that, if you didn't have a family to go home to?"

Caramon met the bard's gaze for a long moment, then shook his head. "I guess not. It's going to be a little less fun at the Inn without you around to play for us, though. And Clemen and Osier will be sorry to lose their third player."

"We should get going," Dezra said, glancing skyward. "I'd like to be on the Haven Road before it gets dark."

Caramon looked at her sourly, but in the end he nodded. "Sure," he said. "Unless there's anything else?"

"As a matter of fact, there is," Pleuron declared. He bent down, his belly bulging, and lifted a large sack and a smaller bundle from the ground. He tossed the sack to Dezra: it landed, jingling, at her feet. "Thy reward, as we agreed—and another five hundred pieces of steel with it, as thanks for thy help when things grew darkest."

Dezra picked it up, flashing her lopsided grin. "Thanks," she said.

Smiling broadly, Pleuron held out the smaller bundle. "A gift for thee, Caramon," he said, "for all thou lost, or nearly lost."

Caramon stared at the bundle a moment, then hobbled forward and took it. It was large and heavy, wrapped in oiled burlap. Slowly, he unwrapped the cloth, then caught his breath at what lay beneath.

It was a warrior's helm, simply crafted of bronze. Atop it was a long, flowing tassel. The hairs it was made of were of many colors—jet black and iron gray, reddish brown and ash blond.

"We gathered," Gyrtomon said, "that thou needed a new helmet. Trephas suggested we make thee one."

Trephas grinned. "The tassel's from our tails… all of us."

Caramon gaped at it, then looked up at the Circle. "I—I have no words," he said softly.

"You need none," Eucleia replied. "Thou and thy daughter are friends to our people, Caramon Majere. The helm is so thou wilt remember us, as we shall remember thee."

Despite his best efforts to hold them back, tears came to Caramon's eyes. He took the helm from its bundle and placed it on his head. It fit well.

"Thank the vanished gods," Dezra quipped. "I was getting tired of staring at your bald patch."

Trephas and Arhedion came forward, and knelt before them. Dezra swung up on the chestnut's back, and Caramon got astride the scout. They rose, turning one last time to face the Circle. Borlos and the chiefs raised their hands in farewell. Caramon waved in reply, then Trephas and Arhedion wheeled and trotted away. The tassel of Caramon's helmet fluttered behind him as he rode.

Once away from Lysandon, they rode northwest through the mountains, leaving behind the red-gold sea of Darken Wood. The sun, which had been nearing its zenith when they set out, climbed slowly down the blue, cloud-dotted sky. Finally, when it was hanging low and large before them, the path began to descend. Soon the lowlands stretched ahead, and the broad, brown line of Haven Road.

Trephas and Arhedion pulled up half a mile from the path, atop a low bluff. "This is where we must part," Trephas said. He nodded toward the road, which was dotted with the shapes of men, horses, and wagons. "It's best if we don't go among humans just now. Dark rumors have surely spread abroad, these past months, as Chrethon's strength grew. I think we'd get a cold welcome if we appeared among thy people now."

The centaurs knelt down, then rose again after Caramon and Dezra dismounted. "You can come visit us at the Inn any time," Caramon said.

Trephas laughed. "I'm glad for thy offer, my friend," he replied, "but all those stairs… no, I don't think I shall visit thy Inn. Still, perhaps I'll come to Solace again one year, for the Spring Dawning fair. Thou, of course, are always welcome in Darken Wood. Both of thee."

One by one, they paired off and clasped arms. When it came time for Trephas and Dezra, however, the horse-man knelt before her and they embraced. He stroked her hair with his maimed hand a moment, then bent down and brushed his lips on her forehead.

"Oh, for Reorx's sake," she told him. "Do it properly, will you?"

Before he could react, she grabbed his head with both hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. Arhedion roared with mirth, and even Caramon grinned as Trephas finally came up for air, sputtering and flushed.

"Now get out of here," Dezra said.

Trephas gaped a moment longer, then rose with a quick laugh. "Very well, my lady," he said. "Clear roads to both of thee."

With that, he wheeled and galloped away, mane and tail streaming. Arhedion followed. Caramon and Dezra watched until they rounded a bend and vanished from sight. The sound of their hooves echoed among the hills.

"Well," Dezra said, rubbing her hands, "that's that, I guess. Let's get going." Turning, she started toward the Haven Road.

Caramon reached out and caught her shoulder. "Hold up," he said. "I've got something to say to you, now that we're alone."

She groaned, turning to face him. "What now?"

"I'm proud of you, Dez," Caramon said. "I'll be honest—you've disappointed me a lot in the past, but you came through back there." He jerked his head back toward Darken Wood. "I'm sorry I threw you out, too. I want you to come home."

Dezra stared at him, pursing her lips. "Then I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint you one last time."

She reached out and took his hands. "I've changed a lot, these past months. But I'm still who I am, Father. I'm not Laura, content to live my whole life without ever leaving Solace. I want to see the world, while I'm still young."

Caramon bowed his head. "So—where are you going?"

"Same as before," she said. "Haven, then Ankatavaka. After that… well, I'll just have to see."

"You'll come back?" he asked in a small voice. "To visit, I mean?"

"We'll see," she said. "Probably. For the spiced potatoes." She hesitated, then pulled a small pouch from her belt and handed it to him. It jingled as he took it. "Here," she said. "It's the extra steel the Circle gave me. I want you to give it to Uwen's family. Tell them—tell them I'm sorry about what happened to him."

They stood together for a while, then he bent down and kissed her cheek. "Go on, then," he told her. "See the world. I envy you a little. Just promise me one thing."

She met his gaze, her eyes shimmering. "Yeah?"

"Don't turn into my sister. Don't be Kitiara."

She bent her head up, then, and kissed him back. When she pulled away, her lips were curled into her usual crooked grin. "I won't, Father," she said. "I'll be me."

She shouldered her pack and walked away, angling south toward the road. Caramon stared for a long while, smiling through his tears and hoping she would look back. But she never did.

Back Cover

Darken Wood… even the name brings dread to humans. But it is home to Ansalon's centaur tribes, where they have dwelt for ages in peace under the Forestmaster's watchful eye.

Now, ten years after the Summer of Chaos, strife is tearing the centaurs apart. A mad chieftain seeks to overthrow his enemies, and an even darker presence is changing the forest itself.

Trephas, a brave young warrior, sets out for Solace to seek aid against these enemies. He finds more than he bargained for in Caramon Majere, Hero of the Lance, and his spitfire daughter Dezra.