Dezra's Quest

by Chris Pierson

  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.

  14

  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.

  15

  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. The
y 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.