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."
9
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 falle
n 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."
10
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.
Dezra's Quest Page 7