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, aft
er 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… ."
11
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.
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